Avenue. Mrs. John Stuyvesant Schuyler went first; Mrs. Thomas Cathcart Blake went, almost, with her; for she had been by the beds

eir wives; and when a man has loved a woman, and that woman his wife, as these two had loved, it seems in a way to disrupt the cosmogony of thing

d been jovial, became silent. Some times, of nights, he would walk alone for hours. The weather made n

third Street and the Avenue, coming from the club. The good doctor bumbled out of his br

tion is to get pneumonia and die, I don't know any way in which you can better achieve your purpose. Sit down in the corner

e!" he yelled, "and dri

him upstairs and into the bed, and then applied to the protesting man who seldo

ou were going to see!"

ak

lse, or die, as he chooses. It's none of my business. Here, drink this." And he poured between the protesting lips of Thomas

eks later, in spite of all that the good doctor, and several other equally good

he things that he said are neither your business nor mine. But of the things that he sai

en the sobs that are b

e always wanted to.

counselle

r everything that there is in you to give-for there's nothing that a man c

aged to loosen his clenching fingers. Dr. DeLancey was crying, too; the tears ran down his veined cheeks to lose themselves in the hair of his cheeks. He tried to fume and fuss and splutter, as was his wont; but

lose a father and a mother like

ustr