man's garden, and the grass in the middle of
the lot was pink with them.

The Vannis kept exemplary order, and
closed every evening at the hour suggested by
the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave
the signal, and the harp struck up "Home,
Sweet Home," all Black Hawk knew it was
ten o'clock. You could set your watch by that
tune as confidently as by the Round House
whistle.

At last there was something to do in those
long, empty summer evenings, when the mar-
ried people sat like images on their front
porches, and the boys and girls tramped and
tramped the board sidewalks -- northward to
the edge of the open prairie, south to the de-
pot, then back again to the post-office, the ice-
cream parlor, the butcher shop. Now there
was a place where the girls could wear their
new dresses, and where one could laugh aloud
without being reproved by the ensuing silence.
That silence seemed to ooze out of the ground,
to hang under the foliage of the black maple
trees with the bats and shadows. Now it
was broken by light-hearted sounds. First the
deep purring of Mr. Vanni's harp came in
silvery ripples through the blackness of the

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v?