“It will never be the same,” she sighed. “There are no ship-loads of shrubs and flowers coming from England and those that Master Simon planted have perished forever.” “Be not too sure of that,” Stephen answered with a smile, but Clotilde refused to look at the matter hopefully. By autumn the dwelling was ready for occupation and a splendid half-new, half-familiar place it seemed. Stephen had bought only such material as the ship-owners had to sell and had spent only such money, in the building, as would help his fellow townsmen. Therefore the house was only half finished, with carving and panelling in one apartment and bare rafters in another, with rough wooden shutters where windows should have been and walls of unsmoothed boards in many of the bedrooms. The big drawing-room was completed, however, with its white cupboards and panelling and long casement windows opening to the east. In the hall a great carved staircase with a white balustrade and mahogany handrail wound up to the second floor. The round window on the landing encircled, like a frame, a far view of rocky capes, scattered islands and broad, blue sea. Here Clotilde loved to kneel upon the cushioned seat and watch for hours the whirling gulls, the blue October sky and the sunlight on white, swiftly-moving sails. When the word went forth that Master Sheffield’s house was at last completed, the doors of Hopewell opened and out came, in long and straggling procession, those household treasures that the friendly souls of the town had risked their lives in rescuing. There were framed pictures, from the huge, heavy portraits down to the little sampler over which Margeret Radpath had pricked her fingers on the very day that first she laid eyes upon Roger Bardwell. There were the old bits of pewter that had belonged to Mistress Radpath when she was a bride, there was the bowl that was Samuel Skerry’s unwilling marriage gift, there was the wonderful silver service given to Stephen when on his mission to England. There were rolls of homespun linen sheets, Stephen’s own armchair, and Clotilde’s little polished spinning-wheel. Much, of course, had perished in the flames, but so much had been saved that Stephen, Clotilde and Mother Jeanne could only wonder, rejoice and forget what was gone beyond recall. Last of all there stumped up to the door—where the silver knocker set by Paul Revere once more shone resplendent—that same old man who had told Stephen the tale of the burning. Fumbling in his pocket, he brought forth a velvet case which he put into Clotilde’s hand.