He sat upright, and his face at first assumed
a defiant, then a pleading expression, like that of a
child who desires to retain possession of some dear
thing. His heart beat hard as he watched the ad-
vance of the shadow. It was slow, as if cast by an
old man. The man was old and very stout, sup-
porting one lopping side by a stick, who presently
followed the herald of his shadow. He looked like
a farmer. Stebbins rose as he approached; the two
men stood staring at each other.
"Who be you, neighbor?" inquired the new-
comer.
The voice essayed a roughness, but only achieved
a tentative friendliness. Stebbins hesitated for a
second; a suspicious look came into the farmer's
misty blue eyes. Then Stebbins, mindful of his
prison record and fiercely covetous of his new home,
gave another name. The name of his maternal
grandfather seemed suddenly to loom up in printed
characters before his eyes, and he gave it glibly.
"David Anderson," he said, and he did not realize
a lie. Suddenly the name seemed his own. Surely
old David Anderson, who had been a good man,
would not grudge the gift of his unstained name to
replace the stained one of his grandson. "David
Anderson," he replied, and looked the other man
in the face unflinchingly.
"Where do ye hail from?" inquired the farmer;
and the new David Anderson gave unhesitatingly
the name of the old David Anderson's birth and
life and death place -- that of a little village in New
Hampshire.
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