comfort was concerned--there was a big open-hearth Franklin, full
of blazing red logs, with brass andirons and fender, and a draught
of such marvellous suction that stray scraps of paper, to say
nothing of uncommonly large sparks, had been known more than once
to have been picked up in a jiffy and whirled into its capacious
throat.

Just the very background for dear old Peter, I always said,
whenever I watched him moving about the cheery interior, pushing
up a chair, lighting a fresh candle, or replacing a book on the
shelf. What a half-length the great Sully would have made of him,
with his high collar, white shirt-front and wonderful neck-cloth
with its pleats and counterpleats, to say nothing of his rosy
cheeks and bald head, the high light glistening on one of his big
bumps of benevolence. And what a background of deep reds and warm
mahoganys with a glint of yellow brass for contrast!

Indeed, I have often thought that not only Peter's love of red,
but much of Peter's quaintness of dress, had been suggested by
some of the old portraits which lined the walls of his sitting-
room--his grandfather, by Sully, among them; and I firmly believe,
although I assure you I have never mentioned it to any human being
before, that had custom permitted (the directors of his bank,
perhaps), Peter would not only have indulged in the high coat-
collar and quaint neck-cloths of his fathers, but would also have
worn a dainty cue tied with a flowing black ribbon, always
supposing, of course, that his hair had held out, and, what is
more important, always supposing, that the wisp was long enough to
hold on.