“Grandmother's in, though,” continued the boy. “Would you like to see her?”
“No, no! Don't call her. I just wanted to see your mother.”
“Do you know mamma?” inquired the girl.
“Well—no. I knew her brother, your uncle.”
“We haven't any uncle—except Uncle George, and he's papa's brother,” said the boy.
“What! Not an uncle Will—Uncle Will Kershaw?”
“O—h, yes,” assented the boy. “Did you know him before he died? That was a long time ago.”
The tramp made no other outward manifestation of his surprise than to be silent and motionless for a time. Presently he said, in a trembling voice:
“Yes, before he died. Do you remember when he died?”
“Oh, no. That was when mamma was a girl. She and grandmother often talk about it, though. Uncle Will started West, you know, when he was fifteen years old. He was standing on a bridge out near Pittsburg one day, and he saw a little girl fall into the river. He jumped in to save her, but he was drowned, 'cause his head hit a stone and that stunned him. They didn't know it was Uncle Will or who it was, at first, but mamma read about it in the papers and Grandpa Coates went out to see if it wasn't Uncle Will. Grandpa 'dentified him and they brought him back here, but, what do you think, the doctor wouldn't allow them to open his coffin, and so grandma and mamma couldn't see him. He's buried up in the graveyard next Grandpa Kershaw, and there's a little monument there that tells all about how he died trying to save a little girl from drownin'. I can read it, but Mamie can't. She's my little sister there.”