and they rose behind it like a wheat-field behind a summer wind. As he
finished the manipulation, Mr. Buffum gave symptoms of life. Like a
volcano under premonitory signs of an eruption, a wheezy chuckle seemed
to begin somewhere in the region of his boots, and rise, growing more
and more audible, until it burst into a full demonstration, that was
half laugh and half cough.

"Why, what are you laughing at, father?" exclaimed Miss Buffum.

The truth was that Mr. Buffum had not slept at all. The simulation of
sleep had been indulged in simply to escape the necessity of talking.

"It was old Tilden," said Mr. Buffum, and then went off into another fit
of coughing and laughing that nearly strangled him.

"I wonder if it was!" seemed to come simultaneously from the lips of the
mother and her daughters.

"Did you ever see him again?" inquired Mr. Buffum.

"I seen 'im oncet, in the spring, I s'pose," said Jim, "what there was
left of 'im. There wasn't much left but an old shirt and some bones, an'
I guess he wa'n't no great shakes of an angel. I buried 'im where I
found 'im, and said nothin' to nobody."

"That's right," wheezed Mr. Buffum. "It's just as well."

"The truth is," said Mrs. Buffum, "that folks made a great fuss about
his gettin' away from here and never bein' found. I thought 'twas a good
riddance myself, but people seem to think that these crazy critturs are