The plate-glass windows glittered in the sun.  The tiled-roofs, with their towers and slopes, looked like those in pictures of palace buildings.  It was a group,—­a pile; under these roofs a family of five—­Americans, republicans, with no law of primogeniture to conserve the estate beyond a single lifetime—­were to live like a little royal household.  And the father had made all his money in fifteen years in Opal Street.  This country of ours, and the ways of it, are certainly pretty nearly the queerest under the sun, when one looks it all through and thinks it all over.

Frank Sunderline pointed out the lovely work of the pillars in the porched veranda; every pillar a triple column, of the slenderest grace, capitaled with separate devices of leaf and flower.

Then they went into the wide, high hall, and through the lower rooms, floored and ceiled and walled most richly; and up over the stately staircase, copied from some grand old English architecture; along the galleries into the wings, where were the sleeping and dressing-rooms; up-stairs, again, into other sleeping-rooms,—­places for the many servants that there must be,—­pressrooms, closets, trunk-rooms,—­space for stowing all the ample providings for use and change from season to season.  Every frame and wainscot and panel a study of color and exact workmanship and perfect finish.

It was a “show house;” that was just what it was.  “And I can’t imagine the least bit of home-iness in the whole of it,” said Ray, coming down from the high cupola whence they had looked far out to sea, and over inland, upon blue hills and distant woods.

They stopped half way,—­on the wide second landing where they had seen, as they went up, that the great window space was open; the boards that had temporarily covered it having been removed, and the costly panes and sashes that were to fill it resting against the wall at one side.

“That is the greatest piece of nonsense in the whole house,” Sunderline had said.  “A crack in that would be the spoiling of a thousand dollars.”

“How very silly,” said Ray, quietly.  “It is only fit for a church or a chapel.”

“It shuts out the stables,” said Sunderline.  “Take care of that open frame,” he had added, cautioning her.

Now, coming down, he stopped right here, and stood still with his back to the opening, looking across the front hall at some imperfection he fancied he detected in the joining of a carved cornice.  Ray stood on the staircase, a little way up, facing the gorgeous window, and studying its glow of color.

“It won’t do.  The meeting of the pattern isn’t perfect.  Those grape-bunches come too near together, and there’s a leaf-tip taken off at the corner.  What a bungle!  Come and look, Ray.”

Ray turned her face toward him as he spoke, and saw what thrilled her through with sudden horror.  Saw him, utterly forgetful of where he stood, against the dangerous vacancy, his heel upon the very edge, beyond which would be death!