They moved on in silence a moment or two. Farnsworth's gaze was fixed upon the darkening bay, and no longer interrogated his companion; but the latter soon again took up his narrative:-- "'Twas well the parson stood up for Dele, too; women-folks is so cussed hard on each other. They wouldn't ha' let the girl live, I believe. I always were of the notion there warn't no harm in Dele. Some ---- city chap got the better of her. She never was over-smart, but she was awful pretty; and I never believed there was any harm in her. At any rate, she digs a grave as well as a man, and I guess them that's in 'em don't lay awake none thinking who tucked 'em in." The house of the Widow Bemis was by this time reached, and that estimable lady, who in the summer furnished accommodations to a boarder whenever that rare blessing was to be secured in Kempton, readily undertook the charge of Mr. Farnsworth and his horse for the night. The latter was given into the care of her daughter, for the frequent absences of the men had accustomed the damsels of Kempton to those labors which in inland villages are more frequently left to their brothers; and Farnsworth strolled off toward the wharves, leaving the widow Bemis and Cap'n Hersey in an agony of curiosity in regard to himself and his errand. Whatever may have been Farnsworth's feelings at the discovery that the daughter of the dead sexton and the woman of whom he had asked tidings of her were identical,--and they must have been both deep and strong--he had given no outward sign. But now the settling of his brows, and the disquiet apparent in his eyes betrayed his inward conflict. He strolled out upon one of the rotting wharves about which the tide lapped in mournful iteration, folded his arms upon a breast-high post, and stood gazing seaward.