“Do you believe ’t it ‘d be any use me thinkin’ o’ Jathrop any more?” the maiden asked the matron.

“I believe I’d try the blacksmith if I was you; he looks mighty nice Sundays.”

Miss Clegg sighed heavily and turned to re-enter the house.

Mrs. Lathrop went “round by the gate” and became again an inmate of her own kitchen.  There the thought occurred to her that it was an excellent morning to clean the high-shelf over the sink.  For years past whenever she had had occasion to put anything up there, showers of dust and rolls of lint had come tumbling down upon her head.  Under such circumstances it was but natural that a determination to some day clean the shelf should have slowly but surely been developed.  Accordingly she climbed up on the edge of the sink and undertook the initiatory proceedings.  The lowest stratum of dirt was found to rest upon a newspaper containing an account of one day of Guiteau’s trial.  Upon the discovery of the paper Mrs. Lathrop suddenly abandoned her original plan, got down from the sink, ensconced herself in her kitchen rocker, and plunged into bliss forthwith.

An hour passed pleasantly and placidly by.  Bees buzzed outside the window, the kettle sizzled sweetly on the stove, the newspaper rustled less and less, Mrs. Lathrop’s head sank sideways, and the calm of perfect peace reigned in her immediate vicinity.

This state of things endured not long.

Its gentle Paradise was suddenly broken in upon and rent apart by a succession of the most piercing shrieks that ever originated in the throat of a human being.  Mrs. Lathrop came to herself with a violent start, sprang to her feet, ran to the door, and then stood still, completely dazed and at first unable to discern from which direction the ear-splitting screams proceeded.  Then, in a second, her senses returned to her, and she ran as fast as she could to the fence.  As she approached the boundary, she saw Susan standing in one of her upstairs windows and yelling at the top of her voice.  Mrs. Lathrop paused for no conventionalities of civilization.  She hoisted herself over the fence in a fashion worthy a man or a monkey, ran across the Clegg yard, entered the kitchen door, stumbled breathlessly up the dark back stairs, and gasped, grabbing Susan hard by the elbow,—­

“What is it, for pity’s—­”

Susan was all colors and shaking as if with the ague.

“You never told me ’s it ’d work so quick,” she cried out.

“What would—­”

“The feathers!”

“Whose feathers?”

“Father’s feathers.”

“Lord have mercy, Susan, you don’t mean—­”

“Yes, I do.”

“He ain’t never—­”

“Yes, he is.”

Mrs. Lathrop stood stricken.

Susan wiped her eyes with her apron and choked.

After a while the older woman spoke feebly.

“What did hap—­”

Miss Clegg cut the question off in its prime.