Mr. Benedict steps forward with Mrs. Dillingham, and both shake hands with Mr. Yates.  One after another—­some shyly, some confidently—­the operatives come up and repeat the process, until all have pressed the proprietor’s hand, and have received a pleasant greeting and a cordial word from his sister, of whom the girls are strangely afraid.  There is a moment of awkward delay, as they start on their homeward way, and then they gather in a group upon the brow of the hill, and the evening air resounds with “three cheers” for Mr. Benedict.  The hum of voices begins again, the tramp of a hundred feet passes down the hill, and our little party are left to themselves.

They do not linger long.  The Snows take their leave.  Mr. and Mrs. Yates retire, with a lingering “good-night,” but the Balfours and the Fentons are guests of the house.  They go in, and the lamps are lighted, while the “little feller—­Paul B. by name”—­is carried on his happy father’s shoulder to his bed up stairs.

Finally, Jim comes down, having seen his pet asleep, and finds the company talking about Talbot.  He and his pretty, worldly wife, finding themselves somewhat too intimately associated with the bad fame of Robert Belcher, had retired to a country seat on the Hudson—­a nest which they feathered well with the profits of the old connection.

And now, as they take leave of each other for the night, and shake hands in token of their good-will, and their satisfaction with the pleasures of the evening, Jim says:  “Mr. Benedict, that was a good speech o’ yourn.  It struck me favorble an’ s’prised me some considable.  I’d no idee ye could spread so afore folks.  I shouldn’t wonder if ye was right about Proverdence.  It seems kind o’ queer that somebody or somethin’ should be takin keer o’ you an’ me, but I vow I don’t see how it’s all ben did, if so be as nobody nor nothin’ has took keer o’ me, an’ you too.  It seems reasomble that somethin’s ben to work all the time that I hain’t seed.  The trouble with me is that I can’t understand how a bein’ as turns out worlds as if they was nothin’ more nor snow-balls would think o’ stoppin’ to pay ’tention to sech a feller as Jim Fenton.”

“You are larger than a sparrow, Jim,” says Mr. Benedict with a smile.

“That’s so.”

“Larger than a hair.”

Jim puts up his hand, brushes down the stiff crop that crowns his head, and responds with a comical smile, “I don’ know ’bout that.”

Jim pauses as if about to make some further remark, thinks better of it, and then, putting his big arm around his little wife, leads her off, up stairs.

The lights of the great house go out one after another, the cataracts sing the inmates to sleep, the summer moon witches with the mist, the great, sweet heaven bends over the dreaming town, and there we leave our friends at rest, to take up the burden of their lives again upon the happy morrow, beyond our feeble following, but still under the loving eye and guiding hand to which we confidently and gratefully commit them.