this time I only came because I found out you and the girls were here, and you were about all there was left. People die so. And I wanted to find out about the old place. I wanted to buy it, if I could, when I thought it was sold."

"But, Cousin Lorando, I couldn't sell it!"

"Oh, no, I s'pose not. Still, I might buy out the girls' thirds and rent yours, couldn't I? I'd pay you as much and more than anybody else would, I guess. And you could keep your interest. And keep half of the house, for that matter, to use when you wanted—it's big enough."

"Why, yes, I don't see why I couldn't do that," she said thoughtfully. "That would be nice."

"You see, I'm willing to make any arrangement, Cousin Jule. It's about all there is that I'm fond of now, that old place. I haven't any folks of my own, and not a chick nor child, and I love every stick and stone of that farm. I love the country, and I love Connecticut country best of all, I don't care if it is rocky. You can't make farming pay in New England any more. But I don't need to make it pay; I'm willing to pay for the pleasure of it. And I want to do something for the town, too. I want 'em to be glad I came to settle there. Who's got the keys?"

"I have, right here," she answered. "The furniture is all ours, you see; they haven't brought much, only they've changed things all around. I haven't renewed the lease yet for this year."

"Well, now, look here, Jule," Mr. Bean cried eagerly, dropping the end of his cigar into a bonbon-dish on the little side-table, "why don't you run right up there with me to-night, and we'll look it all over and sort of plan it out? We can go up on the six-thirty, and get there by half-past ten, and stop at the hotel, and be there all ready to look it over to-morrow. Now, how's that?"

"Why, but, Cousin Lorando—I—there isn't time—I hadn't planned—"

"Lord, neither had I, but what's the difference? If you want a thing done, go and do it yourself. Wouldn't you like to go? It's lovely up there; the spring's coming on fast, you know. I got lots of pussy-willow, and some little fellows told me there were May-flowers somewhere. You'll see more grass in a minute there than you can hunt up here in a week. Come on, Cousin Jule!"

"I believe I will!" said Miss True-man, with conviction.

"Just pack up a bag for your aunt, Carrie, while I get a cab," said Mr. Bean from the doorway. "We're going up to the old place—I'm thinking of buying it. I expect we'll be back tomorrow."

"Your cousin appears to be a person of decision," Mrs. Ranger suggested to the still dazed Elise, as the cab rolled away.

"I don't understand Aunt Ju-ju at all," Carolyn interpolated crossly. She had not been in the habit of packing her aunt's bag. "She usually makes such a fuss about starting to go anywhere—days ahead, in fact. And now at fifteen minutes' notice! And her best gown!"

"It makes a difference, having a man to run it," said the novelist sagely.

When two days had passed and their aunt had not yet appeared, her nieces were not unnecessarily alarmed, for her attachment to her old home was great, and it required no unusual degree of imagination to picture her delighted lingering over the old things, her purposely prolonged transaction of business details. But four days of unexplained absence had its effect upon their own little ménage; and when a week's visit had been accomplished and their beseeching letters had elicited only vague postal cards explaining nothing, but suggesting their presence at the farm, they became convinced of the necessity for action on their part, and went, more or less in the presumable spirit of the mountain in search of the fractious Prophet.

Tired and cross after four hours' travel on an incredibly hot 1st of April, they walked sternly up the board walk that led to the old-style porch, to be greeted by their cousin, who sat in snowy shirtsleeves, tilted back in his chair against the house, smoking his fat, dark cigar.

"Welcome home,