The great thing is
to be strong."
SYLVIA OF THE LETTERS.
Old Ab Herrick, so most people called him. Not that he was actually
old; the term was an expression of liking rather than any reflection
on his years. He lived in an old-fashioned house--old-fashioned,
that is, for New York--on the south side of West Twentieth Street:
once upon a time, but that was long ago, quite a fashionable
quarter. The house, together with Mrs. Travers, had been left him
by a maiden aunt. An "apartment" would, of course, have been more
suitable to a bachelor of simple habits, but the situation was
convenient from a journalistic point of view, and for fifteen years
Abner Herrick had lived and worked there.
Then one evening, after a three days' absence, Abner Herrick
returned to West Twentieth Street, bringing with him a little girl
wrapped up in a shawl, and a wooden box tied with a piece of cord.
He put the box on the table; and the young lady, loosening her
shawl, walked to the window and sat down facing the room.
Mrs. Travers took the box off the table and put it on the floor--it
was quite a little box--and waited.
"This young lady," explained Abner Herrick, "is Miss Ann Kavanagh,
daughter of--of an old friend of mine."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Travers, and remained still expectant.
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