He walked across the yard in a footsore and weary way, and dropped feebly down on the edge of the floor, laying his stick and meager bundle beside him. He took off his ragged old hat, and wiped his face on a faded cotton handkerchief. He was a sorry-looking case, shabbily dressed, thin, and stooping, and without the color of blood about his sallow face and hardened hands. His eyes were hollow, and he coughed once or twice a dry hacking cough. So utterly forlorn and friendless did he appear, that deep pity stirred Mrs. Upchurch’s heart. He stared hard at her, his face working in an agitated manner. She brought him a gourd of water, and taking it in his trembling hands, he drank slowly from it. "That’s good," he muttered softly. "Yes, we’ve got the best well in this country. But won’t you take this cheer an’ rest? It’s better’n the floor," she said compassionately. "No’m. Is this—where—Sam—Upchurch—lives—that married Peggy Dyer?" he slowly inquired. "Why, yes; Upchurch bought this place before me an’ him was married, an’ we’ve been er-livin’ here ever sence," she said, surprised, and striving to recognize him. He had called her name with the ease and familiarity of one well acquainted with it, but not a friend of her youth could she recall who would bear the slightest resemblance to this poor wanderer. Singularly enough, at that moment she had forgotten the brother Ab who had been haunting her memory all day. "You’re not er stranger in this settlement, air you?" "Yes, it ’pears like I am now. You don’t seem to know me, Peggy?" he said with a sort of tremble in his voice, his haggard eyes raised to her pleasant, homely face. She fell to trembling then herself, and her sunburnt face grew pale, for a sudden thought flashed into her mind—a bare possibility, that overcame her. She sat down in her chair, with a searching, eager look at the shabby, stooping figure, and pallid, sickly face. "I orter know that voice; it ’pears like—" she faltered unsteadily. "Have you forgot yer brother Ab, Peggy?" [Illustration: "HAVE YOU FERGOT YER BROTHER AB, PEGGY?"] "Lor’, Ab! that ain’t possible! it’s too good ter be true!" she cried, and then burst into joyful tears. "Yes, it’s me," he said quietly, and wiped his own eyes. There were no open demonstrations of love. They did not even shake hands. "Air you glad ter see me, Peggy?" he asked in a sort of sad wonder, but no longer doubtful of his welcome. "Glad! O Ab, ain’t I been a-wantin’ ter see you fer nigh on ter twenty years?" she cried, in a voice that might have laid the most subtile doubts at rest. "Come in, brother, and take a cheer, do," wiping her eyes on her knitting, and looking at him tenderly. "I’m not a-hurtin’ here, Peggy. I’m tired enough to rest ennywheres. It’s been er hard pull ter git here." "Praise the Lord that you did git here!" she ejaculated fervently.