Judge Whittredge's whitening head and heavy step, his fruitless search for health abroad, his return to die at last in his old home, Patterson's coming,—sent for by his heart-broken mother,—this was the rest of the story. But before this family difference had been settled by the stern hand of death, the removal of Thomas Gilpin had precipitated another quarrel upon the town.
It was a puzzle to Morgan that a man like his old friend Mr. Gilpin, who had it in his power to do so much good, should have chosen to do harm instead. As he rose to go, he looked over his shoulder at the old house, closed and deserted since the death of its owner.
The site was a beautiful one, commanding a view of valley and hill and the narrow winding river. The house, an unpretentious square of red brick, with sloping roof and dormer windows, wore its hundred years with dignity, and amid its fine trees was an object of interest to strangers, of pride to the villagers.
Below it on the slope stood a more modern house, in what had been until recently a handsome garden. Morgan, as he passed recalled how proud Dr. Fair had been of his flowers. Celia, who was entering the gate, nodded and smiled brightly. He noted, however, that her face was losing its soft curves and rose tints. Celia was another of his favorites, and he knew she was having her battle with misfortune, meeting it as bravely as a young woman could. Thomas Gilpin might so easily have smoothed the way for her. The spinet was an interesting heirloom, no doubt, but would not help Celia solve the problem of bread and butter.
The shop of the cabinet-maker was just off Main Street, at the foot of the hill. To its original two rooms he had added two more, and here he lived with no companions but a striped cat and a curly dog, who endured each other and shared the affection of their master.
Morgan's housekeeping was not burdensome. Certain of his neighbors always remembered him on baking day, and his tastes were simple. His shop opened immediately on the street; back of it was his living room and the small garden where he cultivated the gayest blooms. The living room had an open fireplace, for it was one of the cabinet-maker's pleasures to sit in the firelight when the work of the day was over, and a small oil stove sufficed for his cooking. On one side of the chimney was a high-backed settle, and above it a book shelf. Like most Scotch boys, he had had a fair education, and possessed a genuine reverence for books and a love of reading. In the opposite corner was an ancient mahogany desk where he kept his accounts, and near by in the window a shelf always full of plants in the winter. A cupboard of his own manufacture, a table, a lamp, and an arm-chair completed the furniture of the room. The walls he had painted a dull red, and over the fireplace in fanciful letters had traced this motto: "Good in everything."
To this cheerful belief Morgan held firmly, although there were times like this morning, when coming out of the sunlight and feeling a little weary, he noticed that the walls were growing dingy and the motto dim, and sighed to think how hard it was to see the good in some things.
He placed a paper in the old secretary and was turning toward the shop when he stopped short in amazement, for in the doorway stood Rosalind, her face full of eagerness. Behind her was Miss Herbert, whom Morgan entirely overlooked in his pleasure at seeing Mr. Pat's little girl again.
He shook hands warmly and offered the arm-chair, but Rosalind had no thought of sitting down. As she gazed with bright-eyed interest around the room, her glance fell on the motto, and she pointed to it and then to herself.
The cabinet-maker was puzzled. "Is it your motto?" he asked.