society. After a few years, however, he gradually withdrew from his companions, became silent, morose, and lived altogether to himself. His townspeople saw him seldom, his servant making the necessary trips for supplies. He led the life of a recluse and a student. The reason for this always remained unknown. It served for many a fireside topic on winter evenings. Old men spun gossipy anecdotes concerning it, and the old ladies, romantic tales. Youth built melodramatic love stories for him, while children made of it the source of fantasy.

Finally, when he sickened and died, beside his servant, Doctor Felix Longstreet alone was with him. Unless the doctor knew, and no one dared question him, the secret of the old Frenchman's life passed with his soul. It was the physician, in compliance with the last commands of the dead gentleman, who corresponded with the heir designated by the will. This was Monsieur Jacques Picot, of Paris, whom he notified of his inheritance and the conditions attached thereto. These were, briefly: That he must come to America and occupy the house; that he could neither sell nor give the property away; that at his demise, however, he could bequeath the estate to whomever he chose. In case the Abbé Picot would not accept these conditions, everything was to revert to a more distant relative, Captain Martin Felon of the French army. It was said the original owner of the old home made these strange demands because of his desire to force all of his kith and kin from their native country. He was an intense American, and had not forgotten that his father had been a fugitive.

"Ah," cried Jean François, nodding his head with a mysterious air, "that accounts for many things.... Some day I'll take Rogue, Columbine, and Pierrett, go down among the bayous, and discover why a gentleman of the old régime lost heart. Then, maybe, I'll tell you about it.

"Meantime, my dears, don't you think it would be pretty fine for you to grow up and live in this old home as your very own? Yes?... Monsieur l'Abbé cannot live always, I know. I happen to be slightly acquainted with him. He is very kindly disposed toward you. There's no telling what he might do.

"How would it suit you, Nance Gwyn of the sun-colored hair, to one day be mistress of the mansion?"

"I am not quite certain," said she, for the old home had quite a strong hold upon the imagination of Nance as well as all the rest of Oldmeadow's children, "but I think I should take Columbine and you and the road, first, Jean François."

"First?" exclaimed the pedler, with a humorous twinkle in his eye.

"First," came the very certain reply from the jade; "for some day I mean to have them both."

CHAPTER FOUR

THE MISADVENTURE OF A CIRCUS

After a great deal of pleading, bringing to bear everything with which I was acquainted in the art of persuasion, I had succeeded in inducing Jean François to leave his happy caravan for a day and to become friends with our back yard. My family, be it understood, were dining in the country, leaving the premises to my undisputed control from early morning until late afternoon. Our pedler came with trepidation. He scented mischief of a kind which he did not find congenial. He had the greatest aversion to unexpectedly meeting people whom he did not know or did not like. Also he demanded room—the wide spaces of the open. To come about a house, or to enter an enclosure where escape would be fraught with embarrassment, was to him exceedingly painful. His apparent panic reminded me strongly of some timid, uncertainly tamed animal bravely trying to receive the caresses of human beings. Persistence prevailed, however, and he stole around the house, like someone bent upon a hopeless task, and seated himself upon the woodpile.

He looked about him with evident disapproval. Then, removing Pierrett from his mouth, he addressed her with elaborate politeness:

"Say, my sweet hussy, did you ever notice the personality of a crack in the fence? Have you ever given study to the sins of back yards?... Yes?... Just the other day I heard the old doctor say that you could tell the condition of a man's liver by the appearance of his back yard.... He's right about it."

In general esteem our back yard, if you choose to remember, was second only to the attic. The crack in the fence was its thorn in the flesh. Of course the kitchen opened onto it, or rather, it opened onto the kitchen, for this warm bread-scented producer of tarts is not to be compared in point of importance with this plot sacredly set apart for make-believers. Here, however, is a fitting place to state that for an inn the kitchen suited admirably, and Betty, though black-a-visaged as a pirate, made a very respectable Mine Host.

The right side was flanked by an impassable high board fence which Grown-ups, I have since learned, built to hide their back-yard sins from their neighbors, the Greens, who possessed a similar assortment. To us, however, it was a stockade erected by no less a personage than our comrade Daniel Boone, famous for his cigars, and served to protect us from the Indians who, in reality, were the half-dozen assorted little Greens, then on the summit of the stone age. These savages weren't at all neighborly, a thing for which we never ceased to be thankful. The really splendid part about it was that at any time, without other warning than a sudden whoop, rocks were likely to be thrown over the fence at our unsuspecting heads. Though once and a while producing a scalp wound upon our side, it was altogether a very harmless play, with just enough excitement to keep it alive. Besides, in the end, all of the stones the Greenlets ever threw away always found their way back to their side of the stockade. And what matter to any of us if it caused the mothers on either side to cease speaking except in company, and the fathers to have only a mere business bow?

In our back yard was the stable, two parts of which are worthy of mention. There was the hay-loft, reached by a steep and rickety ladder through a hole in the floor, a fine old place in which to hide from visiting dressed-up small boys whose presence was, on general principles, undesirable. Then there were great billows of hay, with sweet, breezy odors, on which one might be cast away on a pitchfork raft for days and days. Above, on the rafters, were drab-colored nests of mud-daubing martins, which easily became gulls, albatross, or distant sails, as the moment might demand.

The very best place of all, as you will hereinafter discover, was our buggy shed. The floor was nothing more than the good, hard earth. Here and there were little wallowing nests of dust made by some cheerful hen while engaged in an indolent sun-bath. On one side hung the harness, which might be pressed into service for circus purposes. Along the braces lay the monkey-wrench, hammer, nails, and delectable boxes of fascinating axle grease. The rancid smell of this yellowish-black article of lubrication is indissolubly associated with heaven-sent memories of the happiest days. True I never tried it, though I believe you once did with painful results; I always wanted to spread it on a white slice of bread and eat it. The axle grease was a cause for sin. More anon.

In the center stood our phaeton, which served from a coach and four to a low-raking revenue cutter. Behind it was the jolt wagon—so named because of a lack of springs. This caused very delightful sensations to those playing train