Eben lives on a southern spur, next to Amos Cuthbert, where you can look off for forty miles across the billowy mountains of the west.  From no spot in Coniston town is the sunset so fine on distant Farewell Mountain, and Eben’s sheep feed on pastures where only mountain-bred sheep can cling and thrive.  Coniston, be it known, at this time is one of the famous wool towns of New England:  before the industry went West, with other industries.  But Eben Williams’s sheep do not wholly belong to him they are mortgaged—­and Eben’s farm is mortgaged.

Jethro Bass—­Eben testifies to us—­is in the habit of visiting him once a month, perhaps, when he goes to Amos Cuthbert’s.  Just friendly calls.  Is it not a fact that Jethro Bass holds his mortgage?  Yes, for eight hundred dollars.  How long has he held that mortgage?  About a year and a half.  Has the interest been paid promptly?  Well, the fact is that Eben hasn’t paid any interest yet.

Now let us take the concrete incident.  Before that hypocritical thaw early in February, Jethro called upon Amos Cuthbert—­not so surly then as he has since become—­and talked about buying his wool when it should be duly cut, and permitted Amos to talk about the position of second selectman, for which some person or persons unknown to the jury had nominated him.  On his way down to the Four Corners, Jethro had merely pulled up his sleigh before Eben Williams’s house, which stood behind a huge snow bank and practically on the road.  Eben appeared at the door, a little dishevelled in hair and beard, for he had been sleeping.

“How be you, Jethro?” he said nervously.  Jethro nodded.

“Weather looks a mite soft.”

No answer.

“About that interest,” said Eben, plunging into the dread subject, “don’t know as I’m ready this month after all.”

“G-goin’ to town meetin’, Eben?”

“Wahn’t callatin’ to,” answered Eben.

“G-goin’ to town meetin’, Eben?”

Eben, puzzled and dismayed, ran his hand through his hair.

“Wahn’t callatin’ to—­but I kin—­I kin.”

“D-Democrat—­hain’t ye—­D-Democrat?”

“I kin be,” said Eben.  Then he looked at Jethro and added in a startled voice, “Don’t know but what I be—­Yes, I guess I be.”

“H-heerd the ticket?”

Yes, Eben had heard the ticket.  What man had not.  Some one has been most industrious, and most disinterested, in distributing that ticket.

“Hain’t a mite of hurry about the interest right now—­right now,” said Jethro.  “M-may be along the third week in March—­may be—­c-can t tell.”

And Jethro clucked to his horse, and drove away.  Eben Williams went back into his house and sat down with his head in his hands.  In about two hours, when his wife called him to fetch water, he set down the pail on the snow and stared across the next ridge at the eastern horizon, whitening after the sunset.

The third week in March was the week after town meeting!