It was a large dinner party assembled on Thanksgiving day to do honor to the little bride-elect, who bore herself with great dignity when the engagement was announced and congratulations heaped upon her and Roy. She would have liked to have been known by her real name, Hilton, but her mother objected, and as neither Roy nor his parents saw the necessity for the explanation it would involve she yielded to their judgment and was Fanny Prescott, as she had always been. Her mother could only stay for a few days in Boston, and on the morning of her departure Fanny said to Roy, who was to accompany them, “Let’s stop at Ridgefield over a train. I want to see where father used to live. Mother can go on without us. Will you?” Roy was willing, and when the village ’bus in Ridgefield went up the hill from the 10 o’clock train it carried two young people who were looking about them as curiously as people were looking at them. Ridgefield had not grown much within twenty-three years, but there had been some changes. An electric car now connected it with Worcester and the intermediate towns and this gave it a thriftier appearance. A few houses had been added in the side streets and a new and large hotel built on the Common. In front of this the driver stopped, while a smart clerk came hurrying out. “Not here. Take us to the Prospect House,” Roy said. The clerk looked surprised as he turned on his heel, while the driver whipped up his horses, wondering why such swells, as his passengers undoubtedly were, should prefer the Prospect House to the Tremont. But it was none of his business, and he was soon at the Prospect House, which looked rather shabby and uninviting, with an air of neglect everywhere visible. The Tremont had killed it, and in his old age Uncle Zacheus had little heart to compete with his rival. A few boarders still clung to him, but transients were very rare, and when Roy and Fanny alighted from the ’bus and came up the walk he was greatly excited and called loudly to Dot to hurry up as somebody was coming. His welcome was cheery, as of old, as he advanced to meet the young couple. “Glad to see you; yes, I be. Want a room? For one, or two? just married, ain’t you?” he said, not remembering Roy at all in his flurry. “No, oh no!” Fanny exclaimed, blushing crimson. “We are not married, and have only stopped over a train to see where father used to live. I am Mark Hilton’s daughter, and I want you to show me his room and his office and everything, and then we are going to the cellar hole and the grave, and everywhere.”