down the road, her heavy bag swinging under her.

At the sight of the woman a flock of ducks, chickens, and geese
gathered round her. She shooed the fowls away with her apron. "They
want the'r supper," she said, as she led her guest back to the front
yard. She went to the gate and looked down the road. "I see Luke at
the branch," she added, coming back to him; "he'd be on faster ef he
knowed you wus heer."

Luke Bradley was about fifty years of age. He had blue eyes, a long
body, long arms, and long legs. His hair was reddish brown and his
face florid and freckled. He walked with a shambling gait, stooped
considerably, and swung his arms. He seldom wore a coat, and on days
as mild as this his shirt-sleeves were always rolled up. He presented
a striking contrast to John Westerfelt, who, by the people of that
remote section, might have been considered something of a swell.

"How are you, ol' hoss?" Bradley laughed, as he swung the sagging gate
open and grasped his friend's hand. "Glad to see you; I've done
nothin' but fight tongue battles fer you all day. Webb has been
cussin' me black an' blue fer biddin' agin 'im fer a stranger, but
thar's one consolation--we've got 'im on the hip."

Westerfelt laughed pleasantly as he followed his host into the
sitting-room. "Much obliged to you, Luke. I'm glad I took your advice
about the investment."

"Me'n Marthy wus both dead set on gettin' you over heer," Luke said, as
he placed a chair for Westerfelt in front of the fire. "Both of us
'low a change will do you good."