“Mrs. Gordon likes life. No spot suits her so well as the High street, Leeholme, or city upon it. The Dower House should not be empty. But, Mr. Eyrle, let me find a tenant for it.” “It must be a tenant who does not bore me,” said Kenelm, indifferently, and he thought no more of the matter, until one morning he received a letter signed “J. Payton,” evidently written by a lady. That letter interested him strangely. “I have seen the advertisement respecting the Dower House, and, if it be not taken, I should like to have the lease of it. I have never seen it, but am told that it is a place where one may live unseen and die unknown. I want such a home.” A strange, abrupt letter, he thought to himself, yet one that interested him, and he drove over to Leeholme, to see Mr. Gordon. The agent, who was by no means a man of sentiment, read the letter with very different ideas. “Evidently a lady with a mystery. If it depended on me, I should say ‘no’ to such a tenant. There is nothing like straightforward, plain honesty. I dislike all mystery. Still, do as you like, Mr. Eyrle.” And Mr. Eyrle, with the usual fatality of his sex, did as he liked. He desired Mr. Gordon to let Mrs. Payton have the Dower House on her own terms. “You only want to save the property,” he said; “you do not want to make ever so much money out of it.” But Mr. Gordon, although he listened with respect, did as he liked. He had an interview with a lady who represented Mrs. Payton, and from her demanded what he thought a reasonable rent. It was most cheerfully agreed upon. “Money is not of much consequence to Mrs. Payton,” said the gray-haired lady. “The only thing she cares for is peace and solitude.” The agent smiled to himself, thinking how wonderful it was that landlord and tenant should have such very similar opinions. The Dower House was put into repair, and Mr. Eyrle, speaking of it one day, asked: “Did the lady call upon Gordon? What was she like?” “Very sensible, elderly and gray-haired,” he replied. But it did not occur to him to mention that this was not the veritable tenant, only her representative. Mr. Eyrle heard when they arrived, and then, after the usual comfortable manner of his sex, thought no more of them. One May morning, shortly after Sir Ronald Alden had left home, Kenelm received a letter. He recognized the handwriting as that of his tenant, Mrs. Payton. It was a letter any tenant might have addressed to a landlord--simply asking permission to have a large bay window thrown out of the drawing-room. “Of course,” he said to himself, “she may have bay windows all over the house, if she likes,” and his consent was so heartily given in his own mind he neglected to write and assure her of it. Thereupon came a second letter, and Kenelm’s heart reproached him. “She will think I have neglected her,” he said, “and I had no such thought. I must go over, I suppose, and apologize.”