Two weeks later we left Bancroft's and went to Mayberry. Two weeks only, and yet in that two weeks all our plans—if our indefinite visions of irresponsible flitting about Great Britain and the continent might be called plans—had changed utterly. Our pilgrimage was, apparently, ended—it had become an indefinite stay. We were no longer pilgrims, but tenants, tenants in an English rectory, of all places in the world. I, the Cape Cod quahaug, had become an English country gentleman—or a country gentleman in England—for the summer, at least.

Little Frank—Miss Frances Morley—was responsible for the change, of course. Her sudden materialization and the freak of fortune which had thrown her, weak and ill, upon our hands, were responsible for everything. For how much more, how many other changes, she would be responsible the future only could answer. And the future would answer in its own good, or bad, time. My conundrum “What are we going to do with her?” was as much of a puzzle as ever. For my part I gave it up. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof—much more than sufficient.

For the first twenty-four hours following the arrival of “my niece” at Bancroft's Hotel the situation regarding that niece remained as it was. Miss Morley—or Frances—or Frank as Hephzy persisted in calling her—was too ill to care what had happened, or, at least, to speak of it. She spoke very little, was confined to her room and bed and slept the greater part of the time. The doctor whom I called, on Mr. Jameson's recommendation, confirmed his fellow practitioner's diagnosis; the young lady, he said, was suffering from general weakness and the effect of nervous strain. She needed absolute rest, care and quiet. There was no organic disease.

But on the morning of the second day she was much better and willing, even anxious to talk. She assailed Hephzy with questions and Hephzy, although she tried to avoid answering most, was obliged to answer some of them. She reported the interview to me during luncheon.

“She didn't seem to remember much about comin' here, or what happened before or afterward,” said Hephzy. “But she wanted to know it all. I told her the best I could. 'You couldn't stay there,' I said. 'That Briggs hyena wasn't fit to take care of any human bein' and neither Hosy nor I could leave you in her hands. So we brought you here to the hotel where we're stoppin'.' She thought this over a spell and then she wanted to know whose idea bringin' her here was, yours or mine. I said 'twas yours, and just like you, too; you were the kindest-hearted man in the world, I said. Oh, you needn't look at me like that, Hosy. It's the plain truth, and you know it.”

“Humph!” I grunted. “If the young lady were a mind-reader she might—well, never mind. What else did she say?”

“Oh, a good many things. Wanted to know if her bill at Mrs. Briggs' was paid. I said it was. She thought about that and then she gave me orders that you and I were to keep account of every cent—no, penny—we spent for her. She should insist upon that. If we had the idea that she was a subject of charity we were mistaken. She fairly withered me with a look from those big eyes of hers. Ardelia's eyes all over again! Or they would be if they were blue instead of brown. I remember—”

I cut short the reminiscence. I was in no mood to listen to the praises of any Morley.

“What answer did you make to that?” I asked.

“What could I say? I didn't want any more faintin' spells or hysterics, either. I said we weren't thinkin' of offerin' charity and if it would please her to have us run an expense book we'd do it, of course. She asked what the doctor said about her condition. I told her he said she must keep absolutely quiet and not fret about anything or she'd have an awful relapse. That was pretty strong but I meant it that way. Answerin' questions that haven't got any answer to 'em is too much of a strain for ME. You try it some time yourself and see.”

“I have tried it, thank you. Well, is that all? Did she tell you anything about herself; where she has been or what she has been or what she has been doing since her precious father died?”

“No, not a word. I was dyin' to ask her, but I didn't. She says she wants to talk with the doctor next time he comes, that's all.”

She did talk with the doctor, although not during his next call. Several days passed before he would permit her to talk with him. Meanwhile he and I had several talks. What he told me brought my conundrum no nearer its answer.

She was recovering rapidly, he said, but for weeks at least her delicate nervous organism must be handled with care. The slightest set-back would be disastrous. He asked if we intended remaining at Bancroft's indefinitely. I had no intentions—those I had had were wiped off my mental slate—so I said I did not know, our future plans were vague. He suggested a sojourn in the country, in some pleasant retired spot in the rural districts.

“An out-of-door life, walks, rides and sports of all sorts would do your niece a world of good, Mr. Knowles,” he declared. “She needs just that. A very attractive young lady, sir, if you'll pardon my saying so,” he went on. “Were her people Londoners, may I ask?”

He might ask but I had no intention of telling him. What I knew concerning my “niece's” people were things not usually told to strangers. I evaded the question.

“Has she had a recent bereavement?” he queried. “I hope you'll not think me merely idly inquisitive. I cannot understand how a young woman, normally healthy and well, should have been brought to such a strait. Our English girls, Mr. Knowles, do not suffer from nerves, as I am told your American young women so frequently do. Has your niece been in the States with you?”

I said she had not. Incidentally I informed him that American young women did NOT frequently suffer from nerves. He said “Really,” but he did not believe me, I'm certain. He was a good fellow, and intelligent, but his ideas of “the States” had been gathered, largely, I think, from newspapers and novels. He was convinced that most Americans were confirmed neurotics and dyspeptics, just as Hephzy had believed all Englishmen wore side-whiskers.

I changed the conversation as soon as I could. I could tell him so little concerning my newly found “niece.” I knew about as much concerning her life as he did. It is distinctly unpleasant to be uncle to someone you know nothing at all about. I devoutly wished I had not said she was my niece. I repeated that wish many times afterward.

Miss Morley's talk with the physician had definite results, surprising results. Following that talk she sent word by the doctor that she wished to see Hephzy and me. We went into her room. She was sitting in a chair by the window, and was wearing a rather pretty wrapper, or kimono, or whatever that sort of garment is called. At any rate, it was becoming. I was obliged to admit that the general opinion expressed by the Jamesons and Hephzy and the doctor—that she was pretty, was correct enough. She was pretty, but that did not help matters any.

She asked us—no, she commanded us to sit down. Her manner was decidedly business-like. She wasted no time in preliminaries, but came straight to the point, and that point was the one which I had dreaded. She asked us what decision we had reached concerning her.

“Have you decided what your offer is to be?” she asked.

I looked at Hephzy and she at me. Neither of us derived comfort from the exchange of looks. However, something must be done, or said, and I braced myself to say it.

“Miss Morley,” I began, “before I answer that question I should like to ask you one. What do you expect us to do?”

She regarded me coldly. “I expect,” she said, “that you and this—that you and Miss Cahoon will arrange to pay me the money which was my mother's and which my grandfather should have turned over to her while he lived.”

Again I looked at Hephzy and again I braced myself for the scene which I was certain would follow.

“It is your impression then,” I said, “that your mother had money of her own and that Captain Barnabas, your grandfather, kept that money for his own use.”

“It is not an impression,” haughtily; “I know it to be a fact.”

“How do you know it?”

“My father told me so, during his last illness.”

“Was—pardon me—was your father himself at the time? Was he—er—rational?”

“Rational! My father?”

“I mean—I mean was he himself—mentally? He was not delirious when he told you?”

“Delirious! Mr. Knowles, I am trying to be patient, but for the last time I warn you that I will not listen to insinuations against my father.”

“I am not insinuating anything. I am seeking information. Were you and your father together a great deal? Did you know him well? Just what did he tell you?”

She hesitated before replying. When she spoke it was with an exaggerated air of patient toleration, as if she were addressing an unreasonable child.

“I will answer you,” she said. “I will answer you because, so far, I have no fault to find with your behavior toward me. You and my—and my aunt have been as reasonable as I, perhaps, should expect, everything considered. Your bringing me here and providing for me was even kind, I suppose. So I will answer your questions. My father and I were not together a great deal. I attended a convent school in France and saw Father only at intervals. I supposed him to possess an independent income. It was only when he was—was unable to work,” with a quiver in her voice, “that I learned how he lived. He had been obliged to depend upon his music, upon his violin playing, to earn money enough to keep us both alive. Then he told me of—of his life in America and how my mother and he had been—been cheated and defrauded by those who—who—Oh, DON'T ask me any more! Don't!”

“I must ask you. I must ask you to tell me this: How was he defrauded, as you call it?”

“I have told you, already. My mother's fortune—”

“But your mother had no fortune.”

The anticipated scene was imminent. She sprang to her feet, but being too weak to stand, sank back again. Hephzy looked appealingly at me.

“Hosy,” she cautioned; “Oh, Hosy, be careful! Think how sick she has been.”

“I am thinking, Hephzy. I mean to be careful. But what I said is the truth, and you know it.”

Hephzy would have replied, but Little Frank motioned her to be silent.

“Hush!” she commanded. “Mr. Knowles, what do you mean? My mother had money, a great deal of money. I don't know the exact sum, but my father said—You know it! You MUST know it. It was in my grandfather's care and—”

“Your grandfather had no money. He—well, he lost every dollar he had. He died as poor as a church rat.”

Another interval of silence, during which I endured a piercing scrutiny from the dark eyes. Then Miss Morley's tone changed.

“Indeed!” she said, sarcastically. “You surprise me, Mr. Knowles. What became of the money, may I ask? I understand that my grandfather was a wealthy man.”

“He was fairly well-to-do at one time, but he lost his money and died poor.”

“How did he lose it?”

The question was a plain one and demanded a plain and satisfying answer. But how could I give that answer—then? Hephzy was shaking her head violently. I stammered and faltered and looked guilty, I have no doubt.

“Well?” said Miss Morley.

“He—he lost it, that is sufficient. You must take my word for it. Captain Cahoon died without a dollar of his own.”

“When did he LOSE his wealth?” with sarcastic emphasis.

“Years ago. About the time your parents left the United States. There, there, Hephzy! I know. I'm doing my best.”

“Indeed! When did he die?”

“Long ago—more than ten years ago.”

“But my parents left America long before that. If my grandfather was penniless how did he manage to live all those years? What supported him?”

“Your aunt—Miss Cahoon here—had money in her own right.”

“SHE had money and my mother had not. Yet both were Captain Cahoon's daughters. How did that happen?”

It seemed to me that it was Hephzy's time to play the target. I turned to her.

“Miss Cahoon will probably answer that herself,” I observed, maliciously.

Hephzibah appeared more embarrassed than I.

“I—I—Oh, what difference does all this make?” she faltered. “Hosy has told you the truth, Frances. Really and truly he has. Father was poor as poverty when he died and all his last years, too. All his money had gone.”

“Yes, so I have heard Mr. Knowles say. But how did it go?”

“In—in—well, it was invested in stocks and things and—and—”

“Do you mean that he speculated in shares?”

“Well, not—not—”

“I see. Oh, I see. Father told me a little concerning those speculations. He warned Captain Cahoon before he left the States, but his warnings were not heeded, I presume. And you wish me to believe that ALL the money was lost—my mother's and all. Is that what you mean?”

“Your mother HAD no money,” I put in, desperately, “I have told you—”

“You have told me many things, Mr. Knowles. Even admitting that my grandfather lost his money, as you say, why should I suffer because of his folly? I am not asking for HIS money. I am demanding money that was my mother's and is now mine. That I expected from him and now I expect it from you, his heirs.”

“But your mother had no—”

“I do not care to hear that again. I know she had money.”

“But how do you know?”

“Because my father told me she had, and my father did not lie.”

There we were again—just where we started. The doctor re-entered the room and insisted upon his patient's being left to herself. She must lie down and rest, he said. His manner was one of distinct disapproval. It was evident that he considered Hephzy and me disturbers of the peace; in fact he intimated as much when he joined us in the sitting-room in a few minutes.

“I am afraid I made a mistake in permitting the conference,” he said. “The young lady seems much agitated, Mr. Knowles. If she is, complete nervous prostration may follow. She may be an invalid for months or even years. I strongly recommend her being taken into the country as soon as possible.”

This speech and the manner in which it was made were impressive and alarming. The possibilities at which it hinted were more alarming still. We made no attempt to discuss family matters with Little Frank that day nor the next.

But on the day following, when I returned from my morning visit to Camford Street, I found Hephzy awaiting me in the sitting-room. She was very solemn.

“Hosy,” she said, “sit down. I've got somethin' to tell you.”

“About her?” I asked, apprehensively.

“Yes. She's just been talkin' to me.”

“She has! I thought we agreed not to talk with her at all.”

“We did, and I tried not to. But when I went in to see her just now she was waitin' for me. She had somethin' to say, she said, and she said it—Oh, my goodness, yes! she said it.”

“What did she say? Has she sent for her lawyer—her solicitor, or whatever he is?”

“No, she hasn't done that. I don't know but I 'most wish she had. He wouldn't be any harder to talk to than she is. Hosy, she's made up her mind.”

“Made up her mind! I thought HER mind was already made up.”

“It was, but she's made it up again. That doctor has been talkin' to her and she's really frightened about her health, I think. Anyhow, she has decided that her principal business just now is to get well. She told me she had decided not to press her claim upon us for the present. If we wished to make an offer of what she calls restitution, she'll listen to it; but she judges we are not ready to make one.”

“Humph! her judgment is correct so far.”

“Yes, but that isn't all. While she is waitin' for that offer she expects us to take care of her. She has been thinkin', she says, and she has come to the conclusion that our providin' for her as we have done isn't charity—or needn't be considered as charity—at all. She is willin' to consider it a part of that precious restitution she's forever talkin' about. We are to take care of her, and pay her doctor's bills, and take her into the country as he recommends, and—”

I interrupted. “Great Scott!” I cried, “does she expect us to ADOPT her?”

“I don't know what she expects; I'm tryin' to tell you what she said. We're to do all this and keep a strict account of all it costs, and then when we are ready to make a—a proposition, as she calls it, this account can be subtracted from the money she thinks we've got that belongs to her.”

“But there isn't any money belonging to her. I told her so, and so did you.”

“I know, but we might tell her a thousand times and it wouldn't affect her father's tellin' her once. Oh, that Strickland Morley! If only—”

“Hush! hush, Hephzy... Well, by George! of all the—this thing has gone far enough. It has gone too far. We made a great mistake in bringing her here, in having anything to do with her at all—but we shan't go on making mistakes. We must stop where we are. She must be told the truth now—to-day.”

“I know—I know, Hosy; but who'll tell her?”

“I will.”

“She won't believe you.”

“Then she must disbelieve. She can call in her solicitor and I'll make him believe.”

Hephzy was silent. Her silence annoyed me.

“Why don't you say something?” I demanded. “You know what I say is plain common-sense.”

“I suppose it is—I suppose 'tis. But, Hosy, if you start in tellin' her again you know what'll happen. The doctor said the least little thing would bring on nervous prostration. And if she has that, WHAT will become of her?”

It was my turn to hesitate.

“You couldn't—we couldn't turn her out into the street if she was nervous prostrated, could we,” pleaded Hephzy. “After all, she's Ardelia's daughter and—”

“She's Strickland Morley's daughter. There is no doubt of that. Hereditary influence is plain enough in her case.”

“I know, but she is Ardelia's daughter, too. I don't see how we can tell her, Hosy; not until she's well and strong again.”

I was never more thoroughly angry in my life. My patience was exhausted.

“Look here, Hephzy,” I cried: “what is it you are leading up to? You're not proposing—actually proposing that we adopt this girl, are you?”

“No—no—o. Not exactly that, of course. But we might take her into the country somewhere and—”

“Oh, DO be sensible! Do you realize what that would mean? We should have to give up our trip, stop sightseeing, stop everything we had planned to do, and turn ourselves into nurses running a sanitarium for the benefit of a girl whose father's rascality made your father a pauper. And, not only do this, but be treated by her as if—as if—”

“There, there, Hosy! I know what it will mean. I know what it would mean to you and I don't mean for you to do it. You've done enough and more than enough. But with me it's different. I could do it.”

“You?”

“Yes. I've got some money of my own. I could find a nice, cheap, quiet boardin'-house in the country round here somewhere and she and I could go there and stay until she got well. You needn't go at all; you could go off travelin' by yourself and—”

“Hephzy, what are you talking about?”

“I mean it. I've thought it all out, Hosy. Ever since Ardelia and I had that last talk together and she whispered to me that—that—well, especially ever since I knew there was a Little Frank I've been thinkin' and plannin' about that Little Frank; you know I have. He—she isn't the kind of Little Frank I expected, but she's, my sister's baby and I can't—I CAN'T, turn her away to be sick and die. I can't do it. I shouldn't dare face Ardelia in—on the other side if I did. No, I guess it's my duty and I'm goin' to go on with it. But with you it's different. She isn't any real relation to you. You've done enough—and more than enough—as it is.”

This was the climax. Of course I might have expected it, but of course I didn't. As soon as I recovered, or partially recovered, from my stupefaction I expostulated and scolded and argued. Hephzy was quiet but firm. She hated to part from me—she couldn't bear to think of it; but on the other hand she couldn't abandon her Ardelia's little girl. The interview ended by my walking out of the room and out of Bancroft's in disgust.

I did not return until late in the afternoon. I was in better humor then. Hephzy was still in the sitting-room; she looked as if she had been crying.

“Hosy,” she said, as I entered, “I—I hope you don't think I'm too ungrateful. I'm not. Really I'm not. And I care as much for you as if you was my own boy. I can't leave you; I sha'n't. If you say for us to—”

I interrupted.

“Hephzy,” I said, “I shan't say anything. I know perfectly well that you couldn't leave me any more than I could leave you. I have arranged with Matthews to set about house-hunting at once. As soon as rural England is ready for us, we shall be ready for it. After all, what difference does it make? I was ordered to get fresh experience. I might as well get it by becoming keeper of a sanitarium as any other way.”

Hephzy looked at me. She rose from her chair.

“Hosy,” she cried, “what—a sanitarium?”

“We'll keep it together,” I said, smiling. “You and I and Little Frank. And it is likely to be a wonderful establishment.”

Hephzy said—she said a great deal, principally concerning my generosity and goodness and kindness and self-sacrifice. I tried to shut off the flow, but it was not until I began to laugh that it ceased.

“Why!” cried Hephzy. “You're laughin'! What in the world? I don't see anything to laugh at.”

“Don't you? I do. Oh, dear me! I—I, the Bayport quahaug to—Ho! ho! Hephzy, let me laugh. If there is any fun in this perfectly devilish situation let me enjoy it while I can.”

And that is how and why I decided to become a country gentleman instead of a traveler. When I told Matthews of my intention he had been petrified with astonishment. I had written Campbell of that intention. I devoutly wished I might see his face when he read my letter.

For days and days Hephzy and I “house-hunted.” We engaged a nurse to look after the future patient of the “sanitarium” while we did our best to look for the sanitarium itself. Mr. Matthews gave us the addresses of real estate agents and we journeyed from suburb to suburb and from seashore to hills. We saw several “semi-detached villas.” The name “semi-detached villa” had an appealing sound, especially to Hephzy, but the villas themselves did not appeal. They turned out to be what we, in America, would have called “two-family houses.”

“And I never did like the idea of livin' in a two-family house,” declared Hephzy. “I've known plenty of real nice folks who did live in 'em, or one-half of one of 'em, but it usually happened that the folks in the other half was a dreadful mean set. They let their dog chase your cat and if your hens scratched up their flower garden they were real unlikely about it. I've heard Father tell about Cap'n Noah Doane and Cap'n Elkanah Howes who used to live in Bayport. They'd been chums all their lives and when they retired from the sea they thought 'twould be lovely to build a double house so's they would be right close together all the time. Well, they did it and they hadn't been settled more'n a month when they began quarrelin'. Cap'n Noah's wife wanted the house painted yellow and Mrs. Cap'n Elkanah, she wanted it green. They started the fuss and it ended by one-half bein' yellow and t'other half green—such an outrage you never saw—and a big fence down the middle of the front yard, and the two families not speakin', and law-suits and land knows what all. They wouldn't even go to the same church nor be buried in the same graveyard. No sir-ee! no two-family house for us if I can help it. We've got troubles enough inside the family without fightin' the neighbors.”

“But think of the beautiful names,” I observed. “Those names ought to appeal to your poetic soul, Hephzy. We haven't seen a villa yet, no matter how dingy, or small, that wasn't christened 'Rosemary Terrace' or 'Sunnylawn' or something. That last one—the shack with the broken windows—was labeled 'Broadview' and it faced an alley ending at a brick stable.”

“I know it,” she said. “If they'd called it 'Narrowview' or 'Cow Prospect' 'twould have been more fittin', I should say. But I think givin' names to homes is sort of pretty, just the same. We might call our house at home 'Writer's Rest.' A writer lives in it, you know.”

“And he has rested more than he has written of late,” I observed. “'Quahaug Stew' or 'The Tureen' would be better, I should say.”

When we expressed disapproval of the semi-detached villas our real estate brokers flew to the other extremity and proceeded to show us “estates.” These estates comprised acres of ground, mansions, game-keepers' and lodge-keepers' houses, and goodness knows what. Some, so the brokers were particular to inform us, were celebrated for their “shooting.”

The villas were not good enough; the estates were altogether too good. We inspected but one and then declined to see more.

“Shootin'!” sniffed Hephzy. “I should feel like shootin' myself every time I paid the rent. I'd HAVE to do it the second time. 'Twould be a quicker end than starvin', 'and the first month would bring us to that.”

We found one pleasant cottage in a suburb bearing the euphonious name of “Leatherhead”—that is, the village was named “Leatherhead”; the cottage was “Ash Clump.” I teased Hephzy by referring to it as “Ash Dump,” but it really was a pretty, roomy house, with gardens and flowers. For the matter of that, every cottage we visited, even the smallest, was bowered in flowers.

Hephzy's romantic spirit objected strongly to “Leatherhead,” but I told her nothing could be more appropriate.

“This whole proposition—Beg pardon; I didn't mean to use that word; we've heard enough concerning 'propositions'—but really, Hephzy, 'Leatherhead' is very appropriate for us. If we weren't leather-headed and deserving of leather medals we should not be hunting houses at all. We should have left Little Frank and her affairs in a lawyer's hands and be enjoying ourselves as we intended. Leatherhead for the leather-heads; it's another dispensation of Providence.”

“Ash Dump”—“Clump,” I mean—was owned by a person named Cripps, Solomon Cripps. Mr. Cripps was a stout, mutton-chopped individual, strongly suggestive of Bancroft's “Henry.” He was rather pompous and surly when I first knocked at the door of his residence, but when he learned we were house-hunting and had our eyes upon the “Clump,” he became very polite indeed. “A 'eavenly spot,” he declared it to be. “A beautiful neighborhood. Near the shops and not far from the Primitive Wesleyan chapel.” He and Mrs. Cripps attended the chapel, he informed us.

I did not fancy Mr. Cripps; he was too—too something, I was not sure what. And Mrs. Cripps, whom we met later, was of a similar type. They, like everyone else, recognized us as Americans at once and they spoke highly of the “States.”

“A very fine country, I am informed,” said Mr. Cripps. “New, of course, but very fine indeed. Young men make money there. Much money—yes.”

Mrs. Cripps wished to know if Americans were a religious people, as a rule. Religion, true spiritual religion was on the wane in England.

I gathered that she and her husband were doing their best to keep it up to the standard. I had read, in books by English writers, of the British middle-class Pharisee. I judged the Crippses to be Pharisees.

Hephzy's opinion was like mine.

“If ever there was a sanctimonious hypocrite it's that Mrs. Cripps,” she declared. “And her husband ain't any better. They remind me of Deacon Hardy and his wife back home. He always passed the plate in church and she was head of the sewin' circle, but when it came to lettin' go of an extry cent for the minister's salary they had glue on their fingers. Father used to say that the Deacon passed the plate himself so nobody could see how little he put in it. They were the ones that always brought a stick of salt herrin' to the donation parties.”

We didn't like the Crippses, but we did like “Ash Clump.” We had almost decided to take it when our plans were quashed by the member of our party on whose account we had planned solely. Miss Morley flatly refused to go to Leatherhead.

“Don't ask ME why,” said Hephzy, to whom the refusal had been made. “I don't know. All I know is that the very name 'Leatherhead' turned her whiter than she has been for a week. She just put that little foot of hers down and said no. I said 'Why not?' and she said 'Never mind.' So I guess we sha'n't be Leatherheaded—in that way—this summer.”

I was angry and impatient, but when I tried to reason with the young lady I met a crushing refusal and a decided snub.

“I do not care,” said Little Frank, calmly and coldly, “to explain my reasons. I have them, and that is sufficient. I shall not go to—that town or that place.”

“But why?” I begged, restraining my desire to shake her.

“I have my reasons. You may go there, if you wish. That is your right. But I shall not. And before you go I shall insist upon a settlement of my claim.”

The “claim” could neither be settled nor discussed; the doctor's warning was no less insistent although his patient was steadily improving. I faced the alternative of my compliance or her nervous prostration and I chose the former. My desire to shake her remained.

So “Ash Clump” was given up. Hephzy and I speculated much concerning Little Frank's aversion to Leatherhead.

“It must be,” said Hephzy, “that she knows somebody there, or somethin' like that. That's likely, I suppose. You know we don't know much about her or what she's done since her father died, Hosy. I've tried to ask her but she won't tell. I wish we did know.”

“I don't,” I snarled. “I wish to heaven we had never known her at all.”

Hephzy sighed. “It IS awful hard for you,” she said. “And yet, if we had come to know her in another way you—we might have been glad. I—I think she could be as sweet as she is pretty to folks she didn't consider thieves—and Americans. She does hate Americans. That's her precious pa's doin's, I suppose likely.”

The next afternoon we saw the advertisement in the Standard. George, the waiter, brought two of the London dailies to our room each day. The advertisement read as follows:

“To Let for the Summer Months—Furnished. A Rectory in Mayberry, Sussex. Ten rooms, servants' quarters, vegetable gardens, small fruit, tennis court, etc., etc. Water and gas laid on. Golf near by. Terms low. Rector—Mayberry, Sussex.”

“I answered it, Hosy,” said Hephzy.

“You did!”

“Yes. It sounded so nice I couldn't help it. It would be lovely to live in a rectory, wouldn't it.”

“Lovely—and expensive,” I answered. “I'm afraid a rectory with tennis courts and servants' quarters and all the rest of it will prove too grand for a pair of Bayporters like you and me. However, your answering the ad does no harm; it doesn't commit us to anything.”

But when the answer to the answer came it was even more appealing than the advertisement itself. And the terms, although a trifle higher than we had planned to pay, were not entirely beyond our means. The rector—his name was Cole—urged us to visit Mayberry and see the place for ourselves. We were to take the train for Haddington on Hill where the trap would meet us. Mayberry was two miles from Haddington on Hill, it appeared.

We decided to go, but before writing of our intention, Hephzy consulted the most particular member of our party.

“It's no use doing anything until we ask her,” she said. “She may be as down on Mayberry as she was on Leatherhead.”

But she was not. She had no objections to Mayberry. So, after writing and making the necessary arrangements, we took the train one bright, sunny morning, and after a ride of an hour or more, alighted at Haddington on Hill.

Haddington on Hill was not on a hill at all, unless a knoll in the middle of a wide flat meadow be called that. There were no houses near the railway station, either rectories or any other sort. We were the only passengers to leave the train there.

The trap, however, was waiting. The horse which drew it was a black, plump little animal, and the driver was a neat English lad who touched his hat and assisted Hephzy to the back seat of the vehicle. I climbed up beside her.

The road wound over the knoll and away across the meadow. On either side were farm lands, fields of young grain, or pastures with flocks of sheep grazing contentedly. In the distance, in every direction, one caught glimpses of little villages with gray church towers rising amid the foliage. Each field and pasture was bordered with a hedge instead of a fence, and over all hung the soft, light blue haze which is so characteristic of good weather in England.

Birds which we took to be crows, but which we learned afterward were rooks, whirled and circled. As we turned a corner a smaller bird rose from the grass beside the road and soared upward, singing with all its little might until it was a fluttering speck against the sky. Hephzy watched it, her eyes shining.

“I believe,” she cried, excitedly, “I do believe that is a skylark. Do you suppose it is?”

“A lark, yes, lady,” said our driver.

“A lark, a real skylark! Just think of it, Hosy. I've heard a real lark. Well, Hephzibah Cahoon, you may never get into a book, but you're livin' among book things every day of your life. 'And singin' ever soars and soarin' ever singest.' I'd sing, too, if I knew how. You needn't be frightened—I sha'n't try.”

The meadows ended at the foot of another hill, a real one this time. At our left, crowning the hill, a big house, a mansion with towers and turrets, rose above the trees. Hephzy whispered to me.

“You don't suppose THAT is the rectory, do you, Hosy?” she asked, in an awestricken tone.

“If it is we may as well go back to London,” I answered. “But it isn't. Nothing lower in churchly rank than a bishop could keep up that establishment.”

The driver settled our doubts for us.

“The Manor House, sir,” he said, pointing with his whip. “The estate begins here, sir.”

The “estate” was bordered by a high iron fence, stretching as far as we could see. Beside that fence we rode for some distance. Then another turn in the road and we entered the street of a little village, a village of picturesque little houses, brick or stone always—not a frame house among them. Many of the roofs were thatched. Flowers and climbing vines and little gardens everywhere. The village looked as if it had been there, just as it was, for centuries.

“This is Mayberry, sir,” said our driver. “That is the rectory, next the church.”

We could see the church tower and the roof, but the rectory was not yet visible to our eyes. We turned in between two of the houses, larger and more pretentious than the rest. The driver alighted and opened a big wooden gate. Before us was a driveway, shaded by great elms and bordered by rose hedges. At the end of the driveway was an old-fashioned, comfortable looking, brick house. Vines hid the most of the bricks. Flower beds covered its foundations. A gray-haired old gentleman stood in the doorway.

This was the rectory we had come to see and the gray-haired gentleman was the Reverend Mr. Cole, the rector.

“My soul!” whispered Hephzy, looking aghast at the spacious grounds, “we can never hire THIS. This is too expensive and grand for us, Hosy. Look at the grass to cut and the flowers to attend to, and the house to run. No wonder the servants have 'quarters.' My soul and body! I thought a rector was a kind of minister, and a rectory was a sort of parsonage, but I guess I'm off my course, as Father used to say. Either that or ministers' wages are higher than they are in Bayport. No, this place isn't for you and me, Hosy.”

But it was. Before we left that rectory in the afternoon I had agreed to lease it until the middle of September, servants—there were five of them, groom and gardener included—horse and trap, tennis court, vegetable garden, fruit, flowers and all. It developed that the terms, which I had considered rather too high for my purse, included the servants' wages, vegetables from the garden, strawberries and other “small fruit”—everything. Even food for the horse was included in that all-embracing rent.

As Hephzy said, everything considered, the rent of Mayberry Rectory was lower than that of a fair-sized summer cottage at Bayport.

The Reverend Mr. Cole was a delightful gentleman. His wife was equally kind and agreeable. I think they were, at first, rather unpleasantly surprised to find that their prospective tenants were from the “States”; but Hephzy and I managed to behave as unlike savages as we could, and the Cole manner grew less and less reserved. Mr. Cole and his wife were planning to spend a long vacation in Switzerland and his “living,” or parish, was to be left in charge of his two curates. There was a son at Oxford who was to join them on their vacation.

Mr. Cole and I walked about the grounds and visited the church, the yard of which, with its weather-beaten gravestones and fine old trees, adjoined the rectory on the western side, behind the tall hedge.

The church was built of stone, of course, and a portion of it was older than the Norman conquest. Before the altar steps were two ancient effigies of knights in armor, with crossed gauntlets and their feet supported by crouching lions. These old fellows were scratched and scarred and initialed. Upon one noble nose were the letters “A. H. N. 1694.” I decided that vandalism was not a modern innovation.

While the rector and I were inspecting the church, Mrs. Cole and Hephzy were making a tour of the house. They met us at the door. Mrs. Cole's eyes were twinkling; I judged that she had found Hephzy amusing. If this was true it had not warped her judgment, however, for, a moment later when she and I were alone, she said:

“Your cousin, Miss Cahoon, is a good housekeeper, I imagine.”

“She is all of that,” I said, decidedly.

“Yes, she was very particular concerning the kitchen and scullery and the maids' rooms. Are all American housekeepers as particular?”

“Not all. Miss Cahoon is unique in many ways; but she is a remarkable woman in all.”

“Yes. I am sure of it. And she has such a typical American accent, hasn't she.”

We were to take possession on the following Monday. We lunched at the “Red Cow,” the village inn, where the meal was served in the parlor and the landlord's daughter waited upon us. The plump black horse drew us to the railway station, and we took the train for London.

We have learned, by this time, that second, or even third-class travel was quite good enough for short journeys and that very few English people paid for first-class compartments. We were fortunate enough to have a second-class compartment to ourselves this time, and, when we were seated, Hephzy asked a question.

“Did you think to speak about the golf, Hosy?” she said. “You will want to play some, won't you?”

“Yes,” said I. “I did ask about it. It seems that the golf course is a private one, on the big estate we passed on the way from the station. Permission is always given the rectory tenants.”

“Oh! my gracious, isn't that grand! That estate isn't in Mayberry. The Mayberry bounds—that's what Mrs. Cole called them—and just this side. The estate is in the village of—of Burgleston Bogs. Burgleston Bogs—it's a funny name. Seem's if I'd heard it before.”

“You have,” said I, in surprise. “Burgleston Bogs is where that Heathcroft chap whom we met on the steamer visits occasionally. His aunt has a big place there. By George! you don't suppose that estate belongs to his aunt, do you?”

Hephzy gasped. “I wouldn't wonder,” she cried. “I wouldn't wonder if it did. And his aunt was Lady Somebody, wasn't she. Maybe you'll meet him there. Goodness sakes! just think of your playin' golf with a Lady's nephew.”

“I doubt if we need to think of it,” I observed. “Mr. Carleton Heathcroft on board ship may be friendly with American plebeians, but on shore, and when visiting his aunt, he may be quite different. I fancy he and I will not play many holes together.”

Hephzy laughed. “You 'fancy,'” she repeated. “You'll be sayin' 'My word' next. My! Hosy, you ARE gettin' English.”

“Indeed I'm not!” I declared, with emphasis. “My experience with an English relative is sufficient of itself to prevent that. Miss Frances Morley and I are compatriots for the summer only.”