“Sufficient to say that in your mother’s character these noteworthy abilities were supplemented by gracious, womanly arts; and when she arrived at maturity, I offered her the honor of marriage.

“It is painful for me to recall the scene and the consequences of your mother’s refusal of my hand, even after these years of philosophical reflection.  It were idle for a man of parts to allow a mere preference in regard to his domestic situation to influence his course of action in any essential matter, and I have never permitted my career to be shaped by such details.  But from that time, however, the course of my life was changed.  From the impassioned orator and preacher I was transformed into the man of books and the study, and since then I have lived far from the larger concourses of men.  My weekly sermon, for twenty years, has been the essence of my weekly toil in establishing the authenticity, first, of the entire second gospel, and second, of the ten doubtful verses in the fifteenth chapter.  My work is now accomplished—­for all time, I believe.

“From the inception of what I considered my life mission, I made the resolve to bequeath to Agatha Shaw whatever manuscripts or other material of value my work should lead me to accumulate, together with this house, in which I have spent all the later years of my life.  You are Agatha Shaw’s only child, therefore to me a foster-child.

“Another reason, four years ago, led me to confirm my former testament.  From time to time I have informed myself concerning your movements and fortunes.  The work you have chosen, my dear Agatha, I can but believe to be fraught with unusual dangers to a young woman.  Therefore I hope that this home, modest as it is, may tempt you to an early retirement from the stage, and lead you to a more private and womanly career.  This I make only as a request, not as a condition.  I bid you farewell, and give you my blessing.

“Faithfully yours,

“Hercules Thayer.”

Agatha Redmond folded the thin sheets carefully.  There was a mist in her gaze as she looked off toward the distant city lights.

“Dear old gentleman!  His whole love-story, and my mother’s, too, perhaps!” Her quickened memory recalled childish impressions of a visit to a large country house and of a solemn old man—­he seemed incredibly ancient to her—­and of feeling that in some way she and her mother were in a special relationship to the house.  It was called “the old red house,” and was full of fascinating things.  The ancient man had bidden her go about and play as if it were her home, and then had called her to him and laid open a book, leading her mind to regard its mysteries.  Greek!  It seemed to her as if she had begun it there and then.  Later the mother became the teacher.  She was nursed, as it were, within sight of the windy plains of Troy and to the sound of the Homeric hymns—­and all by reason of this ancient scholar.