“But it IS there in OUR time,” responded the editor briskly, “and I propose to go there. From what you have told me of your father--even if his house were still standing--our chances of getting supper and a bed from him would be doubtful! I suppose,” he continued as they moved on together, “you left him in anger--five years ago?” “Ye-es.” “Did he say anything as you left?” “I don't remember anything particular that he SAID.” “Well, what did he DO?” “Shot at me from the window!” “Ah!” said the young editor softly. Nevertheless they walked on for some time in silence. Gradually a white picket fence came into view at right angles with the trail, and a man appeared walking leisurely along what seemed to be the regularly traveled road, beside it. The editor, who had taken matters in his own hands, without speaking to his companion, ran quickly forward and accosted the stranger, briefly stating that he had left the stage-coach with a companion, because it was stopped by high water, and asked, without entering into further details, to be directed to some place where they could pass the night. The man quite as briefly directed him to the house among the trees, which he said was his own, and then leisurely pursued his way along the road. The young editor ran back to his companion, who had halted in the dripping shadow of a sycamore, and recounted his good fortune. “I didn't,” he added, “say anything about your father. You can make inquiries yourself later.” “I reckon there won't be much need of that,” returned his companion. “You didn't take much note o' that man, did you?” “Not much,” said the editor. “Well, THAT'S MY FATHER, and I reckon that new house must be his.” II. The young editor was a little startled. The man he had just quitted certainly was not dangerous looking, and yet, remembering what his son had said, there WERE homicidal possibilities. “Look here,” he said quickly, “he's not there NOW. Why don't you seize the opportunity to slip into the house, make peace with your mother and sisters, and get them to intercede with your father when he returns?” “Thar ain't any mother; she died afore I left. My sister Almiry's a little girl--though that's four years ago and mebbee she's growed. My brothers and me didn't pull together much. But I was thinkin' that mebbee YOU might go in thar for me first, and see how the land lays; then sorter tell 'em 'bout me in your takin', chipper, easy way; make 'em laugh, and when you've squared 'em--I'll be hangin' round outside--you kin call ME in. Don't you see?”