"Oh, no; he's just uncle to everybody and no one in particular. He's all
by himself, and has no folks?"

Just before the dusk of the evening, the little party set out for the
home of Zedekiah Manning, generally and lovingly known as Uncle Zed. He
lived about half a mile down the road in a two-roomed log house which
had a big adobe chimney on one side. His front yard was abloom with the
autumn flowers. The path leading to his door was neatly edged by small
cobble stones. Autumn tinted ivy embowered his front door and climbed
over the wall nearly to the low roof.

Uncle Zed met the visitors at the door. "Well, well," he exclaimed,
"come right in. I'll light the lamp." Then he assisted them to find
seats.

Mildred looked keenly at Uncle Zed, whom she found to be a little frail
old man with clean white hair and beard, and kindly, smiling face. He
sat down with his company and rubbed his hands in a way which implied:
"And what does all this mean?" Mildred noted that the wall, back of his
own chair, was nearly covered with books, and a number of volumes lay
on the table. The room was furnished for the simple needs of the lone
occupant. A fire smouldered in the open grate.

"Now, Uncle Zed, have you forgotten again?" inquired Mrs. Trent.

"Forgotten what? I suppose I have, for my memory is not so good as it
used to be."

"Your memory never was good regarding the day of the year you were
born."