“We heard he came in that way,” began the younger woman. “You see, we knew him very well. We wired to New York—don’t you see, he was our partner, the backer of our company, as they say—we had a theatrical company on the road. Well, they told us he had started in for this place here. Then we didn’t get any more word from his office. We weren’t so far away from here by rail, so we started over—of course, if we’d come in the same way he did we would have heard of it—but we didn’t. You see, Mr. Haddon was in business with us. Dead?—why—why—what’ll we _do_?” The old lady still regarded them both fixedly, her pipe still between her lips. “What’s yore name, Ma’am?” said she after a time. “Ye’re mighty purty, ‘pears like to me.” “They call me Polly Pendleton, Grandma,” said the young woman. “I don’t know your name—we don’t know anything at all. What you say to us is terrible—it’s awful.” “Yes, it’s right hard,” admitted Granny Joslin. “Say, Ma’am, tell me, did ye ever meet a young man from these parts? An’ tell me, furthermore, air ye French and Irish mixed?” Polly Pendleton suddenly flushed to her eyes. “What makes you ask that?” she demanded. “I reckoned ye was,” replied the old dame quietly. “Ye jest about come under a tall man’s arm, too, don’t ye? Ye’re purty as a pictur. I don’t know as I ever seed a purtier gal than ye, lessen it’s the furrin woman over thar at Granny Williams’ house right now. I’m French and Irish myself, too, Ma’am.” “How odd! I say, Grandma, what’s your name—since we’re getting acquainted now?” “My name’s Joslin, Ma’am. That thar young man I meant was Davy, my grandson, the same thet built the school buildin’ up yander on the hill—biggest building ever was in these mountings. Now, I’ve heerd Davy talk of ye afore now, Ma’am. But I reckon ye’ve come in here fer another sort of man than Davy.” “Rather!” said Polly, a smile suddenly coming upon her troubled face in spite of all. “But Joslin—David Joslin—why, of course—I’ve seen him, yes. You’re right—we didn’t come in here after him.” The look of genuine perturbation upon the faces of the two young women proved to the ancient dame that the news they had heard was serious enough for them, whatever cause there might be. Polly Pendleton’s dark eyes were a trifle dimmed as she turned once more. “We’re sorry—we’re as sorry as we can be, Grandma,” said she. “We hadn’t any idea he was even sick. I don’t know what to do. But I think we’ll have to go back as soon as we can.” “Ye kain’t git back afore to-morrer,” said Granny. “But the fustest thing to do is to come in an’ git something to eat. We’ll go over to Granny Williams’. Ye must be tired, the both of ye. The roads is awful.” The shrug of Polly’s shoulder was endorsement enough for this general statement, and Nina, usually the more silent, employed likewise now an eloquent exclamation. “I don’t believe the furrin womern has come back from up in the hills yit,” said Granny Joslin.