There were three other guests for dinner, and they were unlike any other people that Sylvia had known.  She was introduced first to Admiral Martin, a retired officer of the Navy, who, having remained in the service of his country to the retiring age, had just come home to live in the capital of his native state.  He was short and thick and talked in a deep, growling voice exactly as admirals should.  The suns and winds of many seas had burned and scored his face, and a stubby mustache gave him a belligerent aspect.  He mopped his brow with a tremendous handkerchief and when Mrs. Owen introduced Sylvia as Professor Kelton’s granddaughter he glared fiercely.

“Well, I declare, Andy, your granddaughter; well, I declare.”  He held Sylvia’s hand a moment and peered into her face.  “I remember your mother very well.  Andy, I recall distinctly that you and your wife were at Old Point in about the winter of ’69 and your daughter was with you.  So this is your granddaughter?  Well, I declare; I wish she was mine.”

“I’m glad to see you, Sylvia,” said Mrs. Martin, a shy, white-haired little woman.  “I remember that winter at Old Point.  I was waiting for my husband there.  You look like your mother.  It’s really a very striking resemblance.  We were all so fond of Edna.”

This was the first time that any one except her grandfather had ever spoken to Sylvia of her mother, and the words of these strangers thrilled her strangely and caused the tears to shine suddenly in her eyes.  It was all over in a moment, for Mrs. Martin, seeing Sylvia’s trembling lips, changed the subject quickly.

The last guest was just entering,—­a tall trapper-like man who crossed the room to Mrs. Owen with a long, curious stride.  He had shaken hands with Professor Kelton, and Mrs. Owen introduced him to the Martins, who by reason of their long absences had never met him before.

“Mr. Ware, this is Sylvia Garrison,” said Mrs. Owen.

Sylvia was given then as later to quick appraisements, and she liked the Reverend John Ware on the instant.  He did not look or act or talk in the least like a minister.  He was very dark, and his mustache was only faintly sprinkled with gray.  His hair still showed black at a distance, though he was sixty-five.  He had been, sometime earlier, the pastor of the First Congregational Church, but after a sojourn in other fields had retired to live among his old parishioners in the city which had loved him best.  It had been said of him in the days of his pastorate that he drew the largest congregations and the smallest collections of any preacher the community had ever known.  But Ware was curiously unmindful of criticism.  He had fished and hunted, he had preached charity and kindness, and when there was an unknown tramp to bury or some unfortunate girl had yielded to despair, he had officiated at the funeral, and, if need be, ridden to the cemetery on the hearse.

“I’m Mrs. Owen’s neighbor, you know,” he explained to Sylvia.  “My family have gone for the summer; I’m hanging on here till my Indian sends me a postal that the fishing is right on the Nipigon.  Nothing like getting off the train somewhere and being met by an Indian with a paddle on his shoulder.  You can learn a lot from an Indian.”