“Yes, ma’am!” he was saying, “this house is a little out of repair, you can see that fer yourself; but it’s well built; couldn’t be better. A few hundred dollars expended here an’ there’ll make it as good as new; in fact, I’ll say better’n new! They don’t put no such material in houses nowadays. Why, this woodwork—doors, windows, floors and all—is clear, white pine. You can’t buy it today for no price. Costs as much as m’hogany, come to figure it out. Yes, _ma’am!_ the woodwork alone in this house is worth the price of one of them little new shacks a builder’ll run up in a couple of months. And look at them mantelpieces, pure tombstone marble; and all carved like you see. Yes, ma’am! there’s as many as seven of ’em in the house. Where’ll you find anything like that, I’d like to know!” “I—think the house might be made to look very pleasant, Mr. Whittle,” Lydia replied, in a hesitating voice. Wesley Elliot fancied he could detect a slight tremor in its even flow. He pushed open the door and walked boldly in. “Good-morning, Miss Orr,” he exclaimed, advancing with outstretched hand. “Good-morning, Deacon! ...Well, well! what a melancholy old ruin this is, to be sure. I never chanced to see the interior before.” Deacon Whittle regarded his pastor sourly from under puckered brows. “Some s’prised to see _you_, dominie,” said he. “Thought you was generally occupied at your desk of a Friday morning.” The minister included Lydia Orr in the genial warmth of his smile as he replied: “I had a special call into the country this morning, and seeing your conveyance hitched to the trees outside, Deacon, I thought I’d step in. I’m not sure it’s altogether safe for all of us to be standing in the middle of this big room, though. Sills pretty well rotted out—eh, Deacon?” “Sound as an oak,” snarled the Deacon. “As I was telling th’ young lady, there ain’t no better built house anywheres ’round than this one. Andrew Bolton didn’t spare other folks’ money when he built it—no, _sir!_ It’s good for a hundred years yet, with trifling repairs.” “Who owns the house now?” asked Lydia unexpectedly. She had walked over to one of the long windows opening on a rickety balcony and stood looking out. “Who owns it?” echoed Deacon Whittle. “Well, now, we can give you a clear title, ma’am, when it comes to that; sound an’ clear. You don’t have to worry none about that. You see it was this way; dunno as anybody’s mentioned it in your hearing since you come to Brookville; but we use to have a bank here in Brookville, about eighteen years ago, and—” “Yes, Ellen Dix told me,” interrupted Lydia Orr, without turning her head. “Has nobody lived here since?” Deacon Whittle cast an impatient glance at Wesley Elliot, who stood with his eyes fixed broodingly on the dusty floor.