“My Lord! she may be dead an’ gone by this time, an’ I kin never make up fer my neglect!” He left the desk and came back slowly. “Kin you git that money to-night?” he asked, looking down at Webb. “Yes; by walkin’ up home.” Webb tried to subdue the eager light in his eyes, which threatened to betray his intense satisfaction at the sudden change of affairs. “Well, go git it. I ’ll pack my satchel while yo’ ‘re gone. I’m goin’ to leave you fellers fer good, I reckon. I want to git back home. I wish you luck with the business, Webb. It’s a good investment; we mought never have traded ef this hadn’t ‘a’ come up.” ***** Jim Bradley was worn out with the fatigue of his long journey when he alighted from the train in the little town that he had once known so well. The place had changed so much that he hardly knew which way to turn. He went into a store. The merchant was at his desk behind a railing in the rear, and a boy sat in the middle of the floor filling a patent egg-case with fresh eggs. “Come in,” he said, without looking up, and went on with his work. Jim put his oilcloth valise on the floor and sat down in a chair. “Some ‘n’ I kin do fer you to-day?” asked the boy, rising, and putting the lid on the egg-case. “No, I b’lieve not to-day, bub,” replied Bradley. “I’ve jest got off ‘n the train an’ stopped in to ax a few questions. The’ used to be a woman livin’ on the Starks place ten year ago--a widder woman, Mis’ Jason Bradley; kin you tell me whar I’d be likely to find ’er now?” “I don’t know no sech er person,” said the boy; “mebby Mr. Summers kin tell.” “You mean Joe Bradley’s mother,” said the storekeeper, approaching--“the feller that was shot over at Holland’s bar?” “She’s the one,” said Jim, breathlessly; “is she still alive?” “I hain’t heerd nothin’ to the contrary, but I don’t know jest whar she is now. She was powerful hard up last winter, an’ somebody tuk ’er to live with ‘em--seems to me it was one o’ the Sanders boys.” A woman entered the door and set her basket on the counter. “Mis’ Wade ’ll be able to tell you,” continued the merchant, turning to her; “she lives over in that direction.” “What’s that, Mr. Summers?” she asked, carefully untying the cloth that covered some yellow rolls of butter. “This gentleman was askin’ about the widow Bradley, Joe’s mother; do you know whar she is?” “She’s livin’ with Alf Sanders,” replied the woman; “I seed ’er thar soap-bilin’ as I driv by last Tuesday was a week. Are you any kin o’ hern?” and she eyed Bradley curiously from head to foot. He made no reply to her question, though a warm color had suddenly come into his face at the words she had spoken. He took up his valise and looked out at the setting sun. “How fer is it out thar?” he asked, a tremor in his voice. “I want to see ’er to-night.” “Three mile, I reckon,” the woman said. “Keep to the big road tel you cross the creek, an’ then turn off to the right. You cayn’t miss it.”