Until recent years it had been the property of an old French refugee of the ancient régime. His father had fled from the court of Louis XIV to Louisiana. The son, years later, having gotten into some trouble over a woman, killing his man, which, so far as we are concerned, is another story, came into the river valley of Kentucky and at vast expense built the old mansion as it now stands. To all appearances he had wrought with the expectations of some one sharing the home with him. It was made for happiness, love, and children. At first he was a jolly, gay young fellow, seeking society. After a few years, however, he gradually withdrew from his companions, became silent, morose, and lived altogether to himself. His townspeople saw him seldom, his servant making the necessary trips for supplies. He led the life of a recluse and a student. The reason for this always remained unknown. It served for many a fireside topic on winter evenings. Old men spun gossipy anecdotes concerning it, and the old ladies, romantic tales. Youth built melodramatic love stories for him, while children made of it the source of fantasy.
Finally, when he sickened and died, beside his servant, Doctor Felix Longstreet alone was with him. Unless the doctor knew, and no one dared question him, the secret of the old Frenchman's life passed with his soul. It was the physician, in compliance with the last commands of the dead gentleman, who corresponded with the heir designated by the will. This was Monsieur Jacques Picot, of Paris, whom he notified of his inheritance and the conditions attached thereto. These were, briefly: That he must come to America and occupy the house; that he could neither sell nor give the property away; that at his demise, however, he could bequeath the estate to whomever he chose. In case the Abbé Picot would not accept these conditions, everything was to revert to a more distant relative, Captain Martin Felon of the French army. It was said the original owner of the old home made these strange demands because of his desire to force all of his kith and kin from their native country. He was an intense American, and had not forgotten that his father had been a fugitive.
"Ah," cried Jean François, nodding his head with a mysterious air, "that accounts for many things.... Some day I'll take Rogue, Columbine, and Pierrett, go down among the bayous, and discover why a gentleman of the old régime lost heart. Then, maybe, I'll tell you about it.
"Meantime, my dears, don't you think it would be pretty fine for you to grow up and live in this old home as your very own? Yes?... Monsieur l'Abbé cannot live always, I know. I happen to be slightly acquainted with him. He is very kindly disposed toward you. There's no telling what he might do.
"How would it suit you, Nance Gwyn of the sun-colored hair, to one day be mistress of the mansion?"
"I am not quite certain," said she, for the old home had quite a strong hold upon the imagination of Nance as well as all the rest of Oldmeadow's children, "but I think I should take Columbine and you and the road, first, Jean François."
"First?" exclaimed the pedler, with a humorous twinkle in his eye.
"First," came the very certain reply from the jade; "for some day I mean to have them both."