and penetrating was the
personality of the dead man that she felt as though it was still largely
the property of Uncle Ebeneezer.

The portrait in the parlour gave her no light upon the subject, though she
studied it earnestly. The face was that of an old man, soured and
embittered by what Life had brought him, who seemed now to have a
peculiarly malignant aspect. Dorothy fancied, in certain morbid moments,
that Uncle Ebeneezer, from some safe place, was keenly relishing the whole
situation.

Upon her soul, too, lay heavily that ancient Law of the House, which
demands unfailing courtesy to the stranger within our gates. Just why the
eating of our bread and salt by some undesired guest should exert any
particular charm of immunity, has long been an open question, but the Law
remains.

She felt, dimly, that the end was not yet--that still other strangers were
coming to the Jack-o'-Lantern for indefinite periods. She saw, now, why
wing after wing had been added to the house, but could not understand the
odd arrangement of the front windows. Through some inner sense of loyalty
to Uncle Ebeneezer, she forebore to question either Mrs. Smithers or
Dick--two people who could probably have given her some light on the
subject. She had gathered, however, from hints dropped here and there, as
well as from the overpowering evidence of recent events, that a horde of
relatives swarmed each Summer at the queer house on the hilltop and
remained until late Autumn.

Harlan said nothing, and nowadays Dorothy saw very little of him. Most of
the time he was at work in the library, or else taking long, solitary
rambles through the surrounding country. At meals he was moody and
taciturn, his book obliterating all else from his mind.

He doubtless knew, subconsciously, that his house was disturbed by alien
elements, but he dwelt too securely in the upper regions to be troubled by
the obvious fact. Once in the library, with every door securely bolted, he
could afford to laugh at the tumult outside, if, indeed, he should ever
become aware of its existence. The children might make the very air vocal
with their howls, Elaine might have hysterics, Mrs. Smithers render hymns
in a cracked, squeaky voice, and Dick whistle eternally, but Harlan was in
a strange new country, with a beautiful lady, a company of gallant
knights, and a jester.

The rest was all unreal. He seemed to see people through a veil, to hear
what they said without fully compr