"My daughter Eva and I were passing," said the woman, "and having noticed for some time that this old house was again inhabited, decided to stop and investigate. We live about five miles from here, on the Sunset road. I am Mrs. Lucy Forest, widow of Henry Forest, who died several years ago. You have heard of him, of course." "I am a comparative stranger in this neighborhood," Potter replied. "I ricolleck seein' him," John remarked. "Uster have something to do with the Sunday-school at Mt. Pleasant. Alf knowed him, too, I reckon." "Lawd bless me, yas," Alf exclaimed. "I dug de man's grave." "I remember you now," Mrs. Forest rejoined, "and I remember you, too," addressing John. "Your name," turning to Potter, "is----" "Excuse me for not introducing myself. My name is Potter." "Well, I was going to say that your name was Bradshaw, and that I had seen you before." "Excuse me a moment," said Potter, "I see your horse is loose. Let me go and hitch him for you." "I'm younger than you, let me go," John insisted. When John had gone, Mrs. Forest, looking after him, remarked: "That young man has a splendid face. Don't you think so, Eva?" "Yes; strong and expressive of true refinement," the girl replied. Potter looked in admiration upon her. She was apparently but little more than fifteen years of age, but in form was well advanced toward graceful womanhood. Her eyes were large, dark, and beautiful. Her hair was as threads of fine and blackest silk, and in its graceful clustering, romance, it seemed, had found a lurking place. There was not a ruddy glow upon her cheeks, but with a creamy shading they tended toward paleness. An expression of quiet thought lay about the corners of her shapely mouth, but on her forehead, low and broad, fancy traced a brightening picture. The girl's mother, noticing Potter's look, which had now almost deepened into a gaze, remarked: "I don't think my daughter is looking very well. For some time she has been at school over at Sunset, where there is an excellent teacher, but she studied so hard that I had to take her away." "Mother, please don't make me out an invalid, for you know that I can walk long distances and climb steep hills without fatigue." "Oh, I don't mean that you are an invalid, daughter; but you know yourself, Mr. Brad--Mr. Potter, that it is not well for one so young to be so devoted to books. It was her father's only trouble--I came near saying fault." "It was his greatest pleasure," the girl suggested. "Yes; but if it hadn't been for books he might have been a successful business man, and we might not have been compelled to leave our home in Tennessee, where I was so contented, and settle in this out-of-the-way place, and, of necessity, take up ignorance for our neighbors." "His neighbors, the few books which he saved, are not ignorant," the girl replied. "He loved them, found them true, and left them friends to me."