It was a queer question, he thought, for any one to ask in the Square; but she was probably a stranger.

“This is the Governor’s house,” he answered courteously.  “I suppose you are a stranger in town.”

“I got here a few hours ago, and I came out for a breath of air.  I was four days and nights on the way.”

To this he made no reply, and he was about to pass on again, when her voice arrested him.

“You wouldn’t mind telling me, would you, the Governor’s name?”

“Not in the least.  His name is Gideon Vetch.”

“Gideon Vetch?” She repeated the name slowly, as if she were impressing it on her memory.  “That’s a queer name for a Governor.  Was he born in this town?”

“I think not.”

“And who lives with him?  I saw a girl come out awhile ago.  Is she his daughter, perhaps—­or his wife—­though she looked young for that.”

“It must have been his daughter.  His wife is not living.”

“Is she his only child?  Or has he others?” There was a quiver of suspense in her voice, and turning he looked at her more closely.  Was it possible that she had known Gideon Vetch in his obscure past?

“She is his only child,” he replied.

“Well, that’s nice for her.  Is she pretty?” An odd question if it had been put by a man; but he had been trained to accept the fact that women are different.

“Yes, you would call her pretty.”  As he spoke the words there flashed through his mind the picture of Patty Vetch as he had seen her that afternoon, in her red cape and her small hat with the red wings, against the snowy hill under the overhanging bough of the sycamore.  Was she really pretty, or was it only the witchery of her surroundings?  Now that he was out of her presence the attraction had faded.  He was still smarting from the memory of that dancing figure.

“Well, it’s a fine house,” said the woman, “and it looks large for just two people.  I thank you for telling me.”

The pathos of her words appealed to the generous chivalry of his nature.  He felt sorry for her and wondered if he might offer her money.

“I hope you found lodgings,” he said.

“Yes, I’ve found a room near here—­on Governor Street, I think they call it.”

“And you are not in want?  You do not need any help?”

She shook her head while the rusty mourning veil shrouded her features.  “Not yet,” she answered.  “I’m not a beggar yet.”  Though her tone was not well-bred, he realized that she was neither as uneducated nor as degraded as he had at first believed.

“I am glad of that,” he responded; and then lifting his hat again, he hurried quickly away from her up the road beneath the few old linden trees that were left of an avenue.  Glancing back as he reached the Capitol building, he saw her black figure moving cautiously over the snow toward one of the gates of the Square.

“That was a nightmare,” he thought, “and now for the pleasant dream.  I’ll go to the old print shop and see my Cousin Corinna.”