“I hate to be taking you so far away,” said Samson.

“Hush, man,” said Kelso.  “It’s a thing to be thought about only in the still o’ the night.”

“I shall be lonesome.”

“But we live close by the wells of wisdom and so shall not be comfortless.”

Late in the afternoon Harry and Samson left the Kelsos and their effects at a small frame house in the little village of Hopedale.  The men had no sooner begun to unload than its inhabitants came to welcome the newcomers and help them in the work of getting settled.  When the goods were deposited in The dooryard Samson and Harry drove to John Peasley’s farm.  Mr. Peasley recognized the big, broad-shouldered Vermonter at the first look.

“Do I remember you?” he said.  “Well, I guess I do.  So does my barn door.  Let me take hold of that right hand of yours again.  Yes, sir.  It’s the same old iron hand.  Many Ann!” he called as his wife came out of the door.  “Here’s the big man from Vergennes who tossed the purty slaver.”

“I see it is,” she answered.  “Ain’t ye comin’ in?”

“We’ve been moving a man to Hopedale and shall have to spend the night somewhere in this neighborhood,” said Samson.  “Our horses are played out.”

“If you try to pass this place I’ll have ye took up,” said Peasley.  “There’s plenty of food in the house an’ stable.”

“Look here-that’s downright selfish,” said his wife, “If we tried to keep you here Henry Brimstead would never forgive us.  He talks about you morning, noon and night.  Any one would think that you was the Samson that slew the Philistines.”

“How is Henry?” Samson asked.

“He married my sister and they’re about as happy as they can be this side the river Jordan,” she went on.  “They’ve got one o’ the best farms in Tazewell County and they’re goin’ to be rich.  They’ve built ’em a splendid house with a big spare room in it.  Henry would have a spare room because he said that maybe the Traylors would be comin’ here to visit ’em some time.”

“Yes, sir; I didn’t think o’ that,” said Peasley.  “Henry and his wife would holler if we didn’t take ye over there.  It’s only a quarter of a mile.  I’ll show ye the way and we’ll all come over this evening and have a talkin’ bee.”

Samson was pleased and astonished by the look of Brimstead and his home and his family and the account of his success.  The man from the sand flats had built a square, two-story house with a stairway and three rooms above it and two below.  He was cleanly shaved, save for a black mustache, and neatly dressed and his face glowed with health and high spirits.  A handsome brown-eyed miss of seventeen came galloping up the road on her pony and stopped near them.

“Annabel, do you remember this man?” Brimstead asked.

The girl looked at Samson.

“He is the man who helped us out of Flea Valley,” said the girl.

Brimstead leaned close to the ear of Samson and said in a low tone: