“He's been dead about ten years,” answered the innkeeper promptly. “It was all of ten years ago that we buried Tom, wa'n'. it boys?” and again he turned to the idlers before the inn. The stranger interrupted him quickly and resentfully. “Seems to me you take a right smart interest in burying people; I reckon you have never thought how us that are left will feel when we come to plant you.” At this, Mr. Tucker's mouth opened in silent wonder. He was a man of few ideas, and these did not yield themselves readily to words; but it occurred to him afterward that the stranger's chance of being present on the occasion alluded to, was highly problematical. The latter stood for a moment scowling at the innkeeper, then he drew his tall form erect and taking his son's hand, turned abruptly on his heel and strode firmly off across the Square. “Touchy, ain't he?” said Mr. Tucker, still amiably smiling. Conscious that the eyes of the idlers were upon him, the stranger gained the centre of the Square before his pace slackened and his shoulders drooped again. “It's everywhere!” he muttered to himself. The boy looked up into his face with a glance of mute inquiry. He could not understand what the trouble was, but to him their homecoming was already a tragic failure. At last he said. “Ain't this Benson, Pop?” “Yes, it's Benson, sure enough, son.” He glanced down at the child, and saw that his eyes were filled with tears. A spasm of pain crossed his own face. “We'll find them presently, son; and they'll be mighty glad to see us when we tell them why we have come back; and we mustn't forget to ask about that pony I've laid off to get you when our ship comes in.” But the child had ceased to care. He scarcely raised his eyes as they went down the street. The maples cast cool shadows about them. It was very still, for the town seemed sleeping in the sultry warmth of that June day. Once, twice, the stranger paused, and glanced about him as if to make sure of his surroundings, and then went on unhesitatingly, leading the child by the hand. “There was a many of us once, son,” he was moved to say in a voice of reminiscent melancholy. “Your grandpap built a cabin down on the crick bank.” They had already left the centre of the town, and were approaching a region of grass-grown side streets. “There, yonder, you can see it—that old log house through the trees!”