Miss Meredith, evidently encouraged by her father’s humour, made a mouth, and droned in a sing-song voice:  “’What doth every sin deserve?  Every sin deserveth God’s wrath and curse, both in this life and that which is to come.’” Such a desecration of the Westminster Assembly of Divines’ “Shorter Catechism” would doubtless have produced further and severer reproof from Mrs. Meredith, but the censure was prevented by the clump of heavy boots, followed by the entrance of an over-tall, loosely-built fellow of about eighteen years, whose clothes rather hung about than fitted him.

“Your servant, marms,” was his greeting, as he struggled to make a bow.  “Your servant, squire.  Mr. Hitchins, down ter Trenton, where I went yestere’en with a bale of shearings, asked me ter come araound your way with a letter an’ a bond-servant that come ter him on a hay-sloop from Philadelphia.  So—­”

“Having nothing better to do, you came?” interrupted Janice, with a gravely courteous manner.

“That ‘s it, Miss Janice; I’m obleeged ter you for sayin’ it better nor I could,” said the young fellow, gratefully, while manifestly straining to get a letter from his pocket.

“Hast breakfasted, Phil?” asked the squire.

Producing the letter with terrible effort, and handing it to Mr. Meredith, Hennion began, “As for that—­”

Here Janice interrupted by saying, “You breakfasted in Trenton—­what a pity!”

“Janice!” snapped her mother, warningly.  “Cease thy clack and set a chair for Philemon this instant.”

That individual tried to help the girl, but he was not quick enough, except to get awkwardly in the way, and bring his shins in sharp contact with the edge of the chair.  Uttering an exclamation of pain, he dropped his hat,—­a proceeding which set the two girls off into ill-suppressed giggles.  But finally, relieved of his tormenting head-gear, he was safely seated, and Janice set the dishes in front of him, from all of which he helped himself liberally.  Meanwhile, the squire broke the seal of the letter and began to read it.

“Wilt have tea or home brew?” asked Mrs. Meredith.

“Beer for me, marm, thank you.  An’ I think it only kindly ter say I’ve hearn talk concernin’ your tea drinkin’.”

“Let ’em talk,” muttered the squire, angrily, looking up from the letter. “’T is nothing to me.”

“But Joe Bagby says there ’s a scheme ter git the committee of Brunswick township ter take it up.”

“Not they,” fumed Mr. Meredith. “’T is one thing to write anonymous letters, but quite another matter to stand up and be counted.  As for that scamp Joe—­”

“Anonymous letters?” questioned Philemon.

“Ay,” sputtered the squire, taking from his pocket a paper which he at once crushed into a ball, and then as promptly smoothed out again as a preliminary to handing it to the youth.  With difficulty, for the writing was bad, and the paper old and dirty, Philemon read out the following:—­