"I fetched home visitors, Ma," said Andy.

"Visitors!" cried the lady. "What 'll your Uncle Crawford say?" And she
looked at us smiling, but with no great hostility.

"Pardon me, Madam," said my father, "if we seem to intrude. But my mare
is tired, and we have nowhere to stay."

Uncle Crawford did take us in. He was a man of substance in that
country,--a north of Ireland man by birth, if I remember right.

I went to bed with the red-headed boy, whose name was Andy Jackson. I
remember that his mother came into our little room under the eaves and
made Andy say his prayers, and me after him. But when she was gone out,
Andy stumped his toe getting into bed in the dark and swore with a
brilliancy and vehemence that astonished me.

It was some hours before we went to sleep, he plying me with questions
about my life, which seemed to interest him greatly, and I returning in
kind.

"My Pa's dead," said Andy. "He came from a part of Ireland where they
are all weavers. We're kinder poor relations here. Aunt Crawford's
sick, and Ma keeps house. But Uncle Crawford's good, an' lets me go to
Charlotte Town with him sometimes."

I recall that he also boasted some about his big brothers, who were away
just then.

Andy was up betimes in the morning, to see us start. But we didn't