“Well, I’m disappointed, shore ’nough,” said Mrs. Bradley.  “I had clean forgot the room at the stable, an’ I ought to ‘a’ knowed, too, that Saunders’ boys bunked thar.  Well, I won’t raise no objections; Mis’ Boyd, a widow woman, is keepin’ the hotel now, and folks say she feeds well an’ cheap enough.  She’s from Tennessee, an’s got a good-lookin’, sprightly daughter.  Nobody knows a thing about ’em; they don’t talk much about the’rse’ves.  They tuk the hotel when Rick Martin sold out last fall, an’ they’ve been thar ever sence.”

Supper was served in the room adjoining the kitchen.  After it was over, Westerfelt and his host went back to the sitting-room.  Alf, a colored farm-hand, was heaping logs on the old-fashioned dog-irons in the wide fireplace, and a mass of fat pine burning under the wood lighted the room with a soft red glow.

Westerfelt looked round him in surprise.  While they were at supper the carpet had been taken up, the floor swept clean, and a number of chairs placed against the wall round the room.

“Marthy’s doin’s,” Bradley explained, sheepishly; “don’t hold me accountable; she’s arranged to give you a shindig to introduce you to the young folks round about.”

Just then Mrs. Bradley came in.

“Sweep the hearth, Alf,” she said, pointing to a live coal that had popped out on the floor.  “Didn’t I tell you never to put on them chestnut logs?  Do you want to burn the roof over our heads?  Give it to me!” She snatched the unwieldy bundle of broomstraw from him.  “Go tell Mis’ Snow I’m much obleeged fer the cheers, an’ ef I need any more I’ll send fer um after ’while.  Tell ‘er ef she don’t let Mary an’ Ella come I’ll never set foot in her house agin.”

“What’s all this for?” asked Westerfelt.

“You.”  She slapped him familiarly on the arm.  “I’m goin’ to give you a mount’in welcome.  This settlement is full o’ nice gals, an’ you hain’t the least idee how much excitement thar’s been sence the report went out that you are gwine to live amongst us.  I’m the most popular woman in Cartwright, jest beca’se I know you.  I tell you I’ve been blowin’ yore horn.  I’ve talked a sight about you, an’ you must do yore best an’ look yore purtiest.  Oh, yore clothes is all right!” (seeing that he was looking doubtfully at his boots and trousers).  “They hain’t a dressy set over heer.”  Her husband was leaving the room, and she waited till he had closed the door after him.  “I want to talk to you like a mother, John,” she said, sitting down near him and holding the bundle of broom between her knees.  “The truth is, I’ve had a sight o’ worry over you.  I often lie awake at night thinkin’ about you, an’ wonderin’ ef yore ma wouldn’t blame me ef she wus alive fer not lookin’ atter you more.  I’ve heerd what a solitary life you’ve been livin’ sence she died.  God knows she wus a big loss, an’ it does bring a great change to part with sech a friend, but, from