It was a chilly, grewsome kind of place, and Alex. shivered as he went through room after room,—twelve downstairs and as many more upstairs, besides the attic. They visited that last, and saw where the rats had been and where the squirrels lived, and Alex. sat down near a big chest pushed into a corner and looked about him. Scattered through the garret, which was very large, were piles of old furniture, which would delight relic hunters, and he did not wonder that guests from the hotels had tried to buy them. “There used to be some pillers here and blankets and things loose,” Bowles said; “but, my land, old mother Chase took ’em. Wonder she didn’t bust open that chist. Guess ’twas too strong for her. That is the one I told you some of the quality wanted to buy.” Alex. glanced at it now, and saw that it was one of those old-fashioned cedar chests in which housewives of years ago kept their linen and parts of their wardrobe. “It’s full of things,” Bowles went on; “women’s clothes, all flowered like and silky. He aired ’em when he was here and took as much pains with ’em as if the woman who used to wear ’em was alive,—Mr. Marsh, I mean.” “Oh, yes,—my uncle. He came here, did he?” Alex. asked, and Bowles replied: “Yes, and stopped two days with me, but stayed over here most of the day time and wrote letters or something in that chamber where there is a chair and table. That was his sleeping-room when he lived here, and he looked sorry when he went through it, and said, ‘The vandals haven’t left me much.’ Wall, there wasn’t much to leave after the auction. You see, he had a vendue before he left and sold a good deal. What he didn’t sell was put up here, and some has been stole, but there are piles left. This chist is too heavy to carry off, and I’ve kept a sharp look out, too, bein’ here every week. He was in here a good deal airin’ things, and when I ast him whose flowered gown that was on the line, he said, ‘Miss Crosby’s, who used to live here.’” “Crosby,” Alex. repeated; “that’s the man who first owned the farm?” “Yes, before I was born, I guess,” Bowles said, “and he and his wife are buried acrost the road. There’s a big monument to their memory,—put up by Mr. Marsh. Mabby you didn’t notice it as we drove up,” and then thinking he heard some one below he started down, followed by Alex., glad to escape from the cold garret, which affected him unpleasantly.