Greenleaf could but smile at the description of his easel and artist’s outfit; still he contented himself with a brief assent.

“Keeps tight as the bark to a white-oak,” muttered Jehu to himself.  “Guess I’ll try him on t’other side, seein’ he’s so offish.”

Then aloud,—­

“Knowed Square Lee, I b’lieve?”

“Yes,” thundered Greenleaf, looking furiously at the questioner.

The glance frightened Jehu’s soul from the red-curtained windows, where it had been peeping out, back to its hiding-place, wherever that might be.

“Well, yer needn’t bite a feller’s head off,” muttered he, in the same undertone as before.  “And if ye want to keep to yerself, shet up yer darned oyster-shell, and see how much you make by it.  Not more’n four and sixpence, I guess.  Maybe you’ll come back ’bout’s wise as ye come.”

Thenceforward, Buffalo-coat was grim; his admonitions to the horses were a trifle more emphatic; once he whistled a fragment of a minor stave, but spoke not a word till the coach reached the tavern-door.

“You can drive to Mr. Lee’s house,” said Greenleaf.

“Want to go where he is?” replied Jehu, with a sardonic grin.  “Wal, I’m goin’ past the meetin’us, and I’ll set ye down at the graveyard.”

“What do you mean?” asked Greenleaf, between anger and terror, at this brutal jest.

“Why, he’s dead, you know, and ben layin’ up there on the side-hill a fortnight.”

“Take me to the house, nevertheless.”

“Lee’s house?  ’Siah Stebbins, the lame shoemaker, he’s jest moved into’t.  Miss Stebbins, she can’t ’commodate ye, most likely; got too many children; a’n’t over an’ above neat, nuther.”

“Where is Miss Lee,—­Alice,—­his daughter?”

“Wal, can’t say;—­gone off, I b’lieve.”

“She has relatives here, has she not?”

“Guess not; never heerd of any.”

With a heavy heart, Greenleaf alighted at the tavern.  Mr. Lee dead!  Alice left alone without friends, and now gone!  The thought stunned, overpowered him.  While he had been treading the paths of dalliance, forgetful of his obligations, the poor girl had passed through the great trial of her life, the loss of her only parent and protector,—­had met the awful hour alone.  Hardly conscious of what he did, he went to the churchyard and sought for a new-made grave.  The whole scene was pictured to his imagination with startling vividness.  He saw the fond father on his death-bed, leaving the orphan to the kindness of strangers to his blood,—­the daughter weeping, disconsolate, the solitary mourner at the funeral,—­the desolate house,—­the well-meant, but painful sympathy of the villagers.  He, meanwhile, who should have cheered and sustained her, was afar off, neglectful, recreant to his vows.  Could he ever forgive himself?  What would he not give for one word from the dumb lips, for one look from the eyes now closed forever?