He accepted their invitation to supper with flattering alacrity; they were so good to take pity on a solitaire, and Mrs. Bartlett was such a famous housekeeper; he had heard of her apple-pies in Boston.  Dave scented patronage in his “citified” air; he and other young men at the table—­young men who helped about the farm—­resented everything about the stranger from the self-satisfied poise of his head to the aggressive gloss on his riding-boots.

“Why, Dave,” said Kate to her cousin in an undertone, “you look positively fierce.  If I had a particle of vanity I should say you were jealous.”

“When I get jealous, Kate, it will be of a man, not of a tailor’s sign.”

“Say, Miss Kate,” said Hi Holler, “they’re a couple of old lengths of stove-pipes out in the loft; I’m going to polish ’em up for leggins.  Darned if I let any city dude get ahead o’ me.”

“The green-eyed monster is driving you all crazy,” laughed Kate, in great good humor.  “The girls don’t seem to find any fault with him.”  Cynthia and Amelia were both regarding him with admiring glances.

Dave turned away in some impatience.  Involuntarily his eyes sought out Anna Moore to see if she, too, was adding her quota of admiration to the stranger’s account.  But Anna had no eyes or ears for anything but the business of the moment, which was attending to the Squire’s guests.  Evidently one woman could retain her senses in the presence of this tailor’s figure.  Dave’s admiration of Anna went up several points.

She slipped about as quietly as a spirit, removing and replacing dishes with exquisite deftness.  Even the Squire was forced to acknowledge that she was a great acquisition to the household.  She neither sought to avoid nor to attract the attention of Sanderson; she waited on him attentively and unobtrusively as she would have waited on any other guest at the Squire’s table.  The Squire and Sanderson retired to the porch to discuss the purchase of the stock, and Mrs. Bartlett and Anna set to work to clear away the dishes.  Kate excused herself from assisting, as she had to assume the position as hostess and soon had the church choir singing in its very best style.  Song after song rang out on the clear summer air.  It was a treat not likely to be forgotten soon by the listeners.  All the members of the choir had what is known as “natural talent,” joined to which there was a very fair amount of cultivation, and the result was music of a most pleasing type, music that touches the heart—­not a mere display Of vocal gymnastics.

Toward the close of the festivities, the sound of wheels was heard, and the cracked voice of Rube Whipple, the town constable, urging his ancient nag to greater speed, issued out of the darkness.  Rube was what is known as a “character.”  He had held the office, which on account of being associated with him had become a sort of municipal joke, in the earliest recollections of the oldest inhabitants.  He apparently got no older.  For the past fifty years he had looked as if he had been ready to totter into the grave at any moment, but he took it out apparently, in attending to other people’s funerals instead.  His voice was cracked, he walked with a limp, and his clothes, Hi Holler said:  “was the old suit Noah left in the ark.”