condescendin’ and proud, "the Beanblossom history is, if you will permit me to say so, a very satisfactory record indeed."

"And the Pendleburys?" says I. "George Washin’ton was first cousin on their ma’s side, I s’pose."

He didn’t answer for a minute. Then he wiped his specs with his handkerchief. "The Pendlebury records are," he says, slow, "a trifle more confused and difficult. But I am progressin’—yes, Cap’n Snow, I think I may say that I am progressin’."

The thunderbolt hit us, out of a clear sky, the fust week in September. Yet I s’pose we’d ought to have seen it comin’ at least a day ahead. That day the Pendlebury gasoline carryall come buzzin’ up to the front platform and Letitia steps out, grand as the Queen of Sheba, of course.

"Cap’n Snow," says she, and it seemed to me that she hesitated just a minute, "is Mr. Beanblossom about?"

"No," says I, "he ain’t. I don’t know where he is exactly. He was in the store this mornin’ askin’ about a letter he’s expectin’ from the Genealogical Society folks, but he went out right afterwards and I ain’t seen him since. I s’posed, of course he was up to your house."

"No," she says, and I thought she colored up a little mite; "he has not been there since day before yesterday. Perhaps that is natural, under the circumstances," speakin’ more to herself than to me, "but ... however, will you kindly tell him I called before leavin’ for the city. I am goin’ to Boston on a shoppin’ excursion," she adds, condescendin’. "I shall return on Wednesday."

She went away. Pullet didn’t show up until night and then the first thing he asked for was the mail. When I told him about the Pendlebury woman he turned round and went out again.

Next day was Saturday and we was pretty busy, that is, Jim Henry and the clerk was busy. I was about as much use as usual, and, as for Pullet, he was no use at all. A big green envelope from the Genealogical Society come for him in the morning mail—he was always gettin’ letters from that Society—and he grabbed at it and went out on the platform. A little while afterwards I saw him roostin’ on a box out there, with his hair, what there was of it, all rumpled up, and an expression of such everlastin’, world-without-end misery on his face that I stopped stock still and looked at him.

"For the mercy sakes," says I, "what’s happened?"

He 

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