He looked as a man may look who has accomplished some great thing, for so he had, he had brought the news of the world to Benson's door; and what matter if that news had been stale for a week or better; if it chanced to be politics from Washington, or fashions from New York, these slight delays did not disturb Benson in the least, for the news had not always come so quickly. Colonel Sharp, the editor of the American Pioneer, with his inevitable volume of the “Odes of Horace,” protruding from his coat pocket; and Captain Gibbs, editor of The True Whig, with his inevitable cigar protruding from his lips, hurried across the square from their respective offices, each intent upon receiving his bundle of Eastern papers. Mr. Bendy, the postmaster, appeared, accompanied by a half-grown boy carrying a mail sack; and Jim, the stableman, led out the four fresh horses that were to take the place of Mr. Bartlett's jaded teams. The child gathered up the small bundle which contained his own and his father's few belongings, and climbed quickly down from the box. Before he left his seat, the stranger turned to Mr. Bartlett and tapping him on the chest with a long forefinger, said: “You're mighty curious, you are, but just you remember what I said about the graveyards and the fools; or maybe you'd better ask some friend's opinion—he'll see the point.” He seemed to fling the words at him with an insolence that was indifferent of consequences, and before the astonished driver could make any reply, stepped to the wheel and from thence to the ground, and the coach an instant later rolled up Main Street. The stranger stood like a man in a dream in the centre of the dusty road. He was a tall gaunt man of thirty-eight or forty, and, judging from the cheap decency of his attire, he might have been a mechanic or superior sort of a labourer in his best, for his clothes fit him illy, and he wore them as one accustomed to some other dress. He glanced across the hot square and on beyond it to the vista of shaded streets, where lay the spell of the summer's heat and lethargy. His appearance was that of one seeking out some familiar object, and seeking in vain. After a moment's hesitation Mr. Tucker stepped to his side and touched him on the arm. The stranger turned on him with a frown of displeasure. “Well?” he said shortly. Mr. Tucker regarded him with amiable interest. “Are you expecting to meet any one?” he inquired, smiling genially. The stranger shook his head sadly. “No, I guess not,” he said slowly. “You don't happen to know a man by the name of Silas Rogers about here, do you? He used to run a blacksmith shop.” “Why! Man, he's been dead near about eight years. It was all of eight years ago that we buried Silas, wa'n'. it, boys?” and he turned to the group of idlers before the inn. “Going on nine,” corrected one of these laconically. “He was well liked,” said Mr. Tucker. The stranger made an impatient gesture. “Maybe you know Tom Rogers?” he said.