quarrel upon the town.

It was a puzzle to Morgan that a man like his old friend Mr. Gilpin, who
had it in his power to do so much good, should have chosen to do harm
instead. As he rose to go, he looked over his shoulder at the old house,
closed and deserted since the death of its owner.

The site was a beautiful one, commanding a view of valley and hill and the
narrow winding river. The house, an unpretentious square of red brick,
with sloping roof and dormer windows, wore its hundred years with dignity,
and amid its fine trees was an object of interest to strangers, of pride
to the villagers.

Below it on the slope stood a more modern house, in what had been until
recently a handsome garden. Morgan, as he passed recalled how proud Dr.
Fair had been of his flowers. Celia, who was entering the gate, nodded and
smiled brightly. He noted, however, that her face was losing its soft
curves and rose tints. Celia was another of his favorites, and he knew she
was having her battle with misfortune, meeting it as bravely as a young
woman could. Thomas Gilpin might so easily have smoothed the way for her.
The spinet was an interesting heirloom, no doubt, but would not help Celia
solve the problem of bread and butter.

The shop of the cabinet-maker was just off Main Street, at the foot of the
hill. To its original two rooms he had added two more, and here he lived
with no companions but a striped cat and a curly dog, who endured each
other and shared the affection of their master.

Morgan's housekeeping was not burdensome. Certain of his neighbors always
remembered him on baking day, and his tastes were simple. His shop opened