s and twenty-three cents remaining,
as Harlan had accurately calculated, seemed pitifully small. Perplexity,
doubt, and foreboding were plainly written on his face, when Dorothy
turned to him.

"Isn't it perfectly lovely," she asked, "for us to have this nice, quiet
place all to ourselves, where you can write your book?"

Woman-like, she had instantly touched the right chord, and the clouds
vanished.

"Yes," he cried, eagerly. "Oh, Dorothy, do you think I can really write
it?"

"Write it," she repeated; "why, you dear, funny goose, you can write a
better book than anybody has ever written yet, and I know you can! By next
week we'll be settled here and you can get down to work. I'll help you,
too," she added, generously. "If you'll buy me a typewriter, I can copy
the whole book for you."

"Of course I'll buy you a typewriter. We'll send for it to-morrow. How
much does a nice one cost?"

"The kind I like," she explained, "costs a hundred dollars without the
stand. I don't need the stand--we can find a table somewhere that will
do."

"Two hundred and ninety-seven dollars and twenty-three cents," breathed
Harlan, unconsciously.

"No, only a hundred dollars," corrected Dorothy. "I don't care to have it
silver mounted."

"I'd buy you a gold one if you wanted it," stammered Harlan, in some
confusion.

"Not now," she returned, serenely. "Wait till the book is done."

Visions of fame and fortune appeared before his troubled eyes and set his
soul alight with high ambition. The candle in his hand burned unsteadily
and dripped tallow, unheeded. "Come," said Dorothy, gently, "let's go
downstairs again."

An open door revealed a tortuous stairway at the back of the house,
descending mysteriously into cavernous gloom. "Let's go down here," she
continued. "I love curly stairs."

"These are kinky enough to please even your refined fancy," laughed
Harlan. "It reminds me of travelling in the West, where you look out of
the window and see your engine on the track beside you, going the other
way."

"This must be the kitchen," said Dorothy, when the stairs finally ceased.
"Uncle Ebeneezer appears to have had a pronounced fancy for kitchens."

"Here's another wing," added Harlan, opening the back door. "Sitting-room,
bedroom, and--my soul and body! It's another kitchen!"

"Any more beds?" queried Dorothy, peering into the darkness. "We can't
keep house unless we can find more beds."

"Only one more. I guess we've come