Caleb Spencer, proprietor of the Twin Oaks store, paused at his garden gate to light his corncob pipe. The next three hours would be his busy time. The farmers of Scotia would come driving in for their mail and to make necessary purchases of his wares. His pipe alight to his satisfaction, Caleb crossed the road, then stood still in his tracks to fasten his admiring gaze on the rambling, unpainted building which was his pride and joy. He had built that store himself. With indefatigable pains and patience he had fashioned it to suit his mind. Every evening, just at this after-supper hour, he stood still for a time to admire it, as he was doing now.
Having quaffed his customary draught of delight from the picture before him Caleb resumed his walk to the store, pausing at its door to straighten into place the long bench kept there for the accommodation of visiting customers. As he swung the bench against the wall he bent and peered closely at two sets of newly-carved initials on its smooth surface.
"W.W." he read, and frowned. "By ding! That's that Billy Wilson. Now let's see, 'A.S.' I wonder who them initials stand fer?" With a shake of his grizzled mop he entered the store.
A slim girl in a gingham dress stood in front of the counter placing parcels in a basket. She turned a flushed face, lit with brown roguish eyes, on Caleb, as he came in.
"Had your supper, Pa?" she asked.
"Yep." Caleb bent and scrutinized the basket.
"Whose parcels are them, Ann?" he questioned.
"Mrs. Keeler's," his daughter answered. "Billy Wilson left the order."
"Hump, he did, eh? Well, let's see the slip." He took the piece of paper from the counter and read:
One box fruit-crackers.
10 pounds granulated sugar.
Two pounds cheese.
1 pound raisins.
1 pound lemon peel.
4 cans salmon.
50 sticks hoarhound candy.