g George Carew
to find the typewriter and bring it down to him, a fresh interruption
occurred in the entrance of old Mrs. Apostleman.

Mrs. Apostleman, between being out of breath from hurrying up the hill
in the late afternoon heat, and fearful that the gathering would break
up before she could say what she wanted to say, and entirely unable to
control her gasping and puffing, was a sight at once funny and
pitiable. As she sank into a comfortable chair she held up one fat hand
to command attention, and with the other laid forcible hold upon Barry
Valentine. Three or four of the younger women hurried to her with fans
and tea, and in a moment or two she really could manage disconnected
words.

"Thanks, me dear. No, no cake. Just a mouthful of tea to--there, that's
better! I was afraid ye'd all be gone--that'll do, thank ye, Susie!
Well," she set down her tea-cup, "well! I've a little piece of news for
you all--don't go, Barry, you'll be interested in this, and I couldn't
wait to come up and tell ye!" She began to fumble in her bag, and
presently produced therefrom her eye-glasses and a letter. The latter
she opened with a great crackling of paper.

"This is from me brother, Alexander Wetherall," said she, with an
impressive glance over her glasses. "As ye know, he's a family lawyer
in New York, he has the histories of half the old families in the
country pigeon-holed away in those old offices of his. He doesn't write
me very often; his wife does now and then--stupid woman, but nice.
However, I wrote him in May, and told him Mrs. Burgoyne had bought the
Hall, and just asked him what he knew about her and her people. Here--"
marking a certain line with a pudgy, imperative finger, she handed a
page of the letter to Barry, "read from there on," she commanded, "this
is what he says."

Barry took the paper, but hesitated.

"It's all right!" said the old lady, impatiently, "nobody could say
anything that wasn't good about Sidney Burgoyne."

Thus reassured, Barry turned obediently to the indicated place.

"'You ask me about your new neighbor,'" he read, "'I suppose of course
you know that she is Paul Frothingham's only child by his second
marriage. Her mother died while she was a baby, and Frothingham took
her all over the world with him, wherever he went. She married very
young, Colonel John Burgoyne, of the Maryland family, older than she,
but a very fine fellow. As a girl and as his wife she had an
extraordinary oppo