than ever when I beheld it in the morning light. I opened one of the French windows and stepped out on a stone terrace, where I gained a fair view of the exterior of the house, which proved to be a modified Tudor, with battlements and two towers. One of the latter was only half-finished, and to it and to other parts of the house the workmen’s scaffolding still clung. Heaps of stone and piles of lumber were scattered about in great disorder. The house extended partly along the edge of a ravine, through which a slender creek ran toward the lake. The terrace became a broad balcony immediately outside the library, and beneath it the water bubbled pleasantly around heavy stone pillars. Two pretty rustic bridges spanned the ravine, one near the front entrance, the other at the rear. My grandfather had begun his house on a generous plan, but, buried as it was among the trees, it suffered from lack of perspective. However, on one side toward the lake was a fair meadow, broken by a water-tower, and just beyond the west dividing wall I saw a little chapel; and still farther, in the same direction, the outlines of the buildings of St. Agatha’s were vaguely perceptible in another strip of woodland.
The thought of gentle nuns and school-girls as neighbors amused me. All I asked was that they should keep to their own side of the wall.
I heard behind me the careful step of Bates.
“Good morning, Mr. Glenarm. I trust you rested quite well, sir.”
His figure was as austere, his tone as respectful and colorless as by night. The morning light gave him a pallid cast. He suffered my examination coolly enough; his eyes were, indeed, the best thing about him.
“This is what Mr. Glenarm called the platform. I believe it’s in Hamlet, sir.”
I laughed aloud. “Elsinore: A Platform Before the Castle.”
“It was one of Mr. Glenarm’s little fancies, you might call it, sir.”
“And the ghost, — where does the murdered majesty of Denmark lie by day?”
“I fear it wasn’t provided, sir! As you see, Mr. Glenarm, the house is quite incomplete. My late master had not carried out all his plans.”
Bates did not smile. I fancied he never smiled, and I wondered whether John Marshall Glenarm had played upon the man’s lack of humor. My grandfather had been possessed of a certain grim, ironical gift at jesting, and quite likely he had amused himself by experimenting upon his serving man.
“You may breakfast when you like, sir,” — and thus admonished I went into the refectory.
A newspaper lay at my plate; it was the morning’s issue of a Chicago daily. I was, then, not wholly out of the world, I reflected, scanning the head-lines.
“Your grandfather rarely examined the paper. Mr. Glenarm was more particularly interested in the old times. He wasn’t what you might call up to date, — if you will pardon the expression, sir.”
“You are quite right about that, Bates. He was a medievalist in his sympathies.”
“Thank you for that word, sir; I’ve frequently heard him apply it to himself. The plain omelette was a great favorite with your grandfather. I hope it is to your liking, sir.”
“It’s excellent, Bates. And your coffee is beyond praise.”
“Thank you, Mr. Glenarm. One does what one can, sir.”
He had placed me so that I faced the windows, an attention to my comfort and safety which I appreciated. The broken pane told the tale of the shot that had so narrowly missed me the night before.
“I’ll repair that to-day, sir,” Bates remarked, seeing my eyes upon the window.
“You know that I’m to spend a year on this place; I assume that you understand the circumstances,” I said, feeling it wise that we should understand each other.
“Quite so, Mr. Glenarm.”
“I’m a student, you know, and all I want is to be left alone.”
This I threw in to reassure myself rather than for his information. It was just as well, I reflected, to assert a little authority, even though the fellow undoubtedly represented Pickering and received orders from him.
“In a day or two, or as soon as I have got used to the place, I shall settle down to work in the library. You may give me breakfast at seven-thirty; luncheon at one-thirty and dinner at seven.”
“Those were my late master’s hours, sir.”
“Very good. And I’ll eat anything you please, except mutton broth, meat pie and canned strawberries. Strawberries in tins, Bates, are not well calculated to lift the spirit of man.”
“I quite agree with you, sir, if you will pardon my opinion.”
“And the bills — ”
“They are provided for by Mr. Pickering. He sends me an allowance for the household expenses.”
“So you are to report to him, are you, as heretofore?”
I blew out a match with which I had lighted a cigar and watched the smoking end intently.
“I believe that’s the idea, sir.”
It is not pleasant to be under compulsion, — to feel your freedom curtailed, to be conscious of espionage. I rose without a word and went into the hall.
“You may like to have the keys,” said Bates, following me. “There’s two for the gates in the outer wall and one for the St. Agatha’s gate; they’re marked, as you see. And here’s the hall-door key and the boat-house key that you asked for last night.”
After an hour spent in unpacking I went out into the grounds. I had thought it well to wire Pickering of my arrival, and I set out for Annandale to send him a telegram. My spirit lightened under the influences of the crisp air and cheering sunshine. What had seemed strange and shadowy at night was clear enough by day.
I found the gate through which we had entered the grounds the night before without difficulty. The stone wall was assuredly no flimsy thing. It was built in a thoroughly workmanlike manner, and I mentally computed its probable cost with amazement. There were, I reflected, much more satisfactory ways of spending money than in building walls around Indiana forests. But the place was mine, or as good as mine, and there was no manner of use in quarreling with the whims of my dead grandfather. At the expiration of a year I could tear down the wall if I pleased; and as to the incomplete house, that I should sell or remodel to my liking.
On the whole, I settled into an amiable state of mind; my perplexity over the shot of the night before was passing away under the benign influences of blue sky and warm sunshine. A few farm-folk passed me in the highway and gave me good morning in the fashion of the country, inspecting my knickerbockers at the same time with frank disapproval. I reached the lake and gazed out upon its quiet waters with satisfaction. At the foot of Annandale’s main street was a dock where several small steam-craft and a number of catboats were being dismantled for the winter. As I passed, a man approached the dock in a skiff, landed and tied his boat. He started toward the village at a quick pace, but turned and eyed me with rustic directness.
“Good morning!” I said. “Any ducks about?”
He paused, nodded and fell into step with me.
“No, — not enough to pay for the trouble.”
“I’m sorry for that. I’d hoped to pick up a few.”
“I guess you’re a stranger in these parts,” he remarked, eying me again, — my knickerbockers no doubt marking me as an alien.
“Quite so. My name is Glenarm, and I’ve just come.”
“I thought you might be him. We’ve rather been expecting you here in the village. I’m John Morgan, caretaker of the resorters’ houses up the lake.”
“I suppose you all knew my grandfather hereabouts.”
“Well, yes; you might say as we did, or you might