“It was an odd idea,” said Matthew, laughing slightly out of compliment to the carpenter, though he could not understand what there was to laugh at.

“And now,” continued he, when the carpenter’s cachinations had subsided, “I will explain to you my motive in asking all these questions.  I am engaged to Mrs. Frump, and she is now—­”

The carpenter immediately broke into another of his remarkable laughs, louder and longer than before.

“Well, sir,” said Matthew, sarcastically, “when you get through, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me what you are laughing about?”

“The idee—­ha! ha!—­of your—­ha! ha!—­marrying Mrs.—­ha! ha! ha!” and the remainder of the sentence was lost in that monstrous laugh.

Matthew, irritated by this most aggravating species of ridicule, took the carpenter’s measure for a kick—­but judiciously refrained from fitting him with one.

The second of the carpenter’s laughs had made the widow (still stealthily looking out of the door) turn pale.  The third had inspired her with a painful curiosity, which she had determined to gratify, at any risk.  Before the last laugh, she had, therefore, crept up, unobserved, near where Matthew and the carpenter were standing, with their backs toward her.  Coming around suddenly in front of them, she saw the carpenter’s mouth wide open, still in the act of laughing, and observed that one of his front teeth was out.  The widow screamed, and fell—­into Matthew’s arms, nearly flooring him.

“Hold on to her,” said the carpenter.  “She will come to in a minute.”

“Who, sir—­who on earth are you?” shouted Matthew, struggling under the burdensome widow and a sense of mental bewilderment.

“I am Amos Frump,” he replied, in a voice which had suddenly risen five notes.

“The widow’s husband!  The dead come to life!” exclaimed Matthew, starting back, and nearly dropping the inanimate form.

Astounded as he was, he did not forget the marital rights of the man before him; and he said, with a trembling voice, politely, “I beg your pardon; but, as you are this lady’s husband, perhaps you had better hold her.”

“She appears to be doing very well where she is,” replied the singularly calm Amos Frump.  “A moment more, and she will be out of her fainting spell.  I’ve seed her very often this way before.”

Mr. Frump’s prediction was verified; for his lips had scarcely closed on the words, when Mrs. Frump opened her eyes, and feebly said, “Is it a dream?”

“No, Gusty,” replied the composed Amos; “it is a husband come back from Californy, with fifty thousand dollars.”

“It is—­it is my own ’husband’s voice!” cried Mrs. Frump, throwing herself impulsively out of Matthew’s arms upon the patched and faded coat of her restored consort.

“I thought you would know the voice,” said Amos, “and that’s the reason I changed it into a growl.  This ’ere old Californy suit was a pooty good disguise, too.  But my confounded laugh betrayed me.  I didn’t think to change that.”