Pretty soon the people of Bartley knew all about the Marksons.  How people learn all about other people is more than I can explain. I never have a chance to know all about my neighbors, for I am kept busy in looking to myself; but if all the energy that is devoted to other people’s business in Bartley were expended on house-building, trade would soon be so dull that I should be longing for a mansion in the skies.

Everybody in Bartley knew that Helen Markson’s mother, who was very beautiful and lovable, had died years before, and that her stepmother had been Mrs. Markson only two or three years; that the second Mrs. Markson had married for money, and that her husband was afraid of her, and would run away from her if it wasn’t for Helen; that Mrs. Markson sometimes got angry, and then she raved like mad, and that it was wearing Mr. Markson’s life away; for he was a tender-hearted man, in spite of his smartness.  Some even declared that Markson had willed her all his property, and insured his life heavily for her besides, and that if he died before Helen was married, Helen would be a beggar.

But none of these things had anything to do with my contract.  I worked away and had good weather, so I lost no time, and at the end of five months I had finished the house, been paid for it, had paid my bills, and made a clear two thousand dollars on the job.  I could have made a thousand more, without any one being the wiser for it, but I don’t build houses in that way—­the public will greatly oblige me by cutting this out.  This money gave me a handsome business start, and having had no serious losses, nor any houses thrown back upon my hands—­(for I always make it a point to do a little better than I promise, so folks can’t find fault)—­I am now quite well off, and building houses on my own account, to sell; while some of my competitors, who started before I did, have been through bankruptcy, while some have been too poor to do even that.

A few years after building Markson’s house, I went with a Southern friend into a black-walnut speculation.  We bought land in the Southwest, cut the timber, got it to market, and made a handsome profit, I am glad to say.  This business took me away from home, and kept me for months, but, as I was still without family ties, I did not suffer much during my absence.  Still the old village seemed to take on a kind of motherly air as the stage, with me in it, rattled into town, and I was just dropping into a pleasant little reverie, when a carriage, which I recognized as Markson’s, dashed down the road, met us, and stopped, while the coachman shouted: 

“Raines’s foreman says the old man’s coming home to-day.”

He meant me.

“Reckon his head was purty level,” replied the stage-driver, tossing his head backward toward me.

“Mr. Raines,” said the coachman, recognizing me, “Mr. Markson is awful sick—­like to die any minute—­an’ he wants to see you right away—­wishes you wouldn’t wait for anything.”