In the February of the year of which I write, Washington, celebrating his birthday as usual, gave all American students their usual chance to celebrate with him.  Celebrations were temptations incarnate to Jack, and he was feeling frowningly what a clog Aunt Mary’s latest epistle was upon his joys, when his friend came to the rescue with an invitation to spend the double holiday (it doubled that year—­Sunday, you know) at the brand-new ancestral castle which Burnett pere had just finished building for his descendants.  It may be imagined that Jack accepted the invitation with alacrity, and that his never-very-downcast heart bounded gleefully higher than usual over the prospect of two days of pleasure in the country.

It is not necessary to state where the castle of the Burnetts was erected, but it was in a beautiful region, and the monthly magazines had written it up and called it an architectural triumph.  The owner fully agreed with the monthly magazines, and his pride found vent in a house-warming which filled every guest chamber in the place.

The festivities were in full swing before the youngest son and his friend arrived; and when the dog-cart, which brought them from the station, drew up under the mighty porte-cochere with its four stone lions, rampant in four different directions, Jack felt one of those delicious thrills which run through one under particularly hopeful and buoyant circumstances.

“It’s like walking in a novel,” his friend said; as they entered under some heavy draperies which the footman pushed aside and found a tiny spiral staircase, which wound its way aloft in a style that Jack liked immensely and the latter agreed with all his heart.

The staircase led them to the third floor and when they emerged therefrom they found themselves in a big semi-circular billiard room, with a fireplace at each end large enough to put one of the tables in, and cues and counters and stools and divans and smoking utensils sufficient for a regiment.

“I tell you, this is the way to do things,” exclaimed Burnett; “isn’t it jolly?  Time of your life, old man, time of your life!—­And, oh, by the way,” he said, suddenly interrupting himself, “I wonder if my sister’s got here yet!”

“Which sister?” Jack inquired; for his friend was one of a very large family, and he had met several of them on their various visits to town.

“Betty—­the one who beats all the others hollow,”—­but just there the conversation was broken off by the servants coming up with the luggage and setting two doors open that showed them two big rooms, both exquisitely furnished, and both with windows that looked out, first on to a stone balustrade, and secondly on to a superb view over the river and the mountains beyond.

The men unstrapped the things and went away, leaving such a plenitude of comfort behind them as led Jack to fling himself into the most luxurious chair in the room and stretch his arms and legs far and wide in utter contentment.