Late one brilliant April afternoon ProfessorLucius Wilson stood at the head of Chestnut Street,looking about him with the pleased air of a manof taste who does not very often get to Boston.He had lived there as a student, but fortwenty years and more, since he had beenProfessor of Philosophy in a Westernuniversity, he had seldom come East exceptto take a steamer for some foreign port.Wilson was standing quite still, contemplatingwith a whimsical smile the slanting street,with its worn paving, its irregular, gravelycolored houses, and the row of naked trees onwhich the thin sunlight was still shining.The gleam of the river at the foot of the hillmade him blink a little, not so much because itwas too bright as because he found it so pleasant.The few passers-by glanced at him unconcernedly,and even the children who hurried along with theirschool-bags under their arms seemed to find itperfectly natural that a tall brown gentlemanshould be standing there, looking up throughhis glasses at the gray housetops.

The sun sank rapidly; the silvery lighthad faded from the bare boughs and thewatery twilight was setting in when Wilsonat last walked down the hill, descending intocooler and cooler depths of grayish shadow.His nostril, long unused to it, was quick todetect the smell of wood smoke in the air,blended with the odor of moist spring earthand the saltiness that came up the river withthe tide. He crossed Charles Street betweenjangling street cars and shelving lumberdrays, and after a moment of uncertaintywound into Brimmer Street. The street wasquiet, deserted, and hung with a thin bluishhaze. He had already fixed his sharp eyeupon the house which he reasoned should behis objective point, when he noticed a womanapproaching rapidly from the opposite direction.Always an interested observer of women,Wilson would have slackened his paceanywhere to follow this one with his impersonal,appreciative glance. She was a personof distinction he saw at once, and, moreover,very handsome. She was tall, carried herbeautiful head proudly, and moved with easeand certainty. One immediately took forgranted the costly privileges and fine spacesthat must lie in the background from whichsuch a figure could emerge with this rapidand elegant gait. Wilson noted her dress,too,--for, in his way, he had an eye for suchthings,--particularly her brown furs and herhat. He got a blurred impression of her finecolor, the violets she wore, her white gloves,and, curiously enough, of her veil, as she turnedup a flight of steps in front of him and disappeared.

Wilson was able to enjoy lovely thingsthat passed him on the wing as completelyand deliberately as if they had been dug-upmarvels, long anticipated, and definitely fixedat the end of a railway journey. For a fewpleasurable seconds he quite forgot where hewas going, and only after the door had closedbehind her did he realize that the youngwoman had entered the house to which hehad directed his trunk from the South Stationthat morning. He hesitated a moment beforemounting the steps. "Can that," he murmuredin amazement,--"can that possibly have beenMrs. Alexander?"

When the servant admitted him, Mrs. Alexanderwas still standing in the hallway.She heard him give his name, and cameforward holding out her hand.

"Is it you, indeed, Professor Wilson? Iwas afraid that you might get here before Idid. I was detained at a concert, and Bartleytelephoned that he would be late. Thomaswill show you your room. Had you ratherhave your tea brought to you there, or willyou have it down here with me, while wewait for Bartley?"

Wilson was pleased to find that he had beenthe cause of her rapid walk, and with herhe was even more vastly pleased than before.He followed her through the drawing-roominto the library, where the wide back windowslooked out upon the garden and the sunsetand a fine stretch of silver-colored river.A harp-shaped elm stood stripped againstthe pale-colored evening sky, with raggedlast year's birds' nests in its forks,and through the bare branches the evening starquivered in the misty air. The long brownroom breathed the peace of a rich and amplyguarded quiet. Tea was brought in immediatelyand placed in front of the wood fire.Mrs. Alexander sat down in a high-backedchair and began to pour it, while Wilson sankinto a low seat opposite her and took his cupwith a great sense of ease and harmony and comfort.

"You have had a long journey, haven't you?"Mrs. Alexander asked, after showing graciousconcern about his tea. "And I am so sorryBartley is late. He's often tired when he's late.He flatters himself that it is a littleon his account that you have come to thisCongress of Psychologists."

"It is," Wilson assented, selecting hismuffin carefully; "and I hope he won't betired tonight. But, on my own account,I'm glad to have a few moments alone with you,before Bartley comes. I was somehow afraidthat my knowing him so well would not put mein the way of getting to know you."

"That's very nice of you." She nodded athim above her cup and smiled, but there wasa little formal tightness in her tone which hadnot been there when she greeted him in the hall.

Wilson leaned forward. "Have I said something awkward?I live very far out of the world, you know.But I didn't mean that you would exactly fade dim,even if Bartley were here."

Mrs. Alexander laughed relentingly."Oh, I'm not so vain! How terriblydiscerning you are."

She looked straight at Wilson, and he feltthat this quick, frank glance brought aboutan understanding between them.

He liked everything about her, he told himself,but he particularly liked her eyes;when she looked at one directly for a momentthey were like a glimpse of fine windy skythat may bring all sorts of weather.

"Since you noticed something," Mrs. Alexanderwent on, "it must have been a flash of thedistrust I have come to feel wheneverI meet any of the people who knew Bartleywhen he was a boy. It is always as ifthey were talking of someone I had never met.Really, Professor Wilson, it would seemthat he grew up among the strangest people.They usually say that he has turned out very well,or remark that he always was a fine fellow.I never know what reply to make."

Wilson chuckled and leaned back in his chair,shaking his left foot gently. "I expect thefact is that we none of us knew him very well,Mrs. Alexander. Though I will say for myselfthat I was always confident he'd dosomething extraordinary."

Mrs. Alexander's shoulders gave a slightmovement, suggestive of impatience."Oh, I should think that might have beena safe prediction. Another cup, please?"

"Yes, thank you. But predicting, in thecase of boys, is not so easy as you mightimagine, Mrs. Alexander. Some get a badhurt early and lose their courage; and somenever get a fair wind. Bartley"--he droppedhis chin on the back of his long hand and lookedat her admiringly--"Bartley caught the wind early,and it has sung in his sails ever since."

Mrs. Alexander sat looking into the firewith intent preoccupation, and Wilsonstudied her half-averted face. He liked thesuggestion of stormy possibilities in the proudcurve of her lip and nostril. Without that,he reflected, she would be too cold.

"I should like to know what he was reallylike when he was a boy. I don't believehe remembers," she said suddenly."Won't you smoke, Mr. Wilson?"

Wilson lit a cigarette. "No, I don't supposehe does. He was never introspective. He wassimply the most tremendous response to stimuliI have ever known. We didn't know exactlywhat to do with him."

A servant came in and noiselessly removedthe tea-tray. Mrs. Alexander screenedher face from the firelight, which wasbeginning to throw wavering bright spotson her dress and hair as the dusk deepened.

"Of course," she said, "I now and againhear stories about things that happenedwhen he was in college."

"But that isn't what you want." Wilson wrinkledhis brows and looked at her with the smilingfamiliarity that had come about so quickly."What you want is a picture of him, standingback there at the other end of twenty years.You want to look down through my memory."

She dropped her hands in her lap. "Yes, yes;that's exactly what I want."

At this moment they heard the front doorshut with a jar, and Wilson laughed asMrs. Alexander rose quickly. "There he is.Away with perspective! No past, no futurefor Bartley; just the fiery moment. The onlymoment that ever was or will be in the world!"

The door from the hall opened, a voicecalled "Winifred?" hurriedly, and a big mancame through the drawing-room with a quick,heavy tread, bringing with him a smell ofcigar smoke and chill out-of-doors air.When Alexander reached the library door,he switched on the lights and stood six feetand more in the archway, glowing with strengthand cordiality and rugged, blond good looks.There were other bridge-builders in theworld, certainly, but it was always Alexander'spicture that the Sunday Supplement men wanted,because he looked as a tamer of riversought to look. Under his tumbled sandyhair his head seemed as hard and powerfulas a catapult, and his shoulders lookedstrong enough in themselves to supporta span of any one of his ten great bridgesthat cut the air above as many rivers.

After dinner Alexander took Wilson up tohis study. It was a large room over thelibrary, and looked out upon the black riverand the row of white lights along theCambridge Embankment. The room was not at allwhat one might expect of an engineer's study.Wilson felt at once the harmony of beautifulthings that have lived long together withoutobtrusions of ugliness or change. It was noneof Alexander's doing, of course; those warmconsonances of color had been blending andmellowing before he was born. But the wonderwas that he was not out of place there,--that it all seemed to glow like the inevitablebackground for his vigor and vehemence. Hesat before the fire, his shoulders deep in thecushions of his chair, his powerful head upright,his hair rumpled above his broad forehead. He sat heavily, a cigar in his large,smooth hand, a flush of after-dinner color inhis face, which wind and sun and exposure toall sorts of weather had left fair and clearskinned.

"You are off for England on Saturday,Bartley, Mrs. Alexander tells me."

"Yes, for a few weeks only. There's ameeting of British engineers, and I'm doinganother bridge in Canada, you know."

"Oh, every one knows about that. And itwas in Canada that you met your wife, wasn't it?"

Yes, at Allway. She was visiting hergreat-aunt there. A most remarkable old lady.I was working with MacKeller then, an oldScotch engineer who had picked me up inLondon and taken me back to Quebec with him.He had the contract for the Allway Bridge,but before he began work on it he found outthat he was going to die, and he advisedthe committee to turn the job over to me.Otherwise I'd never have got anything goodso early. MacKeller was an old friend ofMrs. Pemberton, Winifred's aunt. He hadmentioned me to her, so when I went toAllway she asked me to come to see her.She was a wonderful old lady."

"Like her niece?" Wilson queried.

Bartley laughed. "She had been veryhandsome, but not in Winifred's way.When I knew her she was little and fragile,very pink and white, with a splendid head and aface like fine old lace, somehow,--but perhapsI always think of that because she wore a lacescarf on her hair. She had such a flavorof life about her. She had known Gordon andLivingstone and Beaconsfield when she wasyoung,--every one. She was the first womanof that sort I'd ever known. You know how itis in the West,--old people are poked out ofthe way. Aunt Eleanor fascinated me as fewyoung women have ever done. I used to go up fromthe works to have tea with her, and sit talkingto her for hours. It was very stimulating,for she couldn't tolerate stupidity."

"It must have been then that your luck began,Bartley," said Wilson, flicking his cigarash with his long finger. "It's curious,watching boys," he went on reflectively."I'm sure I did you justice in the matter of ability.Yet I always used to feel that there was aweak spot where some day strain would tell.Even after you began to climb, I stood downin the crowd and watched you with--well,not with confidence. The more dazzling thefront you presented, the higher your facaderose, the more I expected to see a big crackzigzagging from top to bottom,"--he indicatedits course in the air with his forefinger,--"then a crash and clouds of dust. It was curious.I had such a clear picture of it. And anothercurious thing, Bartley," Wilson spoke withdeliberateness and settled deeper into hischair, "is that I don't feel it any longer.I am sure of you."

Alexander laughed. "Nonsense! It's not Iyou feel sure of; it's Winifred. People oftenmake that mistake."

"No, I'm serious, Alexander. You've changed.You have decided to leave some birds in the bushes.You used to want them all."

Alexander's chair creaked. "I still want agood many," he said rather gloomily. "Afterall, life doesn't offer a man much. You worklike the devil and think you're getting on,and suddenly you discover that you've only beengetting yourself tied up. A million detailsdrink you dry. Your life keeps going forthings you don't want, and all the while youare being built alive into a social structureyou don't care a rap about. I sometimeswonder what sort of chap I'd have been if Ihadn't been this sort; I want to go and liveout his potentialities, too. I haven'tforgotten that there are birds in the bushes."

Bartley stopped and sat frowning into the fire,his shoulders thrust forward as if he wereabout to spring at something. Wilson watched him,wondering. His old pupil always stimulated himat first, and then vastly wearied him.The machinery was always pounding away in this man,and Wilson preferred companions of a more reflectivehabit of mind. He could not help feeling thatthere were unreasoning and unreasonableactivities going on in Alexander all the while;that even after dinner, when most menachieve a decent impersonality, Bartley hadmerely closed the door of the engine-roomand come up for an airing. The machineryitself was still pounding on.Bartley's abstraction and Wilson's reflectionswere cut short by a rustle at the door,and almost before they could rise Mrs.Alexander was standing by the hearth.Alexander brought a chair for her,but she shook her head.

"No, dear, thank you. I only came in tosee whether you and Professor Wilson werequite comfortable. I am going down to themusic-room."

"Why not practice here? Wilson and I aregrowing very dull. We are tired of talk."

"Yes, I beg you, Mrs. Alexander,"Wilson began, but he got no further.

"Why, certainly, if you won't find metoo noisy. I am working on the Schumann`Carnival,' and, though I don't practice agreat many hours, I am very methodical,"Mrs. Alexander explained, as she crossed toan upright piano that stood at the back ofthe room, near the windows.

Wilson followed, and, having seen her seated,dropped into a chair behind her. She playedbrilliantly and with great musical feeling.Wilson could not imagine her permittingherself to do anything badly, but he wassurprised at the cleanness of her execution.He wondered how a woman with so manyduties had managed to keep herself up to astandard really professional. It must takea great deal of time, certainly, and Bartleymust take a great deal of time. Wilson reflectedthat he had never before known a woman whohad been able, for any considerable while,to support both a personal and anintellectual passion. Sitting behind her,he watched her with perplexed admiration,shading his eyes with his hand. In her dinner dressshe looked even younger than in street clothes,and, for all her composure and self-sufficiency,she seemed to him strangely alert and vibrating,as if in her, too, there were somethingnever altogether at rest. He feltthat he knew pretty much what shedemanded in people and what she demandedfrom life, and he wondered how she squaredBartley. After ten years she must know him;and however one took him, however muchone admired him, one had to admit that hesimply wouldn't square. He was a naturalforce, certainly, but beyond that, Wilson felt,he was not anything very really or for very longat a time.

Wilson glanced toward the fire, whereBartley's profile was still wreathed in cigarsmoke that curled up more and more slowly.His shoulders were sunk deep in the cushionsand one hand hung large and passive over thearm of his chair. He had slipped on a purplevelvet smoking-coat. His wife, Wilson surmised,had chosen it. She was clearly very proudof his good looks and his fine color.But, with the glow of an immediate interestgone out of it, the engineer's face lookedtired, even a little haggard. The three linesin his forehead, directly above the nose, deepenedas he sat thinking, and his powerful headdrooped forward heavily. Although Alexanderwas only forty-three, Wilson thought thatbeneath his vigorous color he detected thedulling weariness of on-coming middle age.

The next afternoon, at the hour when the riverwas beginning to redden under the declining sun,Wilson again found himself facing Mrs. Alexanderat the tea-table in the library.

"Well," he remarked, when he was biddento give an account of himself, "there wasa long morning with the psychologists,luncheon with Bartley at his club,more psychologists, and here I am.I've looked forward to this hour all day."

Mrs. Alexander smiled at him across thevapor from the kettle. "And do youremember where we stopped yesterday?"

"Perfectly. I was going to show you apicture. But I doubt whether I have colorenough in me. Bartley makes me feel a fadedmonochrome. You can't get at the youngBartley except by means of color." Wilsonpaused and deliberated. Suddenly he brokeout: "He wasn't a remarkable student, youknow, though he was always strong in highermathematics. His work in my own departmentwas quite ordinary. It was as a powerfullyequipped nature that I found him interesting. That is the most interesting thing a teachercan find. It has the fascination of ascientific discovery. We come across otherpleasing and endearing qualities so muchoftener than we find force."

"And, after all," said Mrs. Alexander,"that is the thing we all live upon.It is the thing that takes us forward."

Wilson thought she spoke a little wistfully. "Exactly," he assented warmly. "It buildsthe bridges into the future, over whichthe feet of every one of us will go."

"How interested I am to hear you put itin that way. The bridges into the future--I often say that to myself. Bartley's bridgesalways seem to me like that. Have you everseen his first suspension bridge in Canada,the one he was doing when I first knew him?I hope you will see it sometime. We weremarried as soon as it was finished, and youwill laugh when I tell you that it always has arather bridal look to me. It is over the wildestriver, with mists and clouds always battlingabout it, and it is as delicate as a cobwebhanging in the sky. It really was a bridge intothe future. You have only to look at it to feelthat it meant the beginning of a great career.But I have a photograph of it here." She drew aportfolio from behind a bookcase. "And there,you see, on the hill, is my aunt's house."

Wilson took up the photograph. "Bartley wastelling me something about your aunt last night.She must have been a delightful person."

Winifred laughed. "The bridge, you see,was just at the foot of the hill, and the noiseof the engines annoyed her very much at first.But after she met Bartley she pretendedto like it, and said it was a good thing tobe reminded that there were things going onin the world. She loved life, and Bartleybrought a great deal of it in to her whenhe came to the house. Aunt Eleanor was veryworldly in a frank, Early-Victorian manner.She liked men of action, and disliked youngmen who were careful of themselves andwho, as she put it, were always trimmingtheir wick as if they were afraid of their oil'sgiving out. MacKeller, Bartley's first chief,was an old friend of my aunt, and he told herthat Bartley was a wild, ill-governed youth,which really pleased her very much.I remember we were sitting alone in the duskafter Bartley had been there for the first time.I knew that Aunt Eleanor had found him muchto her taste, but she hadn't said anything. Presently she came out, with a chuckle:`MacKeller found him sowing wild oats inLondon, I believe. I hope he didn't stop himtoo soon. Life coquets with dashing fellows.The coming men are always like that.We must have him to dinner, my dear.'And we did. She grew much fonder of Bartleythan she was of me. I had been studying inVienna, and she thought that absurd.She was interested in the army and in politics,and she had a great contempt for music andart and philosophy. She used to declare thatthe Prince Consort had brought all that stuffover out of Germany. She always sniffedwhen Bartley asked me to play for him. Sheconsidered that a newfangled way of makinga match of it."

When Alexander came in a few moments later,he found Wilson and his wife stillconfronting the photograph. "Oh, let usget that out of the way," he said, laughing."Winifred, Thomas can bring my trunk down.I've decided to go over to New Yorkto-morrow night and take a fast boat.I shall save two days."