They found it uninhabited. The thatched roof was full of holes and the interior showed the devastation that wind and water had worked. Tall weeds filled the little garden and the general effect was dismal indeed. “It won't do to take Dad a picture of this old shanty,” said Tom. “Perhaps we can find a house that looks like it,” Quincy suggested. They had no difficulty in doing that, for the same architectural plan, if the design be worthy the name, had plainly been followed in the construction of many cottages. They found one with the roof covered with moss and a garden full of old-fashioned flowers, and several views were taken with Quincy's camera. “It's cheating in one way,” said Tom, “but it would break Dad's heart to see a picture of his old home as it really is--so we'll show him one as it ought to be.” “And as it shall be,” said Quincy. “It won't cost much to fix it up, all but the moss, and that will come on it in time. You get a man, Tom, find out the cost of renovating the house, and I'll pay the bill. So will the sense of untruthfulness be removed from our sensitive feelings.” This was quickly arranged, for work, with the pay in advance, was a delectable possession in those parts. When they reached Fernborough Hall, and Quincy was told of the search on which his mother had started out, he pretended to agree with his aunt that it was useless, and the height of folly, but from that moment hope sprang up within him, that, by some miracle, his father was still alive. He did not confide his hopes to Aunt Ella, and gave her no inkling of the real reason for his trip to Europe. “It would make me very happy to know that my father was living,” he said, “but after so long a time it seems foolish to think it, does it not? When do you expect mother home, Aunt Ella?” “The letter was written a month ago from Vienna, but, unfortunately, she did not give her address. If she were well, she should have been here before this. I have an idea that she may have gone to Switzerland on her way home, and charmed by its scenery, or forced by her weak condition, has remained there. Stay here for a week with your friend, and perhaps some word will come.” “No, Auntie,” said Quincy, “Tom and I will run over to Vienna, and if we don't find her we will push on to William Tell's republic. We will write you often--Tom one day and I the next.” “I have often wondered,” said Quincy to Tom two days later as they were on the cars speeding to Vienna--“I have often wondered,” he repeated, “how my mother could let me go away and stay away from her for fourteen long years. That she loves me, her letters show plainly. She says often that I am all she has in the world, but she never sent for me to come and see her nor did she ever come to see me. How do you explain it, Tom?”