from the point of the little boy's parasol.

On the veranda sat a stout man in a rocking chair, reading the
newspaper. At the side of the house two little girls with
pig-tails were playing croquet. Some one in the parlour was
executing "After the Ball is Over" on a mechanical piano.

Luke accosted a stranger who passed him. "Excuse me, but
can you tell me whether this is Mr. Matthew Wilson's house?"

"It used to be," said the stranger, "but old man Wilson
has been dead these ten years."

"And who lives here now?" asked Luke.

"Mr. Woods: he married Wilson's daughter," said the
stranger, and went on his way.

"Well," said Luke to himself, "this is just a little
queer. Woods was my name for a while, when I lived here, but
now, I suppose, I'm Luke Dubois again. Dashed if I can
understand it. Somebody must have been dreaming."

So he went back to the white canoe, and paddled away up
the river, and nobody in Scroll-Saw City ever set eyes on him
again.