"Upon—my—soul!" he cried. "Upon my soul, I really cannot say which you look most like—Mark Ingram, or his sister Nelly!"
"Then you must be Mr. Bolliver!" Jane fairly shouted.
"Your faithful servant," he said, bowing.
"Come in; oh, do!" cried Jane; "and sit down while I go and take off all this. I was just pretending, which is silly, because I'm supposed to be far too old."
"Why take it off?" Mr. Bolliver asked.
"The aunts would be flabbergasted," Jane explained, "and annoyed. They're out at tea just now."
"'Pretending,'" Mr. Bolliver mused, "is just one form of dramatic art, for which the age limit is considerably beyond your years."
This entirely new light on a pastime about which Jane had been much twitted consoled her greatly for past scoffing, but she nevertheless fled upstairs and shortly reappeared in her usual blue jumper. Mr. Bolliver was standing before the fire with his hands behind him.
"Fifty years have changed it very little," he remarked. "Very little. The old house has
