know the history of the child and of all her ancestors, if he had to sit
down at table with his obnoxious neighbor. To his surprise, however,
the child did not lead him into the park, but towards one of the old
stone houses of the tenantry.

"Pa's great-great-great-grandfather lived there," she remarked, with all
the American's pride of ancestry. Orth did not smile, however. Only the
warm clasp of the hand in his, the soft thrilling voice of his still
mysterious companion, prevented him from feeling as if moving through
the mazes of one of his own famous ghost stories.

The child ushered him into the dining-room, where an old man was seated
at the table reading his Bible. The room was at least eight hundred
years old. The ceiling was supported by the trunk of a tree, black, and
probably petrified. The windows had still their diamond panes,
separated, no doubt, by the original lead. Beyond was a large kitchen in
which were several women. The old man, who looked patriarchal enough to
have laid the foundations of his dwelling, glanced up and regarded the
visitor without hospitality. His expression softened as his eyes moved
to the child.

"Who 'ave ye brought?" he asked. He removed his spectacles. "Ah!" He
rose, and offered the author a chair. At the same moment, the women
entered the room.

"Of course you've fallen in love with Blanche, sir," said one of them.
"Everybody does."

"Yes, that is it. Quite so." Confusion still prevailing among his
faculties, he clung to the naked truth. "This little girl has interested