His first vacation since he had gone to work came early in October. Then a letter from a real estate agent who had the renting of his property made a journey to Riverdell advisable. He left Providence, with Farrell, in the car one Friday morning, intending to stay in Riverdell over Saturday, and at two o’clock swung the machine in through the big gate of The Larches. It had been a glorious brisk day, they had made record time and Ethan’s spirits had been high. But now, as they rumbled slowly up the circling driveway, old memories were asserting themselves and buoyancy gave place to depression. The maples were aflame in the afternoon sunlight, the Virginia creeper about the porches was radiantly crimson, and along the gleaming white pergola bunches of purple grapes were still aglow. But for all this The Larches had a lonesome look. The windows on the lower floor were shuttered and told eloquently of desertion. [Illustration] Ethan’s summons at the bell went unanswered for a time. Then footsteps sounded on the marble tiles inside and the big door swung open, revealing a comfortably stout, double-chinned woman who wiped her damp, red hands on her blue calico apron. “Why, Mr. Ethan!” she exclaimed. “Yes, it’s I, Mrs. Billings,” he replied. “Farrell, take the car around to the stable and I’ll have William open up for you.” [Illustration] He stepped into the dimly lighted hall, already filled with the chill of approaching winter, and looked about him. Everything was apparently the same in spite of its recent occupancy. The house had been rented furnished, and plainly the Devereuxs had been satisfied to leave things as they had found them. He took off his coat and tossed it on to the big old-fashioned mahogany couch. Mrs. Billings, the housekeeper, was still chattering volubly. “If we’d known you was coming, sir, we’d have had the blinds open and the fires lighted.” “Never mind,” answered Ethan. “Have your husband build a fire in the library and in my room. I shan’t be here beyond Sunday morning. You can give me my meals in the library. I had a letter from Stearns a day or so ago telling me that the Devereuxs had left and asking whether I wanted to rent for the winter. I don’t believe I do. I don’t think I shall rent again at all. Well how have you been, you and that good-for-nothing husband of yours?” “Nicely, sir, for myself, thank you. And Jonas, he isn’t one of the complaining sort, sir, but he do have the rheumatism something awful in wet weather. And how has your health been, Mr. Ethan?” “I’ve been frightfully healthy, thank you. Where’s your husband?” “I’ll call him, sir, at once. He’s out somewheres on the grounds, sir. And I’ll have a fire lit in no time, sir. He’ll be very pleased to see you, sir, will Jonas.” She stopped at the end of the hall and sank her voice to a hoarse whisper. “I fear he’s getting old and failing, Mr. Ethan,” she said despondently. “It――it’s his head sir.” “Eh?”