no story to start anywhere on,
even in broad daylight; so we had another.

We were taken into the drawing-room and there, sharing honours with the
portraits, was a little gold ring hanging high from the chandelier
rosette. While not a work of art like one of the canvases on the wall,
it has its own sufficient charm--it is a mystery. The dainty gold band
has hung above the heads of generations of Harrisons, and somewhere in
the long line its story has been lost. Who placed the ring where it
hangs, and whether in joy or in grief, nobody longer knows. But it will
swing safely there while Brandon stands, for in this ancient house,
down the ages undisturbed, come the mysteries and the ghosts.

That evening a wind came up and rain set in from a depressing
dark-blue-calico sky. Gadabout did not take the trouble to run back
into her creek harbour; but put down a heavier anchor and made herself
comfortable for the night in the cove above the Brandon pier. The
cradling boat and the patter upon the roof soon put us to sleep. Then
something put us very wide awake again. We listened, but there was
nothing to hear. The wind had died out and the boat had stopped
rolling. In a moment, the long blast of a steamer whistle told what was
the matter. In blanket-robe and slippers, the Commodore got quickly to
a window, and found the river world all gone--swallowed up in fog.

[Illustration: A CORNER IN THE DINING--ROOM.]

[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM FIREPLACE.]

Another weird, warning call out of the mysterious, impenetrable mist;
the steamer for Richmond was groping her way up the river. To be sure,
anchored as we were so far inshore of the channel, we were well clear
of the steamer's course; but in such heavy fogs the river boats often
go astray. As succeeding blasts sounded nearer, the Commodore became
anxious and, without waiting to turn out the crew, he started for the
fog-bell.

But where was the fog-bell? Not where it ought to be, we well knew.
Some changes in the cockpit had crowded it from its place, and for some
time it had been stowed away--but where? The Commodore scurried from
locker to locker.

"Couldn't we just as well whistle?" asked Nautica.

"No, no. A boat under way whistles in a fog, but one at anchor must
ring a bell."

One more locker, and, "I've found it!" triumphantly cried the
Commodore; but then, in dismay, "There goes the tongue out of the
thing."

Suddenly came another blast from the steamer. She