“My throat felt parched from disuse. It took a distinct effort to make the words sound articulate.
“‘Sure, now,’ answered the old man, while I was still puzzling to explain to myself the question I had asked him, ‘but never have I heard it called that—not since my father died from the cold he caught drivin’ the mare up from Portsville. Ther’ was a time, in the days when they talked of it bein’ ha’nted, you’d hear folks call it Eberdeen Manor; but not—no, and my father likely’s been dead these forty years now—never, Mr. Eberdeen’s house!”
“‘Mr. Eberdeen—there was such a person, then?’
“‘There’ll be a time, me boy, when they’ll doubt yerself was a living thing.’ He straightened his bent body reprehensibly; he shook his head. ‘Walk back to the next corner,’ he muttered, ‘and turn to yer left. It’ll be down there ber the cliffs, if nobody’s stolen it. Somebody’ll sure ’nough be there ter point it out to yer.’
“‘I’m a stranger,’ I apologized; ‘I really didn’t know.’
“‘Know!’ he shouted. ‘Who was it owned the land this ’ere street runs over? Who built it? Who was it paid fer the church on the hill? Who did fer the sick, and gave to the poor, and got nothin’ hisself fer the trouble but grief and loneliness and a broken heart? Wher’ did yer come from?’
“And he surveyed me, as if the mere fact of his seeing me for the first time made him doubt my intentions. Still I stood there waiting.
“‘What was he like? What did he do? Who was he?’ I couldn’t help flinging out in my wonderment.
“‘As good’s’ll ever come back from wher’ yer’ve been, or ’ll pray fer the like of yer, I reckon. Judge not, I tell yer, that yer be not yerself judged.’
“I tried to smile at the old man.