many of his blood had lived and died there; how many had gone forth from that great porch to distant lands!  He tried to think of his father—­a little child—­peeping between the balustrades of that terrace.  He tried to think of it, and perhaps would have succeeded had it not occurred to him that it was a known fact that his uncle had bought the estate and house of an impoverished nobleman only the year before.  Yet—­he could not tell why—­he seemed to feel higher and nobler for that trial.

The terrace was deserted, and so quiet that as he ascended to it his footsteps seemed to echo from the walls.  When he reached the portals, the great oaken door swung noiselessly on its hinges—­opened by some unseen but waiting servitor—­and admitted him to a lofty hall, dark with hangings and family portraits, but warmed by a red carpet the whole length of its stone floor.  For a moment he waited for the servant to show him to the drawing-room or his uncle’s study.  But no one appeared.  Believing this to be a part of the characteristic simplicity of the Quaker household, he boldly entered the first door, and found himself in a brilliantly lit and perfectly empty drawing-room.  The same experience met him with the other rooms on that floor—­the dining-room displaying an already set, exquisitely furnished and decorated table, with chairs for twenty guests!  He mechanically ascended the wide oaken staircase that led to the corridor of bedrooms above a central salon.  Here he found only the same solitude.  Bedroom doors yielded to his touch, only to show the same brilliantly lit vacancy.  He presently came upon one room which seemed to give unmistakable signs of his own occupancy.  Surely there stood his own dressing-case on the table! and his own evening clothes carefully laid out on another, as if fresh from a valet’s hands.  He stepped hastily into the corridor—­there was no one there; he rang the bell—­there was no response!  But he noticed that there was a jug of hot water in his basin, and he began dressing mechanically.

There was little doubt that he was in a haunted house, but this did not particularly disturb him.  Indeed, he found himself wondering if it could be logically called a haunted house—­unless he himself was haunting it, for there seemed to be no other there.  Perhaps the apparitions would come later, when he was dressed.  Clearly it was not his uncle’s house—­and yet, as he had never been inside his uncle’s house, he reflected that he ought not to be positive.

He finished dressing and sat down in an armchair with a kind of thoughtful expectancy.  But presently his curiosity became impatient of the silence and mystery, and he ventured once more to explore the house.  Opening his bedroom door, he found himself again upon the deserted corridor, but this time he could distinctly hear a buzz of voices from the drawing-room below.  Assured that he was near a solution of the mystery, he rapidly descended the broad staircase and made his way to the open door of the drawing-room.  But although the sound of voices increased as he advanced, when he entered the room, to his utter astonishment, it was as empty as before.