The boy looked up
at the tramp and answered, "Yes, sir."
"Is your mother in?"
"No, she's across the street at Mrs. Johnson's."
"Grandmother's in, though," continued the boy. "Would you like to see her?"
"No, no! Don't call her. I just wanted to see your mother."
"Do you know mamma?" inquired the girl.
"Well--no. I knew her brother, your uncle."
"We haven't any uncle--except Uncle George, and he's papa's brother," said
the boy.
"What! Not an uncle Will--Uncle Will Kershaw?"
"O--h, yes," assented the boy. "Did you know him before he died? That was a
long time ago."
The tramp made no other outward manifestation of his surprise than to be
silent and motionless for a time. Presently he said, in a trembling voice:
"Yes, before he died. Do you remember when he died?"
"Oh, no. That was when mamma was a girl. She and grandmother often talk
about it, though. Uncle Will started West, you know, when he was fifteen
years old. He was standing on a bridge out near Pittsburg one day, and he
saw a little girl fall into the river. He jumped in to save her, but he was
drowned, 'cause his head hit a stone and that stunned him.
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