“Mr. Colfax died last October,” he added, “and the place is for sale.  Good deal of a shock, his death was, to East Wellmouth.  Kind of like takin’ away the doughnut and leavin’ nothin’ but the hole.  The Wellmouth Weekly Advocate pretty nigh gave up the ghost when Mr. Colfax did.  It always cal’lated on fillin’ at least three columns with the doin’s of the Colfaxes and their ‘house parties’ and such.  All summer it told what they did do and all winter it guessed what they was goin’ to do.  It ain’t been much more than a patent medicine advertisin’ circular since the blow struck.  Well, have you looked enough?  Shall we heave ahead and go aboard your craft, Mrs. Barnes?”

They walked on, down the little hill and up the next, and entered the front yard of the Barnes house.  There were the marks in the mud and sand where the depot-wagon had overturned, but the wagon itself was gone.  “Cal’late Winnie S. and his dad come around early and towed it home,” surmised Captain Obed.  “Seemed to me I smelled sulphur when I opened my bedroom window this mornin’.  Guess ‘twas a sort of floatin’ memory of old man Holt’s remarks when he went by.  That depot-wagon was an antique and antiques are valuable these days.  Want to go inside, do you?”

Thankful hesitated.  “I haven’t got the key,” she said.  “I suppose it’s at that Badger man’s in the village.  You know who I mean, Cap’n Bangs.”

The captain nodded.

“Christopher S. H. Badger, tinware, groceries, real estate, boots and shoes, and insurance,” he said.  “Likewise justice of the peace and first mate of all creation.  Yes, I know Chris.”

“Well, he’s been in charge of this property of mine.  He collected the rent from that Mr. Eldredge who used to live here.  I had a good many letters from him, mainly about paintin’ and repairs.”

“Um—­hum; I ain’t surprised.  Chris sells paint as well as tea and tinware.  He’s got the key, has he?”

“I suppose he has.  I ought to have gone up and got it from him.”

“Well, I wouldn’t fret about it.  Of course we can’t go in the front door like the minister and weddin’ company, but the kitchen door was unfastened last night and I presume likely it’s that way now.  You haven’t any objection to the kitchen door, have you?  When old Laban lived here it’s a safe bet he never used any other.  Cur’ous old critter, he was.”

They entered by the kitchen door.  The inside of the house, like the outside, was transformed by day and sunshine.  The rooms downstairs were large and well lighted, and, in spite of their emptiness, they seemed almost cheerful.

“Whose furniture is this?” asked Thankful, referring to the stove and chair and sofa in the dining-room.

“Laban’s; that is, it used to be.  When he died he didn’t have chick nor child nor relation, so fur’s anybody knew, and his stuff stayed right here.  There wa’n’t very much of it.  That is—­” He hesitated.