heated discussion into long consultations.

"They're paid by the day," Old Kennebec would philosophize to the
doctor; "an' when they're consultin' they don't hev to be
doggin', which is a turrible sight harder work."

Rose had created a small sensation, on one occasion, by pointing
out to the under boss the key-log in a jam. She was past
mistress of the pretty game of jackstraws, much in vogue at that
time. The delicate little lengths of polished wood or bone were
shaken together and emptied on the table. Each jackstraw had one
of its ends fashioned in the shape of some sort of implement,--
a rake, hoe, spade, fork, or mallet. All the pieces were
intertwined by the shaking process, and they lay as they fell, in
a hopeless tangle. The task consisted in taking a tiny pickpole,
scarcely bigger than a match, and with the bit of curved wire on
the end lifting off the jackstraws one by one without stirring
the pile or making it tremble. When this occurred, you gave
place to your opponent, who relinquished his turn to you when ill
fortune descended upon him, the game, which was a kind of
river-driving and jam-picking in miniature, being decided by the
number of pieces captured and their value. No wonder that the
under boss asked Rose's advice as to the key-log. She had a
fairy's hand, and her cunning at deciding the pieces to be moved,
and her skill at extricating and lifting them from the heap, were
looked upon in Edgewood as little less than supernatural. It was
a favorite pastime; and although a man's hand is ill adapted to
it, being over-large and heavy; the game has obvious advantages
for a lover in bringing his head very close to that of his
beloved adversary. The jackstraws have to be watched with a