And still she talked on with this unassuming country youth, emboldened to the act by the strange hand of chance that should bring her to it, and by the novelty of the situation, and by some other unfathomable mystery that caused her to see in him something more than usual, continuing to intimate the while that she was loath to forego further indulgence in their very entertaining meeting; and she so rich, and he so poor. But as all happy events in one's life must have an ending, she at length said, while the rain still kept pouring down: "Mr. Winthrope, I must express my sincere regret that the time and place are inappropriate for a continuance of our very, very pleasant talk on this highly felicitous event, as it has turned out to be." Again she extended her hand, and still the rain came beating down as before. He took it, and pressed it more firmly, and she permitted him to hold it as he said: "The pleasure is not all yours, Miss Jarney, I assure you. Were I--were I equal to the occasion, which I can never hope to be, I might ask the pleasure of accompanying you--part way at least--through this soaking night to your home, or to your nearest friends. But I shall not ask it of you." "Good bye," she replied, with some disappointment, it appeared to him, as he released her hand. "Good bye," he returned; and they parted. She turned, and disappeared, like a spectre, into the depths of the grayish shroud of the melancholy night. He turned a corner, lost his way in the hurrying crowd, and drew up eventually at a restaurant. After refreshing himself, he returned to the street again, and plodded on, with the broken umbrella over him, through the dampage to his cold and dimly lighted chamber--there to sleep, and dream, perhaps, of a fair young face, miles and miles above his station in life. And the rain beat down above him with the same homely sound, it seemed, as it did in the past, upon the roof above his chamber in his mountain home. CHAPTER II. AT THE MANSION ON THE HILL. In Highland avenue, far removed from the crowded thoroughfares, the congested tenements, the cheap homes of the middle class, the rush and roar of industry--out where the wind and sun (when they combine together to have a sky cleaning and an air purification) first lay hold with brush and broom and water to scour away the smokage of the manufactories of wealth--stands a mansion. It is a dull gray mansion on a hill, with an outlook to the four winds--over every hill and valley, park, suburb, town and community--embracing everything that a prospect could possibly be endowed with. Standing alone in a small private park, studded with oaks, beech and maple trees, and brightened by a sward faultlessly maintained, with gently sloping hillsides, rockeries, aquariums and flower beds, and winding paths and roads and byways, it impresses one not much unlike that of same landed member of nobility when men were masters of men even with less harshness than now.