to note the details, he has transformed Miss Snow into Mrs. Yates.  The matter was concluded some years ago, and they seem quite wonted to each other.  The Rev. Mr. Snow, grown thinner and grayer, and a great deal happier, is there with his wife and his two unmarried daughters.  He finds it easier to “take things as they air,” than formerly, and, by his old bridge, holds them against all comers.  And who is this, and who are these?  Jim Fenton, very much smoothed exteriorly, but jolly, acute, outspoken, peculiar as ever.  He walks around the garden with a boy on his shoulder.  The “little feller” that originally appeared in Mr. Benedict’s plans of the new hotel is now in his hands—­veritable flesh and blood; and “the little woman,” sitting with Mrs. Snow, while Mrs. Dillingham directs the arrangement of the banquet that is being spread in the pagoda, watches the pair, and exclaims:  “Look at them! now isn’t it ridiculous?”

The warm sun hides himself behind the western hill, though still an hour above his setting.  The roar of the falling river rises to their ears, the sound of the factory bell echoes among the hills, and the crowd of grimy workmen and workwomen pours forth, darkening the one street that leads from the mill, and dissipating itself among the waiting cottages.  All is tranquillity and beauty, while the party gather to their out-door feast.

It is hardly a merry company, though a very happy one.  It is the latest issue of a tragedy in which all have borne more or less important parts.  The most thoughtless of them cannot but feel that a more powerful hand than their own has shaped their lives and determined their destinies.

The boys are called in, and the company gather to their banquet, amid conversation and laughter.

Mr. Balfour turns to Jim and says:  “How does this compare with Number Nine, Jim?  Isn’t this better than the woods?”

Jim has been surveying the preparations with a critical and professional eye, for professional purposes.  The hotel-keeper keeps himself constantly open to suggestions, and the table before him suggests so much, that his own establishment seems very humble and imperfect.

“I ben thinkin’ about it,” Jim responds.  “When a man has got all he wants, he’s brung up standin’ at the end of his road.  If thar ain’t comfort then, then there ain’t no comfort.  When he’s got more nor he wants, then he’s got by comfort, and runnin’ away from it.  I hearn the women talk about churnin’ by, so that the butter never comes, an’ a man as has more money nor he wants churns by his comfort, an’ spends his life swashin’ with his dasher, and wonderin’ where his butter is.  Old Belcher’s butter never come, but he worked away till his churn blowed up, an’ he went up with it.”

“So you think our good friend Mr. Benedict has got so much that he has left comfort behind,” says Mr. Balfour with a laugh.

“I should be afeard he had, if he could reelize it was all his’n, but he can’t.  He hain’t got no more comfort here, no way, nor he used to have in the woods.”  Then Jim leans over to Mr. Balfour’s ear, and says:  “It’s the woman as does it.  It’s purty to look at, but it’s too pertickler for comfort.”