“I always thought it was there,” said the boy.

“And thought wrong; the poor man was found in the river two miles off.”

“I always heard it was at Knight’s Pool,” repeated Carey.

“I do not know what you may have heard,” said Uncle Geoffrey; “but as it happened a good while before you were born, I think you had better not argue the point.”

“Grandpapa,” persisted Carey, “was it not in Knight’s Pool?”

“Certainly not,” was the answer drily given.

“Well,” continued Carey, “I am sure you might drown yourself there.”

“Rather than own yourself mistaken,” said Uncle Geoffrey.

“Carey, Carey, I hate contradiction,” said grandmamma, rising and rustling past where he stood with a most absurd, dogged, unconvinced face.  “Take your arm off the mantelpiece, let that china cup alone, and stand like a gentleman.  Do!”

“All in vain!” said Beatrice.  “To the end of his life he will maintain that Knight’s Pool drowned the travelling man!”

“Well, never mind,” said John, impatiently, “are we coming to skate this morning or are we not?”

“I really wish,” said Aunt Mary, as if she could not help it, “without distrusting either old Knight’s Pool or your judgment, Alexander, that you would ask some one to look at it.”

“I should like just to run down and see the fun,” said Uncle Geoffrey, thus setting all parties at rest for the moment.  The two girls ran joyfully up to put on their bonnets, as Henrietta wished to see, Beatrice to join in, the sport.  At that instant Mrs. Langford asked her son Geoffrey to remove some obstacle which hindered the comfortable shutting of the door, and though a servant might just as well have done it, he readily complied, according to his constant habit of making all else give way to her, replying to the discomfited looks of the boys, “I shall be ready by the time the young ladies come down.”

So he was, long before Henrietta was ready, and just as she and Beatrice appeared on the stairs, Atkins was carrying across the hall what the boys looked at with glances of dismay, namely, the post-bag.  Knight Sutton, being small and remote, did not possess a post-office, but a messenger came from Allonfield for the letters on every day except Sunday, and returned again in the space of an hour.  A very inconvenient arrangement, as everyone had said for the last twenty years, and might probably say for twenty years more.

As usual, more than half the contents were for G. Langford, Esq., and Fred’s face grew longer and longer as he saw the closely-written business-like sheets.

“Fred, my poor fellow,” said his uncle, looking up, “I am sorry for you, but one or two must be answered by this day’s post.  I will not be longer than I can help.”

“Then do let us come on,” exclaimed the chorus.

“Come, Queenie,” added Alex.

She delayed, however, saying, “Can I do any good, papa?”