CHAPTER IV
THE TOWN AUTOCRAT
“The Widder Fowler is dead,” remarked Deacon Pinkerton, at the supper table. “She died this afternoon.”
“I suppose she won’t leave anything,” said Mrs. Pinkerton.
“No. I hold a mortgage on her furniture, and that is all she has.”
“What will become of the children?”
“As I observed, day before yesterday, they will be constrained to find a refuge in the poorhouse.”
“What do you think Sam Pomeroy told me, father?”
“I am not able to conjecture what Samuel would be likely to observe, my son.”