It was years since he had seen his aunt. She had been confined at home by the cares of a young family, and the distance between Wilton and Hampton seemed formidable. He knew, however, that his uncle, Thomas Berry, kept a small country store, and had done so ever since his marriage. In a country village it is always easy to find the "store," and John kept up the main road, feeling that it would not be necessary to inquire. He came at length to a[272] meeting-house, and judged that the store would not be far off. In fact, a few rods further he came to a long, two-story building, painted white, with a piazza⁴ in front. On a large sign-board over it he read:—

"THOMAS BERRY.

 

PROVISION AND DRY-GOODS STORE."

"This must be the place," thought John. "I think I'll go into the store first and see uncle."

He entered, and found himself in a broad room, low-studded, furnished with counters on two sides, and crowded with a motley collection of goods, embracing calicoes and dry goods generally, as well as barrels of molasses and firkins of butter. There chanced to be no customer in at the time. Behind the counter he saw, not his uncle, but a young man, with long, light hair combed behind his ears, not very prepossessing in his appearance,—at least so John thought.

"Is Mr. Berry in?" he asked, walking up to the counter.

"Mr. Berry is dead," was the unexpected reply.

"Dead!" exclaimed John, in surprise. "How long since he died?"

"A week ago."

[273]

"We never heard of it," said John, half to himself.

"Are you a relation?" asked the young man.

"He was my uncle."

"Is your name Oakley?"

"Yes, John Oakley."

"Of Hampton?"

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