Then, the house was cheap.  Unbelievably cheap.  I suspected sewerage at once, but it seemed to be in the best possible order.  Indeed, new plumbing had been put in, and extra bathrooms installed.  As old Miss Emily Benton lived there alone, with only an old couple to look after her, it looked odd to see three bathrooms, two of them new, on the second floor.  Big tubs and showers, although little old Miss Emily could have bathed in the washbowl and have had room to spare.

I faced the agent downstairs in the parlor, after I had gone over the house.  Miss Emily Benton had not appeared and I took it she was away.

“Why all those bathrooms?” I demanded.  “Does she use them in rotation?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“She wished to rent the house, Miss Blakiston.  The old-fashioned plumbing—­”

“But she is giving the house away,” I exclaimed.  “Those bathrooms have cost much more than she will get out of it.  You and I know that the price is absurd.”

He smiled at that.  “If you wish to pay more, you may, of course.  She is a fine woman, Miss Blakiston, but you can never measure a Benton with any yard-stick but their own.  The truth is that she wants the house off her hands this summer.  I don’t know why.  It’s a good house, and she has lived here all her life.  But my instructions, I’ll tell you frankly, are to rent it, if I have to give it away.”

With which absurd sentence we went out the front door, and I saw the pasture, which decided me.

In view of the fact that I had taken the house for my grandnieces and nephews, it was annoying to find, by the end of June, that I should have to live in it by myself.  Willie’s boy was having his teeth straightened, and must make daily visits to the dentist, and Jack went to California and took Gertrude and the boys with him.

The first curious thing happened then.  I wrote to the agent, saying that I would not use the house, but enclosing a check for its rental, as I had signed the lease.  To my surprise, I received in reply a note from Miss Emily herself, very carefully written on thin note-paper.

Although it was years since I had seen her, the exquisite neatness of the letter, its careful paragraphing, its margins so accurate as to give the impression that she had drawn a faint margin line with a lead pencil and then erased it—­all these were as indicative of Emily Benton as—­well, as the letter was not.

As well as I can explain it, the letter was impulsive, almost urgent.  Yet the little old lady I remembered was neither of these things.  “My dear Miss Blakiston,” she wrote.  “But I do hope you will use the house.  It was because I wanted to be certain that it would be occupied this summer that I asked so low a rent for it.

“You may call it a whim if you like, but there are reasons why I wish the house to have a summer tenant.  It has, for one thing, never been empty since it was built.  It was my father’s pride, and his father’s before him, that the doors were never locked, even at night.  Of course I can not ask a tenant to continue this old custom, but I can ask you to reconsider your decision.