ery fashionable street, if I must
confess it. There are many old houses in New York that have been
abandoned by their owners because of the uptown movement and the
west-side movement of fashion. These houses are as quaint in their
antique interiors as a bric-a-brac cabinet. In an upper story of one of
these subdivided houses Rob Riley and his wife, Henrietta, have two
old-fashioned rooms; the front room is large and airy, with a carved
mantelpiece, the back room small and cosy. The furniture is rather
plain and scant, for Rob has not yet got to be a great engineer working
on his own account. At present he is one of those little fish that the
big fish are made to eat--an obscure man whose brains are carried up to
the credit of his chief. But he is already something, and is sure to be
somebody. And, for that matter, the rooms in the old mansion in De Witt
Place are quite good enough for two stout-hearted young people who are
happy. The walls are well ornamented with pictures from Henrietta's own
brush and pencil. These are not framed, but tacked up wherever the
light is good. The best of them is a chubby little girl with a
droll-serious air, clad in an old-fashioned hood and muffled in cloaks
and shawls. It is a portrait of Periwinkle as she stood that night on
Cousin John's steps when she had come down to see about Henrietta.

Henrietta is just finishing a picture called The Culprit, which she
hopes will be successful. It represents a girl in a country school
arraigned for drawing pictures on a slate. Rob, at least, thinks it
very fine, but he is not a harsh critic of anything Henrietta makes.

Rob was talking one evening, as usual, about the time when he should
come to be somebody. But Henrietta said: "O Rob, things are nice enough
as they are; I don't believe we'd be any happier in a house as fine as
Cousin John's. Let's have a good time as we go along, and not mind
about being somebody. But, Rob, I wish somebody'd buy this picture, and
then we could have something to set off this room a little. Don't you
think a sofa would be nice?" And then she looked at him, and said, "You
dear, good old Rob, you!" though why she should call him old, or what
connection this remark had with the previous conversation, I do not
know.

THE CHRISTMAS CLUB.

A GHOST STORY.

"The Dickens!"

That was just what Charley Vanderhuyn said that Christmas Eve, and as a
faithful historian I give the exact words. It sounded like swear