There was a vivid picture in her mind, gathered at some later visit, of a soft hillside, a small white church standing under its balm-of-gilead tree, and herself sitting by a stone in the old churchyard, listening to the strains of a hymn which floated out from the high, narrow windows.  She remembered how, from without, she had joined in the hymn, singing with all her small might; and suddenly the association brought back to her a more recent event and a more beautiful strain of music.  Half in reverie, half in conscious pleasure in the exercise of a facile organ, she began to sing: 

  “Free of my pain, free of my burden of sorrow,
  At last I shall see thee—­”

The song floated in a zone of silence that lay above the deep-murmuring city.  The voice was no more than the half-voice of a flute, sweet, gentle, beguiling.  It told, as so many songs tell, of little earthly Love in the grasp of mighty Fate.  Still she sang on, softly, as if loving the entrancing melody.

Suddenly the song ceased, and the reminiscent smile gave place to an expression of surprise, as the singer became conscious of a deeper shadow falling directly in front of her.  She glanced up quickly, and found herself looking into the face of a man whose gimlet-like gaze was directed upon herself.

Quickly as she rose, she could not turn into the path before the gentleman, hat in hand, with a deep bow and clearly enunciated words, arrested her impulse to flight.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle, I am a stranger in the city.  I was directed this way to Van Cortlandt Hall, but I find I am in error, intrigued—­in confusion.  Would mademoiselle be so good as to direct me?”

The tones had a foreign accent.  There was something, also, in their bland impertinence which put Miss Redmond on her guard.  He was a good-sized, blond person, carefully dressed, and at least appeared like a gentleman.

Miss Redmond looked into the smooth, neat countenance, upon which no record either of experience or of thought was engraved, and decided fleetingly that he was lying.  She judged him capable of picking up acquaintances on the street, but thought that more originality might be expected of him.

Suddenly she wished that she had returned sooner to her car, for though she was of an adventurous nature, her bravery was not of the physical order; and she disliked to have the appearance of unconventionality.  After the first minute she was not so much afraid as annoyed.  Her voice became frigid, though her dignity was somewhat damaged by the fact that she bungled in giving the desired information.

“I think monsieur will find Van Cortlandt Hall in the College grounds two blocks south—­no, north—­of the gateway yonder, at the upper end of this walk.”

“Ah, mademoiselle is but too kind!” He bowed deeply again, hat still in hand.  “I thank you profoundly.  And may I say, also, that this wonderful picture—­” here he spread eloquent hands toward the half-quiescent city whose thousand eyes glimmered over the lower distance—­“this panorama of occidental life, makes a peculiar appeal to the imagination?”