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"stranger I'm taking in," referred subconsciously to the Biblical injunction for acts of this description, and the wife accepted it in the same spirit. The teamster added, "You'll haff to excuse my looks, ma'am," but he got his bloody face clean and his hair combed before he entered the kitchen.

Squire Meredith's kitchen was dark and heated like an oven. In building the room the Squire apparently had forgotten to put in windows, for there was none; and even with the brightness of a summer morning outside, the women were forced to light an oil lamp on the table. Now this lamp dimly illuminated platters piled high with fried chicken, fried ham, a sorghum stand, plates of string beans, new potatoes, turnip greens, apple pies so old that they had turned bluish. The greater part of these dishes were cold because Mrs. Meredith put on the breakfast table all that she had left over from yesterday's dinner.

The men stood around a little awkwardly until the Squire said, "Well, set down," and they all sat. The stranger made a false move toward his plate just as the Squire bent his head to return thanks for the meal. He corrected his mistake in time to bend his own oily head while the Squire rattled off some unintelligible grace which concluded with "name of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, Amen . . ." and glided without a break into "What part of the chickun will you have, brother? . . . I fergit yore name."

"Beavers," replied the teamster solidly, "Tug Beavers—an' I fergit yo'rn."

"That's because you never knowed it," said the host.

"Fur the lan's sake, Pa!" cried both women in the back of the kitchen, scandalized. "Why, it's Meredith, Mr. Beavers. I don't know what's the matter with Pa. He simply never will tell his name. He makes me so ashamed sometimes."

"That's all right, ma'am," responded Mr. Beavers, broadly generous. "I've seed the time an' place when I didn't want to give my name myse'f, an' I didn't."

"Fuh the lan's sake!" ejaculated the girl in a repressed tone.