[CHAPTER XVIII.]
IN SEARCH OF A PERFECT MAN.
Ciscasset, perhaps most beautiful of Maine towns near the Canadian border, was particularly beautiful on the morning after 'Tilda Jane's departure from Hobart Dillson's cottage. The sun was still shining fervently—so fervently that men threw open their top-coats or carried them on their arms; the sky was still of the delicate pink and blue haze of the day before, the wind was a breath of spring blown at departing winter.
It was still early, and beautiful Ciscasset was not yet really astir. Few women were to be seen on the streets,—only a score of shop-girls hurrying to their work,—but men abounded. Clerks were going to their desks and counters, and early rising business men to their offices. Market-men swarmed in from the country in order to be the first to sell their produce in the prosperous little town with the Indian name.
Other towns and villages might direct their search across the sea for European titles for streets and homes. Ciscasset prided itself on being American and original. The Indian names were native to the State, and with scarcely an exception prevailed in the nomenclature of the town. Therefore the—in other places Main Street—was here Kennebago Street, and down this street a group of farmers was slowly proceeding. They had sold their farm produce to grocers and stable-keepers, and were now going to the post-office for their mail.
Assembled a few moments later in a corner of the gray stone building, and diligently reading letters and papers, they did not see a small figure approaching, and only looked up when a grave voice inquired, "Air you too busy to speak to me a minute?"
The men all stared at the young girl with the dog in her arms, the heavy circles around her eyes, and the two red spots on her cheeks.
"What do you want?" asked the oldest farmer, a gray-haired man in a rabbit-skin cap.
"I want to find the best minister in this place."