grace to the whole village. Jim was also a disgrace,
and an unsolved problem. He owned that house,
and somehow contrived to pay the taxes thereon.
He also lived and throve in bodily health in spite of
evil ways, and his children were many. There
seemed no way to dispose finally of Jim Simmons
and his house except by murder and arson, and the
village was a peaceful one, and such measures were
entirely too strenuous.

Presently Johnny, staring dreamily out of his
window, saw approaching a rusty-black umbrella
held at precisely the wrong angle in respect of the
storm, but held with the unvarying stiffness with
which a soldier might hold a bayonet, and knew it
for his uncle Jonathan's umbrella. Soon he beheld
also his uncle's serious, rain-drenched face and his
long ambling body and legs. Jonathan was coming
home from the post-office, whither he repaired every
morning. He never got a letter, never anything
except religious newspapers, but the visit to the
post-office was part of his daily routine. Rain or
shine, Jonathan Trumbull went for the morning
mail, and gained thereby a queer negative enjoy-
ment of a perfectly useless duty performed. Johnny
watched his uncle draw near to the house, and cruelly
reflected how unlike Robin Hood he must be. He
even wondered if his uncle could possibly have read
Robin Hood and still show absolutely no result in his
own personal appearance. He knew that he, Johnny,