The fine old farmhouse is ideally located on a rising slope of ground.  It is surrounded with the most beautiful grove of horse-chestnut trees in this section of the country.

The house is more than a hundred years old, and Bishop has the sense not to attempt an improvement in its exterior architecture.  When a boy I spent most of my spare time in and around the Bishop house.  Joe Bishop and I were chums, but when I went away to college, Joe wandered out West, and it is years since I have seen him.  I have often thought that I must have been an awful source of bother to the Bishops, but they never seemed to mind it much.  All of their children are grown up and married, but here the old folks are, working away as hard as when I was a child.

I suppose James Bishop is about Mr. Harding’s age, somewhere between fifty and fifty-five.  He in no way resembles the farmer of the cartoons.  He wears a stubby moustache, and looks more the prosperous horseman than the typical farmer.  He is a big man, a trifle taller than Mr. Harding, but not so broad of shoulder.  Either of them would tip the beam at 230 pounds.

Bishop was at the gate waiting for us, and back of him two good-natured dogs bayed a noisy welcome.

“Come right in,” he said, shaking hands with Harding.  “If I’d known that you had to walk I’d hitched up a rig and come after ye.  This is Mrs. Harding, I reckon,” he said, grasping that lady’s hand.  “Glad to meet ye, Mrs. Harding!  I knowed that thar husband of your’n when he wasn’t bigger nor a pint of cider.”

[Illustration:  “At the gate waiting for us”]

“Robert has often spoken of you, Mr. Bishop,” said that lady.  “How is Mrs. Bishop?”

“She’s well; first-rate, thank ye.  Come right in and we’ll hunt her up,” he said, leading the way.  “I suppose she’s puttering around in the kitchen.”

I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Bishop through the window.  She was hurriedly shedding a large calico apron, and met us as we were on the steps of the veranda.  A woman trained in the conventionalities of society could not have conducted herself better than did this American wife of an American farmer, and I was proud of her as if she had been my own mother.  She had the rare tact of making her guests feel perfectly at home.

Bishop had disappeared, but soon returned with an enormous glass pitcher and a tray of glasses.

“Here’s some new sweet cider for the ladies,” he said, pouring out a glass and handing it to Mrs. Harding.  “Pressed it out this afternoon, and picked out the apples myself.  Try some, Miss Harding.  Here’s a glass for you, Miss——­, blamed if I hav’n’t forgot your name already,” proffering a glass to Miss Lawrence, “but we don’t mind a little thing like that, do we.”

“Indeed we do not,” laughed Miss Lawrence.

“How about this?” demanded Chilvers.  “What was that you said about cider for the ladies?  My friend Marshall is dying for a drink, and my throat is as dusty as his boots.  Do we walk two miles and then choke to death?  We don’t want to lose Marshall like this.”