one occasion when as the merest slip of a boy he went with his sister to "a neighbor party" and witnessed what would be called in the slang of to-day a "kitchen shin-dig." The hostess, Mistress Sabrina, inspired and directed the old-fashioned contra dances in her long kitchen. Fragments of the sights and sounds still remain with me, impressed, it may be, by a knowledge of the parties, and by seeing the personal application. The director was perched upon the loom at one end of the room, whence her voice rang out with a free and easy swing somewhat like this, with all necessary adaptations: do not particularize, it cannot be asserted. For the same reason it must be left to the imagination to picture how Captain Hannah beckoned Lois from the bright firelight of the kitchen into Aunt Spiddy's dim little bed room for mysterious conference with certain wise matrons, her new aunts, and how Experience gave her timely words of advice and warning from her ample store of hard earned knowledge, or how Marcy and Betsey and Persis showered upon her maxims of wisdom for her guidance in her new sphere, and how the words of her mentors fell upon the ears of the "Now cross over my son Stoddard, tum tum diddle dum, tum tum diddle dum-down outside now my son Amos, tum tum diddle dum, tum tum diddle dum, come to your ma now 'Lisa Ann Parker, you're not big enough, you're not big enough, right and left now Jane Alcesta, tum tum diddle dum, tum tum diddle dum, down in the middle Stoddard Williams, tum tum diddle dum, tum tum diddle dum." This lady was about the age of Charles, and was doubtless at the wedding, and perhaps her peculiar talent may have been called into requisition; but as this is a tale of verities and the scrolls of the household familiars. happy and trustful bride with the same abiding effect as water showered upon the back of the proverbial duck. The year hand on the clock of time crept on. For two-score years Charles the singer and Lois the baker abode together under the roof tree of the little brown cottage, growing browner year by year, and then were gathered to their fathers. Of the two children who first saw the light within these walls, Justin took unto himself a helpmeet and dwelt in a new house hard by, but Harriet remained alone in the old home. Three decades passed. Time was left unmolested to work his will upon the failing habitation and its forlorn, clouded inmate. Little by little the roof gaped here and there as if to invite the rain, the hail and the snow. The floor of the square room and the pantry of Bathsheba found sad companionship in the dark yawning cellar. Ruin and decay rioted in Aunt Spiddy's bed room. The lingering partitions, black with grime and smoke and festooned with dust-laden cobwebs, faltered and staggered. Still, Harriet with bent form and tot tering steps clung steadfastly to the old-time home, all for love of it and for the associations which filled every nook and cranny. All else failing, she crept close to our three old friends for sympathy and cheer, and the staunch fireplace, the tried oven and the great east window proved as true to Harriet as Harriet was true to this taleful relic of by-gone days the little brown. house on the old colonial road to Albany. THE RISING OF CALEB BALLARD. OWN in the valley twilight had already fallen, darkest where the western mountain shut out the declining rays of the chill November sun, and lightening up to dim daylight on the top of Black Hill, where the old Ballard homestead stared out bleakly upon the desolate landscape. Two miles away as the crow flies lay Fremont, nestled warmly among the hills, and offering in its two stores and public library a centre of attraction for the young people of the neighborhood. In the middle of the village stood the church and the post office, both equally dependent on the stage coach of Hartley Oakes, who brought impartially mail bags and minister from Taylor's Crossing, the nearest railway station. In summer he brought tourists as well, men in golf stockings and knickerbockers, and gorgeously attired women attended by trim maids. The great hotels on the lower road were filled with gay society people, and the Fremont weekly ball was reported by special men sent up by the city dailies. In September the crowd gradually ebbed away, and by November the hotels stood in dismal state and the village had sunk to its usual winter quiet, enlivened now and then by a sociable or sleighing party. Two miles back on the Pine Road the difference was little felt; and the Ballards especially lived on calmly in the gray house. That it was gray was the only drop of bitterness in Deborah Ballard's cup. In her dreams she saw it painted white, a tower of purity on the hill-top; and once, by the exercise of Spartan self-denial, she had saved up sufficient to paint the gable end nearest the road. That time was now so long past that the thin white coat had sunk into close union with the gray boards; but the picture of its splendor had never quite faded from her mind. Seated in the old armchair with the cushioned seat, she took up the tale once more, as the gay patches of a quilt, known in New Hampshire parlance as a "tack," fell into place know it's 'bout paint, an' - really, under her nimble fingers. "When I married Caleb, I never s'posed I'd live stiddy in a gray house. 'You take care o' the outside,, Caleb,' says I, on the very day of our weddin', forty year ago, ‘an' I'll take care o' the inside.' There ain't a prettier house than this in Fremont-on the inside; but I never see a man so cantankerous 'bout paint as Caleb is. All the Ballards is near. Caleb's grand'ther wouldn't let his wife hev more than one apron to onct; an' Caleb's father sawed the rockers off this here chair, so as Caleb's mother shouldn't rock. Not as she hed turr❜ble much time for rockin', nuther! Caleb ain't stinted me in nothin' 'ceptin' paint, but he's sot on his own way." She sighed patiently and tried a red patch by a blue one. "I do hope he'll paint in the spring. There ain't no use doin' it now, for the city folks is all gone,-an' I do want them ter see the paint when it's fresh. I heerd one say last summer: 'What a pretty place!' An' another said: 'Why don't they paint?' Land sakes! I'd paint if I could; but I don't see no way 'cept I steal! Maria says she'd sell butter 'n' eggs, 'n' a ham or two; but Caleb'd know. He knows how many cans o' preserve I've got, an' how many dish towels, an' he counts the eggs regular; an' he's that high sperrited that I don't dast. I did s'pose arter all the girls married an' went off, we'd hev easier times, bein' only me an' Reub for Caleb ter care for; but things ain't changed one mite -an' I declare I do feel sorry for Reuben, kep' up tight the way he is. Never a cent of his own money, nor his way in nothin', an' he with the Ballard sperrit, too! Don't you think it's jest turr❜ble don't you think so?" She glanced questioningly over her spectacles, and then exclaimed indignantly: "I don't b'lieve you've heerd a word I've ben sayin', Sallie Mayhew!" Her companion raised her head from her book and laughed. “I ain't jest sure I hev, Aunt Debby; but I Aunt Debby, I'm jest in the most excitin' part!" "Do tell!" her aunt responded leniently. "Well, I used ter be jest like you when I was a girl, allers readin', pattern medicines, old newspapers, almanacs, anything. I rec❜lect how my father used ter scold. Sech a sinful waste o' time, he said; — an' Caleb's exackly the same way. He hates ter see me read the county paper. Not that I ever touch it till all the work is done!" She settled back more comfortably, and gazed about the room. It was clean, painfully clean. The walls, newly whitened in the fall, were sparsely covered with photographs framed in primitive fashion. One represented Caleb Ballard's father and mother, taken in their sere and yellow age; another showed the old house, with Mt. Jefferson rising gray in the background; another, the schoolhouse where Deborah Ballard's mother taught in her youth; while in a conspicuous position, between the two front windows, hung an elaborate picture of great-grandfather Ballard's tomb at Portsmouth. This latter Deborah had surrounded with a wreath of dried autumn leaves and small pine cones. Coarse scrim curtains were looped back stiffly at the three windows, a few cane-seated chairs stood primly against the walls, home-made mats were strewn over the painted floor, and a large lamp stood on a small table in the centre of the room. Deborah surveyed it all blissfully. Each object was personally dear to her, while many were the result of toilsome hours. At length her eyes settled upon Sallie, who had drawn close to the western window and was striving to make use of the few. remaining minutes of daylight. Sarah Mayhew was the daughter of Mrs. Ballard's only brother, and, like her aunt, had inherited the sanguine complexion and mild blue eyes that conferred a certain charm on the least favored of the Mayhew race. She was tall and upright, and her face, though not distinguished by particular beauty, was comely enough in a way, fresh and good-natured. She laid aside her book with a sigh, and looked out into the darkness. "Aunt," she said, "I do wish Reub could take me over to Fremont tonight. I've ben here a week now, an' he hesn't ben able to do it yit. There comes Uncle up from the barn. I b'lieve I'll ask him." Mrs. Ballard threw down her work. "The kettle ain't on, an' the table ain't sot, an' me a-settin' here as if I hed a month afore me! Fetch out the pie an' doughnuts, Sallie, while I go down cellar. If there's one thing your uncle hates, it's ter wait for his meals." And she disappeared into the kitchen as a measured tramp came along the side piazza. The two women bustled about, and the table was soon prepared for the coming meal. At last Mrs. Ballard stopped, and glanced inquiringly at her niece. "Where's your uncle?" she asked. "I heerd him come in, but I ain't seen him sence, though I've called him twice." "He went into the bedroom, Aunt, an' he's there yit." "He ain't sick! Don't tell me he's sick!" The strong woman tottered as she ran through the parlor to the hall, a hundred vague fears flitting through her mind. "Not upstairs, Aunt," cried Sallie. "He's in the spare bedroom, out of the parlor." Mrs. Ballard sat down on the bottom step with a sigh of relief. “Land sakes, Sallie! how you did scare me! I thought of paralysis. All the Ballards go off suddin like. Caleb keeps his papers in the spare room, — an' bein' a little deef, he can't allers hear me callin'. Caleb, Caleb, supper's ready!" Passing through the parlor she opened the bedroom door. The curtain was pulled up to the top, and in the deep twilight the room looked empty. "Caleb!" "Light the lamp," commanded a cross voice out of the darkness. "The lamp, Caleb? Why, supper's ready an' waitin'." A snort of indignant protest was the only reply. Mrs. Ballard edged over to the bureau and struck a match. It took her some time to lower the wick and adjust the chimney, for her hands. still shook from her agitation. When the lamp was lighted, she turned. about, and gave a cry of terror that brought Sallie trembling inside the door. On a chair by the side of the bed was neatly folded a suit of clothes, and in the bed, propped up with pillows, lay Caleb Ballard. His hair was ruffled up defiantly on top of his head, his great, strong arms were folded upon the bedclothes, and his black eyes glared out menacingly upon the two frightened women. "Oh, Caleb, whatever is the matter?" cried Mrs. Ballard. "My poor old man! Was you took so that you couldn't call me? Oh, Caleb,- can't you speak?" "You don't give me a chance," he snapped. "I'm vergin' on the grave, an' bein' no 'count, an' not hevin' no jedgment, I've made up my mind ter hev comfort in my last days." "I'll send for the doctor," cried Mrs. Ballard, laying her hand on his hot forehead, "an' I'll fix you up a nice mustard plaster - sha'n't I, Caleb? It will do you a mint o' good. An' I've got some camomile somewhere in the house." He "Now, look a-here," cried Caleb, "if you s'pose I'm goin' ter let you torture me with mustard plasters, you're mistaken. I'm goin' ter die in peace, I am, an' no doctor nuther." nodded his head decisively. "Caleb, you mustn't die," cried his wife, sobbing. "I can't git on without. you, Caleb!" The tears came into Caleb's eyes, and his grim face quivered. "I'm sorry ter leave you, Debby," he said, slipping his arm about her, as she knelt by his side. "You've ben a good wife ter me, but my time is come. Reuben will soon fill my place." "Never ter me, Caleb." "Yes, ter you. He's a turr'ble smart man, is Reuben, an' nobody dast learn him nothin'-not even his old father." The two sobbed in unison, closer together than they had been in years. Sallie slipped out quietly and left them alone. Caleb was the first to recover himself. "There, there," he said, "go give the boy his supper, Debby, — an' leave the lamp on the table - an' the Bible. I don't feel so bad now, an' I ain't complainin'." "Isn't there something you could eat, Caleb?" "I don't care for nothin'." "A piece o' cold chicken an' a hot doughnut?" "Well, jest ter please you." "My dear old man!" She kissed him affectionately. Still blinded by her tears, she passed through the parlor and into the kitchen. Peter Colley and Reuben were already at the supper table. A giant was Reuben, tall and muscular, with his father's dark beauty and domineering disposition, tempered somewhat by his mother's mildness. Peo ple still told tales of the frantic rages into which the elder Ballard had fallen in his youth, and he was still a man whose wrath it was unsafe to excite. His son was the sole person who occasionally dared to stand out against him; and frequently civil war raged in the old house. Reuben, however, was generous; and the knowledge that he did the work of two ordinary men had hitherto prevented Caleb from going beyond a certain limit in his treatment of him. Then, too, Reuben served faithfully, year after year, without recompense; although it was understood in the family that he should ultimately inherit the farm, the two daughters of the house having married well and settled in the West. So far Reuben had shown no disposition to follow their example; but Sallie Mayhew often made long visits to the farm, and Mrs. Ballard had of late imagined that Reuben was becoming rather attentive. It was a union that would have been particularly agreeable to her; she felt how pleasant it would be to have Sallie always about her. To-night, however, her world. was slipping away, and she never noticed Sallie's blushing face nor the grin that Peter strove to conceal at her entrance. "Reuben, your father's very sick," she quavered, standing in the doorway, looking at them all. The whole scene stood out distinctly, and the selfish comfort of it gave her an additional pang. "So sick, Reuben, that he ought ter hev a doctor, — but I'm scart ter send for one." She knew that this strong son of hers often took both decision and reproach on his own broad shoulders. Now he only laughed. "Why, Mother," he said, "he's only mad. There ain't nothin' the matter with him." She stared at him incredulously. "He's not sick, 'ceptin' in his pocket. I told him he must pay me wages next year, -an', Lord, but we hed a hot time in the barn! He pays Peter wages,-an' I work harder than Peter. He said some dreffle hard things ter me, Mother, an' I said some, too, an' the upshot was, he went off in a towerin' rage, an' said I might run the farm." "He looks turr'ble sick, Reuben." "There ain't nothin' the matter, Mother. You jest fix up a nice supper, an' he'll come round. Why, Mother!" for she broke out into a passionate fit of weeping. They were all around her at once, and Reuben drew her head to his shoulder. "There, there, don't cry!" he said tenderly. "I swear, if he was another man, I'd thrash him within an inch of his life! Yes, I would," he shouted, defiantly, fancying he heard a smothered roar from the bedroom. "You fix up some supper, Sallie, an' let Mother take it in. She'll feel bet |