Mrs. Brown flushed and hesitated. “There is a lane connecting these two turnpikes older than the turnpikes themselves. My place does not go through to this narrow-gauge railroad that you saw this morning, but my father’s old place, the Carmichael farm, now owned by my sister, Mrs. Clay, borders on both roads. This lane divides the two places as far as mine goes and then cuts through her place to the road behind. She has lately closed that lane, fenced it off and put it in corn.” “Rather high-handed proceedings,” growled Mr. Kean. “Did you protest?” “The boys went to see her about it, as it blocks their short cut to the Ohio River, where they go swimming, but she was so insulted at what she called their interference that I insisted upon their letting the matter drop. Paul, who always has insisted on his rights, went so far as to see a lawyer about it. His opinion was that Sister Sarah had no more right to fence off that lane than she would have to build a house in the middle of Main Street. But, if you knew my Sister Sarah, you would understand that if she decided to build a house in the middle of Main Street she would do it.” “Perhaps she would if the Law were as ladylike as you are, Mrs. Brown,” laughed Mr. Kean, “but the Law happens to be not even much of a gentleman. What I wanted to get at was whether or not you had right-of-way, not way. You have the right if not the way. Now I am going to come to business with you. Did you know, my dear lady, that that despised strip of land is worth more than all of your fruitful acres put together, beech woods and apple orchard thrown in?” He jumped up from his chair, able to contain himself no longer, and in clarion tones literally shouted, “Lady, lady, you’ve struck oil, you’ve struck oil!” BOOK II. CHAPTER I.—WELLINGTON AGAIN. “Wellington! Wellington!”