astonishment, he turned suddenly, planted his stick in the ground, and
called,--

"God bless my soul! God bless my soul! Bad habit, bad habit. Never do say
good-morning,--bad habit. Too old to change, too old to change. Bad habit,
bad habit." And with a nod to Mercy, but still not saying good-morning,
he walked away.

Mercy ran into the house, breathless with amusement and wonder, and gave
her mother a most graphic account of this strange interview.

"But, for all his queerness, I like him, and I believe he'll be a great
friend of ours," she said, as she finished her story.

Mrs. Carr was knitting a woollen stocking. She had been knitting woollen
stockings ever since Mercy could remember. She always kept several on hand
in different stages of incompletion: some that she could knit on in the
dark, without any counting of stitches; others that were in the process of
heeling or toeing, and required the closest attention. She had been
setting a heel while Mercy was speaking, and did not reply for a moment.
Then, pushing the stitches all into a compact bunch in the middle of one
needle, she let her work fall into her lap, and, rolling the disengaged
knitting-needle back and forth on her knee to brighten it, looked at Mercy
reflectively.

"Mercy," said she, "queer people allers do take to each other. I don't
believe he's a bit queerer 'n you are, child." And Mrs. Carr laughed a
little laugh, half pride and half dissatisfaction. "You're jest like your
father: he'd make friends with a stranger, any day, on the street, in two
jiffeys, if he took a likin' to him; and there might be neighbors a livin'