lines, and its deep windows, and its old pictures, and queer
unexpected things that take your breath away."

"It is one of the oldest houses in town," said Orde, "and I suppose
it is picturesque. But, you see, I was brought up here, so I'm used
to it."

"Wait until you leave it," said she prophetically, "and live away
from it. Then all these things will come back to you to make your
heart ache for them."

They rambled about together, Orde's enthusiasm gradually kindling at
the flame of her own. He showed her the marvellous and painstaking
pencil sketch of Napoleon looking out over a maltese-cross sunset
done by Aunt Martha at the age of ten. It hung framed in the upper
hall.

"It has always been there, ever since I can remember," said Orde,
"and it has seemed to belong there. I've never thought of it as
good or bad, just as belonging."

"I know," she nodded.

In this spirit also they viewed the plaster statue of Washington in
the lower hall, and the Roger's group in the parlour. The glass
cabinet of "curiosities" interested her greatly--the carved ivory
chessmen, the dried sea-weeds, the stone from Sugar Loaf Rock, the
bit from the wreck of the NORTH STAR, the gold and silver shells,
the glittering geodes and pyrites, the sandal-wood fan, and all the
hundred and one knick-knacks it was then the custom to collect under