The sound of the gate latch was heard, and footsteps were approaching
the door--not the bounding step of Maggie, but a tramping tread,
followed by a heavy knock, and next moment a tall, heavy-built man
appeared before her, asking shelter for the night. The pack he carried
showed him at once to be a peddler, and upon a nearer view Hagar
recognized in him a stranger who, years before, had craved her
hospitality. He had been civil to her then; she did not fear him now,
and she consented to his remaining, thinking his presence there might
dispel the mysterious terror hanging around her. But few words passed
between them that night, for Martin, as he called himself, was tired,
and after partaking of the supper that she prepared he retired to
rest. The next morning, however, he was more talkative, kindly
enlightening her with regard to his business, his family, and his
place of residence, which last he said was in Meriden, Conn.
It was a long time since Hagar had heard that name, and now, turning
quickly towards him, she said, "Meriden? That is where my Hester
lived, and where her husband died."
"I want to know!" returned the Yankee peddler. "What might have been
his name?"
"Hamilton--Nathan Hamilton. Did you know him? He died nineteen years
ago this coming summer."
"Egzactly!" ejaculated the peddler, setting down his pack and himself
taking a chair, preparatory to a long talk.
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