Arrived in Waltham, to his great vexation, it appeared, after much inquiry, that Captain Grant lived full three miles from the station,—­and what was worse, every omnibus, hack, buggy, and dog-cart was engaged for a muster in one direction or a cattle-show in another.  Nothing on wheels could be hired at any price,—­at least, none could be found in an hour’s search from one hotel or livery-stable to another.  Chip, whose sleepless night and meditated fraud had not left much of the saint in him, swore the whole of Waltham as deep as the grimmest view of predestination would allow.  And he restrained himself from being still more profane only lest his wrath should awaken inconvenient suspicions.  After all, there was one old tavern a little way out, where possibly a one-horse affair could be raised.  The Birch House was a sort of seedy, dried-up, quiet, out-of-the-way inn, whose sign-post stood forth like a window without sash, the rectangular ligneous picture of a man driving cattle to Brighton having long ago been blown out of its lofty setting and split to pieces by the fall.  What was the use of replacing it?  No one was likely to call, who did not already know that the Widow Birch still kept tavern there, and just how she kept it.  It was doubtful if a new sign would attract a single new customer.  Indeed, since the advent of railroads, a customer was not a common occurrence any way, though there still remained a few that could be depended on, like the Canada geese, in their season, and their custom was handsomely profitable.  The house, a white wooden one, with greenish blinds, had two low stories, the first of which was nearly level with the ground.  There was a broad, low entry running through the middle, and on either side two rather spacious square rooms.  One of those in front had a well-sanded, well-worn pine floor, with a very thirsty-looking counter across one corner, supporting a sort of palisade that appeared to fortify nothing at all,—­a place, however, which had evidently been moist enough in the olden times.  In the other front room was a neat carpet, plain, old-fashioned furniture, and a delightful little plantation of fresh and cozy flower-pots, surrounding a vase full of gold-fishes, and overhung by a bright-eyed, mellow-throated canary, the whole of that paradise being doubtless under the watch and care of little Laura Birch.  This was the ladies’ parlor,—­the grand reception-room, also, of any genteel male guest, should one for a wonder appear.  Little Laura, however, was no longer as little as she had been,—­though just as innocent, and ten times as bewitching to most people who knew her.  You could not but particularly wish her well, the moment her glad, hopeful, playful, confiding, half-roguish eye met yours.  With the most conscientious resolution to make herself useful, under her mother’s thrifty administration, in the long, clean New England kitchen which stretched away behind the square dining-room, interposed between