there to commune for a moment upon their new-found happiness.

* * * * *

The night was calm. A faint breeze from the south stirred up secret
odors in the hearts of dew-covered flowers, and musically sighed through
the leaves and vines. The heavens were dark, but unclouded; and, as the
lips of the lovers met in one clinging kiss, the host of stars beamed
down upon them, and proclaimed an ETERNITY OF LOVE.

CHAPTER IV.

FIVE YEARS.

Five years are an eventful space in the history of blocks, as of men.
Within that period, they may be burnt down, blown down, or torn down to
make room for grander blocks. In quick-growing American cities, the
average life of blocks is less than that of the human generation that
tenants them. First wood, then brick, then brownstone or marble--these
are the successive forms of block life, before anything like stability
is reached. Marble is the only real type of the permanent in American
architecture. Nobody pulls down marble.

But five years had made little change in the exterior of our block. It
was situated at a point in the city from which the ebb tide of Fashion
was slowly receding, and which the flood tide of Trade had not yet
touched. There was not a new house on the block, or an old one
materially altered. A little paint, and a diligent application of broom
and Croton water, had kept the block quite fresh and jaunty. On the
south side there were some slight external modifications, in the shape
of oblong black signs, fastened near basement doors, and bearing names
of doctors. Ten of these signs had been added to the south side within
five years. There were only two houses upon that side, now, to which you
could come amiss in pursuit of medical advice.

One of these was old Van Quintem's. Five years had passed over the old
house and the old man lightly (both had been made to last, and were well
taken care of), and gave to them only a mellower and riper look. The old
man's long white hair had not commenced falling out; and his cheeks
still bloomed with a ruddiness that does not belong to second childhood.
He could still read his dear old books--and carefully chosen new
ones--without spectacles; though he often preferred to hear them read in
a soft, sweet tone, by a dear girl whom he always called Pet, and who
would sit for hours at the old man's feet, giving to the noble thoughts
of poet, novelist, or philosopher, the added charm of a sympathetic