But five years had made little change in the exterior of our block.  It was situated at a point in the city from which the ebb tide of Fashion was slowly receding, and which the flood tide of Trade had not yet touched.  There was not a new house on the block, or an old one materially altered.  A little paint, and a diligent application of broom and Croton water, had kept the block quite fresh and jaunty.  On the south side there were some slight external modifications, in the shape of oblong black signs, fastened near basement doors, and bearing names of doctors.  Ten of these signs had been added to the south side within five years.  There were only two houses upon that side, now, to which you could come amiss in pursuit of medical advice.

One of these was old Van Quintem’s.  Five years had passed over the old house and the old man lightly (both had been made to last, and were well taken care of), and gave to them only a mellower and riper look.  The old man’s long white hair had not commenced falling out; and his cheeks still bloomed with a ruddiness that does not belong to second childhood.  He could still read his dear old books—­and carefully chosen new ones—­without spectacles; though he often preferred to hear them read in a soft, sweet tone, by a dear girl whom he always called Pet, and who would sit for hours at the old man’s feet, giving to the noble thoughts of poet, novelist, or philosopher, the added charm of a sympathetic voice.  At such times, a fine fellow, who was still known as Bog, would look on and listen, with rapt attention, and the happiest smile on his face.  Sometimes these tranquil scenes would be pleasantly broken in upon, and the meaning of the author profitably obscured, by the entrance of a certain little Helen, whom the old man would kiss, and call “Grandpop’s sugarp’um,” and “Sweety peety.”  Bog would then catch it up, and toss it aloft, all whirling with curls, laces, and blue ribbons, and would say, “Cud-je-wod-je now, cud-je-wod-je now, cud-je-wod-je now,” at each tossing; and the child, with the marvellous instinct of eighteen months, would understand this mysterious dialect, and then would smile through large blue eyes that looked like its mother’s.

To this house, Myndert Van Quintem, jr., had never returned; and no authentic intelligence of him had ever come.  Fayette Overtop, Esq., while on a professional visit to St. Paul, Minnesota, to settle a large land claim, had heard of a notorious Van Benton, who had kept a gambling house there several years, and was finally killed by a spendthrift whom he had cleaned out of his last cent one night.  The best description which he could get of this man, tallied precisely with that of Myndert Van Quintem, jr.  But Overtop, with that discretion which was continually enlarging his circle of paying practice, said nothing of this to the old gentleman.  Among the reports that Overtop had heard of this Van Benton, was one, that he had forged his father’s signature to