He is a genial soul; she, though very old for the responsibilities she still insists upon carrying, enjoys a good laugh.  Nor is she averse to the numberless little kindly attentions with which he shows his respect for her age if not a personal liking for herself.  In short, they are almost friends, and she trusts him as she has never trusted any young man yet, save the boy she lost when she was still a comely widow.

Perhaps this is why, on this night when we find the two together, he ventures to turn the talk upon the man she had so devotedly served during the better part of her life.

He began with the cuckoo-clock.  Where did it come from?  How long had they had it?  What a jolly little customer the wee bird was, darting out and darting in with his hurry-call to anyone who would listen!  It made a fellow feel ashamed to dawdle at his work.  It wouldn’t do to let any mere bird get ahead of him—­a wooden bird at that!

He got her talking.  She had known Mr. Roberts’ mother, and she had been in the house (a young girl then) when he went away to Europe.  He had not wanted to go.  He was in love, or thought he was, with a woman older than himself.  But the mother did not approve of the match, though the lady had a mint of money and everything in her favor but those seven years.  She afterward became his wife and for all his mother’s fears they lived together very happily.  Since her death which occurred about a year ago he’s been a different man; very sad and much given to sitting alone.  Anyone can see the effect it has had upon him if they look at him closely.

“She was a good woman, then?”

“Very good.”

“Well, life must be lonesome for a widower, especially if he has no children.  But perhaps he has some married or at school?”

“No, he has no children, and no relations, to speak of.”

“And he brought that clock from Switzerland?  Did he ever say from what part of Switzerland?”

“If he did, I don’t remember; I’ve no memory for foreign names.”

This sent Sweetwater off on another tack.  He knew such a good story, which, having told, he seemed to have forgotten all about the clock, for he said nothing more about it, and not much more about Mr. Roberts.

But when, a little later, he followed her into that gentleman’s room for the purpose of unlocking a trunk which had been delivered that day, he took advantage of her momentary absence in search of the key to pull out that cuckoo-clock from the wall where it hung and read the small slip of paper pasted across its back.  As he hoped, it gave both the name and address of the merchant from whom it had been bought.  But that was not all.  Running in diagonal lines across this label, he saw some faded lines in fine handwriting, which proved to be a couplet signed with five initials.  The latter were not quite legible, but the couplet he could read without the least difficulty.  It was highly sentimental, and might mean much and might mean nothing.  If the handwriting should prove to be Mr. Roberts’, the probabilities were in favor of the former supposition—­or so he said to himself, as he swung the clock back into place.