“Oh, it don’t matter; I saved yore piece o’ pie, an’ I’m just warmin’ it over. I bet you didn’t get a single bite o’ dinner.” “Yes, I did; but I am ready for supper.” As they were rising from the table Laramore said: “I have got something to say to you all.” They dragged their chairs back to the front room and sat down with awkward ceremony. They stared at him in open-mouthed wonder as he placed his chair in front of them. Old Sam seemed embarrassed by the formality of the proceedings, and endeavored to relieve himself by assuming indifference. He coughed conspicuously and hitched his chair back till it leaned against the door-jamb. There was a tremor in Laramore’s voice, and all the time he was speaking he did not look up from the floor. “Since I went away from you,” he began, “I have studied hard and applied myself to a profession, and though I have wandered about a good deal I have managed to save a little money. I am not rich, but I am worth more than you think I am. You have never had any luck, and you have worked hard, and deserve more than has fallen to your lot. You never could make anything on this poor land. The Loften property is worth twice what he asked for it. I happened to have the money to spare and bought it. I have the deed for it.” There was a profound silence in the room. The occupants of the row of chairs stared at him with widened eyes, mute and motionless. A sudden breeze came in at the door and turned the flame of the candle on the mantel toward the wall, and caused black ropes of smoke from the pine-knots in the chimney to curl out into the room like pyrotechnic snakes. Mrs. King bent forward and looked into Lara-more’s face and smiled and winked, then she glanced at the serious faces of the others and broke out into a childish laugh of genuine merriment. “La, me! Ef you-uns ain’t settin’ thar and swallowin’ down every word that boy says jest ez ef it was so much law and gospel!” But none of them entered into her mood; indeed, they gave her not so much as a glance. Without replying, Laramore arose and took the candle from the mantelpiece. He stood it on the table and laid a folded paper beside it. “There’s the deed,” he said. “It is made out to my mother to hold as long as she lives, and to fall eventually to her daughters and her son Jake.” He left the paper on the table and went back to his chair. An awkward silence ensued. It was broken by old Sam. He coughed and threw his tobacco-quid out at the door, and smiling to hide his agitation he went to the table. His back was to them, and his face went out of view when he bent to hold the paper in the light. “That’s what it is, by Jacks!” he blurted out. “Thar’s no shenanigan about it. The Loften place is Mariar Habersham King’s ef I kin read writin’.”