little girl with a pink
sash and a white dress who used to come running out to meet me with
flowers in her hands. Incredible as it may seem, she picked them in that
yard. I thought of her as I went in, how fresh and happy she used to
be, and what a different place this was for children then. She must have
some of her own by this time."

The character of the street had changed to what might be called
shabby-genteel, and they stopped before a three-story brick house--one
of a row--that showed signs of scrupulous care. The steps were newly
scrubbed, the woodwork neatly painted.

"This is where I live, sir," said Mr. Bentley, opening the door with a
latchkey and leading the way into a high room on the right, darkened and
cool, and filled with superb, old-fashioned rosewood furniture. It
was fitted up as a library, with tall shelves reaching almost to the
ceiling.

An old negro appeared, dressed in a swallow-tailed coat. His hair was as
white as his master's, and his face creased with age.

"Sam," said Mr. Bentley, "I have brought home a gentleman for supper."

"Yassah, Misteh Ho'ace. I was jest agwine to open up de blin's."

He lifted the wire screens and flung back the shutters, beamed on
the rector as he relieved him of his hat, and noiselessly retired.
Curiosity, hitherto suppressed by more powerful feelings, awoke in
Hodder speculations which ordinarily would have been aroused before:
every object in the room bespoke gentility, was eloquent of a day
when wealth was honoured and respected: photographs, daguerreotypes in
old-fashioned frames bore evidence of friendships of the past, and over
the marble mantel hung a portrait of a sweet-faced woman in the costume
of the thirties, whose eyes reminded Hodder of Mr. Bentley's. Who was
she?

Hodder wondered. Presently he found himself before a photograph on the
wall beyond, at which he had been staring unconsciously.

"Ah, you recognize it," said Mr. Bentley.

"St. John's!"

"Yes," Mr. Bentley repeated, "St. John's." He smiled at Hodder's glance
of bewilderment, and put his hand on the younger man's arm. "That
picture was taken before you were born, sir, I venture to say--in 1869.
I am very fond of it, for it gives the church in perspective, as you
see. That was Mr. Gore's house"--he indicated a square, heavily corniced
mansion--"where the hotel now stands, and that was his garden, next the
church, where you see the trees above the wall."

The rector turned agai