"It is an unfortunate story, sir," said Gills, "and may cast a chill
upon you, instead of the pleasant feeling which it would be best to
foster when in strange walls."
"Strange walls!" echoed he of the red scarf, and for the first time
since his arrival he half laughed, but it was not the laugh which
comes from a man's heart.
"You must know, sir," continued Gills, "I am myself a sort of intruder
here. The Vanhomes--that was the name of the former residents and
owners--I have never seen; for when I came to these parts the last
occupant had left to join the red-coat soldiery. I am told that he is
to sail with them for foreign lands, now that the war is ended, and
his property almost certain to pass into other hands."
As the old man went on, the stranger cast down his eyes, and listen'd
with an appearance of great interest, though a transient smile or a
brightening of the eye would occasionally disturb the serenity of his
deportment.
"The old owners of this place," continued the white-haired narrator,
"were well off in the world, and bore a good name among their
neighbors. The brother of Sergeant Vanhome, now the only one of the
name, died ten or twelve years since, leaving a son--a child so small
that the father's willmade provision for his being brought up by his
uncle, whom I mention'd but now as of the British army. He was a
strange man, this uncle; disliked by all who knew him; passionate,
vindictive, and, it was said, very avaricious, even from his
childhood.
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