ot a Jewess, was my dearest friend. In
fact, a number of my relatives have married outside our faith." She
broke off a moment. "The young man was not a Jew," she said slowly.
"He loved his religion as well as I did mine. It was very hard to have
him go away." She leaned toward Washington Irving and lightly touched
the two little books she had given him. "You have lost your joy, too,"
she said, and now her clear tones trembled a little. "Neither of us
can ever be very happy again. We will both be so lonely sometimes,
that I think we must learn to be very good friends, don't you?" And
Irving pressed her hand in silence.

It was a more portly Irving, the Irving with the bright eyes and
kindly smile which we have learned to associate with the author of
"Rip Van Winkle" and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," that waited for
Rebecca Gratz in the drawing room of her father's home about ten years
later. Since the death of Matilda Hoffman, he had grown to be a very
close friend of the Gratz family, never failing when in Philadelphia
to visit their home where he might "roost," as he put it, in the
large, comfortable guest room. He had never referred to his intimate
conversation with Rebecca when she had tried to comfort him after
Matilda's death; yet their mutual grief and confidence had created a
strong bond between them, and when Irving returned from an extended
trip abroad, he welcomed the opportunity of going to Philadelphia to
see his latest book through the press. For he longed to visit Miss
Gratz, who, so the home letters had informed him, had grown to be a
famous beauty and belle during his absence.

She came into the room with her swaying, graceful carriage of old
days, but with a new dignity and reserve of manner, carrying her
lovely head with just a little more pride than in her girlhood,
greeting Irving, for all her warm friendliness, like a young queen
graciously ready to accept homage from her subjects. She sank into a
low chair beside the fire, the flames casting a warm glow over her
arms and neck from which her gold colored scarf had slipped at her
entrance. Irving thought of another night ten years ago when she had
sat in that very chair with the candle light falling upon her blue
draperies. Then she had been a lovely girl just on the threshold of
life; now she was a cultured, well-poised woman of the world, crowned
by virtue of her beauty and position as the ruler of the society in
which she moved. He sighed a lit