e had been told
that Debby formerly lived with the Thayers, and could, no doubt,
remember a great deal about them. Would she mind answering a few
questions, and so on?

Mrs. Beasley, her hearing now within forty-five degrees of the normal,
grew interested. She ushered her visitor into the adjoining room, and
proffered her a chair. That sitting room was a wonder of its kind, even
to the teacher's accustomed eyes. A gilt-framed crayon enlargement of
the late Mr. Beasley hung in the center of the broadest wall space, and
was not the ugliest thing in the apartment. Having said this, further
description is unnecessary--particularly to those who remember Mr.
Beasley's personal appearance.

"What you so interested in the Thayers for?" inquired Debby. "One of the
heirs, be you? They didn't leave nothin'."

No, the schoolmistress was not an heir. Was not even a relative of the
family. But she was--was interested, just the same. A friend of hers was
a relative, and--

"What is your friend?" inquired the inquisitor. "A man?"

There was no reason why Miss Dawes should have changed color, but,
according to Debby's subsequent testimony, she did; she blushed, so the
widow declares.

"No," she protested. "Oh, no! it's a--she's a child, that's all--a
little girl. But--"

"Maybe you're gettin' up one of them geographical trees," suggested Mrs.
Beasley. "I've seen 'em, fust settlers down in the trunk, and children
and grandchildren spreadin' out in the branches. Is that it?"

Here was an avenue of escape. Phoebe stretched the truth a trifle, and
admitted that that, or something of the sort, was what she was engaged
in. The explanation seemed to be satisfactory. Debby asked her
visitor's name, and, misunderstanding it, addressed her as "Miss Dorcas"
thereafter. Then she proceeded to give her reminiscences of the Thayers,
and it did not take long for the disappointed teacher to discover that,
for all practical purposes, these reminiscences were valueless. Mrs.
Beasley remembered many things, but nothing at all concerning John
Thayer's life in the West, nor the name of the ship he sailed in, nor
who his shipmates were.

"He never wrote home but once or twice afore he died," she said. "And
when he did Emily, his wife, never told me what was in his letters. She
always burnt 'em, I guess. I used to hunt around for 'em when she was
out, but she burnt 'em to spite me, I cal'late. Her and me didn't get
along any too well. She said I ta