A born duchess could not have assumed a loftier air, and in some perplexity Mrs. Markham glanced from her to Richard, as if asking what to do next.  Fortunately for all parties, Andy just then came in with his brother John, who approached his new sister with some little hesitation.  He had heard Tim Jones’ verdict, “Stuck up as the old Nick,” while even cautious James had admitted his fears that Dick had made a mistake, and taken a wife who would never fit their ways.  And this was why John had been so late with his welcome.  He had crept up the back stairs, and donned his best necktie, and changed his heavy boots for a pair of shoes, which left exposed to view a portion of his blue yarn socks.  He had before changed his coat and vest, and tied on a handkerchief, but it was not his best; not the satin cravat, with the pretty bow Melinda Jones had made, and in which was stuck a rather fanciful pin he wore on great occasions.  He was all right now, and he shook hands with his new sister, and asked if she were pretty well, and told her she was welcome, and then stepped back for Andy, who had been making his toilet when the bride arrived, and so was late with his congratulations.

CHAPTER VIII

ANDY

Andy was a character in his way.  A fall from his horse upon the ground had injured his head when he was a boy, and since that time he had been what his mother called a little queer, while the neighbors spoke of him as simple Andy, or Mrs. Markham’s half-wit, who did the work of a girl and knit all his own socks.  He was next to Richard in point of age, but he looked younger than either of his brothers, for his face was round and fair, and smooth as any girl’s.  It is true that every Sunday of his life he made a great parade with lather and shaving-cup, standing before the glass in his shirt-sleeves, just as the other boys did, and flourishing his razor around his white throat and beardless face, to the amusement of anyone who chanced to see him for the first time.

In his younger days, when the tavern at the Cross Roads was just opened, Andy had been a sore trial to both mother and brothers, and many a night, when the rain and sleet were driving across the prairies, Richard had left the warm fireside and gone out in the storm after the erring Andy, who had more than once been found by the roadside, with his hat jammed into every conceivable shape, his face scratched, and a tell-tale smell about his breath which contradicted his assertion “that somebody had knocked him down.”

Andy had been intemperate, and greatly given to what the old Captain in Chicopee had designated as “busts”; but since the time when the church missionary, young Mr. Townsend, had come to Olney, and held his first service in the log schoolhouse, Andy had ceased to frequent the Cross Roads tavern, and Richard went no more in the autumnal storms to look for his wayward brother.  There was something in the beautiful