“Sartin, young marse; dat is true. An’ ’deed, dey’s all been moughty good to de ole madam—Lor’ knows dey has—moughty good,” said Martha, as she wrapped her tall figure in a large black shawl and put a quilted black silk hood on her head, for the walk with the young master. They left the cabin together, Martha just closing the door, which had neither lock nor bolt, only a light latch to keep it shut in windy weather, for there were no thieves on this old plantation, and the cabin was remote from thoroughfares. Up the little, narrow, almost invisible footpath over the wooded hill they went until they came in view of Lone Lodge, a large, rambling, picturesque old farmhouse, built partly of gray stone, partly of red bricks, and partly of wood. It consisted of three distinct houses, the growth of generations, and was joined together after a fashion, or rather after no fashion at all. The oldest and rudest part of the building was also the strongest and quaintest; but the later structures were in a good state of preservation. There were broad piazzas front and back, both roofed over, and there were porticoes, balconies and bay windows stuck on here and there, up and down the wall at each gable end. The roofs of the buildings were of different heights and shapes—the old colonial house had a high, peaked roof, with dormer windows; the middle edifice, built just after the close of the Revolutionary War, had a hip roof, with two rows of tiny windows; while the third building had a Mansard, with its beautiful lights and trimmings. Opening on the front piazza there were three doors, leading into the three divisions of the triune house. Harcourt went up to the central door and knocked, while Martha scuttled around to the rear to warn her mistress of her son’s near presence. After some little delay the door was opened by Margaret Wynthrop. “Oh! Mr. Harcourt! How do you do? I am very glad to see you! Mrs. Harcourt will be overjoyed,” she said cordially. “I am here to thank you for your great goodness to my dear mother, though mere thanks, however earnest and heartfelt, are but a poor return for such goodness,” said the young man, with much emotion. “Oh, indeed!” earnestly responded the girl, “it has been a real satisfaction to us all to be permitted to alleviate in some degree the troubles of this lady. But pray come in.” He followed into the old familiar hall, with its broad horsehair sofa and straight-backed chairs and frescoed pictures above them, with its oaken doors on either side, and its well-worn staircase in the center. “There is no fire in the big parlor. Come in here,” she said, and she opened a door on the left leading into the family sitting-room, where Mrs. Wynthrop and her second daughter, Elizabeth, were seated at work. The elder lady was cutting and basting on a lapboard. The younger one was thumping away at a sewing machine. Both arose and left their seats to welcome the visitor.