old gentleman's name--sidled in and sat down beside the country
boy, as usual. He was a queer, colorless sort of person--a
man who never looked into the face of another if he could help
it. He would look all around Hiram when he spoke to him--at his
shoulder, his shirtfront, his hands, even at his feet if they
were visible, but never at his face.

And at the table he kept up a continual monologue. It was
difficult sometimes for Hiram to know when he was being
addressed, and when poor Mr. Camp was merely talking to himself.

"Let's see--where has Sister put my napkin--Oh! here it
is--You've been for a walk, have you, young man?--No, that's not
my napkin; I didn't spill any gravy at dinner--Nice day out,
but raw--Goodness me! can't I have a knife and fork?--Where's
my knife and fork?--Sister certainly has forgotten my knife and
fork.--Oh! Here they are--Yes, a very nice day indeed for this
time of year."

And so on. It was quite immaterial to Mr. Camp whether he got an
answer to his remarks to Hiram, or not. He went on muttering to
himself, all through the meal, sometimes commenting upon what the
others said at the table--and that quite shrewdly, Hiram noticed;
but the other boarders considered him a little cracked.

Sister smiled sheepishly at Hiram as she passed the tea. She
drowned his tea with milk and put in no less than four spoonfuls
of sugar. But although the fluid was utterly spoiled for Hiram's
taste he drank it with fortitude, knowing that the girl's
generosity was the child of her gratitude; for both sugar and