the tavern. Its offence is rum, and smells to heaven.”
Presently our explorer found a neat, white, two-story, home-like abode on the upper street, overlooking the river.
“This promises,” he thought. “Here are roses on the porch, a piano, or at least a melodeon, by the parlor-window, and they are insured in the Mutual, as the Mutual’s plate announces. Now, if that nice-looking person in black I see setting a table in the back-room is a widow, I will camp here.”
Perry Purtett was the name on the door, and opposite the sign of an omnium-gatherum country-store hinted that Perry was deceased. The hint was a broad one. Wade read, “Ringdove, Successor to late P. Purtett.”
“It’s worth a try to get in here out of the pagan barbarism around. I’ll propose — as a lodger — to the widow.”
So said Wade, and rang the bell under the roses. A pretty, slim, delicate, fair-haired maiden answered.
“This explains the roses and the melodeon,” thought Wade, and asked, “Can I see your mother?”
Mamma came. “Mild, timid, accustomed to depend on the late Perry, and wants a friend,” Wade analyzed, while he bowed. He proposed himself as a lodger.
“I didn’t know it was talked of generally,”
