to do is to keep the farm and get a good living out of it. You've got down in
the dumps and can't see what's sensible and to your own advantage."

Holcroft was thinking deeply, and he turned his eyes wistfully to the upland
slopes of his farm. Mr. Weeks had talked plausibly, and if all had been as he
represented, the plan would not have been a bad one. But the widower did not
yearn for the widow. He did not know much about her, but had very unfavorable
impressions. Mrs. Holcroft had not been given to speaking ill of anyone, but
she had always shaken her head with a peculiar significance when Mrs.
Mumpson's name was mentioned.

The widow had felt it her duty to call and counsel against the sin of
seclusion and being too much absorbed in the affairs of this world.

"You should take an interest in everyone," this self-appointed evangelist had
declared, and in one sense she lived up to her creed. She permitted no scrap
of information about people to escape her, and was not only versed in all the
gossip of Oakville, but also of several other localities in which she visited.

But Holcroft had little else to deter him from employing her services beyond
an unfavorable impression. She could not be so bad as Bridget Malony, and he
was almost willing to employ her again for the privilege of remaining on his
paternal acres. As to marrying the widow--a slight shudder passed through his
frame at the thought.

Slowly he began, as if almost thinking aloud, "I suppose you are right, Lemuel
Weeks, in what you say about selling the place. The Lord knows I don't want
to leave it. I was born and brought up here, and that counts with some
people. If your wife's cousin is willing to come and help me make a living,
for such wages as I can pay, the arrangement might be made. But I want to