e. She broke the string curiously, a slow flush mounting her cheek
as she saw the volume, the first to be read by an American, but now in
every library in the land. "'Ivanhoe'," she read the tide, softly,
"but, surely, I am not in the story."

"He sent me this letter with the volume," answered Irving, drawing a
sheet of folded taper from between the pages. "I brought it with me
because I knew it would interest you."

And Rebecca, flushing over one of the most beautiful compliments ever
paid an American girl, read: "How do you like my Rebecca? Does the
Rebecca I have pictured compare well with the pattern given?" She
folded the paper and slipped it back between the pages. "But, surely,
I am not in the story," she repeated. "I am not a lady of romance, not
a real princess since the days little Matilda and Rachel and I used to
dress up and pretend we lived in a fairy tale."

Irving's merry eyes softened at mention of their dead friend. Then:
"You are more like a lady of romance than any woman I have ever
known," he declared stoutly, "and I have met some of the greatest
ladies of all Europe. But none of them seemed half so much a queen as
you. No, I am not flattering you, Rebecca. Hasn't your brother written
me of all your triumphs in society, here in Philadelphia, when he took
you to Saratoga Springs, when you visited your brother in Lexington
and were treated like a real princess by everyone who met you from
Henry Clay down to the negro slaves?"

"Oh, that--" Rebecca shrugged a little disdainfully. "I hope the Lady
Rebecca in 'Ivanhoe' does something worth while."

"She heals the sick and comforts the suffering; she is a great lady in
the real sense of the word; lady, a loaf-giver," answered Irving.
"Just as you are," he concluded, warmly.

"What else is there for me to do?" said Rebecca. "I shall never build
a home of my own or have little ones to love and care for. So I am
glad to use my wealth and leisure in building other homes, in being
something of a mother to the little orphans of our city."

"No matter whether they are Jew or Gentile," added Washington Irving
who had heard much of her many charities.

"We have all one Father," she reminded him, gently. "But, really, I do
not do half that I would. I am not a St. Elizabeth and no miracles are
wrought for me," and she smiled a little at her childish admiration
of the generous lady. "So I am half afraid to read what you have
brought me," indicating the volume