e them to go almost at once. He would
make it worth their while.

He was just going to lift the latch of the gate when the front door
opened and shut, and Jean Jardine came down the flagged path. She
stopped at the gate and looked at Peter Reid.

"Were you by any chance coming in?" she asked.

"Yes," said Mr. Reid; "I was going to ask if I might see over the
house."

"Surely," said Jean. "But--you're not going to buy it, are you?"

The face she turned to him was pink and distressed.

"Did you think of buying it yourself?" Peter Reid asked.

"_Me_? You wouldn't ask that if you knew how little money I have. But
come in. I shall try to think of all its faults to tell you--but in my
eyes it hasn't got any."

They went slowly up the flagged path and into the square, low-roofed
hall. This was not as his mother had it. Then the floor had been covered
with linoleum on which had stood two hard chairs and an umbrella-stand.
Now there was an oak chest and a gate-table, old brass very well rubbed
up, a grandfather clock with a "clear" face, and a polished floor with a
Chinese rug on it.

"It is rather dark," said Jean, "but I like it dark. Coming in on a hot
summer day it is almost like a pool; it is so cool and dark and
polished." Mr. Reid said nothing, and Jean was torn between a desire to
have her home appreciated and a desire to have this stranger take an
instant dislike to it, and to leave it speedily and for ever.

"You see," she pointed out, "the little staircase is rather steep and
winding, but it is short; and the bedrooms are charming--not very big,
but so prettily shaped and with lovely views." Then she remembered that
she should miscall rather than praise, and added, "Of course, they have
all got queer ceilings; you couldn't expect anything else in a cottage.
Will you go upstairs?"

Mr. Reid thought not, and asked if he might see the sitting-rooms.
"This," said Jean, opening a door, "is the dining-room."

It was the room his mother had always sat in, where the horsehair
arm-chair had had its home, but it, too, had suffered a change. Gone was
the arm-chair, gone the round table with the crimson cover. This room
had an austerity unknown in the room he remembered. It was small, and
every inch of space was made the most of. An old Dutch dresser held
china and acted as a sideboard; a bare oak table, having in its centre a
large blue bowl filled with berries and red leaves, stood in the middle
of the room; eigh