he didn't come at all 'twould be early enough."

There were about two score of young persons present, very nearly equally divided between the two sexes. Benjamin Bates was there and Robert Wood, Cobb's twins, Emmanuel Howe, and Samuel Hill. Among the girls were Lindy Putnam, the best dressed and richest girl in town, Mandy Skinner, Tilly James, who had more beaus than any other girl in the village; the Green sisters Samanthy and Betsy, and Miss Seraphina Cotton, the village schoolteacher.

Evidently all the members of the society had not arrived, for constant inquiries were being made about Huldy Mason and 'Zekiel Pettengill. When Betsy Green asked Mandy Skinner if Hiram Maxwell wa'n't comin', the latter replied that he'd probably come up when Miss Huldy and the new boarder did.

News had reached the assemblage that Arthur Scates, the best tenor singer in the society, was sick. Lindy Putnam was to sing a duet with him at the concert, and so she asked if anybody had been to see him.

"I was up there this arternoon," said Ben Bates, "and he seemed powerful bad in the throat. Grandmother Scates tied an old stocking 'round his throat and gin him a bowl of catnip tea and he kinder thought he'd be all right to-morrer. I told him you'd have a conniption fit if he didn't show up, but Grandmother Scates shook her head kind o' doubtful and said, 'The Lord's will be done. What can't be cured must be endured;' and I guess that's about the way it will be."

The outer door opened and 'Zekiel Pettengill entered. The creaking of the opening door attracted the attention of all. When the girls saw who it was, they ran and gathered about him, a dozen voices crying out, "Where is Huldy? We all thought she'd come with you."

'Zekiel shook his head.

"You don't know?" asked Tilly James, incredulously. 'Zekiel shook his head again. "Of course you do," said Tilly contemptuously.

She turned away, followed by a number of the girls. "He knows well enough," she observed in an undertone, "but he won't tell. He's gone on Huldy, and when a feller's gone on a girl he's pretty sure to keep the run of her."

In the meantime Lindy Putnam had been using her most persuasive powers of coaxing on 'Zekiel and with same success, for 'Zekiel told quite a long story, but with very little information in it. He told the crowd of girls gathered about him that he'd be twenty-eight on the third of January, and that ever since he was a little boy, which was, of course, before any of those present were born, he'd always followed the rule of not saying anything unless he knew what he was talking about.

"Now," said 'Zekiel, feeling that it was better to talk on than to stand sheep-facedly before this crowd of eager, expectant faces, "I might tell yer that Huldy was ter hum and wasn't comin' up to-night, but yer see, p'r'aps she's on the road now and may pop in here any minute! Course you all know Deacon Mason's got a boarder, a young feller from the city. P'r'aps he'll come up with Huldy. But I heerd tell his health wa'n't very good and mebbe he went to bed right after supper."

"What's he down here for anyway?" asked Tilly James.

"Now you've got me," replied 'Zekiel. "I s'pose he had some purpose in view, but you see I ain't positive even of that. As I said before, I heerd he's come down here for his health. It's too late for rakin' hay, and as hard work's the best country doctor, p'r'aps he'll go to choppin' wood; but there's one point I feel kinder positive on."

"What is it? What is it?" cried the girls, as they looked into his face inquiringly.

"Wall, I think," drawled 'Zekiel, "that when he gits what he's come for, he'll be mighty apt to pull up stakes and go back to Boston."

Again the outer door creaked upon its hinges, and again every face was turned to see who the new-comer might be.

"Here she is," cried a dozen voices; and the owners thereof rushed forward to greet and embrace Miss Huldy Mason, the Deacon's daughter and the most popular girl in the village.

'Zekiel turned and saw that she was alone. Evidently the city fellow had not come with her.

Huldy was somewhat astonished at the warmth of her greeting, and was at a loss to understand the reason for it, until Lindy Putnam said:

"Didn't he come with you?"

"Who?" asked Huldy, with wide-open eyes.

"Oh, you can't fool us," cried Tilly James. "'Zeke Pettengill told us all about that city feller that's boarding down to your house. We were just talking it over together, and he surmised that it might be the same one that you met down to your aunt's house, when you went to Boston last summer."

"As Mr. Pettengill seems to know so much about my gentlemen friends, if you want any more information, no doubt he can supply it," said Huldy coldly.

"'Zeke kinder thought," said Bob Wood, "that he might be tired, and probably went to bed right after supper."

"Well, he didn't," said Huldy, now thoroughly excited, "he came with me, and he's outside now talking with Hiram about the barge."

"Why don't he come in?" asked Bob Wood. "P'r'aps he's bashful."

"If he didn't have no more common sense than you've got," retorted Huldy, "he'd have to go to bed as soon as he had eaten his supper."

The laugh that followed this remark so incensed Wood that he answered coarsely, "I never saw one of those city chaps who knew B from a bull's foot."

"Perhaps he'll teach you the difference some day," remarked Huldy, sarcastically.

"Well, I guess not," said Wood with a sneer; "'less he can put two b's in able."

Further altercation was stopped by the sudden entrance of Mr. Strout, who quickly ascended the platform and called the society to order. It must be acknowledged that the Professor had a good knowledge of music and thoroughly understood the very difficult art of directing a mixed chorus of uncultivated voices. With him enthusiasm was more important than a strict adherence to quavers and semiquavers, and what was lost in fine touches was more than made up in volume of tone.

Again, the Professor paid strict attention to business at rehearsals, and the progress of the society in musical knowledge had been very marked. So it is not to be wondered at that the various numbers allotted to the chorus on the next evening's programme were gone through quickly and to the evident satisfaction of the leader.

The last number to be taken up was an original composition, written and composed by the singing-master himself, and during its rehearsal his enthusiasm reached its highest pitch. At the conclusion of the chorus, which had been rendered with remarkable spirit, the Professor darted from one-end of the platform to the other, crying out, "Bravo! Fust rate! Do it again! That'll fetch 'em!"

After several repetitions of the chorus, each one given with increasing spirit and volume, the Professor threw down his baton and said: "That'll do. You're excused until to-morrow night, seven o'clock sharp at Eastborough Town Hall. I guess the barge has just drove up and we'd better be gittin' ready for our sleigh ride."

Miss Tilly James, who had acted as accompanist on the tin-panny old piano, was putting up her music. The Professor, with his face wreathed in smiles, walked up to her and said, "I tell you what, Miss James, that last composition of mine is bang up. One of these days, when the 'Star Spangled Banner,' 'Hail Columbia,' and 'Marching through Georgia' are laid upon the top shelf and all covered with dust, one hundred million American freemen will be singing Strout's great national anthem, 'Hark, and hear the Eagle Scream.' What do you think of that prophecy?"

"I think," said Miss James, turning her pretty face towards him, her black eyes snapping with fun, "that if conceit was consumption, there'd be another little green grave in the cemetery with O. Strout on the headstone."

The Professor never could take a joke. In his eye, jokes were always insults to be