He was a shrewd man, of unblemished reputation.  When called upon to talk, he talked well, but he much preferred listening, and was, as now appeared, the safest repository of secrets to be found in all that region.  He had been married three times, and could still count thirteen children around his board, one reason, perhaps, why he had learned to cultivate silence to such a degree.  Happily, the time had come for him to talk, and he talked.  This is what he said: 

“Some fifteen years ago Philemon Webb came to me with a small sum of money, which he said he wished to have me invest for his wife.  It was the fruit of a small speculation of his and he wanted it given unconditionally to her without her knowledge or that of the neighbours.  I accordingly made out a deed of gift, which he signed with joyful alacrity, and then after due thought and careful investigation, I put the money into a new enterprise then being started in Boston.  It was the best stroke of business I ever did in my life.  At the end of a year it paid double, and after five had rolled away the accumulated interest had reached such a sum that both Philemon and myself thought it wisest to let her know what she was worth and what was being done with the money.  I was in hopes it would lead her to make some change in her mode of living, which seemed to me out of keeping with her appearance and mental qualifications; while he, I imagine, looked for something more important still—­a smile on the face which had somehow lost the trick of merriment, though it had never acquired that of ill nature.  But we did not know Agatha; at least I did not.  When she learned that she was rich, she looked at first awestruck and then heart-pierced.  Forgetting me, or ignoring me, it makes no matter which, she threw herself into Philemon’s arms and wept, while he, poor faithful fellow, looked as distressed as if he had brought news of failure instead of triumphant success.  I suppose she thought of her buried children, and what the money would have been to her if they had lived; but she did not speak of them, nor am I quite sure they were in her thoughts when, after the first excitement was over, she drew back and said quietly, but in a tone of strong feeling, to Philemon:  ’You meant me a happy surprise, and you must not be disappointed.  This is heart money; we will use it to make our townsfolk happy.’  I saw him glance at her dress, which was a purple calico.  I remember it because of that look and because of the sad smile with which she followed his glance.  ’Can we not afford now,’ he ventured, ’a little show of luxury, or at least a ribbon or so for this beautiful throat of yours?’ She did not answer him; but her look had a rare compassion in it, a compassion, strange to say, that seemed to be expended upon him rather than upon herself.  Philemon swallowed his disappointment.  ‘Agatha is right,’ he said to me.  ’We do not need luxury.  I do not know how I so far forgot myself as to mention it.’  That was ten