“Your father,

“CHARLES MASON.”

This was the letter which had sent the Rev. Arthur to call on Mrs. Biggs, with no thought of Eloise in his mind.  She was not yet an active factor in the drama which was to be played out so rapidly.  Returning to his boarding place, the rector read his father’s letter a second time, and then answered it.  A part of what he wrote we give: 

“I have just come from an interview with a woman who is credited with knowing the history of the place forty years back, and I have no doubt that Shaky’s Col.  Crompton is living here in Crompton Place, the richest man in town and largest contributor to the church.  There is a lady living with him who people believe is his daughter, although he has never acknowledged her as such.  Mrs. Biggs, the woman I interviewed, gave me a most graphic account of the manner of her arrival at Crompton Place, when she was a little girl like the one you describe.  She has a lovely face, but is a little twisted in her brain.  She did run away with her music teacher, and her name is Amy Eudora.  There was no mention made of Harris.  They call her Miss Amy.  There can’t be much doubt of her identity with Jaky’s lil chile.  Send him on, and Mandy Ann, too,—­and the four twins, Alex and Aaron, Judy and Dory.  I’ll pay half their fare!  There’s enough of the old Adam in me to make me want to see them confront the proud Colonel, who ignores me for reasons I could not fathom, until I received your letter.  Then I suspected that because I am your son he feared that some pages of his life, which he hoped were blotted out by time and the ravages of war, might be revealed.  He is an old man, of course, but distinguished-looking still, though much broken with rheumatic gout, which keeps him mostly at home.  My respects to Shaky, whom I hope before long to hear ringing the bell at Crompton Place.  Is that wicked?  I suppose so, but I cannot help it.

“ARTHUR.”

CHAPTER XI

SUNDAY CALLS

The day following the rector’s call on Mrs. Biggs was Sunday, and the morning was wet and misty, with a thick, white fog which crept up from the sea and hid from view objects at any distance away.

“This is nearly as bad as London,” Howard said to Jack when, after breakfast, they stood looking out upon the sodden grass and drooping flowers in the park.  “Have you a mind to go to church?”

Jack shrugged his shoulders, and replied, “Not I; it’s too damp.  Are you going?”

Howard had not thought of doing so until that moment, when an idea came suddenly into his mind, and he answered, “I think so,—­yes.  Some one ought to represent the Crompton pew.  It is out of the question for my uncle to go, and he would not if he could.  He has taken a violent prejudice against the new rector, for no reason I can think of.  He is a good fellow,—­the rector, I mean,—­and not too straight-laced to smoke a cigar, and he knows a fine horse when he sees one, and preaches splendid sermons.  I think I shall go and encourage him.”