“Krebs.”

“Do you know him?”

“Slightly.  He was in my class at Harvard....  Is he still here?” I asked, after a pause.

“Oh, yes.  But he hasn’t gone to the legislature this time, we’ve seen to that.  His father was a respectable old German who had a little shop and made eye-glasses.  The son is an example of too much education.  He’s a notoriety seeker.  Oh, he’s clever, in a way.  He’s given us a good deal of trouble, too, in the courts with damage cases."...

We came to a brighter, more spacious, well-to-do portion of the town, where the residences faced the river.  In a little while the waters widened into a lake, which was surrounded by a park, a gift to the city of the Hutchins family.  Facing it, on one side, was the Hutchins Library; on the other, across a wide street, where the maples were turning, were the Hutchinses’ residences of various dates of construction, from that of the younger George, who had lately married a wife, and built in bright yellow brick, to the old-fashioned mansion of Ezra himself.  This, he told me, had been good enough for his father, and was good enough for him.  The picture of it comes back to me, now, with singular attractiveness.  It was of brick, and I suppose a modification of the Georgian; the kind of house one still sees in out-of-the way corners of London, with a sort of Dickensy flavour; high and square and uncompromising, with small-paned windows, with a flat roof surrounded by a low balustrade, and many substantial chimneys.  The third storey was lower than the others, separated from them by a distinct line.  On one side was a wide porch.  Yellow and red leaves, the day’s fall, scattered the well-kept lawn.  Standing in the doorway of the house was a girl in white, and as we descended from the surrey she came down the walk to meet us.  She was young, about twenty.  Her hair was the colour of the russet maple leaves.

“This is Mr. Paret, Maude.”  Mr. Hutchins looked at his watch as does a man accustomed to live by it.  “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Paret, I have something important to attend to.  Perhaps Mr. Paret would like to look about the grounds?” He addressed his daughter.

I said I should be delighted, though I had no idea what grounds were meant.  As I followed Maude around the house she explained that all the Hutchins connection had a common back yard, as she expressed it.  In reality, there were about two blocks of the property, extending behind all the houses.  There were great trees with swings, groves, orchards where the late apples glistened between the leaves, an old-fashioned flower garden loath to relinquish its blooming.  In the distance the shadowed western ridge hung like a curtain of deep blue velvet against the sunset.

“What a wonderful spot!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, it is nice,” she agreed, “we were all brought up here—­I mean my cousins and myself.  There are dozens of us.  And dozens left,” she added, as the shouts and laughter of children broke the stillness.