After a pause lasting several seconds, Dr. Ballard continued: "I presume you would feel seriously affronted if I were to take the liberty of supposing you might be interested." "Fudge! Have you the Journal there?" "Yes." "You have read it?" "Quite so." "Then you—know?" "Yes." "Well? And what then? What are you going to do about it?" "I am going to read my grandfather’s Journal aloud, now, here—I mean, that portion of it that relates to you." Madam Crewe straightened to a military stiffness. "You are going to do nothing of the sort," she averred stoutly. "Indeed I am." "I’ll not permit it. I’ll send Katherine from the room." "Oh, no you won’t. You are too just to do that. You have made certain charges against my grandfather; now, the only fair thing, is to give him a show—to let him state his case, from his side." "No. He wouldn’t tell the truth. He falsified once. He’d falsify again." "You haven’t proved it." "You have my word." "Your word is all very well, as far as it goes. But even you would hardly claim that it goes all the way ’round the truth, and then tucks under, like Dick’s hatband. My grandfather has a word too, and I’m going to see that he has a chance to get it in edgewise, and—what’s more, that you listen." Madam Crewe turned her body stiffly toward Katherine. "Come here. Sit down!" she commanded autocratically. Dr. Ballard took up his book, opening it at an obviously marked point. "The first entry bearing any reference to you or yours was written in 1844. In the spring of that year he mentions going to see one Squire Stryker, in connection with the stewardship of his estate. I’ll skip all the non-essentials and——" "Skip nothing. Since you _will_ read, read!" "Very well. "’Boston, February 6th, 1844. This morning saw Squire Stryker. He wishes to engage a bailiff. A hard man, I judge him to be. Not easy to please, because he is exacting, arbitrary, without judgment or justice. He is ruled by passion, not principle. "’Feb. 10th. I have made my decision. For good or ill, I go to Squire Stryker’s, in New Hampshire, to-morrow.’ "Following are several pages given over to notes and data connected with the estate. Its acreage, its possibilities, its limitations. Nothing else. They carry one to April, and—this: "’A strange thing has happened. No, not a strange thing. The thing is simple, the strangeness is in its effect on me. There is a lane hard by, called Cherry Lane. ’Tis part of the estate. At this season the trees are in full blossom. I went there to estimate the probable yield of fruit, and the condition of the trees, and—underneath the white and pink boughs stood a white and pink maid. She looked at me and smiled. She told me she was Squire Stryker’s daughter. She knew I was the new bailiff, she said.