city houses up near the Park somewhere. It is quite exquisite inside—carpeted with soft rugs, lighted through pretty lamp shades at night, its walls lined with books and fine pictures. Burr is a member now of that firm where once he did all the dirty and disagreeable work. He has been what would be called successful. And I think, too, he has been happy with Elsie. I know, at any rate, that the only limp in Elsie's life is the one you can see. She looks upon Burr as a kind of god, I believe, and, "If you want to see something straight, in the way of legs," she laughingly said to me the first night I spent with them in New York upon my return from the Far East, "look at your little nephew's here, Aunt Nannie." For Elsie and Burr have two children. All Elsie's dimples and curves have come out in her daughter, as fresh and lovely as new violets in the spring from a trampled root.
When I came down-stairs from the nursery into the warm library about six o'clock that first night, Burr was stretched out comfortably before the fire in a big chair. I carried in my hands my copy of his book. Burr held in his the last publication of the Geographic Magazine. He glanced up from his page as I sat down on the couch opposite him.
"Well, Nannie!" he said.
