In view of the fact that I had taken the house for my grandnieces and
nephews, it was annoying to find, by the end of June, that I should have
to live in it by myself. Willie's boy was having his teeth straightened,
and must make daily visits to the dentist, and Jack went to California
and took Gertrude and the boys with him.

The first curious thing happened then. I wrote to the agent, saying that
I would not use the house, but enclosing a check for its rental, as I
had signed the lease. To my surprise, I received in reply a note from
Miss Emily herself, very carefully written on thin note-paper.

Although it was years since I had seen her, the exquisite neatness of
the letter, its careful paragraphing, its margins so accurate as to give
the impression that she had drawn a faint margin line with a lead
pencil and then erased it--all these were as indicative of Emily Benton
as--well, as the letter was not.

As well as I can explain it, the letter was impulsive, almost urgent.
Yet the little old lady I remembered was neither of these things. "My
dear Miss Blakiston," she wrote. "But I do hope you will use the house.
It was because I wanted to be certain that it would be occupied this
summer that I asked so low a rent for it.

"You may call it a whim if you like, but there are reasons why I wish
the house to have a summer tenant. It has, for one thing, never been
empty since it was built. It was my father's pride, and his father's
before him, that the doors were never locked, even at night. Of course
I can not ask a tenant to continue this old custom, but I can ask you to
reconsider your decision.

"Will you forgive me for saying that you are so exactly the person I
should like to see in the house that I feel I can not give you up? So
strongly do I feel this that I would, if I dared, enclose your check and
beg you to use the house rent free. Faithfully yours, Emily Benton."

Gracefully worded and carefully written as the letter was, I seemed to
feel behind it some stress of feeling, an excitement perhaps, totally
out of proportion to its contents. Years before I had met Miss Emily,
even then a frail little old lady, her small figure stiffly erect, her
eyes cold, her whole bearing one of reserve. The Bentons, for all their
open doors, were known in that part of the country as "proud." I can
remember, too, how when I was a young girl my mother had regarded the
rare invitations to have tea and tiny cakes in the Benton