“Are we there?  Why don’t you say anything?”

Felicia said nothing because she could not trust her voice.  Kirk knew every shade of it; she could not deceive him.  Gaunt and gray the “fine old farm-house” stood its ground before them.  Old it assuredly was, and once fine, perhaps, as its solid square chimneys and mullioned windows attested.  But oh, the gray grimness of it! the sagging shutter that creaked, the burdocks that choked the stone door-step, the desolate wind that surged in the orchard trees and would not be still!

Ken did what Felicia could not do.  He laughed—­a real laugh, and swept Kirk into warm, familiar arms.

“It’s a big, jolly, fine old place!” he said.  “Its windows twinkle merrily, and the front door is only waiting for the key I have in my pocket.  We’ve got home, Quirk—­haven’t we, Phil?”

Felicia blessed Ken.  She almost fancied that the windows did twinkle kindly.  The big front door swung open without any discourteous hesitation, and Ken stood in the hall.

“Phew—­dark!” he said.  “Wait here, you fellows, while I get some shutters open.”

They could hear his footsteps sound hollowly in the back rooms, and shafts of dusky light, preceded by hammerings and thumpings, began presently to band the inside of the house.  Felicia stepped upon the painted floor of the bare hall, glanced up the narrow stairs, and then stood in the musty, half-lit emptiness of what she guessed to be the living-room, waiting for Ken.  Kirk did not explore.  He stood quite still beside his sister, sorting out sounds, analyzing smells.  Ken came in, very dusty, rubbing his hands on his trousers.

“Lots of fireplaces, anyway,” he said.  “Put down your things—­if you’ve anywhere to put ’em.  I’ll load all the duffle into this room and see if there’s any wood in the woodshed.  Glory!  No beds, no blankets!  There’ll have to be wood, if the orchard primeval is sacrificed!” And he went, whistling blithely.

“This is an adventure,” Felicia whispered dramatically to Kirk.  “We’ve never had a real one before; have we?”

“Oh, it’s nice!” Kirk cried suddenly.  “It’s low and still, and—­the house wants us, Phil!”

“The house wants us,” murmured Felicia.  “I believe that’s going to help me.”

It was quite the queerest supper that the three had ever cooked or eaten.  Perhaps “cooked” is not exactly the right word for what happened to the can of peas and the can of baked beans.  Ken did find wood—­not in the woodshed, but strewing the orchard grass; hard old apple-wood, gray and tough.  It burned merrily enough in the living-room fireplace, and the chimney responded with a hollow rushing as the hot air poured into it.

“It makes it seem as if there were something alive here besides us, anyway,” Felicia said.

They were all sitting on the hearth, warming their fingers, and when the apple-wood fire burned down to coals that now and again spurted short-lived flame, they set the can of peas and the can of baked beans among the embers.  They turned them gingerly from time to time with two sticks, and laughed a great deal.  The laughter echoed about in the empty stillness of the house.