The minister included Lydia Orr in the genial warmth of his smile as he replied: 

“I had a special call into the country this morning, and seeing your conveyance hitched to the trees outside, Deacon, I thought I’d step in.  I’m not sure it’s altogether safe for all of us to be standing in the middle of this big room, though.  Sills pretty well rotted out—­eh, Deacon?”

“Sound as an oak,” snarled the Deacon.  “As I was telling th’ young lady, there ain’t no better built house anywheres ’round than this one.  Andrew Bolton didn’t spare other folks’ money when he built it—­no, sir! It’s good for a hundred years yet, with trifling repairs.”

“Who owns the house now?” asked Lydia unexpectedly.  She had walked over to one of the long windows opening on a rickety balcony and stood looking out.

“Who owns it?” echoed Deacon Whittle.  “Well, now, we can give you a clear title, ma’am, when it comes to that; sound an’ clear.  You don’t have to worry none about that.  You see it was this way; dunno as anybody’s mentioned it in your hearing since you come to Brookville; but we use to have a bank here in Brookville, about eighteen years ago, and—­”

“Yes, Ellen Dix told me,” interrupted Lydia Orr, without turning her head.  “Has nobody lived here since?”

Deacon Whittle cast an impatient glance at Wesley Elliot, who stood with his eyes fixed broodingly on the dusty floor.

“Wal,” said he.  “There’d have been plenty of folks glad enough to live here; but the house wa’n’t really suited to our kind o’ folks.  It wa’n’t a farm—­there being only twenty acres going with it.  And you see the house is different to what folks in moderate circumstances could handle.  Nobody had the cash to buy it, an’ ain’t had, all these years.  It’s a pity to see a fine old property like this a-going down, all for the lack of a few hundreds.  But if you was to buy it, ma’am, I could put it in shape fer you, equal to the best, and at a figure—­ Wall; I tell ye, it won’t cost ye what some folks’d think.”

“Didn’t that man—­the banker who stole—­everybody’s money, I mean—­didn’t he have any family?” asked Lydia, still without turning her head.  “I suppose he—­he died a long time ago?”

“I see the matter of th’ title’s worrying you, ma’am,” said Deacon Whittle briskly.  “I like to see a female cautious in a business way:  I do, indeed.  And ’tain’t often you see it, neither.  Now, I’ll tell you—­”

“Wouldn’t it be well to show Miss Orr some more desirable property, Deacon?” interposed Wesley Elliot.  “It seems to me—­”

“Oh, I shall buy the house,” said the girl at the window, quickly.

She turned and faced the two men, her delicate head thrown back, a clear color staining her pale cheeks.

“I shall buy it,” she repeated.  “I—­I like it very much.  It is just what I wanted—­in—­in every way.”

Deacon Whittle gave vent to a snort of astonishment.