the Second long ago informed his would-be mentor,
to her horror, that if a fellow tried to be like his father and told
the truth and worked hard, he thought that fellow could take his
chances with God! Dear, obstinate lad, with your cleft chin and your
blue eyes, it is not your grandmother, who leaves her Emerson and her
Psalms unread together, when she can fill her keen, proud eyes with
you, that will deny your simple creed!

But my little Peggy has outgrown Pan, and scorns to appease her baby
brother's deities.

"I asked Roger," she said to me one late afternoon, when we sat in her
mother's rocky seat and watched the red sun sink, "why the sun was
here--just so that we could see things? And he said yes. And the moon
the same way, for night. But that little blind girl I see in the Park,
in New York, _she_ can't see things, Jerry dear. She never can. What
is that for?"

"I can't tell, sweetheart."

"You don't know, Jerry dear?"

"No, Peggy, I don't know."

"But someone knows?"

"That I can't tell, either."

She turned her serious, deep eyes on me.

"But, Jerry dear, nothing can be that someone--_Someone_--don't know,
can it? That wouldn't be right. There must be _Some one_?"

"I hope so, sweetheart."

She stared quietly at the rosy ball that sank, below us and far away,
at the rim of the sea--Margarita's sea.

"I know there is, Jerry," she said simply. "Look at that, the way I
do, and you'll know, too."

And just then, I thought I did ...

Sue was at the wedding, of course, grey, and a little worn, now, but
dressed _a merveille_ and delightful in her pride at her genius-boy.
His sister, a wonderful, modern young woman, has learned her "trade,"
indeed, though one that her mother never dreamed of, and will
decorate, furnish and supply with everything from ancestral portraits
to patent mouse-traps any structure from a hotel to a steam-yacht that
you may place in her capable, college-bred hands. A remarkable
achievement is young Susan--the achievement of the _fin de siecle_
generation. At the wedding-breakfast she described to me her last
"job"; the putting in commission of a dilapidated fifteenth-century
_chateau_ for its new oil-king owner--he was born in a bog-cabin in
Ireland and never tasted anything but potatoes and stir-about till he
was fourteen. But Susan has raked Europe for a service fit for him to
eat his cabbage from and Asia for rugs fit for his no longer bare
feet, and has deposited his go