usiness ever I done," for Morowsky was an artist, and the heavenly
choir, as represented by John Nolan, soon became separate dainty works
of art more like Tanagra figurines than like the stiff and stereotyped
figures which John Nolan's six or seven moulds had formerly produced.

Later still, when John Nolan was gathered to his fathers, and afforded,
one must presume, the opportunity of judging the accuracy of his
portraits, he left his business and his name to Jacob.

"For without the name," said he, "what good would the business be to ye?
Who could believe that the likes of a Jacob Morowsky would know the
truth about the blessed saints? And you're not to forget what I've
taught you. Arrows for Saint Sebastian, flames and a gridiron for Saint
Lawrence, a big book for Saint Luke (he was a scholard, you know), and
the rosary for Saint Dominick. There's not the call there used to be for
Saint Aloysius, but when you're doing him, don't forget to put a skull
in his hand. You have your 'Lives of the Saints,' haven't you?"

"I have, dear master," answered Jacob.

"Then keep on studyin' it. And ye'll do what ye can for old Biddy
Moriarty, that's took care of me ever since me poor wife died."

"She shall be of my household," answered Jacob. And so Esther succeeded
to the old man's name and the old woman's care.

Jacob Morowsky left his old quarters, and John Nolan took up his
residence in the front room of the second floor of a house that had been
the residence of an English official when New York was a Colony of the
Crown. The house had endured many vicissitudes and degradations. It was,
when Esther knew it, a tenement unpopular with the authorities because
it could not quite condescend to the laws of the Tenement House
Commission; and not too popular with its landlord because its rooms, in
proportion to its ground area, were extravagantly few. Its spacious
halls and staircase, its high ceilings and wide chimneys were all so
many waste spaces according to modern tenement architecture.

Esther and her father slept in the drawing-room behind a red curtain,
Esther in her babyhood's crib which, as she had written to the Stork,
she had quite outgrown. But no one seemed to notice that. No one, in
fact, noticed her very much. She was a good little girl. She was never
late or troublesome at school. Every Friday afternoon she brought home a
blue ticket, testifying that her application, her deportment, and her
progress were satisfa