"Nice place? I guess it is; ther hain\'t no such farm in this part of Illinoy, nor anywhere else that I knows on. Two-story house, and painted instead of being whitewashed; blinds on the winders; no thirty-dollar horses in the barn, an\' no old, unpainted wagons around; no deadened trees standin\' aroun\' in the corn-lot or the wheat-field—not a one. Good cribs to hold his corn, instead of leaving it on the stalk, or tuckin\' it away in holler sycamore logs, good pump to h\'ist his drinkin\'-water with, good help to keep up with the work—why, ther hain\'t a man on Matalette\'s whole place that don\'t look smart enough to run a farm all alone by himself. And money—well, he don\'t ask no credit of no man: he just hauls out his money and pays up, as if he enjoyed gettin\' rid of it. There\'s nobody like him in these parts, you can just bet your life."

The speaker was a Southern Illinoisan of twenty-five years ago, and his only auditor was a brother farmer.

Both worked hard and shook often (with ague) between the seed time and harvest, but neither had succeeded in amassing such comfortable results as had seemed to reward the efforts of their neighbor Matalette. For the listener had not heard half the story of Matalette\'s advantages. He was as good-natured, smart and hospitable as he was lucky. He indulged in the unusual extravagance of a hired cook; and the neighbors, though they, on principle, disapproved of such expenditure, never failed to appreciate the results of the said cook\'s labors.

Matalette had a sideboard, too, and the contents smelled and tasted very unlike the liquor which was sold at the only store in Bonpas Bottoms.

When young Lauquer, who was making a gallant fight against a stumpy quarter section, had his only horse lie down and die just as the second corn-plowing season came on, it was Matalette who supplied the money which bought the new horse.

When the inhabitants of the Bottoms wondered and talked and argued about the advisability of trying some new seed-wheat, which had the reputation of being very heavy, Matalette settled the whole question by ordering a large lot, and distributing it with his compliments.

Lastly—though the statement has not, strictly speaking, any agricultural bearing—Matalette had a daughter. There were plenty of daughters among the families in Bonpas Bottoms, and many of them were very estimable girls; but Helen Matalette was very different from any of them.

"Always knows just what to say and do," remarked Syle-Conover, one day, at the store, where the male gossips of the neighborhood met to exchange views. "A fellow goes up to see Matalette—goes in his shirt-sleeves, not expectin\' to see any women around—when who comes to the door but her. For a minute a fellow wishes he could fly, or sink; next minute he feels as if he\'d been acquainted with her for a year. Hanged if I understand it, but she\'s the kind of gal I go in fur!"

The latter clause of Syle\'s speech fitly expressed the sentiments of all the young men in Bonpas Bottoms, as well as of many gentlemen not so young.

Old men—farmers with daughters of their own—would cheerfully forego the delights of either a prayer-meeting or a circus, and suddenly find some business to transact with Matalette, whenever there seemed a reasonable chance of seeing Helen; and such of them as had sons of a marriageable age would express to those young men their entire willingness to be promoted to the rank of fathers-in-law.

There was just one unpleasant thing about the Matalettes, both father and daughter, and that was, the ease with which one could startle them.

It was rather chilling, until one knew Matalette well, to see him tremble and start violently on being merely slapped on the shoulder by some one whose approach he had not noticed; it was equally unpleasant for a newcomer, on suddenly confronting Helen, to see her turn pale, and look quickly and furtively about, as if preparing to run.

The editor of the Bonpas Cornblade, in a sonnet addressed to "H.M.," compared this action to that of a startled fawn; but the public wondered whether Helen\'s father could possibly be excused in like manner, and whether the comparison could, with propriety, be extended so as to include the three hired men, who, curiously enough, were equally timorous at first acquaintance.

But this single fault of the Matalettes and their adherents was soon forgotten, for it did not require a long residence in Bonpas Bottoms to make the acquaintance of every person living in that favored section, and strangers—except such passengers as occasionally strolled ashore while the steamboat landed supplies for the store, or shipped the grain which Matalette was continually buying and sending to New Orleans—seldom found their way to Bonpas Bottoms.

The Matalettes sat at supper one evening, when there was heard a knock at the door. There was in an instant an unusual commotion about the table, at which sat the three hired men, with the host and his daughter—a commotion most extraordinary for a land in which neither Indians nor burglars were known.

Each of the hired men hastily clicked something under the table, while Helen turned pale, but quickly drew a small stiletto from a fold of her dress.

"Ready?" asked Matalette, in a low tone, as he took a candle from the table, and placed his unoccupied hand in his pocket.

"Yes," whispered each of the men, while Helen nodded.

"Who\'s there?" shouted Matalette, approaching the outer door.

"I—Asbury Crewne—the new circuit preacher," replied a voice. "I\'m wet, cold and hungry—can you give me shelter, in the name of my Master?"

"Certainly!" cried Matalette, hastening to open the door, while the three hired men rapidly repocketed their pistols, and Helen gave vent to a sigh of relief.

They heard a heavy pack thrown on the floor, a hearty greeting from Matalette, and then they saw in the doorway a tall, straight young man, whose blue eyes, heavy, closely curling yellow hair and finely cut features made him extremely handsome, despite a solemn, puritanical look which not even a driving rain and a cold wind had been able to banish from his face.

There were many worthy young men in the Bonpas Bottoms, but none of them were at all so fine-looking as Asbury Crewne; so, at least, Helen seemed to think, for she looked at him steadily, except when he was looking at her. Of course, Crewne, being a preacher, took none but a spiritual interest in young ladies; but where a person\'s face seems to show forth the owner\'s whole soul, as was the case with Helen Matalette\'s, a minister of the Gospel is certainly justifiable in looking oft and long at it—nay, is even grossly culpable if he does not regard it with a lively and tender interest.

Such seemed to be the young divine\'s train of reasoning, and his consequent conclusion, for, from the time he exchanged his dripping clothing for a suit of Matalette\'s own, he addressed his conversation almost entirely to Helen. And Helen, who very seldom met, in the Bonpas Bottoms, gentlemen of taste and intelligence, seemed to be spending an unusually agreeable evening, if her radiant and expressive countenance might be trusted to tell the truth.

When the young preacher, according to the custom of his class and denomination, at that day, finally turned the course of conversation toward the one reputed object of his life, it was with a sigh which indicated, perhaps, how earnestly he regretted that the dominion of Satan in the world compelled him to withdraw his soul from such pure and unusual delights as had been his during that evening. And when, after offering a prayer with the family, Crewne followed Matalette to a chamber to rest, Helen bade him good-night with a bright smile which mixed itself up inextricably with his private devotions, his thoughts and his plans for forthcoming sermons, and seriously curtailed his night\'s rest in addition.

In the morning it was found that his clothing was still wet, so, as it was absolutely necessary that he should go to fulfil an appointment, it was arranged that he should retain Matalette\'s clothing, and return within a few days for his own.

Then Matalette, learning that the young man was traveling his circuit on foot, insisted on lending him a horse, and on giving him money with which to purchase one.

It was a great sum of money—more than his salary for a year amounted to—and the young man\'s feelings almost overcame him as he tried to utter his thanks; but just then Helen made her first appearance during the morning, and from the instant she greeted Crewne all thoughts of gratitude seemed to escape his mind, unless, indeed, he suddenly determined to express his thanks through a third party. Such a supposition would have been fully warranted by the expressive looks he cast upon Helen\'s handsome face.

Had any member of the flock at Mount Pisgah Station seen these two young people during the moment or two which followed Helen\'s appearance, he would have sorrowfully but promptly dismissed from his mind any expectation of hearing the sermon which Crewne had promised to preach at Mount Pisgah that morning. But the young preacher was of no ordinary human pattern: with sorrow, yet determination, he bade Helen good-by, and though, as he rode away, he frequently turned his head, he never stopped his horse.

Down the road through the dense forest he went, trying, by reading his Bible as he rode, to get his mind in proper condition for a mighty effort at Mount Pisgah. He wasn\'t conscious of doing such a thing—he could honestly lay his hand on his heart and say he hadn\'t the slightest intention of doing anything of the kind, yet somehow his Bible opened at the Song of Solomon. For a moment he read, but for a moment only; then he shut his lips tightly, and deliberately commenced reading the Book of Psalms.

He had............