take an axe between his knees, and sit on a stump in a “clearing” all day, wrapt in a single continuous meditation.  And when interrupted by the interposition of night, or by the superposition of the paternal hickory, he would resume the meditation, next day, precisely where he left off, going on, and on, and on, in one profound and inscrutable think.  It was a common remark in the neighbourhood that “If Tony Rollo didn’t let up, he’d think his ridiculous white head off!” And on divers occasions when the old man’s hickory had fallen upon that fleecy globe with unusual ardour, Tony really did think it off—­until the continued pain convinced him it was there yet.

You would like to know what Tony was thinking of, all these years.  That is what they all wanted to know; but he didn’t seem to tell.  When the subject was mentioned he would always try to get away; and if he could not avoid a direct question, he would blush and stammer in so distressing a confusion that the doctor forbade all allusion to the matter, lest the young man should have a convulsion.  It was clear enough, however, that the subject of Tony’s meditation was “more than average inter_est_in’,” as his father phrased it; for sometimes he would give it so grave consideration that observers would double their anxiety about the safety of his head, which he seemed in danger of snapping off with solemn nods; and at other times he would laugh immoderately, smiting his thigh or holding his sides in uncontrollable merriment.  But it went on without abatement, and without any disclosure; went on until his poor mother’s curiosity had worried her grey hairs in sorrow to the grave; went on until his father, having worn out all the hickory saplings on the place, had made a fair beginning upon the young oaks; went on until all the seven brothers, having married a Sunday-school girl each, had erected comfortable log-houses upon outlying corners of the father-in-legal farms; on, and ever on, until Tony was forty years of age!  This appeared to be a turning-point in Tony’s career—­at this time a subtle change stole into his life, affecting both his inner and his outer self:  he worked less than formerly, and thought a good deal more!

Years afterwards, when the fraternal seven were well-to-do freeholders, with clouds of progeny, making their hearts light and their expenses heavy—­when the old homestead was upgrown with rank brambles, and the live-stock long extinct—­when the aged father had so fallen into the sere and yellow leaf that he couldn’t hit hard enough to hurt—­Tony, the mere shadow of his former self, sat, one evening, in the chimney corner, thinking very hard indeed.  His father and three or four skeleton hounds were the only other persons present; the old gentleman quietly shelling a peck of Indian corn given by a grateful neighbour whose cow he had once pulled out of the mire, and the hounds thinking how cheerfully they would have assisted him had Nature kindly made them graminivorous.  Suddenly Tony spake.