“Fires look so glad, fires in fireplaces,” said Beth, perching herself close to her uncle’s shoulder. “When they are burning houses they dance even more, but they never look glad then; only cruel. I suppose it is because in fireplaces they are doing their best to make us warm and happy. Aunt Rebecca had the front of the old fireplace at home torn out. They had boarded it up for a stove. Now it is the biggest, splendidest fireplace! Sometimes we can get wood from the seashore--the sea is about nine miles from Aunt Rebecca’s--and when we do we have the loveliest fires, all colors in the flames! Uncle Jim, see what Aunt Rebecca sent me. I’ve been waiting to show it to you.” Beth held out her hand with the closed velvet case of the miniature in its palm. Mr. Cortlandt took it, opened it, and Beth heard him draw in his breath sharply as he leaned backward and held the miniature over the back of his chair to allow the light from the reading lamp to fall on it. For a moment he did not speak, then he said: “Do you know how your great-aunt came by this picture, Bethie?” “I didn’t when it came, but I had a letter from Aunt Rebecca yesterday and she told me about it. My father had it painted. Aunt Rebecca has had it laid away all this time to give me when I was old enough to appreciate it, she says; I never saw it in all my life till it came on Christmas eve. You know who it is? Is it good, Uncle Jim?” Beth asked anxiously. “It is perfect,” declared Uncle Jim, and his voice was husky. “Know it, child? I not only know the miniature, but I know a great many things when I look at it that I wish I could have known years ago. But I was too young, too heedless, too thoroughly a boy to know these things then. If you look in the glass, Beth, you must see for yourself that it is an excellent likeness of your girl-mother, for it is also a good likeness of you. You are like her, Bethie, but you are graver, your eyes are not as laughing, until something makes you laugh. My little sister Nannie overflowed with gaiety that was in herself; she was a merry, soft-hearted kitten, but there was a fund of strength beneath the gentle affectionate ways, as she proved, as she proved, poor, steadfast little Nannie!” Mr. Cortlandt was silent for a while and Beth did not interrupt his thoughts, though she longed to ask questions. “Beth,” Mr. Cortlandt began again after a few moments, “you said something one day not long ago that gave me a pang. Do you remember when you told me that you had once been jealous of New York’s superiority in age to Massachusetts? You also said, when I told you that your kindred had a part in its beginnings, that you had not realized then that you had Cortlandt relatives. It made me feel sorry and ashamed to know that this must be true.”