“Not a word o’ thanks!” the tinker exclaimed.  “Wrath o’ God!  I fear there is but one thing would soften him.”

“And what is that?”

“A club,” said Darrel.  “But God forgive me!  I must put away anger.  Soon it went about that Brooke was to marry the widow.  All were delighted, for each party would be in the nature of a punishment.  God’s justice! they did deserve each other.”

Darrel shook with happiness, and relighted his pipe.

“Mayhap ye’ve seen the dear lady,” Darrel went on.  “She is large, bony, quarrelsome—­a weaver of some fifty years—­neither amiable nor fair to look upon.  Every one knows her—­a survivor o’ two husbands an’ many a battle o’ high words.

“‘Is it a case o’ foreclosure, Brooke?’ says I to him one day in the road.

“‘No, sor,’ he snaps out; ’I had a little mortgage on her furniture, but I’m going t’ marry her for a helpmeet.  She is a great worker an’ neat an’ savin’.’

“‘An’ headstrong,’ says I.  ‘Ye must have patience with her.’

“‘I can manage her,’ said Brooke.  ’The first morning after we are married I always say to my wife, “Here’s the breeches; now if ye want ’em, take ’em, an’ I’ll put on the dress."’

“He looked wise, then, as if ’twere a great argument.

“‘Always?’ says I.  ’God bless thee, ‘tis an odd habit.’

“Well, the boast o’ Brooke went from one to another an’ at last to the widow’s ear.  They say a look o’ firmness an’ resolution came into her face, an’ late in August they were married of an evening at the home o’ Brooke.  Well, about then, I had been having trouble.”

“Trouble?” said Trove.

“It was another’s trouble—­that of a client o’ mine, a poor woman out in the country.  Brooke had a mortgage on her cattle, an’ she could not pay, an’ I undertook to help her.  I had some money due me, but was unable to put me hand on it.  That day before the wedding I went to the old sinner.

“‘Brooke, I came to see about the Martha Vaughn mortgage,’ says I.”

“Martha Vaughn!” said Trove, turning quickly.

“Yes, one o’ God’s people,” said the tinker.

“Ye may have seen her?”

“I have seen her,” said Trove.

“‘At ten o’clock to-morrow I shall foreclose,’ says Brooke, waving his fist.

“’Give her a little time—­till the day after to-morrow,—­man, it is not much to ask,’ says I.

“‘Not an hour,’ says he; an’ I came away.”

Darrel rose and put on his glasses and brought a newspaper and gave it to the boy.

“Read that,” said he, his finger on the story, “an’ see what came of it.”

The article was entitled “A Rag Doll—­The Story of a Money-lender whose Name, let us say, is Brown.”

After some account of the marriage and of bride and groom, the story went on as follows:—­

“At midnight the charivari was heard—­a noisy beating of pans and pots in the door-yard of the unhappy groom, who flung sticks of wood from the window, and who finally dispersed the crowd with an old shotgun.  Bright and early next day came the milkman—­a veteran of the war of 1812—­who, agreeably with his custom, sounded the call of boots and saddles on his battered bugle at Brown’s door.  But none came to open it.  The noon hour passed with no sign of life in the old house.