AT eight o'clock Elias was ushered by a maid, servant into Redwood's parlor. Redwood's parlor was the conventional oblong parlor of the conventional New York house, conventionally furnished and decorated. It had white walls, black walnut wood-work, a gaudily stenciled ceiling, and a florid velvet carpet, into which your feet sank an inch, and which gave off a faint but acrid odor of dye-stuffs. For pictures there were three steel engravings--The Last Supper, The Signing of the Declaration of Independence, The Landing of the Pilgrims--all hung as near to heaven as the limitations of space would allow. The chairs were of mahogany, upholstered in sleek and slippery hair cloth. Upon the huge sarcophagus which served for mantelpiece, a gilt clock, under a glass dome, registered five minutes past six, with stationary hands. This started one's mind irresistibly backward, in quest of the precise point in time at which the clock had stopped, and set one to speculating upon what the condition of the world was then.. Years ago, or only months? In summer, or winter? Morning or afternoon? What of moment was happening then? Who was President? Where was I, and what doing? Perhaps--it was such an old-fashioned clock--perhaps I had not yet been born. In the corner furthest from the window there was a square piano, closed, and covered by a dark brown cloth, like a pall. Just above it, so that they could not be reached except by standing upon it, some book-shelves were suspended. These contained the “Arabian Nights,” “The History of the Bible,” Cooper's novels, and an old edition of the “New American Cyclopedia.” Beneath the chandelier stood a center table, with a top of variegated marbles. This bore a student's lamp, a Russia leather writing case, an ivory paper knife, a photograph of Mr. Emerson, and half a score of books. The literature of the center table was rather more seasonable than that of the hanging shelves. Greene's “Short History of the English People,” “The Victorian Poets,” “Society and Solitude,” and the “Poems of Dante Gabriel Rossetti,” testified that somebody had modern instincts, testimony which was corroborated by an open copy of “Adam Bede,” laid face downward upon the sofa. Elias wondered who somebody might be. Presently old Redwood entered, in dressing-gown and slippers. He carried a large bundle under his arm. “Here,” said he, “are the plates I spoke of. Run them over, and pick out those that please ye.” The examination of the plates occupied perhaps a quarter-hour. When it was finished, Elias thanked the old man, and began to make his adieux. Then, abruptly, as though the question had but just occurred to him, “Oh, by the way,” he inquired, in a tone meant to be careless and casual, “can you tell me who that young lady was--the young lady I saw down at your place this afternoon?” “Young lady?” queried Redwood, with a blank look, scratching his chin, and knitting his brow. “Down to my place? What young lady?”