"Oh, I begged leave to do it. I like it. Don't you think chickens are very amusing? They are as different in character as people, and give me as much amusement as a crowd of human beings. Look at that ridiculous little hen; she reminds me of a girl scared by a mouse the way she jumps every time I throw down a handful of food." "Don't you think," said Linda mockingly, "that it is more reasonable to be afraid of creepy things like mice than to be frightened out of your wits by a paper bag?" "You have me there," returned the young man. "That was certainly one on us. I hope you have not been disturbed since." "Oh, no, and now my natural protector has returned, I shall feel perfectly safe. You know Miss Ri, I believe." "Oh, yes. She is a most interesting character. She doesn't run from mice, I fancy." "No, and neither do I." "Really? Then you are a rarity whom I am fortunate in meeting. I understand, Miss Talbot, that your home is some distance from this town." "My home was some distance, about seven miles away." "On Broad Creek? Do the Talbots come from that neighborhood?" "Yes, they are old settlers. We hold the original land grant from Lord Baltimore." "That is interesting. Did you ever happen to know of a Madison Talbot who lived--let me see--about 1812 or thereabouts?" "Why, yes. That was the name of my great-grandfather." "It was?" "Why do you ask?" inquired Linda curiously. "Oh, because I have heard the name. My grandfather has mentioned him. I believe he knew him, and coming down to this unexplored region, I am naturally reminded of anyone who might have been connected with what I have heard of it." "Unexplored? Do you mean by yourself?" "Well, yes, and by some others. I doubt if the majority of those one meets could locate this special town, for instance." "Anyone who knows anything must have heard of it," said Linda with innocent conviction. "Oh, I am not disparaging it. In some respects it is the nicest place I ever saw. Tell me something about your home there on Broad Creek." Linda's eyes grew wistful. "It is the dearest spot on earth. The house is old and low and queer, with rambling rooms that go up a step here, down one there. The water is always in sight, and through the trees you can see the old church; it is on our ground, you know, and there is an old windmill on the place. I should hate to have that old windmill taken away. I used to watch its long arms go around and around when I was a child, and I made up all sorts of tales about it." "How many acres are there?" Mr. Jeffreys asked the practical question suddenly. "About two or three hundred. There was another farm. It all belonged to the same estate originally, or at least there were two farms, and ours is the older. My brother brought it up wonderfully, and it is in very good condition now. My father was in ill health for years and when he died his affairs were in a sad state; the farm was not making anything till my brother took hold of it."