The story? Dear, no! A ghost-story, Martin--think of that! Brrr-rrr! [_With a mock shiver, lowering his voice in coarse joviality._] Spooks--haunted! Nobody but me’s had the nerve to think of living here for fifty years and more! Afraid the visitors mightn’t approve. Visitors--ha-ha! Bear in mind, Martin--Bird’s Nest was built for lovers. [_As_ SANFORD _begins to laugh again_, MARTIN _regards him with a curious look. He is still laughing when the grandfather clock in the parlor begins to strike midnight_. SANFORD, _himself again, starts violently, takes a step toward_ MARTIN, _then, as if rooted to the spot, stands listening. The face of_ MARTIN, _too, has changed. Pallor, first, then, as the clock strikes on, light, reflected as from some deep centre within, covers his face. He casts one anxious glance at his master; then, as if surrendering himself to his profound absorption, he softly crosses to the porch and peers out._ SANFORD, _as the strokes go on_.] Whatever made you wind up that damned old clock, Martin? MARTIN. [_At the door._] I didn’t wind it! SANFORD. You must have! It hasn’t struck since I took the cottage! MARTIN. [_Turning and regarding him significantly._] But it is striking, sir, isn’t it? Striking midnight? SANFORD. [_Abruptly._] So you have heard the story? [_Without looking at him_, MARTIN _steps further into the garden where white moonlight now floods gravel-path and steps. Then, a note of repressed triumph in his voice._ MARTIN. Yes, sir----! Ten--eleven--twelve----! [_Then to himself, on a low note of joy._] Ah----! SANFORD. Built for lovers----! Well, why not? Why not? Ain’t love the strongest thing in the world?--Stronger than death?