recall to life almost obliterated memories."

Mr. Black, dropping his hand from his vest, gave her his first
look of unqualified admiration.

"You ring true," said he. "I have met men qualified to lead a
Forlorn Hope; but never before a woman. Allow me to express my
regret that it is such a forlorn one." Then, with a twinkle in his
eye which bespoke a lighter mood, he remarked in a curiously
casual tone.

"Talking of gossip, there is but one person in town who is a
complete repository of all that is said or known this side of
Colchester." (The next town.) "I never knew her to forget
anything; and I never knew her to be very far from the truth. She
lives near Judge Ostrander--a quaint little body, not
uninteresting to talk to; a regular character, in fact. Do you
know what they say about her house? That everything on God's earth
can be found in it. That you've but to name an object, and she
will produce it. She's had strange opportunities for collecting
odds and ends, and she's never neglected one of them. Yet her
house is but a box. Miss Weeks is her name."

"I will remember it."

Mrs. Scoville rose. Then she sat down again, with the remark:

"I have a strange notion. It's a hard thing to explain and you may
not understand me, but I should like to see, if it still exists,
the stick--my husband's stick--with which this crime was