It was a relief for Hewson to feel ashamed of St. John instead of himself, for a moment. “Very well, I’ll give you thirty thousand.” St. John examined himself for a responsive generosity. The most he could say was, “You’re doing this because of what I’d said.” “What does it matter? I make you a bonafide offer. I will give you thirty thousand dollars for St. Johnswort,” said Hewson, haughtily. “I ask you to sell me that place. I cannot see that it will ever be any good to me, but I can assure you that it would be a far worse burden for me to carry round the sense of having injured you, however unwillingly--God knows I never meant you harm!--than to shoulder the chance of your place remaining worthless on my hands.” St. John caught at the hope which the form of words suggested. “If anything can bring it up, it will be the fact that you have bought it. Such a thing would give the lie to that ridiculous story, as nothing else could. Every one will see that a house can’t be very badly haunted, if the man that the ghost appeared to is willing to buy it.” “Perhaps,” said Hewson sadly. “No perhaps about it,” St. John retorted, all the more cheerfully because he would have been glad before this incident to take twenty thousand for his place. “It’s just on the borders of Lenox, and it’s bound to come up when this blows over.” He talked on for a time in an encouraging strain, while Hewson, standing with his back against the mantel, looked absently down upon him. St. John was inwardly struggling through all to say that Hewson might have the property for twenty-eight thousand, but he could not. Possibly he made himself believe that he was letting it go a great bargain at thirty; at any rate he ended by saying, “Well, it’s yours--if you really mean it.” “I mean it,” said Hewson. St. John floundered up out of his chair with seal-like struggles. “Do you want the furniture?” he panted. “The furniture? Yes, why not?” said Hewson. He did not seem to know what he was saying, or to care. “I will put that in for a mere nominal consideration--the rugs alone are worth the money--say a thousand more.” Hewson’s man came in with a note. “The messenger is waiting, sir,” he said. Hewson was aware of wondering that he had not heard any ring. “Will you excuse me?” he said, toward St. John. “By all means,” said St. John. Hewson opened the note, and read it with an expression which can only be described as a radiant frown. He sat down at his desk, and wrote an answer to the note, and gave it to his man, who was still waiting. Then he said to St. John, “What did you say the rugs were worth?” “A thousand.” “I’ll take them. And what do you want for the rest of the furniture?”