This house was the abode of intelligence, cultivated taste, and opulence.  It was probably the finest mansion of the town.  In every room there were things to see, and after supper we looked at them, and, as I wandered from pictures to vases and carved ivory, the remarks of the two elder ladies and Miss Willoughby seemed like a harmonized chorus accompanying the rest of the performance.  Each spoke at the right time, each in her turn said the thing she ought to say.  It was a rare exhibition of hospitable enthusiasm, tempered by sympathetic consideration for me and for each other.

I soon discovered that many of the water-color drawings on the walls were the work of Miss Willoughby, and when she saw I was interested in them she produced a portfolio of her sketches.  I liked her coloring very much.  It was sometimes better than her drawing.  It was dainty, delicate, and suggestive.  One picture attracted me the moment my eyes fell upon it; it was one of the most carefully executed, and it represented the Holly Sprig Inn.

“You recognize that!” said Miss Willoughby, evidently pleased.  “You see that light-colored spot in the portico?  That’s Mrs. Chester; she stood there when I was making the drawing.  It is nothing but two or three little dabs, but that is the way she looked at a distance.  Around on this side is the corner of the yard where the bear tried to eat up the tire of your bicycle.”

I gazed and gazed at the little light-colored spot in the portico.  I gave it form, light, feeling.  I could see perfect features, blue eyes which looked out at me, a form of simple grace.

[Illustration:  “‘I held that picture A good while’”]

I held that picture a good while, saying little, and scarcely listening to Miss Willoughby’s words.  At last I felt obliged to replace it in the portfolio.  If the artist had been a poor girl, I would have offered to buy it; if I had known her better, I would have asked her to give it to me; but I could do nothing but put it back.

Glancing at the clock I saw that it was time for me to go, but when I announced this fact the ladies very much demurred.  Why should I go to that uncomfortable hotel?  They would send for my baggage.  There was not the least reason in the world why I should spend the night in that second-rate establishment.

“See,” said Mrs. Willoughby, opening the door of a room in the rear of the parlor, “if you will stay with us to-night we will lodge you in the chamber of the favored guest.  All the pictures on the walls were done by my daughter.”

I looked into the room.  It was the most charming and luxurious bedroom I had ever seen.  It was lighted, and the harmony of its furnishings was a treat to the eye.

But I stood firm in my purpose to depart.  I would not spend the night in that house.  There would be a fire, burglars, I knew not what!  Against all kind entreaties I urged the absolute necessity of my starting away by the very break of day, and I could not disturb a private family by any such proceeding.  They saw that I was determined to go, and they allowed me to depart.