On the present afternoon it was really very hot. Professor Valeyon,
occupying his usual position, had nearly finished his second pipe. He
had thrown off the light linen duster he usually wore, and sat with his
waistcoat open, displaying a somewhat rumpled, but very clean white
shirt-bosom; and his sturdy old neck was swathed in the white necktie
which was the only visible relic of his ministerial career. He had
covered his bald head with a handkerchief, for the double purpose of
keeping away the flies, and creating a cooling current of air. One of
his down-trodden slippers had dropped off, and lay sole-upward on the
floor. There was no symptom of a breeze in the still, warm valley, nor
even on the jagged ridges of the opposing hills. The professor, with all
his appliances for coolness and comfort, felt the need of one strongly.
Mellowed by the distance, the long shriek of the engine, on its way from
New York, streamed upon his ears and set him thinking. A good many years
since he had been to New York!--nine, positively nine--not since the
year after his wife's death. It hardly seemed so long, looking back upon
it. He wondered whether time had passed as silently and swiftly to his
daughters as to him. At all events, they had grown in the interval from
little girls into young ladies--Cornelia nineteen, and Sophie not more
than a year younger.
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