"I'm going to loose the bulldog, Mis' Tree," said Direxia, from the foot of the stairs; "and Deacon Weight says he'll be over in two minutes."
"There isn't any dog in the house," said Mrs. Tree, over the balusters, "and Deacon Weight is at Conference, and won't be back till the last of the week. That will do, Direxia; you mean well, but you are a ninnyhammer. This way!"
She twitched the reluctant arm that held hers, and they entered a small bedroom, hung with guns and rods.
"My grandson's room!" said Mrs. Tree. "He died here—hey?"
The stranger had dropped her arm and stood shaking, staring about him with wild eyes. The ancient woman laid her hand on his, and he started as at an electric shock.
"Come, Willy," she said, "lie down and rest."
He was at her feet now, half-crouching, half-kneeling, holding the hem of her satin gown in his shaking clutch, sobbing aloud, dry-eyed as yet.
"Come, Willy," she repeated, "lie down and rest on Arthur's bed. You are tired, boy."
"I came—" the shaking voice steadied itself into words, "I came—to rob you, Mrs. Tree."
"Why, so I supposed, Will; at least, I thought it likely. You can have all you want, without that—there's plenty for you and me. Folks call me close, and I like to do what I like with my own money. There's plenty, I tell you, for you and me and the bird. Do you think he knew you, Willy? I believe he did."