CHAPTER XXVII.


And now I am goin' to relate the very singulerist thing that ever
happened in Jonesville, or the world--although it is eppisodin' to tell
on it now, and also a-gettin' ahead of my story, and hitchin', as you
may say, my cart in front of my horse. But it has got to be told and I
don't know but I may as well tell it now as any time.

Mebby you won't believe it. I don't know as I should myself, if it wuz
told to me, that is, if it come through two or three. But any way it is
the livin' truth.

That very night as Submit Tewksbury sat alone at her supper table,
a-lookin' at that vacent spot on the table-cloth opposite to her, where
the plate laid for Samuel Danher had set for over twenty years, she
heard a knock at the door, and she got up hasty and wiped away her tears
and opened the door. A man stood there in the cold a-lookin' into the
warm cosy little room. He didn't say nothin', he acted strange. He gin
Submit a look that pierced clear to her heart (so they say). A look
that had in it the crystallized love and longin' of twenty years of
faithfulness and heart hunger and homesickness. It wuz a strange look.

Submit's heart begun to flutter, and her face grew red and then white,
and she sez in a little fine tremblin' voice,