It was a narrow road, and apparently not much frequented. Frank could
see no houses on either side.

"Is your store on this road?" he asked.

"Oh, no; but I am not going to the store yet. We will go to my house,
and leave your trunk."

At length the wagon stopped, by Graves' orders, in front of a gate
hanging loosely by one hinge.

"We'll get out here," said Graves.

Frank looked with some curiosity, and some disappointment, at his future
home. It was a square, unpainted house, discolored by time, and looked
far from attractive. There were no outward signs of occupation, and
everything about it appeared to have fallen into decay. Not far off was
a barn, looking even more dilapidated than the house.

At the front door, instead of knocking--there was no bell--Graves drew
a rusty key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. They found
themselves in a small entry, uncarpeted and dingy.

"We'll go upstairs," said Graves.

Arrived on the landing, he threw open a door, and ushered in our hero.

"This will be your room," he said.

Frank looked around in dismay.