"I'm a-savin' of us from the wrath to come!" returned the woman, sternly, and swung her axe again.

The spigot flew from the whiskey barrel in the corner and the next blow of the axe knocked in the head of the barrel. The acrid smell of liquor filled the place.

Not a bottle of liquor was left. The barroom of the Lake View Inn promised to be the driest place in town.

Up went the axe again. Lem yelled loud enough to be heard a block:

"Not that barrel, Marm! For the good Land o' Goshen! don't bust in _that_ barrel."

"Why not?" demanded his breathless wife, the axe poised for the stroke.

"Cause it's merla.s.ses! If ye bust thet in, ye will hev a mess here, an' no mistake."

"Jefers-pelters!" chuckled Walky Dexter, telling of it afterward, "I come away then an' left 'em erlone. But you kin take it from me--Marm Parraday is quite in her us'al form. Doc. Poole's a wonderful doctor--ain't he?

"But," pursued Walky, "I had a notion that old fiddle of Hopewell's would be safer outside than it was in Marm Parraday's way, an' I tuk it down 'fore I fled the scene of de-vas-ta-tion! Haw! haw! haw!

"I run inter Joe Bodley on the outside. 'Joe,' says I, 'I reskered part of your belongin's. It looks ter me as though yeou'll hev time an' to spare to take this fiddle to the city an' raffle it off. But 'fore ye do that, what'll ye take for the fiddle--lowest cash price?'

"'Jest what it cost me, Walky,' says Joe. 'One hundred dollars.'

"'No, Joe; it didn't cost ye that,' says I. 'I mean what _yeou_ put into it yerself. That other feller that backed out'n his bargain put in some. How much?'

"Wal," pursued the expressman, "he hummed and hawed, but fin'ly he admitted that he was out only fifty dollars. 'Here's yer fifty, Joe,'

says I. 'Hopewell wants his fiddle back.'

"I reckon Joe needed the money to git him out o' taown. He can take a hint as quick as the next feller--when a ton of coal falls on him!

Haw! haw! haw! He seen his usefulness in Polktown was kind o' pa.s.sed.

So he took the fifty, an' here's the vi'lin, Janice Day. I reckon ye paid abeout forty-seven-fifty too much for it; but ye told me ter git it at _any_ price."

To Hopewell and 'Rill, Janice, when she presented the storekeeper with his precious fiddle, revealed a secret that she had _not_ entrusted to Walky Dexter. By throwing the strong ray of an electric torch into the slot of the instrument she revealed to their wondering eyes a peculiar mark stamped in the wood of the back of it.

"That, Mr. Drugg," the girl told him, quietly, "is a mark to be found only in violins manufactured by the Amati family. The date of the manufacture of this instrument I do not know; but it is a genuine Cremona, I believe. At least, I would not sell it again, if I were you, without having it appraised first by an expert."

"Oh, my dear girl!" cried 'Rill, with streaming eyes, "Hopewell won't ever sell it again. I won't let him. And we've got the joyfulest news, Janice! You have doubled our joy to-day. But already we have had a letter from Boston which says that our little Lottie is in better health than ever and that the peril of blindness is quite dissipated.

She is coming home to us again in a short time."

"Joyful things," as Janice said, were happening in quick rotation nowadays. With the permanent closing of the Lake View Inn bar, several of the habitues of the barroom began to straighten up. Jim Narnay had really been fighting his besetting sin since the baby's death. He had found work in town and was taking his wages home to his wife.

Trimmins was working steadily for Elder Concannon. And being so far away from any place where liquor was dispensed, he was doing very well.

Really, with the abrupt closing of the bar, the cause of the "wets" in Polktown rather broke down. They had no rallying point, and, as Walky said, "munitions of war was mighty scurce."

"A feller can't re'lly have the heart ter _vote_ for whiskey 'nless ther's whiskey in him," said Walky, at the close of the voting on Town Meeting Day. "How about that, Cross Moore? We dry fellers have walked over ye in great shape--ain't that so?"

"I admit you have carried' the day, Walky," said the selectman, grimly.

"He! he! I sh'd say we had! Purty near two ter one. Wal! I thought ye said once that no man in Polktown could best ye--if ye put yer mind to it?"

Cross Moore chewed his straw reflectively. "I don't consider I have been beaten by a man," he said.

"No? Jefers-pelters! what d'ye call it?" bl.u.s.tered Walky.

"I reckon I've been beaten by a girl--and an idea," said Mr. Cross Moore.

"Wal," sighed Aunt 'Mira, comfortably, rocking creakingly on the front porch of the old Day house in the glow of sunset, "Polktown does seem rejoovenated, jest like Mr. Middler preached last Sunday, since rum sellin' has gone out. And it was a sight for sore eyes ter see Marm Parraday come ter church ag'in--an' that poor, miser'ble Lem taggin'

after her."

Janice laughed, happily. "I know that there can be n.o.body in town as glad that the vote went 'no license' as the Parradays."

"Ya-as," agreed Aunt 'Mira, rather absently. "Did ye notice Marm's new bonnet? It looked right smart to me. I'm a-goin' ter have Miz Lynch make me one like it."

"Say, Janice! want anything down town?" asked Marty coming out of the house and starting through the yard.

"It doesn't seem to me as though I really wanted but one thing in all this big, beautiful world!" said his cousin, with longing in her voice.

"What's that, child?" asked her aunt.

"I want daddy to come home."

Marty went off whistling. Aunt 'Mira rocked a while, "Ya-as," she finally said, "if Broxton Day would only let them Mexicaners alone an'

come up here to Polktown----"

Janice suddenly started from her chair; her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled. "Oh! here he is!" she murmured.

"Here _who_ is? Who d'ye mean, Janice Day? _Not yer father?_" gasped Aunt 'Mira, staring with near-sighted eyes down the shadowy path.

Janice smiled. "It's Nelson," she said softly, her gaze upon the manly figure mounting the hill.