Alice, of course, left behind all the household equipments gathered by the two of us. One of her winter hats, being too large to pack in her trunk, and not considered of sufficient value or becomingness to warrant a special shipment, also fell to my lot. And along with it a gas-lamp, a camp-stool, two writing-desk sets, a soiled Indian blanket—all Christmas presents. The little organist likewise bequeathed to me a number of Christmas presents, along with her books and sheet-music too ragged to pack. The restaurant owner gave me a metal flask containing about a pint of whiskey, about which he declared: “’Tain’t the kind a man would drink—not twice if he knew it. But I thought, being a lady, you might like to have it around.” Needless to state I thanked him graciously. Just as I did the reporter when he carted in twenty odd books, a file of daily newspapers, two sofa-pillows, and a moth-eaten slumber-robe. The books, sofa-pillows and the robe had been sent him at that season of the year when the world goes mad on the subject of giving—give wisely if they know how and have the money, but give they must. A few days after the newspaperman’s departure a bamboo walking-cane with a wabbly head, a silk umbrella minus one rib, and a grease-paint outfit was presented to me by the man in the front skylight room. “I used to belong to the profession,” he told me, explaining the paints. “Now that I am a promoter I don’t need it. And this umbrella—one of the ribs is broken—but it’s silk—heavy silk. I saved it to have it mended. One of the companies of which I’m a director cut a melon the other day, so I don’t need to use a mended umbrella.” As I was still playing the part of Polly Preston my trunks were in storage. As a first step toward packing my collection of remembrances I hurried to Third Avenue, and after considerable searching among the groceries I finally discovered three suitable boxes. Persuasion supplemented by a one-dollar bill induced the owner to allow his errand boy to take them to the rooming-house in his hand-cart. Of course the errand boy got an additional quarter of a dollar. In the smallest of the three boxes I packed my precious new shoes and the other articles to be taken to Rodman Hall. But turn and twist and pound as I might and did, I could not cram all the objects to which I had fallen heir into the two large boxes. With many explanations I presented the overflow to Molly, the negro maid. Leaving the house the next morning I saw them, the box of greasepaint and all the rest, in the garbage-can at the foot of the front steps. Evidently Molly had not been receiving private communications from either Brand Whitlock or Mr. Hoover. How comfortable it must be not to carry the woes of the world on your shoulders!