'Good for nothing,' replied Fritz, placidly.
'Why?'
'Wrong here'; tapping his forehead.
'Do you know his wife?' I asked.
'Yes.'
'What kind of a woman is she?'
'Too much tongue. Women must not talk much.'
'Old Fritz touched us both there,' I said, as we ran back laughing to the hotel through the blustering wind. 'In his opinion, I suppose, we have the popular verdict of the township upon our two protégés, the sulphur-woman and her husband.'
The next day opened calm, hazy, and warm, the perfection of Indian summer; the breezy hill was outlined in purple, and the trees glowed in rich colors. In the afternoon we started for the sulphur-spring without shawls or wraps, for the heat was almost oppressive; we loitered on the way through the still woods, gathering the tinted leaves, and wondering why no poet has yet arisen to celebrate in fit words the glories of the American autumn. At last we reached the turn whence the lonely house came into view, and at the bars we saw the dog awaiting us.
'Evidently the sulphur-woman does not like that melancholy animal,' I said, as we applied our united strength to the gate.