"It hurt me all over," Burson went on, "the way some of them talked in town. They looked queer at me when I said what I did about him. I don't understand it." "I guess there's a good many things you don't understand, Erastus," ventured the wife quietly. A carriage stopped at the gate, and a young woman alighted from it, and came up the walk. Erastus saw her first, and met her in the open doorway. She looked at him with eager intentness. "Is this Mr. Burson?" she asked gently. "I am Mr. Anthony's daughter." Mrs. Burson got up, holding the scraps of green silk in her apron, and offered the visitor a seat. Erastus held out his hand, and tried to speak. The two faced each other in tearful silence. "I wanted to bring you this myself," the girl faltered, "because--because of what is written on the outside." She held a package of papers toward him. "I have heard him speak of you, I think. Any friend of my father must be a good man. We want to thank you, my mother and I"-- "To thank me?" Erastus questioned, "to thank me! You certainly don't know"-- "I know you were my father's friend," the girl interrupted; "I don't care about the rest. Possibly I couldn't understand it. I know very little about business, but I knew my father." She got up, holding her head high in grief-stricken pride, and gave her hand to her host and hostess. The younger Burson girl emerged from the kitchen, a dish-towel and a half-wiped plate clasped to her breast, and watched the visitor as she went down the path. "Her silk waist doesn't begin to touch Millie's for style," she said pensively, "and her skirt doesn't even drag; but there's something about her." "Yes," acquiesced Mrs. Burson, "there is something about her." Erastus sat on the edge of the old rep lounge, looking absently at the papers. "In the event of my death, to be delivered to my friend Erastus Burson," was written on the package. His wife came and stood over him. "I don't know just what it means, mother," he said, "there's a deed, and my note marked 'Paid,' and a lot of two-bit and four-bit pieces. I'll have to get somebody to explain it." He sat quite still until the woman laid her large hand on his bowed head. Then he looked up, with moist, winking eyes. "I don't feel right about it, mother," he said. "I wish now I'd 'a' dropped in oftener, and been more sociable. It's a strange thing to say, but I think sometimes he was lonesome; and I'm sure I don't know why, for a kinder, genialer man I never met."