“Why—why, yes and no. Nobody copied it all—nobody thought it worth the trouble in those days. I’ve seen in old letters lots of references to it and its stories, and once or twice I’ve come across short quotations from it. But there’s another mix-up—in trying to find out about it now, I mean. You see, along about 1800 there was a Grant who was a great practical joker, and sort of a bookish fellow, too; and, somehow, the combination set him to writing a burlesque diary. It was about people of his time, but he imitated the Dominie’s style, and he was a clever hand at it; and what with most of the family names around here being the same as in the Dominie’s day and the imitation being so good—well, after a while even folks who’d read both got sort of mixed as to what was in which. So now nobody really knows where truth ends and jokes begin in half the traditions of the town. What makes it worse is that the Grant diary disappeared, too. Very likely the man who wrote it destroyed it, when he got older, and took a more serious view of life.”
“Oh!” said Orkney again. There was still disappointment in his tone.
“We’ve looked high and low for both books, of course; but I guess they’re lost for good. This valley, you know, was where the Dominie settled. He gave it the name it’s had ever since—Sugar Valley. That was because he found the Indians here were making sugar. Mighty poor stuff it was, probably, and more than half dirt. But it was sweet, and real sugar was hard to get. Maybe that was one reason the Dominie stayed here, and built a cabin, and then a house, and finally a better house. Oh, it was quite a mansion, that last house of his was—a sort of show place, though I guess there weren’t many people to show it to. But it was made of sawed boards instead of logs, and there was a wonderful great chimney, and the fireplaces were as big as some rooms are nowadays. Yes, and one of the up-stairs rooms had a fireplace; and that, I guess, was a sort of eighth wonder of the world—this part of the world, anyway. But here I am, talking as if you couldn’t see the place for yourselves, if you want to.”
“Then it still stands?” Orkney asked.
“Indeed it does! Nobody has lived in it for years and years, but it’s still there—nearly a mile from here, and close to the river. Of course, it’s rickety, but it doesn’t tumble down, and I don’t see any signs that it’s likely to. Once or twice we’ve talked about restoring it, and fixing it up, but we’ve never got around to do it; though some folks say we ought to turn it into a sort of historical museum. But, as I say, we haven’t got to it. And as for exploring the old place—why, why—a miserable day like this——”
Mrs. Grant hesitated. As she chanced to be looking at Varley, it was he who made answer to her unfinished question.
“Oh, another time will do just as well. And it was the sugar making that we’d especially like to see, you know.”
“You’re interested in that, then?”
“Very interested; it’ll be all new to me. And—and”—Paul smiled engagingly—“and your maple fluff, Mrs. Grant, was awfully good. It made a fellow all the more anxious to find out about the flavoring.”
Mrs. Grant was pleased, and showed it. “So you liked it, then? Well, ’tis kind of tasty, though there’s really nothing to it but whipped white of egg, and just a mite of cream, and a dash of maple. But put it on mince pie——”