"Has nobody lived here since?"
Deacon Whittle cast an impatient glance at Wesley Elliot, who stood
with his eyes fixed broodingly on the dusty floor.
"Wal," said he. "There'd have been plenty of folks glad enough to
live here; but the house wa'n't really suited to our kind o' folks.
It wa'n't a farm--there being only twenty acres going with it. And
you see the house is different to what folks in moderate
circumstances could handle. Nobody had the cash to buy it, an' ain't
had, all these years. It's a pity to see a fine old property like
this a-going down, all for the lack of a few hundreds. But if you was
to buy it, ma'am, I could put it in shape fer you, equal to the best,
and at a figure-- Wall; I tell ye, it won't cost ye what some folks'd
think."
"Didn't that man--the banker who stole--everybody's money, I
mean--didn't he have any family?" asked Lydia, still without turning
her head. "I suppose he--he died a long time ago?"
"I see the matter of th' title's worrying you, ma'am," said Deacon
Whittle briskly. "I like to see a female cautious in a business way:
I do, indeed. And 'tain't often you see it, neither. Now, I'll tell
_you_--"
"Wouldn't it be well to show Miss Orr some more desirable property,
Deacon?" interposed Wesley Elliot. "It seems to me--"
"Oh, I shall buy the house," said the girl at the window, quickly.
She turned and faced the two men, her delicate head thrown back, a
clear color staining her pale cheeks.
"I shall buy it," she repeated.
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