Miss Ruston leaned forward to the window as she spoke, drew aside the thin curtain which swayed there in the summer breeze, and pointed across the street.  “Isn’t there a little old cottage, back in there somewhere, in a tangle of old-fashioned flowers?  It doesn’t show from here, I see, but from below I caught just a glimpse of its unimposing dimensions.  The sign is on the gate, in the hedge.  It’s simply perfect that the place should have a hedge!”

“Evidently you didn’t inspect it very closely, Charlotte dear.  It’s a most forlorn little old place, and much run down.  Two old ladies have lived there all their lives, and have died there within the year.  They would never sell, although, as you see, the neighbourhood all about is built up with modern houses—­all except our own.  This house is quite old, I believe, too.”

“Two old ladies lived and died there, did they?” mused Charlotte Ruston.  “Their gentle ghosts won’t trouble us, and Granny will delight in that garden.  What a background for an outdoor studio!  Do let’s go over and explore the place, will you?”

As they crossed the street the newcomer was using her eyes with eager observation.  “It’s a fine old street,” she said, “with all these beautiful trees.  What a pity it is mostly so modern in the matter of architecture!  I wonder if the people in those houses will think me out of my head, to begin with, because I choose this quaint little dwelling-place.  I shall choose it, Len, if I can get it, I warn you.”

With some difficulty they opened the gate in the hedge, and proceeded up the path of moss-grown stones to the house, set so far back from the street that it was nearly concealed by the growth of untrimmed shrubbery, old rose-bushes heavy with pink and white roses, lilac trees, and barberry-bushes.

“Of all the dear, queer, little front porches!” Miss Ruston cried, setting her exploring foot on a porch floor which promptly sagged beneath her weight.  She threw a quizzical glance at her companion.  “Even though the roof falls in on my head, and the walls sway as I pass by, I must have this house—­if it is dry!  Of course I can’t bring Granny to a damp house.  Putting in my skylight and shingling the rest of the roof will take care of dampness from above, but I must look after the floors and foundations.  Who owns it, and how can we get in?”

An hour later the key had been obtained from the astonished owner, an inhabitant of one of the modern houses near by and a nephew of the former occupants, and the place had been thoroughly gone over.  It was examined by a future tenant who made light of all the real drawbacks to the place—­as the owner secretly considered them—­but who demanded absolutely water-tight conditions as the price of her rent.  As she was willing to pay what seemed to the landlord an extraordinary rent—­though he carefully concealed his feelings on this point—­he somewhat grudgingly agreed to put in the skylight and shingle the roof.