Now, Foxwell Baxter had never been
a village Lothario at any age nor fre
quented the society of such. Of late
years, indeed, he had frequented no so
ciety of any kind, so that he bad miss
ed, for instance, Abel Day's descrip
tion of tbe Widow Tillman as a "reg'
lar syreen," though be vaguely remem
bered that some of tbe Baptist sisters
had questioned tbe authenticity of her
conversion by their young and attrac
tive minister. She made a pleasant
picture at tbe window. She was a free
woman. She was a comparative new
comer to the village, and ber mind bad
not been poisoned with feminine gos
sip—in a word, she was a distinctly
hopeful subject, and, acting 011 a blind
and sudden impulse, be turned into the
yard, flung tbe reins over the mare's
neck and knocked at the back door.
"Her character's no worse than mine
by now if Auut Abby Cole's on the
road," he thought grimly, "an" if tbe
Wilsons see my sleigh inside of a win
der's fence so much the better. It'll
give 'em a jog. Good mornin*. Mis'
Tillman," he said to the smiling lady.
"I'll come to the p'int at once. My
youngest daughter has married Mark
Wilson against my will an' gone away
from town, an' the older one's chosen
a husband still less to my likin'. Do
you want to come and housekeep for
me?"
"I surmised something was going
on," returned Mrs. Tillman. "1 saw
Patty and Mark drive away early this
morning, with Mr. and Mrs. Wilson
wrapping tbe girl up and putting a bot
soapstone in the sleigh and consid'able
kissing and hugging thrown in."
This knowledge added fuel to tbe
flame that was burning fiercely in the
deacon's breast.
