n from the broad stone where he
had evidently been sitting with his back against the chimney, and came
forward to greet me.

"You will pardon the abruptness of my greeting? I thought you might not
care to make acquaintance with the present tenant of this old house--at
least not without an introduction."

"Certainly not," I answered, "you have done me a real kindness, which is
better than the outward form of courtesy. But how is it that you stay
at such close quarters with this unpleasant tenant? Have you no fear of
him?"

"Not the least in the world," he answered, laughing. "I know the snakes
too well, better than they know themselves. It is not likely that even
an old serpent with thirteen rattles, like this one, could harm me. I
know his ways. Before he could strike I should be out of reach."

"Well," said I, "it is a grim thought, at all events, that this house,
once a cheerful home, no doubt, should have fallen at last to be the
dwelling of such a vile creature."

"Fallen!" he exclaimed. Then he repeated the word with a questioning
accent--"fallen? Are you sure of that? The snake, in his way, may be
quite as honest as the people who lived here before him, and not much
more harmful. The farmer was a miser who robbed his mother, quarrelled
with his brother, and starved his wife. What she lacked in food, she
made up in drink, when she could. One of the children, a girl, was
a cripple, lamed by her mother in a fit of rage. The two boys were
ne'er-do-weels who ran away from home as soon as they were old
enough. One of them is serving a life-sentence in the State prison for
manslaughter. When the house burned down some thirty years ago,
the woman escaped. The man's body was found with the head crushed
in--perhaps by a falling timber. The family of our friend the
rattlesnake could hardly surpass that record, I think.

"But why should we blame them--any of them? They were only acting out
their natures. To one who can see and understand, it is all perfectly
simple, and interesting--immensely interesting."

It is impossible to describe the quiet eagerness, the cool glow of
fervour with which he narrated this little history. It was the manner of
the triumphant pathologist who lays bare some hidden seat of disease.
It surprised and repelled me a little; yet it attracted me, too, for I
could see how evidently he counted on my comprehension and sympathy.

"Well," said I, "it is a pitiful history. Rural life is not all pe