“Sam seemed to know.  He muttered somethin’ that sounded like a Scripture text.  Simeon spoke up prompt.

“‘Indeed you will,’ says he, decided.  ’Me and Hiram ain’t that kind.  We’ve got relations of our own, and we know what it means when they come a-visitin’.  You and Mr. Holden’ll take your comp’ny and go to see—­whatever ’tis you want to see, and we’ll make ourselves to home till you get back.  Yes, you will, or we clear out this minute.’

“They didn’t want to, but we was sot, and so they give in finally.  It seemed that this Cousin Harriet was a widow relation of the Holdens, who lived in a swell country house over in Connecticut somewhere, and was rich as the rest of the tribe.  Archie was her son.  ’Hers and the Evil One’s,’ Sam said.

“We didn’t realize how much truth there was in this last part until we run afoul of Archie and his ma at dinner time.  Cousin Harriet was tall and middlin’ slim, thirty-five years old, maybe, at a sale for taxes, but discounted to twenty at her own valuation.  She was got up regardless, and had a kind of chronic, tired way of talkin’, and a condescendin’ look to her, as if she was on top of Bunker Hill monument, and all creation was on its knees down below.  She didn’t warm up to Simeon and me much; eyed us over through a pair of gilt spyglasses, and admitted that she was ‘charmed, I’m sure.’  Likewise, she was afflicted with ‘nerves,’ which must be a divil of a disease—­for everybody but the patient, especial.

“Archie—­his ma hailed him as ’Archibald, dear’—­showed up pretty soon in tow of his ‘maid,’ a sweet-faced, tired-out Irish girl named Margaret.  ‘Archibald, dear,’ was five years old or so, sufferin’ from curls and the lack of a lickin’.  I never see a young one that needed a strap ile more.

“‘How d’ye do Archie?’ says Simeon, holdin’ out his hand.

“Archie didn’t take the hand.  Instead of that he points at Phinney and commences to laugh.

“‘Ho, ho!’ says he, dancin’ and pointin’.  ‘Look at the funny whiskers.’

“Sim wa’n’t expectin’ that, and it set him all aback, like he’d run into a head squall.  He took hold of his beard and looked foolish.  Sam and Grace looked ashamed and mad.  Cousin Harriet laughed one of her lazy laughs.

“‘Archibald, de-ar,’ she drawls, ’you mustn’t speak that way.  Now be nice, and play with Margaret durin’ dinner, that’s a good boy.’

“‘I won’t,’ remarks Archie, cheerful.  ‘I’m goin’ to dine with you, mama.’

“‘Oh, no, you’re not, dear.  You’ll have your own little table, and—­’

“Then ‘twas’ Hi, yi!’ ‘Bow, wow!’ Archibald wa’n’t hankerin’ for little tables.  He was goin’ to eat with us, that’s what.  His ma, she argued with him and pleaded, and he yelled and stamped and hurrahed.  When Margaret tried to soothe him he went at her like a wild-cat, and kicked and pounded her sinful.  She tried to take him out of the room, and then Cousin Harriet come down on her like a scow load of brick.