He strode to the stable, saying to Timothy Weeks, as he passed, "I'll answer
this letter in person."

Away cantered Timothy, and soon caused a flutter of expectancy in the Weeks
household, by announcing that "Old Holcroft looked black as a thundercloud and
was comin' himself."

"I tell you what 'tis, Cynthy, it's the turn of a hair with you now," growled
Weeks. "Unless you agree to whatever Holcroft says, you haven't the ghost of a
chance."

The widow felt that a crisis had indeed come. Cousin Abiram's was the next
place in the order of visitation, but her last experience there left her in
painful doubt as to a future reception. Therefore she tied on a new cap,
smoothed her apron, and rocked with unwonted rapidity. "It'll be according to
the ordering of Providence--"

"Oh, pshaw!" interrupted Cousin Lemuel, "it'll be according to whether you've
got any sense or not."

Mrs. Weeks had been in a pitiable state of mind all day. She saw that her
husband had reached the limit of his endurance--that he had virtually already
"flown off the handle." But to have her own kin actually bundled out of the
house--what would people say?

Acceptance of Holcroft's terms, whatever they might be, was the only way out
of the awkward predicament, and so she began in a wheedling tone, "Now, Cousin
Cynthy, as Lemuel says, you've got a first-rate chance. Holcroft's had an
awful time with women, and he'll be glad enough to do well by anyone who does
fairly well by him. Everybody says he's well off, and once you're fairly