it was situated.  It was built by the elder Crompton, who was born in England, and had carried out his foreign ideas of architecture, and with its turrets and square towers it bore some resemblance to the handsome places he had seen at home.  It was of stone, and stood upon a rise of ground, commanding a view of the sea two miles away, and the pretty village on the shore with a background of wooded hills stretching to the west.  It was full of pictures and bric-a-brac, and statuary from all parts of the world, for the Colonel’s father had travelled extensively, and brought home souvenirs from every country visited.  Florida had furnished her quota, and stuffed parokeets and red birds, and a huge alligator skin adorned the walls of the wide hall, together with antlers and pieces of old armor, and other curios.  A small fortune was yearly expended upon the grounds which were very large, and people wondered that the Colonel lavished so much upon what he seemed to care so little for, except to see that it was in perfect order, without a dried leaf, or twig, or weed to mar its beauty.

It had not always been thus with him.  When he first came into possession of the place he was just through college, and had seemed very proud and fond of his fine estate, and had extended his hospitality freely to his acquaintances, keeping them, however, at a certain distance, for the Crompton pride was always in the ascendant, and he tolerated no familiarities, except such as he chose to allow.  This genial social life lasted a few years, and then there came a change, following a part of a winter spent in South Carolina and Georgia with his intimate friend and college chum, Tom Hardy.  Communication between the North and South was not as frequent and direct then as it is now, and but little was known of his doings.  At first he wrote occasionally to Peter, his head servant, to whom he entrusted the care of the house; then his letters ceased and nothing was heard from him until suddenly, without warning, he came home, looking much older than when he went away, and with a look upon his face which did not leave it as the days went on.

“’Spect he had a high old time with that Tom Hardy, and is all tuckered out,” Peter said, while the Colonel, thinking he must give some reason for his changed demeanor, said he had malaria, taken in some Southern swamp.

If there was any disease for which Peter had a special aversion it was malaria, which he fancied he knew how to treat, having had it once himself.  Quinine, cholagogue, and whiskey were prescribed in large quantities, and Peter wondered why they failed to cure.  He did not suspect that the quinine went into the fire, and the cholagogue down the drain-pipe from the washstand.  The Colonel’s malaria was not the kind to be cured by drugs, and there came a day when, after the receipt of a letter from Tom Hardy, he collapsed entirely, and Peter found him shivering in his room, his teeth chattering, and his fingers purple with cold.