inner first and see the collection
afterward." Edward had purposely killed time between five and seven
o'clock, thinking that the general's dinner-hour, like his own, was at
six. He had allowed an hour for the general to eat his dinner, only to
find that he was still to begin it. The boy could hardly believe his
ears, and unable to find his voice, he failed to apologize for his
modest suit or his general after-business appearance.

As in a dream he went down in the elevator with his host and hostess,
and when the party of three faced toward the dining-room entrance, so
familiar to the boy, he felt as if his legs must give way under him.
There have since been other red-letter days in Edward Bok's life, but
the moment that still stands out pre-eminent is that when two colored
head waiters at the dining-room entrance, whom he had so often watched,
bowed low and escorted the party to their table. At last he was in
that sumptuous dining-hall. The entire room took on the picture of one
great eye, and that eye centred on the party of three--as, in fact, it
naturally would. But Edward felt that the eye was on him, wondering
why he should be there.

What he ate and what he said he does not recall. General Grant, not a
voluble talker himself, gently drew the boy out, and Mrs. Grant
seconded him, until toward the close of the dinner he heard himself
talking. He remembers that he heard his voice, but what that voice
said is all dim to him. One act stamped itself on his mind. The
dinner ended with a wonderful dish of nuts and raisins, and just before
the party rose from the table Mrs. Grant asked the waiter to bring her
a paper bag. Into this she emptied the entire dish, and at the close
of the evening she gave it to Edward "to eat on the way home." It was
a wonderful evening, afterward up-stairs, General Grant smoking the
inevitable cigar, and telling stories as he read the letters of
different celebrities. Over those of Confederate generals he grew
reminiscent; and when he came to a letter from General Sherman, Edward
remembers that he chuckled audibly, reread it, and then turning to Mrs.
Grant, said:

"Julia, listen to this from Sherman. Not bad." The letter he read was
this:

DEAR MR. BOK:--

I prefer not to make scraps of sentimental writing. When I write
anything I want it to be real and connected in form, as, for instance,
in your quotation from Lord Lytton's play of "Richelieu," "The pen is
mightier