breath of an outlying marsh, are often but so many
fairy wands reviving comedies and tragedies on which
the curtains of forgetfulness have been rung down
these many years.

Something in the aroma of the place was recalling
kindred spirits across the sea, when the door was swung
wide and Ganger in a big, hearty voice, cried:

"Mr. O'Day, is it? Oh, I am glad! And that dear
child, and-- Hello! who invited you, you restless little
devil of a dog? Come in, all of you! I've a model, but
she doesn't care and neither do I. And this, Mr. O'Day,
is my old friend, Sam Dogger--and he's no relation of
yours, you imp!"--with a bob of his grizzled head at
Fudge--"He's a landscape-painter and a good one--
one of those Hudson River fellows--and would be a
fine one if he would stick to it. Give me that hat and
coat, my chick-a-biddy, and I'll hang them up. And
now here's a chair for you, Mr. O'Day, and please get
into it--and there's a jar full of tobacco, and if you
haven't got a pipe of your own you'll find a whole lot
of corncobs on the mantelpiece and you can help
yourself."

O'Day had stood smiling at the painter, Masie's
hand fast in his, Fudge tiptoeing softly about, divided
between a sense of the strangeness of the place and a
certainty of mice behind the canvases. Felix knew the
old fellow's kind, and recognized the note of attempted