d Mr. Mariner.

"What!" said Jill. "What did you say?"

"Sandringham. Where we live. I got the name from your father. I
remember him telling me there was a place called that in England."

"There is." Jill's voice bubbled. "The King lives there."

"Is that so?" said Mr. Mariner. "Well, I bet he doesn't have the
trouble with help that we have here. I have to pay our girl fifty
dollars a month, and another twenty for the man who looks after the
furnace and chops wood. They're all robbers. And if you kick they quit
on you!"

III

Jill endured Sandringham for ten days; and, looking back on that
period of her life later, she wondered how she did it. The sense of
desolation which had gripped her on the station platform increased
rather than diminished as she grew accustomed to her surroundings. The
east wind died away, and the sun shone fitfully with a suggestion of
warmth, but her uncle's bleakness appeared to be a static quality,
independent of weather conditions. Her aunt, a faded woman, with a
perpetual cold in the head, did nothing to promote cheerfulness. The
rest of the household consisted of a gloomy child, "Tibby," aged
eight; a spaniel, probably a few years older, and an intermittent cat,
who, when he did put in an appearance, was the life and soul of the
party, but whose visits to his home were all too infrequent for Jill.

The picture which Mr. Mariner had formed in his mind of Jill as a
wealthy young lady with a taste for house property continued as vivid
as ever. It was his practice each morning to conduct her about the
neighbourhood, introducing her to the various houses in which he had
sunk most of the money he had made in business. Mr. Mariner's life
centred around Brookport real estate, and the embarrassed Jill was
compelled to inspect sitting-rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, and master's
bedrooms till the sound of a key turning in a lock gave her a feeling
of nervous exhaustion. Most of her uncle's houses were converted
farm-houses, and, as one unfortunate purchaser had remarked, not so
darned converted at that. The days she spent at Brookport remained in
Jill's memory as a smell of dampness and chill and closeness.

"You want to buy," said Mr. Mariner every time he shut a front-door
behind them. "Not rent. Buy. Then, if you don't want to live here, you
can always rent in the summer."

It seemed incredible to Jill that the summer would ever come. Winter
held Brookport in its grip. For the first time