"Say, Pinckney," says I, as we drives in through the grounds, "if you can't get along with Jack and Jill in a place of this kind you'd better give up. Why, all you got to do is to turn 'em loose." "Wait!" says he. "You haven't heard it all." "Let it come, then," says I. "We will look at the house first," says he. The kids wa'n't anywhere in sight; so we starts right in on the tour of inspection. It was a big, old, slate roofed baracks, with jigsaw work on the eaves, and a lot of dinky towers frescoed with lightnin' rods. There was furniture to match, mostly the marble topped, black walnut kind, that was real stylish back in the '70's. In the hall we runs across Snivens. He was the butler; but you wouldn't guess it unless you was told. Kind of a cross between a horse doctor and a missionary, I should call him--one of these short legged, barrel podded gents, with a pair of white wind harps framin' up a putty coloured face that was ornamented with a set of the solemnest lookin' lamps you ever saw off a stuffed owl. "Gee, Pinckney!" says I, "who unloaded that on you!" "Snivens came with the place," says he. "He looks it," says I. "I should think that face would sour milk. Don't he scare the twins?" "Frighten Jack and Jill?" says Pinckney. "Not if he had horns and a tail! They seem to take him as a joke. But he does make all the rest of us feel creepy." "Why don't you write him his release?" says I. "Can't," says Pinckney. "He is one of the conditions in the contract--he and the urns." "The urns?" says I. "Yes," says Pinckney, sighin' deep. "We are coming to them now. There they are." With that we steps into one of the front rooms, and he lines me up before a white marble mantel that is just as cheerful and tasty as some of them pieces in Greenwood Cemetery. On either end was what looks to be a bronze flower pot. "To your right," says Pinckney, "is Grandfather; to your left, Aunt Sabina." "What's the josh?" says I. "Shorty," says he, heavin' up another sigh, "you are now in the presence of sacred dust. These urns contain the sad fragments of two great Van Rusters." "Fragments is good," says I. "Couldn't find many to keep, could they? Did they go up with a powder mill, or fall into a stone crusher?" "Cremated," says Pinckney. Then I gets the whole story of the two old maids that Pinckney rented the place from. They were the last of the clan. In their day the Van Rusters had headed the Westchester battin' list, ownin' about half the county and gettin' their names in the paper reg'lar. But they'd been peterin' out for the last hundred years or so, and when it got down to the Misses Van Rusters, a pair of thin edged, old battle axes that had never wore anything but crape and jet bonnets, there wa'n't much left of the estate except the mortgages and the urns.