“Very well,” said John, “we will let it go at that.”  As he spoke David came round the corner of the bank and up to the carriage.

“How d’y’ do, Miss Verjoos?  How air ye, Miss Claricy?” he asked, taking off his straw hat and mopping his face and head with his handkerchief.  “Guess we’re goin’ to lose our sleighin’, ain’t we?”

“It seems to be going pretty fast,” replied Miss Clara, laughing.

“Yes’m,” he remarked, “we sh’ll be scrapin’ bare ground putty soon now if this weather holds on.  How’s the old hoss now you got him agin?” he asked.  “Seem to ’ve wintered putty well?  Putty chipper, is he?”

“Better than ever,” she affirmed.  “He seems to grow younger every year.”

“Come, now,” said David, “that ain’t a-goin’ to do.  I cal’lated to sell ye another hoss this summer anyway.  Ben dependin’ on’t in fact, to pay a dividend.  The bankin’ bus’nis has been so neglected since this feller come that it don’t amount to much any more,” and he laid his hand on John’s shoulder, who colored a little as he caught a look of demure amusement in the somber eyes of the elder sister.

“After that,” he said, “I think I had better get back to my neglected duties,” and he bowed his adieus.

“No, sir,” said Miss Clara to David, “you must get your dividend out of some one else this summer.”

“Wa’al,” said he, “I see I made a mistake takin’ such good care on him.  Guess I’ll have to turn him over to Dug Robinson to winter next year.  Ben havin’ a little visit with John?” he asked.  Miss Clara colored a little, with something of the same look which John had seen in her sister’s face.

“We are going to have some music at the house to-night, and Mr. Lenox has kindly promised to sing for us,” she replied.

“He has, has he?” said David, full of interest.  “Wa’al, he’s the feller c’n do it if anybody can.  We have singin’ an’ music up t’ the house ev’ry Sunday night—­me an’ Polly an’ him—­an’ it’s fine.  Yes, ma’am, I don’t know much about music myself, but I c’n beat time, an’ he’s got a stack o’ music more’n a mile high, an’ one o’ the songs he sings ’ll jest make the windows rattle.  That’s my fav’rit,” averred Mr. Harum.

“Do you remember the name of it?” asked Miss Clara.

“No,” he said; “John told me, an’ I guess I’d know it if I heard it; but it’s about a feller sittin’ one day by the org’n an’ not feelin’ exac’ly right—­kind o’ tired an’ out o’ sorts an’ not knowin’ jest where he was drivin’ at—­jest joggin’ ‘long with a loose rein fer quite a piece, an’ so on; an’ then, by an’ by, strikin’ right into his gait an’ goin’ on stronger ‘n stronger, an’ fin’ly finishin’ up with an A—­men that carries him quarter way round the track ’fore he c’n pull up.  That’s my fav’rit,” Mr. Harum repeated, “‘cept when him an’ Polly sings together, an’ if that ain’t a show—­pertic’lerly Polly—­I don’t want a cent.  No, ma’am, when him an’ Polly gits good an’ goin’ you can’t see ’em fer dust.”