“Yes, the boy’s name is Humphrey, too; but he can get no nearer to it than Honey, and so he is called.” “Well, that’s not in the case,” said Jimmy, with an air of importance which was rather funny. “He’d a father, I suppose, this Muirhead?” Parker glanced quickly at Agnes, kneeling by the trundle-bed. “He had a father who was captured and probably killed by the Indians.” “Correct agin,” said Jimmy. “There was another child, a daughter, was there? Why--faith! if this isn’t a purty how-de-do. Come here, Nancy,” he called sharply. Agnes came over and sat down again by her father. “What’s your mother’s name?” asked Jimmy. “Margaret Kennedy.” “And before she was married?” “Margaret Muirhead.” “Of Carlisle?” “Yes, of Carlisle. She is the daughter of Humphrey Muirhead.” “Then,”--Jimmy leaned back and carefully spread out upon his knee a bit of paper, the worse for wear,--“it’s a quare thing I’ve here, an’ it’s quarer still that I ’ud be bringin’ it at wanst to the right place, an’ that I come mesel’ fust off without so much as knowin’ where I was. But the workin’s av Providence is mortial strange. This here bit o’ paper on me knee here,”--he tapped it with his heavy finger,--“this here’s nothin’ less than a will, yer gran’ther’s will, Nancy Kennedy.” “A will!” Agnes started to her feet again. Jimmy waved her back. “Jest wait a bit, an’ I’ll tell me tale; sure it’s a good wan as ye’d find in a book. Yer gran’ther was took be the Injuns an’ condemned to death some five or six year back as I understand. The same band o’ marauders that took Jimmy O’Neill took him, but he wa’n’t so lucky as Jimmy, havin’ been dead this manny a day, pore soul. Well, faith, sirs, in that same camp o’ Injuns was the same white man I was tellin’ ye about a while back, an’ when it come that Muirhead knowed he’d have to die, he gits a chanst to have spache with the paleface, who’d been adopted like into the tribe, an’ is given some privileges. Says Muirhead, ‘I’ve got to die, an’ if yer a friend an’ a brother, ye’ll do me a turn,’ says he. ‘I’ve made me will, but not signed it, an’ it’s in me home,’ sez he, ‘an’ no good is it there at all, since I can’t reach me hand so far to make me mark to it. Now it’s poor the chanst is, but I’d like to take it, an’ I’ve a bit av paper here, the back av a letter, that’ll do. I’ll make another will an’ sign it in yer prisence an’ in the prisence o’ some o’ me comrades that’s been took wid me, an’ if ye’ll skirmish ’round an’ fetch me the paint pot the Injuns uses for their decraytin’, I’ll be obliged to ye.’” The auditors were listening eagerly; it was surely a strange tale. Jimmy sat looking into the fire for a moment before he went on. “The white man, Brown be name, got him the paint, an’ Muirhead wrote, wid a quill, what’s here. Will ye be kind enough to read it, Mr. Willett?” He handed it to Parker who took it carefully and read:--