"The graveyard is chock full of 'em," said Uncle Peter.
"They've kind of died out," explained Cap'n 'Kiah. "They seemed to be the kind that dies out easy and nateral."
"His uncle Hiram isn't dead, is he?" asked the woman, with the strain of anxiety in her voice.
"He died about a year ago."
"What's become of his money?" asked the stranger sharply.
"Well, there wa'n't so much as folks thought," said Cap'n 'Kiah. "He frittered away a good deal on new-fangled merchines and such things that wa'n't of any account,—had a reg'lar mania for 'em for a year or so before he died; and then he give some money to his housekeeper and the man that worked for him, and what was left he give to the town for a new town-hall; but, along of quarrellin' about where 'twas to set and what 'twas to be built of, and gittin' legal advice to settle the p'ints, I declare if 'tain't 'most squandered! But, la! if there wa'n't such quarrellin' amongst folks, what would become of the lawyers? They'd all be here, a-settin' us by the ears, I expect."
"And there isn't a cent for his own nephew's starving children?" said the woman bitterly.
"Ephrum's? Oh, la, no! The old man never set by Ephrum, you know: them two was always contr'y-minded. You don't say, now, that you're Ephrum's wife?" Cap'n 'Kiah surveyed her with frank curiosity.
"I'm Ephrum's widow."
"You don't say so, now! Well, there's wuss ockerpations than bein' a widow," remarked Cap'n 'Kiah consolingly.