He loved this street which stretched the length of the town; beginning in homes of a humble sort; breaking, a little farther on, into a feverish importance as it ran along before the doors of the shops; gathering dignity unto itself as it gained the site of the Shadyville Seminary; and finally advancing, in the evolution of a social consciousness, through the select upper end of town, where it spread itself ingratiatingly beneath the feet of the "prominent citizens" and clung smugly to well-trimmed hedges instead of skirting shop doors, and dingy fences. Peter called its course its "rise in life"--so obvious was its snobbery, its persistent climbing; but his ridicule was the tolerant ridicule of affection. He knew the street like the nature of an old friend; he saw it like the face of one; and if he laughed now and then at its weaknesses, he was none the less certain to enjoy its company. To walk along _with_ a street--not merely upon it--was one of his favorite pastimes, and this afternoon he pursued it in great contentment, with no thought of what its end should be, nor any definite desire. For it was his theory that to walk with a street, divining its moods and discovering its little dramas, was in itself an adventure, and need not lead to one. But though he was content to stroll with the street, particularly in this pleasant neighborhood of its upper end, he soon halted, perforce, at the greeting: "Peter, you _won't_ pass me by?" It was a blithe voice that addressed him, pretty and clear, but it was not the voice of youth; and Peter, glancing toward the veranda whence it came, saw sitting there an old lady who was like the voice, pretty and blithe and brave, though with no affectation of a youth long gone. His face lighted at sight of her, and he hastened up her garden path. "Dear Mrs. Caldwell!" he cried, both hands extended. And then, with pleased alacrity, he settled himself upon the step at her feet. "It's worth while taking a walk up this way," he remarked appreciatively. "Now confess," laughed the old lady, "confess that _I_ am not the adventure you are seeking this afternoon!" "I wasn't seeking one at all," disclaimed Peter, "but I couldn't refuse a divine accident." And as she shook a chiding head at his flattery, he went on firmly: "It's the wayside adventures like this which have long since decided me to start out with none in view. The gods presiding over a wayfarer's destiny always offer him something better than he could have provided for himself!" "Oh, Peter! Peter!" protested the old lady, "what a book of pretty speeches you are!" But the two smiled at each other with the happy understanding of friends to whom disparity of years was no barrier. "And how does your garden grow, Mistress Mary?" Peter presently inquired.