ined my arrangement with Antoine he
still lingered.

"Tony's against the wife and me," he said mournfully. "It's the war,
sorr, and she and me that lile, sorr, the American flag floats from the
garage every day. And if a heart can be lile, Elsie's as true to America
as though she was born in Boston State-house."

"I believe you, Flynn," I said, touched by his earnestness. "Don't you
worry about Antoine and the rest of them; they're just a little nervous;
I'll see what I can do to straighten things out."

As I went about my unpacking I was sorry that I had discouraged
Antoine's confidences. That these old hotel servants, flung upon a farm
with little to do, should fall to quarrelling was not surprising, but
what he had said as to the inquiries for Mrs. Bashford had roused my
curiosity. In spite of my legal right to live on the farm, I had no
intention of remaining if my uncle's widow turned up. Alone on the
estate I could lodge in the garage without any loss of dignity, but with
an aunt on the premises my status would be decidedly uncomfortable. She
could hardly fail to regard me as an intruding poor relation, no matter
how strictly I kept to my own quarters. It was possible that she might
even confuse me with the veterans of the Tyringham, and, while I am no
snob, I did not relish the idea of being classed by a strange aunt with
a crowd of broken-down hotel employees.

I whistled myself into good humor as I dressed and started for the house
along the driveway, which followed the shore, veering off for a look at
the sunken garden, one of the few features of the place that had ever
interested my uncle.

As I paused on the steps I caught sight of a man sitting dejectedly on a
stone bench near a fountain whose jet tossed and caught a ball with
languid iteration. I had identified him as an old Tyringham bell-hop,
known familiarly as Dutch, before he heard my step and sprang to his
feet, grabbing a pitchfork whose prongs he presented threateningly.

"Oh, it's you, sir," he faltered, dropping the implement. "Excuse me,
sir!"

"What's your trouble, Dutch? You're not expecting burglars, are you?"

"Well, no, sir, but things on the place ain't what they wuz. It's my
name, which ain't my name, not reg'lar, that's caused feelin'. They've
drove me out, an' I'm campin' in the tool-house. An' me born right there
in New York an' American clean through. My grandpap came across when he
wuz a kid, but it ain't my fault he wuz Goi