“On the left,” he presently proceeded, “was the library, with one or two windows looking out upon the cemetery, which was then a respectable distance off; and down the hall, which was wide enough to dance a Virginia reel in, there hung a map of the Holy Land, with one corner torn off. I wonder if it is hanging there still, and if I can remember which corner was lacking.” He mused a minute with a sour smile. “Something must be pardoned in one who has been gone fourteen years,” he murmured. “I cannot remember whether it was the left or the right-hand corner.” Shutting his eyes, he leaned his head again on the post, while short, broken sentences issued by fits and starts from amid his beard as he brooded over the past. “Under the big front staircase,—I remember it well,—there was a smaller circular one, which went down to a certain green door: the same one I noticed in the doctor’s office, though there was no office then,—only a rectangular porch. He must have had the office built in since I left the town, for he used to see his patients in the library. Now, how did that porch look? It was broad and low, and raised but a step or two above the ground. There were two pillars in the opening toward the graveyard, similar to the big columns in front, but smaller and set further apart. At one end was a wooden seat built in the wood-work, and at the other a green door, the same as that seen in the doctor’s room now. Will these details answer for one recollection? I think they will. And now for a glimpse of that shaft.” Lifting his head from the gate-post, he picked his way through the tangled weeds to the little gate on the highway which led directly to the doctor’s office. Entering, he approached the tombstone against which he had leaned the night before, and heedless of passers-by, took up his stand before it and began reading the inscription. SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HULDAH EARLE. Born December Third, 1854. Died August Ninth, 1878.