"And everybody else is so kind. People have been sending me flowers all day. Did you ever see such a profusion? They are all calling, too,--the Fitzhughs, the Harrisons, the Tuckers, the Mayos, Jennie Randolph came, and old Mrs. Tucker, who never goes anywhere since her daughter died, and Charlotte Peyton, and all the Corbins in a bunch." Then her tone changed. "Ben," she said, "I want to see that little sister of yours. Will you take me there this afternoon?" Something in her request, or in the way she uttered it, touched me to the heart. "I'd like you to see Jessy--she's pretty enough to look at--but I didn't mean you to marry my family, you know." "I know you didn't, dear, but I've married everything of yours all the same. If you can spare a few minutes after luncheon, we'll drive down and speak to her." I could spare the few minutes, and when the carriage was ready, she came down in her hat and furs, and we went at a merry pace down Franklin Street to the boarding-house in which Jessy was living. As we drove up to the pavement, the door of the house opened and my little sister came out, dressed for walking and looking unusually pretty. "Why, Ben, she's a beauty!" said Sally, in a whisper, as the girl approached us. To me Jessy's face had always appeared too cold and vacant for beauty, in spite of her perfect features and the brilliant fairness of her complexion. Even now I missed the glow of feeling or of animation in her glance, as she crossed the pavement with her slow, precise walk, and put her hand into Sally's. "How do you do? It is very kind of you to come," she said in a measured, correct voice. "Of course I came, Jessy. I am your new sister, and you must come and stay with me when I am out of mourning." "Thank you," responded Jessy gravely, "I should like to." The cold had touched her cheek until it looked like tinted marble, and under her big black hat her blond hair rolled in natural waves from her forehead. "Are you happy here, Jessy?" I asked. "They are very kind to me. There's an old gentleman boarding here now from the West. He is going to give us a theatre party to-night. They say he has millions." For the first time the glow of enthusiasm shone in her limpid blue eyes. "A good use to make of his millions," I laughed. "Do you hear often from President, Jessy?" The glow faded from her eyes and they grew cold again. "He writes such bad letters," she answered, "I can hardly read them." "Never forget," I answered sternly, "that he denied himself an education in order that you might become what you are." While I spoke the door of the house opened again, and the old gentleman she had alluded to came gingerly down the steps. He had a small, wizened face, and he wore a fur-lined overcoat, in which it was evident that he still suffered from the cold. "This is my brother and my sister, Mr. Cottrel," said Jessy, as he came slowly toward us.