When they had finished their evening meal, Haddon led his wife out to the scanty gallery of the Widow Dunham’s home, which, fenced off only by a broken paling against the street, looked out toward the western prospect of the hills. It was starlight now; the last glow of the sinking sun had disappeared. Here and there the slow sounds of the village life, now about to adjust itself to sleep, came to their ears. The fragrance of Haddon’s fine cigar hung heavy in the air. They sat in silence. Haddon himself spoke more often to others than to his wife, so it would appear, and as for her, she was reticent by instinct. Her hands folded in her lap, she sat without comment, looking out toward the shadowy outline of the mountains which crowded down to the river.
At length Haddon rose and stepped back into the house, where he found the Widow Dunham standing in the hall in converse with the tall young mountaineer.
“Now, now, Amy,” said he, advancing boldly, and chucking the comely dame under the chin, “no visiting with anybody else but me, you understand—you haven’t forgotten your old friend, have you?”
Joslin stepped back, somewhat astounded at this familiarity on the part of the stranger, but the latter only laughed in his face.
“Come along, young man,” said he. “Come out on the porch. I want to talk to you for a while.”
Joslin silently followed him out, and stood leaning against the rail of the gallery, as Haddon seated himself and began to explain what he had in his mind.
“See here, young man,” said he. “They tell me you’re from back in these mountains.”
“I was born thar,” said Joslin quietly.
“How’d you happen to come out here?” demanded the newcomer.
“I don’t reckon it’s ary man’s business but my own,” replied Joslin calmly.