“It still does!” said Lucy, grimly.
The stranger glanced at her.
“My name’s Ordway,” he explained. “I wrote to Mr. Phillips, and he asked me to come. I’ve been away—on my vacation—or I’d have come before.”
He wished that he had. He wished that he had come weeks ago. He felt that he had lost priceless time. And he looked as if he thought that.
Lucy had always liked red hair, and noses that turned up a little. This young man had red hair and that sort of nose; he was big, too, and broad-shouldered, and he looked cheerful. She asked him if he would care to look over the historic cottage and its antiques.
“Well—no, thanks,” he said. “Tell you the truth, I’ve had all I want of historic things. My aunts, you know—they’ve got ancestors, and documents. If you don’t mind, I’d rather just sit here and—”
He said “wait,” but what he meant was “talk to you.” The girl knew this. They did sit there, and they talked. The room grew dark; a very fine sunset was going forward in its proper place; indeed, at that moment Cousin Ronald was standing upon a hilltop, admiring it. But the laws of nature kept it away from the sitting room.
In the course of time Cousin Winnie was obliged to call for her daughter’s aid. She came into the doorway; Mr. Ordway was presented to her; she spoke to him graciously, and gave him a candle, then she took away the radiant Lucy.
Candle or no candle, the room seemed darker than ever to Ordway. He began to walk about, but he knocked his shins against too many historic objects, and at last he paused, in a spot where he could see into the kitchen. He saw Cousin Winnie and Lucy preparing dinner by candlelight.
And he did not find it picturesque. He saw Lucy vigorously plying the pump beside the sink. He was not reminded of the old days, when home life had been so much finer. He thought: