The girl felt a sudden pity.  Her Aunt Ann Eliza Dix had been lying in her grave for ten years, but she could not contradict the poor man.  “Of course,” she said.  “How do you do?”

The old man’s face lit up.  “I knew I was right,” he said.  “I forget, you see, sometimes, but this time I was sure.  How are you, Ann Eliza?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“How is Cephas?”

“He is well, too.”

“And your father?”

Ellen shivered a little.  It was rather bewildering.  This strange old man must mean her grandfather, who had died before her Aunt Ann Eliza.  She replied faintly that he was well, and hoped, with a qualm of ghastly mirth, that she was speaking the truth.  Ellen’s grandfather had not been exactly a godly man, and the family seldom mentioned him.

“He means well, Ann Eliza, if sometimes you don’t exactly like the way he does,” said the living old man, excusing the dead one for the faults of his life.

“I know he does,” said Ellen.  The desire to laugh grew upon her.

She was relieved when the stranger changed the subject.  She felt that she would become hysterical if this forcible resurrection of her dead relatives continued.

“Do you like an automobile?” asked the old man.

“I don’t know, I never had one.”

The stranger looked at her confidingly.  “My daughter has one,” he said, “and I know she bought it for me, and she has me taken out in it, but I am afraid.  It goes too fast.  I can’t get over being afraid.  But you won’t tell her, will you, Ann Eliza?”

“Of course I won’t.”

Ellen continued to gaze at him, but she did not speak.

“Let me see, what is your name, my dear?” the man went on.  He was leaning on his stick, and Ellen noticed that he trembled slightly, as though with weakness.  He breathed hard.  The veinous hands folded on top of the stick were almost as white as his ears.

“My name is Ellen Dix,” she said.

“Dix—­Dix?” repeated the man.  “Why, I know that name, certainly, of course!  You must be the daughter of Cephas Dix.  Odd name, Cephas, eh?”

Ellen nodded, her eyes still busy with the details of the stranger’s appearance.  She was sure she had never seen him before, yet he knew her father’s name.

“My father has been dead a long time,” she said; “ever since I was a little girl.”

The man appeared singularly disquieted by this intelligence.  “I hadn’t heard that,” he said.  “Dead—­a long time?  Well!”

He scowled, flourishing his stick as if to pass on; then settled to his former posture, his pale hands folded on its handsome gold top.

“Cephas Dix wasn’t an old man,” he muttered, as if talking to himself.  “Not old.  He should be hale and hearty, living in this good country air.  Wonderful air this, my dear.”

And he drew a deep breath, his wandering gaze returning swiftly to the girl’s face.