talking. In another minute Mr. Harold Hartshorn had walked away, and
Father had turned back on to the piazza.

As soon as I could control my shaking knees, I went downstairs.

Father was in his favorite rocking-chair. I advanced slowly. I did not
sit down.

"Was that Mr. Hartshorn?" I asked, trying to keep the shake out of my
voice.

"Yes."

"Mr. H-Hartshorn," I repeated stupidly.

"Yes. He came to see me about the Downer place," nodded Father. "He
wants to rent it for next year."

"To rent it--the Downer place!" (The Downer place was no
rose-embowered cottage far from the madding crowd! Why, it was big,
and brick, and _right next_ to the hotel! I didn't want to live
there.)

"Yes--for his wife and family. He's going to bring them back with him
next year," explained Father.

"His wife and family!" I can imagine about how I gasped out those four
words.

"Yes. He has five children, I believe, and--"