A Modern Chronicle | Page 3

in her veins who boarded in
Graham's Row, on Olive Street. Suffice it to add, at this time, that he
worshipped Mr. Leffingwell, and that he was back in a twinkling with
the information that Mr. Isham was awaiting him.
The president was seated at his desk. In spite of the thermometer he
gave no appearance of discomfort in his frock-coat. He had scant,
sandy- grey whiskers, a tightly closed and smooth-shaven upper lip, a
nose with- a decided ridge, and rather small but penetrating eyes in
which the blue pigment had been used sparingly. His habitual mode of
speech was both brief and sharp, but people remarked that he modified
it a little for Tom Leffingwell.
"Come in, Tom," he said. "Anything the matter?"
"Mr. Isham, I want a week off, to go to New York."
The request, from Tom Leffingwell, took Mr. Isham's breath. One of
the bank president's characteristics was an extreme interest in the
private affairs of those who came within his zone of influence and
especially when these affairs evinced any irregularity.
"Randolph again?" he asked quickly.

Tom walked to the window, and stood looking out into the street. His
voice shook as he answered:
"Ten days ago I learned that my brother was dead, Mr. Isham."
The president glanced at the broad back of his teller. Mr. Isham's voice
was firm, his face certainly betrayed no feeling, but a flitting gleam of
satisfaction might have been seen in his eye.
"Of course, Tom, you may go," he answered.
Thus came to pass an event in the lives of Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary,
that journey to New York (their first) of two nights and two days to
fetch Honora. We need not dwell upon all that befell them. The first
view of the Hudson, the first whiff of the salt air on this unwonted
holiday, the sights of this crowded city of wealth,--all were tempered
by the thought of the child coming into their lives. They were standing
on the pier when the windows were crimson in the early light, and at
nine o'clock on that summer's morning the Albania was docked, and the
passengers came crowding down the gang-plank. Prosperous tourists,
most of them, with servants and stewards carrying bags of English
design and checked steamer rugs; and at last a ruddy-faced bonne with
streamers and a bundle of ribbons and laces--Honora--Honora, aged
eighteen months, gazing at a subjugated world.
"What a beautiful child! exclaimed a woman on the pier."
Was it instinct or premonition that led them to accost the bonne?
"Oui, Leffingwell!" she cried, gazing at them in some perplexity. Three
children of various sizes clung to her skirts, and a younger nurse carried
a golden-haired little girl of Honora's age. A lady and gentleman
followed. The lady was beginning to look matronly, and no second
glance was required to perceive that she was a person of opinion and
character. Mr. Holt was smaller than his wife, neat in dress and
unobtrusive in appearance. In the rich Mrs. Holt, the friend of the
Randolph Leffingwells, Aunt Mary was prepared to find a more
vapidly fashionable personage, and had schooled herself forthwith.

"You are Mrs. Thomas Leffingwell?" she asked. "Well, I am relieved."
The lady's eyes, travelling rapidly over Aunt Mary's sober bonnet and
brooch and gown, made it appear that these features in Honora's future
guardian gave her the relief in question. "Honora, this is your aunt."
Honora smiled from amidst the laces, and Aunt Mary, only too ready to
capitulate, surrendered. She held out her arms. Tears welled up in the
Frenchwoman's eyes as she abandoned her charge.
"Pauvre mignonne!" she cried.
But Mrs. Holt rebuked the nurse sharply, in French,--a language with
which neither Aunt Mary nor Uncle Tom was familiar. Fortunately,
perhaps. Mrs. Holt's remark was to the effect that Honora was going to
a sensible home.
"Hortense loves her better than my own children," said that lady.
Honora seemed quite content in the arms of Aunt Mary, who was
gazing so earnestly into the child's face that she did not at first hear Mrs.
Holt's invitation to take breakfast with them on Madison Avenue, and
then she declined politely. While grossing on the steamer, Mrs. Holt
had decided quite clearly in her mind just what she was going to say to
the child's future guardian, but there was something in Aunt Mary's
voice and manner which made these remarks seem
unnecessary--although Mrs. Holt was secretly disappointed not to
deliver them.
"It was fortunate that we happened to, be in Nice at the time," she said
with the evident feeling that some explanation was due. "I did not know
poor Mrs. Randolph Leffingwell very--very intimately, or Mr.
Leffingwell. It was such a sudden--such a terrible affair. But Mr. Holt
and