CHAPTER IV
THE GRAYSON HOUSE
On pleasant afternoons the president and his little granddaughter were frequently to be seen walking down street together. Aunt Charlotte found it very little trouble in these days to get her brother to take his constitutional. The sight of Caro looking like an autumn sprite in her red jacket, was enough.
“Come grandpa, it is time for our walk,” she would announce, and Dr. Barrows would obediently lay down his pen or his book, and follow. And the sight of her happy, rosy face, as she frisked about in the fallen leaves, the sound of her merry voice as she asked innumerable questions, made him forget his anxiety over seminary affairs, and before he knew it he was looking up at the blue sky, breathing deeply the delicious air, with something of the same joyousness.
“Grandpa, don’t you think that is a beautiful house?”
They were walking out Grayson avenue, and as Caro spoke she pointed to a large old-fashioned mansion of gray stone, with a row of stately pillars across its front. It stood in the midst of extensive grounds where were many fine trees and shrubs, in the background hot-houses were to be seen, and nearer the street a fountain was sending up a silvery shower.
A cloud crossed the president’s face as he replied; “Yes, dear, it is a beautiful place. That is where Trolley once lived.”
“Are there any children there?” she asked.
“No; Miss Grayson and her invalid brother live there alone.”
It was a very large house for just two persons, Caro thought. “Did Trolley belong to the sick brother?” she asked.