His bedroom was in the small wing off the dining-room. Its one window looked out upon the courthouse, the view being somewhat restricted by the presence of a pair of low-branched oak trees in the side-yard, almost within arm's length of the wall,--they were so close, in fact, that their limbs stretched out over the rough shingle roof, producing in the wind an everlasting sound of scratching and scraping. There was a huge four-poster feather bed of mountainous proportions, leaving the occupant scant space in which to move about the room. "Last people to occupy this room," said Mr. Johnson, standing in the doorway, "were George Ripley and Edna Cole, three weeks ago last night. They came in from the Grand Prairie and only stayed the one night. Had to get back to the farm next day on account of it bein' wash-day. I guess I forgot to say they were on their weddin'-trip. Generally speaking, it takes about three years for people to get over callin' a girl by her maiden name,--so you needn't think there was anything wrong about George and Edna stayin' here. I wish you could have been here to drive out to the infare at her pa's house two nights after the weddin'. It was the biggest ever held on that side of the river,--and as for the shiveree,--my Lord, it WAS something to talk about. Tin cans, cowbells, shot-guns, tenor-drums,--but I'm keeping you, Mr. Gwynne. You'll find water in that jug over there, and a towel by the lookin' glass. Come out when you're ready." When Kenneth returned to the dining-room, he found Johnson waiting there with his wife and two of his comely daughters. They were presented to the new guest with due informality, and then the landlord went out upon the front porch to ring the dinner-bell. "I guess you won't be stayin' here long, Mr. Gwynne," said Mrs. Johnson. "Your mother,--I should say, your step-mother,--has got your house all ready for you to move right in. Job Turner moved out last week, and she took some of the furniture and things over so's you could be sort of at home right away." Observing his start, and the sudden tightening of his lips, she went on complacently: "'Twasn't much trouble for her. Your house isn't more than fifty yards from hers,--just across lots, you might say. She--" Kenneth, forgetting himself in his agitation, interrupted her with the startling question: "Where does Rachel Carter live?" "Rachel who?" He collected his wits, stammering: "I believe that was her name before she--before she married my father." "Oh, I see. Her name is Rachel, of course. Well, her house is up Columbia street,--that's the one on the other side of the square,--almost to the hill where Isaac Edwards has his brickyard, just this side of the swamp." After dinner, which was eaten at a long table in company with eight or ten "customers," to whom he was introduced by the genial host, he repaired to the office of Recorder Bugher.