Mrs. Ferguson was a good deal startled and surprised, or, as she expressed it afterward to Reinette herself, “she was that beat that a feller might have knocked her down with a straw.” That there was somewhere in the world a child of her beautiful young daughter who died so far away, was a great shock to her, and, for an instant, she stared blankly at Phil, as if not quite comprehending him. Then she began: “Fred Hetherton coming back after so many years, and bringin’ a darter with him! My Maggie’s girl! That’s very strange, and makes me think of what your gran’ther said afore he died. Seems as if he had second sight or somethin’, which ain’t to be wondered at when you remember that he was born with a vail over his face, and could allus tell things. He said that, in some way, Maggie would come back to me, and she is comin’: but it’s queer I never hearn of a baby when Maggie died. Still, it’s like that sneak of a Fred Hetherton to keep it from us. We wasn’t good enough to know there was a child. But, thank the Lord, there’s as much Ferguson in her as Hetherton, and he can’t help that. I never could abide him, even when he came skulkin’ after Maggie, and whistlin’ for her to come out. At fust I was afraid he didn’t mean fair with her, and I told him if he harmed a hair of her head I’d shoot him as I would a dog. There’s fight, you know, in the Martins!” And the old lady’s eyes blazed with all the fire of her two scape-grace brothers, once the prize-fighters of the country. “What were the particulars of the marriage and her death? I’ve heard, of course, but did not pay much attention, as I knew nothing of Reinette,” said Phil; and Mrs. Ferguson replied: “’Twas a runaway match, for old Mr. Hetherton rode such a high hoss that Fred was most afraid of his life, and so they run away—the more fools they—and he took her to Europe, and that’s the last I ever seen of her, or hearn of her either, as you may say. It’s true she writ sometimes, but her letters was short, and not satisfyin’ at all—seemed as if she was afraid to tell us she was lonesome for us at home, or wanted to see us. She had a new blue silk gown, and cassimere shawl, and string of pearls, and a waitin’-maid, and she said a good deal about them, but nothin’ of Fred, after a spell, whether he was kind or not. He never writ, nor took no more notice of us than if we was dogs, till there came a letter from him sayin’ she had died suddenly at Rome and was buried in the Protestant grave-yard. He was in Switzerland then, I believe, skylarkin’ round, for he was always a great rambler, and we didn’t know jestly where to direct letters; but your mother writ and writ to the old place in Paris, and never got no answer, and at last she gin it up. When old man Hetherton died, Fred had to write about business, but never a word to us.” “It’s very singular he did not tell you about the little girl,” suggested Phil; and Mrs. Ferguson replied: