By the next day, however, Miss Clara had recovered spirits and interest; and when a furniture-van slouched up Richmond Avenue, and turned in between the old brick pillars at the entrance to the park, she could contain herself no longer. "Mary, come here, do look--you don't seem to notice anything. That's Zimmermann's wagon, I know it, and I do believe that's young Charlie Gwynne, Horace's Charlie, you know, the little one, not Gilbert's Charlie, he's at Harvard, on the seat telling the driver where to go. Nobody ever knows the way out here. Now isn't that like Jennie Gwynne? She does just love to boss and manage everybody. I _knew_ something was up when I saw her coming out every day--she's not so devoted to the boys as all that, you may be sure. She just wants to tell 'em what to do and how to do it, and which, and where, and when, and why--some people beat everything. Not but what Jennie _is_ a good manager, I'll say that for her. I suppose they're going to divide the things--well, of course, they've got to be divided, but I do wonder if poor Gwynne will get anything worth having. The boy's so gentle and quiet, he won't ever think of speaking up, and saying, 'I ought to have that, Cousin Jennie.' It would be just like her to--there goes another wagon. Well, _will you look_? It's one of those nasty, dirty people, those Bulgarians that keep the second-hand shops down on Scioto Street--well, if that doesn't pass everything! The idea of selling anything out of Governor Gwynne's house to those people--Bulgarians! It's enough to make him turn in his grave." The doctor, who was a very tall, lean man, laid down his book, arose, and gravely looked over his sister's head, out of the window at the procession. "I don't think that's a Bulgarian, Clara," he observed solemnly. "What, it isn't? Well, John Vardaman, your eyes are failing, that's all! There, I can see the name on his ramshackle old cart. Am--Am--Amirkhanian--there, now, what do you think of _that_?" "I think he's an Armenian," said the doctor, with no abatement of his gravity. "I think they're all Armenians--Armenian Jews----" "Oh, well, tease if you want to! Armenians or Bulgarians it's all one; those countries where the men wear petticoats, and everybody drinks sour milk--horrid! The idea of Jennie Gwynne clearing out the house for _them_! I don't see how the others can let her run things that way; I don't believe she knows anything about it. Do you suppose she has ever heard that those blue India-ware plant-tubs, those great big elegant things were intended to be given to Lucien's wife? Harriet herself told me she had found a memorandum of it in her father's desk." "Well, she can't very well sell 'em to the Armenians," said Doctor Vardaman, with an air of profound consideration. "No Armenian that ever lived would want to drink his sour milk out of a plant-tub. And besides they have holes in the bottom, and he couldn't!"