overlooking Union Square is so delightful," or, "the fireplace has
such a good draught." What mattered it who lived next door, or
below, or overhead, for that matter, so that he was not disturbed
--and he never was. The property, of course, had gone from bad to
worse since the owner had died; the neighborhood had run down, and
the better class of tenants down, up, and even across the street--
had moved away, but none of these things had troubled Peter.

And no wonder, when once you got inside the two rooms and looked
about!

There was a four-post bedstead with chintz curtains draped about
the posts, that Martha Washington might have slept in, and a
chintz petticoat which reached the floor and hid its toes of
rollers, which the dear lady could have made with her own hands;
there was a most ancient mahogany bureau to match, all brass
fittings. There were easy chairs with restful arms within reach of
tables holding lamps, ash receivers and the like; and rows and
rows of books on open shelves edged with leather; not to mention
engravings of distinguished men and old portraits in heavy gilt
frames: one of his grandfather who fought in the Revolution, and
another of his mother--this last by Rembrandt Peale--a dear old
lady with the face of a saint framed in a head of gray hair, the
whole surmounted by a cluster of silvery curls. There were quaint
brass candelabra with square marble bases on each end of the
mantel, holding candles showing burnt wicks in the day time and
cheery lights at night; and a red carpet covering both rooms and
red table covers and red damask curtains, and a lounge with a red
afghan thrown over it; and last, but by no means least--in fact it
was the most important thing in the sitting-room, so far as