But still it lifted its grand stone front, still it stood, broad and great, among all the houses in the street. And it was the old man's custom, after he had stood on the opposite sidewalk and gazed at it for a while, to go to a little French _cafe_ a block to the eastward, and there to take a glass of _vermouth gomme_--it was a mild drink, and pleasing to an old man. Sometimes he chanced to find some one in this place who would listen to his talk about the old house--he was very grand; but they were decent people who went to that _cafe_, and perhaps would go back with him a block and look at it. We would not have talked to chance people in an east-side French _cafe_. But then we have never owned such a house, and lost it--and everything else. * * * * * Late one hot summer afternoon young Rand sat in his studio, working enthusiastically on a "composition." A new school of art had invaded New York, and compositions were everything, for the moment, whether they composed anything or nothing. He heard a nervous rattling at his door-knob, and he opened the door. A young woman lifted a sweet, flushed, frightened face to his. "Oh, John," she cried, "father hasn't come home yet, and it's five o'clock, and he left home at nine." John Rand threw off his flannel jacket, and got into his coat. "We'll find him; don't worry, dear," he said. They found him within an hour. The great city, having no further use for the old Dolph house, was crowding it out of existence. With the crashing of falling bricks, and the creaking of the tackle that swung the great beams downward, the old house was crumbling into a gap between two high walls. Already you could see through to where the bright new bricks were piled at the back to build the huge eight-story factory that was to take its place. But it was not to see this demolition that the crowd was gathered, filling the narrow street. It stood, dense, ugly, vulgar, stolidly intent, gazing at the windows of the house opposite--a poor tenement house. As they went up the steps they met the young hospital surgeon, going back to his ambulance. "You his folks?" he inquired. "Sorry to tell you so, but I can't do any good. Sunstroke, I suppose--may have been something else--but it's collapse now, and no mistake. You take charge, sir?" he finished, addressing Rand. Jacob Dolph was lying on his back in the bare front room on the first floor. His daughter fell on her knees by his side, and made as though she would throw her arms around him; but, looking in his face, she saw death quietly coming upon him, and she only bent down and kissed him, while her tears wet his brow. Meanwhile a tall Southerner, with hair halfway down his neck, and kindly eyes that moved in unison with his broad gestures, was talking to Rand. [Illustration]