My mother felt an old-fashioned obligation of courtesy toward her neighbors. Just because they were neighbors, they had an almost sacred claim that must never be neglected. They were always included in her entertainments; and as they often had little in common with the other guests, it came about that there was great variety in the people who came to our parties. We did not belong to any set, while people from every set came to our house. I have always been grateful to my parents for this catholicity, for I have felt at home in whatever company I have found myself. I had a smiling acquaintance with most of the neighbors, not only in our own, but in the adjacent streets. One figure, however, filled me with a blind panic, a pale man, who wore black-rimmed spectacles and used two stout canes when he walked. I can see him now, tramping with a sort of desperate energy for a few blocks, and then sitting down to rest. To come upon him unexpectedly, lying in wait for me on a doorstep, or walking along at a terrific clip as if some demon were after him, curdled my blood. I have never feared any mortal as I feared that pale specter. The terror lay far too deep for words, like that other fear of the hangman that haunted my youth. One day, walking with my mother, my heart stood still, for she stopped and spoke to the sinister figure. “I am glad to see you out again, Mr. Parkman. You look much better than when I last saw you.” They shook hands, he remaining seated, she leaning over him with gentle friendliness in face and voice. “You know him?” I whispered, as we walked on together. “Very well. That is the father of your friend Katie. He has been so ill that he can only walk a little distance without resting. He is writing a very important book, but he can only work at it twenty minutes at a time.” Years afterward, I learned that the man with the two sticks was Francis Parkman, the great historian, who at that time was at work upon his “Pioneers of France in the New World.”