But her mother was ambitious, more so than her father, who was rather pugnaciously satisfied with what he had, and not easily disposed to change.  However, he yielded to his wife and consented to sell out his business and purchase a house in Boston and move there.

David Townsend was curiously unlike the line of ancestors from whom he had come.  He had either retrograded or advanced, as one might look at it.  His moral character was certainly better, but he had not the fiery spirit and eager grasp at advantage which had distinguished them.  Indeed, the old Townsends, though prominent and respected as men of property and influence, had reputations not above suspicions.  There was more than one dark whisper regarding them handed down from mother to son in the village, and especially was this true of the first Townsend, he who built the tavern bearing the Sign of the Blue Leopard.  His portrait, a hideous effort of contemporary art, hung in the garret of David Townsend’s home.  There was many a tale of wild roistering, if no worse, in that old roadhouse, and high stakes, and quarreling in cups, and blows, and money gotten in evil fashion, and the matter hushed up with a high hand for inquirers by the imperious Townsends who terrorized everybody.  David Townsend terrorized nobody.  He had gotten his little competence from his store by honest methods—­the exchanging of sterling goods and true weights for country produce and country shillings.  He was sober and reliable, with intense self-respect and a decided talent for the management of money.  It was principally for this reason that he took great delight in his sudden wealth by legacy.  He had thereby greater opportunities for the exercise of his native shrewdness in a bargain.  This he evinced in his purchase of a house in Boston.

One day in spring the old Townsend house was shut up, the Blue Leopard was taken carefully down from his lair over the front door, the family chattels were loaded on the train, and the Townsends departed.  It was a sad and eventful day for Townsend Centre.  A man from Barre had rented the store—­David had decided at the last not to sell—­and the old familiars congregated in melancholy fashion and talked over the situation.  An enormous pride over their departed townsman became evident.  They paraded him, flaunting him like a banner in the eyes of the new man.  “David is awful smart,” they said; “there won’t nobody get the better of him in the city if he has lived in Townsend Centre all his life.  He’s got his eyes open.  Know what he paid for his house in Boston?  Well, sir, that house cost twenty-five thousand dollars, and David he bought it for five.  Yes, sir, he did.”

“Must have been some out about it,” remarked the new man, scowling over his counter.  He was beginning to feel his disparaging situation.

“Not an out, sir.  David he made sure on’t.  Catch him gettin’ bit.  Everythin’ was in apple-pie order, hot an’ cold water and all, and in one of the best locations of the city—­real high-up street.  David he said the rent in that street was never under a thousand.  Yes, sir, David he got a bargain—­five thousand dollars for a twenty-five-thousand-dollar house.”