‘twere that old, but he said he reckoned a name war like whiskey — hit needed a right smart o’ age to make hit worth anything.”

Thryng laid the antique silver pot on the bed beside the old mother’s hand and again took up the small volumes. As he held them, a thought flashed through his mind, yet hardly a thought, — it was more of an illumination, — like a vista suddenly opened through what had seemed an impenetrable, impalpable wall, beyond which lay a joy yet to be, but before unseen. In that instant of time, a vision appeared to him of what life might bring, glorified by a tender light as of red fire seen through a sweet, blue, obscuring mist, and making thus a halo about the one figure of the vision outlined against it, clear and fine.

“‘Pears like you find somethin’