It happened to Harry Epping when he was only four years old. His grandparents, the Robards, lived in a street not far away from Harry's home, which was on a steep little street, at the old North End of Boston. You would not know the street if I should name it to you; but it pitches right down to the harbor, and there is a wharf at the end of it, where steamers used to come, whose steam puffs Harry could hear and watch. A narrow street, and queer it was, and still is; for there now is the brick house where Harry lived the first five years of his life, and which he would like to visit, if he only knew the folks living there.
But to come to the story.
Harry was to meet his mother at grandfather's house, and take supper with her there. So he said Goodbye to old Phebe, the servant, and walked over to the other street alone, proud as Cuffy,—to use his father's common expression,—because he could go without an older companion. It happened that his mother had not arrived, for she and her mother had not returned from shopping on Hanover Street, which was the duty that had taken them both away from home. The servant did not know when they would come, and did not specially urge Harry to come in and wait, as she ought to have done.
