"Why? I want to bring you up to your door in style."

"Yes--but--it's Sunday. That's my house, the corner one."

They had stopped before a square, two-storied brick house, with an
equally square wooden porch supported by two plain, rigid wooden
columns, and a hollow sweep of dull concavity above the door, evidently
of the same architectural order as the church. There was no corner or
projection to break the force of the wind that swept its smooth glacial
surface; there was no indication of light or warmth behind its six
closed windows.

"There seems to be nobody at home," said Demorest, briefly. "Come along
with me to the hotel."

"Joan sits in the back parlor, Sundays," explained the husband.

"Shall I drive round to the barn and leave the horse and buggy there
while you go in?" continued Demorest, good-humoredly, pointing to the
stable gate at the side.

"No, thank you," returned Blandford, "it's locked, and I'll have to open
it from the other side after I go in. The horse will stand until then.
I think I'll have to say good-night, now," he added, with a sudden
half-ashamed consciousness of the forbidding aspect of the house, and
his own inhospitality. "I'm sorry I can't ask you in--but you understand
why."

"All right," returned Demorest, stoutly, turning up his coat-collar, and