ng. "I meant to go to see the people up
there," and he pointed to the old farmhouse, dark and low and
firm-rooted in the long slope of half-tamed, ledgy fields. Warm
thoughts of Nancy filled his heart, as if they had said good-by to
each other that cold afternoon in Boston only the winter before. He
had not been so eager to see any one for a long time. Such is the
triumph of friendship: even love itself without friendship is the
victim of chance and time.

When supper was over in the Knox House, the one centre of public
entertainment in East Rodney, it was past eight o'clock, and Mr. Aldis
felt like a dim copy of Rip Van Winkle, or of the gay Tom Aldis who
used to know everybody, and be known of all men as the planner of
gayeties. He lighted a cigar as he sat on the front piazza of the
hotel, and gave himself up to reflection. There was a long line of
lights in the second story of a wooden building opposite, and he was
conscious of some sort of public interest and excitement.

"There is going to be a time in the hall," said the landlord, who came
hospitably out to join him. "The folks are going to have a dance. The
proceeds will be applied to buying a bell for the new schoolhouse.
They'd be pleased if you felt like stepping over; there has been a
considerable number glad to hear you thought of coming down. I ain't
an East Rodney man myself, but I've often heard of your residin' here
some years ago. Our folks is makin' the ice cream for the occasion,"
he added significantly, and Mr. Aldis nodded and smiled in
acknowledgment. He had meant to go out and see the Gales, if the boat
had only got in in season; but boats are unpunctual in their ways, and
the James Madison had been unexpectedly signaled by one little landing
and settlement after another. He remembered that a great many young
people were on board when they arrived, and now they appeared again,
coming along the street and disappearing at the steep stairway
opposite. The lighted windows were full of heads already, and there
were now and then preliminary exercises upon a violin. Mr. Aldis had
grown old enough to be obliged to sit and think it over about going to
a ball; the day had passed when there would have been no question; but
when he had finished his cigar he crossed the street, and only stopped
before the lighted store window to find a proper bank bill for the
doorkeeper. Then he ran up the stairs to the hall, as if he were the
Tom Aldis of old. It was an e