Summer, intolerable summer, was upon the city at last.  The families of its richest citizens had fled.  Even at that early day some braved the long railroad journey to the Atlantic coast.  Amongst these were our friends the Cluymes, who come not strongly into this history.  Some went to the Virginia Springs.  But many, like the Brinsmades and the Russells, the Tiptons and the Hollingsworths, retired to the local paradise of their country places on the Bellefontaine road, on the cool heights above the river.  Thither, as a respite from the hot office, Stephen was often invited by kind Mr. Brinsmade, who sometimes drove him out in his own buggy.  Likewise he had visited Miss Puss Russell.  But Miss Virginia Carvel he had never seen since the night he had danced with her.  This was because, after her return from the young ladies’ school at Monticello, she had gone to Glencoe, Glencoe, magic spot, perched high on wooded highlands.  And under these the Meramec, crystal pure, ran lightly on sand and pebble to her bridal with that turbid tyrant, the Father of Waters.

To reach Glencoe you spent two dirty hours on that railroad which (it was fondly hoped) would one day stretch to the Pacific Ocean.  You generally spied one of the big Catherwood boys in the train, or their tall sister Maude.  The Catherwoods likewise lived at Glencoe in the summer.  And on some Saturday afternoons a grim figure in a linen duster and a silk skull-cap took a seat in the forward car.  That was Judge Whipple, on his way to spend a quiet Sunday with Colonel Carvel.

To the surprise of many good people, the Judge had recently formed another habit.  At least once a week he would drop in at the little house on Olive Street next to Mr. Brinsmade’s big one, which was shut up, and take tea with Mrs. Brice.  Afterward he would sit on the little porch over the garden in the rear, or on the front steps, and watch the bob-tailed horse-cars go by.  His conversation was chiefly addressed to the widow.  Rarely to Stephen; whose wholesome respect for his employer had in no wise abated.

Through the stifling heat of these summer days Stephen sat in the outer office, straining at the law.  Had it not been for the fact that Mr. Whipple went to his mother’s house, despair would have seized him long since.  Apparently his goings-out and his comings-in were noted only by Mr. Richter.  Truly the Judge’s methods were not Harvard methods.  And if there were pride in the young Bostonian, Mr. Whipple thought he knew the cure for it.

It was to Richter Stephen owed a debt of gratitude in these days.  He would often take his midday meal in the down-town beer garden with the quiet German.  Then there came a Sunday afternoon (to be marked with a red letter) when Richter transported him into Germany itself.  Stephen’s eyes were opened.  Richter took him across the Rhine.  The Rhine was Market Street, and south of that street was a country of which polite American society took no cognizance.