venue, near the corner of
Twenty-first Street, in one of those discouraging eternal yellow
limestone houses with a basement dining-room. His aunt kept house for
him, and his nieces and nephews overran the place. There was always a
raft of them there, either coming or going; and the way they exploited
him! He supported them all; heaven knew how many there were; such drabs
and gawks, all elbows and knees, who soaked themselves with cologne and
made companions of the servants. They and the second girls were always
squabbling about their things that they found in each other's rooms.

It was growing late. At length Mrs. Cressler rose.

"My goodness, Laura, look at the time; and I've been keeping you up
when you must be killed for sleep."

She took herself away, pausing at the doorway long enough to say:

"Do try to manage to take part in the play. J. made me promise that I
would get you."

"Well, I think I can," Laura answered. "Only I'll have to see first how
our new regime is going to run--the house I mean."

When Mrs. Cressler had gone Laura lost no time in getting to bed. But
after she turned out the gas she remembered that she had not "covered"
the fire, a custom that she still retained from the daily round of her
life at Barrington. She did not light the gas again, but guided by the
firelight, spread a shovelful of ashes over the top of the grate. Yet
when she had done this, she still knelt there a moment, looking
wide-eyed into the glow, thinking over the events of the last
twenty-four hours. When all was said and done, she had, after all,
found more in Chicago than the clash and trepidation of empire-making,
more than the reverberation of the thunder of battle, more than the
piping and choiring of sweet music.

First it had been Sheldon Corthell, quiet, persuasive, eloquent. Then
Landry Court with his exuberance and extravagance and boyishness, and
now--unexpectedly--behold, a new element had appeared--this other one,
this man of the world, of affairs, mature, experienced, whom she hardly
knew. It was charming she told herself, exciting. Life never had seemed
half so delightful. Romantic, she felt Romance, unseen, intangible, at
work all about her. And love, which of all things knowable was dearest
to her, came to her unsought.

Her first aversion to the Great Grey City was fast disappearing. She
saw it now in a kindlier aspect.

"I think," she said at last, as she still knelt before the fire,
looking deep