The drovers came to the valleys of the Connecticut and to the Berkshire Hills, and rested at last with full purses at the Plainfield Inn.
In the inn lived an aunt of the innkeeper, a Quaker woman by the name of Eunice.
There was a young drover named Mordecai, who was all imagination, eyes and ears. He seemed to be so earnest to learn everything that he attracted the notice of Eunice, and she said to him on one of his annual visits:
“Mordecai, and who may thy father be?”
“Gone—gone with the winds. That’s him.”
“And thy mother?”
“Gone—gone after him. That’s her. Where do you suppose they are?”
“Did they leave anything?”
“Left all they had.”
“And how much was that, Mordecai?”