grand, gray churches, the palaces and historic places, that tell of
what a past has been London's; but it lacked, too, the begriming smoke
and fog that are too much of London's present. Indeed, never had any
town a clearer sky, or brighter sunshine, than are New York's.

From the Summer power of this sunshine, our part of Queen Street was
sheltered by the trees of gardens and open spaces; maple, oak,
chestnut, linden, locust, willow, what not? There was a garden,
wherein the breeze sighed all day, between our house and the
Faringfield mansion, to which it pertained. That vast house, of red
and yellow brick, was two stories and a garret high, and had a
doubly-sloping roof pierced with dormer windows. The mansion's lower
windows and wide front door were framed with carved wood-work, painted
white. Its garden gate, like its front door, opened directly to the
street; and in the garden gateway, as I lounged on our front step that
Summer evening, Madge Faringfield stood, running her fingers through
the thick white and brown hair of her huge dog at her side.

The dog's head was almost on a level with hers, for she was then but
eight years old, a very bright and pretty child. She turned her quick
glance down the street as she stood; and saw me lying so lazy; and at
once her gray eyes took on a teasing and deriding light, and I felt I
was in for some ironical, quizzing speech or other. But just then her
look fell upon something farther down the way, toward Hanover Square,
and lingered in a half-amused kind of curiosity. I directed my own
gaze to see what possessed hers, and this is what we both beheld
together, little guessing what the years to come should bring to make
that moment memorable in our minds.

A thin but well-formed boy of eleven; with a pleasant, kindly face,