It was the evening of one of the balmy days of a late Indian summer.  The stars of the Canadian sky had faded and become invisible in the light of a moon that hung low and glorious, giving light to the dry, sweet-scented haze of autumn air.  Trenholme looked out on a neat garden plot, and beyond, in the same enclosure, upon lawns of ragged, dry-looking grass, in the centre of which stood an ugly brick house, built apparently for some public purpose.  This was the immediate outlook.  Around, the land was undulating; trees were abundant, and were more apparent in the moonlight than the flat field spaces between them.  The graceful lines of leafless elms at the side of the main road were clearly seen.  About half a mile away the lights of a large village were visible, but bits of walls and gable ends of white houses stood out brighter in the moonlight than, the yellow lights within the windows.  Where the houses stretched themselves up on a low hill, a little white church showed clear against the broken shadow of low-growing pines.

As Trenholme was surveying the place dreamily in the wonderful light, that light fell also, upon him and his habitation.  He was apparently intellectual, and had in him something of the idealist.  For the rest, he was a good-sized, good-looking man, between thirty and forty years of age, and even by the moonlight one might see, from the form of his clothes, that he was dressed with fastidious care.  The walls and verandah, of his house, which were of wood, glistened almost as brightly with white paint as the knocker and doorplate did with brass lacquer.

After a few minutes Trenholme’s housekeeper, a wiry, sad-eyed woman, came to see why the door was left open.  When she saw the master of the house she retired in abrupt, angular fashion, but the suggestion of her errand recalled him from his brief relaxation.

In his study he again sat down before the table where he had been talking to his visitors.  From the leaves of his blotting-paper he took a letter which he had apparently been interrupted in writing.  He took it out in a quick, business-like way, and dipped his pen in the ink as though, to finish rapidly; but then he sat still until the pen dried, and no further word had been added.  Again he dipped his pen, and again let it dry.  If the first sentence of the letter had taken as long to compose as the second, it was no wonder that a caller had caused an interruption.

The letter, as it lay before him, had about a third of its page written in a neat, forcible hand.  The arms of his young college were printed at the top.  He had written:—­

   My dear brother,—­I am very much concerned not to have heard
   from you for so long.  I have written to your old address in Montreal,
   but received no answer.

Here came the stop.  At last he put pen to paper and went on:—­