ent his way, recognizing
the house by certain details given him by the minister, a double
balconied veranda, some red rockers, two yellow jardinieres at the
doorstep, a greyish white picket fence and gate. He walked up smartly
and rang the bell. A very intelligent woman of perhaps fifty-five or
sixty with bright grey hair and clear light blue eyes was coming out
with a book in her hand. Eugene stated his case. She listened with keen
interest, looking him over the while. His appearance took her fancy, for
she was of a strong intellectual and literary turn of mind.

"I wouldn't ordinarily consider anything of the kind, but I am alone
here with my nephew and the house could easily accommodate a dozen. I
don't want to do anything which will irritate him, but if you will come
back in the morning I will let you know. It would not disturb me to have
you about. Do you happen to know of an artist by the name of Deesa?"

"I know him well," replied Eugene. "He's an old friend of mine."

"He is a friend of my daughter's, I think. Have you enquired anywhere
else here in the village?"

"No," said Eugene.

"That is just as well," she replied.

He took the hint.

So there was no daughter here. Well, what matter? The view was
beautiful. Of an evening he could sit out here in one of the rocking
chairs and look at the water. The evening sun, already low in the west
was burnishing it a bright gold. The outline of the hill on the other
side was dignified and peaceful. He could sleep and work as a day
laborer and take life easy for a while. He could get well now and this
was the way to do it. Day laborer! How fine, how original, how
interesting. He felt somewhat like a knight-errant reconnoitring a new
and very strange world.

CHAPTER XX

The matter of securing admission to this house was quickly settled. The
nephew, a genial, intelligent man of thirty-four, as Eugene discovered
later, had no objection. It appeared to Eugene that in some way he
contributed to the support of this house, though Mrs. Hibberdell
obviously had some money of her own. A charmingly furnished room on the
second floor adjoining one of the several baths was assigned him, and he
was at once admitted to the freedom of the house. There were books, a
piano (but no one to play it), a hammock, a maid-of-all-work, and an
atmosphere of content and peace. Mrs. Hibberdell, a widow, presumably of
some years of widowhood, was of that experience and judgment in l