"It just strikes me--what am I going to call him when I introduce him to
those folks? Did he ever tell you what his last name is?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," Aunt Polly lowered her voice, "if he couldn't
remember it himself! I've heard of such cases. Whenever I try to draw him
out to talk about himself and what happened to him before you found him,
it breaks him all up; seemingly gives him a back-set every time. He sort
of slinks into himself in that queer, lost way--just like he was when he
first come to."

"He's had a powerful jar to his constitution, and his mind is taking a
rest." Leander was fond of a diagnosis. "There wasn't enough life left in
him to keep his faculties and his bod'ly organs all a-going at once. The
upper story's to let."

"I wish you'd go upstairs, and see what he is doing up there."

"Aw, no! Let him be. He likes to go off by himself and do his thinking. I
notice it rattles him to be talked to much. He sets out there on the
choppin'-block, looking at the bluffs--ever notice? He looks and don't see
nothin', and his lips keep moving like he was learning a spellin'-lesson.
If I speak to him sharp, he hauls himself together and smiles uneasy, but
he don't know what I said. I tell you he's waking up; coming to his
memories, and trying to sort 'em out."

"That's just what _I_ say," Aunt Polly retorted, "but he's got to eat his
meals. He can't live on memories."

Uncle John was restless that evening, and appeared to be excited. He