Silently the children followed Mr. Hodgkins in the house, through the kitchen, into the hall.
"This was my home when I was a boy," he went on, "and here I brought my wife before my father and mother died. We'll go in the parlour first and I'll show you a picture. You see, I've opened the parlour."
By this time even Stubbins was speechless with wonder, and clung to Hannah as though he feared to lose her in the strange man's house. Everything in the parlour was covered with dust. In spite of the feeling of awe that stole over her, Hannah noticed the good furniture and all that the room contained.
"Here's the picture, children," said Mr. Hodgkins, opening an album.
Without speaking, Hannah and Stubbins gazed at the photograph.
"They were mine," said the man, softly, "my little girl, my little boy, and their mother."
It seemed to Hannah that if her life had depended upon it, she could not have said a word.
"Come," suggested Mr. Hodgkins at last, as he closed the door and left the parlour, closely followed by the children. "This was our sitting-room," he continued, pausing before a locked door. "This is the first time in ten years that I have ever turned the key."
Hannah's impulse was to run, but when the door was opened she felt as if her feet were growing into the floor. As for Stubbins his eyes came so near popping out of his head they really ached for an hour afterward. What the children saw was a Christmas tree yellow with age. It was a pitiful sight and belonged in a darkened room where Santa Claus might not stumble upon it.
"We'll have some air and light," said Mr. Hodgkins, raising the shades and opening the windows.