“Do you think it an improvement?” he faltered, standing with his back to the fireplace and lifting himself to his full height.

Before I could reply, the door flew open without the formality of a knock, and old Mrs. Bolum ran in.  When she saw him, she stopped and stared.

“Well, ain’t he tasty!” she cried.

[Illustration:  Well, ain’t he tasty.]

Then she courtesied most formally.  “How do you do, Mr. Hope?” she said.

“And how is Mrs. Bolum?” returned Tim gravely, advancing toward her with his hand outstretched.

The old woman rubbed her own hand on her apron, an honor usually accorded only to the preacher, and held it out.  Tim seized it, but he brought his other arm around her waist and lifted her from the floor in one mighty embrace.

“You’ll spoil your Sunday clothes,” panted Mrs. Bolum, when she reached the floor again.  Stepping back, she eyed him critically.  “You look handsomer than a drummer,” she cried admiringly.

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Tim very meekly.

“I’m so sorry I left my spectacles at home,” she went on.  “My eyes ain’t as good as they used to be and I can’t see you plain as I’d like.  Mebbe it’s my sight as is the trouble, but it seems to me, as I see you now without my glasses, you’re just about the prettiest man that ever come to Six Stars.”

“Lord, ma’am,” protested Tim.  “And how is Mr. Bolum?”

“And such a lovely suit,” continued the old woman, cautiously approaching and moving her hand across my brother’s chest.  “Why, Tim, you must have on complete store clothes—­dear, oh, dear—­to think of Tim Hope gittin’ so fine and dressy!  Now had it ‘a’ been Mark I wouldn’t ‘a’ been so took back, for he allus was uppy and big feelin’.  But Tim!”

Mrs. Bolum shook her head and held her hands up in astonishment.

“And how is Mr. Bolum?” shouted Tim.

“Never was better, ‘ceptin’ for his rheumatism and asphmy,” was the answer, but the good woman was not to be turned aside that way.  “And a cady,” she cried, for her eyes had caught Tim’s hat and the silly yellow overcoat on the chair where I had thrown them.  “A cady, too!  Now just put it on and let me see how you look.”

Tim obeyed.  Mrs. Bolum stepped hack to get a better effect.

“It ain’t as pretty as your coon-skin,” she said critically; “you’d look lovely in that suit with your coon-skin cap—­but hold on—­don’t take it off—­I want Bolum to see you.”

She ran from the room and we heard her calling from the porch:  “Bo-lum—­Bo-lum—­Isaac Bo-oh-lum.”

Isaac was at the store.  It seemed to me that his wife should have known that without much research.  The little pile of sticks by the kitchen-door showed that his day’s work was done, for when he had split the wood for the morrow it was the old man’s custom to put aside all worldly care and start on a tour of the village, which generally ended on the bench at Henry Holmes’s side.