His fame for making and doing over furniture had spread beyond the borders of the town; his opinion was valued highly by collectors, and it was said he might have made a fortune in the city.  But what use had he for a fortune?  It was the friendly greetings, the neighborly kindnesses, the comradeship with the children of the village, that made his life.

In spite of its rugged lines his face as he grew older had taken on a singularly sweet expression, but it was sad to-day as he sat on the wall in his knit jacket and work apron, looking down on the town, its roofs and spires showing amongst the trees.  It seemed to him that the times were out of joint, and his cheerful philosophy was beginning to fail him.  Something had been wrong ever since Patterson Whittredge went away, more than a dozen years ago.

Morgan never failed to follow with interest the careers of the boys of Friendship as they went out into the world, and of all the boys of the village Patterson had been his favorite.  He had understood the trouble as well as if it had been carefully explained to him.  His deafness had quickened his insight.  A girl’s lovely face on Pat’s dressing-table, seen when he replaced a broken caster, partly told the story, and Mrs. Whittredge’s pride and determination were no secret to any one.

Judge Whittredge’s whitening head and heavy step, his fruitless search for health abroad, his return to die at last in his old home, Patterson’s coming,—­sent for by his heart-broken mother,—­this was the rest of the story.  But before this family difference had been settled by the stern hand of death, the removal of Thomas Gilpin had precipitated another quarrel upon the town.

It was a puzzle to Morgan that a man like his old friend Mr. Gilpin, who had it in his power to do so much good, should have chosen to do harm instead.  As he rose to go, he looked over his shoulder at the old house, closed and deserted since the death of its owner.

The site was a beautiful one, commanding a view of valley and hill and the narrow winding river.  The house, an unpretentious square of red brick, with sloping roof and dormer windows, wore its hundred years with dignity, and amid its fine trees was an object of interest to strangers, of pride to the villagers.

Below it on the slope stood a more modern house, in what had been until recently a handsome garden.  Morgan, as he passed recalled how proud Dr. Fair had been of his flowers.  Celia, who was entering the gate, nodded and smiled brightly.  He noted, however, that her face was losing its soft curves and rose tints.  Celia was another of his favorites, and he knew she was having her battle with misfortune, meeting it as bravely as a young woman could.  Thomas Gilpin might so easily have smoothed the way for her.  The spinet was an interesting heirloom, no doubt, but would not help Celia solve the problem of bread and butter.

The shop of the cabinet-maker was just off Main Street, at the foot of the hill.  To its original two rooms he had added two more, and here he lived with no companions but a striped cat and a curly dog, who endured each other and shared the affection of their master.