about those
children--I mean of their past lives."

"We know so little," she replied reservedly.

"But more than you have told me. Have they parents living?"

"A father, I think," murmured Ann.

"And no mother?"

"No."

"Do you know where their father is?"

"He lives near Ithaca, so we're told." After a silence she continued,
"We want them to forget--to forget, ourselves, all about their former
lives. I asked Horace if he wanted to place them in schools; but he
didn't want them to go away. As long as they are as good as they have
been, they're welcome to stay. Poor little things, they're nothing more
than babies, not yet sixteen!"

"The girl looks older," commented Everett.

"That's because she's suffered more than most girls do. I'm afraid
it'll be a long time before Floyd is completely well."

The conversation then drifted to that happy spring day when they would
be married.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

From the window of the drawing-room in his home Everett threw a glance
into Sleepy Hollow and listened to the wind weeping its tale of death
through the barren trees. The tall monuments were as spectral giants,
while here and there a guarding granite figure reared its ghostly
proportions. But the weird scenery caused no stir of superstition in the
lawyer.

In hesitation, Everett stood for some seconds, the snow falling silently
about him; for he was still under the mood that had come upon him during
Ann's parrying of his curiosity concerning the squatter children. As he
paused, the Great Dane, in the kennel at the back of the house, sent out
a hoarse bark, followed by a deep growl. So well trained was the dog
that nothing save an unfamiliar step or the sight of a stranger brought
forth such demonstrations. Everett knew this, and walked into the
garden, spoke softly to the animal, and, noting nothing unusual, ran up
the back steps. The door opened under his touch, and he stepped in. The
maids were in the chambers at the top of the house, and quietude reigned
about him. The young master went into the drawing-room, stirred the
grate fire, and sat down with a book. For many moments his eyes did not
seek its pages. His meditations took shape after shape; until, dreaming,
he allowed the book to rest on his knees.

Everett was perfectly satisfied with his success as a lawyer. He had
proved to others of his profession in the surrounding county that he was
an orator of no little ability and preeminently able to