but in a rather obscure corner--such is the notorious ingratitude of republics. All the Gwynne establishments in town blossomed out with relics, brass andirons, branch candlesticks, horse-hair sofas--people confided to one another that, on the whole, Mrs. Horace Gwynne had made a pretty fair division; she herself sternly declined to take anything but the alabaster clock in the south parlour. That mausoleum-looking engine now ticks out the time from the middle of a charming white wood mantel in her eldest son's "colonial" residence. It long since ticked out eternity for Mrs. Gwynne, as for some of the other friends we met in the last chapter. The Armenians finally accomplished the dismantling of the attic and cellar; the contents, Gwynne Peters once told me, brought just seventy-two dollars. "That was a little less than four dollars all around," he said with a grin. "I spent my four on my first box of cigars, and got awfully sick on the very first one I tried to smoke, I remember--as if it were for a judgment on me!" He went back to college. Old Hannah went, whimpering, to live in the country with a married niece. The windows were boarded up, the old iron gates chained across; and, for a while, an advertisement appeared in our papers, and, I believe, in some of the big New York and Chicago ones: "FOR SALE OR LEASE--Commodious mansion built by the late Governor Gwynne, delightfully situated in the suburbs, within easy walking-distance of two lines of cars.[3] Large grounds, fruit and shade trees, stable, dairy, etc. House of twenty rooms in perfect order with all modern improvements. Suitable for a young ladies' seminary or summer-hotel. For further particulars address Virgil H. Templeton, Agt. for the Gwynne Estate."