It was a bright day in March,—one of those which almost redeem the reputation of that desperado of a month. Eph was leaning on his fence, looking now down the bay and now to where the sun was sinking in the marshes. He knew that all the other men had gone to the town-meeting, where he had had no heart to intrude himself,—that free democratic parliament where he had often gone with his father in childhood; where the boys, rejoicing in a general assembly of their own, had played ball outside, while the men debated gravely within. He recalled the time when he himself had so proudly given his first vote for President, and how his father had introduced him then to friends from distant parts of the town. He remembered how he had heard his father speak there, and how respectfully everybody had listened to him. That was in the long ago, when they had lived at the great farm. And then came the thought of the mortgage, and of Eliphalet's foreclosure, and—
“Hullo, Eph!”
It was one of the men from whom he took fish,—a plain-spoken, sincere little man.
“Why wa'n't you down to town-meet'n'?”
“I was busy,” said Eph.
“How'd ye like the news?”
“What news?”
There was never any good news for him now.
“Hain't heard who 's elected town-clerk?”
“No.”