"Emmie Gano and her cousin are more alike than most brothers and sisters are." Very different was the mutinous face of the elder girl, sitting beside Ethan in her mourning, looking neither at bishop nor white-robed brides of the Church, but with unreconciled, tear-filled eyes at the white cross, in memory of her father, that hung among the Easter decorations in the chancel. The wreath upon the lectern, that all the town knew to be the annual "In memoriam" to that Valeria Gano who had been in her grave these twenty years--for that, only Ethan of the dead woman's kindred had eyes and tender remembering. "Father's cross looked very beautiful," Emmie said, in a hushed voice, to her grandmother that afternoon. Mrs. Gano inclined her head. "I am glad we chose calla lilies; he loved them," murmured Emmie. "He didn't love to hear them called calla lilies," said Val, without a particle of feeling in her voice. "Yes," said Emmie, "I mean those great--" "He would be very angry to hear you call them lilies." "Angry?" Mrs. Gano looked up. "Yes, angry," said Val. "Callas are not liliaceæ, they are araceæ, and belong to the Jack-in-the-pulpit family. If he hears us, he'll hate to think we've forgotten so soon." Her defiant eyes suddenly filled up. "He taught us not to be so ignorant as to call them lilies, just as he taught us not to say 'wisteria.'" "What are you to say, then?" asked Ethan. "Wistaria." "Not really?" "Yes, it _is_ wistaria, and we must all _say_ wistaria, because he told us to, and because it's named after General Wistar." "Why have you put these fine linen doilies on the arms of the chairs?" asked Mrs. Gano. "Because the arms are covered with velvet," Val answered, without thinking, and then shot a shy look at Ethan. "Velvet? Of course. What then?" Val looked in her lap and said, mendaciously: "I don't like velvet arms. Please let the doilies stay." Mrs. Gano was satisfied in her own mind that Val was ashamed of the condition of the ancient covering. The difficulty plainly was that it _had_ been velvet. She forbore to pursue the question before her grandson. The days went on; Ethan refused to count them. One late afternoon a deluge of rain brought down a part of the ceiling in the old red room that had been John Gano's. Ethan took his courage in both hands, and described to Mrs. Gano, in forcible terms, the extent of the damage and the danger of leaving the roof as it was. "I don't propose to leave it as it is." He studied her. "Do you remember telling me when I was a little chap that this was my home?" "H'm--did I?" "I haven't any other _now_. Let me think of the Fort as my home." He paused, but her aspect was not encouraging, was hardly hospitable. He went on: "Let _me_ look after the roof, and--" "Certainly not. I have looked after everything for half a century. When I'm dead some one else may do it--not before."