The furniture and effects of No. 8 Bond Street belonged to Uncle John Ward, who had died some years before. On the death of Uncle Richard they were divided among the eight heirs of the former. The uncles had occupied the roomy, old-fashioned house for many years. Not only their own possessions, but those of their relatives, had accumulated. Furniture, busts and pictures which were not wanted for the moment were left under the hospitable care of Uncle John. The result was a perfect maze of possessions, some of them belonging to the estate of my grandfather, who had died thirty-five years before, some to Aunt Louisa Terry, who was living in Rome. What we should have done without my mother I do not know. Her excellent memory gave us the history of each doubtful piece. That set of furniture was bought by Grandfather Ward when Uncle Sam married Emily Astor and the young couple came to live with him at the corner house. Those pictures belonged to grandfather’s gallery; the Copley portraits of our ancestors had been purchased by Uncle John. The other heirs wisely left these details to her judgment. The main division took a little time, but was accomplished without much difficulty. The heirs or their representatives had several meetings and chose what they wanted. My aunt, Mrs. Mailliard, who was living in California, gave her share as a weddingpresent to her three married Howe nieces, Julia, Florence, and Laura. Hence I attended the meetings, as representing one of the eight heirs. The other heirs, the main business over, departed with light hearts. It was left for Cousin John Ward and me to attend to the final details. Days and weeks passed over our devoted heads and found us still at our task. A faithful old retainer lived in the house and aided us in our work. I noticed one singular fact—articles of furniture which no one wanted in the division assumed a priceless value when they were gone beyond recall. Did Cousin John and I, in solemn conclave, agree to sell, for the benefit of the eight heirs, a mahogany bedstead, then every one regretted our rash act. Over Aunt Phebe’s knitting we pondered long and earnestly. It was a half-finished stocking and the wool was moth-eaten, for Greataunt Phebe had been dead for years. We decided to run the risk of sacrilege and destroy it. When Cousin John counted the great piles of plates he shut his eyes, saying it was easier for him to count in that way. A death-mask found in the attic was hard to identify. When Uncle Sam called at No. 8 Bond Street, it was shown to him. “That is Maddie’s mother,” he said. I was grieved to have asked unwittingly such a painful question, for Maddie’s mother was his first wife, Emily Astor, who had died many years before. “Maddie” was their daughter, Margaret Astor Ward, afterward Mrs. Winthrop Chanler. Uncle Sam’s phrasing of his answer showed his tact and desire to avoid making me feel I had committed a stupid blunder.