The only remark he made was in answer to a look of surprise on my face when I peered curiously into the bare hall and made a cursory mental inventory of its contents.

“Yes, colonel; you will find, I regret to say, some slight changes since the old days.  Then, too, my home is in slight confusion owin’ to the spring cleanin’, and a good many things have been put away.”

I looked to Jack for explanation, but if that thoroughbred knew where the major had permanently put the last batch of his furniture, he, too, gave no outward sign.

As for the servants, were there not old Rachel and Sam, chef and valet?  What more could one want?  The major’s voice, too, had lost none of its persuasive powers.

“Here, Sam, you black imp, carry yo’ Marster Jack’s gun and things to my room, and, Rachel, take the colonel’s bag to the sea-room, next to the dinin’-hall.  Breakfast in an hour, gentlemen, as Mrs. Slocomb used to say.”

I found only a bed covered with a quilt, an old table with small drawers, a wash-stand, two chairs, and a desk on three legs.  The walls were bare except for a fly-stained map yellow with age.  As I passed through the sitting-room, Rachel preceding me with my traps, I caught a glimpse of traces of better times.  There was a plain wooden mantelpiece, a wide fireplace with big brass andirons, a sideboard with and without brass handles and a limited number of claw feet,—­which if brought under the spell of the scraper and varnish-pot might once more regain its lost estate,—­a corner-cupboard built into the wall, half full of fragments of old china, and, to do justice to the major’s former statement, there was also a pair of dull old mahogany doors with glass knobs separating the room from some undiscovered unknown territory of bareness and emptiness beyond.  These, no doubt, were the doors Anthony threw open for the bevies of beauties so picturesquely described by the major, but where were the Chippendale furniture, the George III. silver, the Italian marble mantels with carved lions’ heads, the marquetry floors and cabinets?

I determined to end my mental suspense.  I would ask Rachel and get at the facts.  The old woman was opening the windows, letting in the fresh breath of a honeysuckle, and framing a view of the sea beyond.

“How long have you lived here, aunty?”

“’Most fo’ty years, sah.  Long ‘fo’ Massa John Talbot died.”

“Where’s old Anthony?” I said.

“What Anthony?  De fust major’s body-servant?”

“Yes.”

“Go ’long, honey.  He’s daid dese twenty years.  Daid two years ‘fo’ Massa Slocomb married Mis’ Talbot.”

“And Anthony never waited at all on Major Slocomb?”

“How could he wait on him, honey, when he daid ‘fo’ he see him?”

I pondered for a moment over the picturesque quality of the major’s mendacity.

Was it, then, only another of the major’s tributes to his wife,—­this whole story of Anthony and the madeira of ’39?  How he must have loved this dear relict of his military predecessor!