After that one time, Elliott Harding determined to face the inevitable and passed into the house without seeming to see the placard.
One day while sitting in his accustomed writing place, which was the parlor, now furnished with a table and office chair, a man walked up the front steps. Elliott had just finished writing the words “The glimpses of light I have gained make the darkness more apparent,” when the man entered the doorway.
The stranger was a tall, lean individual with iron gray beard curving out from under the chin. Eyes dark, keen and deep set; cheekbones as high as an Indian’s; hair iron gray and thick around the base of the skull, but thin and tangled over the top of the head, formed a combination striking and not unattractive. Though apparently far past his prime, he appeared to be as hearty and hale as if half the years of his life were yet to come. After gazing a moment at Elliott, he opened the conversation by saying:
“Good morning! I suppose you are the agent for this property?”
“I am, sir,” answered Elliott, courteously. “Come in and have a seat,” offering him his chair as he stood up and leaned against the writing table.
“I have come to make a bid for this place. I would like to buy it, if it is to be had at a reasonable figure. It is not for the land value alone that I want it,” he went on, “it is the old home of my only sister. Besides, for another and more sacred reason, I never want it to pass out of the family.”
“Your sister’s old home,” said Elliott, without appearing to have heard the offer, “then you are Mr. Field—Philip Field?”
“That is my name—and yours?”
“Elliott Field Harding.”
“My nephew?” questioned the elder.