“He didn’t announce the exact date of[70] arrival,” replied Miss India. “But probably within a day or two. I have ordered Phœbe to prepare the West Chamber for him. He will, of course, require a warm room and a good bed.”

[70]

“But, Auntie, the carpet is so awful in the West Room,” deplored Holly.

“That is his affair,” replied Aunt India, serenely, as she arose from the table. “It is his carpet.”

Holly looked surprised, then startled.

“Do you mean that everything here belongs to him?” she asked, incredulously. “The furniture and pictures and books and—and everything?”

“Waynewood was sold just as it stood at the time, my dear. Everything except what is our personal property belongs to Mr. Winthrop.”

“Then I shall hate him,” said Holly, with calm decision.

“You must do nothing of the sort, my dear. The place and the furnishings belong to him legally.”

“I don’t care, Auntie. He has no right[71] to them. I shall hate him. Why, he owns the very bed I sleep in and my maple bureau and——”

[71]

“You forget, Holly, that those things were bought after your father died and do not belong to his estate.”

“Then they’re really mine, after all? Very well, Auntie dear, I shan’t hate him, then; at least, not so much.”

“I trust you will not hate him at all,” responded Miss India, with a smile. “Being an invalid, as he is, we must——”

“Shucks!” exclaimed Holly. “I dare say he’s just making believe so we won’t put poison in his coffee!”

In the middle of the afternoon, what time Miss India composed herself to slumber and silence reigned over Waynewood, Holly found a book and sought the fig-tree. The book, for having been twice read, proved none too enthralling, and presently it had dropped unheeded to the ground and Holly, leaning comfortably back against the branches, was day-dreaming once more. The sound of footsteps on the garden path[72] roused her, and she peered forth just as the intruder began his half circuit of the rose-bed.

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