With a promptness not entirely due to chance, the stenographer came downstairs dressed for dinner some several minutes before the appointed hour. Assuming her right as a guest, she wandered about the rooms. The south door, by which they had entered, was evidently the main entrance, but the opposite, or north door, gave on to an even more beautiful view, and she stepped out on the wide veranda and gazed admiringly about. The low ridge nearby formed the western horizon, and the giant sycamore, its straight branches outlined against the fading sunset, was impressive and a little weird. She strolled on, and turned the corner the better to see the ridge. The veranda ran all round the house, and as she went on along the western side, she suddenly became aware of a silent figure leaning against a pillar at the southwest corner. “It is so quiet it frightens me,” she said to Daniel Wheeler, as she neared him. “Do you feel that way, too?” he asked, looking at her a little absently. “It is the lull before the storm.” “Oh, that sunset doesn’t mean rain,” Genevieve exclaimed, smiling, “unless your Connecticut blue laws interpret weather signs differently from our Massachusetts prophets. We _are_ in Connecticut, aren’t we?” “Yes,” and Wheeler sighed unaccountably. “Yes, Miss Lane, we are. That sycamore is the finest tree in the state.” “I can well believe it. I never saw such a grandfather of a tree! It’s all full of little balls.” “Yes, buttonballs, they are called. But note its wonderful symmetry, its majestic appearance——” “And strength! It looks as if it would stand, there forever!” “Do you think so?” and the unmistakable note of disappointment in the man’s tone caused Genevieve to look up in astonishment. “Well, perhaps it will,” he added quickly. “Oh, no, of course it won’t really! No tree stands forever. But it will be here long after you and I are gone.” “Are you an authority on trees?” Wheeler spoke without a smile. “Hardly that; but I was brought up in the country, and I know something of them. Your daughter loves the country, too.” “Oh, yes—we all do.” The tone was courteous, but the whole air of the man was so melancholy, his cheerfulness so palpably assumed, that Genevieve felt sorry for him, as well as inordinately curious to know what was the matter. But her sympathy was the stronger impulse, and with a desire to entertain him, she said, “Come for a few steps in the garden, Mr. Wheeler, won’t you? Come and show me that quaint little summer-house near the front door. It is the front door, isn’t it? It’s hard to tell.” “Yes, the north door _is_ the front door,” Wheeler said slowly, as if repeating a lesson. “The summer-house you mention is near the front door. But we won’t visit that now. Come this other way, and I’ll show you a Japanese tea-house, much more attractive.” But Genevieve Lane was sometimes under the spell of the Imp of the Perverse.