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"That bit of woodland coming in there, they call it Barnton Spinnies, doesn't belong to the estate at all." This he said in a melancholy tone. "Doesn't it, really?" "And it comes right in between Lane's farm and Puddock's. They've always let me have the shooting as a compliment. Not that there's ever anything in it. It's only seven acres. But I like the civility." "Who does it belong to?"
Pray send the enclosed note to Miss Stirling, who, no doubt, is still at Barnton. The following letter shows in what state of mind and body Chopin was at the time. He has succeeded in restoring me so far that yesterday I was able to take part in the Polish Concert and Ball; I went, however, at once home, after I had gone through my task.
"No," said Dick, reflectively; "it must be me. But I don't know of anybody that would be likely to write to me." "Perhaps it is Frank Whitney," suggested Fosdick, after a little reflection. "Didn't he promise to write to you?" "Yes," said Dick, "and he wanted me to write to him." "Where is he now?" "He was going to a boarding-school in Connecticut, he said. The name of the town was Barnton."
He received it eagerly, and drawing back so as not to be in the way of the throng who were constantly applying for letters, or slipping them into the boxes provided for them, hastily opened it, and began to read. As the reader may be interested in the contents of the letter as well as Dick, we transcribe it below. It was dated Barnton, Conn., and commenced thus,
Dined at Sir John Hay's with Ramsay of Barnton and his young bride, Sir David and Lady Hunter Blair, etc. I should mention that Cadell breakfasted with me, and entirely approved of my rejecting Heath's letter.
There are always bright fires there, and hot water, and old soft leather armchairs, and an aroma of good food and good tobacco, and giant trout in glass cases, and pictures of Captain Barclay of Urie walking to London and Mr. Ramsay of Barnton winning a horse-race, and the three-volume edition of the Waverley Novels with many volumes missing, and indeed all those things which an inn should have.
"We'll buy it, by all means," said Everett, who was already jingling his £60,000 in his pocket. "I never had the money, but I think it should be bought." And Sir Alured rejoiced in the idea that when his ghost should look at the survey map, that hiatus of Barnton Spinnies would not trouble his spectral eyes. In this way months ran on at Wharton.
"Let me tell you a little about myself. Barnton is a very pretty country town, only about six miles from Hartford. The boarding-school which I attend is under the charge of Ezekiel Munroe, A.M. He is a man of about fifty, a graduate of Yale College, and has always been a teacher. It is a large two-story house, with an addition containing a good many small bed-chambers for the boys.
They have already begun to cut down, or what they call stubb up, Barnton Spinnies. Everett said that it is no good keeping it as a wood, and papa agreed. So it is to go into the home farm, and Griffiths is to pay rent for it. I don't like having it cut down as the boys always used to get nuts there, but Everett says it won't do to keep woods for little boys to get nuts.
"I believe in dressin' up to your name," said Dick. "Do you know any one in Barnton, Connecticut?" asked the clerk, who had by this time found the letter. "Yes," said Dick. "I know a chap that's at boardin'-school there." "It appears to be in a boy's hand. I think it must be yours." The letter was handed to Dick through the window.
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