"Where does Dillon's folks live now?" asked the stranger, slowly, after
a time.
"M----," said I.
He nearly jumped off the box. "M----? I thought it was Boston!"
"Moved to M----."
"What for?"
"Own a farm there."
"Oh, I see; married again?"
"No."
"No!"
"Widow thought too much of Jim for that."
"No!"
"Yes."
"Er--what became of the young man that they--er--adopted?"
"Lives with 'em yet."
"So!"
Just then we struck the suburbs of M----, and, as we passed the cemetery,
I pointed to a high shaft, and said: "Dillon's monument."
"Why, how's that?"
"Killed at Five Forks. Widow put up monument."
He shaded his eyes with his hand, and peered through the moonlight for a
minute.
"That's clever," was all he said.
I insisted that he go home with me. Ed took the Black Maria to the
house, and we took the street cars for it to the end of the line, and
then walked. As we cleaned our feet at the door, I said: "Let me see, I
did not hear your name?"
"James," said he, "Mr. James."
I opened the sitting-room door, and ushered the stranger in.
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