said,

"I really came in here on business. I hope you've decided to sell me the
meadow lot next to my knoll. If you've made up your minds hadn't I
better tell my lawyer to make out the papers at once?"

"Sister and I made up our minds some time ago, dear Mrs. Smith, and we
wrote to Brother William about it before he came to stay with us, and he
was willing, and Stanley, here, who is the only other heir of the estate
that we know about, has no objection."

"That gives me the greatest pleasure. I'll tell my lawyer, then, to have
the title looked up right away and make out the deed--though I feel as
if I should apologize for looking up the title of land that has been in
your family as long as Mr. Emerson's has been in his."

"You needn't feel at all apologetic," broke in Stanley. "It's never safe
to buy property without having a clear title, and we aren't sure that we
are in a position to give you a clear title."

"That's why we haven't spoken to you about it before," said the elder
Miss Clark; "we were waiting to try to make it all straight before we
said anything about it one way or the other."

"Not give me a clear title!" cried Mrs. Smith. "Do you mean that I won't
be able to buy it? Why, I don't know what Dorothy will do if we can't
get that bit with the brook; she has set her heart on it."

"We want you to have it not only for Dorothy's sake but for our own. It
isn't a good building lot--it's too damp--and we're lucky to have an
offer for it."

"Can you tell me just what the trouble is? It seems as if it ought to be
straight since all of you heirs agree to the sale."

"The difficulty is," said Stanley, "that we aren't sure that we are all
the heirs. We thought we were, but Uncle William made some inquiries on
his way here, and he learned enough to disquiet him."

"Our father, John Clark, had a sister Judith," explained the younger
Miss Clark. "They lived here on the Clark estate which had belonged to
the family for many generations. Then Judith married a man named
Leonard--Peter Leonard--and went to Nebraska at a time when Nebraska was
harder to reach than California is now. That was long before the Civil
War and during those frontier days Aunt Judith and Uncle Peter evidently
were tossed about to the limit of their endurance. Her letters came less
and less often and they always told of some new grief--the death of a
child or the loss of some piece of property. Finally the letters ceased
altogether. I don'