“What's the matter, Uncle?” Aunt Polly eyed him sharply. “You been out there chopping wood too long in this hot sun. What did I tell you?” She cleared the decks for action. Paler and paler the old man grew. He was not able to withstand her vigorous sympathies. She had him tucked up on the calico lounge and his shoes off and a hot iron at his feet; but while she was hurrying up the kettle to make him a drink of something hot, he rose and slipped up the outside stairs to his bedroom in the attic. There he seated himself on the side of his neat bed which he always made himself camp fashion,--the blankets folded lengthwise with just room for one quiet sleeper to crawl inside; and there he sat, opening and clinching his hands, a deep perplexity upon his features. Aunt Polly called to him and began to read the riot act, but Leander said: “Let him be! He gits tired o' being fussed over. You're at him about something or other the whole blessed time.” “Well, I have to! My gracious! He'd forgit to come in to his meals if I didn't keep him on my mind.” “It just strikes me--what am I going to call him when I introduce him to those folks? Did he ever tell you what his last name is?” “I wouldn't be surprised,” Aunt Polly lowered her voice, “if he couldn't remember it himself! I've heard of such cases. Whenever I try to draw him out to talk about himself and what happened to him before you found him, it breaks him all up; seemingly gives him a back-set every time. He sort of slinks into himself in that queer, lost way--just like he was when he first come to.” “He's had a powerful jar to his constitution, and his mind is taking a rest.” Leander was fond of a diagnosis. “There wasn't enough life left in him to keep his faculties and his bod'ly organs all a-going at once. The upper story's to let.” “I wish you'd go upstairs, and see what he is doing up there.” “Aw, no! Let him be. He likes to go off by himself and do his thinking. I notice it rattles him to be talked to much. He sets out there on the choppin'-block, looking at the bluffs--ever notice? He looks and don't see nothin', and his lips keep moving like he was learning a spellin'-lesson. If I speak to him sharp, he hauls himself together and smiles uneasy, but he don't know what I said. I tell you he's waking up; coming to his memories, and trying to sort 'em out.” “That's just what _I_ say,” Aunt Polly retorted, “but he's got to eat his meals. He can't live on memories.” Uncle John was restless that evening, and appeared to be excited. He waited upon Aunt Polly after supper with a feverish eagerness to be of use. When all was in order for bedtime, and Leander rose to wind the clock, he spoke. It was getting about time to roll up his blankets and pull out, he said. Leander felt for the ledge where the clock-key belonged, and made no answer. “I was saying--I guess it's about time for me to be moving on. The grass is starting”--