"So it really is you, Miss Martine," said the Mr. Gamut, holding out his hand. "I had no idea that you were in this part of the world." "We have a little cottage here this summer," responded Martine. "Are you all together again? Surely your father--" "Oh, no, my father isn't here; we've had only one letter since I saw you, and that wasn't encouraging." Against her will, tears came to Martine's eyes. "There, there, remember what I told you; things are bound to come out all right." "Oh, I hope so. Mother says that if things were worse we should probably have had a cable." "That's the way to look at it. Come, walk around with me for a little while. I suppose you know all about these things. My niece wouldn't come with me. She doesn't care for history. A great place this New England! They seem to have saved all their old odds and ends and have a story to fit everything." "But York is really old and historic," protested Martine, proud of her recently acquired information. "The first settlers here were Royalists and held high positions." "On paper," said Mr. Gamut with a laugh. "Oh, yes, I know about Sir Ferdinand Gorges and his remarkable charter. Here are some of the coats of arms of the first settlers," exclaimed Mr. Gamut. "Do you suppose they wore them tied around their necks when they first came out?" "Not exactly," responded Martine, detecting Mr. Gamut's scepticism. "Well, I'm only a plain western man," continued the latter, "and I rather think that coats of arms and things of that kind didn't trouble the first settlers in spite of all this foolery," and he pointed to the colors blazoned on the shield and scrolls on the walls. "They're pretty to look at," apologized Martine. "Oh, yes, and I suppose people of a certain name have an uncertain right to claim these heraldic ornaments, but for my own part, I prefer something more substantial. Things like this appeal to me more," and he led Martine to a little cradle in which Sir William Pepperell slept in his babyhood. "Or even this," and he pointed out a small table at which Handkerchief Moody used to eat by himself. "Who in the world was 'Handkerchief Moody'?" "His story is one of the few York tales that I can tell," replied Mr. Gamut, smiling. "And you ought to know it too, young lady, because Hawthorne, in his way, has immortalized it. This Moody was the son of one of the ministers of the old church; he was intended for the law, but having accidentally killed a friend while out hunting, his father persuaded him to enter the ministry. Remorse, however, so preyed on him that he spent his life in comparative solitude, and whenever he went in public, it is said, he covered his face with a handkerchief; different reasons have been given for his strange behavior, and it may be that he was always mildly insane. At least, there must be some truth in the stories told about him." Martine, impressed by this curious story, was silent for a few minutes.