“We, the Party of the First Part, bind ourselves, and each of our heirs, executors, administrators and assigns, jointly and severally, firmly by these presents, and at all times hereafter to save, defend, keep harmless and indemnify the aforesaid Party of the Second Part (Miss Lydia Bolton) of, from and against all further costs, damages, expense, disparagements (that means spiteful gossip, ladies!) molestations, slander, vituperations, etc. (I could say more, but we’ve got something to do that’ll take time.) And whereas, the said Party of the Second Part has been actually drove to Boston to live by the aforesaid slander, calumniations, aspersions and libels—­which we, the said Party of the First Part do hereby acknowledge to be false and untrue (yes, and doggone mean, as I look at it)—­we, the said Party of the First part do firmly bind ourselves, our heirs, executors, administrators an’ assigns to quit all such illegalities from this day forth, and forever more.” ...

“You want to get out of the habit of talking mean about Andrew Bolton, for one thing.  It’s been as catching as measles in this town since I can remember.  Andrew Bolton’s dead and buried in our cemetery, beside his wife.  We’ll be there ourselves, some day; in the meanwhile we want to reform our tongues.  You get me?  All right!

“And whereas, we, the Party of the First Part, otherwise known as the village of Brookville, do ask, beg, entreat, supplicate and plead the f’rgiveness of the Party of the Second Part, otherwise known as Miss Lydia Orr Bolton.  And we also hereby request, petition, implore an’ importune Miss Lydia Orr Bolton, otherwise known as the Party of the Second Part, to return to Brookville and make it her permanent place of residence, promising on our part, at all times hereafter, to save, defend, keep harmless and indemnify her against all unfriendliness, of whatever sort; and pledging ourselves to be good neighbors and loving friends from the date of this document, which, when signed by th’ Party of the First Part, shall be of full force and virtue.  Sealed with our seals.  Dated this seventh day of June, in the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred—­”

A loud uproar of applause broke loose in the pause that followed; then the minister’s clear voice called for silence once more.

“The Judge has his big fountain pen filled to its capacity,” he said.  “Come forward and sign this—­the most remarkable document on record, I am not afraid to say.  Its signing will mean the wiping out of an old bitterness and the dawning of a new and better day for Brookville!”

The Reverend Wesley Elliot had mixed his metaphors sadly; but no one minded that, least of all the minister himself, as he signed his name in bold black characters to the wondrous screed, over which Judge Fulsom had literally as well as metaphorically burned the midnight oil.  Deacon and Mrs. Whittle signed; Postmaster and Mrs. Daggett signed, the latter with copious tears flowing over her smooth rosy cheeks.  Miss Lois Daggett was next: