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Updated: May 4, 2025
His speculation had failed, his love was lost; nothing lay before him but a long and dreary existence spent in immortalizing in tin-types the belles and beaus of Dobbsville. Sometimes a fit of penitence overtook him when his thoughts reverted to the desolate young creature, worse than widowed, dragging out life in New York. "I'd ought to tell her," Mr. Parmalee thought.
G. W. Parmalee went down to Dobbsville, Maine, and reposed again in the bosom of his family. He went to work on the paternal acres for awhile, gave that up in disgust, set up once more a picture-gallery, and took the portraits of the ladies and gentlemen of Dobbsville at fifty cents a head. Mr. Parmalee was fast becoming a misanthrope.
The lad rose hastily, went out, and climbing up to the seat of a long pole wagon, sat down to ponder over the situation. He remained there until a teamster came to hook to the wagon and drive it over to be loaded. Then Phil got down, standing about with hands in his pockets. He was trying to make up his mind about something. "Where do we show tomorrow?" he asked of an employee. "Dobbsville, Ohio.
Sir Everard laughed aloud now at the recollection. "Money can never repay our obligation to that worthy artist. May his shadow never be less! We shall go over to Dobbsville and see him, and have our pictures taken, next year. Look, Harriet! how the chalky cliffs are melting into the blue above!
But first, I confess, I should like again to see America, and Uncle Denover, and" with a little laugh "George Washington Parmalee." For Mr. Parmalee had gone back to Dobbsville, at peace with all the world, Sir Everard Kingsland included. "You're a brick, baronet," his parting speech had been, as he wrung that young man's hand; "you air, I swan! And your wife's another! Long may you wave!"
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