“She would,” said Mrs. Holt, unlocking the front door. “I thought that it would interest you more to enter here, Janet. Step over the threshold, now, where all your ancestors before you have trod! No,—the first house was burned by Indians. But this has stood for many a long year.”
Thoughtfully Janet entered the door and stood looking about the central hall. There they had placed the old spinning wheel. The antlers of a large deer’s head stretched from the wall above her.
As they went from room to room, Janet was almost confused. There were the big fireplaces. Some of them, Mrs. Holt explained, had been boarded up and stoves used, but these Mr. Van Meter had restored to their original appearance, with old andirons, found in the attic, and other ancient appurtenances, like the queer old leather bellows, used to create a blaze, and the long-handled brass warming-pan that stood, or hung, in a corner of the kitchen. Old dishes, the cranes, and old iron kettles, even an old gun, hung above the plain mantel, were a revelation of the antique to Janet. She could scarcely have lived in Philadelphia without knowing something about such things, but she had never had any personal interest before. Although she said little, Mrs. Holt saw that her young companion was interested.
“Friends from New York, Albany and Troy often visit us, Janet, and are brought here to admire. We sometimes have a house full in the summer.”
“Who is John, Cousin Diana?” asked Janet suddenly, “John that spoke of the ‘ha’nts’?”
“Oh, yes. I haven’t told you about my son, Janet. He will be here in a few days, for his spring vacation begins, late this year, on account of a contagious disease that some of them had, and the boys were not allowed to leave. He was christened Jan, but prefers to be called John.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Janet. “From now on, I’m going to spell my name with two n’s.”
“You think so now,” said Mrs. Holt with an indulgent smile.
From room to room they went, Mrs. Holt pointing out the old highboys, claw-footed mahogany tables and desks, and telling Janet whose were the faces in the pictures upon the walls. At last they went up the beautiful old staircase, through bedrooms made comfortable with modern springs upon the old four posters, and Mrs. Holt stopped before one of the doors, drawing a key from her pocket.
“This, Janet, is your mother’s room. Your uncle gave direction to have it kept locked and to permit no one to enter on any tour of inspection. So you may be sure that it has not been looked at with curious eyes. Only P’lina and I are ever supposed to enter it, though I think that your uncle has a key, and it is possible that he comes in occasionally.