He pushed open the door and walked boldly in.
"Good-morning, Miss Orr," he exclaimed, advancing with outstretched
hand. "Good-morning, Deacon! ...Well, well! what a melancholy old
ruin this is, to be sure. I never chanced to see the interior
before."
Deacon Whittle regarded his pastor sourly from under puckered brows.
"Some s'prised to see _you_, dominie," said he. "Thought you was
generally occupied at your desk of a Friday morning."
The minister included Lydia Orr in the genial warmth of his smile as
he replied:
"I had a special call into the country this morning, and seeing your
conveyance hitched to the trees outside, Deacon, I thought I'd step
in. I'm not sure it's altogether safe for all of us to be standing in
the middle of this big room, though. Sills pretty well rotted
out--eh, Deacon?"
"Sound as an oak," snarled the Deacon. "As I was telling th' young
lady, there ain't no better built house anywheres 'round than this
one. Andrew Bolton didn't spare other folks' money when he built
it--no, _sir!_ It's good for a hundred years yet, with trifling
repairs."
"Who owns the house now?" asked Lydia unexpectedly. She had walked
over to one of the long windows opening on a rickety balcony and
stood looking out.
"Who owns it?" echoed Deacon Whittle. "Well, now, we can give you a
clear title, ma'am, when it comes to that; sound an' clear. You don't
have to worry none about that. You see it was this way; dunno as
anybody's mentioned it in your hearing since you come to Brookville;
but we use to have a bank here in Brookville, about eighteen years
ago, and--"
"Yes, Ellen Dix told me," interrupted Lydia Orr, without turning her
head.
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