e train.
And now you? What is your name?"

He was looking, not at me, as I had at first feared, but at the man next
to me, a slim but slippery youth, whose small red eyes made me shudder.

"William Witherspoon."

"Barbara's son?"

"Yes."

"Where are your brothers?"

"One of them, I think, is outside"--here he laughed--"the other
is--_sick_."

The way he uttered this word made me set him down as one to be
especially wary of when he smiled. But then, I had already passed
judgment on him at my first view.

"And you, madam?"--this to the large, dowdy woman with the uncertain
eye, a contrast to the young and melancholy Eunice.

"Janet Clapsaddle," she replied, waddling hungrily forward and getting
unpleasantly near the speaker, for he moved off as she approached, and
took his stand in the clear space at the head of the table.

"Very well, Mistress Clapsaddle. You were a Westonhaugh, I believe?"

"You _believe_, sneak-faced hypocrite that you are!" she blurted out. "I
don't understand your lawyer ways. I like plain speaking myself. Don't
you know me, and Luke and Hector, and--and most of us, indeed, except
that puny, white-faced girl yonder, whom, having been brought up on the
other side of the Ridge, we have none of us seen since she was a
screaming baby in Hildegarde's arms. And the young gentleman over
there"--here she indicated me--"who shows so little likeness to the rest
of the family, he will have to make his connection to us pretty plain
before we shall feel like acknowledging him, either as the son of one of
Eustace's girls, or a chip from Brother Salmon's hard old block."

As this caused all eyes to turn upon me, even _hers_, I smiled as I
stepped forward. The lawyer did not return that smile.

"What is your name?" he asked shortly and sharply, as if he distrusted
me.

"Hugh Austin," was my quiet reply.

"There is no such name on the list," snapped old Smead, with an
authoritative gesture toward those who seemed anxious to enter a
protest.

"Probably not," I returned, "for I am not a Witherspoon, a Westonhaugh,
nor yet a Clapsaddle. I am merely a chance wayfarer passing through the
town on my way West. I thought this house was a tavern, or at least a
place I could lodge in. The man I met in the doorway told me as much,
and so I am here. If my company is not agreeable, or if you wish this
room to yourselves, let me go into the kitchen. I promise not to meddle
with the supper, hungry as I am. Or