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Of course, if he had really wanted to find Sylvia it would have been easy from the date upon the envelope to have discovered the ship “sailing the following Saturday.” Passengers were compelled to register their names in full, and to state their intended movements after arrival in America. Sylvia was not a common Christian name. By the help of a five-dollar bill or two–. The idea had not occurred to him before. He dismissed it from his mind and sought a quiet hotel up town.

New York was changed less than he had anticipated. West Twentieth Street in particular was precisely as, leaning out of the cab window, he had looked back upon it ten years ago. Business had more and more taken possession of it, but had not as yet altered its appearance. His conscience smote him as he turned the corner that he had never once written to Ann. He had meant to, it goes without saying, but during those first years of struggle and failure his pride had held him back. She had always thought him a fool; he had felt she did. He would wait till he could write to her of success, of victory. And then when it had slowly, almost imperceptibly, arrived–! He wondered why he never had. Quite a nice little girl, in some respects. If only she had been less conceited, less self-willed. Also rather a pretty girl she had shown signs of becoming. There were times– He remembered an evening before the lamps were lighted. She had fallen asleep curled up in Abner’s easy chair, one small hand resting upon the arm. She had always had quite attractive hands–a little too thin. Something had moved him to steal across softly without waking her. He smiled at the memory.

And then her eyes, beneath the level brows! It was surprising how Ann was coming back to him. Perhaps they would be able to tell him, the people of the house, what had become of her. If they were decent people they would let him wander round a while. He would explain that he had lived there in Abner Herrick’s time. The room where they had sometimes been agreeable to one another while Abner, pretending to read, had sat watching them out of the corner of an eye. He would like to sit there for a few moments, by himself.

He forgot that he had rung the bell. A very young servant had answered the door and was staring at him. He would have walked in if the small servant had not planted herself deliberately in his way. It recalled him to himself.

“I beg pardon,” said Matthew, “but would you please tell me who lives here?”

The small servant looked him up and down with growing suspicion.

“Miss Kavanagh lives here,” she said. “What do you want?”

The surprise was so great it rendered him speechless. In another moment the small servant would have slammed the door.

“Miss Ann Kavanagh?” he inquired, just in time.

“That’s her name,” admitted the small servant, less suspicious.

“Will you please tell her Mr. Pole–Mr. Matthew Pole,” he requested.

“I’ll see first if she is in,” said the small servant, and shut the door.

It gave Matthew a few minutes to recover himself, for which he was glad. Then the door opened again suddenly.

“You are to come upstairs,” said the small servant.

It sounded so like Ann that it quite put him at his ease. He followed the small servant up the stairs.

“Mr. Matthew Pole,” she announced severely, and closed the door behind him.

Ann was standing by the window and came to meet him. It was in front of Abner’s empty chair that they shook hands.

“So you have come back to the old house,” said Matthew.