The fact that they had bought the house next door suggested that they did. Like her house, it was an anomaly on glossy, modern Magnolia Drive, with its rows of split levels and Williamsburg reproductions. Jerry had hated the new houses. A house wasn't even mature till it was a century old, he claimed, stressing the adjective as he always did when he had found a word that pleased him.

When they first came to Washington, ten years earlier, they had lived in an apartment for a while, but it soon became apparent that Mark's nine-year-old energies could not be confined within four walls, particularly walls built of plasterboard. He thundered up and down the stairs, smuggled in all the stray animals he encountered, bounced balls off passing neighbors (accidentally, of course), and generally raised Cain. They decided to hunt for a house. The prices in the District of Columbia were appalling, so they investigated the neighboring counties of Maryland and Virginia.

It wasn't until then that Pat realized her husband had a passion for old houses. He was a history buff, particularly interested in military history, and Pat had already tramped all the old battlegrounds within driving distance of Washington. She got a bad case of poison ivy at Bull Run, twisted her ankle at Gettysburg, and was stung by wasps at Yorktown, after Jerry, trying to locate the site of Rochambeau's unit, had disturbed a nest. But she had not known that Jerry's interest in the past extended to architecture until they found the house near Poolesville.

In those days the Williamsburg reproductions and the split levels were still in the future, and the future Magnolia Drive was only a graveled country road. As the real-estate agent's car bounced along the rutted surface, Pat felt a stir of misgiving.

"It's awfully isolated," she said, glancing uneasily at the empty fields on both sides of the road. "Aren't there any other houses?"

"Not since the old Johnson place burned down, couple of years back," Mr. Platt, the realtor, replied. He winced as the bottom of his sleek yellow Thunderbird scraped a boulder. "But it's not that far from the highway, Miz Robbins; only about a mile. You folks said you wanted privacy…"

A mile or so from the highway the road divided. The right branch passed between tumbled piles of rock that had once been gateposts and plunged into a jungle of shrubbery. The left branch seemed to disappear entirely after a few yards. Pat paid this little heed, for above the trees to the right she had caught a glimpse of something that left her openmouthed with surprise. It appeared to be the top of a medieval stone tower.

The house would have looked more at home on a Scottish mountaintop or a wild Cornish moor. Someone had recently mowed the weedy lawn and trimmed the bushes back so that it was possible to reach the porch steps- barely possible. The brick walk had been laid in an elegant herringbone pattern; now many of the bricks were missing and the others had been dislodged by tree roots and weathering. As they stumbled along it the boxwood pressed in on either side, yellowed with neglect and smelling abominable. At least it smelled bad to Pat. Jerry sniffed the cat-litter-box aroma as if it were incense.

The closer they got to the house, the more incredible it appeared. There was a stone tower, with battlements. There was also an oriel window on the second floor. An equally Gothic bay window on the first floor still retained some panes of stained glass. Across the front of this hybrid monstrosity stretched a typically American front porch, though the wooden posts that supported its roof were carved into medieval curlicues.

Mr. Platt led them quickly across the creaking porch and into the house, hoping, no doubt, that the interior would be less remarkable than the outside of the place. In that he was mistaken. While Jerry exclaimed over the pointed Gothic doorframes and carved wainscoting and marble fireplaces, Pat saw the hideously stained tub in the old-fashioned bathroom and the antique appliances in the kitchen. Surprisingly there were plenty of closets, as well as a room-sized pantry next to the kitchen. "Lots of storage space," Mr. Platt said cheerily, opening one of the cabinets in the pantry-and slamming it hastily shut upon a pile of mouse droppings.

So far as Pat could see, the only other advantage the house boasted was that it was not so unmanageably large as she had expected from its pretentious exterior. A parlor, dining room, library and kitchen on the first floor; four major bedrooms, plus several odd little chambers tucked in here and there on the second. There were more bedrooms, small but well lighted, on the third floor. "We wouldn't have to use this level," Jerry muttered. "Close it off… save on heating…"

"We should save quite a bundle on heating when the furnace breaks down, as it is on the verge of doing," Pat said. "Radiators! I haven't seen those things since-"

"Wonderful to sit on when you come in out of the snow," Jerry said, a faraway look in his eyes. "And to hang your wet coats and things on."

Mr. Platt beamed approvingly at him.

"Few repairs here and there, not much… considering you should get the place cheap. Old Miz Bates' heirs are anxious to sell. Make 'em an offer."

Jerry did-an offer so low,that Mr. Platt's expression lost its poorly concealed contempt and became one of pure pain.

"Well, now, Mr. Robbins, I dunno…"

"Won't do any harm to ask," Jerry said.

Not until then did Pat realize he was serious about buying the house. Her protests rose to high heaven. It was too far from his job, he'd have to drive for hours every day. There were no neighbors; whom would Mark play with? The house was in terrible condition. The porch steps were crumbling, the ceilings were water-stained, wallpaper hung in peeling strips, floors sagged… A howl of glee from Mark, somewhere in the overgrown garden, prompted her to add, "And there's probably a well somewhere he can fall into, and old rusty nails he'll get tetanus from, and…"

She saw Jerry's face, and her protests died. There was no use trying to talk sense to him when he looked like that. Sighing, she turned for another look at the Gothic battlements. Her shoulder brushed Jerry's arm, and it was as if his emotions brushed off into her mind. For a moment she saw the old house as he saw it-its grotesque charm, its underlying solidity, the inevitable suggestion of courage in its resistance to time and neglect.

"It has the original hardware and some of the original glass," Jerry muttered. "The American Gothic revival- mid-nineteenth century-there aren't many of them left, Pat. I'll bet under all the layers of paint the banisters are solid walnut."

"The yard," Pat began.

Jerry surveyed it with bemused pleasure. "Sensational, isn't it? This boxwood must be a hundred years old. And the magnolias-"

"And the poison ivy, and the weeds," Pat groaned. The house was surrounded by high green walls of undergrowth. Over the trees at the left side she saw something that made her wonder if consternation had unhinged her mind.

"That can't be!" she exclaimed.

Mr. Platt followed her glance.

"You aren't seein' double, Miz Robbins," he assured her, with a chuckle. "That's a tower, all right. There's another house over there. The twin to this one."

"Don't tell me there are two houses like this," Pat said. "One would be bad enough."

The two men, now allied in a common aim, exchanged amused glances; but Jerry was as intrigued as Pat.

"Twin houses, Mr. Platt? I've heard of such things, but only in fiction."

"Well, this is fact. Old Mr. Peters built these houses for his girls, when they got married. Back before the War Between the States, that was. He was quite a character, Mr. Peters. Read a lot. He got some fellow out from Scotland to build the houses, they say. I'd sell you Halcyon House," Mr. Platt went on, grinning, "only it's in worse shape than… That's to say, it's tied up in some court fighting, the heirs can't agree." His eyes went from Jerry's rapt face to the barely visible top of the tower of the neighboring house, and he said thoughtfully, "Better see about getting a caretaker in there. One of these days I just might…"