Many warm-hearted people felt a great sympathy for Doctor Vardaman in his isolation and solitude after Miss Clara's death; I suspect that had the doctor been an old maid instead of an old bachelor, he would not have received so much attention. There is something in the spectacle of an elderly unattached male being, no matter how independent he may be, or how capable of taking care of himself, that at once engages the solicitude of all his friends, men and women alike. Everybody felt sorry for him; everybody wondered how he got along. Doctor Vardaman was a hale old gentleman verging on seventy, it is true, but still vigorous of mind and body, and with pronounced notions of his own on the subject of diet, hygiene, and the conduct of life generally. No one could have needed benevolent supervision less; but he might well have prayed with the antique worthy to be delivered from his friends. At Christmas he used to describe himself as blushing to his very heels and retreating in shamed confusion before the stern gaze of the expressman who unloaded case after case of expensive wines and spirits before his door; that he already had a whole cellar-full partly of his own collecting, partly inherited from his father, a man of means and discernment in such matters, made no manner of difference to these eager and generous givers. If he had smoked as diligently as a factory-chimney, he could not have vanquished the army of cigars he received yearly. A centipede would not have accommodated all the doctor's pairs of knit and crocheted slippers; he solemnly avowed that there were bales of smoking-jackets and pen-wipers stored in his garret. He could have paved his walk with paper-weights, yet I never saw him use but one—a glass globe with a remarkable cameo-looking head encircled by a wreath of flowers mysteriously embedded beneath the surface, which Gwynne and I, clubbing our pennies, had presented to him the first Christmas after we were enlightened on the Santa Claus subject. He used to laugh and make little jokes about his being an "universal favourite" like certain patent medicines; yet he had a sentiment for all this trash, and would not allow it to be thrown or given away, except when kindness took the form of sending some perishable delicacy for his table, a frequent occurrence after Miss Clara's death, as it was known he had some trouble in getting competent "help." It would have been physically impossible for the doctor to get through all the aspic jelly, mango-pickle, and fruit-cake bestowed on him, and he said that it went against his medical conscience to give these rich dainties away, yet that must be done sometimes.

I myself have laboriously carried out little trays of orange-marmalade tumblers which I am sure never did any good to anybody but Mrs. Maginnis' children, who used to come bare-legged, with their tousled heads, freckles, and blue eyes to fetch the doctor's wash. It took no slight gymnastic ability to carry a basket or waiter of such unmanageable articles as marmalade-glasses, change cars twice, and pick one's way across the ankle-deep mud of Richmond Avenue, and along the wooden sidewalk full of loose uncertain boards, as far as Doctor Vardaman's house. On a gusty April day with a promise of rain in the air, one must go cumbered with an umbrella and overshoes; only fancy what that was to a young woman clad in the fashionable costume of eighty-one, to wit: a skin-tight navy-blue silk "jersey" waist, a navy-blue bunting skirt kilt-pleated with a voluminous round overskirt, and a pocket with purse and handkerchief securely concealed somewhere amongst the folds in the rear; French-heeled shoes, tan-coloured suÈde "Bernhardt" gloves, and a tremendous erection of velvet and feathers that we called a "Gainsborough hat" over all! These modes have mercifully gone out; but not more, I think, than the simple and kindly custom of sending glasses of jelly about to one's friends; I should not presume to ask one of my young acquaintances to perform so unseemly an office; no one either makes jelly or sends it as a present any more. Fortunately I fell in with Gwynne Peters on the last lap of the journey, that is, the Lexington and Amherst cars.

"Here, let me take that thing," said he, and as I thankfully gave up to him my burden of sweets—my wrists, not too loosely cased in the tan-coloured "Bernhardts" fairly aching with the weight—he went on: "What do you think? I believe we've got the old place rented at last! Templeton's going to have some people out there this afternoon and I'm to meet them. But they've been out two or three times already, and he says they've taken a fancy to it. The man—he's a Colonel Pallinder from Mobile or New Orleans or somewhere—says it reminds him of his old home in Virginia, 'befo' the wah,' you know, that's the way he talks."

"Are they nice? I mean—anybody we'd know?"

"Why, I don't know—yes, I guess so. They're Episcopalians, they were asking Templeton about Trinity Church. I haven't met them yet, and you can't go much by what Templeton says—a fellow like that doesn't know anything except whether people are respectable or not. They're all grown-ups, no children. I think there's a young lady; Templeton's lost in admiration of Mrs. Pallinder—told me two or three times, 'She's an elegant lady, Mr. Peters, very lah-de-dah manners, you know, stylish as she can be!' Doctor Vardaman's met them; but there's no use asking the doctor anything, he just grinned when I mentioned the Pallinders, and said he didn't doubt they'd be a great addition to the neighbourhood."

Templeton's "livery-rig" was standing at the foot of the wide shallow steps leading up to the Parthenon portico as we came in sight of it from the road. The shutters were open; feet and voices went to and fro inside. A tall slim girl in a red waist (it was a "jersey," I thought) and hat came out to the carriage and gave the driver some order. The agent appeared from the back of the house between two more tall people, a lady and gentleman. Templeton gesticulated, he flourished toward the grounds, he flourished toward the faÇade of Doric columns. The gentleman pulled his beard, which he wore in a long sharply pointing tuft on his chin, and listened with his head at an angle. "Jiminy! I'm glad I got that chimney fixed!" ejaculated Gwynne thoughtfully. "You know I'd like to take away those old iron stags and things from the front lawn, but Cousin Steven would fall down dead if I touched 'em."

"Oh, I don't know, Gwynne, somehow they seem to suit the old place, they've been there so long. Wouldn't it be nice if these people turned out really—really nice, so that the house would be the way it was in your grandfather's time?"

"It would so!" Gwynne agreed heartily. He looked about. Some way it seemed as if the thing were not wholly improbable; the fresh hopefulness of spring was in the air; pockets of new grass showed an excellent green, the trees were faintly rimmed with colour. All the thickets piped with birds. There were Arcadian vistas of many smooth mottled trunks and loftily stooping branches; the old house with its absurd classic front and assemblage of iron flocks and herds still became the landscape well. "It is pretty, isn't it?" said the young man, earnestly. "I should think anybody'd like it, wouldn't you?"

As he spoke, Templeton, an odd enough herald of good tidings, came scrunching hastily down the gravel drive from the house. He was too excited to notice my presence. "By gummy, Mr. Peters," he exclaimed breathlessly, as soon as he got within hearing distance, "I've landed 'em! You come on up to the house. Three years' lease—you come on up—privilege of purchase—you want to come right up and meet 'em—by gummy!"

Gwynne came grinning to us afterwards, as Doctor Vardaman and I stood in the old gentleman's porch, to describe the interview.

"I went up to the house," he said, "and here were Colonel Pallinder, looking like the Count of Monte Cristo, or the Chevalier de Maison Rouge, in a low-cut vest and a turn-down collar and black string-tie, and Mrs. Pallinder—by Jove, Templeton was right, she's an awfully handsome woman, and the youngest looking, she might be her own daughter! She was one of their Southern belles, I suppose, only she's quite fair, light hair and a beautiful complexion—have you noticed her complexion, doctor?"

"Mrs. Pallinder's complexion is remarkably well cared-for, I should say," said the doctor judicially.

"Yes, I've always understood these Southern women don't do much but eat candy and fix themselves up. Anyway, she's very striking-looking, much more so than the daughter. She's a very tall girl, I noticed her eyes were almost on a level with mine—big black eyes and she kind of rolls 'em around, you know——"

"What did they have on, Gwynne?"

He paused; he meditated. "They were all dressed up," he said at last, with the air of one conveying a piece of valuable information, the result of close and prolonged study. Again he meditated. "Well, they were both all dressed up, you know. What's that thing you've got on, that tight jacket thing—or is it a—a waist? Hers was red, with little curlycues all over it."

"You mean it was braided?"

"Yes, that's it, braided—they were both all dressed up, you know. Well, then Templeton introduced us, told the colonel who I was, that is, and he welcomed me as if I had been his long-lost brother with the strawberry-mark. Called me 'my dear boy' right off—I don't much care about that sort of thing," said Gwynne, shrugging. "But I suppose it's his way. Everybody was very cordial, and there was so much hands-all-round and hurrah-boys, you never would have thought we'd just met for the first time. It's not the way we're used to up here, but on the whole, doctor, it's rather nice—they're very interesting people, and they've got such pleasant Southern voices, and they're gay, somehow, gay and kind," said Gwynne, who, poor young fellow, had had little enough either of gaiety or kindness in his experience of life. "The colonel presented me to the ladies with the grandest flourish you ever saw, and said he understood this was my ancestral home, and he knew just how I felt at seeing strangers in it, but I mustn't cease to look upon it as my home just the same, and that he hoped I would come there whenever I felt like it; and he didn't know how I thought about it, but for his part, it seemed to him there was nothing like having a gentleman for a tenant and a gentleman for a landlord. Right there," said Gwynne, with a grin, "I might have sprung it on him that he was going to have quite a few gentlemen and some ladies for a landlord, but I only said, 'The house belongs to an estate, you know,' and something about our being so fortunate to have them in it—I had to say something after all their cordiality. And he went right on, without paying much attention, 'Ah, indeed?' he thought it quite possible he might buy it, he wanted to settle down somewhere, he was tired of travelling about, and he had got his business in such shape that he could settle down at last."

"What is his business, Gwynne?" interrupted the doctor suddenly.

"Why, he's a broker, and Templeton says he's agent for a big syndicate of Eastern capitalists that have some kind of railroad or mining interests all over the West. He's rented an office in the Turner Building. I was going to bring up the subject of repairs, but it seems Templeton and he had got that all settled already. Pallinder's going to do a lot himself, about the bathroom and kitchen, and Mrs. Pallinder doesn't like the wood-work painted white that old-fashioned way, so they're going to change it, grain it to look like quartered oak or mahogany. I suppose Cousin Eleanor and the rest of them will go into fits, and I kind of hate to see the old white wood-work changed myself," added Gwynne regretfully. "But if the colonel buys the place, and I'm pretty sure he's going to after putting out all this money on it, why, it doesn't make any difference what they do to it. The whole thing's almost too good to be true."

"It is," said Doctor Vardaman, rubbing his chin. "Being agent for an Eastern syndicate must be a very profitable walk of life—most people aren't so willing to spend their money on a rented house. Somehow or other I fear, I very much fear the Danai bringing gifts. Did you meet the old lady—Mrs. Botlisch? Was she with them?"

Gwynne began to laugh. "I was going to tell you about her. After we had gone through the whole house, and the colonel had pointed out what he meant to change, for instance: 'Those old mirrors over the parlour-mantels will do very well,' says he, pointing with his cane. 'The frames want a little——' 'Put a lick o' gilt paint over the bare spots,' says Templeton in a mortal stew for fear they were going to ask for something expensive. 'That'll make 'em look all right.' 'Exactly—a lick of paint over the bare spots,' said Pallinder, listening politely and without a smile. 'Mr. Templeton is quite right.' And with that Mrs. Pallinder began: 'I've been thinking I'll have the front parlour on the south side done in peacock-blue and old-gold, Mr. Peters. I saw a lovely paper with the blue ground and large gilt fleur-de-lys on it downtown that would just suit.' Templeton turned green. 'Well—er—um—I don't know——' says he. 'Oh, I'll have that done, Mr. Templeton,' said the colonel—and this time he did laugh, and winked at me over the little man's head. 'You're a very conscientious agent, sir,' says he. 'But don't worry. I wouldn't expect you to gratify a whim like that. I'll let you into a secret, gentlemen, I'm a terribly hen-pecked man, and being the only one in the family, the odds are so heavily against me, three to one, that I always jump and do whatever's wanted without any discussion.' 'I guess it's pretty hard to refuse Mrs. Pallinder anything,' said Templeton, coming out strong in a way that nearly floored me; the lady gave him a sweet smile, and Miss Pallinder laughed outright. 'I'm going to have a paper with pink roses all over it, and pink curtains to match in my room, if Papa will let me, Mr. Templeton,' says she, and worked her eyes around at him like this. 'Now can't you say something nice to me?' 'I would, but I'm afraid Mrs. Templeton would hear of it,' said Templeton, and be hanged if he didn't roll his eyes around at her," said Gwynne, writhing with laughter. "And then you ought to have seen Miss Pallinder laugh! We finally got around to the kitchen, and while the two ladies and Templeton were inspecting the closets, Colonel Pallinder mysteriously beckoned me outside. The man had driven Templeton's hack back there so as to stand in the shade, and I thought I saw somebody sitting on the rear seat, but I just glanced at it, for the colonel said: 'Ahem—Mr. Peters, you recall perhaps what the governor of South Carolina said to the governor of North Carolina? In my section of the country, sir—he pronounced it, 'suh'—we don't consider a bargain closed until we've—ahem—poured out a libation to—ah—um—Morpheus.' And upon that he fished out a very handsome silver-mounted flask from his hip pocket, with a little silver top that unscrewed and telescoped into a cup. 'If you'll partake, sir——?' says the colonel, pouring it full, so we partook, I out of the cup, and he out of the bottle, and I must say if the colonel's a poor student of the classics, he's a mighty good judge of whiskey," said Gwynne, with all the air of a connoisseur. "Only it was a pretty stiff drink. I believe my moustache smells of it this minute," he added with concern, fingering that exiguous growth tenderly. "While we were 'partaking,' somebody snorted out so suddenly that we both jumped and nearly dropped the sacrificial vessels, 'Say, Billie, I don't mind if I do myself. It's pretty dry work settin' out here.' And I looked and saw the old woman leaning out of the carriage——" Gwynne paused, and eyed the doctor inquiringly.

"Mrs. Botlisch?"

"Mrs. Botlisch. Doctor Vardaman, how—in—thunder, now—how—in—thunder do you suppose they came to have that—that——?"

"She's Mrs. Pallinder's mother, I believe," said the old gentleman.

"Yes, I know, the colonel introduced us right off, and handed over the flask and cup just as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 'Here's how, bub!' the old woman said, winked at me, turned the whiskey off like an expert, handed the things back, and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. Mrs. Pallinder's mother! It's inconceivable! Doctor, I swear you could have knocked me down with a straw. The Pallinders don't seem to make anything of it—but that pretty, delicate-featured woman, and that slender spirited-looking girl, both of them so beautifully dressed, and their manners really charming, Doctor—a little different from what one sees ordinarily, maybe, but charming for all that! Why, the old woman might be their cook—I can't understand it! They take it just as a matter of course."

"Well, I don't know how else you'd have them take it," said the doctor. "She's Mrs. Pallinder's mother, and that's all there is to it. But Mrs. Pallinder did say something to me about the old lady being 'queer'—eccentric, as she put it. That's like charity—it covers a multitude of strange doings."

"Yes, 'queer' accounts for a good deal," said Gwynne, his face sobering. Doctor Vardaman looked at him with regretful tenderness. He walked with us as far as the street, and patted Gwynne's shoulder gently as we parted—an unusual display of feeling from the doctor, who was anything but a demonstrative man.