was a red plush
album, flanked on one side by a hideous china vase, and on the other by a
basket of wax flowers under a glass shade.

Her home-coming! How often she had dreamed of it, never for a moment
guessing that it might be like this! She had fancied a little house in a
suburb, or a cosy apartment in the city, and a lump came into her throat
as her air castle dissolved into utter ruin. She was one of those rare,
unhappy women whose natures are so finely attuned to beauty that ugliness
hurts like physical pain.

She sat down on one of the slippery haircloth chairs, facing the mantel
where the single candle threw its tiny light afar. Little by little the
room crept into shadowy relief--the melodeon in the corner, the what-not,
with its burden of incongruous ornaments, and even the easel bearing the
crayon portrait of the former mistress of the house, becoming faintly
visible.

Presently, from above the mantel, appeared eyes. Dorothy felt them first,
then looked up affrighted. From the darkness they gleamed upon her in a
way that made her heart stand still. Human undoubtedly, but not in the
least friendly, they were the eyes of one who bitterly resented the
presence of an intruder. The light flickered, then flamed up once more and
brought into view the features that belonged with the eyes.

Dorothy would have screamed, had it not been for the lump in her throat. A
step came nearer and nearer, from some distant part of the house,
accompanied by a cheery, familiar whistle. Still the stern, malicious face
held her spellbound, and even when Harlan came in with his load of wood,
she could not turn away.

"Now," he said, "we'll start a fire and hang ourselves up to dry."

"What is it?" asked Dorothy, her lips scarcely moving.

His eyes followed hers. "Uncle Ebeneezer's portrait," he answered. "Why,
Dorothy Carr! I believe you're scared!"

"I was scared," she admitted, reluctantly, after a brief silence, smiling
a little at her own foolishness. "It's so dark and gloomy in here, and you
were gone so long----"

Her voice trailed off into an indistinct murmur, but she still shuddered
in spite of herself.

"Funny old place," commented Harlan, kneeling on the hearth and laying
kindlings, log-cabin fashion, in the fireplace. "If an architect planned
it, he must have gone crazy the week before he did it."

"Or at the time. Don't, dear--wait a minute. Let's light our first fire
together."

He smiled as she slipped to