one. Andrew Bolton didn't spare other folks' money when he built
it--no, _sir!_ It's good for a hundred years yet, with trifling
repairs."

"Who owns the house now?" asked Lydia unexpectedly. She had walked
over to one of the long windows opening on a rickety balcony and
stood looking out.

"Who owns it?" echoed Deacon Whittle. "Well, now, we can give you a
clear title, ma'am, when it comes to that; sound an' clear. You don't
have to worry none about that. You see it was this way; dunno as
anybody's mentioned it in your hearing since you come to Brookville;
but we use to have a bank here in Brookville, about eighteen years
ago, and--"

"Yes, Ellen Dix told me," interrupted Lydia Orr, without turning her
head. "Has nobody lived here since?"

Deacon Whittle cast an impatient glance at Wesley Elliot, who stood
with his eyes fixed broodingly on the dusty floor.

"Wal," said he. "There'd have been plenty of folks glad enough to
live here; but the house wa'n't really suited to our kind o' folks.
It wa'n't a farm--there being only twenty acres going with it. And
you see the house is different to what folks in moderate
circumstances could handle. Nobody had the cash to buy it, an' ain't
had, all these years. It's a pity to see a fine old property like
this a-going down, all for the lack of a few hundreds. But if you was
to buy it, ma'am, I could put it in shape fer you, equal to the best,
and at a figure-- Wall; I tell ye, it won't cost ye what some folks'd