Bert threw away his cigar, and flung himself luxuriously down for a nap.
"They'll get it, Nance. Somebody'll develop a real estate deal here
some day. They must have a hundred acres here. You'll see it—'Witcher
Park' or 'Witcher Manor.' The old chap who inherited it is as rich as
Croesus, he was in the office the other day, he wants to sell.—Hello!
I was in the office—garden—and so I said—if you please—"
Bert was going to sleep. His wife laughed sympathetically as the staggering words stopped, and deep and regular breathing took their place. She sat on in the afternoon sunlight, looking dreamily about her, and trying to picture life here a hundred years ago; the gracious young mistress of the new mansion, the ringlets and pantalettes, the Revolutionary War still well remembered, and the last George on the throne. And now the house was cold and dead, and strange little boys, in sandals and sturdy galatea, were shouting in the stable.
Perhaps she was drowsy herself; she started awake, and touched Bert. An old man and a young man had come in the opened gate, and were speaking to her.
"I beg your pardon!" It was the young man. "But—but do you own this place?"
"No—just picnicking!" said Bert, wide awake.
"But it is for sale?" asked the old man. Bert got up, and brushed the leaves from his clothes, and the three men walked down the drive together. Nancy, half-comprehending, all-hoping looked after them. She saw Bert give the young man his card, and glance at the same time at the faded sign, as if he appealed to it to confirm his claim.
She hardly dared speak when he came back. Anne awoke, and the boys must be summoned for the home trip. Bert moved dreamily, he seemed dazed. Only once did he speak of the Witcher Place that night, and then it was to say:
"Perry—that's that old chap's name—said that he would be in this week, at the office. I'll bet he doesn't come."
"No, I don't suppose he will," Nancy said.