His New York residence, at the northwest corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty Seventh Street, was built for him by his father, and is considered one of the handsomest houses in the country. Its well chosen pictures and extensive library show the cultured mind of its owner, whose tastes are as refined and intellectual as his habits are severely simple and unostentatious. Still, he is far from being an ascetic, and enjoys the good things of life, as he has a right to enjoy them. His cottage at Newport, The Breakers, is one of the finest of the summer capital’s palaces. His holiday trips abroad are spent amid the social gayeties of Paris and London or the art treasures of the historical cities of Italy. None of the Vanderbilt brothers is actively interested in the speculations of Wall Street. Great as is the power they might yield in the battle of bulls and bears, they prefer, wisely indeed, to stand aloof from the fray and to devote themselves to the management of their vast and substantial property. It is fortunate for the public that their great moneyed possessions are in hands where they have been proved to be a benefit and not a menace to the body politic. [Illustration] [Illustration] A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE. _By Elliott E. Shaw._ I think I must have been dreaming these last few hours. It is all so strange. I wonder if it is always so terrible to do what is right! I don’t believe she ever suffered before in her life. The look that came from those dark eyes of hers when I pushed her away and began to speak will haunt me to my dying day. She almost fainted. Well, it is all over—and there is left for me—nothing but the remembrance of her love and the one thing that I shall ever have to my credit on the books of heaven. Waiter, some brandy—was that brandy that I just swallowed?—it was? How long have I been at this table? What? Twenty four hours? Ah! I remember now that you are not the first waiter who brought me brandy, nor yet the second, and I think you tried to get me to go home and get some sleep. It was kind of you—but I have no home—and I cannot sleep. I can never do anything more in this world but remember—remember. By heaven, it was hard to do! But she will see some day that I was right, and perhaps years from now when she is a woman—a mother, perhaps, with a red cheeked boy in her arms repeating his innocent prayers—she may think of me and forgive me. And I may be dead, then. And if I am not dead, I’ll—I’ll be a broken, haggard old man with a chain on my leg and a brand on my shoulder just as I have one now on my soul.