“Isn’t she lovely? Looks like a cameo.” That was Nancy’s remark to Ruth when Mrs. Mortimer Cullen tarried in the sun parlor of the Hilton house, through which the girls were conducting her.

But Ruth only sighed. Her task was too obnoxious to permit of compliments even to the handsome, elderly woman, who indeed did look like an animated cameo, set in a frame of gray veils, thrown over a small summer hat.

“Isn’t the garden beautiful from this porch?” Nancy enthused, joining Mrs. Cullen there. “Just look at that hedge! It’s literally screened in with fine white clematis! And look! Mrs. Cullen! Just see that bower of Golden Blows! Oh, I don’t believe I have ever seen such a beautiful place,” and Nancy flitted around like a big butterfly herself, her yellow and white tissue dress escaping in little clouds about her, as she raced from room to room.

“My grand-daughter Naomi, is quite like you,” smiled the amused lady. “If you see so much beauty here I am sure it would please her. And it is for her, principally, that I am considering coming to Long Leigh.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’d love it,” chirped Nancy. “But do come upstairs and see all the wonderful bay-windows. Why, this house is made just like a lot of flower bowls. Every single room opens out in—Just see these windows.”

So Ruth and Mrs. Cullen followed Nancy upstairs to see the windows. From that point of vantage she dragged them to the alcove over the stairs and pointed out the “glorious garden,” from that view. And she was being perfectly sincere in her enthusiasm. None of it was assumed, in fact, one would have imagined Nancy was considering buying the fine old homestead for her own use.

They spent more than an hour looking over the place and even then Nancy hated to leave.

“Imagine having a home like that,” she tried to whisper to Ruth. “I think I’d be satisfied even to do housework if I could look out that kitchen window as I did it,” she added, while Mrs. Cullen smiled her satisfaction into Nancy’s eager face.

They drove back to the train with the prospective customer, who, when taking her leave, glanced significantly at Nancy.

“My dear,” she said, “you gave me a very pleasant little visit to your pretty Long Leigh, and I hope if my grand-daughter, Naomi, comes here—ever, she will meet you.” She then touched Ruth’s hand gently, saying something about having her father’s office get in touch with her.

When the train had cleared the station the two girls broke into a much relieved giggle. Ruth declared that Nancy had won the heart of “Lady Cullen who is as rich as they come,” she explained, inelegantly.

“And I had such a good time—”

“Whoa there! No, you don’t, Antoinette Brandon,” Ruth warned Nancy. “You are not going in the real-estate business, so you needn’t get all set for it. My father has a family to feed—”

But the very gentleman spoken of was at that moment hurrying across the platform, to meet the two uproarious girls.

He was most anxious to know about their mission. Mrs. Cullen, it appeared, was a very important personage, and he regretted genuinely the absence from his office of a suitable escort for the lady.

“Oh, you needn’t worry, Daddy,” Ruth assured him, taking the city newspaper from one of his pockets and feeling for candy in the other. “Nancy took such good care of her that she almost stayed over to buy more houses. You’ll have to look out for Nancy, Dad.” Ruth continued to joke. “She’s an expert business man, you know, and might take a notion to try real-estate.”

“The more the merrier,” replied the genial gentleman, who, like Ruth, had great gray eyes and a clear florid complexion, “I’ve been wanting to see your mother, Nancy,” he said next. “Maybe, I could suit her better in a house than you are being suited in the Townsend place,” he ventured.

“Oh, we love it over there,” Nancy hurried to state. “And besides, Mr. Ashley, we’re just poor folks,” she added laughingly.

“So are we all of us,” joined in Mr. Ashley. “But I supposed, now that Sanders has struck his gold mine, he might want to buy the little place himself, sort of souvenir, you know.” As they talked, they were walking back to the waiting taxi, in which the girls had fetched Mrs. Cullen to the station.

“Now Daddy,” objected Ruth, “we’ve had enough business for one afternoon. Nancy must get back home and I’ve got a music lesson, if Miss Dudley has waited for me, and I hope she hasn’t.”

Nancy felt rather important stepping out of the taxi at her door, it seemed, somehow, much more business-like than just riding in someone’s private car, and she dashed up the store steps, still thrilled with enthusiasm from her experience.

Inside the door she found Ted, crouched before the fireplace urging Nero to “sic” something.

“Get him, boy!” he was coaxing. “Go-get-him!”

“Get whom?” Nancy asked, in surprise at the spectacle.

“What ever is in that chimney,” the boy replied. “Do you think Nero couldn’t get it as good as that puny little dog of Miss Townsend’s?”

“But how do you know anything is in there?”

“Heard it—it whistles. Besides you said so.” Ted was not a waster of words.

“I never said there was anything there,” Nancy argued. “But what whistled? What did you hear?”

“Just whistlin’. Sic him Nero!” and Ted tried to push the big shaggy head against the old-fashioned fireplace board, that was papered with a very brilliant and hideous set paper piece, the center representing a terrible time among birds that looked like freak chickens.

But Nero was absolutely deaf to Ted’s entreaties. No more would he “go for” the chimney than he went for the food offered him by the solicitous young domestic science students, Nancy and Ruth.

“I don’t think you should keep that big—untidy dog in here, Ted,” remonstrated Nancy, who hesitated over calling Nero “dirty” and felt foolish at calling him “untidy.” She crossed to the corner of the store and raised a window. “You know,” she continued, “this is a cooking school and everything has to be strictly sanitary.”

“He’s strictly sanitary,” Ted declared, pressing his own curly head down to Nero’s. “I’m glad I’ve got him, I needed a chum around home,” he finished, affectionately.

“How about me?” teased Nancy.

“Oh you!” Ted was caressing Nero, and Nero was thudding his tail in response.

“Yes, what about me, Ted? Don’t you like me any more?”

“Like you! But you ought to hear folks talk. They say you’ll be starting a—butcher shop next.”

Nancy drew her breath in sharply. Were they criticising her like that?

“Who’s talking about me?” she demanded of her brother.

“Don’t have to get mad,” drawled Ted. “What do we care? We know, I guess,” he placated, tactfully.

“But who’s talking?” she insisted.

“It’s all jealousy,” the boy evaded. “They’re disappointed because the Townsends and Mr. Sanders are getting along so well. First, they tried to make Mr. Sanders out foolish, and now they say this place is spooky. Guess I’ve been here long enough to know,” he retorted, as if answering the unknown foes.

But Nancy was stricken with that painful self-consciousness that so often lately had taken possession of her. The changeable girl, even her friends were calling her; why did she so love—to change?

“Look!” whispered Ted, directing her attention to the dog. “He—hears—it!”

Nero was now alert, head cocked to one side, ears pricked up, and every dog-feature of him ready to pounce.

Ted and Nancy watched him, breathless.

A little snapping bark, a growl, long and threatening; then a wild, fierce howl, and the big creature dashed against the fireboard!

“There!” exclaimed Ted. “I told you so!”

“What is it?” gasped Nancy.

But the barking of Nero shut out even the sound of their voices, and as brother and sister looked on, the big dog pawed the fireboard, scratching away the paper, birds, flowers, impossible sky and all.

Presently he turned from that attack and dashed to the back door. Ted and Nancy were quick to follow him.

“Let him out,” Nancy directed. “He may know there’s someone around.”

Unhooking the screen door Ted let his dog out. With a bounding leap Nero cleared the steps and dashed around the house to the chimney corner.

“Look!” screamed Nancy, “there—goes—a—man!”

As she pointed to the farthest corner of the lot, where the fence was broken down to admit a short cut to the avenue, they saw a man, just stepping through the brush.

“Mr. Sanders!” exclaimed Ted. “I see his bald head!”

“Mr. Sanders,” Nancy repeated. “What can he have been doing here?”

“That’s what Nero is trying to find out,” replied Ted, dryly. “Let’s see how he’s making out. He’s stopped barking. Maybe—he’s—got—it.”

It took but a few moments to reach the side of the house, where the old-fashioned stone foundation was broken by a place, through which the ashes from the fireplace had once been cleaned out. Here sat Nero. He wagged his tail happily as Ted came up, and he now seemed perfectly satisfied and contented.

“What is it Nero?” Nancy coaxed patting the dog in a most friendly way. He was evidently winning her affection as well as Ted’s.

But Ted knew best how to follow the animal’s lead. He was down on his knees in front of the mossy stones and had his ear cocked to the small iron door.