the very calicoes and muslins which he displayed before the dazzled eyes
of the ladies who came to buy with a glamour that never failed to make
them appear altogether desirable; and even the hard-headed farmers fell
under this spell of his whether he described to them the superexcellent
qualities of a newly patented cream separator or the virtues of a new
patent medicine for ailing horses whose real complaint was overwork or
underfeeding. With all this, moreover, Mr. Gwynne was rigidly honest. No
one ever thought of disputing an account whether he paid it or not, and
truth demands that with Mr. Gwynne's customers the latter course was
more frequently adopted.

It was at this point that Mr. Gwynne failed of success as a business
man. He could buy with discrimination, he had a rare gift of
salesmanship, but as a collector, in the words of Sam Cheatley, the
village butcher, himself a conspicuous star in that department of
business activity, "He was not worth a tinker's curse." His accounts
were sent out punctually twice a year. His wife saw to that. At times
of desperation when pressure from the wholesale houses became urgent,
special statements were sent out by Mr. Gwynne himself. But in such
cases the apology accompanying these statements was frequently such as
to make immediate payment seem almost an insult. His customers held him
in high esteem, respected his intellectual ability--for he was a Trinity
man--were fascinated by his charm of manner, loved him for his kindly
qualities, but would not pay their bills.

Many years ago, having failed to work harmoniously with his business
partner, a shrewd, hard-headed, Belfast draper--hard-hearted Mr. Gwynne
considered him--Mr. Gwynne had decided to emigrate to Canada with the
remnant of a small fortune which was found to be just sufficient to
purchase the Mapleton general store, and with it a small farm of fifty