“No, I thought perhaps I could entice you along. Get your cap.” He arose and, while Phillip was putting on his coat and finding hat and gloves, strolled over to the mantel. Above it was a nice arrangement of spurs, crops, whips and bridles centering about a really good hunting picture. But John wasn’t looking for such things; instead he examined attentively the long row of photographs that lined the wall beneath and which he had noticed from his chair. There were two portraits of a middle-aged gentleman whom John surmised to be the Phillip Ryerson who had fought in the duel; another of the same person, taken at an earlier age, in the dress of a Southern captain of cavalry; a portrait of a sweet-faced, rather delicate woman of about fifty; an assortment of photographs of more or less uninteresting looking persons of both sexes; and then one which John took from its place and observed intently, while a little smile curved his lips. He was still looking at it when Phillip returned from the bedroom attired for the walk. “Who’s this, Ryerson?” he asked. “That’s Margey――my sister, you know. It’s not good of her.” “You look alike, all of you,” said John, returning the picture slowly to its place. “You’re a good-looking lot, you Ryersons.” “They say my mother was the handsomest woman in our county when she married,” answered Phillip with pride. “And father was handsome, too, I think. But Margey and I aren’t much on looks; I reckon we’re just powerful good,” he added, laughing. “Well, I won’t throw compliments at you,” said John, “but your sister’s a beauty, in my opinion. All ready?” They descended the stairs, preceded by Tudor Maid, who took the flight in four hilarious bounds and waited for them at the gate wriggling from nose to tail with delight. It was an ideal autumn day, with a clear sky and just enough breeze to bring the golden and bronze and crimson leaves fluttering down from the trees that lined Mount Auburn Street, and enough sparkle in the air to lend spring to the tread of the two as they paced briskly along. John was a veritable bureau of information, and Phillip had a boy’s healthy curiosity regarding everything that hinted of interest. In front of Longfellow Park they crossed the little border of turf and shrubbery and stood upon a narrow beach left by the receding tide. Phillip tossed bits of stone into the river and Maid barked wildly and was always on the point of plunging in after them, but never did. To their right the stream began its long curve, its surface agleam with flecks and points of sunlight that dazzled the eyes. Across, the broad meadow stretched before them, a bare expanse of golden russet. Beyond that was the river again, and then the wooded promontory crowned with its tower and sprinkled with marble monuments that glistened snow-white in the sunlight. “That’s the cemetery, isn’t it?” asked Phillip.