ed the upper part of the city. It is not a palace, nor is it
near Broadway. Nor are there curtains at the window, but a pair of
smiling faces, of friendly women's faces. One is mild and maternal, with
that kind of tender anxiety which softens beauty instead of hardening it.
It has that look which, after she is dead, every affectionate son thinks
he remembers to have seen in his mother's face; and the other is younger,
brighter--a face of rosy cheeks, and clustering hair, and blue eyes--a
beaming, loyal, loving, girlish face.

They both smile welcome to Gabriel, and the younger face, disappearing
from the window, reappears at the door. Gabriel naturally kisses those
blooming lips, and then goes into the parlor and kisses his mother. Those
sympathetic friends ask him what has happened during the day. They see if
he looks unusually fatigued; and if so, why so? they ask. Gabriel must
tell the story of the unlading the ship _Mary B._, which has just come
in--which is Lawrence Newt's favorite ship; but why called _Mary B._ not
even Thomas Tray knows, who knows every thing else in the business. Then
sitting on each side of him on the sofa, those women wonder and guess
why the ship should be called _Mary B._ What Mary B.? Oh! dear, there
might be a thousand women with those initials. And what has ever happened
to Mr. Newt that he should wish to perpetuate a woman's name? Stop!
remembers mamma, his mother's name was Mary. Mary what? asks the
daughter. Mamma, _you_ remember, of course.

Mamma merely replies that his mother's name was Bunley--Mary Bunley--a
famous belle of the close of the last century, when she was the most
beautiful woman at President Washington's levees--Mary Bunley, to whom
Aaron Burr paid his addresses in vain.

"Yes, mamma; but who was Aaron Burr?" ask those blooming lips, as the
bright young eyes glance from under the clustering curls at her mother.

"Ellen, do you remember this spring, as we were coming up Broadway,
we passed an old man with a keen black eye, who was rather carelessly
dressed, and who wore a cue, with thick hair of his own, white as snow,
whom a good many people looked at and pointed out to each other, but
nobody spoke to?--who gazed at you as we passed so peculiarly that you
pressed nearer to me, and asked who it was, and why such an old man
seemed to be so lonely, and in all that great throng, which evidently
knew him, was as solitary as if he had been in a desert?"

"Perfectly--I re