“Hoose-room, is’t; there’s plenty o’ that; but hoo shune can ye a’ come up?” he anxiously inquired.

“Well, not till next week, Mr. McDonald.  We have planned to go for a picnic to Brackly Point, but you can tell the girls at home to look out for them next Wednesday; you need not take the trouble to come in for them, Mr. McDonald; I know how busy you are on the farm, and Gertrude knows the road.  You must not let them run wild,” she laughingly said, “but keep them well in order.  But I must hurry home or I shall not be in time to give cook these vegetables for dinner.  You must call in and see us on your way out of town, Mr. McDonald,” and promising to do so he walked with them to where the carriage was waiting, and they drove home discussing the proposed visit as they went.  Dexie then explained how she became acquainted with the farmer, and gave them a short account of the troubles he had experienced while visiting Nova Scotia.

“He shows to better advantage when he is at home on his own farm,” said Beatrice.  “He told us how he fell among thieves when he was in Halifax, and how a kind gentleman befriended him, but I did not expect I would ever know any of the family that he praised so highly when he told us the story.  He supplies us with winter vegetables, and we are quite friendly, I assure you.”

“How strange things do happen!  I never expected to set eyes on the man again, and here we are planning to visit his home.  A chain of circumstances, linked together, stretches a long way, even though the links are small and insignificant in themselves.”

“Yes; it would have been a great disappointment to him had you refused his invitation.  He loves to have visitors in the house.  I can speak from experience, for I have been there with Gertrude.  I expect Mr. McDonald did not impress you favorably when he was in Halifax, but in his own place you will not find a finer man anywhere.”

“I can well believe it, but—­oh!  Beatrice, what is that?”

As they turned a corner they came upon a man standing in the centre of the street ringing a bell which he held in his hand, and instantly the doors and windows in the neighborhood were peopled, and pedestrians within earshot all stopped at the sound.

“Oh! who is it?  What is he saying?” cried the girls.

“Listen,” and she checked the horse.  “It is old Hatch, the town-crier; something is lost.”

The bell stopped, and in a loud voice the man read from a paper: 

“Oh, yes!  Oh, yes!  Lost, lost!  On market square, a tin box, containing papers.  The finder will be rewarded by leaving it with the city marshal at the court-house.  Oh, yes!  Oh, yes!”

The bell rang again at the conclusion of the proclamation, and the man hurried on to the next street-crossing, where the loss was again set forth, his voice coming back in waves of sound as the carriage rolled farther away.

“The ’town-crier,’—­that means a crier hired by the town, does it?” said Lancy.  “I thought there was not such a thing this side the Atlantic.  Why do not people advertise their losses?”