"'Lena," said Mrs. Nichols one afternoon when her husband seemed
worse, "'Lena, it's time for the stage, and do you run down to the
'turn' and see if your uncle's come; something tells me he'll be here
to-night."

'Lena obeyed, and throwing on her faded calico sunbonnet, she was
soon at the "turn," a point in the road from which the village hotel
was plainly discernible. The stage had just arrived, and 'Lena saw
that one of the passengers evidently intended stopping, for he seemed
to be giving directions concerning his baggage.

"That's Uncle John, I most know," thought she, and seating herself on
a rock beneath some white birches, so common in New England, she
awaited his approach. She was right in her conjecture, for the
stranger was John Livingstone, returned after many years, but so
changed that the jolly landlord, who had known him when a boy, and
with whom he had cracked many a joke, now hardly dared to address
him, he seemed so cold and haughty.

"I will leave my trunk here for a few days," said John, "and perhaps
I shall wish for a room. Got any decent accommodations?"

"Wonder if he don't calculate to sleep to hum," thought the landlord,
replying at the same instant, "Yes, sir, tip-top accommodations.
Hain't more'n tew beds in any room, and nowadays we allers has a
wash-bowl and pitcher; don't go to the sink as we used to when you
lived round here."

With a gesture of impatience Mr. Livingstone left the house and
started up the mountain road, where 'Lena still kept her watch. Oh,