“It would be delightful,” responded Dorothy.  “When I was a child, it was one of my dreams that that house was my papa’s—­with the wild garden and all the fruit, and the terrible lake, and the ghost of the lady that goes about in the sack she was drowned in.  But would you really buy it, father, if you could get it?”

“I think I should, Dorothy,” answered Mr. Drake.

“Would it not be damp—­so much in the hollow?  Is it not the lowest spot in the park?”

“In the park—­yes; for the park drains into it.  But the park lies high; and you must note that the lake, deep as it is—­very deep, yet drains into the Lythe.  For all they say of no bottom to it, I am nearly sure the deepest part of the lake is higher than the surface of the river.  If I am right, then we could, if we pleased, empty the lake altogether—­not that I should like the place nearly so well without it.  The situation is charming—­and so sheltered!—­looking full south—­just the place to keep open house in!”

“That is just like you, father!” cried Dorothy, clapping her hands once and holding them together as she looked up at him.  “The very day you are out of prison, you want to begin to keep an open house!—­Dear father!”

“Don’t mistake me, my darling.  There was a time, long ago, after your mother was good enough to marry me, when—­I am ashamed to confess it even to you, my child—­I did enjoy making a show.  I wanted people to see, that, although I was a minister of a sect looked down upon by the wealthy priests of a worldly establishment, I knew how to live after the world’s fashion as well as they.  That time you will scarcely recall, Dorothy?”

“I remember the coachman’s buttons,” answered Dorothy.

“Well!  I suppose it will be the same with not a few times and circumstances we may try to recall in the other world.  Some insignificant thing will be all, and fittingly too, by which we shall be able to identify them.—­I liked to give nice dinner parties, and we returned every invitation we accepted.  I took much pains to have good wines, and the right wines with the right dishes, and all that kind of thing—­though I dare say I made more blunders than I knew.  Your mother had been used to that way of living, and it was no show in her as it was in me.  Then I was proud of my library and the rare books in it.  I delighted in showing them, and talking over the rarity of this edition, the tallness of that copy, the binding, and such-like follies.  And where was the wonder, seeing I served religion so much in the same way—­descanting upon the needlework that clothed the king’s daughter, instead of her inward glory!  I do not say always, for I had my better times.  But how often have I not insisted on the mint and anise and cummin, and forgotten the judgment, mercy and faith!  How many sermons have I not preached about the latchets of Christ’s shoes, when I might have been talking about Christ himself!  But now I do not want a