Uncle Israel, whose other name was Skiles, adjusted himself to his grief in short order. The sounds which issued from his room were not those commonly associated with mourning. Dick, fully accustomed to various noises, explained them for the edification of the Carrs, who at present were sorely in need of edification.

“That’s the bath cabinet,” remarked Mr. Chester, with the air of a connoisseur. “He’s setting it up near enough to the door so that if anybody should come in unexpectedly while it’s working, the whole thing will be tipped over and the house set on fire. Uncle Israel won’t have any lock or bolt on his door for fear he should die in the night. He relies wholly on the bath cabinet and moral suasion. Nobody knocks on doors here, anyway—just goes in.

“That’s his trunk. He keeps it under the window. The bed is set up first, then the bath cabinet, then the trunk, and last, but not least, the medicine chest. He keeps his entire pharmacopoeia on a table at the head of his bed, with a candle and matches, so that if he feels badly in the night, the proper remedy is instantly at hand. He prepares some of his medicines himself, but he isn’t bigoted about it. He buys the rest at wholesale, and I’ll eat my hat if he hasn’t got a full-sized bottle of every patent medicine that’s on sale anywhere in the United States.”

“How old,” asked Harlan, speaking for the first time, “is Uncle Israel?”

“Something over ninety, I believe,” returned Dick. “I’ve lost my book of vital statistics, so I don’t know, exactly.”

“How long,” inquired Dorothy, with a forced smile, “does Uncle Israel stay?”

“Lord bless you, my dear lady, Uncle Israel stays all Summer. Hello—there are some more!”

A private conveyance of uncertain age and purposes drew up before the door. From it dismounted a very slender young man of medium height, whose long auburn hair hung over his coat-collar and at times partially obscured his soulful grey eyes. It resembled the mane of a lion, except in colour. He carried a small black valise, and a roll of manuscript tied with a badly soiled ribbon.

An old lady followed, stepping cautiously, but still finding opportunity to scrutinise the group in the doorway, peering sharply over her gold-bowed spectacles. It was she who paid the driver, and even before the two reached the house, it was evident that they were not on speaking terms.

The young man offered Mr. Chester a thin, tremulous hand which lay on Dick’s broad palm in a nerveless, clammy fashion. “Pray,” he said, in a high, squeaky voice, “convey my greetings to dear Uncle Ebeneezer, and inform him that I have arrived.”

“I am at present holding no communication with Uncle Ebeneezer,” explained Dick. “The wires are down.”

“Where is Ebeneezer?” demanded the old lady.

“Dead,” answered Dorothy, wearily; “dead, dead. He’s been dead a long time. This is our house—he left it to my husband and me.”

“Don’t let that disturb you a mite,” said the old lady, cheerfully. “I like your looks a whole lot, an’ I’d just as soon stay with you as with Ebeneezer. I dunno but I’d ruther.”

She must have been well past sixty, but her scanty hair was as yet untouched with grey. She wore it parted in the middle, after an ancient fashion, and twisted at the back into a tight little knob, from which the ends of a wire hairpin protruded threateningly. Dorothy reflected, unhappily, that the whole thing was done up almost tight enough to play a tune on.

For the rest, her attire was neat, though careless. One had always the delusion that part or all of it was on the point of coming off.

The young man was wiping his weak eyes upon a voluminous silk handkerchief which had evidently seen long service since its last washing. “Dear Uncle Ebeneezer,” he breathed, running his long, bony fingers through his hair. “I cannot tell you how heavily this blow falls upon me. Dear Uncle Ebeneezer was a distinguished patron of the arts. Our country needs more men like him, men with fine appreciation, vowed to the service of the Ideal. If you will pardon me, I will now retire to my apartment and remain there a short time in seclusion.”

So saying, he ran lightly upstairs, as one who was thoroughly at home.

“Who in—” began Harlan.

“Mr. Harold Vernon Perkins, poet,” said Dick. “He’s got his rhyming dictionary and all his odes with him.”

“Without knowing,” said Dorothy, “I should have thought his name was Harold or Arthur or Paul. He looks it.”

“It wa’n’t my fault,” interjected the old lady, “that he come. I didn’t even sense that he was on the same train as me till I hired the carriage at the junction an’ he clim’ in. He said he might as well come along as we was both goin’ to the same place, an’ it would save him walkin’, an’ not cost me no more than ’t would anyway.”

While she was speaking, she had taken off her outer layer of drapery and her bonnet. “I’ll just put these things in my room, my dear,” she said to Dorothy, “an’ then I’ll come back an’ talk to you. I like your looks first-rate.”

“Who in—,” said Harlan, again, as the old lady vanished into one of the lower wings.

“Mrs. Belinda something,” answered Dick. “I don’t know who she’s married to now. She’s had bad luck with her husbands.”

Mrs. Carr, deeply troubled, was leaning against the wall in the hall, and Dick patted her hand soothingly. “Don’t you fret,” he said, cheerily; “I’m here to see you through.”

“That being the case,” remarked Harlan, with a certain acidity in his tone, “I’ll go back to my work.”

The old lady appeared again as Harlan slammed the library door, and suggested that Dick should go away.

“Polite hint,” commented Mr. Chester, not at all disturbed. “See you later.” He went out, whistling, with his cap on the back of his head and his hands in his pockets.

“I reckon you’re a new relative, be n’t you?” asked the lady guest, eyeing Dorothy closely. “I disremember seein’ you before.”

“I am Mrs. Carr,” repeated Dorothy, mechanically. “My husband, Harlan Carr, is Uncle Ebeneezer’s nephew, and the house was left to him.”

“Do tell!” ejaculated the other. “I wouldn’t have thought it of Ebeneezer. I’m Belinda Dodd, relict of Benjamin Dodd, deceased. How many are there here, my dear?”

“Miss St. Clair, Mr. Chester, Mrs. Holmes and her three children, Uncle Israel Skiles, and you two, besides Mr. Carr, Mrs. Smithers, and myself.”

“Is that all?” asked the visitor, in evident surprise.

“All!” repeated Dorothy. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Lord love you, my dear, it’s plain to be seen that you ain’t never been here before. Only them few an’ so late in the season, too. Why, there’s Cousin Si Martin, an’ his wife, an’ their eight children, some of the children bein’ married an’ havin’ other children, an’ Sister-in-law Fanny Wood with her invalid husband, her second husband, that is, an’ Rebecca’s Uncle James’s third wife with her two daughters, an’ Rebecca’s sister’s second husband with his new wife an’ their little boy, an’ Uncle Jason an’ his stepson, the one that has fits, an’ Cousin Sally Simmons an’ her daughter, an’ the four little Riley children an’ their Aunt Lucretia, an’ Step-cousin Betsey Skiles with her two nieces, though I misdoubt their comin’ this year. The youngest niece had typhoid fever here last Summer for eight weeks, an’ Betsey thinks the location ain’t healthy, in spite of it’s bein’ so near the sanitarium. She was threatenin’ to get the health department or somethin’ after Ebeneezer an’ have the drinkin’ water looked into, so’s they didn’t part on the pleasantest terms, but in the main we’ve all got along well together.

“If Betsey knowed Ebeneezer was dead, she wouldn’t hesitate none about comin’, typhoid or no typhoid. Mebbe it was her fault some, for Ebeneezer wa’n’t to blame for his drinkin’ water no more ’n I’d be. Our minister used to say that there was no discipline for the soul like livin’ with folks, year in an’ year out hand-runnin’, an’ Betsey is naturally that kind. Ebeneezer always lived plain, but we’re all simple folks, not carin’ much for style, so we never minded it. The air’s good up here an’ I dunno any better place to spend the Summer. My gracious! You be n’t sick, be you?”

“I don’t know what to do,” murmured Dorothy, her white lips scarcely moving; “I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, now,” responded Mrs. Dodd, “I can see that I’ve upset you some. Perhaps you’re one of them people that don’t like to have other folks around you. I’ve heard of such, comin’ from the city. Why, I knew a woman that lived in the city, an’ she said she didn’t know the name of the woman next door to her after livin’ there over eight months,—an’ their windows lookin’ right into each other, too.”

“I hate people!” cried Dorothy, in a passion of anger. “I don’t want anybody here but my husband and Mrs. Smithers!”

“Set quiet, my dear, an’ make your mind easy. I’m sure Ebeneezer never intended his death to make any difference in my spendin’ the Summer here, especially when I’m fresh from another bereavement, but if you’re in earnest about closin’ your doors on your poor dead aunt’s relations, why I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oh, if you could!” Dorothy almost screamed the words. “If you can keep any more people from coming here, I’ll bless you for ever.”

“Poor child, I can see that you’re considerable upset. Just get me the pen an’ ink an’ some paper an’ envelopes an’ I’ll set down right now an’ write to the connection an’ tell ’em that Ebeneezer’s dead an’ bein’ of unsound mind at the last has willed the house to strangers who refuse to open their doors to the blood relations of poor dead Rebecca. That’s all I can do an’ I can’t promise that it’ll work. Ebeneezer writ several times to us all that he didn’t feel like havin’ no more company, but Rebecca’s relatives was all of a forgivin’ disposition an’ never laid it up against him. We all kep’ on a-comin’ just the same.”

“Tell them,” cried Dorothy her eyes unusually bright and her cheeks burning, “that we’ve got smallpox here, or diphtheria, or a lunatic asylum, or anything you like. Tell them there’s a big dog in the yard that won’t let anybody open the gate. Tell them anything!”

“Just you leave it all to me, my dear,” said Mrs. Dodd, soothingly. “On account of the connection bein’ so differently constituted, I’ll have to tell ’em all different. Disease would keep away some an’ fetch others. Betsey Skiles, now, she feels to turn her hand to nursin’ an’ I’ve knowed her to go miles in the dead of Winter to set up with a stranger that had some disease she wa’n’t familiar with. Dogs would bring others an’ only scare a few. Just you leave it all to me. There ain’t never no use in borrerin’ trouble an’ givin’ up your peace of mind as security, ’cause you don’t never get the security back. I’ve been married enough to know that there’s plenty of trouble in life besides what’s looked for, an’ it’ll get in, without your holdin’ open the door an’ spreadin’ a mat out with ‘Welcome’ on it. Did Ebeneezer leave any property?”

“Only the house and furniture,” answered Dorothy, feeling that the whole burden of the world had been suddenly shifted to her young shoulders.

“Rebecca had a big diamond pin,” said Mrs. Dodd, after a brief silence, “that she allers said was to be mine when she got through with it. Ebeneezer give it to her for a weddin’ present. You ain’t seen it layin’ around, have you?”

“No, I haven’t seen it ‘laying around,’” retorted Dorothy, conscious that she was juggling with the truth.

“Well,” continued Mrs. Dodd, easily, nibbling her pen holder, “when it comes to light, just remember that it’s mine. I don’t doubt it’ll turn up sometime. An’ now, my dear, I’ll just begin on them letters. Cousin Si Martin’s folks are a-packin’ an’ expectin’ to get here next week. I suppose you’re willin’ to furnish the stamps?”

“Willing!” cried Dorothy, “I should say yes!”

Mrs. Dodd toiled long at her self-imposed task, and, having finished it, went out into the kitchen, where for an hour or more she exchanged mortuary gossip with Mrs. Smithers, every detail of the conversation being keenly relished by both ladies.

At dinner-time, eleven people sat down to partake of the excellent repast furnished by Mrs. Smithers under the stimulus of pleasant talk. Harlan was at the head, with Miss St. Clair on his right and Mrs. Dodd on his left. Next to Miss St. Clair was the poet, whose deep sorrow did not interfere with his appetite. The twins were next to him, then Mrs. Holmes, then Willie, then Dorothy, at the foot of the table. On her right was Dick, the space between Dick and Mrs. Dodd being occupied by Uncle Israel.

To a careless observer, it might have seemed that Uncle Israel had more than his share of the table, but such in reality was not the case. His plate was flanked by a goodly array of medicine bottles, and cups and bowls of predigested and patent food. Uncle Israel, as Dick concisely expressed it, was “pie for the cranks.”

“My third husband,” remarked Mrs. Dodd, pleasantly, well aware that she was touching her neighbour’s sorest spot, “was terribly afflicted with stomach trouble.”

“The only stomach trouble I’ve ever had,” commented Mr. Chester, airily spearing another biscuit with his fork, “was in getting enough to put into it.”

“Have a care, young man,” wheezed Uncle Israel, warningly. “There ain’t nothin’ so bad for the system as hot bread.”

“It would be bad for my system,” resumed Dick, “not to be able to get it.”

“My third husband,” continued Mrs. Dodd, disregarding the interruption, “wouldn’t have no bread in the house at all. He et these little straw mattresses, same as you’ve got, so constant that he finally died from the tic doleroo. Will you please pass me them biscuits, Mis’ Carr?”

Mrs. Dodd was obliged to rise and reach past Uncle Israel, who declined to be contaminated by passing the plate, before she attained her desired biscuit.

“Next time, Aunt Belinda,” said Dick, “I’ll throw you one. Suffering Moses, what new dope is that?”

A powerful and peculiarly penetrating odour filled the room. Presently it became evident that Uncle Israel had uncorked a fresh bottle of medicine. Miss St. Clair coughed and hastily excused herself.

“It’s time for me to take my pain-killer,” murmured Uncle Israel, pouring out a tablespoonful of a thick, brown mixture. “This here cured a Congressman in less ’n half a bottle of a gnawin’ pain in his vitals. I ain’t never took none of it yet, but I aim to now.”

The vapour of it had already made the twins cry and brought tears to Mrs. Dodd’s eyes, but Uncle Israel took it clear and smacked his lips over it enjoyably. “It seems to be a searchin’ medicine,” he commented, after an interval of silence. “I don’t misdoubt that it’ll locate that pain that was movin’ up and down my back all night last night.”

Uncle Israel’s wizened old face, with its fringe of white whisker, beamed with the joy of a scientist who has made a new and important discovery. He had a long, hooked nose, and was painfully near-sighted, but refused to wear glasses. Just now he sniffed inquiringly at the open bottle of medicine. “Yes,” he said, nodding his bald head sagely, “I don’t misdoubt this here can locate it.”

“I don’t, either,” said Harlan, grimly, putting his handkerchief to his nose. “Will you excuse me, Dorothy?”

“Certainly.”

Mrs. Holmes took the weeping twins away from the table, and Willie, his mentor gone, began to eat happily with his fingers. The poet rose and drew a roll of manuscript from his coat pocket.

“This afternoon,” he said, clearing his throat, “I employed my spare moments in composing an ode to the memory of our sainted relative, under whose hospitable roof we are all now so pleasantly gathered. I will read it to you.”

Mrs. Dodd hastily left the table, muttering indistinctly, and Dick followed her. Willie slipped from his chair, crawled under the table, and by stealthily sticking a pin into Uncle Israel’s ankle, produced a violent disturbance, during which the pain-killer was badly spilled. When the air finally cleared, there was no one in the room but the poet, who sadly rolled up his manuscript.

“I will read it at breakfast,” he thought. “I will give them all the pleasure of hearing it. Art is for the many, not for the few. I must use it to elevate humanity to the Ideal.”

He went back to his own room to add some final reverent touches to the masterpiece, and to meditate upon the delicate blonde beauty of Miss St. Clair.

From Mrs. Dodd, meanwhile, Dick had gathered the pleasing purport of her voluminous correspondence, and insisted on posting all the letters that very night, though morning would have done just as well. When he had gone downhill on his errand of mercy, whistling cheerily as was his wont, Mrs. Dodd went into her own room and locked the door, immediately beginning a careful search of the entire apartment.

She scrutinised the walls closely, and rapped softly here and there, listening intently for a hollow sound. Standing on a chair, she felt all along the mouldings and window-casings, taking unto herself much dust in the process. She spent half an hour in the stuffy closet, investigating the shelves and recesses, then she got down on her rheumatic old knees and crept laboriously over the carpet, systematically taking it breadth by breadth, and paying special attention to that section of it which was under the bed.

“When you’ve found where anythin’ ain’t,” she said to herself, “you’ve gone a long way toward findin’ where ’t is. It’s just like Ebeneezer to have hid it.”

She took down the pictures, which were mainly family portraits, life-size, presented to the master of the house by devoted relatives, and rapidly unframed them. In one of them she found a sealed envelope, which she eagerly tore open. Inside was a personal communication which, though brief, was very much to the point.

“Dear Cousin Belinda,” it read, “I hope you’re taking pleasure in your hunt. I have kept my word to you and in this very room, somewhere, is a sum of money which represents my estimate of your worth, as nearly as sordid coin can hope to do. It is all in cash, for greater convenience in handling. I trust you will not spend it all in one store, and that you will, out of your abundance, be generous to the poor. It might be well to use a part of it in making a visit to New York. When you find this, I shall be out in the cemetery all by myself, and very comfortable.

“I knowed it,” she said to herself, excitedly. “Ebeneezer was a hard man, but he always kep’ his word. Dear me! What makes me so trembly!”

She removed all the bedclothes and pounded the pillows and mattress in vain, then turned her attention to the furniture. It was almost one o’clock when Mrs. Dodd finally retired, worn in body and jaded in spirit, but still far from discouraged.

“Ebeneezer must have mistook the room,” she said to herself, “but how could he unless his mind was failin’? I’ve had this now, goin’ on ten year.”

In the night she dreamed of finding money in the bureau, and got up to see if by chance she had not received mysterious guidance from an unknown source. There was money in the bureau, sure enough, but it was only two worn copper cents wrapped in many thicknesses of old newspaper, and she went unsuspiciously back to bed.

“He’s mistook the room,” she breathed, drowsily, as she sank into troubled slumber, “an’ to-morrer I’ll have it changed. It’s just as well I’ve scared them others off, if so be I have.”