But even on the last day of my sojourn, when my trunks stood packed and corded, and the loins of my spirit were girt for departure on the morrow; as I stood at my window somewhat pensively contemplating, for the last time, the peculiarly delicious river-bit which it framed, the door opened suddenly, and Nannette, my fidus Achates, and the companion of my summer, ran in.

“Do you know,” she cried, “I have just learned that we were about to leave the place without visiting one of its greatest curiosities?  We have narrowly escaped going without having seen the ‘Old Maid’s Village!’”

“The ‘Old Maid’s Village!’” I echoed, stupidly.  “But what village is not the peculiar property of the race?”

“Yes, I know; but this village is really built on an old maid’s property, and by her own hands.  And there is the ’Cat’s Monument,’ too.  Come! don’t stop to talk about it, but let us go and see it.  It will be just the thing for a last evening; in memoriam, you know, and all that.  Get on your hat, and come, and we shall see the sunset meeting the moonrise on the river once more, as we return.”

That, at least, was always worth seeing, I reflected; and so, without more ado, I put on my wraps as I was bid, and reported myself under marching orders.

How lovely, how indescribably lovely, the world was that September afternoon, as we strolled along the shaded sidewalk where the maples were already laying a mosaic of gold and garnet, and looked off toward the river and the hills beyond—­the far blue hills—­all veiled in tenderest amber mist!  The very air was full of soft, warm color; the sunbeams, mild and level now, played with the shadows across our path, and every now and then a leaf, flecked with orange or crimson, fluttered to our feet.  The blue-birds sang in the goldening boughs, unaffrighted by the constant roll of elegant equipages in which, at this hour, the residents of the stately mansions on either side the road were taking the air; and the crickets hopped about undisturbed in the crevices of the gray stone walls.

We walked leisurely on, past one and another lofty gateway, until presently reaching an entrance rather less assuming than its neighbors, but, like them, hospitably open, Nannette said, with promptness: 

“This is the place, I am sure.  Square white house; black railing; next to the printing-press man’s great gate.  Come right in; all are welcome, and not even thank you to pay, for one never sees anyone to speak to here.”

It seemed to my modesty rather an audacious proceeding, but trusting to my companion’s superior information, I followed her in, and we walked up a circular carriage-drive through smooth shaven lawns dotted with brilliant clumps of salvia and gladiolus, towards the house—­a square, solid structure, white, and with broad verandas running across its front.