The sound of his voice brought a man to the door, smoking a short, black pipe.
"What is it?" he asked.
"This 'ere man wants to know, if his hoss can stay here to-night, and be took care of," explained the lad.
"Sartin, sartin," responded the man, heartily; "and you, too, sir, if you'll honor us with your company. Johnny, take the gentleman's hoss off to the barn. Walk in, sir—walk in; you look quite as near used up yourself as your beast does. Walk in, and sit down."
Accepting his hospitality with a brief nod, Willard followed him into a large, clean-looking room, where a woman sat knitting, and two girls sat sewing.
The female portion of the establishment got up and dropped him a courtesy, while the old man presented him with a chair. Willard removed his hat from his hot and throbbing brow, and shook back his long, dark, clustering locks, while the girls glanced at him askance, with looks of mingled admiration and fear at his wild and excited appearance.
"Come from the town, I reckon?" said his host, drawing a chair opposite Willard's and resuming his pipe.
A brief "yes," was his sole reply.
"Great doings going on there, I hear; lots of people crowding to it every day."
Another "yes," brief and cold, was his answer.