a girl. Of course, in these houses there dwelt, as well, other people.

Of these was John Stuyvesant Schuyler, who, with his wife Gretchen, lived
in the big house on the corner, was a man silent, serious. He lived
intent, honest, upright. He seldom laughed; though when he did, there
came at the corners of mouth and eye, tiny, tell-tale lines which showed
that beneath seriousness and silence, lay a fund of humor unharmed by
continual drain. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, straight-backed.
And to that which had been left him, he added, in health, in mind, and in
money, and he added wisely and well, and never at unjust expense to
anyone.

His wife was much as he in trait and habit. She, too, was silent,
serious, intent. Of her time, of her effort, of herself, she gave freely
wherein it were well to give. In her youth, she had been a beautiful
girl; as a woman, she was still beautiful; and her husband and her son
were very proud of her, though the one was fifty-five, and the other but
twelve.

In the big house next door, there lived Thomas Cathcart Blake. He, too,
had a wife, and one child--a boy. And of John Stuyvesant Schuyler he was
very fond--even as Mrs. Thomas Cathcart Blake was fond of Mrs. John
Stuyvesant Schuyler; and even as Tom Blake, the son of the one, was fond
of Jack Schuyler, the son of the other. Blake, the elder, was a man
rotund of figure, ruddy of complexion, great of heart. He laughed much;
for he enjoyed much. He gave away much more than he could make; and he
laughed about it. His wife laughed with him. And really it made no
difference; for they had more for themselves than they could ever use. Of
course, you know, it is true that many people have more than they can
ever use; but few ever think so.