"Oh, yes," she nodded, "that's the same. Very pretty, tall young ladies? _They_ were always in and out." "Really?" said Conrad. Mary's sisters began to beckon to him. "Can you help me to communicate with Dr. Page?" "We have the address he left with us--the one we used to forward letters to; I don't know if he's there still." She confessed the limitation of her knowledge with regret. "It's some years since he went from Sweetbay." "Perhaps you would be so merciful as to give me the one you have? I am an old friend of Dr. Page's family--very old--and till Providence directed my steps to you I despaired of finding them again." He outlined the difficulties he had encountered, but he had grown diffident of mentioning 'seventy-seven. The postmistress laughed quite mirthfully at his recital, which, encouraged by her appreciation, he falsified sufficiently to make amusing. After bidding the clerk turn to a book, she announced to him that the address was "Home Rest, Peregrine Place," and the assurances of his gratitude seemed amply to repay her. Conrad went to bed with much more exhilaration than he had looked for. The day, after all, had seen something accomplished. Within his head, when he punched the pillow, the project of running Dr. Page to earth on the morrow promised agreeable developments. At the onset the interview would be a trifle embarrassing he foresaw, inasmuch as the gentleman on whom he intruded would certainly have no recollection of his name; but the ice would break under a few suave references to "My first visit to the neighbourhood since I was a boy," and "My little playmates of long ago"--he would put her in the plural, his inquiries could be concentrated gradually. If Mary herself were living in Redhill he might remain there. He would intimate that he thought of doing so--it would forefend the suspicion of impetuosity. The sun was shining when he woke. The birds chirruped among the fir trees, and there were echoes of old-time music in his heart while he brushed his hair--until he fought to draw up a sailor's knot under one of those "double collars" that have led to so much domestic unhappiness at the breakfast-table.