orward,
pointing to the open page and looking up at Tom as if he expected him to
be interested. "Thar it is," he added in his thin, piping, little voice,
"even to the time o' day. Mornin, she told me that. 'Bout three o'clock
in the mornin' in thet thar little front room. Ef anyone shed ever want
to know particular, thar it is."

The look in Tom's face was far from being a calm one. He fidgetted in his
chair and finally rolled his paper into a hard wad and threw it at the
counter as if it had been a missile.

"See here," he exclaimed, "take my advice and let that alone."

Mr. Stamps regarded his dirty book affectionately.

"'Tain't a-gwine to hurt nothin' to hev it down," he replied, with an air
of simplicity.

He shut it up, returned it to his pocket, and clasped his hands about his
knees, while he fixed his eyes on the glimmer of red showing itself
through a crack in a stove-plate.

"It's kinder curi's I should hev happened along by thar this mornin'," he
remarked, reflectively.

"By where?" demanded Tom.

Mr. Stamps hugged his knees as if he enjoyed their companionship.

"By thar," he responded, cheerfully, "the Holler, Tom. An' it 'peared to
me it 'ed be kinder int'restin' to take a look through, bein' as this was
the day as the thing kinder started. So I hitched my mule an' went in."
He paused a moment as if to enjoy his knees again.

"Well," said Tom.

Mr. Stamps looked up at him harmlessly. "Eh?" he enquired.

"I said 'well,'" answered Tom, "that's what I said."

"Oh," replied Mr. Stamps. "Waal, thar wasn't nothin' thar, Tom."

For the moment Tom's expression was one of relief. But he said nothing.

"Thar wasn't nothin' thar," Mr. Stamps continued. Then occurred another
pause. "Nothin'," he added after it, "nothin' particular."

The tenderness with which he embraced his knees at this juncture had
something like fascination in it.

Tom found himself fixing a serious gaze upon his clasping arms.

"I kinder looked round," he proceeded, "an' if there'd ben anythin' thar
I 'low I'd hev seed it. But thar wasn't nothin', nothin' but the empty
rooms an' a dead leaf or so es hed blowed in through a broken winder, an'
the pile o' ashes in the fireplace beat down with the rain as hed fell
down the chimney. Mighty lonesome an' still them ashes looked; an' thar
wasn't nothin' but them an' the leaves,----an' a bit of a' envelope."

Tom moved his chair back. Sheba thought he was going to get up suddenly.