lls, one found neatly framed
photos of theatrical celebrities, which, as one could see upon close
examination, were autographed, with here and there a few homely
sentiments of good wishes "To Dear Aunt Jane."

Mrs. Anderson's establishment, in fact, was one of the last of a fast
disappearing type of boarding-house, the extinction of which will never
be regretted in spite of the natural sorrow at the passing of a home
with so many virtues as that presided over by the estimable "Aunt Jane."
But modern apartment hotels, in which excellent accommodations can be
had for the same price one formerly gave for a hall bedroom, are
numbering the days of the old brownstone front boarding-houses in the
neighborhood of the New York theatrical district. Mrs. Anderson's was
but a stone's throw from Broadway, in a house which had once been a
feature of the social life of the city; but day after day now, the grim
sound of exploding dynamite in neighboring streets came as a warning
that modern skyscrapers and steel buildings were gradually supplanting
the older structures.

For twenty-three years Mrs. Anderson had conducted her homelike
establishment. As keenly alert to business now as formerly, Mrs.
Anderson was careful not to let her house deteriorate. Which explains
why, on a certain Saturday afternoon in mid-winter, she was busily
engaged in personally superintending the rearrangement of the parlor
furniture and the placing of certain photographs on the mantel and the
piano. Lizzie, the maid of all work, entered with a card, for Mrs.
Anderson had been so absorbed in her work that she had not heard the
bell ring.

"Arthur Mortimer, leading juve_nile_," read Lizzie, as Mrs. Anderson
turned toward her. "He's in the hall. Say, what's a juve_nile_?"

"Refers to the kind of work he does," responded Mrs. Anderson, sharply.

"Work?" repeated Lizzie, astounded. "Why, he's an actor."

The unconscious sarcasm of the remark was passed unnoticed by Mrs.
Anderson.

Mr. Mortimer turned out to be a pleasing young chap, smartly but not
expensively dressed, about twenty-two years of age, and very nervous. He
twirled his derby in his hands, and seemed quite embarrassed when Mrs.
Anderson beamed a cordial welcome upon him.

"I--I am looking for a room," began Mortimer. "I was referred to you."

"Are you in the profession?" inquired Aunt Jane, motioning toward a
comfortable arm-chair.

"I graduated last June from the dramatic school, but I hav