Rube was, as usual, the pivot around which the merry-making centered.  A few nights before, burglars had broken into the postoffice and carried off the stamps, and the town constable was, as usual, the last one to hear of it.  On the night in question, he had spent the evening at the corner grocery store with a couple of his old pals, the stove answering the purpose of a rather large bulls-eye, at which they expectorated, with conscientious regularity, from time to time.  Seth Holcomb, Marthy Perkins’ faithful swain, had been of the corner grocery party.

“Well, Constable, hear you and Seth helped keep the stove warm the other night, while thieves walked off with the postoffice,” Marthy announced; “what I’d like to know is, how much bitters, rheumatism bitters, you had during the evening?”

“Well, Marthy Perkins, you ought to be the last to throw it up to Seth that he’s obliged to spend his evenings round a corner grocery—­that’s adding insult to injury.”

“Insult to injury I reckon can stand, Rube; it’s when you add Seth’s bitters that it staggers.”

But Seth, who never minded Marthy’s stings and jibes, only remarked:  “The recipy for them bitters was given to me by a blame good doctor.”

“That cuts you out, Wiggins,” the Squire said playfully.

“No, I don’t care about standing father to Seth’s bitters,” “Doc” Wiggins remarked, “but I’ve tasted worse stuff on a cold night.”

“Oh, Seth ain’t pertickler about the temperature, when he takes a dose of bitters.  Hot or cold, it’s all the same to him,” finished Marthy.

Seth took the opportunity to whisper to her:  “You’re going to sit next to me in ‘Doc’ Wiggins’ sleigh to-night, ain’t you, Marthy?”

“Indeed I ain’t,” said the spinster, scornfully tossing her head, “my place will have to be filled by the bitters-bottle; I am going with the Squire and Mrs. Bartlett.”

“Doc” Wiggins’ party left in high good humor, the Squire and his party promising to follow immediately.  Anna ran upstairs to get Mrs. Bartlett’s bonnet and cloak, and Marthy, with a great air of mystery, got up, and, carefully closing the door after the girl, turned to the Squire and his wife with: 

“I’ve come to tell you something about her.”

“Something about Anna?” said the Squire indignantly.

“Oh, no, not about our Anna,” protested Mrs. Bartlett:  “Why, she is the best kind of a girl; we are all devoted to her.”

“That’s just the saddest part of it, I says to myself when I heard.  How can I ever make up my mind to tell them pore, dear Bartletts, who took her in, and has been treating her like one of their own family ever since?  It will come hard on, them, I sez, but that ought not to deter me from my duty.”

“Look here, Marthy,” thundered the Squire, “if you’ve got anything to say about that girl, out with it——­”

“Well, land sake—­you needn’t be so touchy; she ain’t kin to you, and you might thank your lucky stars she ain’t.”