young, red-haired adventurer to pick her up without the
formality of an introduction, in the Public Library.
She hadn't the remotest idea of his name--nor had he of
hers--yet there was something about him that seemed
oddly familiar. They must have known one another
somewhere in childhood and forgotten each other's
faces.

The sun was shining in clear, steady brilliancy in
a cloudless sky. The snow had quickly melted and it
was unusually warm for early December. They turned
into the throng of Fifth Avenue and at the corner of
Forty-second Street he paused and hesitated and looked
at her timidly:

"Say," he began haltingly, "there's an awful crowd
of bums on those seats in the Square behind the
building--you know Central Park, don't you?"

Mary smiled.

"Quite well--I've spent many happy hours in its
quiet walks."

"You know that place the other side of the Mall--
that ragged hill covered with rocks and trees and
mountain laurel?"

"I've been there often."