chored in the smooth water between Resurrection Rock and the shore; masons, carpenters, plasterers and artisans of a dozen trades—all from Chicago—lived upon the barges or camped on the island while they erected a large, handsome house, chimneyed, wide of roof, graceful and pleasing.
When furniture and china, rugs, hangings and draperies came—some new, some old—the neighborhood was certain that the purpose of the long watch upon the island was at last to be disclosed; but when the last draper followed the last carpenter away, no master of the mansion appeared. instead, the newly completed house was closed; doors locked and barred, windows soundly shuttered. A white farmer, who lived a mile or so away upon the opposite mainland, was entrusted with the keys and was paid to inspect the premises periodically. He reported that the house was merely such a house as the rich city people had at Mackinac and Harbour Point, finished and furnished for occupancy; Marcellus Clarke of Chicago, who paid the taxes, paid him; that was all he knew. Yes, it was an ordinary enough house.
But, after a few inspections alone, he always took some one with him. Speculation and wonder in the neighborhood soon took weird and fantastic forms; the mansion had not been built for the living but for the dead; the windows, as seen from the shore in the moonlight, seemed to show lights of their own. Poor, pious people ceased to approach.
At first, old Lucas Cullen laughed at the stories; but as time went on, they began to affect him. He offered himself, once, as escort for the farmer who had the keys; and after going through the empty house, Lucas journeyed to Chicago where he visited and peremptorily
