"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.
"Everything's in good shape," announced Bugher. "There ain't a claim against the property, now that Mrs. Gwyn has given up her idea of contesting the will. The property is in your name now, Mr. Gwynne,—and that reminds me that your father, in his will, spells your name with a double n and an e, while he spells hers with only one n. He took into consideration the fact that you spelled your name in the new-fangled way, as you say he used to spell it in Kentucky. And that also accounts for his signing the will 'Robert Gwyn, formerly known as Robert Gwynne.' It's legal, all right, properly witnessed and attested by two reliable men of this county."
"I have seen a copy of the will."