y like touching the
spring of a Jack-in-the-box, this mail of mine--all sorts of things pop
out, generally the unexpected. Mighty interesting, I tell you," and
with a cheery wave of the hand to his friend Isaac, whose eyes had been
looking streetward at the precise moment, Peter pushed me ahead of him
up the worn marble steps flanked by the rust-eaten iron railing which
led to the hallway and stairs, and so on up to his apartment.

It was just the sort of house Peter, of all men in the world, would have
picked out to live in--and he had been here for twenty years or more.
Not only did the estimable Isaac occupy the basement, but Madame
Montini, the dress-maker, had the first floor back; a real-estate agent
made free with the first floor front, and a very worthy teacher of
music, whose piano could be heard at all hours of the day, and far into
the night, was paying rent for the second, both front and back. Peter's
own apartments ran the whole length of the third floor, immediately
under the slanting, low-ceiled garret, which was inhabited by the good
Mrs. McGuffey, the janitress, who, in addition to her regular duties,
took especial care of Peter's rooms. Adjoining these was a small
apartment consisting of two rooms, connecting with Peter's suite by
a door cut through for some former lodger. These were also under
Mrs. McGuffey's special care and very good care did she take of them,
especially when Peter's sister, Miss Felicia Grayson, occupied them for
certain weeks in the year.

These changes had all taken place in the time the old fellow had mounted
the quaint stairs with the thin mahogany banisters, and yet Peter stayed
on. "The gnarled pear tree in the back yard is so charming," he would
urge in excuse, "especially in the spring, when the perfume of its
blossoms fills the air," or, "the view 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