nasal tones
upraised in fervid assertion.

"Yes, ma'am!" he was saying, "this house is a little out of repair,
you can see that fer yourself; but it's well built; couldn't be
better. A few hundred dollars expended here an' there'll make it as
good as new; in fact, I'll say better'n new! They don't put no such
material in houses nowadays. Why, this woodwork--doors, windows,
floors and all--is clear, white pine. You can't buy it today for no
price. Costs as much as m'hogany, come to figure it out. Yes,
_ma'am!_ the woodwork alone in this house is worth the price of one
of them little new shacks a builder'll run up in a couple of months.
And look at them mantelpieces, pure tombstone marble; and all carved
like you see. Yes, ma'am! there's as many as seven of 'em in the
house. Where'll you find anything like that, I'd like to know!"

"I--think the house might be made to look very pleasant, Mr.
Whittle," Lydia replied, in a hesitating voice.

Wesley Elliot fancied he could detect a slight tremor in its even
flow. He pushed open the door and walked boldly in.

"Good-morning, Miss Orr," he exclaimed, advancing with outstretched
hand. "Good-morning, Deacon! ...Well, well! what a melancholy old
ruin this is, to be sure. I never chanced to see the interior
before."

Deacon Whittle regarded his pastor sourly from under puckered brows.

"Some s'prised to see _you_, dominie," said he. "Thought you was
generally occupied at your desk of a Friday morning."

The minister included Lydia Orr in the genial warmth of his smile as
he replied:

"I had a special call into the country this morning, and seeing your
conveyance hitched to the trees outside, Deacon, I thought I'd step
in. I'm not sure it's altogether safe for all of us to be standing in
the middle of this big room, though. Sills pretty well rotted
out--eh, Deacon?"

"Sound as an oak," snarled the Deacon. "As I was telling th' young
lady, there ain't no better built house anywheres 'round than this
one. Andrew Bolton didn't spare other folks' money when he built
it--no, _sir!_ It's good for a hundred years yet, with trifling
repairs."

"Who owns the house now?" asked Lydia unexpectedly. She had walked
over to one of the long windows opening on a rickety balcony and
stood looking out.

"Who owns it?" echoed Deacon Whittle. "Well, now, we can give you a
clear title, ma'am, when it comes to that; sound an' clear. You don't
have to worry none about that. You see it was