We reached Canton at six o’clock in the evening of a beautiful summer day.  I went at once to call upon the Dunkelbergs and learned from a man at work in the dooryard that they had gone away for the summer.  How keen was my disappointment!  I went to the tavern and got my supper and then over to Ashery Lane to see Michael Hacket and his family.  I found the schoolmaster playing his violin.

“Now God be praised—­here is Bart!” he exclaimed as he put down his instrument and took my hands in his.  “I’ve heard, my boy, how bravely ye’ve weathered the capes an’ I’m proud o’ ye—­that I am!”

I wondered what he meant for a second and then asked: 

“How go these days with you?”

“Swift as the weaver’s shuttle,” he answered.  “Sit you down, while I call the family.  They’re out in the kitchen putting the dishes away.  Many hands make light labor.”

They came quickly and gathered about me—­a noisy, happy group.  The younger children kissed me and sat on my knees and gave me the small news of the neighborhood.

How good were the look of those friendly faces and the full-hearted pleasure of the whole family at my coming!

“What a joy for the spare room!” exclaimed the schoolmaster.  “Sure I wouldn’t wonder if the old bed was dancin’ on its four legs this very minute.”

“I intend to walk up to the hills to-night,” I said.

“Up to the hills!” he exclaimed merrily.  “An’ the Hackets lyin’ awake thinkin’ o’ ye on the dark road!  Try it, boy, an’ ye’ll get a crack with the ruler and an hour after school.  Yer aunt and uncle will be stronger to stand yer comin’ with the night’s rest upon them.  Ye wouldn’t be routin’ them out o’ bed an’ they after a hard day with the hayin’!  Then, my kind-hearted lad, ye must give a thought to Michael Henry.  He’s still alive an’ stronger than ever—­thank God!”

So, although I longed for those most dear to me up in the hills, I spent the night with the Hackets and the schoolmaster and I sat an hour together after the family had gone to bed.

“How are the Dunkelbergs?” I asked.

“Sunk in the soft embrace o’ luxury,” he answered.  “Grimshaw made him; Grimshaw liked him.  He was always ready to lick the boots o’ Grimshaw.  It turned out that Grimshaw left him an annuity of three thousand dollars, which he can enjoy as long as he observes one condition.”

“What is that?”

“He must not let his daughter marry one Barton Baynes, late o’ the town o’ Ballybeen.  How is that for spite, my boy?  They say it’s written down in the will.”

I think that he must have seen the flame of color playing on my face, for he quickly added: 

“Don’t worry, lad.  The will o’ God is greater than the will o’ Grimshaw.  He made you two for each other and she will be true to ye, as true as the needle to the north star.”

“Do you think so?”

“Sure I do.  Didn’t she as much as tell me that here in this room—­not a week ago?  She loves ye, boy, as true as God loves ye, an’ she’s a girl of a thousand.