The rich bottom land about the Trevor place had been rented out to a truck gardener for years now; the comfortable house with its billiard-room annex—­a wonder for that part of the country in its day—­remained closed, its windows boarded up.  It sat on the top of a round knoll, a fine cottonwood grove behind it.  Tonight, as Claude drove toward it, the hill with its tall straight trees looked like a big fur cap put down on the snow.

“Why hasn’t some one bought that house long ago and fixed it up?” Enid remarked.  “There is no building site around here to compare with it.  It looks like the place where the leading citizen of the town ought to live.”

“I’m glad you like it, Enid,” said Bayliss in a guarded voice.  “I’ve always had a sneaking fancy for the place myself.  Those fellows back there never wanted to sell it.  But now the estate’s got to be settled up.  I bought it yesterday.  The deed is on its way to Hartford for signature.”

Enid turned round in her seat.  “Why Bayliss, are you in earnest?  Think of just buying the Trevor place off-hand, as if it were any ordinary piece of real estate!  Will you make over the house, and live there some day?”

“I don’t know about living there.  It’s too far to walk to my business, and the road across this bottom gets pretty muddy for a car in the spring.”

“But it’s not far, less than a mile.  If I once owned that spot, I’d surely never let anybody else live there.  Even Carrie remembers it.  She often asks in her letters whether any one has bought the Trevor place yet.”

Carrie Royce, Enid’s older sister, was a missionary in China.

“Well,” Bayliss admitted, “I didn’t buy it for an investment, exactly.  I paid all it was worth.”

Enid turned to Gladys, who was apparently not listening.  “You’d be the one who could plan a mansion for Trevor Hill, Gladys.  You always have such original ideas about houses.”

“Yes, people who have no houses of their own often seem to have ideas about building,” said Gladys quietly.  “But I like the Trevor place as it is.  I hate to think that one of them is dead.  People say they did have such good times up there.”

Bayliss grunted.  “Call it good times if you like.  The kids were still grubbing whiskey bottles out of the cellar when I first came to town.  Of course, if I decide to live there, I’ll pull down that old trap and put up something modern.”  He often took this gruff tone with Gladys in public.

Enid tried to draw the driver into the conversation.  “There seems to be a difference of opinion here, Claude.”

“Oh,” said Gladys carelessly, “it’s Bayliss’ property, or soon will be.  He will build what he likes.  I’ve always known somebody would get that place away from me, so I’m prepared.”

“Get it away from you?” muttered Bayliss, amazed.

“Yes.  As long as no one bought it and spoiled it, it was mine as much as it was anybody’s.”