There it was; the decaying mansion, the neglected avenue and
garden, the acres and acres of idle orchard and field. The faded
signposts identified it, "Apply to the Estate of Eliot Witcher."

"Bert, this isn't the Witcher Place!" exclaimed his wife.

Bert was as interested as she. They pushed open the old gate, and
ate their luncheon that day sitting on the lawn, under the elms
that the first Eliot Witcher had planted a hundred years ago. The
children ran wild over the garden, Anne took her nap on the leaf-
strewn side porch.

"Bert--they never want two hundred thousand dollars for just
this!"

Bert threw away his cigar, and flung himself luxuriously down for
a nap.

"They'll get it, Nance. Somebody'll develop a real estate deal
here some day. They must have a hundred acres here. You'll see it-
-'Witcher Park' or 'Witcher Manor.' The old chap who inherited it
is as rich as Croesus, he was in the office the other day, he
wants to sell.--Hello! I was in the office--garden--and so I said-
-if you please--"

Bert was going to sleep. His wife laughed sympathetically as the
staggering words stopped, and deep and regular breathing took
their place. She sat on in the afternoon sunlight, looking
dreamily about her, and trying to picture life here a hundred
years ago; the gracious young mistress of the new mansion, the