" said the voice.

The man started to his feet, white as the napkin he held.

"_My God!_" he said, violently.

"It's only the parrot!" said Mrs. Tree, comfortably. "Sit down again.
There he is at your elbow. Jocko is his name. He does my swearing for
me. My grandson and a friend of his taught him that, and I have taught
him a few other things beside. Good Jocko! speak up, boy!"

"Old friends to talk!" said the parrot. "Old books to read; old wine to
drink! Zooks! hooray for Arthur and Will! they're the boys!"

"That was my grandson and his friend," said the old lady, never taking
her eyes from the man's face. "What's the matter? feel faint, hey?"

"Yes," said the man. He was leaning on the back of his chair, fighting
some spasm of feeling. "I am--faint. I must get out into the air."

The old lady rose briskly and came to his side. "Nothing of the sort!"
she said. "You'll come up-stairs and lie down."

"No! no! no!" cried the man, and with each word his voice rang out
louder and sharper as the emotion he was fighting gripped him closer.
"Not in this house. Never! Never!"

"Cat's foot!" said Mrs. Tree. "Don't talk to me! Here! give me your arm!
_Do as I say!_ There!"

"Old friends!" said the parrot.

* * * * *

"I'm going to loose the bulldog, Mis' Tree," said Direxia, from the foot
of the stairs; "and Deacon Weight says he'll be over in two minutes."

"There isn't any dog in the house," said Mrs. Tree, over the balusters,
"and Deacon Weight is at Conference, and won't be back till the last of
the week. That will do, Direxia; you mean well, but you are a
ninnyhammer. This way!"

She twitched the reluctant arm that held hers, and they entered a small
bedroom, hung with guns and rods.

"My grandson's room!" said Mrs. Tree. "He died here--hey?"

The stranger had dropped her arm and stood shaking, staring about him
with wild eyes. The ancient woman laid her hand on his, and he started
as at an electric shock.

"Come, Willy," she said, "lie down and rest."

He was at her feet now, half-crouching, half-kneeling, holding the hem
of her satin gown in his shaking clutch, sobbing aloud, dry-eyed as yet.

"Come, Willy," she repeated, "lie down and rest on Arthur's bed. You are
tired, boy."

"I came--" the shaking voice steadied itself into words, "I came--to rob
you, Mrs. Tree."

"Why, so I supposed, Will; at least, I thought it likely. You can have
all you want, without that-