quaintances know—and the Chicago papers, in their occasional discussions of the Fanneals, always veiledly refer to the fact—are not blood brothers. It is a perfectly evident fact to any one who has seen both of us; for I am the Fanneal type,—tall and with big bones, strong and spare in flesh but slow moving; my features are Rhode Island Yankee transplanted to Illinois, regular enough but too angular; too much nose, a bit too much chin, also, My hair is sandy brown; my eyes blue. Jerry's eyes are blue but mine have no quality of the living color of his; when I set the word down, it suggests that our eyes, at least, are alike, whereas we are nowhere more different. Mine are merchants' eyes, come down from ten recorded generations of cautious traders; Jerry's are—who knows? Jerry's long, graceful body is not so strong but twice as quick as mine; Jerry's clear, dark skin and his soft, black hair on his daredevil head; his small-boned but strong hands; the laugh and the lilt of him and his élan are—French, perhaps? Or Spanish, or Italian? All three together or none, but some other marvellous blend of energetic, passionate people? No one can say, least of all, Jerry himself. For one day, when I was about two years old and my nurse
