May pulled out a half-dollar. “No matter about the change,” he added, as the dépôt-man hitched up his vest, preparatory to fishing in his cavernous trousers for the requisite quarter. The dépôt-man changed his quid of tobacco, and drove off without a word, the downward lines from the corners of his mouth a shade deeper, as if he profited unwillingly by such unnecessary prodigality, which aroused rather contempt than gratitude. May waited until the carryall had quite disappeared in the elm-trees, and then rang the bell. Apparently, he expected no prompt answer; for he sat down upon one of the old china garden-seats, which flanked the door, and rolled and lit a cigarette. After a few minutes he rang again, louder; the unwonted tinkle reverberated through the closed house, and an imaginative man, putting his ear to the key-hole, might have heard the scuffle of the family ghosts as they scurried back to their hiding-places. At last an uncertain step was heard in the hall, and after much turning of keys and rattling of chains, the door was slowly opened by an old woman, who blinked at the flood of sudden light which poured in, rebounded, eddied, and at last filled each corner of the fine old hall. “Mrs. Eastman, I suppose?” “That’s my name,” said the woman, in a strong down-east accent. “I am Mr. May,” said he. The woman glared at him as before, and did not compromise her dignity by a courtesy. “Mr. Eastman got your letter,” said she, “and I have got your room ready. Will you go there now? I don’t know who’s to carry up your trunk.”