That night, after he had the news from Lawyer Means, he could not sleep until nearly morning.  He lay awake, spending, mentally, principal and interest of his little fortune over and over, and spending, besides that, much of the singleness and unselfishness of his own heart.

However, after an hour or two of sleep, which seemed to turn, as sleep sometimes will, the erratic currents of his mind back into the old channels, from which it had been forced by this earthquake stress of life, he experienced a complete revulsion.

He remembered—­what he had either forgotten or ignored—­the scene in the store, his vow, the drawing up of the document which registered it.  He awoke into this memory as into a chilling atmosphere, and went down-stairs with a grave face.  He met his mother’s and sister’s almost hysterical delight, which had not abated overnight, his father’s child-like wonder and admiration, soberly; as soon as he could, he got away to his work, which was still in the wood where his mill had stood.  Cheeseman had gone home, still Jerome was not alone much of the day.  People came to congratulate him, also out of curiosity.  The little village was wild over the legacy, and the document concerning its division among the poor.

There were two distinct factions, one upholding the belief that Jerome would remain true to his promise, the other full of scoffing and scorn at the insanity of it.  Both factions invaded Jerome, and while neither broached the matter directly, strove by indirect and sly methods to ascertain his mind.

“S’pose ye’ll quit work now, J’rome; s’prised to see ye here this mornin’,” said one.

“When ye goin’ to run for Congress, J’rome?” asked another.

Still another inquired, meaningly, with a sly wink at his comrades, how much money he was going to allow for home missions? and another, when he was going to Boston to buy his gold watch and chain?  Until he went home at night he was haunted by the doubtful attention of the idle portion, just now large, of the village population.

It was too early for planting, and quite recently the supply of work from the Dale shoe-dealer had been scanty.  People were at a loss to account for it, as the business had increased during the last two years, and many Upham men had been employed.  Lately there had been a rumor as to the cause, but few had given it credence.

This afternoon, however, it was confirmed.  Just before dark, a man, breathless, as if he had been running, joined the knot of loafers.  “Well,” he said, panting, “I’ve found out why the shoes have been so scarce.”

The others stared at him, inquiringly.

“That—­durned varmint, over to Dale, he’s bought the old meetin’-house, an’—­sent down to Boston fer—­some machines, an’—­he’s goin’ to have a factory.  There’s no more handwork to be done; that’s the reason he’s been holdin’ it back.”

“How’d ye find it out?  Who told ye?” asked one and another, scowling.