On the particular hot morning in question, as he stood in his seersucker coat reading the unquestionably pompous letter of Mr. Allison announcing that his niece was on the high seas, he returned the greetings of his friends with his usual kindness and cheer.  In an adjoining compartment a long-legged boy of fourteen was busily stamping letters.

“Peter,” said Mr. Leffingwell, “go ask Mr. Isham if I may see him.”

It is advisable to remember the boy’s name.  It was Peter Erwin, and he was a favourite in the bank, where he had been introduced by Mr. Leffingwell himself.  He was an orphan and lived with his grandmother, an impoverished old lady with good blood in her veins who boarded in Graham’s Row, on Olive Street.  Suffice it to add, at this time, that he worshipped Mr. Leffingwell, and that he was back in a twinkling with the information that Mr. Isham was awaiting him.

The president was seated at his desk.  In spite of the thermometer he gave no appearance of discomfort in his frock-coat.  He had scant, sandy-grey whiskers, a tightly closed and smooth-shaven upper lip, a nose with-a decided ridge, and rather small but penetrating eyes in which the blue pigment had been used sparingly.  His habitual mode of speech was both brief and sharp, but people remarked that he modified it a little for Tom Leffingwell.

“Come in, Tom,” he said.  “Anything the matter?”

“Mr. Isham, I want a week off, to go to New York.”

The request, from Tom Leffingwell, took Mr. Isham’s breath.  One of the bank president’s characteristics was an extreme interest in the private affairs of those who came within his zone of influence and especially when these affairs evinced any irregularity.

“Randolph again?” he asked quickly.

Tom walked to the window, and stood looking out into the street.  His voice shook as he answered: 

“Ten days ago I learned that my brother was dead, Mr. Isham.”

The president glanced at the broad back of his teller.  Mr. Isham’s voice was firm, his face certainly betrayed no feeling, but a flitting gleam of satisfaction might have been seen in his eye.

“Of course, Tom, you may go,” he answered.

Thus came to pass an event in the lives of Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary, that journey to New York (their first) of two nights and two days to fetch Honora.  We need not dwell upon all that befell them.  The first view of the Hudson, the first whiff of the salt air on this unwonted holiday, the sights of this crowded city of wealth,—­all were tempered by the thought of the child coming into their lives.  They were standing on the pier when the windows were crimson in the early light, and at nine o’clock on that summer’s morning the Albania was docked, and the passengers came crowding down the gang-plank.  Prosperous tourists, most of them, with servants and stewards carrying bags of English design and checked steamer rugs; and at last a ruddy-faced bonne with streamers and a bundle of ribbons and laces—­Honora—­Honora, aged eighteen months, gazing at a subjugated world.