A colossal order!The foreman filled the bill；and he was the proudest man in the State.By breakfast-time the next morning the name of Hadleyburg the Incorruptible was on every lip in America，from Montreal to the Gulf，from the glaciers of Alaska to the orange-groves of Florida；and millions and millions of people were discussing the stranger and his money-sack，and wondering if the right man would be found，and hoping some more news about the matter would come soon—right away.
2
Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated—astonished—happy—vain.Vain beyond imagination.Its nineteen principal citizens and their wives went about shaking hands with each other，and beaming，and smiling，and congratulating，and saying this thing adds a new word to the dictionary—Hadleyburg，synonym for incorruptible—destined to live in dictionaries forever!And the minor and unimportant citizens and their wives went around acting in much the same way.Everybody ran to the bank to see the gold-sack；and before noon grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from Brixton and all neighboring towns；and that afternoon and next day reporters began to arrive from everywhere to verify the sack and its history and write the whole thing up anew，and make dashing free-hand pictures of the sack，and of Richards's house，and the bank，and the Presbyterian church，and the Baptist church，and the public square，and the town-hall where the test would be applied and the money delivered；and damnable portraits of the Richardses，and Pinkerton the banker，and Cox，and the foreman，and Reverend Burgess，and the postmaster—and even of Jack Halliday，who was the loafing，good-natured，no-account，irreverent fisherman，hunter，boys'friend，stray-dogs'friend，typical “Sam Lawson”of the town.The little mean，smirking，oily Pinkerton showed the sack to all comers，and rubbed his sleek palms together pleasantly，and enlarged upon the town's fine old reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful indorsement of it，and hoped and believed that the example would now spread far and wide over the American world，and be epoch-making in the matter of moral regeneration.And so on，and so on.
By the end of a week things had quieted down again；the wild intoxication of pride and joy had sobered to a soft，sweet，silent delight—a sort of deep，nameless，unutterable content.All faces bore a look of peaceful，holy happiness.
Then a change came.It was a gradual change：so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed；maybe were not noticed at all，except by Jack Halliday，who always noticed everything；and always made fun of it，too，no matter what it was.He began to throw out chaffing remarks about people not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two ago；and next he claimed that the new aspect was deepening to positive sadness；next，that it was taking on a sick look；and finally he said that everybody was become so moody，thoughtful，and absent-minded that he could rob the meanest man in town of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket and not disturb his revery.
At this stage—or at about this stage—a saying like this was dropped at bedtime—with a sigh，usually—by the head of each of the nineteen principal households:“Ah，what could have been the remark that Goodson made？”
And straightway—with a shudder—came this，from the man's wife:
“Oh，don't!What horrible thing are you mulling in your mind？Put it away from you，for God's sake!”
But that question was wrung from those men again the next night—and got the same retort.But weaker.
And the third night the men uttered the question yet again—with anguish，and absently.This time—and the following night—the wives fidgeted feebly，and tried to say something.But didn't.
And the night after that they found their tongues and responded—longingly:
“Oh，if we could only guess!”
Halliday's comments grew daily more and more sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging.He went diligently about，laughing at the town，individually and in mass.But his laugh was the only one left in the village:it fell upon a hollow and mournful vacancy and emptiness.Not even a smile was findable anywhere.Halliday carried a cigar-box around on a tripod，playing that it was a camera，and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said,“Ready!—now look pleasant，please，”but not even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces into any softening.
So three weeks passed—one week was left.It was Saturday evening—after supper.Instead of the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and bustle and shopping and larking，the streets were empty and desolate.Richards and his old wife sat apart in their little parlor—miserable and thinking.This was become their evening habit now:the lifelong habit which had preceded it，of reading，knitting，and contented chat，or receiving or paying neighborly calls，was dead and gone and forgotten，ages ago—two or three weeks ago；nobody talked now，nobody read，nobody visited—the whole village sat at home，sighing，worrying，silent.Trying to guess out that remark.
The postman left a letter.Richards glanced listlessly at the superion and the postmark—unfamiliar，both—and tossed the letter on the table and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless dull miseries where he had left them off.Two or three hours later his wife got wearily up and was going away to bed without a good night—custom now—but she stopped near the letter and eyed it awhile with a dead interest，then broke it open，and began to skim it over.Richards，sitting there with his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin between his knees，heard something fall.It was his wife.He sprang to her side，but she cried out:
“Leave me alone，I am too happy.Read the letter—read it!”
He did.He devoured it，his brain reeling.The letter was from a distant state，and it said:
