“Is your store in this place?” asked Frank.
“No; it is in the next town.”
Nathan Graves looked about him for a conveyance. He finally drove a bargain with a man driving a shabby-looking vehicle, and the two took their seats.
They were driven about six miles through a flat, unpicturesque country, when they reached a branch road leading away from the main one.
It was a narrow road, and apparently not much frequented. Frank could see no houses on either side.
“Is your store on this road?” he asked.
“Oh, no; but I am not going to the store yet. We will go to my house, and leave your trunk.”
At length the wagon stopped, by Graves’ orders, in front of a gate hanging loosely by one hinge.
“We’ll get out here,” said Graves.
Frank looked with some curiosity, and some disappointment, at his future home. It was a square, unpainted house, discolored by time, and looked far from attractive. There were no outward signs of occupation, and everything about it appeared to have fallen into decay. Not far off was a barn, looking even more dilapidated than the house.