had entered the house to which he had directed his trunk from the South
Station that morning. He hesitated a moment before mounting the steps.
"Can that," he murmured in amazement,--"can that possibly have been Mrs.
Alexander?"

When the servant admitted him, Mrs. Alexander was still standing in the
hallway. She heard him give his name, and came forward holding out her
hand.

"Is it you, indeed, Professor Wilson? I was afraid that you might get
here before I did. I was detained at a concert, and Bartley telephoned
that he would be late. Thomas will show you your room. Had you rather
have your tea brought to you there, or will you have it down here with
me, while we wait for Bartley?"

Wilson was pleased to find that he had been the cause of her rapid walk,
and with her he was even more vastly pleased than before. He followed
her through the drawing-room into the library, where the wide back
windows looked out upon the garden and the sunset and a fine stretch
of silver-colored river. A harp-shaped elm stood stripped against the
pale-colored evening sky, with ragged last year's birds' nests in its
forks, and through the bare branches the evening star quivered in the
misty air. The long brown room breathed the peace of a rich and amply
guarded quiet. Tea was brought in immediately and placed in front of the
wood fire. Mrs. Alexander sat down in a high-backed chair and began to
pour it, while Wilson sank into a low seat opposite her and took his cup
with a great sense of ease and harmony and comfort.

"You have had a long journey, haven't you?" Mrs. Alexander asked, after
showing gracious concern about his tea. "And I am so sorry Bartley is