accomplishments.  He expected, therefore, a certain amount of reflex credit for bringing such a fine young fellow in his company, and a second instalment of reputation from outshining him in conversation.  This was rather nice calculating, but Murray Bradshaw always calculated.  With most men life is like backgammon, half skill, and half luck, but with him it was like chess.  He never pushed a pawn without reckoning the cost, and when his mind was least busy it was sure to be half a dozen moves ahead of the game as it was standing.

Mr. Bradshaw gave Clement a pretty dinner enough for such a place as Oxbow Village.  He offered him some good wine, and would have made him talk so as to show his lining, to use one of his own expressions, but Clement had apparently been through that trifling experience, and could not be coaxed into saying more than he meant to say.  Murray Bradshaw was very curious to find out how it was that he had become the victim of such a rudimentary miss as Susan Posey.  Could she be an heiress in disguise?  Why no, of course not; had not he made all proper inquiries about that when Susan came to town?  A small inheritance from an aunt or uncle, or some such relative, enough to make her a desirable party in the eyes of certain villagers perhaps, but nothing to allure a man like this, whose face and figure as marketable possessions were worth say a hundred thousand in the girl’s own right, as Mr. Bradshaw put it roughly, with another hundred thousand if his talent is what some say, and if his connection is a desirable one, a fancy price,—­anything he would fetch.  Of course not.  Must have got caught when he was a child.  Why the diavolo didn’t he break it off, then?

There was no fault to find with the modest entertainment at the Parsonage.  A splendid banquet in a great house is an admirable thing, provided always its getting up did not cost the entertainer an inward conflict, nor its recollection a twinge of economical regret, nor its bills a cramp of anxiety.  A simple evening party in the smallest village is just as admirable in its degree, when the parlor is cheerfully lighted, and the board prettily spread, and the guests are made to feel comfortable without being reminded that anybody is making a painful effort.

We know several of the young people who were there, and need not trouble ourselves for the others.  Myrtle Hazard had promised to come.  She had her own way of late as never before; in fact, the women were afraid of her.  Miss Silence felt that she could not be responsible for her any longer.  She had hopes for a time that Myrtle would go through the customary spiritual paroxysm under the influence of the Rev. Mr. Stoker’s assiduous exhortations; but since she had broken off with him, Miss Silence had looked upon her as little better than a backslider.  And now that the girl was beginning to show the tendencies which seemed to come straight down to her from the belle of the last century, (whose rich physical developments