I knew nothing of the settlement except the direction, which was north, and that the uncle with whom Agnes lived was named Biggs, but they said I could easily inquire the way. The distance was twenty miles, and by repeated inquiries I found that Mr. Biggs--who was called Little Biggs by those living near him--lived in the first white house after crossing the north fork of Bull River, and when I came in sight of the place I knew it as well as if I had lived within hailing distance all my life. It was just such a place as I expected to find; an aristocratic porch on two sides of a house evidently built after the plans of an architect--the first house of such pretensions I had ever seen--with a gravel walk leading down to the gate, and a wide and neglected yard in front. A broken and dismantled wind-mill stood in the barn-yard, and around it was piled a great collection of farm machinery in an equally advanced stage of decay, all rotting away for lack of care and use. There was a general air of neglect everywhere, and I thought Mr. Biggs was an indifferent farmer, or else an invalid. Boards were off the fences, and gates off the hinges, and pigs roamed in every place where they did not belong. A herd of them, attracted by the sound of my wheels, dashed out from under the porch, and went snorting into the vegetable garden through a broken fence. I noticed these things as I stopped at a large gate intended for wagons to drive through, and while wondering whether I had better drive in there, or tie the team and walk up to the house. While debating the question I saw that a large, boyish-looking young man was pitching hay near the barn, and, noticing that he had stopped his work and was looking at me, I motioned for him to come out. Impatiently throwing down his fork, he came out to the fence, and, resting his chin on the top board, he looked at me with great impudence. “Does Mr. Biggs live here?” I civilly inquired. “Yes, Mr. Biggs lives here,” he answered, drawling the first word as if to express disgust. “Well, then,” I said, “if you will open the gate I’ll come in.” He threw it open with a bang, as if to express an unfavorable opinion of me, and I drove through, and stopped down by the stables. He followed sullenly, after banging the gate again, and, picking up his fork without looking at me, went on with his pitching. I began to feel uncomfortable at this cool reception, and inquired quite respectfully:-- “Is Mr. Biggs at home?” “No,” the fellow replied, “he’s not at home,” plunging his fork viciously into the hay as though he were wishing I was under it. “Is Miss Agnes at home, then?” “Yes, Miss Agnes is at home.” He looked up in better humor, as though the name of Agnes was not so disagreeable as that of Biggs. “Well, I’m told to stay here to-night, and take Agnes to her school to-morrow. If you’ll show me where to stand the horses I’ll put them away.”