Mrs. Burns entered a street-car and sat down by Anna, pleased with an event that had drawn her from the eternal sameness of her garret-home. She was a mild, sweet-faced old lady, for whom even the rude jostlers of a street-car made room reverently. So she enjoyed her ride, and thanked God in her heart that Anna would soon be under a shelter where no bad, rude man would dare to force himself upon her. The advent of Mr. Ward into what had been to them always a safe and peaceful dwelling, had distressed the old lady more than her grandchildren had dreamed of. She had seen enough of the world in her lifetime to understand that to be domesticated with a young man, from any grade in society, would bring reproach of some kind on her child. The cars stopped, and after walking a single block, these two women found themselves in front of an opening or park, encircled by a double crescent of small three-story cottages, with verandahs of light wood-work running along each story, all woven and draped with climbing roses, honeysuckles, and Virginia creepers. In fact, the front of these houses was one lattice-work of flowers; and all the open ground inclosed in the two crescents was broken up with guilder-roses, lilacs, spireas, and a world of roses growing in rich masses, if not always rare, exceedingly beautiful. A street ran between the two crescents lined with tall trees, which, here and there, tangled their branches over it. In the grounds, too, were weeping-willows, the paper-mulberry, and alanthus trees, drooping under the weight of great clusters of vividly red fruit. The old lady uttered an exclamation, half delight, half surprise. Was it possible? Could she again gather her son’s children about her in a place like that? To Anna it seemed a little paradise. The very breath stopped on her lips as she paused to gaze upon it. “There must be some mistake,” she said. “The number was on one of those gates, truly; but it could not be.” She stood before one of the rustic gates which opened to a house in the very deepest curve of one of the crescents, bewildered and uncertain. “Do not attempt to open it,” said the old lady, restraining her granddaughter’s hand as she was about to unlatch the gate. “It cannot be here we are to live.” Poor old soul! She had lived so long in the close rooms of that tenement-building, that these houses, very simple and unpretending if divested of their grounds and flowers, seemed far too magnificent for her aspirations. “Let us go on,” she said, “and search out the real house; this place is as lovely as paradise, but it is not for us. I wish you had not come this way, Anna, it will make you dissatisfied with the reality.” “Look, grandmother, look! It is the very house. There is Miss Halstead in the door; you can scarcely see her for the honeysuckles—but I should know her face anywhere. She is coming forward, and looks so pleased. Come, grandmother.”