liked her; and before they had got home, in the Fourth Avenue car, she
liked her very much; and when she lay dozing off to sleep, that first
night in New York, she was blissfully conscious that she loved her
godmother.

Godmother lived in an apartment in Gramercy Park. It was an
old-fashioned apartment, occupying one floor of what had once been a
handsome dwelling of the tall "chimney" type common in New York. All
around the Square were the homes of notable persons, and clubs
frequented by famous men. Godmother was to point these out in the
morning; but this evening, before dinner was served, while she and Mary
Alice were standing in the window of her charming drawing-room, she
showed which was The Players, and indicated the windows of the room
where Edwin Booth died. It seemed that she had known Edwin Booth quite
well when she was a girl, and had some beautiful stories of his
kindness and his shyness to tell.

Mary Alice was surprised and delighted, and she looked over at the
windows with eager, shining eyes. "He must have been wonderful to
know," she said. "Do you suppose there are many other great people
like that?"

"A good many, I should say," her godmother replied. And as they sat at
dinner, served by Godmother's neat maid-of-all-work, it "kind o' came
out," as Mary Alice would have said, how many delightful people
Godmother had counted among her friends.

"You've had a beautiful time, all your life, haven't you?" Mary Alice
commented admiringly, when they were back in the cozy drawing-room and
Godmother was serving coffee from the copper percolator.