“No,” said the other, shortly. And then, with a chuckle, “They’ve pretty much all come to my way of thinking, now. D’ye notice the old meetin’-house as ye came along? They’ve had to shut it up, ye know. Have a cigar?” And Mr. Hitchcock brought two suspicious looking weeds out of a gayly pictured box, and extended one to Arthur. The latter took one, knowing the old man would be mortally offended if this rite of hospitality were passed by. “Whose house was that I saw boarded up?” said Arthur, for the sake of something to say. “What!” said the old man, “ain’t ye heard? That’s Uncle Sam Wolcott’s. The old man was livin’ there with his daughter and her little b’y.” And Hitchcock took a comfortable pull at his cigar. “Yes,” said Arthur, “I remember now.” “The child’s dead,” said he. “What?” said Arthur. “Dead?” Hitchcock nodded assent. “Killed him, ye know.” “Killed him? who--” “The grandfather--Samuel Wolcott. Killed him with an axe, Sunday week. Them air gospel folks got him crazy.” The old man spoke with a sort of grim satisfaction, and Arthur looked at him in amazement. “Great heavens! you don’t mean to say he murdered him? Where’s the mother?” “Lucky for her she warn’t there at the time, I guess. Fust time I ever knew o’ church doing a critter any good.” “But where is she now?” Hitchcock waved his hand in the direction of the biggest poster, “_Farm for Sale_.” “Gone back to her husband’s folks, I guess. And when she come back, she found old Wolcott a-hangin’ to a rafter in his barn.” “But what possible motive--” began Arthur aghast. “Had he no other family?” “He had a sister--I never heard what became o’ her. She married a feller by the name of Starbuck, from New London way, an’ I mistrust he turned out bad. I guess the old man got kinder disperited. An’ then the gospel folks--But he was the last of the old Wolcott family, an’ they was gret folks in their day. So they put him an’ the infant in the family tomb, and sealed it up.” Arthur looked at the old hotel-keeper, and then out at the empty street. Gracie was coming along under the elm-trees, the yellow leaves falling about her in the autumn wind. “I must be going,” said he. “Have a little something hot, before ye go?” “No,” said Arthur, “thanks, I guess not.” And he made haste to get away, feeling the spirit of the place come over him like a pall. “Well, good-bye?” said the other. “Always glad to see ye. But we’ve all got to come to it. Some day, ye’ll find me hanging to the beam up there, I expect.” Heedless of which gloomy prognostication, Arthur made haste to get to the stable and brought out the horses. They mounted, and rode some time in silence. “Did Mr. Hitchcock tell you?” said Gracie with a shudder. Arthur nodded. Something in the terror of the place brought out his love the stronger, as he looked at her, the tears in her deep gray eyes. “I wonder that we had not heard of it,” said he; “but these places are so out of the world.”