"'JAMES EDWARDS.'
"I verily believe it is Franco," said Jonas, as he slowly got down from the chair,—"Walton Plain."
He stood a moment, looking thoughtfully into the fire.
"Yes," he repeated, "I verily believe it is Franco. I wonder where Walton Plain is."
Jonas had learned from Mr. Holiday, that it was never wise to communicate important information relating to private business, unless necessary. So he said nothing about Franco to any of the people at the tavern, but quietly went to bed; and, after thinking some time what to do, he went to sleep, and slept finely until morning.
About daylight, he arose, and, as he had paid his bill the night before, he went to the barn, harnessed his horses, and set off. At the first village that he came to after sunrise, he stopped at a store, and inquired whether there was any such town as Walton Plain, in that neighborhood.
"Yes," said the boy, who stood with a broom in his hand, with which he was sweeping out the store,—"yes, it is about five miles from here, right on the way you are going."
Jonas thanked the boy, got into his sleigh, and rode on.
"Poor Franco," said he, "I am afraid I must lose you."
He had hoped that Walton Plain would have proved to be off of his road, so that he could have had a good reason for not doing any thing about restoring the dog, until after he had gone home, and reported the facts to the farmer. But now, as he found that it was on his way, and as he would very probably go directly by Mr. Edwards's door, he concluded that he ought, at any rate, to call and let him look at Franco, and see whether it was his dog or not.