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in waiting in every locality, ready and willing to wear the toga of office; so, with thanks for the proffered honor, I must beg to be excused."

But there was one office, that of justice of the peace, which he never refused, and to which he had been so often re-elected that the appellation of "Squire "had grown to belong to him as a matter of course. One room of the great barnlike farmhouse had long been set apart as his office; and many were the litigants who remained after office hours to be entertained at his hospitable board.

"It's a lot of trouble, having so much extra company on account of your office being in the house," his wife said at times; "but it's better than having you away two-thirds of your time down town, so it is all right."

"There's a woman going round the corner to the office," exclaimed Mary, one evening, just as her father had settled himself before the fire to enjoy a frolic with the little ones.

"It's that grass widow, Sally O'Dowd," said Mrs. Ranger.

"She's booked for a solid hour," snapped Marjorie, " and we'll have to delay supper till nine o'clock."

The Squire had barely time to reach his office by an inner passage and seat himself before the fire, when Mrs. O'Dowd—an oversized, plainly dressed, intelligent-looking woman, who was remarkably handsome, notwithstanding the expression of pain upon her face — entered the office and stood silent before the open fire.

"Well," exclaimed the Squire, impatiently, motioning her to a chair, "what can I do for you now?"

"Oh, Squire!" she cried, ignoring the proffered chair and dropping on her knees at his feet, her wealth of rippling hair falling about her face and over her shapely shoulders like a deluge of gold, "I want you to take me with you to Oregon."