Opening with a promise of better times, which was fulfilled to a marked degree, the year 1899 witnessed a great change in my affairs. Again I was making money, not in such amounts as during many years prior to my failure, but there was a steady and substantial gain each month. With but two employees, a stenographer and typewriter, and an office-boy, I was kept very busy at the office. My hours were long, and with nearly four hours each day passed in the trip to and from the office, we decided it would be better to seek an inexpensive home in New York. The thought of what our housekeeping had been for the past three years, moving each year, no maids and with scanty means, led us to believe that boarding would be an agreeable change for all, and so we stored our furniture and in the early spring secured pleasant accommodations at a very reasonable price, in an apartment hotel, the St. Lorenz, on East Seventy-second Street. With our return to the city we renewed our former intimacy with Mr. and Mrs. Curtice, George Todd and his wife, and a few other friends, though we did not see as much of them as in the old days. They had a large circle of friends and led an active social life, while we were living very quietly, doing practically no entertaining. There were a number of pleasant little dinners, my wife and I occasionally attended the theatre, and we were very happy in our improved circumstances. The business outlook encouraged me greatly. Mrs. Slater had increased my capital with another five thousand dollars, I was getting back many of the old customers I had lost after the failure, and it seemed as if a return to prosperity, which would be lasting, was assured. In June we went to Nyack-on-the-Hudson for the summer and in October returned to our apartment in New York. The pleasure of our residence there was contributed to by the society of Mrs. Slater. Her boy had been sent to boarding-school and she took an apartment at the St. Lorenz. We had an experience that winter which will never be effaced from my memory. One evening I took my wife and Mrs. Slater to the Casino to witness a performance of the "Belle of New York," Our seats were in the center of the orchestra, third row from the stage. The house was crowded, with many people standing. The first act was over, when there came to me suddenly a feeling of great uneasiness. I knew not how to account for it. The performance interested me, we were conversing pleasantly, there was nothing I could see or think of to explain the feeling, and yet it existed.