“That’s not very ’markable,” returned the stranger, in profound guttural accents, “considerin’ as how I come from California this week.”

“You have brought home tons of gold, I dare say,” said old Van Quintem, playfully.

“A little,” growled the stranger.  “The diggins was poor in Calaveras County when I fust went there, but latterly they improved.”

At the mention of Calaveras County, the widow suddenly fixed her eyes upon the stranger, and then dropped them on her crotchet work.

Matthew Maltboy here conceived a happy thought, namely, to ask this stranger if he ever knew Amos Frump (the deceased husband of Mrs. Frump), who was killed in that very county in an affray growing out of a disputed claim, five years before.  Mrs. Frump, after her engagement to Matthew, had furnished him with slips from three California papers, giving full particulars of the sanguinary affair.  Before he was engaged, he had never felt the slightest curiosity to know the history of his predecessor; but, since then, he had entertained a strong secret desire to learn more of him, and especially of the reasons which induced him to abandon a young and lovely wife, and make a Californian exile of himself.  Upon this subject the widow had never volunteered any satisfactory information, and he had been politely reluctant to ask her about it.

Old Van Quintem, who was too sleepy at that time to talk much, procured the necessary tools from a cupboard in the kitchen, and showed the stranger what work was to be done.  The old gentleman then returned to his easy chair by the window, threw a handkerchief over his head, and settled himself for a nap.

Before the carpenter had struck the first blow, Matthew Maltboy rose, remarked to the widow that he wanted to stretch himself a little, and walked out upon the piazza.

The carpenter stood near the door, with the saw in one hand and the hammer in the other, very much in the attitude of listening.  At Matthew’s approach, he commenced feeling the teeth of the saw, as if to test their sharpness.

“I would like to speak a word with you, sir,” said Matthew, in a low voice, motioning the carpenter to accompany him to a corner of the piazza, out of the widow’s possible hearing.

Having attained that safe position, Matthew opened the great subject.

“You remarked that you had dug gold in Calaveras County,” said he.  “Did you ever happen to know a man by the name of Frump—­Amos Frump—­who was a miner there?”

“Frump!” replied the carpenter.  “He was an intimate friend of mine.”

“Now that’s lucky,” said Matthew, “for I want to find out something about the man.”

“Then you’ve come to the right shop,” answered the carpenter; “for his own brother—­if he ever had one—­couldn’t tell you more about him than I.”

“I am indeed fortunate.  In the first place, then this man Frump is really—­dead?”