receive and return visits, and are called the leading family in town.

But "my house," as some have named the great square mansion, is
nobody's house but its owners'. No guest who can not return
hospitality in equal style is asked to tarry for a night there. All
ministers sojourning in the place are directed by them to the humble
parsonage for entertainment. Every weary, homeless wanderer is pointed
to the distant almshouse; and a neighbor's horse or cow which has
strayed from its own enclosure, is at once put into the pound by the
squire's man.

If an appeal is made for any benevolent object the squire says, "Go to
my house and ask my wife to give you something." She, in turn, points
the applicant to the field or the orchard, and says, "Go down there
and ask my husband to give you something." So one puts it on the
other, and nothing is given; and neither the town nor the world is the
better for their living.

This is the way things are done at "my house."

Across the street, under the shadow of two wide-spreading elms, stands
a very modest cottage nestled in vines and flowers, with curtains
drawn up to let in the light of God's blessed sun, and an ever-open
door with a great chair in full view, holding out its time-worn arms,
as if to invite and welcome in the weary passer-by. The birds are
always remembered here in their times of scarcity, and so in token of
their gratitude, they gather in the trees and carol out sweet and
merry songs by way of paying their bills.

God's peace, as well as his plenty, rests on this place, and while its