his seat, "I know all about that house. That's a empty house. I didn't think you meant that house. There's nobody lives there. An' yit, now I come to remember, I have seen people about too. I tell ye what ye better do. Since ye're so set on staying on this side the ridge, ye better let me put ye down at Dan Carson's place. That's jist about quarter of a mile from where Dutton used to live. Dan's wife can tell ye all about the Duttons, an' about everybody else too, in this part o' the country, and if there ain't nobody livin' at the old tavern, ye can stay all night at Carson's, and I'll stop an' take you back to-morrow, when I come along."
We agreed to this plan, for there was nothing better to be done, and, late in the afternoon, we were set down with our small trunk—for we were travelling under light weight—at Dan Carson's door. The stage was rather behind time, and the driver whipped up and left us to settle our own affairs. He called back, however, that he would keep a good look-out for us to-morrow.
Mrs. Carson soon made her appearance, and very naturally was somewhat surprised to see visitors with their baggage standing on her little porch. She was a plain, coarsely-dressed woman, with an apron full of chips and kindling wood, and a fine mind for detail, as we soon discovered.
"Jist so," said she, putting down the chips and inviting us to seats on a bench. "Dave Dutton's folks is all moved away Dave has a good farm on the other side o' the mountain, an' it never did pay him to keep that tavern, 'specially as he didn't sell liquor. When he went away, his son Al come there to live with his wife, an' the old man left a good deal o' furniter and things for him, but Al's wife ain't
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