of the
half-open door at the intruder with little, sad, troubled faces. He
could almost hear them whispering amongst themselves. He felt a little
shiver go over him, and threw back his shoulders and laughed softly at
his foolishness.

But the feeling that he was an intruder, a trespasser, remained with him
as he passed from room to room, throwing open windows and blinds, and
now and then sneezing as the impalpable dust tickled his nostrils. In
the sitting-room, as in every other apartment, everything looked as
though the occupant had passed out of the room but a moment before.
Wade's face grew grave and tender as he looked about him. On the sewing
machine a shallow basket held sewing materials and a few pairs of coarse
woollen stockings, neatly rolled. The poker was laid straight along the
ledge of the big "base-burner" in the corner. A table with a green cloth
stood in front of a window and bore a few magazines dated almost ten
years before. A set of walnut book-shelves held a few sober-clad
volumes, Bulfinch's "Age of Fable," "Webster's Dictionary," Parker's
"Aids to English Composition," Horace's "Odes" in Latin, "The Singer's
Own Book," "Henry Esmond" and "Vanity Fair," "A Chance Acquaintance,"
two cook-books, a number of yellow-covered "Farmer's Almanacs," and "A
Guide to the City of Boston." A sewing-stand supported a huge family
Bible. The walls were papered in brown and a brown ingrain carpet
covered the floor. There was a couch under the side window and a few
upholstered chairs were scattered about. Now that the windows were open
and the warm sunlight was streaming in, it was a cosy, shabby, homey
little room.

Wade opened the door into the hall. Perhaps the Ghosts of Things Past
scampered up the winding stairway; at least, they were not to be seen.
He found the front-door key in the lock and turned the bolt. When the
door swung inward a little thrill touched him. For the first time in his
life he was standing on his own doorsill, looking down his own front
path and through his own front gate!

In every man's nature there is the desire for home-owning. It may lie
dormant for many years, but sooner or later it will stir and call. Wade
heard its voice now, and his heart warmed to it. Fortune had brought him
the power to choose his home where he would, and build an abode far
finer than this little cottage. And yet this place, which had come to
him unexpectedly and through sorrow, seemed suddenly to lay a claim