The avenue lifts a camel’s hump toward the sky in the space of fifteen blocks, and on the top, secure as the howdah of a chieftain, stands the noble portico of the old college.  To the westward, as every one knows, lie the river and the more pretentious park; on the east an abrupt descent offers space for a small grassy playground for children, who may be seen, during the sunny hours of the day, romping over the slope.

As the gaze of the woman swept over the charming little pleasance, and beyond, over the miles of sign-boards, roofs, chimneys, and intersecting streets, the serious look disappeared from her face.  Summer haze and distance shed a gentle beauty over what she knew to be a clamoring city—­New York.  Angles were softened, noises subdued, sensational scenes lost in the dimmed perspective.  To a chance observer, the prospect would have been deeply suggestive; in the woman it stirred many memories.  She put back her veil; her face glowed; a long sigh escaped her lips.  Slowly she walked down the steps, along the sloping path to a turn, where she sank down on a bench.  A rosy, tired child, rather the worse for mud-pies, and hanging reluctantly at the hand of its nonchalant nurse, brought a bit of the woman’s emotion to the surface.  She smiled radiantly at the lagging infant.

The face revealed by the uplifted veil was of a type to accompany the youthful but womanly figure and the spirited tread.  Beautiful she would be counted, without doubt, by many an observer; those who loved her would call her beautiful without stint.  But more appealing than her beauty was the fine spirit—­a strong, free spirit, loving honesty and courage—­which glowed like a flame behind her beauty.  Best of all, perhaps, was a touch of quaintness, a slightly comic twist to her lips, an imperceptible alertness of manner, which revealed to the initiated that she had a sense of humor in excellent running order.

It was evident that the little excursion was of the nature of a pilgrimage.  The idle hour, the bit of holiday, became a memorial, as recollection brought back to her the days of childhood spent down yonder, a few squares away, in this very city.  They seemed bright in retrospect, like the pleasant paths of a quiet garden, but they had ended abruptly, and had been followed by years of activity and colorful experience in another country.  Through it all what anticipations had been lodged in her return to Home!  Something there would complete the story—­the story with its secret ecstasies and aspirations—­the story of the ardent springs of youth.

Withdrawing her gaze from the scene below, though with apparent reluctance, she took from the pocket of her coat an opened envelope which she regarded a moment with thoughtfulness, before drawing forth the enclosures.  There were two letters, one of which was brief and written in bad script on a single sheet of paper bearing a legal head.  It was dated at Charlesport, Maine, and stated that the writer, in conformity with the last wish of his friend and client, Hercules Thayer, was ready to transfer certain deeds and papers to the late Mr. Thayer’s designated heir, Agatha Redmond; also that the writer requested an interview at Miss Redmond’s earliest convenience.