as if at home, while under the gas-jet was Miss Burton, reading a
newspaper, with two or three others upon her lap. She had evidently
found the old gentleman trying to glean, with his feeble sight,
the evening journals that had been brought from the city, and
was lending him her young eyes and mellow voice for an hour. The
picture struck him so pleasantly that he took out his notebook and
indicated the fortunate grouping within, for a future sketch.

"It would make some difference in a man's future," he muttered,
"whether this maiden or the one in yonder roue's embrace were
installed as the mistress of his home."

Going back into the main hallway he met Stanton coming down the
stairs with his face unusually flushed.

"Oh, Van," he cried, "where have you been keeping yourself? Come
with me and have some of the best brandy you ever tasted."

"Where is it?"

"In Sibley's room. He brought up a couple of bottles of the prime
old article, and has invited all his friends to make free with it."

"I'm not one of his friends."

"Oh well, you're my friend! What's the odds? A swig of such brandy
will do you good, so come along."

"Come out on the piazza, Stanton. I want to show you something."