awful dry funeral, but that was the only flaw in it. It would 'a'
be'n perfect if there'd be'n anybody to shed tears. I come pretty
nigh it myself, though I ain't no relation, when Elder Weeks said,
'You'll go round the house, my sisters, and Mis' Butterfield won't be
there; you'll go int' the orchard, and Mis' Butterfield won't be
there; you'll go int' the barn, and Mis' Butterfield won't be there;
you'll go int' the shed, and Mis' Butterfield wont be there; you'll
go int' the hencoop, and Mis' Butterfield won't be there!' That
would 'a' draw'd tears from a stone, 'most, 'specially sence Mis'
Butterfield set such store by her hens."

And this is the way that Lyddy Butterfield came into her kingdom, a
little lone brown house on the river's brim. She had seen it only
once before when she had drives, out from Portland, years ago, with
her aunt. Mrs. Butterfield lived in Portland, but spent her summers
in Edgewood on account of her chickens. She always explained that
the country was dreadful dull for her, but good for the hens; they
always laid so much better in the winter time.

Lyddy liked the place all the better for its loneliness. She had
never had enough of solitude, and this quiet home, with the song of
the river for company, if one needed more company than chickens and a
cat, satisfied all her desires, particularly as it was accompanied by
a snug little income of two hundred dollars a year, a meagre sum that
seemed to open up mysterious avenues of joy to her starved, impatient
heart.

When she was a mere infant, her brother was holding her on his knee
before the great old-fashioned fireplace heaped with burning logs. A
sudden noise startled him, and the crowing, restless baby gave an