as he spoke, and taking the child's hand, swung her lightly up to the
seat beside him.

Melody laughed joyously. "I should know your wagon if I heard it in
Russia, Eben," she said. "Besides, poor old Jerry knocks his hind feet
together so, I heard him clicking along even before I heard the wagon
squeak. How's Mandy, Eben?"

"Mandy, she ain't very well," replied the countryman. "She's ben
havin' them weakly spells right along lately. Seems though she was
failin' up sometimes, but I dono."

"Oh, no, she isn't, Eben," answered Melody, cheerfully. "You said that
six years ago, do you know it? and Mandy isn't a bit worse than she
was then."

"Well, that's so," assented the man, after a thoughtful pause. "That
is so, Mel'dy, though how you come to-know it is a myst'ry to me. Come
to think of it, I dono but she's a leetle mite better than she was six
years ago. Wal! now it's surprising ain't it, that you should know
that, you child, without the use of your eyes, and I shouldn't, seein'
her every day and all day? How do you account for that, now, hey?" He
turned on his seat, and looked keenly at the child, as if half
expecting her to meet his gaze.

"It's easy enough!" said Melody, with her quiet smile. "It's just
because you see her so much, Eben. that you can't tell. Besides, I can
tell from Mandy's voice. Her voice used to go down when she stopped
speaking, like this, 'How do you _do_?' [with a falling inflection
which was the very essence of melancholy]; and now her voice goes up