Sevenoaks: A Story of Today (2024)

E-text prepared by Audrey Longhurst, Josephine Paolucci,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

A STORY OF TODAY

BY

J. G. HOLLAND

New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers

Published by Arrangement with Charles Scribner's Sons

1875

CONTENTS.

SEVENOAKS.

CHAPTER I.

WHICH TELLS ABOUT SEVENOAKS, AND HOW MISS BUTTERWORTHPASSED ONE OF HER EVENINGS.

Everybody has seen Sevenoaks, or a hundred towns so muchlike it, in most particulars, that a description of any one ofthem would present it to the imagination—a town strung upona stream, like beads upon a thread, or charms upon a chain.Sevenoaks was richer in chain than charms, for its abundantwater-power was only partially used. It plunged, and roared,and played, and sparkled, because it had not half enough todo. It leaped down three or four cataracts in passing throughthe village; and, as it started from living springs far northwardamong the woods and mountains, it never failed in itssupplies.

Few of the people of Sevenoaks—thoughtless workers,mainly—either knew or cared whence it came, or whither itwent. They knew it as "The Branch;" but Sevenoaks wasso far from the trunk, down to which it sent its sap, and fromwhich it received no direct return, that no significance wasattached to its name. But it roared all day, and roared allnight, summer and winter alike, and the sound became a partof the atmosphere. Resonance was one of the qualities ofthe oxygen which the people breathed, so that if, at any midnightmoment, the roar had been suddenly hushed, they wouldhave waked with a start and a sense of suffocation, and leapedfrom their beds.

Among the charms that dangled from this liquid chain—dependingfrom the vest of a landscape which ended in aruffle of woods toward the north, overtopped by the head ofa mountain—was a huge factory that had been added to fromtime to time, as necessity demanded, until it had become animposing and not uncomely pile. Below this were two orthree dilapidated saw-mills, a grist-mill in daily use, and afulling-mill—a remnant of the old times when homespun wentit* pilgrimage to town—to be fulled, colored, and dressed—fromall the sparsely settled country around.

On a little plateau by the side of The Branch was a row ofstores and dram-shops and butchers' establishments. Eachhad a sort of square, false front, pierced by two staringwindows and a door, that reminded one of a lion couchant—verylarge in the face and very thin in the flank. Then therewere crowded in, near the mill, little rows of one-story houses,occupied entirely by operatives, and owned by the owner ofthe mill. All the inhabitants, not directly connected withthe mill, were as far away from it as they could go. Theirhouses were set back upon either acclivity which rose from thegorge that the stream had worn, dotting the hill-sides in everydirection. There was a clumsy town-hall, there were threeor four churches, there was a high school and a low tavern.It was, on the whole, a village of importance, but the greatmill was somehow its soul and center. A fair farming andgrazing country stretched back from it eastward and westward,and Sevenoaks was its only home market.

It is not proposed, in this history, to tell where Sevenoakswas, and is to-day. It may have been, or may be, in Maine,or New Hampshire, or Vermont, or New York. It was inthe northern part of one of these States, and not far from theborder of a wilderness, almost as deep and silent as any thatcan be found beyond the western limit of settlement andcivilization. The red man had left it forever, but the bear,the deer and the moose remained. The streams and lakeswere full of trout; otter and sable still attracted the trapper,and here and there a lumberman lingered alone in his cabin,enamored of the solitude and the wild pursuits to which ahardly gentler industry had introduced him. Such lumber ascould be drifted down the streams had long been cut anddriven out, and the woods were left to the hunter and hisprey, and to the incursions of sportsmen and seekers forhealth, to whom the rude residents became guides, cooks, andservants of all work, for the sake of occasional society, andthat ever-serviceable consideration—money.

There were two establishments in Sevenoaks which stood sofar away from the stream that they could hardly be describedas attached to it. Northward, on the top of the bleakest hillin the region, stood the Sevenoaks poor-house. In dimensionsand population, it was utterly out of proportion to thesize of the town, for the people of Sevenoaks seemed to degenerateinto paupers with wonderful facility. There was oneman in the town who was known to be getting rich, while allthe rest grew poor. Even the keepers of the dram-shops,though they seemed to do a thriving business, did not thrive.A great deal of work was done, but people were paid verylittle for it. If a man tried to leave the town for the purposeof improving his condition, there was always some mortgageon his property, or some impossibility of selling what he hadfor money, or his absolute dependence on each day's laborfor each day's bread, that stood in the way. One by one—sick,disabled, discouraged, dead-beaten—they drifted intothe poor-house, which, as the years went on, grew into ashabby, double pile of buildings, between which ran a countyroad.

This establishment was a county as well as a town institution,and, theoretically, one group of its buildings was devotedto the reception of county paupers, while the otherwas assigned to the poor of Sevenoaks. Practically, thekeeper of both mingled his boarders indiscriminately, to suithis personal convenience.

The hill, as it climbed somewhat abruptly from the westernbank of the stream—it did this in the grand leisure of theold geologic centuries—apparently got out of breath and satdown when its task was half done. Where it sat, it left abeautiful plateau of five or six acres, and from this it rose, andwent on climbing, until it reached the summit of its effort,and descended the other side. On the brow of this plateaustood seven huge oaks which the chopper's axe, for some reasonor another, had spared; and the locality, in all the earlyyears of settlement, was known by the name of "The SevenOaks." They formed a notable landmark, and, at last, theold designation having been worn by usage, the town was incorporatedwith the name of Sevenoaks, in a single word.

On this plateau, the owner of the mill, Mr. Robert Belcher—himselfan exceptional product of the village—had builthis residence—a large, white, pretentious dwelling, surroundedand embellished by all the appointments of wealth.The house was a huge cube, ornamented at its corners andcornices with all possible flowers of a rude architecture, remindingone of an elephant, that, in a fit of incontinentplayfulness, had indulged in antics characteristic of its clumsybulk and brawn. Outside were ample stables, a green-house,a Chinese pagoda that was called "the summer-house," anexquisite garden and trees, among which latter were carefullycherished the seven ancient oaks that had given the town itsname.

Robert Belcher was not a gentleman. He supposed himselfto be one, but he was mistaken. Gentlemen of wealthusually built a fine house; so Mr. Belcher built one. Gentlemenkept horses, a groom and a coachman; Mr. Belcher didthe same. Gentlemen of wealth built green-houses for themselvesand kept a gardener; Mr. Belcher could do no less.He had no gentlemanly tastes, to be sure, but he could buyor hire these for money; so he bought and hired them; andwhen Robert Belcher walked through his stables and jestedwith his men, or sauntered into his green-house and about hisgrounds, he rubbed his heavy hands together, and fanciedthat the costly things by which he had surrounded himselfwere the insignia of a gentleman.

From his windows he could look down upon the village,all of which he either owned or controlled. He owned thegreat mill; he owned the water-privilege; he owned many ofthe dwellings, and held mortgages on many others; he ownedthe churches, for all purposes practical to himself; he ownedthe ministers—if not, then this was another mistake that hehad made. So long as it was true that they could not livewithout him, he was content with his title. He patronizedthe church, and the church was too weak to decline his ostentatiouscourtesy. He humiliated every man who came intohis presence, seeking a subscription for a religious or charitablepurpose, but his subscription was always sought, and asregularly obtained. Humbly to seek his assistance for anyhigh purpose was a concession to his power, and to grant theassistance sought was to establish an obligation. He waswilling to pay for personal influence and personal glory, andhe often paid right royally.

Of course, Mr. Belcher's residence had a library; all gentlemenhave libraries. Mr. Belcher's did not contain manybooks, but it contained a great deal of room for them. Herehe spent his evenings, kept his papers in a huge safe built intothe wall, smoked, looked down on the twinkling village andhis huge mill, counted his gains and constructed his schemes.Of Mrs. Belcher and the little Belchers, he saw but little.He fed and dressed them well, as he did his horses. All gentlemenfeed and dress their dependents well. He was proudof his family as he saw them riding in their carriage. Theylooked gay and comfortable, and were, as he thought, objectsof envy among the humbler folk of the town, all of whichreflected pleasantly upon himself.

On a late April evening, of a late spring in 18—, he wassitting in his library, buried in a huge easy chair, thinking,smoking, scheming. The shutters were closed, the lampswere lighted, and a hickory fire was blazing upon the hearth.Around the rich man were spread the luxuries which hiswealth had bought—the velvet carpet, the elegant chairs, theheavy library table, covered with costly appointments, picturesin broad gold frames, and one article of furniture thathe had not been accustomed to see in a gentleman's library—anarticle that sprang out of his own personal wants. Thiswas an elegant pier-glass, into whose depths he was accustomedto gaze in self-admiration. He was flashily dressed ina heavy coat, buff waistcoat, and drab trousers. A goldchain of fabulous weight hung around his neck and held hisJurgensen repeater.

He rose and walked his room, and rubbed his hands, aswas his habit; then paused before his mirror, admired hisrobust figure and large face, brushed his hair back from hisbig brow, and walked on again. Finally, he paused beforehis glass, and indulged in another habit peculiar to himself.

"Robert Belcher," said he, addressing the image in themirror, "you are a brick! Yes, sir, you are a brick! You,Robert Belcher, sir, are an almighty smart man. You'veoutwitted the whole of 'em. Look at me, sir! Dare youtell me, sir, that I am not master of the situation? Ah! youhesitate; it is well! They all come to me, every man of 'emIt is 'Mr. Belcher, will you be so good?' and 'Mr. Belcher,I hope you are very well,' and 'Mr. Belcher, I want you todo better by me.' Ha! ha! ha! ha! My name is Norval.It isn't? Say that again and I'll throttle you! Yes, sir, I'llshake your rascally head off your shoulders! Down, downin the dust, and beg my pardon! It is well; go! Getyou gone, sir, and remember not to beard the lion in hisden!"

Exactly what this performance meant, it would be difficultto say. Mr. Belcher, in his visits to the city, had frequentedtheaters and admired the villains of the plays he had seen represented.He had noticed figures upon the boards thatreminded him of his own. His addresses to his mirrorafforded him an opportunity to exercise his gifts of speechand action, and, at the same time, to give form to his self-gratulations.They amused him; they ministered to his preposterousvanity. He had no companions in the town, andthe habit gave him a sense of society, and helped to passaway his evenings. At the close of his effort he sat downand lighted another cigar. Growing drowsy, he laid it downon a little stand at his side, and settled back in his chair fora nap. He had hardly shut his eyes when there came a rapupon his door.

"Come in!"

"Please, sir," said a scared-looking maid, opening thedoor just wide enough to make room for her face.

"Well?" in a voice so sharp and harsh that the girl cringed.

"Please, sir, Miss Butterworth is at the door, and wouldlike to see you."

Now, Miss Butterworth was the one person in all Sevenoakswho was not afraid of Robert Belcher. She had beenat the public school with him when they were children; shehad known every circ*mstance of his history; she was not dependenton him in any way, and she carried in her head anhonest and fearless tongue. She was an itinerant tailoress,and having worked, first and last, in nearly every family inthe town, she knew the circ*mstances of them all, and knewtoo well the connection of Robert Belcher with their troublesand reverses. In Mr. Belcher's present condition of self-complacencyand somnolency, she was not a welcome visitor.Belligerent as he had been toward his own image in themirror, he shrank from meeting Keziah Butterworth, for heknew instinctively that she had come with some burden ofcomplaint.

"Come in," said Mr. Belcher to his servant, "and shutthe door behind you."

The girl came in, shut the door, and waited, leaning against it.

"Go," said her master in a low tone, "and tell Mrs. Belcherthat I am busy, and that she must choke her off. I can'tsee her to-night. I can't see her."

The girl retired, and soon afterward Mrs. Belcher came,and reported that she could do nothing with Miss Butterworth—thatMiss Butterworth was determined to see himbefore she left the house.

"Bring her in; I'll make short work with her."

As soon as Mrs. Belcher retired, her husband hurried tothe mirror, brushed his hair back fiercely, and then sat downto a pile of papers that he always kept conveniently upon hislibrary table.

"Come in," said Mr. Belcher, in his blandest tone, whenMiss Butterworth was conducted to his room.

"Ah! Keziah?" said Mr. Belcher, looking up with a smile,as if an unexpected old friend had come to him.

"My name is Butterworth, and it's got a handle to it,'said that bumptious lady, quickly.

"Well, but, Keziah, you know we used to—"

"My name is Butterworth, I tell you, and it's got ahandle to it."

"Well, Miss Butterworth—happy to see you—hope youare well—take a chair."

"Humph," exclaimed Miss Butterworth, dropping downupon the edge of a large chair, whose back felt no pressurefrom her own during the interview. The expression of Mr.Belcher's happiness in seeing her, and his kind suggestionconcerning her health, had overspread Miss Butterworth'scountenance with a derisive smile, and though she was evidentlymoved to tell him that he lied, she had reasons forrestraining her tongue.

They formed a curious study, as they sat there together,during the first embarrassing moments. The man had spenthis life in schemes for absorbing the products of the labor ofothers. He was cunning, brutal, vain, showy, and essentiallyvulgar, from his head to his feet, in every fiber of body andsoul. The woman had earned with her own busy hands everydollar of money she had ever possessed. She would not havewronged a dog for her own personal advantage. Her blackeyes, lean and spirited face, her prematurely whitening locks,as they were exposed by the backward fall of her old-fashioned,quilted hood, presented a physiognomy at once piquantand prepossessing.

Robert Belcher knew that the woman before him was fearlessand incorruptible. He knew that she despised him—thatbullying and brow-beating would have no influence with her,that his ready badinage would not avail, and that coaxingand soft words would be equally useless. In her presence,he was shorn of all his weapons; and he never felt so defenselessand ill at ease in his life.

As Miss Butterworth did not seem inclined to begin conversation,Mr. Belcher hem'd and haw'd with affected nonchalance,and said:

"Ah!—to—what am I indebted for this visit. Miss—ah—Butterworth?"

"I'm thinking!" she replied sharply, looking into thefire, and pressing her lips together.

There was nothing to be said to this, so Mr. Belcher lookeddoggedly at her, and waited.

"I'm thinking of a man, and-he-was-a-man-every-inch-of-him,if there ever was one, and a gentleman too, if-I-know-what-a-gentleman-is,who came to this town ten years ago,from-nobody-knows-where; with a wife that was an angel,if-there-is-any-such-thing-as-an-angel."

Here Miss Butterworth paused. She had laid her foundation,and proceeded at her leisure.

"He knew more than any man in Sevenoaks, but he didn'tknow how to take care of himself," she went on. "He wasthe most ingenious creature God ever made, I do think, andhis name was Paul Benedict."

Mr. Belcher grew pale and fidgeted in his chair.

"And his name was Paul Benedict. He invented something, and then hetook it to Robert Belcher, and he put it into his mill,and-paid-him-just-as-little-for-it-as-he-could. And then he inventedsomething more, and-that-went-into-the-mill; and then something more,and the patent was used by Mr. Belcher for a song, and the man grewpoorer and poorer,while-Mr.-Belcher-grew-richer-and-richer-all-the-time. And then heinvented a gun, and then his little wife died, and what with theexpenses of doctors and funerals and such things, and the moneyit took to get his patent,which-I-begged-him-for-conscience'-sake-to-keep-out-of-Robert-Belcher's-hands,he almost starved with his little boy, and had to go to Robert Belcherfor money."

"And get it," said Mr. Belcher.

"How much, now? A hundred little dollars for what wasworth a hundred thousand, unless-everybody-lies. The wholewent in a day, and then he went crazy."

"Well, you know I sent him to the asylum," respondedMr. Belcher.

"I know you did—yes, I know you did; and you tried to get him wellenough to sign a paper, which the doctor never would let him sign, andwhich wouldn't have been worth a straw if he had signed it.The-idea-of-getting-a-crazy-man-to-sign-a-paper!"

"Well, but I wanted some security for the money I hadadvanced," said Mr. Belcher.

"No; you wanted legal possession of a property whichwould have made him rich; that's what it was, and you didn'tget it, and you never will get it. He can't be cured, andhe's been sent back, and is up at Tom Buffum's now, and I'veseen him to-day."

Miss Butterworth expected that this intelligence would stunMr. Belcher, but it did not.

The gratification of the man with the news was unmistakable.Paul Benedict had no relatives or friends that he knewof. All his dealings with him had been without witnesses.The only person living besides Robert Belcher, who knewexactly what had passed between his victim and himself, washopelessly insane. The difference, to him, between obtainingpossession of a valuable invention of a sane or an insane man,was the difference between paying money and paying none.In what way, and with what profit, Mr. Belcher was availinghimself of Paul Benedict's last invention, no one in Sevenoaksknew; but all the town knew that he was getting rich,apparently much faster than he ever was before, and that, ina distant town, there was a manufactory of what was knownas "The Belcher Rifle."

Mr. Belcher concluded that he was still "master of thesituation." Benedict's testimony could not be taken in acourt of justice. The town itself was in his hands, so that itwould institute no suit on Benedict's behalf, now that he hadcome upon it for support; for the Tom Buffum to whom MissButterworth had alluded was the keeper of the poor-house,and was one of his own creatures.

Miss Butterworth had sufficient sagacity to comprehend thereasons for Mr. Belcher's change of look and manner, andsaw that her evening's mission would prove fruitless; but hertrue woman's heart would not permit her to relinquish herproject.

"Is poor Benedict comfortable?" he inquired, in his old,off-hand way.

"Comfortable—yes, in the way that pigs are."

"Pigs are very comfortable, I believe, as a general thing,"said Mr. Belcher.

"Bob Belcher," said Miss Butterworth, the tears springingto her eyes in spite of herself, and forgetting all the proprietiesshe had determined to observe, "you are a brute. Youknow you are a brute. He is in a little cell, no larger than—than—apig-pen. There isn't a bit of furniture in it. Hesleeps on the straw, and in the straw, and under the straw,and his victuals are poked at him as if he were a beast. Heis a poor, patient, emaciated wretch, and he sits on the floorall day, and weaves the most beautiful things out of the strawhe sits on, and Tom Buffum's girls have got them in thehouse for ornaments. And he talks about his rifle, and explainsit, and explains it, and explains it, when anybody willlisten to him, and his clothes are all in rags, and that littleboy of his that they have in the house, and treat no better thanif he were a dog, knows he is there, and goes and looks athim, and calls to him, and cries about him whenever he dares.And you sit here, in your great house, with your carpets andchairs, that half smother you, and your looking-glasses andyour fine clothes, and don't start to your feet when I tell youthis. I tell you if God doesn't damn everybody who is responsiblefor this wickedness, then there is no such thing asa God."

Miss Butterworth was angry, and had grown more and moreangry with every word. She had brooded over the matter allthe afternoon, and her pent-up indignation had overflowedbeyond control. She felt that she had spoken truth whichRobert Belcher ought to hear and to heed, yet she knew thatshe had lost her hold upon him. Mr. Belcher listened withthe greatest coolness, while a half smile overspread hisface.

"Don't you think I'm a pretty good-natured man to sithere," said he, "and hear myself abused in this way, withoutgetting angry?"

"No, I think you are a bad-natured man. I think you arethe hardest-hearted and worst man I ever saw. What inGod's name has Paul Benedict done, that he should be treatedin this way? There are a dozen there just like him, or worse. Isit a crime to lose one's reason? I wish you could spend onenight in Paul Benedict's room."

"Thank you. I prefer my present quarters."

"Yes, you look around on your present quarters, as youcall 'em, and think you'll always have 'em. You won't.Mark my words; you won't. Some time you'll overreachyourself, and cheat yourself out of 'em. See if you don't."

"It takes a smart man to cheat himself, Miss Butterworth,"responded Mr. Belcher, rubbing his hands.

"There is just where you're mistaken. It takes a fool."

Mr. Belcher laughed outright. Then, in a patronizing way,he said: "Miss Butterworth, I have given you considerabletime, and perhaps you'll be kind enough to state your business.I'm a practical man, and I really don't see anythingthat particularly concerns me in all this talk. Of course, I'msorry for Benedict and the rest of 'em, but Sevenoaks isn't avery rich town, and it cannot afford to board its paupers atthe hotel, or to give them many luxuries."

Miss Butterworth was calm again. She knew that she haddone her cause no good, but was determined to finish hererrand.

"Mr. Belcher, I'm a woman."

"I know it, Keziah."

"And my name is Butterworth."

"I know it."

"You do? Well, then, here is what I came to say to you.The town-meeting comes to-morrow, and the town's poor areto be sold at auction, and to pass into Tom Buffum's handsagain, unless you prevent it. I can't make a speech, and Ican't vote. I never wanted to until now. You can do both,and if you don't reform this business, and set Tom Buffum atdoing something else, and treat God's poor more like humanbeings, I shall get out of Sevenoaks before it sinks; for sinkit will if there is any hole big enough to hold it."

"Well, I'll think of it," said Mr. Belcher, deliberately.

"Tell me you'll do it."

"I'm not used to doing things in a hurry. Mr. Buffum isa friend of mine, and I've always regarded him as a very goodman for the place. Of course, if there's anything wrong itought to be righted, but I think you've exaggerated."

"No, you don't mean to do anything. I see it. Good-night,"and she had swept out of the door before he couldsay another word, or rise from his chair.

She went down the hill into the village. The earth wasstiffening with the frost that lingered late in that latitude, andthere were patches of ice, across which she picked her way.There was a great moon overhead, but just then all beautifulthings, and all things that tended to lift her thoughts upward,seemed a mockery. She reached the quiet home of Rev. SolomonSnow.

"Who knows but he can be spurred up to do something?"she said to herself.

There was only one way to ascertain—so she knocked atthe door, and was received so kindly by Mr. Snow and Mrs.Snow and the three Misses Snow, that she sat down and unburdenedherself—first, of course, as regarded Mr. RobertBelcher, and second, as concerned the Benedicts, father andson.

The position of Mr. Belcher was one which inspired theminister with caution, but the atmosphere was freer in his housethan in that of the proprietor. The vocal engine whose wheelshad slipped upon the track with many a whirr, as she startedher train in the great house on the hill, found a down grade,and went off easily. Mr. Snow sat in his arm-chair, his elbowsresting on either support, the thumb and every finger of eachhand touching its twin at the point, and forming a kind ofgateway in front of his heart, which seemed to shut out or letin conviction at his will. Mrs. Snow and the girls, whoseadmiration of Miss Butterworth for having dared to invadeMr. Belcher's library was unbounded, dropped their work, andlistened with eager attention. Mr. Snow opened the gateoccasionally to let in a statement, but for the most part keptit closed. The judicial attitude, the imperturbable spectacles,the long, pale face and white cravat did not prevent MissButterworth from "freeing her mind;" and when she finishedthe task, a good deal had been made of the case of the insanepaupers of Sevenoaks, and there was very little left of Mr.Robert Belcher and Mr. Thomas Buffum.

At the close of her account of what she had seen at thepoor-house, and what had passed between her and the greatproprietor, Mr. Snow cast his eyes up to the ceiling, pursedhis lips, and somewhere in the profundities of his nature, orin some celestial laboratory, unseen by any eyes but his own,prepared his judgments.

"Cases of this kind," said he, at last, to his excited visitor,whose eyes glowed like coals as she looked into his impassiveface, "are to be treated with great prudence. We areobliged to take things as they air. Personally (with a risinginflection and a benevolent smile), I should rejoice to see theinsane poor clothed and in their right mind."

"Let us clothe 'em, then, anyway," interjected Miss Butterworth,impatiently. "And, as for being in their rightmind, that's more than can be said of those that have the careof 'em."

"Personally—Miss Butterworth, excuse me—I should rejoiceto see them clothed and in their right mind, but the ageof miracles is past. We have to deal with the facts of to-day—withthings as they air. It is possible, nay, for aught Iknow, it may be highly probable, that in other towns pauperismmay fare better than it does with us. It is to be rememberedthat Sevenoaks is itself poor, and its poverty becomesone of the factors of the problem which you have propoundedto us. The town of Buxton, our neighbor over here, pays taxes,let us say, of seven mills on the dollar; we pay seven mills onthe dollar. Buxton is rich; we are poor. Buxton has fewpaupers; we have many. Consequently, Buxton may maintainits paupers in what may almost be regarded as a state ofaffluence. It may go as far as feather-beds and winter firesfor the aged; nay, it may advance to some economical formof teeth-brushes, and still demand no more sacrifice from itspeople than is constantly demanded of us to maintain ourpoor in a humbler way. Then there are certain prudentialconsiderations—certain, I might almost say, moral considerations—whichare to be taken into account. It will never do,in a town like ours, to make pauperism attractive—to makeour pauper establishments comfortable asylums for idleness.It must, in some way, be made to seem a hardship to go tothe poor-house."

"Well, Sevenoaks has taken care of that with a vengeance,"burst out Miss Butterworth.

"Excuse me, Miss Butterworth; let me repeat, that it mustbe made to seem a hardship to go to the poor-house. Let ussay that we have accomplished this very desirable result. Sofar, so good. Give our system whatever credit may belongto it, and still let us frankly acknowledge that we have sufferingleft that ought to be alleviated. How much? In whatway? Here we come into contact with another class of facts.Paupers have less of sickness and death among them than any-otherclass in the community. There are paupers in our establishmentthat have been there for twenty-five years—a factwhich, if it proves anything, proves that a large proportionof the wants of our present civilization are not only artificialin their origin, but harmful in their gratifications. Our poorare compelled to go back nearer to nature—to old mother nature—andthey certainly get a degree of compensation for it.It increases the expenses of the town, to be sure."

"Suppose we inquire of them," struck in Miss Butterworthagain, "and find out whether they would not rather be treatedbetter and die earlier."

"Paupers are hardly in a position to be consulted in thatway," responded Mr. Snow, "and the alternative is onewhich, considering their moral condition, they would have noright to entertain."

Miss Butterworth had sat through this rather desultory disquisitionwith what patience she could command, breaking inupon it impulsively at various points, and seen that it wasdrifting nowhere—at least, that it was not drifting toward theobject of her wishes. Then she took up the burden of talk,and carried it on in her very direct way.

"All you say is well enough, I suppose," she began, "butI don't stop to reason about it, and I don't wish to. Here isa lot of human beings that are treated like brutes—sold everyyear to the lowest bidder, to be kept. They go hungry, andnaked, and cold. They are in the hands of a man who hasno more blood in his heart than there is in a turnip, and wepretend to be Christians, and go to church, and coddle ourselveswith comforts, and pay no more attention to them thanwe should if their souls had gone where their money went. Itell you it's a sin and a shame, and I know it. I feel it. Andthere's a gentleman among 'em, and his little boy, and theymust be taken out of that place, or treated better in it. I'vemade up my mind to that, and if the men of Sevenoaks don'tstraighten matters on that horrible old hill, then they're justno men at all."

Mr. Snow smiled a calm, self-respectful smile, that said, asplainly as words could say: "Oh! I know women: they areamiably impulsive, but impracticable."

"Have you ever been there?" inquired Miss Butterworth,sharply.

"Yes, I've been there."

"And conscience forbid!" broke in Mrs. Snow, "that heshould go again, and bring home what he brought home thattime. It took me the longest time to get them out of thehouse!"

"Mrs. Snow! my dear! you forget that we have a strangerpresent."

"Well, I don't forget those strangers, anyway!"

The three Misses Snow tittered, and looked at one another,but were immediately solemnized by a glance from theirfather.

Mrs. Snow, having found her tongue—a characteristicallylively and emphatic one—went on to say:—

"I think Miss Butterworth is right. It's a burning shame,and you ought to go to the meeting to-morrow, and put itdown."

"Easily said, my dear," responded Mr. Snow, "but youforget that Mr. Belcher is Buffum's friend, and that it is impossibleto carry any measure against him in Sevenoaks. Igrant that it ought not to be so. I wish it were otherwise;but we must take things as they air."

"To take things as they air," was a cardinal aphorism inMr. Snow's budget of wisdom. It was a good starting-pointfor any range of reasoning, and exceedingly useful to a manof limited intellect and little moral courage. The real truthof the case had dawned upon Miss Butterworth, and it hadrankled in the breast of Mrs. Snow from the beginning of hispointless talk. He was afraid of offending Robert Belcher,for not only did his church need repairing, but his salary wasin arrears, and the wolf that had chased so many up the longhill to what was popularly known as Tom Buffum's BoardingHouse he had heard many a night, while his family was sleeping,howling with menace in the distance.

Mrs. Snow rebelled, in every part of her nature, againstthe power which had cowed her reverend companion. Thereis nothing that so goads a spirited woman to madness as therealization that any man controls her husband. He may besubservient to her—a cuckold even—but to be mated with aman whose soul is neither his own nor wholly hers, is to herthe torment of torments.

"I wish Robert Belcher was hanged," said Mrs. Snow,spitefully.

"Amen! and my name is Butterworth," responded thatlady, making sure that there should be no mistake as to theresponsibility for the utterance.

"Why, mother!" exclaimed the three hisses Snow, inwonder.

"And drawn and quartered!" added Mrs. Snow, emphatically.

"Amen, again!" responded Miss Butterworth.

"Mrs. Snow! my dear! You forget that you are a Christianpastor's wife, and that there is a stranger present."

"No, that is just what I don't forget," said Mrs. Snow."I see a Christian pastor afraid of a man of the world, whocares no more about Christianity than he does about a pair ofold shoes, and who patronizes it for the sake of shutting itsmouth against him. It makes me angry, and makes me wishI were a man; and you ought to go to that meeting to-morrow,as a Christian pastor, and put down this shame andwickedness. You have influence, if you will use it. Allthe people want is a leader, and some one to tell them thetruth."

"Yes, father, I'm sure you have a great deal of influence,"said the elder Miss Snow.

"A great deal of influence," responded the next in years.

"Yes, indeed," echoed the youngest.

Mr. Snow established the bridge again, by bringing hisfingers together,—whether to keep out the flattery that thuscame like a subtle balm to his heart, or to keep in theself-complacency which had been engendered, was not apparent.

He smiled, looking benevolently out upon the group, andsaid: "Oh, you women are so hasty, so hasty, so hasty!I had not said that I would not interfere. Indeed, I hadpretty much made up my mind to do so. But I wanted youin advance to see things as they air. It may be that somethingcan be done, and it certainly will be a great satisfactionto me if I can be the humble instrument for theaccomplishment of a reform."

"And you will go to the meeting? and you will speak?"said Miss Butterworth, eagerly.

"Yes!" and Mr. Snow looked straight into Miss Butterworth'stearful eyes, and smiled.

"The Lord add His blessing, and to His name be all thepraise! Good-night!" said Miss Butterworth, rising andmaking for the door.

"Dear," said Mrs. Snow, springing and catching her bythe arm, "don't you think you ought to put on somethingmore? It's very chilly to-night."

"Not a rag. I'm hot. I believe I should roast if I hadon a feather more."

"Wouldn't you like Mr. Snow to go home with you? Hecan go just as well as not," insisted Mrs. Snow.

"Certainly, just as well as not," repeated the elder MissSnow, followed by the second with: "as well as not," andby the third with: "and be glad to do it."

"No—no—no—no"—to each. "I can get along betterwithout him, and I don't mean to give him a chance to takeback what he has said."

Miss Butterworth ran down the steps, the whole familystanding in the open door, with Mr. Snow, in his glasses, behindhis good-natured, cackling flock, thoroughly glad thathis protective services were deemed of so small value by thebrave little tailoress.

Then Miss Butterworth could see the moon and the stars.Then she could see how beautiful the night was. Then shebecame conscious of the everlasting roar of the cataracts, andof the wreaths of mist that they sent up into the crisp eveningair. To the fear of anything in Sevenoaks, in the day orin the night, she was a stranger; so, with a light heart, talkingand humming to herself, she went by the silent mill, thenoisy dram-shops, and, with her benevolent spirit full of hopeand purpose, reached the house where, in a humble hiredroom she had garnered all her treasures, including the bedand the linen which she had prepared years before for an eventthat never took place.

"The Lord add His blessing, and to His name be all thepraise," she said, as she extinguished the candle, laughing inspite of herself, to think how she had blurted out the prayerand the ascription in the face of Solomon Snow.

"Well, he's a broken reed—a broken reed—but I hopeMrs. Snow will tie something to him—or starch him—or—something—tomake him stand straight for once," and thenshe went to sleep, and dreamed of fighting with Robert Belcherall night.

CHAPTER II.

MR. BELCHER CARRIES HIS POINT AT THE TOWN-MEETING, ANDTHE POOR ARE KNOCKED DOWN TO THOMAS BUFFUM.

The abrupt departure of Miss Butterworth left Mr. Belcherpiqued and surprised. Although he regarded himself as still"master of the situation"—to use his own pet phrase,—thevisit of that spirited woman had in various ways humiliatedhim. To sit in his own library, with an intruding womanwho not only was not afraid of him but despised him, to sitbefore her patiently and be called "Bob Belcher," and abrute, and not to have the privilege of kicking her out ofdoors, was the severest possible trial of his equanimity. Sheleft him so suddenly that he had not had the opportunity toinsult her, for he had fully intended to do this before she retired.He had determined, also, as a matter of course, thatin regard to the public poor of Sevenoaks he would give allhis influence toward maintaining the existing state of things.The idea of being influenced by a woman, particularly by awoman over whom he had no influence, to change his policywith regard to anything, public or private, was one againstwhich all the brute within him rebelled.

In this state of mind, angry with himself for having toleratedone who had so boldly and ruthlessly wounded his self-love,he had but one resort. He could not confess hishumiliation to his wife; and there was no one in the worldwith whom he could hold conversation on the subject, excepthis old confidant who came into the mirror when wanted, andconveniently retired when the interview closed.

Rising from his chair, and approaching his mirror, as if hehad been whipped, he stood a full minute regarding his disgracedand speechless image. "Are you Robert Belcher,Esquire, of Sevenoaks?" he inquired, at length. "Are youthe person who has been insulted by a woman? Look at me,sir! Turn not away! Have you any constitutional objectionsto telling me how you feel? Are you, sir, the proprietorof this house? Are you the owner of yonder mill? Areyou the distinguished person who carries Sevenoaks in hispocket? How are the mighty fallen! And you, sir, whohave been insulted by a tailoress, can stand here, and lookme in the face, and still pretend to be a man! You are ascoundrel, sir—a low, mean-spirited scoundrel, sir. You arenicely dressed, but you are a puppy. Dare to tell me you arenot, and I will grind you under my foot, as I would grind aworm. Don't give me a word—not a word! I am not in amood to bear it!"

Having vented his indignation and disgust, with the fiercestfacial expression and the most menacing gesticulations, hebecame calm, and proceeded:

"Benedict at the poor-house, hopelessly insane! Tell menow, and, mark you, no lies here! Who developed his inventions?Whose money was risked? What did it cost Benedict?Nothing. What did it cost Robert Belcher? Morethousands than Benedict ever dreamed of. Have you doneyour duty, Robert Belcher? Ay, ay, sir! I believe you.Did you turn his head? No, sir. I believe you; it is well!I have spent money for him—first and last, a great deal ofmoney for him; and any man or woman who disputes me is aliar—a base, malignant liar! Who is still master of the situation?Whose name is Norval? Whose are these GrampianHills? Who intends to go to the town-meeting to-morrow,and have things fixed about as he wants them? Who willmake Keziah Butterworth weep and howl with anguish? LetRobert Belcher alone! Alone! Far in azure depths ofspace (here Mr. Belcher extended both arms heavenward, andregarded his image admiringly), far—far away! Well, you'rea pretty good-looking man, after all, and I'll let you off thistime; but don't let me catch you playing baby to anotherwoman! I think you'll be able to take care of yourself[nodding slowly.] By-by! Good-night!"

Mr. Belcher retired from the glass with two or three profoundbows, his face beaming with restored self-complacency,and, taking his chair, he resumed his cigar. At this moment,there arose in his memory a single sentence he had read inthe warrant for the meeting of the morrow: "To see if thetown will take any steps for the improvement of the conditionof the poor, now supported at the public charge."

When he read this article of the warrant, posted in thepublic places of the village, it had not impressed him particularly.Now, he saw Miss Butterworth's hand in it. Evidently,Mr. Belcher was not the only man who had beenhonored by a call from that philanthropic woman. As hethought the matter over, he regretted that, for the sake ofgiving form and force to his spite against her, he should beobliged to relinquish the popularity he might have won byfavoring a reformative measure. He saw something in it,also, that might be made to add to Tom Buffum's profits,but even this consideration weighed nothing against his desirefor personal revenge, to be exhibited in the form of triumphantpersonal power.

He rose from his chair, walked his room, swinging hishands backward and forward, casting furtive glances into hismirror, and then rang his bell. He had arrived at a conclusion.He had fixed upon his scheme, and was ready for work.

"Tell Phipps to come here," he said to the maid who respondedto the summons.

Phipps was his coachman, body-servant, table-waiter, pet,butt for his jests, tool, man of all occasions. He consideredhimself a part of Mr. Belcher's personal property. To be theobject of his clumsy badinage, when visitors were present andhis master was particularly amiable, was equivalent to an honorablepublic notice. He took Mr. Belcher's cast-off clothes,and had them reduced in their dimensions for his own wearing,and was thus always able to be nearly as well dressed andfoppish as the man for whom they were originally made. Hewas as insolent to others as he was obsequious to his master—aflunky by nature and long education.

Phipps appeared.

"Well, Phipps, what are you here for?" inquired Mr.Belcher.

"I was told you wanted me, sir," looking doubtfully withhis cunning eyes into Mr. Belcher's face, as if questioninghis mood.

"How is your health? You look feeble. Overwhelmedby your tremendous duties? Been sitting up late along back?Eh? You rascal! Who's the happy woman?"

Phipps laughed, and twiddled his fingers.

"You're a precious fellow, and I've got to get rid of you.You are altogether too many for me. Where did you getthat coat? It seems to me I've seen something like thatbefore. Just tell me how you do it, man. I can't dress theway you do. Yes, Phipps, you're too many for me!"

Phipps smiled, aware that he was expected to make noreply.

"Phipps, do you expect to get up to-morrow morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, you do! Very well! See that you do."

"Yes, sir."

"And Phipps—"

"Yes, sir."

"Bring the grays and the light wagon to the door to-morrowmorning at seven o'clock."

"Yes, sir."

"And Phipps, gather all the old clothes about the housethat you can't use yourself, and tie 'em up in a bundle, andput 'em into the back of the wagon. Mum is the word, andif Mrs. Belcher asks you any questions, tell her I think ofturning Sister of Charity."

Phipps snickered.

"And Phipps, make a basket of cold meat and goodies,and put in with the clothes."

"Yes, sir."

"And Phipps, remember:—seven o'clock, sharp, and nosoldiering."

"Yes, sir."

"And Phipps, here is a cigar that cost twenty-five cents.Do it up in a paper, and lay it away. Keep it to rememberme by."

This joke was too good to be passed over lightly, and soPhipps giggled, took the cigar, put it caressingly to his nose,and then slipped it into his pocket.

"Now make yourself scarce," said his master, and the manretired, entirely conscious that the person he served had somerascally scheme on foot, and heartily sympathetic with him inthe project of its execution.

Promptly at seven the next morning, the rakish pair oftrotters stood before the door, with a basket and a largebundle in the back of the rakish little wagon. Almost at thesame moment, the proprietor came out, buttoning his overcoat.Phipps leaped out, then followed his master into thewagon, who, taking the reins, drove off at a rattling pace upthe long hill toward Tom Buffum's boarding-house. Theroad lay entirely outside of the village, so that the unusualdrive was not observed.

Arriving at the poor-house, Mr. Belcher gave the reins tohis servant, and, with a sharp rap upon the door with the buttof his whip, summoned to the latch the red-faced and stuffykeeper. What passed between them, Phipps did not hear,although he tried very hard to do so. At the close of a halfhour's buzzing conversation, Tom Buffum took the bundlefrom the wagon, and pitched it into his doorway. Then,with the basket on his arm, he and Mr. Belcher made theirway across the street to the dormitories and cells occupied bythe paupers of both sexes and all ages and conditions. Eventhe hard-hearted proprietor saw that which wounded hisblunted sensibilities; but he looked on with a bland face, andwitnessed the greedy consumption of the stale dainties of hisown table.

It was by accident that he was led out by a side passage,and there he caught glimpses of the cells to which Miss Butterworthhad alluded, and inhaled an atmosphere whichsickened him to paleness, and brought to his lips the exclamation:"For God's sake let's get out of this."

"Ay! ay!" came tremblingly from behind the bars of acell, "let's get out of this."

Mr. Belcher pushed toward the light, but not so quicklythat a pair of eyes, glaring from the straw, failed to recognizehim.

"Robert Belcher! Oh, for God's sake! Robert Belcher!"

It was a call of wild distress—a whine, a howl, an objurgation,all combined. It was repeated as long as he could hearit. It sounded in his ears as he descended the hill. It cameagain and again to him as he was seated at his comfortablebreakfast. It rang in the chambers of his consciousness forhours, and only a firm and despotic will expelled it at last.He knew the voice, and he never wished to hear it again.

What he had seen that morning, and what he had done,where he had been, and why he had gone, were secrets towhich his wife and children were not admitted. The relationsbetween himself and his wife were not new in the world.He wished to retain her respect, so he never revealed to herhis iniquities. She wished as far as possible to respect him,so she never made uncomfortable inquiries. He was bountifulto her. He had been bountiful to many others. Sheclothed and informed all his acts of beneficence with themotives which became them. If she was ever shocked by hisvulgarity, he never knew it by any word of hers, in disapproval.If she had suspicions, she did not betray them.Her children were trained to respect their father, and amongthem she found the satisfactions of her life. He had longceased to be her companion. As an associate, friend, lover,she had given him up, and, burying in her heart all her griefsand all her loneliness, had determined to make the best ofher life, and to bring her children to believe that their fatherwas a man of honor, of whom they had no reason to beashamed. If she was proud, hers was an amiable pride, andto Mr. Belcher's credit let it be said that he respected her asmuch as he wished her to honor him.

For an hour after breakfast, Mr. Belcher was occupied inhis library, with his agent, in the transaction of his dailybusiness. Then, just as the church bell rang its preliminarysummons for the assembling of the town-meeting, Phippscame to the door again with the rakish grays and the rakishwagon, and Mr. Belcher drove down the steep hill into thevillage, exchanging pleasant words with the farmers whom heencountered on the way, and stopping at various shops,to speak with those upon whom he depended for votingthrough whatever public schemes he found it desirable tofavor.

The old town-hall was thronged for half-an-hour before thetime designated in the warrant. Finally, the bell ceased toring, at the exact moment when Mr. Belcher drove to thedoor and ascended the steps. There was a buzz all over thehouse when he entered, and he was surrounded at once.

"Have it just as you want it," shaking his head ostentatiouslyand motioning them away, "don't mind anythingabout me. I'm a passenger," he said aloud, and with alaugh, as the meeting was called to order and the warrantread, and a nomination for moderator demanded.

"Peter Vernol," shouted a dozen voices in unison.

Peter Vernol had represented the district in the Legislature,and was supposed to be familiar with parliamentaryusage. He was one of Mr. Belcher's men, of course—astruly owned and controlled by him as Phipps himself.

Peter Vernol became moderator by acclamation. He wasa young man, and, ascending the platform very red in theface, and looking out upon the assembled voters of Sevenoaks,he asked with a trembling voice:

"What is the further pleasure of the meeting?"

"I move you," said Mr. Belcher, rising, and throwing openhis overcoat, "that the Rev. Solomon Snow, whom I am exceedinglyglad to see present, open our deliberations withprayer."

The moderator, forgetting apparently that the motion hadnot been put, thereupon invited the reverend gentleman tothe platform, from which, when his service had been completed,he with dignity retired—but with the painful consciousnessthat in some way Mr. Belcher had become aware ofthe philanthropic task he had undertaken. He knew he wasbeaten, at the very threshold of his enterprise—that his conversationsof the morning among his neighbors had beenreported, and that Paul Benedict and his fellow-suffererswould be none the better for him.

The business connected with the various articles of the warrantwas transacted without notable discussion or difference.Mr. Belcher's ticket for town officers, which he took pains toshow to those around him, was unanimously adopted. Whenit came to the question of schools, Mr. Belcher indulged in afew flights of oratory. He thought it impossible for a townlike Sevenoaks to spend too much money for schools. Hefelt himself indebted to the public school for all that he was,and all that he had won. The glory of America, in his view—itspre-eminence above all the exhausted and decayed civilizationsof the Old World—was to be found in popular education.It was the distinguishing feature of our new and aboundingnational life. Drop it, falter, recede, and the darkness thatnow hangs over England, and the thick darkness that envelopsthe degenerating hordes of the Continent, would settle downupon fair America, and blot her out forever from the list ofthe earth's teeming nations. He would pay good wages toteachers. He would improve school-houses, and he woulddo it as a matter of economy. It was, in his view, the onlysafeguard against the encroachments of a destructive pauperism."We are soon," said Mr. Belcher, "to consider whetherwe will take any steps for the improvement of the conditionof the poor, now supported at the public charge. Here is ourfirst step. Let us endow our children with such a degree ofintelligence that pauperism shall be impossible. In this thingI go hand in hand with the clergy. On many points I do notagree with them, but on this matter of popular education, Iwill do them the honor to say that they have uniformly beenin advance of the rest of us. I join hands with them hereto-day, and, as any advance in our rate of taxation for schoolswill bear more heavily upon me than upon any other citizen—Ido not say it boastingly, gentlemen—I pledge myself tosupport and stand by it."

Mr. Belcher's speech, delivered with majestic swellings ofhis broad chest, the ostentatious removal of his overcoat, andbrilliant passages of oratorical action, but most imperfectlysummarized in this report, was received with cheers. Mr.Snow himself feebly joined in the approval, although he knewit was intended to disarm him. His strength, his resolution,his courage, ebbed away with sickening rapidity; and he wasnot reassured by a glance toward the door, where he saw,sitting quite alone, Miss Butterworth herself, who had comein for the purpose partly of strengthening him, and partly ofinforming herself concerning the progress of a reform whichhad taken such strong hold upon her sympathies.

At length the article in the warrant which most interestedthat good lady was taken up, and Mr. Snow rose to speakupon it. He spoke of the reports he had heard concerningthe bad treatment that the paupers, and especially those whowere hopelessly insane, had received in the alms-house, enlargedupon the duties of humanity and Christianity, andexpressed the conviction that the enlightened people of Sevenoaksshould spend more money for the comfort of theunfortunate whom Heaven had thrown upon their charge,and particularly that they should institute a more searchingand competent inspection of their pauper establishment.

As he took his seat, all eyes were turned upon Mr. Belcher,and that gentleman rose for a second exhibition of his characteristiceloquence.

"I do not forget," said Mr. Belcher, "that we have presenthere to-day an old and well-tried public servant. I seebefore me Mr. Thomas Buffum, who, for years, has had incharge the poor, not only of this town, but of this county. Ido not forget that his task has been one of great delicacy,with the problem constantly before him how to maintain incomfort our most unfortunate class of population, and at thesame time to reduce to its minimum the burden of our taxpayers.That he has solved this problem and served the publicwell, I most firmly believe. He has been for many years mytrusted personal friend, and I cannot sit here and hear hisadministration questioned, and his integrity and humanitydoubted, without entering my protest. [Cheers, during whichMr. Buffum grew very red in the face.] He has had a taskto perform before which the bravest of us would shrink. We,who sit in our peaceful homes, know little of the hardships towhich this faithful public servant has been subjected. Pauperismis ungrateful. Pauperism is naturally filthy. Pauperismis noisy. It consists of humanity in its most repulsive forms,and if we have among us a man who can—who can—stand it,let us stand by him." [Tremendous cheers.]

Mr. Belcher paused until the wave of applause had subsided,and then went on:

"An open-hand, free competition: this has been my policy,in a business of whose prosperity you are the best judges. Isay an open-hand and free competition in everything. Howshall we dispose of our poor? Shall they be disposed of byprivate arrangement—sold out to favorites, of whose responsibilitywe know nothing? [Cries of no, no, no!] If anybodywho is responsible—and now he is attacked, mark you,I propose to stand behind and be responsible for Mr. Buffummyself—can do the work cheaper and better than Mr. Buffum,let him enter at once upon the task. But let the competitionbe free, nothing covered up. Let us have clean hands in thisbusiness, if nowhere else. If we cannot have impartial dealing,where the interests of humanity are concerned, we areunworthy of the trust we have assumed. I give the Rev. Mr.Snow credit for motives that are unimpeachable—unimpeachable,sir. I do not think him capable of intentional wrong,and I wish to ask him, here and now, whether, within arecent period, he has visited the pauper establishment ofSevenoaks."

Mr. Snow rose and acknowledged that it was a long timesince he had entered Mr. Buffum's establishment.

"I thought so. He has listened to the voice of rumor.Very well. I have to say that I have been there recently, andhave walked through the establishment. I should do injusticeto myself, and fail to hint to the reverend gentleman, and allthose who sympathize with him, what I regard as one of theirneglected duties, if I should omit to mention that I did notgo empty-handed. [Loud cheers.] It is easy for those whoneglect their own duties to suspect that others do the same.I know our paupers are not supported in luxury. We cannotafford to support them in luxury; but I wash my hands of allresponsibility for inhumanity and inattention to their reasonablewants. The reverend gentleman himself knows, I think,whether any man ever came to me for assistance on behalf ofany humane or religious object, and went away without aid,I cannot consent to be placed in a position that reflects uponmy benevolence, and, least of all, by the reverend gentlemanwho has reflected upon that administration of public charitywhich has had, and still retains, my approval. I thereforemove that the usual sum be appropriated for the support ofthe poor, and that at the close of this meeting the care of thepoor for the ensuing year be disposed of at public auction tothe lowest bidder."

Mr. Snow was silent, for he knew that he was impotent.

Then there jumped up a little man with tumbled hair,weazened face, and the general look of a broken-down gentleman,who was recognized by the moderator as "Dr. Radcliffe."

"Mr. Moderator," said he, in a screaming voice, "as Iam the medical attendant and inspector of our pauper establishment,it becomes proper for me, in seconding the motionof Mr. Belcher, as I heartily do, to say a few words, and submitmy report for the past year."

Dr. Radcliffe was armed with a large document, and theassembled voters of Sevenoaks were getting tired.

"I move," said Mr. Belcher, "that, as the hour is late,the reading of the report be dispensed with." The motionwas seconded, and carried nem. con.

The Doctor was wounded in a sensitive spot, and was determinednot to be put down.

"I may at least say," he went on, "that I have made somediscoveries during the past year that ought to be in the possessionof the scientific world. It takes less food to supporta pauper than it does any other man, and I believe the reasonis that he hasn't any mind. If I take two potatoes, one goesto the elaboration of mental processes, the other to the supportof the physical economy. The pauper has only a physicaleconomy, and he needs but one potato. Anemia is thenormal condition of the pauper. He breathes comfortablyan atmosphere which would give a healthy man asphyxia.Hearty food produces inflammatory diseases and a generalcondition of hypertrophy. The character of the diseases atthe poor-house, during the past year, has been typhoid. Ihave suggested to Mr. Buffum better ventilation, a changefrom farinaceous to nitrogenous food as conducive to a bettercondition of the mucous surfaces and a more perfect oxydationof the vital fluids. Mr. Buffum—"

"Oh, git out!" shouted a voice at the rear.

"Question! question!" called a dozen voices.

The moderator caught a wink and a nod from Mr. Belcher,and put the question, amid the protests of Dr. Radcliffe; andit was triumphantly carried.

And now, as the town-meeting drops out of this story, letus leave it, and leave Mr. Thomas Buffum at its close to underbidall contestants for the privilege of feeding the paupers ofSevenoaks for another year.

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH JIM FENTON IS INTRODUCED TO THE READER ANDINTRODUCES HIMSELF TO MISS BUTTERWORTH.

Miss Butterworth, while painfully witnessing the defeatof her hopes from the last seat in the hall, was conscious ofthe presence at her side of a very singular-looking personage,who evidently did not belong in Sevenoaks. He was a woodsman,who had been attracted to the hall by his desire to witnessthe proceedings. His clothes, originally of strong material,were patched; he held in his hand a fur cap without avisor; and a rifle leaned on the bench at his side. She hadbeen attracted to him by his thoroughly good-natured face,his noble, muscular figure, and certain exclamations thatescaped from his lips during the speeches. Finally, he turnedto her, and with a smile so broad and full that it brought ananswer to her own face, he said: "This 'ere breathin' is worsenor an old swamp. I'm goin', and good-bye to ye!"

Why this remark, personally addressed to her, did notoffend her, coming as it did from a stranger, she did notknow; but it certainly did not seem impudent. There wassomething so simple and strong and manly about him, as hehad sat there by her side, contrasted with the baser and betterdressed men before her, that she took his address as anhonorable courtesy.

When the woodsman went out upon the steps of the town-hall,to get a breath, he found there such an assembly of boysas usually gathers in villages on the smallest public occasion.Squarely before the door stood Mr. Belcher's grays, and inMr. Belcher's wagon sat Mr. Belcher's man, Phipps. Phippswas making the most of his position. He was proud of hishorses, proud of his clothes, proud of the whip he was carelesslysnapping, proud of belonging to Mr. Belcher. Theboys were laughing at his funny remarks, envying him hisproud eminence, and discussing the merits of the horses andthe various points of the attractive establishment.

As the stranger appeared, he looked down upon the boyswith a broad smile, which attracted them at once, and quitediverted them from their flattering attentions to Phipps—afact quickly perceived by the latter, and as quickly revengedin a way peculiar to himself and the man from whom he hadlearned it.

"This is the hippopotamus, gentlemen," said Phipps,"fresh from his native woods. He sleeps underneath thebanyan-tree, and lives on the nuts of the hick-o-ree, and pursueshis prey with his tail extended upward and one eye open,and has been known when excited by hunger to eat smallboys, spitting out their boots with great violence. Keep outof his way, gentlemen! Keep out of his way, and observe hiswickedness at a distance."

Phipps's saucy speech was received with a great roar by theboys, who were surprised to notice that the animal himselfwas not only not disturbed, but very much amused by beingshown up as a curiosity.

"Well, you're a new sort of a monkey, anyway," saidthe woodsman, after the laugh had subsided. "I neverhearn one talk afore."

"You never will again," retorted Phipps, "if you giveme any more of your lip."

The woodsman walked quickly toward Phipps, as if hewere about to pull him from his seat.

Phipps saw the motion, started the horses, and was out ofhis way in an instant.

The boys shouted in derision, but Phipps did not comeback, and the stranger was the hero. They gathered aroundhim, asking questions, all of which he good-naturedly answered.He seemed to be pleased with their society, as if hewere only a big boy himself, and wanted to make the mostof the limited time which his visit to the town affordedhim.

While he was thus standing as the center of an inquisitiveand admiring group, Miss Butterworth came out of the town-hall.Her eyes were full of tears, and her eloquent face expressedvexation and distress. The stranger saw the look andthe tears, and, leaving the boys, he approached her withoutthe slightest awkwardness, and said:

"Has anybody teched ye, mum?"

"Oh, no, sir," Miss Butterworth answered.

"Has anybody spoke ha'sh to ye?"

"Oh, no, sir;" and Miss Butterworth pressed on, consciousthat in that kind inquiry there breathed as genuinerespect and sympathy as ever had reached her ears in thevoice of a man.

"Because," said the man, still walking along at her side,"I'm spilin' to do somethin' for somebody, and I wouldn'tmind thrashin' anybody you'd p'int out."

"No, you can do nothing for me. Nobody can do anythingin this town for anybody until Robert Belcher is dead,"said Miss Butterworth.

"Well, I shouldn't like to kill 'im," responded the man,"unless it was an accident in the woods—a great ways off—fora turkey or a hedgehog—and the gun half-co*cked."

The little tailoress smiled through her tears, though she feltvery uneasy at being observed in company and conversationwith the rough-looking stranger. He evidently divined thethoughts which possessed her, and said, as if only the mentionof his name would make him an acquaintance:

"I'm Jim Fenton. I trap for a livin' up in Number Nine,and have jest brung in my skins."

"My name is Butterworth," she responded mechanically.

"I know'd it," he replied. "I axed the boys."

"Good-bye," he said. "Here's the store, and I mustshoulder my sack and be off. I don't see women much, butI'm fond of 'em, and they're pretty apt to like me."

"Good-bye," said the woman. "I think you're the bestman I've seen to-day;" and then, as if she had said morethan became a modest woman, she added, "and that isn'tsaying very much."

They parted, and Jim Fenton stood perfectly still in thestreet and looked at her, until she disappeared around acorner. "That's what I call a genuine creetur'," he mutteredto himself at last, "a genuine creetur'."

Then Jim Fenton went into the store, where he had soldhis skins and bought his supplies, and, after exchanging a fewjokes with those who had observed his interview with MissButterworth, he shouldered his sack as he called it, and startedfor Number Nine. The sack was a contrivance of his own,with two pouches which depended, one before and onebehind, from his broad shoulders. Taking his rifle in hishand, he bade the group that had gathered around him ahearty good-bye, and started on his way.

The afternoon was not a pleasant one. The air was raw,and, as the sun went toward its setting, the wind came on toblow from the north-west. This was just as he would have it.It gave him breath, and stimulated the vitality that was necessaryto him in the performance of his long task. A trampof forty miles was not play, even to him, and this long distancewas to be accomplished before he could reach the boatthat would bear him and his burden into the woods.

He crossed the Branch at its principal bridge, and took thesame path up the hill that Robert Belcher had traveled in themorning. About half-way up the hill, as he was going onwith the stride of a giant, he saw a little boy at the side ofthe road, who had evidently been weeping. He was thinlyand very shabbily clad, and was shivering with cold. The great,healthy heart within Jim Fenton was touched in an instant.

"Well, bub," said he, tenderly, "how fare ye? How fareye? Eh?"

"I'm pretty well, I thank you, sir," replied the lad.

"I guess not. You're as blue as a whetstone. You haven'tgot as much on you as a picked goose."

"I can't help it, sir," and the boy burst into tears.

"Well, well, I didn't mean to trouble you, boy. Here,take this money, and buy somethin' to make you happy.Don't tell your dad you've got it. It's yourn."

The boy made a gesture of rejection, and said: "I don'twish to take it, sir."

"Now, that's good! Don't wish to take it! Why, what'syour name? You're a new sort o' boy."

"My name is Harry Benedict."

"Harry Benedict? And what's your pa's name?"

"His name is Paul Benedict."

"Where is he now?"

"He is in the poor-house."

"And you, too?"

"Yes, sir," and the lad found expression for his distress inanother flow of tears.

"Well, well, well, well! If that ain't the strangest thing Iever hearn on! Paul Benedict, of Sevenoaks, in Tom Buffum'sBoardin'-house!"

"Yes, sir, and he's very crazy, too."

Jim Fenton set his rifle against a rock at the roadside, slowlylifted off his pack and placed it near the rifle, and then satdown on a stone and called the boy to him, folding him inhis great warm arms to his warm breast.

"Harry, my boy," said Jim, "your pa and me was oldfriends. We have hunted together, fished together, eat together,and slept together many's the day and night. He was the bestshot that ever come into the woods. I've seed him hit a deerat fifty rod many's the time, and he used to bring up the nicesttackle for fishin', every bit of it made with his own hands.He was the curisist creetur' I ever seed in my life, and the best;and I'd do more fur 'im nor fur any livin' live man. Oh, Itell ye, we used to have high old times. It was wuth livin' ayear in the woods jest to have 'im with me for a fortnight. Inever charged 'im a red cent fur nothin', and I've got someof his old tackle now that he give me. Him an' me was likebrothers, and he used to talk about religion, and tell me Iought to shift over, but I never could see 'zactly what I oughtto shift over from, or shift over to; but I let 'im talk, 'causehe liked to. He used to go out behind the trees nights, andI hearn him sayin' somethin'—somethin' very low, as I amtalkin' to ye now. Well, he was prayin'; that's the factabout it, I s'pose; and ye know I felt jest as safe when thatman was round! I don't believe I could a' been drowndedwhen he was in the woods any more'n if I'd a' been a mink.An' Paul Benedict is in the poor-house! I vow I don't'zactly see why the Lord let that man go up the spout; butperhaps it'll all come out right. Where's your ma, boy?"

Harry gave a great, shuddering gasp, and, answering himthat she was dead, gave himself up to another fit of crying.

"Oh, now don't! now don't!" said Jim tenderly, pressingthe distressed lad still closer to his heart. "Don't ye doit; it don't do no good. It jest takes the spunk all out o'ye. Ma's have to die like other folks, or go to the poor-house.You wouldn't like to have yer ma in the poor-house.She's all right. God Almighty's bound to takecare o' her. Now, ye jest stop that sort o' thing. She'sbetter off with him nor she would be with Tom Buffum—anyamount better off. Doesn't Tom Buffum treat your pa well?"

"Oh, no, sir; he doesn't give him enough to eat, and hedoesn't let him have things in his room, because he says he'llhurt himself, or break them all to pieces, and he doesn't givehim good clothes, nor anything to cover himself up with whenit's cold."

"Well, boy," said Jim, his great frame shaking with indignation,"do ye want to know what I think of Tom Buffum?"

"Yes, sir."

"It won't do fur me to tell ye, 'cause I'm rough, but ifthere's anything awful bad—oh, bad as anything can be, inSkeezacks—I should say that Tom Buffum was an oldSkeezacks."

Jim Fenton was feeling his way.

"I should say he was an infernal old Skeezacks. Thatisn't very bad, is it?"

"I don't know sir," replied the boy.

"Well, a d——d rascal; how's that?"

"My father never used such words," replied the boy.

"That's right, and I take it back. I oughtn't to have saidit, but unless a feller has got some sort o' religion he has amighty hard time namin' people in this world. What's that?"

Jim started with the sound in his ear of what seemed to bea cry of distress.

"That's one of the crazy people. They do it all the time.'"

Then Jim thought of the speeches he had heard in thetown-meeting, and recalled the distress of Miss Butterworth,and the significance of all the scenes he had so recentlywitnessed.

"Look 'ere, boy; can ye keep right 'ere," tapping himon his breast, "whatsomever I tell ye? Can you keep yertongue still?—hope you'll die if ye don't?"

There was something in these questions through which theintuitions of the lad saw help, both for his father and himself.Hope strung his little muscles in an instant, his attitudebecame alert, and he replied:

"I'll never say anything if they kill me."

"Well, I'll tell ye what I'm goin' to do. I'm goin' tostay to the poor-house to-night, if they'll keep me, an' Iguess they will; and I'm goin' to see yer pa too, and somehowyou and he must be got out of this place."

The boy threw his arms around Jim's neck, and kissed himpassionately, again and again, without the power, apparently,to give any other expression to his emotions.

"Oh, God! don't, boy! That's a sort o' thing I can'tstand. I ain't used to it."

Jim paused, as if to realize how sweet it was to hold thetrusting child in his arms, and to be thus caressed, and thensaid: "Ye must be mighty keerful, and do just as I bid ye.If I stay to the poor-house to-night, I shall want to see ye inthe mornin', and I shall want to see ye alone. Now yeknow there's a big stump by the side of the road, half-way upto the old school-house."

Harry gave his assent.

"Well, I want ye to be thar, ahead o' me, and then I'lltell ye jest what I'm a goin' to do, and jest what I want tohave ye do."

"Yes, sir."

"Now mind, ye mustn't know me when I'm about thehouse, and mustn't tell anybody you've seed me, and I mustn'tknow you. Now ye leave all the rest to Jim Fenton, yerpa's old friend. Don't ye begin to feel a little better now?"

"Yes, sir."

"You can kiss me again, if ye want to. I didn't meanto choke ye off. That was all in fun, ye know."

Harry kissed him, and then Jim said: "Now make tracksfor yer old boardin'-house. I'll be along bimeby."

The boy started upon a brisk run, and Jim still sat upon thestone watching him until he disappeared somewhere amongthe angles of the tumble-down buildings that constituted theestablishment.

"Well, Jim Fenton," he said to himself, "ye've beenspilin' fur somethin' to do fur somebody. I guess ye've gotit, and not a very small job neither."

Then he shouldered his pack, took up his rifle, looked upat the cloudy and blustering sky, and pushed up the hill, stilltalking to himself, and saying: "A little boy of about hishaighth and bigness ain't a bad thing to take."

CHAPTER IV.

IN WHICH JIM FENTON APPLIES FOR LODGINGS AT TOM BUFFUM'SBOARDING-HOUSE, AND FINDS HIS OLD FRIEND.

As Jim walked up to the door of the building occupiedby Tom Buffum's family, he met the head of the familycoming out; and as, hitherto, that personage has escapeddescription, it will be well for the reader to make his acquaintance.The first suggestion conveyed by his rotundfigure was, that however scantily he furnished his boarders,he never stinted himself in the matter of food. He hadthe sluggish, clumsy look of a heavy eater. His face waslarge, his almost colorless eyes were small, and, if onemight judge by the general expression of his features, hisfavorite viand was pork. Indeed, if the swine into which thedevils once entered had left any descendants, it would belegitimate to suppose that the breed still thrived in the mostrespectable sty connected with his establishment. He wasalways hoarse, and spoke either in a whisper or a wheeze.For this, or for some other reason not apparent, he was asilent man, rarely speaking except when addressed by a question,and never making conversation with anybody. Fromthe time he first started independently in the world, he hadbeen in some public office. Men with dirty work to do hadfound him wonderfully serviceable, and, by ways which itwould be hard to define to the ordinary mind, he had somanaged that every town and county office, in which therewas any money, had been by turns in his hands.

"Well, Mr. Buffum, how fare ye?" said Jim, walkingheartily up to him, and shaking his hand, his face glowingwith good-nature.

Mr. Buffum's attempt to respond to this address ended in awheeze and a cough.

"Have ye got room for another boarder to-night? Faith,I never expected to come to the poor-house, but here I am.I'll take entertainment for man or beast. Which is the best,and which do you charge the most for? Somebody's got tokeep me to-night, and ye're the man to bid low."

Buffum made no reply, but stooped down, took a sliver froma log, and began to pick his teeth. Jim watched him withquiet amusem*nt. The more Mr. Buffum thought, the morefurious he grew with his toothpick.

"Pretty tough old beef, wasn't it?" said Jim, with a heartylaugh.

"You go in and see the women," said Mr. Buffum, in awheezy whisper.

This, to Jim, was equivalent to an honorable reception.He had no doubt of his ability to make his way with "thewomen" who, he was fully aware, had been watching him allthe time from the window.

To the women of Tom Buffum's household, a visitor was agodsend. Socially, they had lived all their lives in a state ofstarvation. They knew all about Jim Fenton, and had exchangedmany a saucy word with him, as he had passed theirhouse on his journeys to and from Sevenoaks.

"If you can take up with what we've got," said Mrs. Buffumsuggestively.

"In course," responded Jim, "an' I can take up withwhat ye haven't got."

"Our accommodations is very crowded," said Mrs. Buffum.

"So is mine to home," responded Jim. "I allers sleephangin' on a gambrel, between two slabs."

While Mr. Tom Buffum's "women" were laughing, Jimlifted off his pack, placed his rifle in the corner of the room,and sat down in front of the fire, running on with his easygoingtongue through preposterous stories, and sundry flatteringallusions to the beauty and attractiveness of the womento whose hospitalities he had committed himself.

After supper, to which he did full justice, the familydrew around the evening fire, and while Mr. Buffum went, orseemed to go, to sleep, in his chair, his guest did his best toentertain the minor members of the group.

"This hollerin' ye have here reminds me," said Jim, "ofNumber Nine. Ther's some pretty tall hollerin' thar nights.Do ye see how my ha'r sticks up? I can't keep it down.It riz one night jest about where you see it now, and it'smostly been thar ever sence. Combin' don't do no goodTaller don't do no good. Nothin' don't do no good. Is'pose if Mr. Buffum, a-snorin' jest as hard as he does now,should set on it for a fortnight, it would spring right up likea staddle, with a b'ar ketched at the eend of it, jest as quick ashe let up on me." At this there was a slight rumble in Mr.Buffum's throat.

"Why, what made it rise so?" inquired the most interestedand eldest Miss Buffum.

"Now, ain't your purty eyes wide open?" said Jim.

"You're jest fooling; you know you are," responded MissBuffum, blushing.

"Do ye see the ha'r on the back of my hand?" said Jim,patting one of those ample instruments with the other. "Thatstands up jest as it does on my head. I'm a regular hedgehog.It all happened then."

"Now, Jim Fenton, you shall go along and tell your story,and not keep us on tenter-hooks all night," said Miss Buffumsharply.

"I don't want to scare the dear little heart out o' ye," saidJim, with a killing look of his eyes, "but if ye will hear it,I s'pose I must tell ye. Ye see I'm alone purty much all thetime up thar. I don't have no such times as I'm havin' hereto-night, with purty gals 'round me. Well, one night I hearna loon, or thought I hearn one. It sounded 'way off on thelake, and bimeby it come nigher, and then I thought it was apainter, but it didn't sound 'zactly like a painter. My dogTurk he don't mind such things, but he knowed it wa'r'n't aloon and wa'r'n't a painter. So he got up and went to thedoor, and then the yell come agin, and he set up the mostun'arthly howl I ever hearn. I flung one o' my boots at 'im,but he didn't mind any thing more about it than if it hadbeen a feather. Well, ye see, I couldn't sleep, and the skeeterswas purty busy, and I thought I'd git up. So I went to mycabin door and flung it open. The moon was shinin', andthe woods was still, but Turk, he rushed out, and growledand barked like mad. Bimeby he got tired, and come backlookin' kind o' skeered, and says I: 'Ye're a purty dog,ain't ye?' Jest then I hearn the thing nigher, and I begunto hear the brush crack. I knowed I'd got to meet some newsort of a creetur, and I jest stepped back and took my rifle.When I stood in the door agin, I seen somethin' comin'. Itwas a walkin' on two legs like a man, and it was a man, orsomethin' that looked like one. He come toward the cabin,and stopped about three rod off. He had long white hairthat looked jest like silk under the moon, and his robes waswhite, and he had somethin' in his hand that shined like silver.I jest drew up my rifle, and says I: 'Whosomever yoube, stop, or I'll plug ye.' What do ye s'pose he did? Hejest took that shinin' thing and swung it round and round hishead, and I begun to feel the ha'r start, and up it come allover me. Then he put suthin' to his mouth, and then Iknowed it was a trumpet, and he jest blowed till all the woodsrung, and rung, and rung agin, and I hearn it comin' backfrom the mountain, louder nor it was itself. And then says Ito myself: 'There's another one, and Jim Fenton's a goner;'but I didn't let on that I was skeered, and says I to him:'That's a good deal of a toot; who be ye callin' to dinner?'And says he: 'It's the last day! Come to jedgment! I'mthe Angel Gabr'el!' 'Well,' says I, 'if ye're the AngelGabr'el, cold lead won't hurt ye, so mind yer eyes!' Atthat I drew a bead on 'im, and if ye'll b'lieve it, I knockeda tin horn out of his hands and picked it up the next mornin',and he went off into the woods like a streak o' lightnin'.But my ha'r hain't never come down."

Jim stroked the refractory locks toward his forehead withhis huge hand, and they rose behind it like a wheat-field behinda summer wind. As he finished the manipulation, Mr.Buffum gave symptoms of life. Like a volcano under premonitorysigns of an eruption, a wheezy chuckle seemed tobegin somewhere in the region of his boots, and rise, growingmore and more audible, until it burst into a full demonstration,that was half laugh and half cough.

"Why, what are you laughing at, father?" exclaimed MissBuffum.

The truth was that Mr. Buffum had not slept at all. Thesimulation of sleep had been indulged in simply to escape thenecessity of talking.

"It was old Tilden," said Mr. Buffum, and then went offinto another fit of coughing and laughing that nearly strangledhim.

"I wonder if it was!" seemed to come simultaneously fromthe lips of the mother and her daughters.

"Did you ever see him again?" inquired Mr. Buffum.

"I seen 'im oncet, in the spring, I s'pose," said Jim,"what there was left of 'im. There wasn't much left but anold shirt and some bones, an' I guess he wa'n't no greatshakes of an angel. I buried 'im where I found 'im, and saidnothin' to nobody."

"That's right," wheezed Mr. Buffum. "It's just aswell."

"The truth is," said Mrs. Buffum, "that folks made agreat fuss about his gettin' away from here and never bein'found. I thought 'twas a good riddance myself, but peopleseem to think that these crazy critturs are just as much consequenceas any body, when they don't know a thing. He wasalways arter our dinner horn, and blowin', and thinkin' hewas the Angel Gabriel. Well, it's a comfort to know he'sburied, and isn't no more expense."

"I sh'd like to see some of these crazy people," said Jim."They must be a jolly set. My ha'r can't stand any straighternor it does now, and when you feed the animals in the mornin',I'd kind o' like to go round with ye."

The women insisted that he ought not to do it. Only thosewho understood them, and were used to them, ought to seethem.

"You see, we can't give 'em much furnitur'," said Mrs.Buffum. "They break it, and they tear their beds to pieces,and all we can do is to jest keep them alive. As for keepin'their bodies and souls together, I don't s'pose they've gotany souls. They are nothin' but animils, as you say, and Idon't see why any body should treat an animil like a humanbein.' They hav'n't no sense of what you do for 'em."

"Oh, ye needn't be afraid o' my blowin'. I never blowedabout old Tilden, as you call 'im, an' I never expect to,"said Jim.

"That's right," wheezed Mr. Buffum. "It's just as well."

"Well, I s'pose the Doctor'll be up in the mornin'," saidMrs. Buffum, "and we shall clean up a little, and put in newstraw, and p'r'aps you can go round with him?"

Mr. Buffum nodded his assent, and after an evening spentin story-telling and chaffing, Jim went to bed upon the shakedownin an upper room to which he was conducted.

Long before he was on his feet in the morning, the paupersof the establishment had been fed, and things had been putin order for the medical inspector. Soon after breakfast, theDoctor's crazy little gig was seen ascending the hill, and Mr.Buffum and Jim were at the door when he drove up. Buffumtook the Doctor aside, and told him of Jim's desire to makethe rounds with him. Nothing could have delighted the littleman more than a proposition of this kind, because it gavehim an opportunity to talk. Jim had measured his man whenhe heard him speak the previous day, and as they crossed theroad together, he said: "Doctor, they didn't treat ye verywell down there yesterday. I said to myself; 'Jim Fenton,what would ye done if ye had knowed as much as thatdoctor, an' had worked as hard as he had, and then be'n jestas good as stomped on by a set o' fellows that didn't knowa hole in the ground when they seen it?' and, says I, answerin'myself, 'ye'd 'a' made the fur fly, and spilt blood.'"

"Ah," responded the Doctor, "Violence resteth in thebosom of fools."

"Well, it wouldn't 'a' rested in my bosom long. I'd 'a'made a young 'arthquake there in two minutes."

The Doctor smiled, and said with a sigh:

"The vulgar mind does not comprehend science."

"Now, jest tell me what science is," said Jim. "I hearna great deal about science, but I live up in the woods, and Ican't read very much, and ye see I ain't edicated, and Imade up my mind if I ever found a man as knowed whatscience was, I'd ask him."

"Science, sir, is the sum of organized and systematizedknowledge," replied the Doctor.

"Now, that seems reasomble," said Jim, "but what is itlike? What do they do with it? Can a feller get a livin'by it?"

"Not in Sevenoaks," replied the Doctor, with a bittersmile.

"Then, what's the use of it?"

"Pardon me, Mr. Fenton," replied the Doctor. "You'llexcuse me, when I veil you that you have not arrived at thatmental altitude—that intellectual plane—"

"No," said Jim, "I live on a sort of a medder."

The case being hopeless, the Doctor went on and openedthe door into what he was pleased to call "the insane ward."As Jim put his head into the door, he uttered a "phew!"and then said:

"This is worser nor the town meetin'."

The moment Jim's eyes beheld the misery that groaned outit* days and nights within the stingy cells, his great heartmelted with pity. For the first moments, his disposition tojest passed away, and all his soul rose up in indignation. Ifprofane words came to his lips, they came from genuine commiseration,and a sense of the outrage that had been committedupon those who had been stamped with the image ofthe Almighty.

"This is a case of Shakspearean madness," said Dr. Radcliffe,pausing before the barred and grated cell that held ahalf-nude woman. It was a little box of a place, with a rudebedstead in one corner, filthy beyond the power of water tocleanse. The occupant sat on a little bench in anothercorner, with her eyes rolled up to Jim's in a tragic expression,which would make the fortune of an actress. He felt of hishair, impulsively.

"How are ye now? How do ye feel?" inquired Jim,tenderly.

She gave him no answer, but glared at him as if she wouldsearch the very depths of his heart.

"If ye'll look t'other way, ye'll obleege me," said Jim.

But the woman gazed on, speechless, as if all the soul thathad left her brain had taken up its residence in her large,black eyes.

"Is she tryin' to look me out o' countenance, Doctor?"Inquired Jim, "'cause, if she is, I'll stand here and let 'er tryit on; but if she ain't I'll take the next one."

"Oh, she doesn't know what she's about, but it's a verycurious form of insanity, and has almost a romantic interestattached to it from the fact that it did not escape the noticeof the great bard."

"I notice, myself," said Jim, "that she's grated andbarred."

The Doctor looked at his visitor inquisitively, but thewoodman's face was as innocent as that of a child. Thenthey passed on to the next cell, and there they found anotherWoman sitting quietly in the corner, among the straw.

"How fare ye, this mornin'?" inquired Jim, with a voicefull of kindness.

"I'm just on the verge of eternity," replied the woman.

"Don't ye be so sure o' that, now," responded Jim."Ye're good for ten year yit."

"No," said the woman, "I shall die in a minute."

"Does she mean that?" inquired Jim, turning to the Doctor.

"Yes, and she has been just on the verge of eternity forfifteen years," replied the Doctor, coolly. "That's ratheran interesting case, too. I've given it a good deal of study.It's hopeless, of course, but it's a marked case, and full ofsuggestion to a scientific man."

"Isn't it a pity," responded Jim, "that she isn't a scientificman herself? It might amuse her, you know."

The Doctor laughed, and led him on to the next cell, andhere he found the most wretched creature he had ever seen.He greeted her as he had greeted the others, and she looked upto him with surprise, raised herself from the straw, and said:

"You speak like a Christian."

The tears came into Jim's eyes, for he saw in that littlesentence, the cruelty of the treatment she had received.

"Well, I ain't no Christian, as I knows on," he responded,"an' I don't think they're very plenty in these parts; butI'm right sorry for ye. You look as if you might be a goodsort of a woman."

"I should have been if it hadn't been for the pigeons,"said the woman. "They flew over a whole day, in flocks,and flocks, and cursed the world. All the people have gotthe plague, and they don't know it. My children all died ofit, and went to hell. Everybody is going to hell, and nothingcan save them. Old Buffum'll go first. Robert Belcher'll gonext. Dr. Radcliffe will go next."

"Look here, old woman, ye jest leave me out of that calkerlation,"said Jim.

"Will you have the kindness to kill me, sir?" said thewoman.

"I really can't, this mornin'," he replied, "for I've got agood ways to tramp to-day; but if I ever want to kill anybodyI'll come round, p'r'aps, and 'commodate ye."

"Thank you," she responded heartily.

The Doctor turned to Jim, and said:

"Do you see that hole in the wall, beyond her head?Well, that hole was made by Mr. Buffum. She had beggedhim to kill her so often that he thought he would put her tothe test, and he agreed he would do so. So he set her up bythat wall, and took a heavy stick from the wood-pile, raised itas high as the room would permit, and then brought it downwith great violence, burying the end of the bludgeon in theplastering. I suppose he came within three inches of herhead, and she never winked. It was a very interesting experiment,as it illustrated the genuineness of her desire for deathOtherwise the case is much like many others."

"Very interestin'," responded Jim, "very! Didn't younever think of makin' her so easy and comfortable that shewouldn't want any body to kill her? I sh'd think that wouldbe an interestin' experiment."

Now the Doctor had one resort, which, among the peopleof Sevenoaks, was infallible, whenever he wished to checkargumentation on any subject relating to his profession. Anyman who undertook to argue a medical question with him, ormake a suggestion relating to medical treatment, he was inthe habit of flooring at once, by wisely and almost pityinglyshaking his head, and saying: "It's very evident to me, sir,that you've not received a medical education." So, when Jimsuggested, in his peculiar way, that the woman ought to betreated better, the Doctor saw the point, and made his usualresponse.

"Mr. Fenton," said he, "excuse me, sir, but it's very evidentthat you've not had a medical education."

"There's where you're weak," Jim responded. "I'm areg'lar M.D., three C's, double X, two I's. That's the yearI was born, and that's my perfession. I studied with an Injun,and I know more 'arbs, and roots, and drawin' leaves than anydoctor in a hundred mile; and if I can be of any use to ye,Doctor, there's my hand."

And Jim seized the Doctor's hand, and gave it a pressurewhich raised the little man off the floor.

The Doctor looked at him with eyes equally charged withamusem*nt and amazement. He never had been met in thatway before, and was not inclined to leave the field without insome way convincing Jim of his own superiority.

"Mr. Fenton," said he, "did you ever see a medulla oblongata?"

"Well, I seen a good many garters," replied the woodsman,'in the stores, an' I guess they was mostly oblong."

"Did you ever see a solar plexus?" inquired the Doctor,severely.

"Dozens of 'em. I allers pick a few in the fall, but I don'tmake much use of 'em."

"Perhaps you've seen a pineal gland," suggested the disgustedDoctor.

"I make 'em," responded Jim. "I whittle 'em out evenin's,ye know."

"If you were in one of these cells," said the Doctor, "Ishould think you were as mad as a March hare."

At this moment the Doctor's attention was called to a fewharmless patients who thronged toward him as soon as theylearned that he was in the building, begging for medicine;for if there is anything that a pauper takes supreme delight init is drugs. Passing along with them to a little lobby, wherehe could inspect them more conveniently, he left Jim behind,as that personage did not prove to be so interesting and impressibleas he had hoped. Jim watched him as he movedaway, with a quiet chuckle, and then turned to pursue his investigations.The next cell he encountered held the man hewas looking for. Sitting in the straw, talking to himself orsome imaginary companion, he saw his old friend. It tookhim a full minute to realize that the gentle sportsman, thetrue Christian, the delicate man, the delightful companion,was there before him, a wreck—cast out from among his fellows,confined in a noisome cell, and hopelessly given over tohis vagrant fancies and the tender mercies of Thomas Buffum.When the memory of what Paul Benedict had been to him, atone period of his life, came to Jim, with the full realizationof his present misery and degradation, the strong man weptlike a child. He drew an old silk handkerchief from hispocket, blew his nose as if it had been a trumpet, and thenslipped up to the cell and said, softly: "Paul Benedict, giveus your benediction."

"Jim!" said the man, looking up quickly.

"Good God! he knows me," said Jim, whimpering. "Yes,Mr. Benedict, I'm the same rough old fellow. How fare ye?"

"I'm miserable," replied the man.

"Well, ye don't look as ef ye felt fust-rate. How did yegit in here?"

"Oh, I was damned when I died. It's all right, I know;but it's terrible."

"Why, ye don't think ye're in hell, do ye?" inquiredJim.

"Don't you see?" inquired the wretch, looking around him.

"Oh, yes; I see! I guess you're right," said Jim, fallingin with his fancy.

"But where did you come from, Jim? I never heard thatyou were dead."

"Yes; I'm jest as dead as you be."

"Well, what did you come here for?"

"Oh, I thought I'd call round," replied Jim carelessly.

"Did you come from Abraham's bosom?" inquired Mr.Benedict eagerly.

"Straight."

"I can't think why you should come to see me, into sucha place as this!" said Benedict, wonderingly.

"Oh, I got kind o' oneasy. Don't have much to do overthere, ye know."

"How did you get across the gulf?"

"I jest shoved over in a birch, an' ye must be perliteenough to return the call," replied Jim, in the most matter-of-coursemanner possible.

Benedict looked down upon his torn and wretched clothing,and then turned his pitiful eyes up to Jim, who saw thethoughts that were passing in the poor man's mind.

"Never mind your clo'es," he said. "I dress jest the samethere as I did in Number Nine, and nobody says a word. Thefact is, they don't mind very much about clo'es there, anyway. I'll come over and git ye, ye know, an' interjuce ye,and ye shall have jest as good a time as Jim Fenton can give ye."

"Shall I take my rifle along?" inquired Benedict.

"Yes, an' plenty of amanition. There ain't no game tospeak on—only a few pa'tridge; but we can shoot at a markall day, ef we want to."

Benedict tottered to his feet and came to the grated door,with his eyes all alight with hope and expectation. "Jim,you always were a good fellow," said he, dropping hisvoice to a whisper, "I'll show you my improvements. Belchermustn't get hold of them. He's after them. I hear himround nights, but he shan't have them. I've got a new tumbler,and—"

"Well, never mind now," replied Jim. "It'll be jest aswell when ye come over to spend the day with me. Now yelook a here! Don't you say nothin' about this to nobody.They'll all want to go, and we can't have 'em. You an' Iwant to git red of the crowd, ye know. We allers did. Sowhen I come arter ye, jest keep mum, and we'll have a highold time."

All the intellect that Benedict could exercise was summonedto comprehend this injunction. He nodded his head; he laidit up in his memory. Hope had touched him, and he hadwon at least a degree of momentary strength and steadinessfrom her gracious finger.

"Now jest lay down an' rest, an' keep your thoughts toyerself till I come agin. Don't tell nobody I've be'n here,and don't ask leave of nobody. I'll settle with the old bossif he makes any sort of a row; and ye know when Jim Fentonsays he'll stand between ye and all harm he means it, an'nothin' else."

"Yes, Jim."

"An' when I come here—most likely in the night—I'llbring a robe to put on ye, and we'll go out still."

"Yes, Jim."

"Sure you understand?"

"Yes, Jim."

"Well, good-bye. Give us your hand. Here's hopin'."

Benedict held himself up by the slats of the door, whileJim went along to rejoin the Doctor. Outside of this doorwas still a solid one, which had been thrown wide open inthe morning for the purpose of admitting the air. In this doorJim discovered a key, which he quietly placed in his pocket,and which he judged, by its size, was fitted to the lock of theinner as well as the outer door. He had already discoveredthat the door by which he entered the building was boltedupon the outside, the keeper doubtless supposing that no onewould wish to enter so foul a place, and trusting thus to keepthe inmates in durance.

"Well, Doctor," said Jim, "this sort o' thing is too manyfor me. I gi'en it up. It's very interestin', I s'pose, but myhead begins to spin, an' it seems to me it's gettin' out of order.Do ye see my har, Doctor?" said he, exposing the heavyshock that crowned his head.

"Yes, I see it," replied the Doctor tartly. He thought hehad shaken off his unpleasant visitor, and his return disturbedhim.

"Well, Doctor, that has all riz sence I come in here."

"Are you sure?" inquired the Doctor, mollified in thepresence of a fact that might prove to be of scientific interest.

"I'd jest combed it when you come this mornin'. D'yeever see anythin' like that? How am I goin' to git it down?"

"Very singular," said the Doctor.

"Yes, an' look here! D'ye see the har on the back o' myhand? That stands up jest the same. Why, Doctor, I feellike a hedgehog! What am I goin' to do?"

"Why, this is really very interesting!" said the Doctor,taking out his note-book. "What is your name?"

"Jim Fenton."

"Age?"

"Thirty or forty—somewhere along there."

"H'm!" exclaimed the Doctor, writing out the whole reply."Occupation?"

"M.D., three C's, double X., two I's."

"H'm! What do you do?"

"Trap, mostly."

"Religious?"

"When I'm skeered."

"Nativity?"

"Which?"

"What is your parentage? Where were you born?"

"Well, my father was an Englishman, my mother was aScotchman, I was born in Ireland, raised in Canady, andhave lived for ten year in Number Nine."

"How does your head feel now?"

"It feels as if every har was a pin. Do you s'pose it'llstrike in?"

The Doctor looked him over as if he were a bullock, andwent on with his statistics: "Weight, about two hundredpounds; height, six feet two; temperament, sanguine-bilious."

"Some time when you are in Sevenoaks," said the Doctor,slipping his pencil into its sheath in his note-book, andputting his book in his pocket, "come and see me."

"And stay all night?" inquired Jim, innocently.

"I'd like to see the case again," said Dr. Radcliffe, nodding."I shall not detain you long. The matter has a certainscientific interest."

"Well, good-bye, Doctor," said Jim, holding down hishair. "I'm off for Number Nine. I'm much obleeged forlettin' me go round with ye; an' I never want to goagin."

Jim went out into the pleasant morning air. The sun haddispelled the light frost of the night, the sky was blue overhead,and the blue-birds, whose first spring notes were assweet and fresh as the blossoms of the arbutus, were carolingamong the maples. Far away to the north he could see themountain at whose foot his cabin stood, red in the sunshine,save where in the deeper gorges the snow still lingered.Sevenoaks lay at the foot of the hill, on the other hand, andhe could see the people passing to and fro along its streets,and, perched upon the hill-side among its trees and gardens,the paradise that wealth had built for Robert Belcher. Thefirst emotion that thrilled him as he emerged from the shadowsof misery and mental alienation was that of gratitude. Hefilled his lungs with the vitalizing air, but expired his longbreath with a sigh.

"What bothers me," said Jim to himself, "is, that theLord lets one set of people that is happy, make it so thunderin'rough for another set of people that is onhappy. An' there'sanother thing that bothers me," he said, continuing hisaudible cogitations. "How do they 'xpect a feller is goin' to gitwell, when they put 'im where a well feller'd git sick? I vowI think that poor old creetur that wanted me to kill her isstraighter in her brains than any body I seen on the lot. Icouldn't live there a week, an' if I was a hopeless case, an'know'd it, I'd hang myself on a nail."

Jim saw his host across the road, and went over to him.Mr. Buffum had had a hard time with his pipes that morning,and was hoarse and very red in the face.

"Jolly lot you've got over there," said Jim. "If I hadsech a family as them, I'd take 'em 'round for a show, andhire Belcher's man to do the talkin'. 'Walk up, gentlemen,walk up, and see how a Christian can treat a feller bein'.Here's a feller that's got sense enough left to think he's inhell. Observe his wickedness, gentlemen, and don't be afraidto use your handkerchers.'"

As Jim talked, he found he was getting angry, and that therefractory hair that covered his poll began to feel hot. Itwould not do to betray his feelings, so he ended his sally witha huge laugh that had about as much music and heartiness init as the caw of a crow. Buffum joined him with his wheezychuckle, but having sense enough to see that Jim had reallybeen pained, he explained that he kept his paupers as well ashe could afford to.

"Oh, I know it," said Jim. "If there's anything wrongabout it, it don't begin with you, Buffum, nor it don't endwith you; but it seems a little rough to a feller like me to seepeople shut up, an' in the dark, when there's good breathin'an' any amount o' sunshine to be had, free gratis for nothin'."

"Well, they don't know the difference," said Buffum.

"Arter a while, I guess they don't," Jim responded;"an', now, what's the damage? for I've got to go 'long."

"I sha'n't charge you anything," whispered Mr. Buffum."You hav'n't said anything about old Tilden, and it's justas well."

Jim winked, nodded, and indicated that he not only understoodMr. Buffum, but would act upon his hint. Thenhe went into the house, bade good-bye to Mr. Buffum's"women," kissed his hand gallantly to the elder Miss Buffum,who declared, in revenge, that she would not help him onwith his pack, although she had intended to do so, andsafter having gathered his burdens, trudged off northward.

From the time he entered the establishment on the previousevening, he had not caught a glimpse of Harry Benedict."He's cute," said Jim, "an' jest the little chap forthis business." As he came near the stump over the browof the hill, behind which the poor-house buildings disappeared,he saw first the brim of an old hat, then one eye,then an eager, laughing face, and then the whole trim littlefigure. The lad was transformed. Jim thought when he sawhim first that he was a pretty boy, but there was somethingabout him now that thrilled the woodsman with admiration.

Jim came up to him with: "Mornin,' Harry!" and themountain that shone so gloriously in the light before him,was not more sunny than Jim's face. He sat down behind thestump without removing his pack, and once more had thelittle fellow in his arms.

"Harry," said Jim, "I've had ye in my arms all night—alittle live thing—an' I've be'n a longin' to git at ye agin.If ye want to, very much, you can put yer arms round myneck, an' hug me like a little bar. Thar, that's right, that'sright. I shall feel it till I see ye agin. Ye've been thinkin''bout what I telled ye last night?"

"Oh yes!" responded the boy, eagerly, "all the time."

"Well, now, do you know the days—Sunday, Monday,Tuesday, and the rest of 'em?"

"Yes, sir, all of them."

"Now, remember, to-day is Wednesday. It will be sevendays to next Wednesday, then Thursday will be eight, Friday,nine, Saturday, ten. You always know when Saturday comes,don't ye?"

"Yes, because it's our school holiday," replied Harry.

"Well, then, in ten days—that is, a week from next Saturday—Ishall come agin. Saturday night, don't ye go tobed. Leastways, ef ye do, ye must git out of the houseafore ten o'clock, and come straight to this old stump. Canye git away, an' nobody seen ye?"

"Yes, I hope so," replied the boy. "They don't mindanything about us. I could stay out all night, and theywouldn't know where I was."

"Well, that's all right, now. Remember—be jest herewith all the clo'es ye've got, at ten o'clock, Saturday night—tendays off—cut 'em in a stick every day—the next Saturdayafter the next one, an' don't git mixed."

The boy assured him that he should make no mistake.

"When I come, I sh'll bring a hoss and wagin. It'll be astiddy hoss, and I sh'll come here to this stump, an' stop tillI seen ye. Then ye'll hold the hoss till I go an' git yerpa, and then we'll wopse 'im up in some blankits, an' makea clean streak for the woods. It'll be late Sunday mornin'afore any body knows he's gone, and there won't be no peopleon the road where we are goin', and ef we're druv intocover, I know where the cover is. Jim Fenton's got friendson the road, and they'll be mum as beetles. Did ye everseen a beetle, Harry?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, they work right along and don't say nothin' tonobody, but they keep workin'; an' you an' me has got to bejest like beetles. Remember! an' now git back to Tom Buffum'sthe best way ye can."

The boy reassured Jim, gave him a kiss, jumped over thefence, and crept along through the bushes toward the house.Jim watched him, wrapped in admiration.

"He's got the ra-al hunter in 'im, jest like his father, butthere's more in 'im nor there ever was in his father. I sh'dkinder liked to 'a' knowed his ma," said Jim, as he took uphis rifle and started in earnest for his home.

As he plodded along his way, he thought over all the experiencesof the morning.

"Any man," said he to himself, "who can string thingstogether in the way Benedict did this mornin' can be cured.Startin' in hell, he was all right, an' everything reasomble.The startin' is the principal p'int, an' if I can git 'im to startfrom Number Nine, I'll fetch 'im round. He never was somuch to home as he was in the woods, an' when I git 'imthar, and git 'im fishin' and huntin', and sleepin' on hemlock,an' eatin' venison and corn-dodgers, it'll come to 'im thathe's been there afore, and he'll look round to find Abram, an'he won't see 'im, and his craze 'll kind o' leak out of 'im aforehe knows it."

Jim's theory was his own, but it would be difficult for Dr.Radcliffe, and all his fellow-devotees of science, to controvertit. It contented him, at least; and full of plans and hopes,stimulated by the thought that he had a job on hand thatwould not only occupy his thoughts, but give exercise to thebenevolent impulses of his heart, he pressed on, the miles disappearingbehind him and shortening before, as if the groundhad been charmed.

He stopped at noon at a settler's lonely house, occupied byMike Conlin, a friendly Irishman. Jim took the man asideand related his plans. Mike entered at once upon the projectwith interest and sympathy, and Jim knew that he could trusthim wholly. It was arranged that Jim should return to Mikethe evening before the proposed descent upon Tom Buffum'sestablishment, and sleep. The following evening Mike's horsewould be placed at Jim's disposal, and he and the Benedictswere to drive through during the night to the point on theriver where he would leave his boat. Mike was to find hishorse there and take him home.

Having accomplished his business, Jim went on, and beforethe twilight had deepened into night, he found himself brisklypaddling up the stream, and at ten o'clock he had drawn hislittle boat up the beach, and embraced Turk, his faithful dog,whom he had left, not only to take care of his cabin, but toprovide for himself. He had already eaten his supper, andfive minutes after he entered his cabin he and his dog weresnoring side by side in a sleep too profound to be disturbed,even by the trumpet of old Tilden.

CHAPTER V.

IN WHICH, JIM ENLARGES HIS ACCOMMODATIONS AND ADOPTS AVIOLENT METHOD OF SECURING BOARDERS.

When Jim Fenton waked from his long and refreshingsleep, after his weary tramp and his row upon the river, thesun was shining brightly, the blue-birds were singing, the partridgeswere drumming, and a red squirrel, which even Turkwould not disturb, was looking for provisions in his cabin, oreyeing him saucily from one of the beams over his head. Helay for a moment, stretching his huge limbs and rubbing hiseyes, thinking over what he had undertaken, and exclaimingat last: "Well, Jim, ye've got a big contrack," he jumpedup, and, striking a fire, cooked his breakfast.

His first work was to make an addition to his accommodationsfor lodgers, and he set about it in thorough earnest.Before noon he had stripped bark enough from the trees inhis vicinity to cover a building as large as his own. Thequestion with him was whether he should put up an additionto his cabin, or hide a new building somewhere behind thetrees in his vicinity. In case of pursuit, his lodgers wouldneed a cover, and this he knew he could not give them in hiscabin; for all who were in the habit of visiting the woodswere familiar with that structure, and would certainly noticeany addition to it, and be curious about it. Twenty rodsaway there was a thicket of hemlock, and by removing twoor three trees in its center, he could successfully hide fromany but the most inquisitive observation the cabin he proposedto erect. His conclusion was quickly arrived at, and beforehe slept that night the trees were down, the frame was up, andthe bark was gathered. The next day sufficed to make thecabin habitable; but he lingered about the work for severaldays, putting up various appointments of convenience, buildinga broad bed of hemlock boughs, so deep and fragrant andinviting, that he wondered he had never undertaken to do asmuch for himself as he had thus gladly done for others, andmaking sure that there was no crevice at which the storms ofspring and summer could force an entrance.

When he could do no more, he looked it over with approvaland said: "Thar! If I'd a done that for Miss Butterworth,I couldn't 'a' done better nor that." Then he wentback to his cabin muttering: "I wonder what she'd 'a' saidif she'd hearn that little speech o' mine!"

What remained for Jim to do was to make provision to feedhis boarders. His trusty rifle stood in the corner of hiscabin, and Jim had but to take it in his hand to excite theexpectations of his dog, and to receive from him, in languageas plain as an eager whine and a wagging tail could express,an offer of assistance. Before night there hung in front ofhis cabin a buck, dragged with difficulty through the woodsfrom the place where he had shot him. A good part of thefollowing day was spent in cutting from the carcass everyounce of flesh, and packing it into pails, to be stowed in aspring whose water, summer and winter alike, was almost atthe freezing point.

"He'll need a good deal o' lookin' arter, and I shan't huntmuch the fust few days," said Jim to himself; "an' as forflour, there's a sack on't, an' as for pertaters, we shan't wantmany on 'em till they come agin, an' as for salt pork, there'sa whole bar'l buried, an' as for the rest, let me alone!"

Jim had put off the removal for ten days, partly to get timefor all his preparations, and partly that the rapidly advancingspring might give him warmer weather for the removal of adelicate patient. He found, however, at the conclusion ofhis labors, that he had two or three spare days on his hands.His mind was too busy and too much excited by his enterpriseto permit him to engage in any regular employment, and heroamed around the woods, or sat whittling in the sun, orsmoked, or thought of Miss Butterworth. It was strange how,when the business upon his hands was suspended, he wentback again and again, to his brief interview with that littlewoman. He thought of her eyes full of tears, of her sympathywith the poor, of her smart and saucy speech when he partedwith her, and he said again and again to himself, what he saidon that occasion: "she's a genuine creetur!" and the lasttime he said it, on the day before his projected expedition, headded: "an' who knows!"

Then a bright idea seized him, and taking out a huge jack-knife,he went through the hemlocks to his new cabin, andthere carved into the slabs of bark that constituted its door,the words "Number Ten." This was the crowning grace ofthat interesting structure. He looked at it close, and thenfrom a distance, and then he went back chuckling to his cabin,to pass his night in dreams of fast driving before the fury ofall Sevenoaks, with Phipps and his gray trotters in advance.

Early on Friday morning preceding his proposed descentupon the poor-house, he gave his orders to Turk.

"I'm goin' away, Turk," said he. "I'm goin' awayagin. Ye was a good dog when I went away afore, and yeberhaved a good deal more like a Christian nor a Turk.Look out for this 'ere cabin, and look out for yerself. I'm agoin' to bring back a sick man, an' a little feller to play withye. Now, ole feller, won't that be jolly? Ye must'n't makeno noise when I come—understand?"

Turk wagged his tail in assent, and Jim departed, believingthat his dog had understood every word as completely as if hewere a man. "Good-bye—here's hopin'," said Jim, wavinghis hand to Turk as he pushed his boat from the bank, anddisappeared down the river. The dog watched him until hepassed from sight, and then went back to the cabin to mopeaway the period of his master's absence.

Jim sat in the stern of his little boat, guiding and propellingit with his paddle. Flocks of ducks rose before him, andswashed down with a fluttering ricochet into the water again,beyond the shot of his rifle. A fish-hawk, perched above hislast year's nest, sat on a dead limb and watched him as heglided by. A blue heron rose among the reeds, looked athim quietly, and then hid behind a tree. A muskrat swamshoreward from his track, with only his nose above water.A deer, feeding among the lily-pads, looked up, snorted, andthen wheeled and plunged into the woods. All these thingshe saw, but they made no more impression upon his memorythan is left upon the canvas by the projected images of a magic-lantern.His mind was occupied by his scheme, which hadnever seemed so serious a matter as when he had started uponits fulfilment. All the possibilities of immediate detectionand efficient pursuit presented themselves to him. He had norespect for Thomas Buffum, yet there was the thought that hewas taking away from him one of the sources of his income.He would not like to have Buffum suppose that he could beguilty of a mean act, or capable of making an ungratefulreturn for hospitality. Still he did not doubt his own motives,or his ability to do good to Paul Benedict and hisboy.

It was nearly ten miles from Jim's cabin, down the windingriver, to the point where he was to hide his boat, and take tothe road which would lead him to the house of Mike Conlin,half way to Sevenoaks. Remembering before he started thatthe blind cart-road over which he must bring his patient wasobstructed at various points by fallen trees, he brought alonghis axe, and found himself obliged to spend the whole day onhis walk, and in clearing the road for the passage of a wagon.It was six o'clock before he reached Mike's house, the outermostpost of the "settlement," which embraced in its definitionthe presence of women and children.

"Be gorry," said Mike, who had long been looking for him,"I was afeared ye'd gi'en it up. The old horse is ready thistwo hours. I've took more nor three quarts o' dander out iv'is hide, and gi'en 'im four quarts o' water and a pail iv oats,an' he'll go."

Mike nodded his head as if he were profoundly sure of it.Jim had used horses in his life, in the old days of lumberingand logging, and was quite at home with them. He had hadmany a drive with Mike, and knew the animal he would berequired to handle—a large, hardy, raw-boned creature, thathad endured much in Mike's hands, and was quite equal tothe present emergency.

As soon as Jim had eaten his supper, and Mike's wife hadput up for him food enough to last him and such accessionsto his party as he expected to secure during the night, andsupplied him abundantly with wrappings, he went to the stable,mounted the low, strong wagon before which Mike hadplaced the horse, and with a hearty "good luck to ye!" fromthe Irishman ringing in his ears, started on the road to Sevenoaks.This portion of the way was easy. The road was wornsomewhat, and moderately well kept; and there was nothingto interfere with the steady jog which measured the distanceat the rate of six miles an hour. For three steady hours hewent on, the horse no more worried than if he had beenstanding in the stable. At nine o'clock the lights in the farmers'cottages by the wayside were extinguished, and thefamilies they held were in bed. Then the road began to growdim, and the sky to become dark. The fickle spring weathergave promise of rain. Jim shuddered at the thought of theexposure to which, in a shower, his delicate friend would besubjected, but thought that if he could but get him to thewagon, and cover him well before its onset, he could shieldhim from harm.

The town clock was striking ten as he drove up to the stumpwhere he was to meet Benedict's boy. He stopped and whistled.A whistle came back in reply, and a dark little objectcrept out from behind the stump, and came up to thewagon.

"Harry, how's your pa?" said Jim.

"He's been very bad to-day," said Harry. "He says he'sgoing to Abraham's bosom on a visit, and he's been walkingaround in his room, and wondering why you don't come forhim."

"Who did he say that to?" inquired Jim.

"To me," replied the boy. "And he told me not to speakto Mr. Buffum about it."

Jim breathed a sigh of relief, and saying "All right!" heleaped from the wagon. Then taking out a heavy blanket, hesaid:

"Now, Harry, you jest stand by the old feller's head tillI git back to ye. He's out o' the road, an' ye needn't stir ifany body comes along."

Harry went up to the old horse, patted his nose and hisbreast, and told him he was good. The creature seemed tounderstand it, and gave him no trouble. Jim then stalked offnoiselessly into the darkness, and the boy waited with atrembling and expectant heart.

Jim reached the poor-house, and stood still in the middleof the road between the two establishments. The lights inboth had been extinguished, and stillness reigned in that portionoccupied by Thomas Buffum and his family. The darknesswas so great that Jim could almost feel it. No lightswere visible except in the village at the foot of the hill, andthese were distant and feeble, through an open window—leftopen that the asthmatic keeper of the establishmentmight be supplied with breath—he heard a stertorous snore.On the other side matters were not so silent. There weregroans, and yells, and gabble from the reeking and sleeplesspatients, who had been penned up for the long and terriblenight. Concluding that every thing was as safe for his operationsas it would become at any time, he slowly felt his way tothe door of the ward which held Paul Benedict, and found itfastened on the outside, as he had anticipated. Lifting thebar from the iron arms that held it, and pushing back thebolt, he silently opened the door. Whether the darkness withinwas greater than that without, or whether the preternaturallyquickened ears of the patients detected the manipulations ofthe fastenings, he did not know, but he was conscious at oncethat the tumult within was hushed. It was apparent that theyhad been visited in the night before, and that the accustomedintruder had come on no gentle errand.. There was not asound as Jim felt his way along from stall to stall, sickenedalmost to retching by the insufferable stench that reached hisnostrils and poisoned every inspiration.

On the morning of his previous visit he had taken all thebearings with reference to an expedition in the darkness, andso, feeling his way along the hall, he had little difficulty infinding the cell in which he had left his old friend.

Jim tried the door, but found it locked. His great fearwas that the lock would be changed, but it had not beenmeddled with, and had either been furnished with a new key,or had been locked with a skeleton. He slipped the stolenkey in, and the bolt slid back. Opening the outer door, hetried the inner, but the key did not fit the lock. Here was adifficulty not entirely unexpected, but seeming to be insurmountable.He quietly went back to the door of entrance,and as quietly closed it, that no sound of violence mightreach and wake the inmates of the house across the road.Then he returned, and whispered in a low voice to the inmate:

"Paul Benedict, give us your benediction."

"Jim," responded the man in a whisper, so light that itcould reach no ear but his own.

"Don't make no noise, not even if I sh'd make consid'able,"said Jim.

Then, grasping the bars with both hands, he gave the doora sudden pull, into which he put all the might of his hugeframe. A thousand pounds would not have measured it, andthe door yielded, not at the bolt, but at the hinges. Screwsdeeply imbedded were pulled out bodily. A second lighterwrench completed the task, and the door was noiselessly setaside, though Jim was trembling in every muscle.

Benedict stood at the door.

"Here's the robe that Abram sent ye," said Jim, throwingover the poor man's shoulders an ample blanket; and puttingone of his large arms around him, he led him shuffling outof the hall, and shut and bolted the door.

He had no sooner done this, than the bedlam inside brokeloose. There were yells, and howls, and curses, but Jim didnot stop for these. Dizzied with his effort, enveloped in thickdarkness, and the wind which preceded the approachingshower blowing a fierce gale, he was obliged to stop a momentto make sure that he was walking in the right direction. Hesaw the lights of the village, and, finding the road, managedto keep on it until he reached the horse, that had becomeuneasy under the premonitory tumult of the storm. LiftingBenedict into the wagon as if he had been a child, he wrappedhim warmly, and put the boy in behind him, to kneel and seethat his father did not fall out. Then he turned the horsearound, and started toward Number Nine. The horse knewthe road, and was furnished with keener vision than the manwho drove him. Jim was aware of this, and letting the reinslie loose upon his back, the animal struck into a long, swingingtrot, in prospect of home and another "pail iv oats."

They had not gone a mile when the gathering tempest camedown upon them. It rained in torrents, the lightning illuminatedthe whole region again and again, and the thundercracked, and boomed, and rolled off among the woods andhills, as if the day of doom had come.

The war of the elements harmonized strangely with theweird fancies of the weak man who sat at Jim's side. Herode in perfect silence for miles. At last the wind wentdown, and the rain settled to a steady fall.

"They were pretty angry about my going," said he, feebly.

"Yes," said Jim, "they behaved purty car'less, but I'mtoo many for 'em."

"Does Father Abraham know I'm coming?" inquiredBenedict. "Does he expect me to-night?"

"Yes," responded Jim, "an' he'd 'a' sent afore, but he'sjest wore out with company. He's a mighty good-nateredman, an' I tell 'im they take the advantage of 'im. But I'veposted 'im 'bout ye, and ye're all right."

"Is it very far to the gulf?" inquired Benedict.

"Yes, it's a good deal of a drive, but when ye git there,ye can jest lay right down in the boat, an' go to sleep. I'llwake ye up, ye know, when we run in."

The miles slid behind into the darkness, and, at last, therain subsiding somewhat, Jim stopped, partly to rest hissmoking horse, and partly to feed his half-famished companions.Benedict ate mechanically the food that Jim fishedout of the basket with a careful hand, and the boy ate as onlyboys can eat. Jim himself was hungry, and nearly finishedwhat they left.

At two o'clock in the morning, they descried Mike Conlin'slight, and in ten minutes the reeking horse and thedrenched inmates of the wagon drove up to the door. Mikewas waiting to receive them.

"Mike, this is my particular friend, Benedict. Take 'imin, an' dry 'im. An' this is 'is boy. Toast 'im both sides—brown."

A large, pleasant fire was blazing on Mike's humble hearth,and with sundry cheerful remarks he placed his guests beforeit, relieving them of their soaked wrappings. Then he wentto the stable, and fed and groomed his horse, and returnedeagerly, to chat with Jim, who sat steaming before the fire,as if he had just been lifted from a hot bath.

"What place is this, Jim?" said Mr. Benedict.

"This is the half-way house," responded that personage,without looking up.

"Why, this is purgatory, isn't it?" inquired Benedict.

"Yes, Mike is a Catholic, an' all his folks; an' he's got tostay here a good while, an' he's jest settled down an' gone tohousekeepin'."

"Is it far to the gulf, now?"

"Twenty mile, and the road is rougher nor a—"

"'Ah, it's no twinty mile," responded Mike, "an' theroad is jist lovely—jist lovely; an' afore ye start I'm goin' togive ye a drap that 'll make ye think so."

They sat a whole hour before the fire, and then Mike mixedthe draught he had promised to the poor patient. It was nota heavy one, but, for the time, it lifted the man so far out ofhis weakness that he could sleep, and the moment his brainfelt the stimulus, he dropped into a slumber so profound thatwhen the time of departure came he could not be awakened.As there was no time to be lost, a bed was procured from aspare chamber, with pillows; the wagon was brought to thedoor, and the man was carried out as unconscious as if hewere in his last slumber, and tenderly put to bed in the wagon.Jim declined the dram that Mike urged upon him, for he hadneed of all his wits, and slowly walked the horse away on theroad to his boat. If Benedict had been wide awake and well,he could not have traveled the road safely faster than a walk;and the sleep, and the bed which it rendered necessary, becamethe happiest accidents of the journey.

For two long hours the horse plodded along the stony and unevenroad, and then the light began to redden in the east, andJim could see the road sufficiently to increase his speed withsafety. It was not until long after the sun had risen that Benedictawoke, and found himself too weak to rise. Jim gavehim more food, answered his anxious inquiries in his ownway, and managed to keep him upon his bed, from which heconstantly tried to rise in response to his wandering impulses.It was nearly noon when they found themselves at the river;and the preparations for embarkation were quickly made. Thehorse was tied and fed, the wagon unfastened, and the wholeestablishment was left for Mike to reclaim, according to thearrangement that Jim had made with him.

The woodsman saw that his patient would not be able tosit, and so felt himself compelled to take along the bed. Arrangingthis with the pillows in the bow of his boat, andplacing Benedict upon it, with his boy at his feet, he shovedoff, and started up the stream.

After running along against the current for a mile, Benedicthaving quietly rested meantime, looked up and saidweakly:

"Jim, is this the gulf?"

"Yes," responded Jim, cheerfully. "This is the gulf, anda purty place 'tis too. I've seed a sight o' worser places northis."

"It's very beautiful," responded Benedict. "We must begetting pretty near."

"It's not very fur now," said Jim.

The poor, wandering mind was trying to realize the heavenlyscenes that it believed were about to burst upon its vision.The quiet, sunlit water, the trees still bare but bourgeoning,the songs of birds, the blue sky across which fleecyclouds were peacefully floating, the breezes that kissed hisfevered cheek, the fragrance of the bordering evergreens,and the electric air that entered his lungs so long accustomedto the poisonous fetor of his cell, were well calculated to fosterhis delusion, and to fill his soul with a peace to which ithad long been a stranger. An exquisite languor stole uponhim, and under the pressure of his long fatigue, his eyelidsfell, and he dropped into a quiet slumber.

When the boy saw that his father was asleep, he crept backto Jim and said:

"Mr. Fenton, I don't think it's right for you to tell papasuch lies."

"Call me Jim. The Doctor called me 'Mr. Fenton,' andit 'most killed me."

"Well, Jim."

"Now, that sounds like it. You jest look a here, my boy.Your pa ain't livin' in this world now, an' what's true to himis a lie to us, an' what's true to us is a lie to him. I jest gointo his world and say what's true whar he lives. Isn't thatright?"

This vein of casuistry was new to the boy, and he was staggered.

"When your pa gits well agin, an' here's hopin,' JimFenton an' he will be together in their brains, ye know, andthen they won't be talkin' like a couple of jay-birds, and Iwon't lie to him no more nor I would to you."

The lad's troubled mind was satisfied, and he crept back tohis father's feet, where he lay until he discovered Turk, whiningand wagging his tail in front of the little hillock that wascrowned by Jim's cabin.

The long, hard, weird journey was at an end. The boatcame up broadside to the shore, and Jim leaped out, andshowered as many caresses upon his dog as he received fromthe faithful brute.

CHAPTER VI.

IN WHICH SEVENOAKS EXPERIENCES A GREAT COMMOTION, ANDCOMES TO THE CONCLUSION THAT BENEDICT HAS METWITH FOUL PLAY.

Thomas Buffum and his family slept late on Sunday morning,and the operating forces of the establishment lingered intheir beds. When, at last, the latter rose and opened thedoors of the dormitories, the escape of Benedict was detected.Mr. Buffum was summoned at once, and hastened across thestreet in his shirt-sleeves, which, by the way, was about as fartoward full dress as he ever went when the weather did notcompel him to wear a coat. Buffum examined the inner doorand saw that it had been forced by a tremendous exercise ofmuscular power. He remembered the loss of the key, andknew that some one had assisted in the operation.

"Where's that boy?" wheezed the keeper.

An attendant rushed to the room where the boy usuallyslept, and came back with the report that the bed had notbeen occupied. Then there was a search outside for tracks,but the rain had obliterated them all. The keeper was indespair. He did not believe that Benedict could have survivedthe storm of the night, and he did not doubt that theboy had undertaken to hide his father somewhere.

"Go out, all of you, all round, and find 'em," hoarselywhispered Mr. Buffum, "and bring 'em back, and say nothingabout it."

The men, including several of the more reliable paupers,divided themselves into little squads, and departed withoutbreakfast, in order to get back before the farmers should driveby on their way to church. The orchards, the woods, thethickets—all possible covers—were searched, and searched, ofcourse, in vain. One by one the parties returned to reportthat they could not find the slightest sign of the fugitives.

Mr. Buffum, who had not a question that the little boy hadplanned and executed the escape, assisted by the paroxysmalstrength of his insane father, felt that he was seriously compromised.The flight and undoubted death of old Tildenwere too fresh in the public mind to permit this new reflectionupon his faithfulness and efficiency as a public guardianto pass without a popular tumult. He had but just assumedthe charge of the establishment for another year, and heknew that Robert Belcher would be seriously offended, formore reasons than the public knew, or than that person wouldbe willing to confess. He had never in his life been in moreserious trouble. He hardly tasted his breakfast, and was toocrusty and cross to be safely addressed by any member of hisfamily. Personally he was not in a condition to range thefields, and when he had received the reports of the partieswho had made the search, he felt that he had a job to undertaketoo serious for his single handling.

In the meantime, Mr. Belcher had risen at his leisure, inblissful unconsciousness of the calamities that had befallen hisprotégé. He owned a pew in every church in Sevenoaks, andboasted that he had no preferences. Once every Sunday hewent to one of these churches; and there was a fine flutterthroughout the building whenever he and his family appeared.He felt that the building had received a special honor fromhis visit; but if he was not guided by his preferences, he certainlywas by his animosities. If for three or four Sabbathsin succession he honored a single church by his presence, itwas usually to pay off a grudge against some minister ormember of another flock. He delighted to excite the suspicionthat he had at last become attached to one clergyman,and that the other churches were in danger of being forsakenby him. It would be painful to paint the popular weaknessand the ministerial jealousy—painful to describe the lack ofChristian dignity—with which these demonstrations ofworldly caprice and arrogance, were watched by pastor andflock.

After the town meeting and the demonstration of the Rev.Solomon Snow, it was not expected that Mr. Belcher wouldvisit the church of the latter for some months. During thefirst Sabbath after this event, there was gloom in that clergyman'scongregation; for Mr. Belcher, in his routine, shouldhave illuminated their public services by his presence, but hedid not appear.

"This comes," bitterly complained one of the deacons,"of a minister's meddling with public affairs."

But during the week following, Mr. Belcher had had asatisfactory interview with Mr. Snow, and on the morning ofthe flight of Benedict he drove in the carriage with his familyup to the door of that gentleman's church, and gratified thecongregation and its reverend head by walking up the broadaisle, and, with his richly dressed flock, taking his old seat.

As he looked around upon the humbler parishioners, heseemed to say, by his patronizing smile: "Mr. Snow and thegreat proprietor are at peace. Make yourselves easy, andenjoy your sunshine while it lasts."

Mr. Buffum never went to church. He had a theory thatit was necessary for him to remain in charge of his establishment,and that he was doing a good thing by sending his servantsand dependents. When, therefore, he entered Mr.Snow's church on the Sunday morning which found Mr. Belchercomfortably seated there, and stumped up the broad aisle inhis shirt-sleeves, the amazement of the minister and the congregationmay be imagined. If he had been one of his owninsane paupers en deshabille he could not have excited moreastonishment or more consternation.

Mr. Snow stopped in the middle of a stanza of the firsthymn, as if the words had dried upon his tongue. Everything seemed to stop. Of this, however, Mr. Buffum was ignorant.He had no sense of the proprieties of the house,and was intent only on reaching Mr. Belcher's pew.

Bending to his patron's ear, he whispered a few words,received a few words in return, and then retired. The proprietor'sface was red with rage and mortification, but hetried to appear unconcerned, and the services went on to theirconclusion. Boys who sat near the windows stretched theirnecks to see whether smoke was issuing from the poor-house;and it is to be feared that the ministrations of the morningwere not particularly edifying to the congregation at large.Even Mr. Snow lost his place in his sermon more frequentlythan usual. When the meeting was dismissed, a hundredheads came together in chattering surmise, and when theywalked into the streets, the report of Benedict's escape withhis little boy met them. They understood, too, why Buffumhad come to Mr. Belcher with his trouble. He was Mr. Belcher'sman, and Mr. Belcher had publicly assumed responsibilityfor him.

No more meetings were held in any of the churches ofSevenoaks that day. The ministers came to perform the servicesof the afternoon, and, finding their pews empty, wenthome. A reward of one hundred dollars, offered by Mr. Belcherto any one who would find Benedict and his boy, "andreturn them in safety to the home provided for them by thetown," was a sufficient apology, without the motives of curiosityand humanity and the excitement of a search in thefields and woods, for a universal relinquishment of Sundayhabits, and the pouring out of the whole population on anexpedition of discovery.

Sevenoaks and its whole vicinity presented a strange aspectthat afternoon. There had slept in the hearts of the peoplea pleasant and sympathetic memory of Mr. Benedict. Theyhad seen him struggling, dreaming, hopeful, yet always disappointed,dropping lower and lower into poverty, and, at last,under accumulated trials, deprived of his reason. They knewbut little of his relations to Mr. Belcher, but they had astrong suspicion that he had been badly treated by the proprietor,and that it had been in the power of the latter to savehim from wreck. So, when it became known that he hadescaped with his boy from the poor-house, and that both hadbeen exposed to the storm of the previous night, they all—menand boys—covered the fields, and filled the woods formiles around, in a search so minute that hardly a rod of coverwas left unexplored.

It was a strange excitement which stirred the women athome, as well as the men afield. Nothing was thought ofbut the fugitives and the pursuit.

Robert Belcher, in the character of principal citizen, wasriding back and forth behind his gray trotters, and stimulatingthe search in every quarter. Poor Miss Butterworth sat ather window, making indiscriminate inquiries of every passenger,or going about from house to house, working off her nervousanxiety in meaningless activities.

As the various squads became tired by their long and unsuccessfulsearch, they went to the poor-house to report, and,before sunset, the hill was covered by hundreds of weary andexcited men. Some were sure they had discovered traces ofthe fugitives. Others expressed the conviction that they hadthrown themselves into a well. One man, who did not loveMr. Belcher, and had heard the stories of his ill-treatment ofBenedict, breathed the suspicion that both he and his boy hadbeen foully dealt with by one who had an interest in gettingthem out of the way.

It was a marvel to see how quickly this suspicion took wing.It seemed to be the most rational theory of the event. Itwent from mouth to mouth and ear to ear, as the windbreathes among the leaves of a forest; but there were reasonsin every man's mind, or instincts in his nature, that withheldthe word "murder" from the ear of Mr. Belcher. As soonas the suspicion became general, the aspect of every incidentof the flight changed. Then they saw, apparently for thefirst time, that a man weakened by disease and long confinement,and never muscular at his best, could not have forcedthe inner door of Benedict's cell. Then they connected Mr.Belcher's behavior during the day with the affair, and, thoughthey said nothing at the time, they thought of his ostentatiousanxiety, his evident perturbation when Mr. Buffum announcedto him the escape, his offer of the reward for Benedict's discovery,and his excited personal appearance among them. Heacted like a guilty man—a man who was trying to blind them,and divert suspicion from himself.

To the great horror of Mr. Buffum, his establishment wasthoroughly inspected and ransacked, and, as one after anotherleft the hill for his home, he went with indignation andshame in his heart, and curses on his lips. Even if Benedictand his innocent boy had been murdered, murder was not theonly foul deed that had been committed on the hill. Thepoor-house itself was an embodied crime against humanityand against Christianity, for which the town of Sevenoaks atlarge was responsible, though it had been covered from theirsight by Mr. Belcher and the keeper. It would have takenbut a spark to kindle a conflagration. Such was the excitementthat only a leader was needed to bring the tumult of aviolent mob around the heads of the proprietor and his protégé.

Mr. Belcher was not a fool, and he detected, as he sat inhis wagon talking with Buffum in a low tone, the change thathad come over the excited groups around him. They lookedat him as they talked, with a serious scrutiny to which he wasunused. They no more addressed him with suggestions andinquiries. They shunned his neighborhood, and silently wentoff down the hill. He knew, as well as if they had beenspoken, that there were not only suspicions against him, but indignationover the state of things that had been discovered inthe establishment, for whose keeper he had voluntarily becomeresponsible. Notwithstanding all his efforts to assist them intheir search, he knew that in their hearts they charged him withBenedict's disappearance. At last he bade Buffum good-night,and went down the hill to his home.

He had no badinage for Phipps during that drive, and nopleasant reveries in his library during that evening, for all thepossibilities of the future passed through his mind in dark review.If Benedict had been murdered, who could have anyinterest in his death but himself? If he had died from exposure,his secrets would be safe, but the charge of his deathwould be brought to his door, as Miss Butterworth had alreadybrought the responsibility for his insanity there. If he hadgot away alive, and should recover, or if his boy should getinto hands that would ultimately claim for him his rights, thenhis prosperity would be interfered with. He did not wish to acknowledgeto himself that he desired the poor man's death,but he was aware that in his death he found the most hopefulvision of the night. Angry with the public feeling that accusedhim of a crime of which he was not guilty, and guiltyof a crime of which definitely the public knew little or nothing,there was no man in Sevenoaks so unhappy as he. Heloved power and popularity. He had been happy in thethought that he controlled the town, and for the moment, atleast, he knew the town had slipped disloyally out of hishands.

An impromptu meeting of citizens was held that evening,at which Mr. Belcher did not assist. The clergymen were allpresent, and there seemed to be a general understanding thatthey had been ruled long enough in the interest and by thewill of a single man. A subscription was raised for a largeamount, and the sum offered to any one who would discoverthe fugitives.

The next morning Mr. Belcher found the village quiet andvery reticent, and having learned that a subscription had beenraised without calling upon him, he laughingly expressed hisdetermination to win the reward for himself.

Then he turned his grays up the hill, had a long consultationwith Mr. Buffum, who informed him of the fate of oldTilden, and started at a rapid pace toward Number Nine.

CHAPTER VII.

IN WHICH JIM AND MIKE CONLIN PASS THROUGH A GREAT TRIALAND COME OUT VICTORIOUS.

"There, Turk, there they be!" said Jim to his dog, pointingto his passengers, as he stood caressing him, with one footon the land and the other holding the boat to the shore."There's the little chap that I've brung to play with ye, an'there's the sick man that we've got to take care on. Nowdon't ye make no row."

Turk looked up into his master's face, then surveyed thenew comers with a wag of his tail that had all the force of awelcome, and, when Harry leaped on shore, he smelt himover, licked his hand, and accepted him as a satisfactory companion.

Jim towed his boat around a point into a little cove wherethere was a beach, and then drew it by a long, strong pull entirelyout of the water. Lifting Benedict and carrying himto his own cabin, he left him in charge of Harry and the dog,while he went to make his bed in "Number Ten." His arrangementscompleted, he transferred his patient to the quartersprepared for him, where, upheld and pillowed by thesweetest couch that weary body ever rested upon, he sank intoslumber.

Harry and the dog became inseparable companions at once;and as it was necessary for Jim to watch with Benedict duringthe night, he had no difficulty in inducing the new friends tooccupy his cabin together. The dog understood his responsibilityand the lad accepted his protector; and when both hadbeen bountifully fed they went to sleep side by side.

It was, however, a troubled night at Number Ten. Thepatient's imagination had been excited, his frame had undergonea great fatigue, and the fresh air, no less than the rainthat had found its way to his person through all his wrappings,on the previous night, had produced a powerful impressionupon his nervous system. It was not strange that the morningfound Jim unrefreshed, and his patient in a high, delirious fever.

"Now's the time," said Jim to himself, "when a fellerwants some sort o' religion or a woman; an' I hain't got nothin'but a big dog an' a little boy, an' no doctor nearer 'nforty mile."

Poor Jim! He did not know that the shock to which hehad subjected the enfeebled lunatic was precisely what wasneeded to rouse every effort of nature to effect a cure. Hecould not measure the influence of the subtle earth-currentsthat breathed over him. He did not know that there was bettermedicine in the pure air, in the balsamic bed, in the broadstillness, in the nourishing food and the careful nursing, thanin all the drugs of the world. He did not know that, in orderto reach the convalescence for which he so ardently longed,his patient must go down to the very basis of his life, and beginand build up anew; that in changing from an old andworn-out existence to a fresh and healthy one, there mustcome a point between the two conditions where there wouldseem to be no life, and where death would appear to be theonly natural determination. He was burdened with his responsibility;and only the consciousness that his motives werepure and his patient no more hopeless in his hands than inthose from which he had rescued him, strengthened his equanimityand sustained his courage.

As the sun rose, Benedict fell into an uneasy slumber, and,while Jim watched his heavy breathing, the door was noiselesslyopened, and Harry and the dog looked in. The hungrylook of the lad summoned Jim to new duties, and leavingHarry to watch his father, he went off to prepare a breakfastfor his family.

All that day and all the following night Jim's time was sooccupied in feeding the well and administering to the sick,that his own sleeplessness began to tell upon him. He whohad been accustomed to the sleep of a healthy and active manbegan to look haggard, and to long for the assistance of atrusty hand. It was with a great, irrepressible shout of gratificationthat, at the close of the second day, he detected theform of Mike Conlin walking up the path by the side of theriver, with a snug pack of provisions upon his back.

Jim pushed his boat from the shore, and ferried Mike overto his cabin. The Irishman had reached the landing tenmiles below to learn that the birch canoe in which he hadexpected to ascend the river had either been stolen or washedaway. He was, therefore, obliged to take the old "tote-road"worn in former years by the lumbermen, at the sideof the river, and to reach Jim's camp on foot. He was verytired, but the warmth of his welcome brought a merry twinkleto his eyes and the ready blarney to his tongue.

"Och! divil a bit wud ye be glad to see Mike Conlin ifye knowed he'd come to arrist ye. Jim, ye're me prisoner.Ye've been stalin a pauper—a pair iv 'em, faith—an' yemust answer fur it wid yer life to owld Belcher. Comealong wid me. None o' yer nonsinse, or I'll put a windyin ye."

Jim eyed him with a smile, but he knew that no ordinaryerrand had brought Mike to him so quickly.

"Old Belcher sent ye, did he?" said Jim.

"Be gorry he did, an' I've come to git a reward. Now,if ye'll be dacint, ye shall have part of it."

Although Jim saw that Mike was apparently in sport, heknew that the offer of a cash reward for his own betrayal wasindeed a sore temptation to him.

"Did ye tell 'im anything, Mike?" inquired Jim, solemnly.

"Divil a bit."

"An' ye knowed I'd lick ye if ye did. Ye knowed that,didn't ye?"

"I knowed ye'd thry it faithful, an' if ye didn't do itthere'd be niver a man to blame but Mike Conlin."

Jim said no more, but went to work and got a bountifulsupper for Mike. When he had finished, he took him overto Number Ten, where Harry and Turk were watching.Quietly opening the door of the cabin, he entered. Benedictlay on his bed, his rapt eyes looking up to the roof. Hisclean-cut, deathly face, his long, tangled locks, and the comfortableappointments about him, were all scanned by Mike,and, without saying a word, both turned and retired.

"Mike," said Jim, as they retraced their way, "that manan' me was like brothers. I found 'im in the devil's ownhole, an' any man as comes atween me an' him must lookout fur 'imself forever arter. Jim Fenton's a good-nateredman when he ain't riled, but he'd sooner fight nor eat whenhe is. Will ye help me, or won't ye?"

Mike made no reply, but opened his pack and brought outa tumbler of jelly. "There, ye bloody blaggard, wouldn'tye be afther lickin' that now?" said he; and then, as he proceededto unload the pack, his tongue ran on in comment.(A paper of crackers.) "Mash 'em all to smithereens now.Give it to 'em, Jim." (A roasted chicken.) "Pitch intilthe rooster, Jim. Crack every bone in 'is body." (A bottleof brandy.) "Knock the head aff his shoolders and suck 'isblood." (A package of tea.) "Down with the tay! It'sinsulted ye, Jim." (A piece of maple sugar.) "Och! theowld, brown rascal! ye'll be afther doin Jim Fenton a badturn, will ye? Ye'll be brakin 'is teeth fur 'im." Then followeda plate, cup and saucer, and these were supplementedby an old shirt and various knick-knacks that only a womanwould remember in trying to provide for an invalid far awayfrom the conveniences and comforts of home.

Jim watched Mike with tearful eyes, which grew more andmore loaded and luminous as the disgorgement of the contentsof the pack progressed.

"Mike, will ye forgive me?" said Jim, stretching out hishand. "I was afeared the money'd be too many for ye; butbarrin' yer big foot an' the ugly nose that's on ye, ye're anangel."

"Niver ye mind me fut," responded Mike. "Me inimiesdon't like it, an' they can give a good raison fur it; an' asfur me nose, it'll look worser nor it does now when Jim Fentongets a crack at it."

"Mike," said Jim, "ye hurt me. Here's my hand, an'honors are easy."

Mike took the hand without more ado, and then sat backand told Jim all about it.

"Ye see, afther ye wint away that night I jist lay down an'got a bit iv a shnooze, an' in the mornin' I shtarted for meowld horse. It was a big thramp to where ye lift him, andcomin' back purty slow, I picked up a few shticks and putintil the wagin for me owld woman—pine knots an' the likeo' that. I didn't git home much afore darruk, and me owldhorse wasn't more nor in the shtable an' I 'atin' me supper,quiet like, afore Belcher druv up to me house wid his purtyman on the seat wid 'im. An' says he: 'Mike Conlin!Mike Conlin! Come to the dour wid ye!' So I wint to thedour, an' he says, says he: 'Hev ye seen a crazy old fellerwid a b'y?' An' says I: 'There's no crazy owld feller wida b'y been by me house in the daytime. If they wint by atall at all, it was when me family was aslape.' Then he gotout of his wagin and come in, and he looked 'round in allthe corners careless like, and thin he said he wanted to go tothe barrun. So we wint to the barrun, and he looked allabout purty careful, and he says, says he: 'What ye beendoin' wid the owld horse on a Sunday, Mike?' And says Ito him, says I: 'Jist a pickin' up a few shticks for the owldwoman.' An' when he come out he see the shticks in thewagin, and he says, says he: 'Mike, if ye'll find these fellersin the woods I'll give ye five hundred dollars.' And says I:'Squire Belcher,' says I (for I knowed he had a wake shpotin 'im), 'ye are richer nor a king, and Mike Conlin's nobetther nor a pauper himself. Give me a hundred dollars,'says I, 'an' I'll thry it. And be gorry I've got it right there'(slapping his pocket.) 'Take along somethin' for 'em to ate,'says he, 'and faith I've done that same and found me min; an'now I'll stay wid ye fur a week an' 'arn me hundred dollars."

The week that Mike promised Jim was like a lifetime. Tohave some one with him to share his vigils and his responsibilitylifted a great burden from his shoulders. But the sickman grew weaker and weaker every day. He was assiduouslynursed and literally fed with dainties; but the two men wentabout their duties with solemn faces, and talked almost in awhisper. Occasionally one of them went out for delicategame, and by alternate watches they managed to get sufficientsleep to recruit their exhausted energies.

One morning, after Mike had been there four or five days,both stood by Benedict's bed, and felt that a crisis was uponhim. A great uneasiness had possessed him for some hours,and then he had sunk away into a stupor or a sleep, theycould not determine which.

The two men watched him for a while, and then went outand sat down on a log in front of the cabin, and held a consultation.

"Mike," said Jim, "somethin' must be did. We've didour best an' nothin' comes on't; an' Benedict is nearerAbram's bosom nor I ever meant he should come in my time.I ain't no doctor; you ain't no doctor. We've nussed 'im thebest we knowed, but I guess he's a goner. It's too thunderin'bad, for I'd set my heart on puttin' 'im through."

"Well," said Mike, "I've got me hundred dollars, andyou'll git yer pay in the nixt wurruld."

"I don't want no pay," responded Jim. "An' what doye know about the next world, anyway?"

"The praste says there is one," said Mike.

"The priest be hanged! What does he know about it?"

"That's his business," said Mike. "It's not for the likeo' me to answer for the praste."

"Well, I wish he was here, in Number Nine, an' we'd seewhat we could git out of 'im. I've got to the eend o' myrope."

The truth was that Jim was becoming religious. When hisown strong right hand failed in any enterprise, he alwayscame to a point where the possibilities of a superior wisdomand power dawned upon him. He had never offered a prayerin his life, but the wish for some medium or instrument of intercessionwas strong within him. At last an idea struck him,and he turned to Mike and told him to go down to his oldcabin, and stay there while he sent the boy back to him.

When Harry came up, with an anxious face, Jim took himbetween his knees.

"Little feller," said he, "I need comfortin'. It's a comfortto have ye here in my arms, an' I don't never want tohave you go 'way from me. Your pa is awful sick, and perhapshe ain't never goin' to be no better. The rain and the ride,I'm afeared, was too many fur him; but I've did the best Icould, and I meant well to both on ye, an' now I can't do nomore, and there ain't no doctor here, an' there ain't no minister.Ye've allers been a pretty good boy, hain't ye? Anddon't ye s'pose ye can go out here a little ways behind a treeand pray? I'll hold on to the dog; an' it seems to me, if Iwas the Lord, I sh'd pay 'tention to what a little feller likeyou was sayin'. There ain't nobody here but you to do itnow, ye know. I can nuss your pa and fix his vittles, and setup with 'im nights, but I can't pray. I wasn't brung up to it.Now, if ye'll do this, I won't ax ye to do nothin' else."

The boy was serious. He looked off with his great blackeyes into the woods. He had said his prayers many timeswhen he did not know that he wanted anything. Here wasa great emergency, the most terrible that he had ever encountered.He, a child, was the only one who could pray for thelife of his father; and the thought of the responsibility, thoughit was only dimly entertained, or imperfectly grasped, overwhelmedhim. His eyes, that had been strained so long, filledwith tears, and, bursting into a fit of uncontrollable weeping,he threw his arms around Jim's neck, where he sobbed awayhis sudden and almost hysterical passion. Then he gentlydisengaged himself and went away.

Jim took off his cap, and holding fast his uneasy and inquiringdog, bowed his head as if he were in a church. Soon,among the songs of birds that were turning the morning intomusic, and the flash of waves that ran shoreward before thebreeze, and the whisper of the wind among the evergreens,there came to his ear the voice of a child, pleading for hisfather's life. The tears dropped from his eyes and rolleddown upon his beard. There was an element of romanticsuperstition in the man, of which his request was the offspring,and to which the sound of the child's voice appealed withirresistible power.

When the lad reappeared and approached him, Jim said tohimself: "Now, if that won't do it, ther' won't nothin'."Reaching out his arms to Harry, as he came up, he embracedhim, and said:

"My boy, ye've did the right thing. It's better nor allthe nussin', an' ye must do that every mornin'—everymornin'; an' don't ye take no for an answer. Now jest goin with me an' see your pa."

Jim would not have been greatly surprised to see the rudelittle room thronged with angels, but he was astonished, almostto fainting, to see Benedict open his eyes, look abouthim, then turn his questioning gaze upon him, and recognizehim by a faint smile, so like the look of other days—so fullof intelligence and peace, that the woodsman dropped uponhis knees and hid his face in the blankets. He did not say aword, but leaving the boy passionately kissing his father, heran to his own cabin.

Seizing Mike by the shoulders, he shook him as if he intendedto kill him.

"Mike," said he, "by the great horned spoons, the littlefellow has fetched 'im! Git yer pa'tridge-broth and yer brandyquicker'n' lightnin'. Don't talk to me no more 'bout yerpriest; I've got a trick worth two o' that."

Both men made haste back to Number Ten, where theyfound their patient quite able to take the nourishment andstimulant they brought, but still unable to speak. He soonsank into a refreshing slumber, and gave signs of mendingthroughout the day. The men who had watched him withsuch careful anxiety were full of hope, and gave vent to theirlightened spirits in the chaffing which, in their careless hours,had become habitual with them. The boy and the dog rejoicedtoo in sympathy; and if there had been ten days of stormand gloom, ended by a brilliant outshining sun, the aspect ofthe camp could not have been more suddenly or happilychanged.

Two days and nights passed away, and then Mike declaredthat he must go home. The patient had spoken, and knewwhere he was. He only remembered the past as a dream.First, it was dark and long, and full of horror, but at lengthall had become bright; and Jim was made supremely happy tolearn that he had had a vision of the glory toward which hehad pretended to conduct him. Of the fatherly breast he hadslept upon, of the golden streets through which he had walked,of the river of the water of life, of the shining ones withwhom he had strolled in companionship, of the marvelouscity which hath foundations, and the ineffable beauty of itsMaker and Builder, he could not speak in full, until years hadpassed away; but out of this lovely dream he had emergedinto natural life.

"He's jest been down to the bottom, and started new."That was the sum and substance of Jim's philosophy, and itwould be hard for science to supplant it.

"Well," said Jim to Mike, "ye've be'n a godsend. Ye'vedid more good in a week nor ye'll do agin if ye live a thousandyear. Ye've arned yer hundred dollars, and ye haven'tfound no pauper, and ye can tell 'em so. Paul Benedict ain'tno pauper, an' he ain't no crazy man either."

"Be gorry ye're right!" said Mike, who was greatly relievedat finding his report shaped for him in such a way thathe would not be obliged to tell a falsehood.

"An' thank yer old woman for me," said Jim, "an' tellher she's the queen of the huckleberry bushes, an' a jewel tothe side o' the road she lives on."

"Divil a bit will I do it," responded Mike. "She'll be sogrand I can't live wid her."

"An' tell her when ye've had yer quarrel," said Jim,"that there'll allers be a place for her in Number Ten."

They chaffed one another until Mike passed out of sightamong the trees; and Jim, notwithstanding his new society,felt lonelier, as he turned back to his cabin, than he had everfelt when there was no human being within twenty miles ofhim.

The sun of early May had begun to shine brightly, thewillows were growing green by the side of the river, the resinousbuds were swelling daily, and making ready to burst intofoliage, the birds returned one after another from their winterjourneyings, and the thrushes filled the mornings and theevenings alike with their carolings. Spring had come to thewoods again, with words of promise and wings of fulfillment,and Jim's heart was full of tender gladness. He had gratifiedhis benevolent impulses, and he found upon his hands thatwhich would tax their abounding energies. Life had neverseemed to him so full of significance as it did then. He couldsee what he had been saving money for, and he felt that outof the service he was rendering to the poor and the distressedwas growing a love for them that gave a new and almostdivine flavor to his existence.

Benedict mended slowly, but he mended daily, and gavepromise of the permanent recovery of a healthy body and asound mind. It was a happy day for Jim when, with Harryand the dog bounding before him, and Benedict leaning onhis arm, he walked over to his old cabin, and all ate togetherat his own rude table. Jim never encouraged his friend'squestions. He endeavored, by every practical way, to restrainhis mind from wandering into the past, and encouraged himto associate his future with his present society and surroundings.The stronger the patient grew, the more willing he becameto shut out the past, which, as memory sometimes—nay,too often—recalled it, was an unbroken history of trial, disappointment,grief, despair, and dreams of great darkness.

There was one man whom he could never think of withouta shudder, and with that man his possible outside life wasinseparably associated. Mr. Belcher had always been able,by his command of money and his coarse and despotic will,to compel him into any course or transaction that he desired.His nature was offensive to Benedict to an extreme degree, andwhen in his presence, particularly when he entered it drivenby necessity, he felt shorn of his own manhood. He felt himto be without conscience, without principle, without humanity,and was sure that it needed only to be known that the insanepauper had become a sound and healthy man to make him thesubject of a series of persecutions or persuasions that wouldwrest from him the rights and values on which the great proprietorwas foully battening. These rights and values he neverintended to surrender, and until he was strong and independentenough to secure them to himself, he did not care toexpose his gentler will to the machinations of the greatscoundrel who had thrived upon his unrewarded genius.

So, by degrees, he came to look upon the woods as hishome. He was there at peace. His wife had faded out ofthe world, his life had been a fatal struggle with the grossestselfishness, he had come out of the shadows into a new life,and in that life's simple conditions, cared for by Jim's strongarms, and upheld by his manly and cheerful companionship,he intended to build safely the structure of his health, and toerect on the foundation of a useful experience a better life.

In June, Jim did his planting, confined almost entirely tovegetables, as there was no mill near enough to grind hiswheat and corn should he succeed in growing them. By thetime the young plants were ready for dressing, Benedict couldassist Jim for an hour every day; and when the autumn came,the invalid of Number Ten had become a heavier man thanhe ever was before. Through the disguise of rags, the sun-brownedfeatures, the heavy beard, and the generous andalmost stalwart figure, his old and most intimate friends wouldhave failed to recognize the delicate and attenuated man theyhad once known. Jim regarded him with great pride, andalmost with awe. He delighted to hear him talk, for he wasfull of information and overflowing with suggestion.

"Mr. Benedict," said Jim one day, after they had indulgedin one of their long talks, "do ye s'pose ye can make ahouse?"

"Anything."

"A raal house, all ship-shape for a woman to live in?"

"Anything."

"With a little stoop, an' a bureau, an' some chairs, an' aframe, like, fur posies to run up on?"

"Yes, Jim, and a thousand things you never thought of."

Jim did not pursue the conversation further, but went downvery deep into a brown study.

During September, he was in the habit of receiving thevisits of sportsmen, one of whom, a New York lawyer, whobore the name of Balfour, had come into the woods everyyear for several successive years. He became aware that hissupplies were running low, and that not only was it necessaryto lay in a winter's stock of flour and pork, but that his helplessprotégés should be supplied with clothing for the comingcold weather. Benedict had become quite able to take careof himself and his boy; so one day Jim, having furnishedhimself with a supply of money from his long accumulatedhoard, went off down the river for a week's absence.

He had a long consultation with Mike Conlin, who agreedto draw his lumber to the river whenever he should see fit tobegin his enterprise. He had taken along a list of tools, furnishedhim by Benedict; and Mike carried him to Sevenoakswith the purpose of taking back whatever, in the way of stores,they should purchase. Jim was full of reminiscences of hisnight's drive, and pointed out to Mike all the localities of hisgreat enterprise. Things had undergone a transformationabout the poor-house, and Jim stopped and inquired tenderlyfor Tom Buffum, and learned that soon after the escape ofBenedict the man had gone off in an apoplectic fit.

"He was a pertickler friend o' mine," said Jim, smiling in theface of the new occupant, "an' I'm glad he went off so quickhe didn't know where he was goin'. Left some rocks, didn't he?"

The man having replied to Jim's tender solicitude, that hebelieved the family were sufficiently well provided for, theprecious pair of sympathizers went off down the hill.

Jim and Mike had a busy day in Sevenoaks, and at abouteight o'clock in the evening, Miss Keziah Butterworth wassurprised in her room by the announcement that there was astrange man down stairs who desired to see her. As she enteredthe parlor of the little house, she saw a tall man standingupright in the middle of the room, with his fur cap in hishand, and a huge roll of cloth under his arm.

"Miss Butterworth, how fare ye?" said Jim.

"I remember you," said Miss Butterworth, peering up intohis face to read his features in the dim light. "You are JimFenton, whom I met last spring at the town meeting."

"I knowed you'd remember me. Women allers does. Be'npurty chirk this summer?"

"Very well, I thank you, sir," and Miss Butterworthdropped a courtesy, and then, sitting down, she pointed himto a chair.

Jim laid his cap on the floor, placed his roll of cloth uprightbetween his knees, and, pulling out his bandana handkerchief,wiped his perspiring face.

"I've brung a little job fur ye," said Jim.

"Oh, I can't do it," said Miss Butterworth at once. "I'mcrowded to death with work. It's a hurrying time of year."

"Yes, I knowed that, but this is a pertickler job."

"Oh, they are all particular jobs," responded Miss Butterworth,shaking her head.

"But this is a job fur pertickler folks."

"Folks are all alike to me," said Miss Butterworth, sharply.

"These clo'es," said Jim, "are fur a good man an' a littleboy. They has nothin' but rags on 'em, an' won't have tillye make these clo'es. The man is a pertickler friend o' mine,an' the boy is a cute little chap, an' he can pray better norany minister in Sevenoaks. If you knowed what I know, MissButterworth, I don't know but you'd do somethin' that you'dbe ashamed of, an' I don't know but you'd do something thatI sh'd be ashamed of. Strange things has happened, an' ifye want to know what they be, you must make theseclo'es."

Jim had aimed straight at one of the most powerful motivesin human nature, and the woman began to relent, and to talkmore as if it were possible for her to undertake the job.

"It may be," said the tailoress, thinking, and scratchingthe top of her head with a hair-pin, "that I can work it in;but I haven't the measure."

"Well, now, let's see," said Jim, pondering. "Whar isthey about such a man? Don't ye remember a man that usedto be here by the name of—of—Benedict, wasn't it?—a fellerabout up to my ear—only fleshier nor he was? An' the littlefeller—well, he's bigger nor Benedict's boy—bigger, leastways,nor he was then."

Miss Butterworth rose to her feet, went up to Jim, andlooked him sharply in the eyes.

"Can you tell me anything about Benedict and his boy?"

"All that any feller knows I know," said Jim, "an' I'venever telled nobody in Sevenoaks."

"Jim Fenton, you needn't be afraid of me."

"Oh, I ain't. I like ye better nor any woman I seen."

"But you needn't be afraid to tell me," said Miss Butterworth,blushing.

"An' will ye make the clo'es?"

"Yes, I'll make the clothes, if I make them for nothing,and sit up nights to do it."

"Give us your hand," said Jim, and he had a woman'shand in his own almost before he knew it, and his face grewcrimson to the roots of his bushy hair.

Miss Butterworth drew her chair up to his, and in a lowtone he told her the whole long story as only he knew it, andonly he could tell it.

"I think you are the noblest man I ever saw," said MissButterworth, trembling with excitement.

"Well, turn about's fa'r play, they say, an' I think you'rethe most genuine creetur' I ever seen," responded Jim. "Allwe want up in the woods now is a woman, an' I'd sooner haveye thar nor any other."

"Poh! what a spoon you are!" said Miss Butterworth,tossing her head.

"Then there's timber enough in me fur the puttiest kindof a buckle."

"But you're a blockhead—a great, good blockhead. That'sjust what you are," said Miss Butterworth, laughing in spiteof herself.

"Well, ye can whittle any sort of a head out of a block,"said Jim imperturbably.

"Let's have done with joking," said the tailoress solemnly.

"I hain't been jokin'," said Jim. "I'm in 'arnest. Ibeen thinkin' o' ye ever sence the town-meetin'. I beenkinder livin' on yer looks. I've dreamt about ye nights; an'when I've be'n helpin' Benedict, I took some o' my pay,thinkin' I was pleasin' ye. I couldn't help hopin'; an' now,when I come to ye so, an' tell ye jest how the land lays, yegit rampageous, or tell me I'm jokin'. 'Twon't be no jokeif Jim Fenton goes away from this house feelin' that the onlywoman he ever seen as he thought was wuth a row o' pinsfeels herself better nor he is."

Miss Butterworth cast down her eyes, and trotted her kneesnervously. She felt that Jim was really in earnest—that hethoroughly respected her, and that behind his rough exteriorthere was as true a man as she had ever seen; but the life towhich he would introduce her, the gossip to which she wouldbe subjected by any intimate connection with him, and the uprootingof the active social life into which the routine of herdaily labor led her, would be a great hardship. Then therewas another consideration which weighed heavily with her.In her room were the memorials of an early affection and thedisappointment of a life.

"Mr. Fenton," she said, looking up—

"Jest call me Jim."

"Well, Jim—" and Miss Butterworth smiled through tearfuleyes—"I must tell you that I was once engaged to bemarried."

"Sho! You don't say!"

"Yes, and I had everything ready."

"Now, you don't tell me!"

"Yes, and the only man I ever loved died—died a weekbefore the day we had set."

"It must have purty near finished ye off."

"Yes, I should have been glad to die myself."

"Well, now, Miss Butterworth, if ye s'pose that Jim Fentonwouldn't bring that man to life if he could, and go toyour weddin' singin' hallelujer, you must think he's meanernor a rat. But ye know he's dead, an' ye never can see himno more. He's a goner, an' ye're all alone, an' here's a manas'll take care on ye fur him; an' it does seem to me thatif he was a reasonable man he'd feel obleeged for what I'mdoin'."

Miss Butterworth could not help smiling at Jim's earnestnessand ingenuity, but his proposition was so sudden andstrange, and she had so long ago given up any thought of marrying,that it was impossible for her to give him an answer then,unless she should give him the answer which he deprecated.

"Jim," she said at last, "I believe you are a good man.I believe you are honorable, and that you mean well towardme; but we have been brought up very differently, and thelife into which you wish to bring me would be very strange tome. I doubt whether I could be happy in it."

Jim saw that it would not help him to press his suit furtherat that time, and recognized the reasonableness of her hesitation.He knew he was rough and unused to every sort ofrefinement, but he also knew that he was truthful, and honorable,and faithful; and with trust in his own motives andtrust in Miss Butterworth's good sense and discretion, hewithheld any further exhibition of his wish to settle the affairon the spot.

"Well, Miss Butterworth," he said, rising, "ye know yerown business, but there'll be a house, an' a stoop, an' a bureau,an' a little ladder for flowers, an' Mike Conlin will drawthe lumber, an' Benedict'll put it together, an' Jim Fenton'llbe the busiest and happiest man in a hundred mile."

As Jim rose, Miss Butterworth also stood up, and lookedup into his face. Jim regarded her with tender admiration.

"Do ye know I take to little things wonderful, if they'reonly alive?" said he. "There's Benedict's little boy! I feel'im fur hours arter I've had 'im in my arms, jest because he'salive an' little. An' I don't know—I—I vow, I guess I bettergo away. Can you git the clo'es made in two days, so Ican take 'em home with me? Can't ye put 'em out round?I'll pay ye, ye know."

Miss Butterworth thought she could, and on that promiseJim remained in Sevenoaks.

How he got out of the house he did not remember, but hewent away very much exalted. What he did during those twodays it did not matter to him, so long as he could walk overto Miss Butterworth's each night, and watch her light fromhis cover in the trees.

Before the tailoress closed her eyes in sleep that night herbrisk and ready shears had cut the cloth for the two suits at aventure, and in the morning the work was parceled among herbenevolent friends, as a work of charity whose objects werenot to be mentioned.

When Jim called for the clothes, they were done, and therewas no money to be paid for the labor. The statement of thefact embarrassed Jim more than anything that had occurredin his interviews with the tailoress.

"I sh'll pay ye some time, even if so be that nothin' happens,"said he; "an' if so be that somethin' does happen,it'll be squar' any way. I don't want no man that I do furto be beholden to workin' women for their clo'es."

Jim took the big bundle under his left arm, and, extendinghis right hand, he took Miss Butterworth's, and said: "Good-bye,little woman; I sh'll see ye agin, an' here's hopin'. Don'thurt yerself, and think as well of me as ye can. I hate to goaway an' leave every thing loose like, but I s'pose I must.Yes, I don't like to go away so"—and Jim shook his headtenderly—"an' arter I go ye mustn't kick a stone on the roador scare a bird in the trees, for fear it'll be the heart that JimFenton leaves behind him."

Jim departed, and Miss Butterworth went up to her room,her eyes moist with the effect of the unconscious poetry ofhis closing utterance.

It was still early in the evening when Jim reached the hotel,and he had hardly mounted the steps when the stage droveup, and Mr. Balfour, encumbered with a gun, all sorts offishing-tackle and a lad of twelve years, leaped out. He wason his annual vacation; and with all the hilarity and heartinessof a boy let loose from school greeted Jim, whose irresistiblybroad smile was full of welcome.

It was quickly arranged that Jim and Mike should go onthat night with their load of stores; that Mr. Balfour and hisboy should follow in the morning with a team to be hired forthe occasion, and that Jim, reaching home first, should returnand meet his guests with his boat at the landing.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN WHICH MR. BELCHER VISITS NEW YORK, AND BECOMES THEPROPRIETOR OF "PALGRAVE'S FOLLY."

The shadow of a mystery hung over Sevenoaks for manymonths. Handbills advertising the fugitives were posted inall directions throughout the country, but nothing came ofthem but rumors. The newspapers, far and near, told thestory, but it resulted in nothing save such an airing of theSevenoaks poor-house, and the county establishment connectedwith the same, that Tom Buffum, who had lived forseveral years on the border-land of apoplexy, passed suddenlyover, and went so far that he never returned to meet the officialinquiry into his administration. The Augean stableswere cleansed by the Hercules of public opinion; and withthe satisfied conscience and restored self-complacency procuredby this act, the people at last settled down upon theconviction that Benedict and his boy had shared the fate ofold Tilden—that they had lost themselves in the distantforest, and met their death alike beyond help and discovery.

Mr. Belcher found himself without influence in the adjustmentof the new administration. Sevenoaks turned the coldshoulder to him. Nobody went to him with the reports thatconnected him with the flight and fate of the crazed inventor,yet he knew, through instincts which men of his nature oftenpossess in a remarkable degree, that he was deeply blamed forthe causes of Benedict's misfortunes. It has already beenhinted that at first he was suspected of knowing guiltily moreabout the disappearance of the fugitives than he would bewilling to tell, but there were only a few minds in which thesuspicion was long permitted to linger. When the first excitementpassed away and men began to think, it was impossiblefor them to imagine motives sufficiently powerful to inducethe rich proprietor to pursue a lunatic pauper to hisdeath.

Mr. Belcher never had encouraged the neighborly approacheswhich, in an emergency like this, might have givenhim comfort and companionship. Recognizing no equals inSevenoaks—measuring his own social position by the depthof his purse and the reach of his power—he had been inthe habit of dispensing his society as largess to the humblevillagers. To recognize a man upon the street, and speak tohim in a familiar way, was to him like the opening of hispurse and throwing the surprise of a dollar into a beggar'shat. His courtesies were charities; his politeness was aboon; he tossed his jokes into a crowd of dirty employes ashe would toss a handful of silver coin. Up to this timehe had been sufficient unto himself. By money, by pettyrevenges, by personal assumption, he had managed to retainhis throne for a long decade; and when he found his powerpartly ignored and partly defied, and learned that his personalcourtesies were not accepted at their old value, he not onlybegan to feel lonesome, but he grew angry. He held hotdiscussions with his image in the mirror night after night, inhis lonely library, where a certain measure which had onceseemed a distant possibility took shape more and more as apurpose. In some way he would revenge himself upon thepeople of the town. Even at a personal sacrifice, he wouldpay them off for their slight upon him; and he knew therewas no way in which he could so effectually do this as byleaving them. He had dreamed many times, as he rapidlyaccumulated his wealth, of arriving at a point where he couldtreat his splendid home as a summer resort, and take up hisresidence in the great city among those of his own kind. Hehad an uneasy desire for the splendors of city life, yet his interestshad always held him to Sevenoaks, and he had contentedhimself there simply because he had his own way, andwas accounted "the principal citizen." His village splendorswere without competition. His will was law. His self-complacency,fed and flourishing in his country home, hadtaken the place of society; but this had ceased to be all-sufficient,even before the change occurred in the atmospherearound him.

It was six months after the reader's first introduction tohim that, showily dressed as he always was, he took his placebefore his mirror for a conversation with the striking-lookingperson whom he saw reflected there.

"Robert Belcher, Esquire," said he, "are you played out?Who says played out? Did you address that question to me,sir? Am I the subject of that insulting remark? Do youdare to beard the lion in his den? Withdraw the dagger thatyou have aimed at my breast, or I will not hold myself responsiblefor the consequences. Played out, with a milliondollars in your pocket? Played out, with wealth pouring inin mighty waves? Whose name is Norval still? Whose arethese Grampian Hills? In yonder silent heavens the starsstill shine, printing on boundless space the words of goldenpromise. Will you leave Sevenoaks? Will you go to yondermetropolis, and there reap, in honor and pleasure, the rewardsof your enterprise? Will you leave Sevenoaks howlingin pain? Will you leave these scurvy ministers to whine fortheir salaries and whine to empty air? Ye fresh fields andpastures new, I yield, I go, I reside! I spurn the dust ofSevenoaks from my feet. I hail the glories of the distantmart. I make my bow to you, sir. You ask my pardon? Itis well! Go!"

The next morning, after a long examination of his affairs,in conference with his confidential agent, and the announcementto Mrs. Belcher that he was about to start for New Yorkon business, Phipps took him and his trunk on a drive oftwenty miles, to the northern terminus of a railroad linewhich, with his connections, would bear him to the city of hishopes.

It is astonishing how much room a richly dressed snob canoccupy in a railway car without receiving a request to occupyless, or endangering the welfare of his arrogant eyes. Mr.Belcher occupied always two seats, and usually four. It waspitiful to see feeble women look at his abounding supply, thenlook at him, and then pass on. It was pitiful to see humblydressed men do the same. It was pitiful to see gentlemen putthemselves to inconvenience rather than dispute with him hisright to all the space he could cover with his luggage and hisfeet. Mr. Belcher watched all these exhibitions with supremesatisfaction. They were a tribute to his commanding personalappearance. Even the conductors recognized the manner ofman with whom they had to deal, and shunned him. He notonly got the worth of his money in his ride, but the worth ofthe money of several other people.

Arriving at New York, he went directly to the Astor, thenthe leading hotel of the city. The clerk not only knew thekind of man who stood before him recording his name, but heknew him; and while he assigned to his betters, men andwomen, rooms at the top of the house, Mr. Belcher secured,without difficulty, a parlor and bedroom on the second floor.The arrogant snob was not only at a premium on the railwaytrain, but at the hotel. When he swaggered into the dining-room,the head waiter took his measure instinctively, andplaced him as a figure-head at the top of the hall, where heeasily won to himself the most careful and obsequious service,the choicest viands, and a large degree of quiet observationfrom the curious guests. In the office, waiters ran for him,hackmen took off their hats to him, his cards were deliveredwith great promptitude, and even the courtly principal deignedto inquire whether he found everything to his mind. Inshort, Mr. Belcher seemed to find that his name was as distinctly"Norval" in New York as in Sevenoaks, and that his"Grampian Hills" were movable eminences that stoodaround and smiled upon him wherever he went.

Retiring to his room to enjoy in quiet his morning cigarand to look over the papers, his eye was attracted, among the"personals," to an item which read as follows:

"Col. Robert Belcher, the rich and well-known manufacturerof Sevenoaks, and the maker of the celebrated Belcherrifle, has arrived in town, and occupies a suite of apartmentsat the Astor."

His title, he was aware, had been manufactured, in orderto give the highest significance to the item, by the enterprisingreporter, but it pleased him. The reporter, associating hisname with fire-arms, had chosen a military title, in accordancewith the custom which makes "commodores" of enterprisinglandsmen who build and manage lines of marine transportationand travel, and "bosses" of men who control electiongangs, employed to dig the dirty channels to politicalsuccess.

He read it again and again, and smoked, and walked to hisglass, and coddled himself with complacent fancies. He feltthat all doors opened themselves widely to the man who hadmoney, and the skill to carry it in his own magnificent way.In the midst of pleasant thoughts, there came a rap at thedoor, and he received from the waiter's little salver the cardof his factor, "Mr. Benjamin Talbot." Mr. Talbot had readthe "personal" which had so attracted and delighted himself,and had made haste to pay his respects to the principalfrom whose productions he was coining a fortune.

Mr. Talbot was the man of all others whom Mr. Belcherdesired to see; so, with a glance at the card, he told the waiterpromptly to show the gentleman up.

No man in the world understood Mr. Belcher better thanthe quick-witted and obsequious factor. He had been in thehabit, during the ten years in which he had handled Mr.Belcher's goods, of devoting his whole time to the proprietorwhile that person was on his stated visits to the city. Hetook him to his club to dine; he introduced him to congenialspirits; he went to the theater with him; he went with himto grosser resorts, which do not need to be named in thesepages; he drove with him to the races; he took him to lunchat suburban hotels, frequented by fast men who drove fasthorses; he ministered to every coarse taste and vulgar desirepossessed by the man whose nature and graceless caprices heso carefully studied. He did all this at his own expense, andat the same time he kept his principal out of the clutches ofgamblers and sharpers. It was for his interest to be of actualuse to the man whose desires he aimed to gratify, and so toguard and shadow him that no deep harm would come to him.It was for his interest to keep Mr. Belcher to himself, whilehe gave him the gratifications that a coarse man living in thecountry so naturally seeks among the opportunities and excitementsof the city.

There was one thing, however, that Mr. Talbot had neverdone. He had never taken Mr. Belcher to his home. Mrs.Talbot did not wish to see him, and Mr. Talbot did not wishto have her see him. He knew that Mr. Belcher, after hisbusiness was completed, wanted something besides a quietdinner with women and children. His leanings were nottoward virtue, but toward safe and half-reputable vice; andexactly what he wanted consistent with his safety as a businessman, Mr. Talbot wished to give him. To nurse his good-will,to make himself useful, and, as far as possible, essentialto the proprietor, and to keep him sound and make him last,was Mr. Talbot's study and his most determined ambition.

Mr. Belcher was seated in a huge arm chair, with his backto the door and his feet in another chair, when the second rapcame, and Mr. Talbot, with a radiant smile, entered.

"Well, Toll, my boy," said the proprietor, keeping hisseat without turning, and extending his left hand. "Howare you? Glad to see you. Come round to pay your respectsto the Colonel, eh? How's business, and how's yourfolks?"

Mr. Talbot was accustomed to this style of greeting fromhis principal, and, responding heartily to it and the inquiriesaccompanying it, he took a seat. With hat and cane in handhe sat on his little chair, showing his handsome teeth, twirlinghis light mustache, and looking at the proprietor with hiskeen gray eyes, his whole attitude and physiognomy expressingthe words as plainly as if he had spoken them: "I'myour man; now, what are you up to?"

"Toll," said Mr. Belcher deliberately, "I'm going to surpriseyou."

"You usually do," responded the factor, laughing.

"I vow, I guess that's true! You fellows, without anyblood, are apt to get waked up when the old boys come infrom the country. Toll, lock the door."

Mr. Talbot locked the door and resumed his seat.

"Sevenoaks be hanged!" said Mr. Belcher.

"Certainly."

"It's a one-horse town."

"Certainly. Still, I have been under the impression thatyou owned the horse."

"Yes, I know, but the horse is played out."

"Hasn't he been a pretty good horse, and earned you allhe cost you?"

"Well, I'm tired with living where there is so much infernalbabble, and meddling with other people's business. If Isneeze, the people think there's been an earthquake; andwhen I whistle, they call it a hurricane."

"But you're the king of the roost," said Talbot.

"Yes; but a man gets tired being king of the roost, andlongs for some rooster to fight."

Mr. Talbot saw the point toward which Mr. Belcher wasdrifting, and prepared himself for it. He had measured hischances for losing his business, and when, at last, his principalcame out with the frank statement, that he had made uphis mind to come to New York to live, he was all ready withhis overjoyed "No!" and with his smooth little hand to bestowupon Mr. Belcher's heavy fist the expression of his gladnessand his congratulations.

"Good thing, isn't it, Toll?"

"Excellent!"

"And you'll stand by me, Toll?"

"Of course I will; but we can't do just the old things, youknow. We must be highly respectable citizens, and keepourselves straight."

"Don't you undertake to teach your grandmother how tosuck eggs," responded the proprietor with a huge laugh, inwhich the factor joined. Then he added, thoughtfully: "Ihaven't said a word to the woman about it, and she may makea fuss, but she knows me pretty well; and there'll be the biggestkind of a row in the town; but the fact is, Toll, I'm atthe end of my rope there. I'm making money hand overhand, and I've nothing to show for it. I've spent abouteverything I can up there, and nobody sees it. I might justas well be buried; and if a fellow can't show what he gets,what's the use of having it? I haven't but one life to live,and I'm going to spread, and I'm going to do it right here inNew York; and if I don't make some of your nabobs opentheir eyes, my name isn't Robert Belcher."

Mr. Belcher had exposed motives in this little speech thathe had not even alluded to in his addresses to his image in themirror. Talbot saw that something had gone wrong in thetown, that he was playing off a bit of revenge, and, above all,that the vulgar desire for display was more prominent amongMr. Belcher's motives for removal than that person suspected.

"I have a few affairs to attend to," said Mr. Talbot, rising,"but after twelve o'clock I will be at your service while youremain in the city. We shall have no difficulty in finding ahouse to suit you, I am sure, and you can get everything donein the matter of furniture at the shortest notice. I will hunthouses with you for a week, if you wish."

"Well, by-by, Toll," said Mr. Belcher, giving him his lefthand again. "I'll be 'round at twelve."

Mr. Talbot went out, but instead of going to his office,went straight home, and surprised Mrs. Talbot by his suddenreappearance.

"What on earth!"—said she, looking up from a bit ofembroidery on which she was dawdling away her morning.

"Kate, who do you suppose is coming to New York to live?"

"The Great Mogul."

"Yes, the Great Mogul—otherwise, Colonel Robert Belcher."

"Heaven help us!" exclaimed the lady.

"Well, and what's to be done?"

"Oh, my! my! my! my!" exclaimed Mrs. Talbot, herpossessive pronoun stumbling and fainting away withoutreaching its object. "Must we have that bear in the house?Does it pay?"

"Yes, Kate, it pays," said Mr. Talbot.

"Well, I suppose that settles it."

The factor and his wife were very quick to comprehend thetruth that a principal out of town, and away from his wifeand family, was a very different person to deal with from onein the town and in the occupation of a grand establishment,with his dependents. They saw that they must make themselvesessential to him in the establishment of his social position,and that they must introduce him and his wife to theirfriends. Moreover, they had heard good reports of Mrs. Belcher,and had the impression that she would be either an inoffensiveor a valuable acquisition to their circle of friends.

There was nothing to do, therefore, but to make a dinner-partyin Mr. Belcher's honor. The guests were carefullyselected, and Mrs. Talbot laid aside her embroidery and wroteher invitations, while Mr. Talbot made his next errand at theoffice of the leading real estate broker, with whom he concludeda private arrangement to share in the commission ofany sale that might be made to the customer whom he proposedto bring to him in the course of the day. Half an-hourbefore twelve, he was in his own office, and in the thirtyminutes that lay between his arrival and the visit of the proprietor,he had arranged his affairs for any absence that wouldbe necessary.

When Mr. Belcher came in, looking from side to side, withthe air of a man who owned all he saw, even the clerks, whor*spectfully bowed to him as he passed, he found Mr. Talbotwaiting; also, a bunch of the costliest cigars.

"I remembered your weakness, you see," said Talbot.

"Toll, you're a jewel," said Mr. Belcher, drawing out oneof the fragrant rolls and lighting it.

"Now, before we go a step," said Talbot, "you must agreeto come to my house to-morrow night to dinner, and meetsome of my friends. When you come to New York, you'llwant to know somebody."

"Toll, I tell you you're a jewel."

"And you'll come?"

"Well, you know I'm not rigged exactly for that sort ofthing, and, faith, I'm not up to it, but I suppose all a manhas to do is to put on a stiff upper lip, and take it as it comes."

"I'll risk you anywhere."

"All right! I'll be there."

"Six o'clock, sharp;—and now let's go and find a broker.I know the best one in the city, and I'll show you the insideof more fine houses before night than you have ever seen."

Talbot took the proprietor's arm and led him to a carriagein waiting. Then he took him to Pine street, and introducedhim, in the most deferential manner, to the broker who heldhalf of New York at his disposal, and knew the city as heknew his alphabet.

The broker took the pair of house-hunters to a private room,and unfolded a map of the city before them. On this hetraced, with a well-kept finger-nail, a series of lines,—likethose fanciful isothermal definitions that embrace the regionsof perennial summer on the range of the Northern PacificRailroad,—within which social respectability made its home.Within certain avenues and certain streets, he explained thatit was a respectable thing to live. Outside of these arbitraryboundaries, nobody who made any pretense to respectabilityshould buy a house. The remainder of the city, was for thevulgar—craftsmen, petty shopkeepers, salaried men, and theshabby-genteel. He insisted that a wealthy man, making anentrance upon New York life, should be careful to locate himselfsomewhere upon the charmed territory which he defined.He felt in duty bound to say this to Mr. Belcher, as he was astranger; and Mr. Belcher was, of course, grateful for the information.

Then he armed Mr. Talbot, as Mr. Belcher's city friendand helper, with a bundle of permits, with which they set offupon their quest.

They visited a dozen houses in the course of the afternoon,carefully chosen in their succession by Mr. Talbot, who wasas sure of Mr. Belcher's tastes as he was of his own. Onestreet was too quiet, one was too dark; one house was toosmall, and one was too tame; one house had no stable, anotherhad too small a stable. At last, they came out uponFifth avenue, and drove up to a double front, with a stable almostas ample and as richly appointed as the house itself. Ithad been built, and occupied for a year or two, by an explodedmillionaire, and was an elephant upon the hands ofhis creditors. Robert Belcher was happy at once. The marvelousmirrors, the plate glass, the gilded cornices, the grandstaircase, the glittering chandeliers, the evidences of lavishexpenditure in every fixture, and in all the finish, excited himlike wine.

"Now you talk!" said he to the smiling factor; and as hewent to the window, and saw the life of the street, rolling byin costly carriages, or sweeping the sidewalks with shiningsilks and mellow velvets, he felt that he was at home. Herehe could see and be seen. Here his splendors could be advertised.Here he could find an expression for his wealth, bythe side of which his establishment at Sevenoaks seemed toomean to be thought of without humiliation and disgust. Herewas a house that gratified his sensuous nature through andthrough, and appealed irresistibly to his egregious vanity.He did not know that the grand and gaudy establishment borethe name of "Palgrave's Folly," and, probably, it wouldhave made no difference with him if he had. It suited him,and would, in his hands, become Belcher's Glory.

The sum demanded for the place, though very large, didnot cover its original cost, and in this fact Mr. Belcher tookgreat comfort. To enjoy fifty thousand dollars, which somebodyelse had made, was a charming consideration with him,and one that did much to reconcile him to an expenditure farbeyond his original purpose.

When he had finished his examination of the house, he returnedto his hotel, as business hours were past, and he couldmake no further headway that day in his negotiations. Themore he thought of the house, the more uneasy he became.Somebody might have seen him looking at it, and so reachedthe broker first, and snatched it from his grasp. He did notknow that it had been in the market for two years, waitingfor just such a man as himself.

Talbot was fully aware of the state of Mr. Belcher's mind,and knew that if he did not reach him early the next morning,the proprietor would arrive at the broker's before him. Accordingly,when Mr. Belcher finished his breakfast that morning,he found his factor waiting for him, with the informationthat the broker would not be in his office for an hour and a-half,and that there was time to look further, if further searchwere desirable. He hoped that Mr. Belcher would not be ina hurry, or take any step that he would ultimately regret.Mr. Belcher assured him that he knew what he wanted whenhe saw it, and had no fears about the matter, except thatsomebody might anticipate him.

"You have determined, then, to buy the house at theprice?" said Talbot.

"Yes; I shall just shut my eyes and swallow the wholething."

"Would you like to get it cheaper?"

"Of course!"

"Then, perhaps you had better leave the talking to me,"said Talbot. "These fellows all have a price that they ask,and a smaller one that they will take."

"That's one of the tricks, eh?"

"Yes."

"Then go ahead."

They had a long talk about business, and then Talbot wentout, and, after an extended interview with the broker, sent amessenger for Mr. Belcher. When that gentleman came in,he found that Talbot had bought the house for ten thousanddollars less than the price originally demanded. Mr. Belcherdeposited a handsome sum as a guaranty of his good faith, andordered the papers to be made out at once.

After their return to the hotel, Mr. Talbot sat down to atable, and went through a long calculation.

"It will cost you, Mr. Belcher," said the factor, deliberately,"at least twenty-five thousand dollars to furnish thathouse satisfactorily."

Mr. Belcher gave a long whistle.

"At least twenty-five thousand dollars, and I doubt whetheryou get off for less than thirty thousand."

"Well, I'm in for it, and I'm going through," said Mr.Belcher.

"Very well," responded Talbot, "now let's go to thebest furnisher we can find. I happen to know the man who is atthe top of the style, and I suppose the best thing—as you andI don't know much about the matter—is to let him have hisown way, and hold him responsible for the results."

"All right," said Belcher; "show me the man."

They found the arbiter of style in his counting-room. Mr.Talbot approached him first, and held a long private conversationwith him. Mr. Belcher, in his self-complacency,waited, fancying that Talbot was representing his own importanceand the desirableness of so rare a customer, and endeavoringto secure reasonable prices on a large bill. In reality,he was arranging to get a commission out of the job forhimself.

If it be objected to Mr. Talbot's mode of giving assistanceto his country friends, that it savored of mercenariness,amounting to villainy, it is to be said, on his behalf, that hewas simply practicing the morals that Mr. Belcher had taughthim. Mr. Belcher had not failed to debauch or debase themoral standard of every man over whom he had any directinfluence. If Talbot had practiced his little game uponany other man, Mr. Belcher would have patted his shoulderand told him he was a "jewel." So much of Mr. Belcher'swealth had been won by sharp and more than doubtful practices,that that wealth itself stood before the world as a premiumon rascality, and thus became, far and wide, a demoralizinginfluence upon the feverishly ambitious and the young.Besides, Mr. Talbot quieted what little conscience he had inthe matter by the consideration that his commissions weredrawn, not from Mr. Belcher, but from the profits whichothers would make out of him, and the further considerationthat it was no more than right for him to get the money backthat he had spent, and was spending, for his principal'sbenefit.

Mr. Belcher was introduced, and the arbiter of style conversedlearnedly of Tuscan, Pompeiian, Elizabethan, LouisQuatorze, buhl, marqueterie, &.c., &c., till the head of theproprietor, to whom all these words were strangers, and allhis talk Greek, was thrown into a hopeless muddle.

Mr. Belcher listened to him as long as he could do so withpatience, and then brought him to a conclusion by a slap uponhis knee.

"Come, now!" said he, "you understand your business,and I understand mine. If you were to take up guns andgutta-percha, I could probably talk your head off, but I don'tknow anything about these things. What I want is somethingright. Do the whole thing up brown. Do you understandthat?"

The arbiter of style smiled pityingly, and admitted that hecomprehended his customer.

It was at last arranged that the latter should make a studyof the house, and furnish it according to his best ability, withina specified sum of expenditure and a specified periodof time; and then the proprietor took his leave.

Mr. Belcher had accomplished a large amount of businesswithin two days, but he had worked according to his habit.The dinner party remained, and this was the most difficultbusiness that he had ever undertaken, yet he had a strong desireto see how it was done. He learned quickly what heundertook, and he had already "discounted," to use his ownword, a certain amount of mortification connected with theaffair.

CHAPTER IX.

MRS. TALBOT GIVES HER LITTLE DINNER PARTY, AND MR. BELCHERMAKES AN EXCEEDINGLY PLEASANT ACQUAINTANCE.

Mrs. Talbot had a very dear friend. She had been herdear friend ever since the two had roomed together at boarding-school.Sometimes she had questioned whether in realityMrs. Helen Dillingham was her dear friend, or whether theparticular friendship was all on the other side; but Mrs. Dillinghamhad somehow so manipulated the relation as always toappear to be the favored party. When, therefore, the dinnerwas determined upon, Mrs. Dillingham's card of invitationwas the first one addressed. She was a widow and alone. Shecomplemented Mr. Belcher, who was also alone.

Exactly the position Mrs. Dillingham occupied in society,it would be hard to define. Everybody invited her,and yet everybody, without any definite reason, consideredher a little "off color." She was beautiful, she was accomplished,she talked wonderfully well, she was au fait inart, literature, society. She was superficially religious, andshe formed the theater of the struggle of a black angel and awhite one, neither of whom ever won a complete victory, orheld whatever advantage he gained for any considerablelength of time. Nothing could be finer than Mrs. Dillinghamin her fine moods; nothing coarser when the black angelwas enjoying one of his victories, and the white angel had satdown to breathe. It was the impression given in these lattermoments that fixed upon her the suspicion that she was notquite what she ought to be. The flowers bloomed where shewalked, but there was dust on them. The cup she handed toher friends was pure to the eye, but it had a muddy taste.She was a whole woman in sympathy, power, beauty, andsensibility, and yet one felt that somewhere within she harboreda devil—a refined devil in its play, a gross one when ithad the woman at unresisting advantage.

Next came the Schoonmakers, an elderly gentleman and hiswife, who dined out a great deal, and lived on the ancient respectabilityof their family. They talked much about "theold New Yorkers," and of the inroads and devastations ofthe parvenu. They were thoroughly posted on old familyestates and mansions, the intermarriages of the Dutch aristocracy,and the subject of heraldry. Mr. Schoonmaker madea hobby of old Bibles, and Mrs. Schoonmaker of old lace.The two hobbies combined gave a mingled air of eruditionand gentility to the pair that was quite impressive, while theirunquestionably good descent was a source of social capital toall of humbler origin who were fortunate enough to draw themto their tables.

Next came the Tunbridges. Mr. Tunbridge was the presidentof a bank, and Mrs. Tunbridge was the president of Mr.Tunbridge—a large, billowy woman, who "brought him hismoney," according to the speech of the town. Mr. Tunbridgehad managed his trust with great skill, and was glad atany time, and at any social sacrifice, to be brought into contactwith men who carried large deposit accounts.

Next in order were Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish. Mr. Cavendishwas a lawyer—a hook-nosed, hawk-eyed man, who knewa little more about everything than anybody else did, andwas celebrated in the city for successfully managing the mostintractable cases, and securing the most princely fees. If arich criminal were brought into straits before the law, he alwayssent for Mr. Cavendish. If the unprincipled managersof a great corporation wished to ascertain just how closely beforethe wind they could sail without being swamped, theyconsulted Mr. Cavendish. He was everywhere accounted agreat lawyer by those who estimated acuteness to be aboveastuteness, strategy better than an open and fair fight, andsuccess more to be desired than justice.

It would weary the reader to go through with a descriptionof Mrs. Talbot's dinner party in advance. They were suchpeople as Mr. and Mrs. Talbot naturally drew around them.The minister was invited, partly as a matter of course, andpartly to occupy Mr. Schoonmaker on the subject of Bibles.The doctor was invited because Mrs. Talbot was fond of him,and because he always took "such an interest in the family."

When Mr. Belcher arrived at Talbot's beautiful but quiethouse, the guests had all assembled, and, clothing their faceswith that veneer of smile which hungry people who are aboutto dine at another man's expense feel compelled to wear in thepresence of their host, they were chatting over the news ofthe day.

It is probable that the great city was never the scene of apersonal introduction that gave more quiet amusem*nt to anassemblage of guests than that of the presentation of Mr.Belcher. That gentleman's first impression as he entered theroom was that Talbot had invited a company of clergymento meet him. His look of surprise as he took a survey of theassembly was that of a knave who found himself for the firsttime in good company; but as he looked from the gentlemento the ladies, in their gay costumes and display of costlyjewelry, he concluded that they could not be the wives of clergymen.The quiet self-possession of the group, and the consciousnessthat he was not en régle in the matter of dress, oppressedhim; but he was bold, and he knew that they knewthat he was worth a million of dollars.

The "stiff upper lip" was placed at its stiffest in the midstof his florid expanse of face, as, standing still, in the centerof the room, he greeted one after another to whom he waspresented, in a way peculiarly his own.

He had never been in the habit of lifting his hat, in courtesyto man or woman. Even the touching its brim with hisfingers had degenerated into a motion that began with a flourishtoward it, and ended with a suave extension of his palm towardthe object of his obeisance. On this occasion he quiteforgot that he had left his hat in the hall, and so, assumingthat it still crowned his head, he went through with eight orten hand flourishes that changed the dignified and self-containedassembly into a merry company of men and women,who would not have been willing to tell Mr. Belcher whatthey were laughing at.

The last person to whom he was introduced was Mrs. Dillingham,the lady who stood nearest to him—so near that thehand flourish seemed absurd even to him, and half died in theimpulse to make it. Mrs. Dillingham, in her black and hermagnificent diamonds, went down almost upon the floor inthe demonstration of her admiring and reverential courtesy,and pronounced the name of Mr. Belcher with a musical distinctnessof enunciation that arrested and charmed the earsof all who heard it. It seemed as if every letter were swimmingin a vehicle compounded of respect, veneration, andaffection. The consonants flowed shining and smooth likegold-fish through a globe of crystal illuminated by the sun.The tone in which she spoke the name seemed to rob it of allvulgar associations, and to inaugurate it as the key-note of afine social symphony.

Mr. Belcher was charmed, and placed by it at his ease. Itwrought upon him and upon the company the effect which shedesigned. She was determined he should not only show athis best, but that he should be conscious of the favor she hadwon for him.

Before dinner was announced, Mr. Talbot made a littlespeech to his guests, ostensibly to give them the good newsthat Mr. Belcher had purchased the mansion, built and formerlyoccupied by Mr. Palgrave, but really to explain that hehad caught him in town on business, and taken him at thedisadvantage of distance from his evening dress, though, ofcourse, he did not say it in such and so many words. Thespeech was unnecessary. Mrs. Dillingham had told the wholestory in her own unapproachable way.

When dinner was announced Mr. Belcher was requested tolead Mrs. Talbot to her seat, and was himself placed betweenhis hostess and Mrs. Dillingham. Mrs. Talbot was a stately,beautiful woman, and bore off her elegant toilet like a queen.In her walk into the dining-room, her shapely arm restedupon the proprietor's, and her brilliant eyes looked into hiswith an expression that flattered to its utmost all the fool therewas in him. There was a little rivalry between the "dearfriends;" but the unrestricted widow was more than a matchfor the circ*mspect and guarded wife, and Mr. Belcher wasdelighted to find himself seated side by side with the former.

He had not talked five minutes with Mrs. Dillingham beforehe knew her. The exquisite varnish that covered herperson and her manners not only revealed, but made beautiful,the gnarled and stained wood beneath. Underneath thepolish he saw the element that allied her with himself. Therewas no subject upon which she could not lead or accompanyhim with brilliant talk, yet he felt that there was a coarseunder-current of sympathy by which he could lead her, or shecould lead him—where?

The courtly manners of the table, the orderly courses thatcame and went as if the domestic administration were someautomatic machine, and the exquisite appointments of theboard, all exercised a powerful moral influence upon him;and though they did not wholly suppress him, they toned himdown, so that he really talked well. He had a fund of smallwit and drollery that was sufficient, at least, for a single dinner;and, as it was quaint and fresh, the guests were not onlyamused, but pleased. In the first place, much could be forgivento the man who owned Palgrave's Folly. No smallconsideration was due to one who, in a quiet country town,had accumulated a million dollars. A person who had thepower to reward attention with grand dinners and splendidreceptions was certainly not a person to be treated lightly.

Mr. Tunbridge undertook to talk finance with him, butretired under the laugh raised by Mr. Belcher's statement thathe had been so busy making money that he had had no timeto consider questions of finance. Mr. Schoonmaker and theminister were deep in Bibles, and on referring some questionto Mr. Belcher concerning "The Breeches Bible," receivedin reply the statement that he had never arrived any nearer aBreeches Bible than a pocket handkerchief with the Lord'sPrayer on it. Mr. Cavendish simply sat and criticised therest. He had never seen anybody yet who knew anythingabout finance. The Chamber of Commerce was a set of oldwomen, the Secretary of the Treasury was an ass, and theChairman of the Committee of Ways and Means was a personhe should be unwilling to take as an office-boy. As for him,he never could see the fun of old Bibles. If he wanted aBible he would get a new one.

Each man had his shot, until the conversation fell from thegeneral to the particular, and at last Mr. Belcher found himselfengaged in the most delightful conversation of his lifewith the facile woman at his side. He could make no approachto her from any quarter without being promptly met.She was quite as much at home, and quite as graceful, in bandyingbadinage as in expatiating upon the loveliness of countrylife and the ritual of her church.

Mr. Talbot did not urge wine upon his principal, for hesaw that he was excited and off his guard; and when, atlength, the banquet came to its conclusion, the proprietordeclined to remain with the gentlemen and the supplementarywine and cigars, but took coffee in the drawing-room withthe ladies. Mrs. Dillingham's eye was on Mrs. Talbot, andwhen she saw her start toward them from her seat, she tookMr. Belcher's arm for a tour among the artistic treasures ofthe house.

"My dear Kate," said Mrs. Dillingham, "give me theprivilege of showing Mr. Belcher some of your beautifulthings."

"Oh, certainly," responded Mrs. Talbot, her face flushing,"and don't forget yourself, my child, among the rest."

Mrs. Dillingham pressed Mr. Belcher's arm, an action whichsaid: "Oh, the jealous creature!"

They went from painting to painting, and sculpture tosculpture, and then, over a cabinet of bric-à-brac, she quietlyled the conversation to Mr. Belcher's prospective occupationof the Palgrave mansion. She had nothing in the world todo. She should be so happy to assist poor Mrs. Belcher inthe adjustment of her housekeeping. It would be a real pleasureto her to arrange the furniture, and do anything to helpthat quiet country lady in inaugurating the splendors of citylife. She knew all the caterers, all the confectioners, all themodistes, all the city ways, and all the people worth knowing.She was willing to become, for Mrs. Belcher's sake,city-directory, commissionaire, adviser, director, everything.She would take it as a great kindness if she could be permittedto make herself useful.

All this was honey to the proprietor. How Mrs. Dillinghamwould shine in his splendid mansion! How she wouldilluminate his landau! How she would save his quiet wife,not to say himself, from the gaucheries of which both wouldbe guilty until the ways of the polite world could be learned!How delightful it would be to have a sympathetic friendwhose intelligent and considerate advice would be alwaysready!

When the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room, anddisturbed the confidential tête-à-tête of these new friends, Mrs.Dillingham declared it was time to go, and Mr. Belcher insistedon seeing her home in his own carriage.

The dinner party broke up with universal hand-shakings.Mr. Belcher was congratulated on his magnificent purchaseand prospects. They would all be happy to make Mrs. Belcher'sacquaintance, and she really must lose no time in lettingthem know when she would be ready to receive visitors.

Mr. Belcher saw Mrs. Dillingham home. He held herpretty hands at parting, as if he were an affectionate olderbrother who was about to sail on a voyage around the world.At last he hurriedly relinquished her to the man-servant whohad answered her summons, then ran down the steps anddrove to his hotel.

Mounting to his rooms, he lit every burner in his parlor,and then surveyed himself in the mirror.

"Where did she find it, old boy? Eh? Where did shefind it? Was it the figure? Was it the face? Hang theswallow tails! Must you, sir, come to such a humiliation?How are the mighty fallen! The lion of Sevenoaks in theskin of an ass! But it must be. Ah! Mrs. Belcher—Mrs.Belcher—Mrs. Belcher! You are good, but you are lumpy.You were pretty once, but you are no Mrs. Dillingham. Bythe gods! Wouldn't she swim around my house like a queen!Far in azure depths of space, I behold a star! Its lightshines for me. It doesn't? It must not? Who says that?Did you address that remark to me, sir? By the way, howdo you think you got along? Did you make a fool of yourself,or did you make a fool of somebody? Honors are easy.Let Robert Belcher alone! Is Toll making money a littletoo fast? What do you think? Perhaps you will settle thatquestion by and by. You will keep him while you can usehim. Then Toll, my boy, you can drift. In the meantime,splendor! and in the meantime let Sevenoaks howl, and learnto let Robert Belcher alone."

From these dizzy heights of elation Mr. Belcher descendedto his bed and his heavy dreams, and the next morning foundhim whirling away at the rate of thirty miles an hour, but notnorthward. Whither was he going?

CHAPTER X.

WHICH TELLS HOW A LAWYER SPENT HIS VACATION IN CAMP,AND TOOK HOME A SPECIMEN OF GAME THAT HE HADNEVER BEFORE FOUND IN THE WOODS.

It was a bright moonlight night when Mike Conlin andJim started off from Sevenoaks for home, leaving Mr. Balfourand his boy to follow. The old horse had a heavy load, andit was not until an hour past midnight that Mike's house wasreached. There Jim made the new clothes, comprising acomplete outfit for his boarders at Number Ten, into a convenientpackage, and swinging it over his shoulders, startedfor his distant cabin on foot. Mike, after resting himself andhis horse, was to follow in the morning with the tools andstores, so as to arrive at the river at as early an hour as Mr.Balfour could complete the journey from Sevenoaks, with hislighter load and swifter horses.

Jim Fenton, who had lain still for several days, and wasfull of his schemes for Mr. Balfour and his protégés in camp,and warm with his memories of Miss Butterworth, simply gloriedin his moonlight tramp. The accumulated vitality of hisdays of idleness was quite enough to make all the fatigues beforehim light and pleasant. At nine o'clock the next morninghe stood by the side of his boat again. The great stillnessof the woods, responding in vivid color to the first kissesof the frost, half intoxicated him. No world-wide wanderer,returning after many years to the home of his childhood,could have felt more exulting gladness than he, as he shovedhis boat from the bank and pushed up the shining stream inthe face of the sun.

Benedict and Harry had not been idle during his absence.A deer had been shot and dressed; trout had been caughtand saved alive; a cave had been dug for the preservation ofvegetables; and when Jim shouted, far down the stream, toannounce his approach, there were three happy persons onshore, waiting to welcome him—Turk being the third, and apparentlyoblivious of the fact that he was not as much a humanbeing as any of the party. Turk added the "tiger" toHarry's three cheers, and Jim was as glad as a boy when hisboat touched the shore, and he received the affectionategreetings of the party.

A choice meal was nearly in readiness for him, but not amouthful would he taste until he had unfolded his treasures,and displayed to the astonished eyes of Mr. Benedict and thelad the comfortable clothing he had brought for them.

"Take 'em to Number Ten and put 'em on," said Jim."I'm a goin' to eat with big folks to-day, if clo'es can make'em. Them's yer stockin's and them's yer boots, and them'syer indigoes and them's yer clo'es."

Jim's idea of the word "indigoes" was, that it drew itsmeaning partly from the color of the articles designated, andpartly from their office. They were blue undergoes—in otherwords, blue flannel shirts.

Jim sat down and waited. He saw that, while Harry washilarious over his good fortune, Mr. Benedict was very silentand humble. It was twenty minutes before Harry reappeared;and when he came bounding toward Jim, even Turk did notknow him. Jim embraced him, and could not help feelingthat he had acquired a certain amount of property in thelad.

When Mr. Benedict came forth from the little cabin, and foundJim chaffing and petting his boy, he was much embarrassed.He could not speak, but walked directly past the pair, andwent out upon the bank of the river, with his eyes averted.

Jim comprehended it all. Leaving Harry, he went up tohis guest, and placed his hand upon his shoulder. "Will yefurgive me, Mr. Benedict? I didn't go fur to make it hardfur ye."

"Jim," said Mr. Benedict, struggling to retain his composure,"I can never repay your overwhelming kindness, andthe fact oppresses me."

"Well," said Jim, "I s'pose I don't make 'lowance enoughfur the difference in folks. Ye think ye oughter pay fur thissort o' thing, an' I don't want no pay. I git comfort enoughouten it, anyway."

Benedict turned, took and warmly pressed Jim's hand, andthen they went back to their dinner. After they had eaten,and Jim had sat down to his pipe, he told his guests that theywere to have visitors that night—a man from the city and hislittle boy—and that they would spend a fortnight with them.The news alarmed Mr. Benedict, for his nerves were stillweak, and it was a long time before he could be reconciled tothe thought of intrusion upon his solitude; but Jim reassuredhim by his enthusiastic accounts of Mr. Balfour, and Harrywas overjoyed with the thought of having a companion in thestrange lad.

"I thought I'd come home an' git ye ready," said Jim;"fur I knowed ye'd feel bad to meet a gentleman in yer oldpoor-house fixin's. Burn 'em or bury 'em as soon as I'mgone. I don't never want to see them things agin."

Jim went off again down the river, and Mr. Benedict andHarry busied themselves in cleaning the camp, and preparingNumber Ten for the reception of Mr. Balfour and his boy,having previously determined to take up their abode with Jimfor the winter. The latter had a hard afternoon. He wastired with his night's tramp, and languid with loss of sleep.When he arrived at the landing he found Mr. Balfour waiting.He had passed Mike Conlin on the way, and even while theywere talking the Irishman came in sight. After half-an-hourof busy labor, the goods and passengers were bestowed, Mikewas paid for the transportation, and the closing journeys ofthe day were begun.

When Jim had made half of the weary row up the river, heran into a little cove to rest and wipe the perspiration fromhis forehead. Then he informed Mr. Balfour that he was notalone in the camp, and, in his own inimitable way, havingfirst enjoined the strictest secrecy, he told the story of Mr.Benedict and his boy.

"Benedict will hunt and fish with ye better nor I can,"said he, "an' he's a better man nor I be any way; but I'mat yer sarvice, and ye shall have the best time in the woodsthat I can give ye."

Then he enlarged upon the accomplishments of Benedict'sboy.

"He favors yer boy a little," said Jim, eyeing the ladclosely. "Dress 'em alike, and they wouldn't be a bad pairo' brothers."

Jim did not recognize the germs of change that existed inhis accidental remark, but he noticed that a shade of painpassed over the lawyer's face.

"Where is the other little feller that ye used to brag over,Mr. Balfour?" inquired Jim.

"He's gone, Jim; I lost him. He died a year ago."

Jim had no words with which to meet intelligence of thischaracter, so he did not try to utter any; but, after a minuteof silence, he said: "That's what floors me. Them diesthat's got everything, and them lives that's got nothin'—livesthrough thick and thin. It seems sort o' strange to methat the Lord runs everything so kind o' car'less like, whenthere ain't nobody to bring it to his mind."

Mr. Balfour made no response, and Jim resumed his oars.But for the moon, it would have been quite dark when NumberNine was reached, but, once there, the fatigues of the journeywere forgotten. It was Thede Balfour's first visit to thewoods, and he was wild with excitement. Mr. Benedict andHarry gave the strangers a cordial greeting. The night wasfrosty and crisp, and Jim drew his boat out of the water, andpermitted his stores to remain in it through the night. Ahearty supper prepared them all for sleep, and Jim led hiscity friends to Number Ten, to enjoy their camp by themselves.A camp-fire, recently lighted, awaited them, and,with its flames illuminating the weird scenes around them,they went to sleep.

The next day was Sunday. To the devoutly disposed, thereis no silence that seems so deeply hallowed as that which pervadesthe forest on that holy day. No steamer plows theriver; no screaming, rushing train profanes the stillness; thebeasts that prowl, and the birds that fly, seem gentler than onother days; and the wilderness, with its pillars and arches,and aisles, becomes a sanctuary. Prayers that no ears canhear but those of the Eternal; psalms that win no responsesexcept from the echoes; worship that rises from hearts unencumberedby care, and undistracted by pageantry and dress—allthese are possible in the woods; and the great Being towhom the temples of the world are reared cannot have failedto find, in ten thousand instances, the purest offerings inlonely camps and cabins.

They had a delightful and bountiful breakfast, and, at itsclose, they divided themselves naturally into a double group.The two boys and Turk went off by themselves to watch theliving things around them, while the men remained togetherby the camp-fire.

Mr. Balfour drew out a little pocket-Testament, and wassoon absorbed in reading. Jim watched him, as a hungrydog watches a man at his meal, and at last, having grownmore and more uneasy, he said:

"Give us some o' that, Mr. Balfour."

Mr. Balfour looked up and smiled, and then read to himthe parable of the talents.

"I don't know nothin' 'bout it," said Jim, at the conclusion,"but it seems to me the man was a little rough on thefeller with one talent. 'Twas a mighty small capital to startwith, an' he didn't give 'im any chance to try it over; butwhat bothers me the most is about the man's trav'lin' into afur country. They hadn't no chance to talk with 'im aboutit, and git his notions. It stan's to reason that the feller withone talent would think his master was stingy, and be riledover it."

"You must remember, Jim, that all he needed was to askfor wisdom in order to receive it," said Mr. Benedict.

"No; the man that traveled into a fur country stan's forthe Almighty, and he'd got out o' the way. He'd jest gi'nthese fellers his capital, and quit, and left 'em to go it alone.They couldn't go arter 'im, and he couldn't 'a' hearn a wordthey said. He did what he thought was all right, and didn'twant to be bothered. I never think about prayin' till I gitinto a tight place. It stan's to reason that the Lord don'twant people comin' to him to do things that they can dotheirselves. I shouldn't pray for breath; I sh'd jest h'ist thewinder. If I wanted a bucket o' water, I sh'd go for it. Ifa man's got common sense, and a pair o' hands, he hain't nobusiness to be botherin' other folks till he gits into what hecan't git out of. When he's squeezed, then in course he'llsqueal. It seems to me that it makes a sort of a spooney of aman to be always askin' for what he can git if he tries. Ifthe feller that only had one talent had brushed round, hecould 'a' made a spec on it, an' had somethin' to show fur it,but he jest hid it. I don't stan' up for 'im. I think he wasmeaner nor pusly not to make the best on't, but he didn'tneed to pray for sense, for the man didn't want 'im to use nomore nor his nateral stock, an' he knowed if he used thathe'd be all right."

"But we are told to pray, Jim," said Mr. Balfour, "andassured that it is pleasant to the Lord to receive our petitions.We are even told to pray for our daily bread."

"Well, it can't mean jest that, fur the feller that don'twork for't don't git it, an' he hadn't oughter git it. If hedon't lift his hands, but jest sets with his mouth open, he gitsmostly flies. The old birds, with a nest full o' howlin' youngones, might go on, I s'pose, pickin' up grasshoppers till thecows come home, an' feedin' 'em, but they don't. They jestpoke 'em out o' the nest, an' larn 'em to fly an' pick up theirown livin'; an' that's what makes birds on 'em. They praymighty hard fur their daily bread, I tell ye, and the way theold birds answer is jest to poke 'em out, and let 'em slide. Idon't see many prayin' folks, an' I don't see many folks anyway; but I have a consait that a feller can pray so much an'do so little, that he won't be nobody. He'll jest grow weakeran' weaker all the time."

"I don't see," said Mr. Balfour, laughing, and turning toMr. Benedict, "but we've had the exposition of our Scripture."

The former had always delighted to hear Jim talk, andnever lost an opportunity to set him going; but he did notknow that Jim's exposition of the parable had a personalmotive. Mr. Benedict knew that it had, and was very seriousover it. His nature was weak in many respects. Hiswill was weak; he had no combativeness; he had a wish tolean. He had been baffled and buffeted in the world. Hehad gone down into the darkness, praying all the way; andnow that he had come out of it, and had so little society; nowthat his young life was all behind him, and so few earthlyhopes beckoned him on, he turned with a heart morbidly religiousto what seemed to him the only source of comfort opento him. Jim had watched him with pain. He had seen him,from day to day, spending his hours alone, and felt that prayerformed almost the staple of his life. He had seen him willingto work, but knew that his heart was not in it. He wasnot willing to go back into the world, and assert his placeamong men. The poverty, disease, and disgrace of his formerlife dwelt in his memory, and he shrank from the conflictsand competitions which would be necessary to enable him towork out better results for himself.

Jim thoroughly believed that Benedict was religiously diseased,and that he never could become a man again until hehad ceased to live so exclusively in the spiritual world. Hecontrived all possible ways to keep him employed. He putresponsibility upon him. He stimulated him with considerationsof the welfare of Harry. He disturbed him in his retirement.He contrived fatigues that would induce soundsleep. To use his own language, he had tried to cure him of"loppin'," but with very unsatisfactory results.

Benedict comprehended Jim's lesson, and it made an impressionupon him; but to break himself of his habit of thoughtand life was as difficult as the breaking of morbid habits alwaysis. He knew that he was a weak man, and saw that he hadnever fully developed that which was manliest within him.He saw plainly, too, that his prayers would not develop it,and that nothing but a faithful, bold, manly use of his powerscould accomplish the result. He knew that he had a betterbrain, and a brain better furnished, than that of Robert Belcher,yet he had known to his sorrow, and well-nigh to hisdestruction, that Robert Belcher could wind him around hisfinger. Prayer had never saved him from this, and nothingcould save him but a development of his own manhood. Washe too old for hope? Could he break away from the delightsof his weakness, and grow into something stronger and better?Could he so change the attitude of his soul that it shouldcease to be exigent and receptive, and become a positive, self-poised,and active force? He sighed when these questionscame to him, but he felt that Jim had helped him in manypractical ways, and could help him still further.

A stranger, looking upon the group, would have found it acurious and interesting study. Mr. Balfour was a tall, litheman, with not a redundant ounce of flesh on him. He wasas straight as an arrow, bore on his shoulders a fine head thatgave evidence in its contour of equal benevolence and force,and was a practical, fearless, straightforward, true man. Heenjoyed humor, and though he had a happy way of evoking itfrom others, possessed or exhibited very little himself. Jimwas better than a theater to him. He spent so much of histime in the conflicts of his profession, that in his vacations hesimply opened heart and mind to entertainment. A shrewd,frank, unsophisticated nature was a constant feast to him, andthough he was a keen sportsman, the woods would have hadfew attractions without Jim.

Mr. Benedict regarded him with profound respect, as aman who possessed the precise qualities which had been deniedto himself—self-assertion, combativeness, strong will,and "push." Even through Benedict's ample beard, a goodreader of the human face would have detected the weak chin,while admiring the splendid brow, silken curls, and handsomeeyes above it. He was a thoroughly gentle man, and, curiouslyenough, attracted the interest of Mr. Balfour in consequenceof his gentleness. The instinct of defense andprotection to everything weak and dependent was strongwithin the lawyer; and Benedict affected him like a woman.It was easy for the two to become friends, and as Mr. Balfourgrew familiar with the real excellences of his new acquaintance,with his intelligence in certain directions, and hiswonderful mechanical ingenuity, he conceived just as high adegree of respect for him as he could entertain for one whowas entirely unfurnished with those weapons with which thebattles of life are fought.

It was a great delight to Jim to see his two friends get alongso well together, particularly as he had pressing employmenton his hands, in preparing for the winter. So, after the firstday, Benedict became Mr. Balfour's guide during the fortnightwhich he passed in the woods.

The bright light of Monday morning was the signal for thebeginning of their sport, and Thede, who had never throwna fly, was awake at the first day-light; and before Jim had thebreakfast of venison and cakes ready, he had strung his tackleand leaned his rod against the cabin in readiness for his enterprise.They had a day of satisfactory fishing, and broughthome half-a-hundred spotted beauties that would have delightedthe eyes of any angler in the world; and when theirgolden flesh stood open and broiling before the fire, or hissedand sputtered in the frying-pan, watched by the hungry andadmiring eyes of the fishermen, they were attractive enoughto be the food of the gods. And when, at last, the groupgathered around the rude board, with appetites that seemedmeasureless, and devoured the dainties prepared for them, thepleasures of the day were crowned.

But all this was comparatively tame sport to Mr. Balfour.He had come for larger game, and waited only for the nightfallto deepen into darkness to start upon his hunt for deer.The moon had passed her full, and would not rise until afterthe ordinary bed-time. The boys were anxious to be witnessesof the sport, and it was finally concluded, that for once, atleast, they should be indulged in their desire.

The voice of a hound was never heard in the woods, andeven the "still hunting" practiced by the Indian was neverresorted to until after the streams were frozen.

Jim had been busy during the day in picking up pine knots,and digging out old stumps whose roots were charged withpitch. These he had collected and split up into small pieces,so that everything should be in readiness for the "float." Assoon as the supper was finished, he brought a little iron"Jack," mounted upon a standard, and proceeded to fix thisupright in the bow of the boat. Behind this he placed asquare of sheet iron, so that a deer, dazzled by the light of theblazing pine, would see nothing behind it, while the occupantsof the boat could see everything ahead without beingblinded by the light, of which they could see nothing. Thenhe fixed a knob of tallow upon the forward sight of Mr. Balfour'sgun, so that, projecting in front of the sheet ironscreen, it would be plainly visible and render necessary onlythe raising of the breech to the point of half-hiding the tallow,in order to procure as perfect a range as if it were broad daylight.

All these preparations were familiar to Mr. Balfour, and,loading his heavy shot-gun with a powerful charge, he waitedimpatiently for the darkness.

At nine o'clock, Jim said it was time to start, and, lightinghis torch, he took his seat in the stern of the boat, and badeMr. Balfour take his place in the bow, where a board, placedacross the boat, made him a comfortable seat. The boys,warmly wrapped, took their places together in the middle ofthe boat, and, clasping one another's hands and shivering withexcitement, bade good-night to Mr. Benedict, who pushedthem from the shore.

The night was still, and Jim's powerful paddle urged thelittle craft up the stream with a push so steady, strong, andnoiseless, that its passengers might well have imagined thatthe unseen river-spirits had it in tow. The torch cast its longglare into the darkness on either bank, and made shadows soweird and changeful that the boys imagined they saw everyform of wild beast and flight of strange bird with which pictureshad made them familiar. Owls hooted in the distance.A wild-cat screamed like a frightened child. A partridge,waked from its perch by a flash of the torch, whirred off intothe woods.

At length, after paddling up the stream for a mile, theyheard the genuine crash of a startled animal. Jim stoppedand listened. Then came the spiteful stroke of a deer's forefeetupon the leaves, and a whistle so sharp, strong and vital,that it thrilled every ear that heard it. It was a question, aprotest, a defiance all in one; but not a sign of the animalcould be seen. He was back in the cover, wary and watching,and was not to be tempted nearer by the light.

Jim knew the buck, and knew that any delay on his accountwould be useless.

"I knowed 'im when I hearn 'im whistle, an' he knowedme. He's been shot at from this boat more nor twenty times.'Not any pine-knots on my plate,' says he. 'I seen 'emafore, an' you can pass.' I used to git kind o' mad at 'im,an' promise to foller 'im, but he's so 'cute, I sort o' like 'im.He 'muses me."

While Jim waited and talked in a low tone, the buck wasevidently examining the light and the craft, at his leisure andat a distance. Then he gave another lusty whistle that washalf snort, and bounded off into the woods by leaps thatstruck every foot upon the ground at the same instant, andsoon passed beyond hearing.

"Well, the old feller's gone," said Jim, "an' now I knowa patch o' lily-pads up the river where I guess we can find abeast that hasn't had a public edication."

The tension upon the nerves of the boys was relieved, andthey whispered between themselves about what they had seen,or thought they had seen.

All became still, as Jim turned his boat up the stream again.After proceeding for ten or fifteen minutes in perfect silence,Jim whispered:

"Skin yer eyes, now, Mr. Balfour; we're comin' to a lick."

Jim steered his boat around a little bend, and in a momentit was running in shallow water, among grass and rushes.The bottom of the stream was plainly visible, and Mr. Balfoursaw that they had left the river, and were pushing up the debouchureof a sluggish little affluent. They brushed alongamong the grass for twenty or thirty rods, when, at the sameinstant, every eye detected a figure in the distance. Twoblazing, quiet, curious eyes were watching them. Jim hadan instinct which assured him that the deer was fascinated bythe light, and so he pushed toward him silently, then stopped,and held his boat perfectly still. This was the signal for Mr.Balfour, and in an instant the woods were startled by a dischargethat deafened the silence.

There was a violent splash in the water, a scramble up thebank, a bound or two toward the woods, a pitiful bleat, andthen all was still.

"We've got 'im," said Jim. "He's took jest one buckshotthrough his heart. Ye didn't touch his head nor hislegs. He jest run till the blood leaked out and he gi'n it up.Now, boys, you set here, and sing hallelujer till we bring 'imin."

The nose of the little craft was run against the bank, andMr. Balfour, seizing the torch, sprang on shore, and Jim followedhim into the woods. They soon found track of thegame by the blood that dabbled the bushes, and stumbledupon the beautiful creature stone dead—fallen prone, with hislegs doubled under him. Jim swung him across his shoulders,and, tottering behind Mr. Balfour, bore him back to theboat. Placing him in the bottom, the two men resumed theirseats, and Jim, after carefully working himself out of the inletinto the river, settled down to a long, swift stroke that borethem back to the camp just as the moon began to showherself above the trees.

It was a night long to be remembered by the boys, a fittinginauguration of the lawyer's vacation, and an introduction towoodcraft from which, in after years, the neophytes won rarestores of refreshment and health.

Mr. Benedict received them with hearty congratulations,and the perfect sleep of the night only sharpened their desirefor further depredations upon the game that lived aroundthem, in the water and on the land.

As the days passed on, they caught trout until they weretired of the sport; they floated for deer at night; they tookweary tramps in all directions, and at evening, around thecamp-fires, rehearsed their experiences.

During all this period, Mr. Balfour was watching HarryBenedict. The contrast between the lad and his own son wasas marked as that between the lad's father and himself, butthe positions were reversed. Harry led, contrived, executed.He was positive, facile, amiable, and the boys were as happytogether as their parents were. Jim had noticed the remarkableinterest that Mr. Balfour took in the boy, and had begunto suspect that he entertained intentions which would deprivethe camp of one of its chief sources of pleasure.

One day when the lawyer and his guide were quietly eatingtheir lunch in the forest, Mr. Balfour went to work, in hisquiet, lawyer-like way, to ascertain the details of Benedict'shistory; and he heard them all. When he heard who had benefitedby his guide's inventions, and learned just how mattersstood with regard to the Belcher rifle, he became, for the firsttime since he had been in the woods, thoroughly excited. Hehad a law-case before him as full of the elements of romanceas any that he had ever been engaged in. A defrauded inventor,living in the forest in poverty, having escaped fromthe insane ward of an alms-house, and the real owner ofpatent rights that were a mine of wealth to the man whobelieved that death had blotted out all the evidences of hisvillainy—this was quite enough to excite his professional interest,even had he been unacquainted with the man defrauded.But the position of this uncomplaining, dependentman, who could not fight his own battles, made an irresistibleappeal to his sense of justice and his manhood.

The moment, however, that the lawyer proposed to assist inrighting the wrong, Mr. Benedict became dangerously excited.He could tell his story, but the thought of going outinto the world again, and, particularly of engaging in a conflictwith Robert Belcher, was one that he could not entertain.He was happier in the woods than he had been formany years. The life was gradually strengthening him. Hehoped the time would come when he could get something forhis boy, but, for the present, he could engage in no strugglefor reclaiming and maintaining his rights. He believed thatan attempt to do it would again drive him to distraction, andthat, somehow, Mr. Belcher would get the advantage of him.His fear of the great proprietor had become morbidly acute,and Mr. Balfour could make no headway against it. It wasprudent to let the matter drop for a while.

Then Mr. Balfour opened his heart in regard to the boy.He told Benedict of the loss with which he had already acquaintedJim, of the loneliness of his remaining son, of thehelp that Harry could afford him, the need in which the ladstood of careful education, and the accomplishments he couldwin among better opportunities and higher society. Hewould take the boy, and treat him, up to the time of his majority,as his own. If Mr. Benedict could ever return themoney expended for him, he could have the privilege of doingso, but it would never be regarded as a debt. Once every yearthe lawyer would bring the lad to the woods, so that he shouldnot forget his father, and if the time should ever come whenit seemed practicable to do so, a suit would be instituted thatwould give him the rights so cruelly withheld from his naturalprotector.

The proposition was one which taxed to its utmost Mr.Benedict's power of self-control. He loved his boy betterthan he loved himself. He hoped that, in some way, lifewould be pleasanter and more successful to the lad than it hadbeen to him. He did not wish him to grow up illiterate andin the woods; but how he was to live without him he couldnot tell. The plucking out of an eye would have given himless pain than the parting with his boy, though he felt fromthe first that the lad would go.

Nothing could be determined without consulting Jim, andas the conversation had destroyed the desire for further sport,they packed their fishing-tackle and returned to camp.

"The boy was'n't got up for my 'commodation," said Jim,when the proposition was placed before him. "I seen thething comin' for a week, an' I've brung my mind to't. Wehain't got no right to keep 'im up here, if he can do better.Turk ain't bad company fur them as likes dogs, but he ain'timprovin'. I took the boy away from Tom Buffum 'cause Icould do better by 'im nor he could, and when a man comesalong that can do better by 'im nor I can, he's welcome towade in. I hain't no right to spile a little feller's life 'causeI like his company. I don't think much of a feller that wouldcheat a man out of a jews-harp 'cause he liked to fool with it.Arter all, this sendin' the boy off is jest turnin' 'im out topastur' to grow, an' takin' 'im in in the fall. He may git hishead up so high t'we can't git the halter on 'im again, buthe'll be worth more to somebody that can, nor if we kep 'imin the stable. I sh'll hate to say good-bye t' the little feller,but I sh'll vote to have 'im go, unanimous."

Mr. Benedict was not a man who had will enough to withstandthe rational and personal considerations that werebrought to bear upon him, and then the two boys werebrought into the consultation. Thede was overjoyed with theprospect of having for a home companion the boy to whom hehad become so greatly attached, and poor Harry was torn by aconflict of inclinations. To leave Jim and his father behindwas a great sorrow; and he was half angry with himselfto think that he could find any pleasure in the prospectof a removal. But the love of change, natural to a boy, andthe desire to see the wonders of the great city, with accountsof which Thede had excited his imagination, overcame hisinclination to remain in the camp. The year of separationwould be very short, he thought, so that, after all, it was onlya temporary matter. The moment the project of going awaytook possession of him, his regrets died, and the exit fromthe woods seemed to him like a journey into dreamland, fromwhich he should return in the morning.

How to get the lad through Sevenoaks, where he would besure to be recognised, and so reveal the hiding-place of hisfather, became at once a puzzling question. Mr. Balfour hadarranged with the man who brought him into the woods toreturn in a fortnight and take him out, and as he was a manwho had known the Benedicts it would not be safe to trust tohis silence.

It was finally arranged that Jim should start off at once withHarry, and engage Mike Conlin to go through Sevenoaks withhim in the night, and deliver him at the railroad at about thehour when the regular stage would arrive with Mr. Balfour.The people of Sevenoaks were not travelers, and it would bea rare chance that should bring one of them through to thatpoint. The preparations were therefore made at once, andthe next evening poor Benedict was called upon to part withhis boy. It was a bitter struggle, but it was accomplished,and, excited by the strange life that was opening before him,the boy entered the boat with Jim, and waved his adieus tothe group that had gathered upon the bank to see them off.

Poor Turk, who had apparently understood all that hadpassed in the conversations of the previous day, and becomefully aware of the bereavement that he was about to suffer,stood upon the shore and howled and whined as they recededinto the distance. Then he went up to Thede, and licked hishand, as if he would say; "Don't leave me as the other boyhas done; if you do, I shall be inconsolable."

Jim effected his purpose, and returned before light the nextmorning, and on the following day he took Mr. Balfour andThede down the river, and delivered them to the man whomhe found waiting for them. The programme was carried outin all its details, and two days afterward the two boys weresitting side by side in the railway-car that was hurrying themtoward the great city.

CHAPTER XI.

WHICH RECORDS MR. BELCHER'S CONNECTION WITH A GREATSPECULATION AND BRINGS TO A CLOSE HIS RESIDENCE INSEVENOAKS.

Whither was he going? He had a little fortune in hispockets—more money than prudent men are in the habit ofcarrying with them—and a scheme in his mind. After thepurchase of Palgrave's Folly, and the inauguration of a scaleof family expenditure far surpassing all his previous experience,Mr. Belcher began to feel poor, and to realize the necessityof extending his enterprise. To do him justice, hefelt that he had surpassed the proprieties of domestic life intaking so important a step as that of changing his residencewithout consulting Mrs. Belcher. He did not wish to meether at once; so it was easy for him, when he left New York,to take a wide diversion on his way home.

For several months the reports of the great oil discoveriesof Pennsylvania had been floating through the press. Storiesof enormous fortunes acquired in a single week, and even ina single day, were rife; and they had excited his greed witha strange power. He had witnessed, too, the effect of thesestories upon the minds of the humble people of Sevenoaks.They were uneasy in their poverty, and were in the habit ofreading with avidity all the accounts that emanated from thenew center of speculation. The monsters of the sea had longbeen chased into the ice, and the whalers had returned withscantier fares year after year; but here was light for theworld. The solid ground itself was echoing with the cry:"Here she blows!" and "There she blows!" and the longharpoons went down to its vitals, and were fairly lifted outby the pressure of the treasure that impatiently waited for deliverance.

Mr. Belcher had long desired to have a hand in this newbusiness. To see a great speculation pass by without yieldinghim any return was very painful to him. During his brief stayin New York he had been approached by speculators from thenew field of promise; and had been able by his quick witand ready business instinct to ascertain just the way inwhich money was made and was to be made. He dismissedthem all, for he had the means in his hands of starting nearerthe sources of profit than themselves, and to be not only oneof the "bottom ring," but to be the bottom man. Nomoderate profit and no legitimate income would satisfy him.He would gather the investments of the multitude into hisown capacious pockets, or he would have nothing to do withthe matter. He would sweep the board, fairly or foully, orhe would not play.

As he traveled along westward, he found that the companywas made up of men whose tickets took them to his owndestination. Most of them were quiet, with ears open to thefew talkers who had already been there, and were returning.Mr. Belcher listened to them, laughed at them, scoffed at theirschemes, and laid up carefully all that they said. Before hearrived at Corry he had acquired a tolerable knowledge ofthe oil-fields, and determined upon his scheme of operations.

As he drew nearer the great center of excitement, he camemore into contact with the masses who had gathered there,crazed with the spirit of speculation. Men were around himwhose clothes were shining with bitumen. The air was loadedwith the smell of petroleum. Derricks were thrown up onevery side; drills were at work piercing the earth; villageswere starting among stumps still fresh at the top, as if theirtrees were cut but yesterday; rough men in high boots wereranging the country; the depots were glutted with portableSteam-engines and all sorts of mining machinery, and therewas but one subject of conversation. Some new well hadbegun to flow with hundreds of barrels of petroleum perdiem. Some new man had made a fortune. Farmers, whohad barely been able to get a living from their sterileacres, had become millionaires. The whole region was alivewith fortune-hunters, from every quarter of the country.Millions of dollars were in the pockets of men who wereready to purchase. Seedy, crazy, visionary fellows wereworking as middle-men, to talk up schemes, and win theirbread, with as much more as they could lay their hands on.The very air was charged with the contagion of speculation,and men seemed ready to believe anything and do anything.It appeared, indeed, as if a man had only to buy, to doublehis money in a day; and half the insane multitude believedit.

Mr. Belcher kept himself quiet, and defended himself fromthe influences around him by adopting and holding his scoffingmood. He believed nothing. He was there simply tosee what asses men could make of themselves; but he kepthis ears open. The wretched hotel at which he at last foundaccommodations was thronged with fortune-seekers, amongwhom he moved self-possessed and quite at home. On thesecond day his mood began to tell on those around him.There were men there who knew about him and his greatwealth—men who had been impressed with his sagacity. Hestudied them carefully, gave no one his confidence, and quietlylaid his plans. On the evening of the third day he returnedto the hotel, and announced that he had had the good fortuneto purchase a piece of property that he proposed to operateand improve on his own account.

Then he was approached with propositions for forming acompany. He had paid fifty thousand dollars for a farm—paidthe money—and before morning he had sold half of itfor what he gave for the whole, and formed a company withthe nominal capital of half a million of dollars, a moiety ofthe stock being his own at no cost to him whatever. Thearrangements were all made for the issue of stock and thecommencement of operations, and when, three days afterward,he started from Titusville on his way home, he had in hissatchel blank certificates of stock, all signed by the officers ofthe Continental Petroleum Company, to be limited in its issueto the sum of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Henever expected to see the land again. He did not expect thatthe enterprise would be of the slightest value to those whoshould invest in it. He expected to do just what others weredoing—to sell his stock and pocket the proceeds, while investorspocketed their losses. It was all an acute business operationwith him; and he intended to take advantage of theexcitement of the time to "clean out" Sevenoaks and all theregion round about his country home, while his confreresoperated in their own localities. He chuckled over his plansas if he contemplated some great, good deed that would beof incalculable benefit to his neighbors. He suffered noqualm of conscience, no revolt of personal honor, no spasmof sympathy or pity.

As soon as he set out upon his journey homeward he beganto think of his New York purchase. He had taken a boldstep, and he wished that he had said something to Mrs.Belcher about his plans, but he had been so much in the habitof managing everything in his business without consulting her,that it did not occur to him before he started from home thatany matter of his was not exclusively his own. He wouldjust as soon have thought of taking Phipps into his confidence,or of deferring to his wishes in any project, as of extendingthose courtesies to his wife. There was another considerationwhich weighed somewhat heavily upon his mind.He was not entirely sure that he would not be ashamed ofMrs. Belcher in the grand home which he had provided forhimself. He respected her, and had loved her in his poor,sensual fashion, some changeful years in the past; he hadregarded her as a good mother, and, at least, as an inoffensivewife; but she was not Mrs. Dillingham. She would not beat home in the society of which he had caught a glimpse, oramong the splendors to which he would be obliged to introduceher. Even Talbot, the man who was getting rich uponthe products of his enterprise, had a more impressive wifethan he. And thus, with much reflection, this strange, easy-naturedbrute without a conscience, wrought up his soul intoself-pity. In some way he had been defrauded. It nevercould have been intended that a man capable of winning somany of his heart's desires as he had proved himself to be,should be tied to a woman incapable of illuminating andhonoring his position. If he only had a wife of whose personhe could be proud! If he only had a wife whose queenlypresence and manners would give significance to the splendorsof the Palgrave mansion!

There was no way left for him, however, but to make thebest of his circ*mstances, and put a brave face upon the matter.Accordingly, the next morning after his arrival, he told,with such display of enthusiasm as he could assume, the storyof his purchase. The children were all attention, and madeno hesitation to express their delight with the change that laybefore them. Mrs. Belcher grew pale, choked over her breakfast,and was obliged to leave the table. At the close of themeal, Mr. Belcher followed her to her room, and found herwith dry eyes and an angry face.

"Robert, you have determined to kill me," she said, almostfiercely.

"Oh, no, Sarah; not quite so bad as that."

"How could you take a step which you knew would giveme a life-long pain? Have I not suffered enough? Is it notenough that I have ceased practically to have a husband?—thatI have given up all society, and been driven in upon mychildren? Am I to have no will, no consideration, no partor lot in my own life?"

"Put it through, Sarah; you have the floor, and I'm readyto take it all now."

"And it is all for show," she went on, "and is disgusting.There is not a soul in the city that your wealth can bring tome that will give me society. I shall be a thousand timeslonelier there than I have been here; and you compel me togo where I must receive people whom I shall despise, andwho, for that reason, will dislike me. You propose toforce me into a life that is worse than emptiness. I ammore nearly content here than I can ever be anywhereelse, and I shall never leave here without a cruel sense of sacrifice."

"Good for you, Sarah!" said Mr. Belcher. "You'remore of a trump than I thought you were; and if it will doyou any good to know that I think I've been a little roughwith you, I don't mind telling you so. But the thing is done,and it can't be undone. You can have your own sort of lifethere as you do here, and I can have mine. I suppose I couldgo there and run the house alone; but it isn't exactly thething for Mrs. Belcher's husband to do. People might talk,you know, and they wouldn't blame me."

"No; they would blame me, and I must go, whether Iwish to go or not."

Mrs. Belcher had talked until she could weep, and brushingher eyes she walked to the window. Mr. Belcher sat still,casting furtive glances at her, and drumming with his fingerson his knees. When she could sufficiently command herself,she returned, and said:

"Robert, I have tried to be a good wife to you. I helpedyou in your first struggles, and then you were a comfort tome. But your wealth has changed you, and you know thatfor ten years I have had no husband. I have humored yourcaprices; I have been careful not to cross your will. I havetaken your generous provision, and made myself and mychildren what you desired; but I am no more to you than apart of your establishment. I do not feel that my position isan honorable one. I wish to God that I had one hope that itwould ever become so."

"Well, by-by, Sarah. You'll feel better about it."

Then Mr. Belcher stooped and kissed her forehead, andleft her.

That little attention—that one shadow of recognition ofthe old relations, that faint show of feeling—went straight toher starving heart. And then, assuming blame for whatseemed, at the moment of reaction, her unreasonable selfishness,she determined to say no more, and to take uncomplaininglywhatever life her husband might provide for her.

As for Mr. Belcher, he went off to his library and his cigarwith a wound in his heart. The interview with his wife,while it had excited in him a certain amount of pity for her,had deepened his pity for himself. She had ceased to bewhat she had once been to him; yet his experience in thecity had proved that there were still women in the world whocould excite in him the old passion, and move him to the oldgallantries. It was clearly a case of incipient "incompatibility."It was "the mistake of a lifetime" just discovered,though she had borne his children and held his respect forfifteen years. He still felt the warmth of Mrs. Dillingham'shands within his own, the impression of her confiding claspupon his arm, and the magnetic influence of her splendidpresence. Reason as he would, he felt defrauded of hisrights; and he wondered whether any combination of circ*mstanceswould ever permit him to achieve them. As thisamounted to wondering whether Mrs. Belcher would die, hestrove to banish the question from his mind; but it returnedand returned again so pertinaciously that he was glad to orderhis horses and ride to his factory.

Before night it became noised through the village that thegreat proprietor had been to the oil regions. The fact wastalked over among the people in the shops, in the street, insocial groups that gathered at evening; and there was greatcuriosity to know what he had learned, and what opinions hehad formed. Mr. Belcher knew how to play his cards, andhaving set the people talking, he filled out and sent to eachof the wives of the five pastors of the village, as a gift, a certificateof five shares of the stock of the Continental PetroleumCompany. Of course, they were greatly delighted,and, of course, twenty-four hours had not passed by whenevery man, woman and child in Sevenoaks was acquaintedwith the transaction. People began to revise their judgmentsof the man whom they had so severely condemned. Afterall, it was the way in which he had done things in formerdays, and though they had come to a vivid apprehension ofthe fact that he had done them for a purpose, which invariablyterminated in himself, they could not see what there wasto be gained by so munificent a gift. Was he not endeavoring,by self-sacrifice, to win back a portion of the considerationhe had formerly enjoyed? Was it not a confession ofwrong-doing, or wrong judgment? There were men whoshook their heads, and "didn't know about it;" but the preponderanceof feeling was on the side of the proprietor, whosat in his library and imagined just what was in progressaround him,—nay, calculated upon it, as a chemist calculatesthe results of certain combinations in his laboratory. Heknew the people a great deal better than they knew him, oreven themselves.

Miss Butterworth called at the house of the Rev. SolomonSnow, who, immediately upon her entrance, took his seat inhis arm-chair, and adjusted his bridge. The little woman wasso combative and incisive that this always seemed a necessaryprecaution on the part of that gentleman.

"I want to see it!" said Miss Butterworth, without theslightest indication of the object of her curiosity.

Mrs. Snow rose without hesitation, and, going to a trunkIn her bedroom, brought out her precious certificate of stock,and placed it in the hands of the tailoress.

It certainly was a certificate of stock, to the amount of fiveshares, in the Continental Petroleum Company, and Mr. Belcher'sname was not among the signatures of the officers.

"Well, that beats me!" exclaimed Miss Butterworth."What do you suppose the old snake wants now?"

"That's just what I say—just what I say," responded Mrs.Snow. Goodness knows, if it's worth anything, we needit; but what does he want?"

"You'll find out some time. Take my word for it, he hasa large axe to grind."

"I think," said Mr. Snow judicially, "that it is quitepossible that we have been unjust to Mr. Belcher. He is certainlya man of generous instincts, but with great eccentricities.Before condemning him in toto (here Mr. Snow openedhis bridge to let out the charity that was rising within him,and closed it at once for fear Miss Butterworth would get in aprotest), let us be sure that there is a possible selfish motivefor this most unexpected munificence. When we ascertainthe true state of the case, then we can take things as they air.Until we have arrived at the necessary knowledge, it becomesus to withhold all severe judgments. A generous deed has itsreflex influence; and it may be that some good may come toMr. Belcher from this, and help to mold his character tonobler issues. I sincerely hope it may, and that we shallrealize dividends that will add permanently to our somewhatrestricted sources of income."

Miss Butterworth sat during the speech, and trotted herknee. She had no faith in the paper, and she frankly said so.

"Don't be fooled," she said to Mrs. Snow. "By and byyou will find out that it is all a trick. Don't expect anything.I tell you I know Robert Belcher, and I know he's a knave,if there ever was one. I can feel him—I can feel him now—chucklingover this business, for business it is."

"What would you do if you were in my place?" inquiredMrs. Snow. "Would you send it back to him?"

"Yes, or I'd take it with a pair of tongs and throw it outof the window. I tell you there's a nasty trick done up inthat paper; and if you're going to keep it, don't say anythingabout it."

The family laughed, and even Mr. Snow unbent himself sofar as to smile and wipe his spectacles. Then the littletailoress went away, wondering when the mischief would revealitself, but sure that it would appear in good time. Ingood time—that is, in Mr. Belcher's good time—it did appear.

To comprehend the excitement that followed, it must beremembered that the people of Sevenoaks had the most implicitconfidence in Mr. Belcher's business sagacity. He hadbeen upon the ground, and knew personally all about the greatdiscoveries. Having investigated for himself, he had investedhis funds in this Company. If the people could only embarkin his boat, they felt that they should be safe. He would defendtheir interests while defending his own. So the field wasall ready for his reaping. Not Sevenoaks alone, but the wholecountry was open to any scheme which connected them withthe profits of these great discoveries, and when the excitementat Sevenoaks passed away at last, and men regained theirsenses, in the loss of their money, they had the company ofa multitude of ruined sympathizers throughout the length andbreadth of the land. Not only the simple and the impressibleyielded to the wave of speculation that swept the country, butthe shrewdest business men formed its crest, and were thrownhigh and dry beyond all others, in the common wreck, whenit reached the shore.

On the evening of the fourth day after his return, Mr. Belcherwas waited upon at his house by a self-constituted committeeof citizens, who merely called to inquire into thewonders of the region he had explored. Mr. Belcher wasquite at his ease, and entered at once upon a narrative of hisvisit. He had supposed that the excitement was without anygood foundation, but the oil was really there; and he did notsee why the business was not as legitimate and sound as anyin the world. The whole world needed the oil, and this wasthe one locality which produced it. There was undoubtedlymore or less of wild speculation connected with it, and, consideringthe value of the discoveries, it was not to be wonderedat. On the whole, it was the biggest thing that hadturned up during his lifetime.

Constantly leading them away from the topic of investment,he regaled their ears with the stories of the enormousfortunes that had been made, until there was not a man beforehim who was not ready to invest half the fortune he possessedin the speculation. Finally, one of the more frank and impatientof the group informed Mr. Belcher that they hadcome prepared to invest, if they found his report favorable.

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Belcher, "I really cannot take theresponsibility of advising you. I can act for myself, butwhen it comes to advising my neighbors, it is another matterentirely. You really must excuse me from this. I have goneinto the business rather heavily, but I have done it withoutadvice, and you must do the same. It isn't right for any manto lead another into experiments of this sort, and it is hardlythe fair thing to ask him to do it. I've looked for myself,but the fact that I am satisfied is no good reason for yourbeing so."

"Very well, tell us how to do it," said the spokesman."We cannot leave our business to do what you have done,and we shall be obliged to run some risk, if we go into it atall."

"Now, look here," said the wily proprietor, "you are puttingme in a hard place. Suppose the matter turns out badly;are you going to come to me, and charge me with leading youinto it?"

"Not at all," was responded, almost in unison.

"If you want to go into the Continental, I presume thereis still some stock to be had. If you wish me to act as youragent, I will serve you with a great deal of pleasure, but,mark you, I take no responsibility. I will receive your money,and you shall have your certificates as soon as the mail willbring them; and, if I can get no stock of the Company, youshall have some of my own."

They protested that they did not wish to put him toinconvenience, but quietly placed their money in his hands.Every sum was carefully counted and recorded, and Mr. Belcherassured them that they should have their certificateswithin five days.

As they retired, he confidentially told them that they hadbetter keep the matter from any but their particular friends.If there was any man among those friends who would like "achance in," he might come to him, and he would do what hecould for him.

Each of these men went off down the hill, full of dreamsof sudden wealth, and, as each of them had three or fourparticular friends to whom Mr. Belcher's closing message wasgiven, that gentleman was thronged with visitors the nextday, each one of whom he saw alone. All of these, too, hadparticular friends, and within ten days Mr. Belcher hadpocketed in his library the munificent sum of one hundredand fifty thousand dollars. After a reasonable period, eachinvestor received a certificate of his stock through the mail.

It was astonishing to learn that there was so much moneyin the village. It came in sums of one hundred up to fivehundred dollars, from the most unexpected sources—littlehoards that covered the savings of many years. It came fromwidows and orphans; it came from clergymen; it came fromsmall tradesmen and farmers; it came from the best businessmen in the place and region.

The proprietor was in daily communication with his confederatesand tools, and the investors were one day electrifiedby the information that the Continental had declared amonthly dividend of two per cent. This was what was neededto unload Mr. Belcher of nearly all the stock he held, and,within one month of his arrival from the oil-fields, he hadrealized a sum sufficient to pay for his new purchase in thecity, and the costly furniture with which he proposed to illuminateit.

Sevenoaks was happy. The sun of prosperity had dawnedupon the people, and the favored few who supposed that theywere the only ones to whom the good fortune had come, weresurprised to find themselves a great multitude. The dividendwas the talk of the town. Those who had invested a portionof their small means invested more, and those whose goodangel had spared them from the sacrifice yielded to the glitteringtemptation, and joined their lot with their rejoicingneighbors. Mr. Belcher walked or drove among them, andrubbed his hands over their good fortune. He knew very wellthat if he were going to reside longer among the people, hisposition would be a hard one; but he calculated that whenthe explosion should come, he should be beyond its reach.

It was a good time for him to declare the fact that he wasabout to leave them; and this he did. An earthquake wouldnot have filled them with greater surprise and consternation.The industries of the town were in his hands. The principalproperty of the village was his. He was identified with thenew enterprise upon which they had built such high hope,and they had come to believe that he was a kindlier man thanthey had formerly supposed him to be.

Already, however, there were suspicions in many minds thatthere were bubbles on their oil, ready to burst, and reveal theshallowness of the material beneath them; but these verysuspicions urged them to treat Mr. Belcher well, and to keephim interested for them. They protested against his leavingthem. They assured him of their friendship. They told himthat he had grown up among them, and that they could notbut feel that he belonged to them. They were proud of theposition and prosperity he had won for himself. They fawnedupon him, and when, at last, he told them that it was toolate—that he had purchased and furnished a home for himselfin the city—they called a public meeting, and, after a dozenregretful and complimentary speeches, from clergy and laity,resolved:

"1st. That we have learned with profound regret that ourdistinguished fellow-citizen, ROBERT BELCHER, Esq., is aboutto remove his residence from among us, and to become a citizenof the commercial emporium of our country.

"2d. That we recognize in him a gentleman of great businessenterprise, of generous instincts, of remarkable publicspirit, and a personal illustration of the beneficent influenceof freedom and of free democratic institutions.

"3d. That the citizens of Sevenoaks will ever hold inkindly remembrance a gentleman who has been identifiedwith the growth and importance of their beloved village, andthat they shall follow him to his new home with heartiestgood wishes and prayers for his welfare.

"4th. That whenever in the future his heart and his stepsshall turn toward his old home, and the friends of his youth,he shall be greeted with voices of welcome, and hearts andhomes of hospitality.

"5th. That these resolutions shall be published in thecounty papers, and that a copy shall be presented to the gentlemannamed therein, by a committee to be appointed bythe chairman."

As was quite natural, and quite noteworthy, under the circ*mstances,the committee appointed was composed of thosemost deeply interested in the affairs of the Continental PetroleumCompany.

Mr. Belcher received the committee very graciously, andmade them a neat little speech, which he had carefully preparedfor the occasion. In concluding, he alluded to thegreat speculation in which they, with so many of their fellow-citizens,had embarked.

"Gentlemen," said he, "there is no one who holds solarge an interest in the Continental as myself. I have partedwith many of my shares to gratify the desire of the peopleof Sevenoaks to possess them, but I still hold more than anyof you. If the enterprise prospers, I shall prosper with you.If it goes down, as I sincerely hope it may not—more foryour sakes, believe me, than my own—I shall suffer with you.Let us hope for the best. I have already authority for announcingto you that another monthly dividend of two per cent.will be paid you before I am called upon to leave you. Thatcertainly looks like prosperity. Gentlemen, I bid you farewell."

When they had departed, having first heartily shaken theproprietor's hand, that gentleman locked his door, and gazedfor a long time into his mirror.

"Robert Belcher," said he, "are you a rascal? Who saysrascal? Are you any worse than the crowd? How badlywould any of these precious fellow-citizens of yours feel ifthey knew their income was drawn from other men's pockets?Eh? Wouldn't they prefer to have somebody suffer ratherthan lose their investments? Verily, verily, I say unto you,they would. Don't talk to me about being a rascal! You'rejust a little sharper than the rest of them—that's all. Theywanted to get money without earning it, and wanted me tohelp them to do it. I wanted to get money without earningit, and I wanted them to help me to do it. It happens thatthey will be disappointed and that I am satisfied. Don't sayrascal to me, sir. If I ever hear that word again I'll throttleyou. Is that question settled? It is? Very well. Letthere be peace between us.... List! I hear the roarof the mighty city! Who lives in yonder palace? Whosewealth surrounds him thus with luxuries untold? Who walksout of yonder door and gets into that carriage, waiting withimpatient steeds? Is that gentleman's name Belcher? Takea good look at him as he rolls away, bowing right and left tothe gazing multitude. He is gone. The abyss of heavenswallows up his form, and yet I linger. Why lingerest thou?Farewell! and again I say, farewell!"

Mr. Belcher had very carefully covered all his tracks. Hehad insisted on having his name omitted from the list ofofficers of the Continental Petroleum Company. He hadcarefully forwarded the names of all who had invested in itsstock for record, so that, if the books should ever be broughtto light, there should be no apparent irregularity in his dealings.His own name was there with the rest, and a smallamount of money had been set aside for operating expenses,so that something would appear to have been done.

The day approached for his departure, and his agent, withhis family, was installed in his house for its protection; andone fine morning, having first posted on two or three publicplaces the announcement of a second monthly dividend to bepaid through his agent to the stockholders in the Continental,he, with his family, rode down the hill in his coach, followedby an enormous baggage-wagon loaded with trunks, andpassed through the village. Half of Sevenoaks was out towitness the departure. Cheers rent the air from every group;and if a conqueror had returned from the most sacred patrioticservice he could not have received a heartier ovationthan that bestowed upon the graceless fugitive. He bowedfrom side to side in his own lordly way, and flourished andextended his pudgy palm in courtly courtesy.

Mrs. Belcher sat back in her seat, shrinking from all thesedemonstrations, for she knew that her husband was unworthyof them. The carriages disappeared in the distance, andthen—sad, suspicious, uncommunicative—the men went off todraw their last dividend and go about their work. Theyfought desperately against their own distrust. In the proportionthat they doubted the proprietor they were ready to defendhim; but there was not a man of them who had not beenfairly warned that he was running his own risk, and who hadnot sought for the privilege of throwing away his money.

CHAPTER XII.

IN WHICH JIM ENLARGES HIS PLANS FOR A HOUSE, AND COMPLETESHIS PLANS FOR A HOUSE-KEEPER.

When, at last, Jim and Mr. Benedict were left alone bythe departure of Mr. Balfour and the two lads, they sat asif they had been stranded by a sudden squall after a long andpleasant voyage. Mr. Benedict was plunged into profounddejection, and Jim saw that he must be at once and persistentlydiverted.

"I telled Mr. Balfour," said he, "afore he went away,about the house. I telled him about the stoop, an' the chairs,an' the ladder for posies to run up on, an' I said somethin'about cubberds and settles, an' other thingembobs that havecome into my mind; an' says he: 'Jim, be ye goin' tosplice?' An' says I: 'If so be I can find a little stick as'llanswer, it wouldn't be strange if I did.' 'Well,' says he,'now's yer time, if ye're ever goin' to, for the hay-day ofyour life is a passin' away.' An' says I: 'No, ye don't.My hay-day has jest come, and my grass is dry an' it'll keep.It's good for fodder, an' it wouldn't make a bad bed.'"

"What did he say to that?" inquired Mr. Benedict.

"Says he: 'I shouldn't wonder if ye was right. Haveye found the woman?' 'Yes,' says I. 'I have found agenuine creetur.' An' says he: 'What is her name?' An'says I: 'That's tellin'. It's a name as oughter be changed,an' it won't be my fault if it ain't.' An' then says he: 'CanI be of any 'sistance to ye?' An' says I: 'No. Courtin' islike dyin'; ye can't trust it to another feller. Ye've jest gotto go it alone.' An' then he laughed, an' says he: 'Jim, Iwish ye good luck, an' I hope ye'll live to have a little fellero' yer own.' An' says I: 'Old Jerusalem! If I ever have alittle feller o' my own,' says I, 'this world will have to spreadto hold me.'"

Then Jim put his head down between his knees, and thought.When it emerged from its hiding his eyes were moist, and hesaid:

"Ye must 'scuse me, Mr. Benedict, for ye know what thefeelin's of a pa is. It never come to me in this way afore."

Benedict could not help smiling at this new exhibition ofsympathy; for Jim, in the comprehension of his feelings inthe possible event of possessing offspring, had arrived at amore vivid sense of his companion's bereavement.

"Now, I tell ye what it is," said Jim. "You an' me hasgot to be brushin' round. We can't set here an' think aboutthem that's gone; an' now I want to tell ye 'bout anotherthing that Mr. Balfour said. Says he: 'Jim, if ye're goin'to build a house, build a big one, an' keep a hotel. I'll fill itall summer for ye,' says he. 'I know lots o' folks,' says he,'that would be glad to stay with ye, an' pay all ye axed 'em.Build a big house,' says he, 'an' take yer time for't, an' whenye git ready for company, let a feller know.' I tell ye, itmade my eyes stick out to think on't. 'Jim Fenton's hotel!says I. 'I don't b'lieve I can swing it.' 'If ye want anymore money'n ye've got,' says he, 'call on me.'"

The idea of a hotel, with all its intrusions upon his privacyand all its diversions, was not pleasant to Mr. Benedict; buthe saw at once that no woman worthy of Jim could be expectedto be happy in the woods entirely deprived of society. Itwould establish a quicker and more regular line of communicationwith Sevenoaks, and thus make a change from its lifeto that of the woods a smaller hardship. But the buildingof a large house was a great enterprise for two men to undertake.

The first business was to draw a plan. In this work Mr.Benedict was entirely at home. He could not only makeplans of the two floors, but an elevation of the front; andwhen, after two days of work, with frequent questions andexaminations by Jim, his drawings were concluded, they helda long discussion over them. It was all very wonderful toJim, and all very satisfactory—at least, he said so; and yet hedid not seem to be entirely content.

"Tell me, Jim, just what the trouble is," said his architect,"for I see there's something wanting."

"I don't see," said Jim, "jest where ye're goin' toput 'im."

"Who do you mean? Mr. Balfour?"

"No; I don't mean no man."

"Harry? Thede?"

"No; I mean, s'posin'. Can't we put on an ell when wewant it?"

"Certainly."

"An' now, can't ye make yer picter look kind o' cozy like,with a little feller playin' on the ground down there afore thestoop?"

Mr. Benedict not only could do this, but he did it; andthen Jim took it, and looked at it for a long time.

"Well, little feller, ye can play thar till ye're tired, right onthat paper, an' then ye must come into the house, an' let yerma wash yer face;" and then Jim, realizing the comical sideof all this charming dream, laughed till the woods rangagain, and Benedict laughed with him. It was a kind ofclearing up of the cloud of sentiment that enveloped themboth, and they were ready to work. They settled, after along discussion, upon the site of the new house, which wasback from the river, near Number Ten. There were just threethings to be done during the remainder of the autumn andthe approaching winter. A cellar was to be excavated, thetimber for the frame of the new house was to be cut andhewed, and the lumber was to be purchased and drawn to theriver. Before the ground should freeze, they determined tocomplete the cellar, which was to be made small—to be, indeed,little more than a cave beneath the house, that would accommodatesuch stores as it would be necessary to shield fromthe frost. A fortnight of steady work, by both the men, notonly completed the excavation, but built the wall.

Then came the selection of timber for the frame. It wasall found near the spot, and for many days the sound of twoaxes was heard through the great stillness of the Indian summer;for at this time nature, as well as Jim, was in a dream.Nuts were falling from the hickory-trees, and squirrels wereleaping along the ground, picking up the stores on which theywere to subsist during the long winter that lay before them.The robins had gone away southward, and the voice of thethrushes was still. A soft haze steeped the wilderness in itstender hue—a hue that carried with it the fragrance of burningleaves. At some distant forest shrine, the priestly windswere swinging their censers, and the whole temple was pervadedwith the breath of worship. Blue-jays were screamingamong leathern-leaved oaks, and the bluer kingfishers madetheir long diagonal flights from side to side of the river, chatteringlike magpies. There was one infallible sign that winterwas close upon the woods. The wild geese, flying over NumberNine, had called to Jim with news from the Arctic, andhe had looked up at the huge harrow scraping the sky, andsaid: "I seen ye, an' I know what ye mean."

The timber was cut of appropriate length and rolled uponlow scaffoldings, where it could be conveniently hewed duringthe winter; then two days were spent in hunting and insetting traps for sable and otter, and then the two men wereready to arrange for the lumber.

This involved the necessity of a calculation of the materialsrequired, and definite specifications of the same. Not onlythis, but it required that Mr. Benedict should himself accompanyJim on the journey to the mill, three miles beyondMike Conlin's house. He naturally shrank from thisexposure of himself; but so long as he was not in danger ofcoming in contact with Mr. Belcher, or with any one whomhe had previously known, he was persuaded that the tripwould not be unpleasant to him. In truth, as he grewstronger personally, and felt that his boy was out of harm'sway, he began to feel a certain indefinite longing to seesomething of the world again, and to look into new faces.

As for Jim, he had no idea of returning to Number Nineagain until he had seen Sevenoaks, and that one most interestingperson there with whom he had associated his future,although he did not mention his plan to Mr. Benedict.

The ice was already gathering in the stream, and thewinter was descending so rapidly that they despaired oftaking their boat down to the old landing, and permitting itto await their return, as they would be almost certain to findit frozen in, and be obliged to leave it there until spring.They were compelled, therefore, to make the complete journeyon foot, following to the lower landing the "tote-road"that Mike Conlin had taken when he came to them on hisjourney of discovery.

They started early one morning about the middle ofNovember, and, as the weather was cold, Turk bore themcompany. Though Mr. Benedict had become quite hardy,the tramp of thirty miles over the frozen ground, that hadalready received a slight covering of snow, was a cruel one,and taxed to their utmost his powers of endurance.

Jim carried the pack of provisions, and left his companionwithout a load; so by steady, quiet, and almost speechlesswalking, they made the entire distance to Mike Conlin'shouse before the daylight had entirely faded from the pale,cold sky. Mike was taken by surprise. He could hardly bemade to believe that the hearty-looking, comfortably-dressedman whom he found in Mr. Benedict was the same whomhe had left many months before in the rags of a pauper andthe emaciation of a feeble convalescent. The latter expressedto Mike the obligations he felt for the service whichJim informed him had been rendered by the good-naturedIrishman, and Mike blushed while protesting that it was"nothing at all, at all," and thinking of the hundred dollarsthat he earned so easily.

"Did ye know, Jim," said Mike, to change the subject,"that owld Belcher has gone to New Yorrk to live?"

"No."

"Yis, the whole kit an' boodle of 'em is gone, an' thepurty man wid 'em."

"Hallelujer!" roared Jim.

"Yis, and be gorry he's got me hundred dollars," saidMike.

"What did ye gi'en it to 'im for, Mike? I didn't takeye for a fool."

"Well, ye see, I wint in for ile, like the rist of 'em. Och!ye shud 'ave seen the owld feller talk! 'Mike,' says he,'ye can't afford to lose this,' says he. 'I should miss meslape, Mike,' says he, 'if it shouldn't all come back to ye.''An' if it don't,' says I, 'there'll be two uv us lyin' awake,an' ye'll have plinty of company; an' what they lose indhraimin' they'll take out in cussin',' says I. 'Mike,' says he,'ye hadn't better do it, an' if ye do, I don't take no resk;'an' says I, 'they're all goin' in, an' I'm goin' wid 'em.''Very well,' says he, lookin' kind o' sorry, and then, begorry, he scooped the whole pile, an' barrin' the ile uv hispurty spache, divil a bit have I seen more nor four dollars."

"Divil a bit will ye see agin," said Jim, shaking his head."Mike, ye're a fool."

"That's jist what I tell mesilf," responded Mike; "butthere's betther music nor hearin' it repaited; an' I've gotbetther company in it, barrin' Mr. Benedict's presence, norI've got here in me own house."

Jim, finding Mike a little sore over his loss, refrained fromfurther allusion to it; and Mr. Benedict declared himselfready for bed. Jim had impatiently waited for this announcement,for he was anxious to have a long talk withMike about the new house, the plans for which he hadbrought with him.

"Clear off yer table," said Jim, "an' peel yer eyes, Mike,for I'm goin' to show ye somethin' that'll s'prise ye."

When his order was obeyed, he unrolled the preciousplans.

"Now, ye must remember, Mike, that this isn't the house;these is plans, as Mr. Benedict has drawed. That's thekitchen, and that's the settin'-room, and that's the cubberd,and that's the bedroom for us, ye know, and on that otherpaper is the chambers."

Mike looked at it all earnestly, and with a degree of awe,and then shook his head.

"Jim," said he, "I don't want to bodder ye, but ye'vejist been fooled. Don't ye see that divil a place 'ave ye gotfor the pig?"

"Pig!" exclaimed Jim, with contempt. "D'ye s'pose Ibuild a house for a pig? I ain't no pig, an' she ain't nopig."

"The proof of the puddin' is in the atin', Jim; an' yedon't know the furrst thing about house-kapin'. Ye can nomore kape house widout a pig, nor ye can row yer boat widouta paddle. I'm an owld house-kaper, Jim, an' I know; an' aman that don't tend to his pig furrst, is no betther nor a b'y.Ye might put 'im in Number Tin, but he'd go through itquicker nor water through a baskit. Don't talk to me abouthouse-kapin' widout a pig. Ye might give 'im that littleshtoop to lie on, an' let 'im run under the house to slape.That wouldn't be bad now, Jim?"

The last suggestion was given in a tender, judicial tone, forMike saw that Jim was disappointed, if not disgusted. Jimwas looking at his beautiful stoop, and thinking of thepleasant dreams he had associated with it. The idea ofMike's connecting the life of a pig with that stoop was morethan he could bear.

"Why, Mike," said he, in an injured tone, "that stoop'sthe place where she's agoin' to set."

"Oh! I didn't know, Jim, ye was agoin' to kape hins.Now, ef you're agoin' to kape hins, ye kin do as ye plase,Jim, in coorse; but ye musn't forgit the pig, Jim. Be gorry,he ates everything that nobody ilse kin ate, and then ye kinate him."

Mike had had his expression of opinion, and shown to hisown satisfaction that his judgments were worth something.Having done this, he became amiable, sympathetic, and evenadmiring. Jim was obliged to tell him the same things agreat many times, and to end at last without the satisfactionof knowing that the Irishman comprehended the preciousplans. He would have been glad to make a confidant ofMike, but the Irishman's obtuseness and inability to comprehendhis tenderer sentiments, repulsed him, and drove himback upon himself.

Then came up the practical question concerning Mike'sability to draw the lumber for the new house. Mike thoughthe could hire a horse for his keeping, and a sled for a smallsum, that would enable him to double his facilities fordoing the job; and then a price for the work was agreedupon.

The next morning, Jim and Mr. Benedict pursued theirjourney to the lumber-mill, and there spent the day in selectingtheir materials, and filling out their specifications.

The first person Mr. Benedict saw on entering the mill wasa young man from Sevenoaks, whom he had known manyyears before. He colored as if he had been detected in acrime, but the man gave him no sign that the recognition wasmutual. His old acquaintance had no memory of him, apparently;and then he realized the change that must have passedupon him during his long invalidism and his wonderfulrecovery.

They remained with the proprietor of the mill during thenight.

"I jest call 'im Number Ten," said Jim, in response to theinquiries that were made of him concerning his companion,"He never telled me his name, an' I never axed 'im. I'm'Number Nine,' an' he's 'Number Ten,' and that's all tharis about it."

Jim's oddities were known, and inquiries were pushed nofurther, though Jim gratuitously informed his host that theman had come into the woods to get well and was willing towork to fill up his time.

On the following morning, Jim proposed to Mr. Benedictto go on to Sevenoaks for the purchase of more tools, and thenails and hardware that would be necessary in finishing thehouse. The experience of the latter during the previous dayshowed him that he need not fear detection, and, now thatMr. Belcher was out of the way, Jim found him possessed bya strong desire to make the proposed visit. The road was notdifficult, and before sunset the two men found themselveshoused in the humble lodgings that had for many years beenfamiliar to Jim. Mr. Benedict went into the streets, andamong the shops, the next morning, with great reluctance;but this soon wore off as he met man after man whom heknew, who failed to recognize him. In truth, so many thingshad happened, that the memory of the man who, long ago,had been given up as dead had passed out of mind. Thepeople would have been no more surprised to see a sleeper ofthe village cemetery among them than they would to haverealized that they were talking with the insane pauper whohad fled, as they supposed, to find his death in the forest.

They had a great deal to do during the day, and whennight came, Jim could no longer be restrained from the visitthat gave significance, not only to his journey, but to all hisplans. Not a woman had been seen on the street during theday whom Jim had not scanned with an anxious and greedylook, in the hope of seeing the one figure that was the desireof his eyes—but he had not seen it. Was she ill? Had sheleft Sevenoaks? He would not inquire, but he would knowbefore he slept.

"There's a little business as must be did afore I go," saidJim, to Mr. Benedict in the evening, "an' I sh'd like to haveye go with me, if ye feel up to't." Mr. Benedict felt up toit, and the two went out together. They walked along thesilent street, and saw the great mill, ablaze with light. Themist from the falls showed white in the frosty air, and, withoutsaying a word, they crossed the bridge, and climbed a hilldotted with little dwellings.

Jim's heart was in his mouth, for his fears that ill had happenedto the little tailoress had made him nervous; and when,at length, he caught sight of the light in her window, hegrasped Mr. Benedict by the arm almost fiercely, and exclaimed:

"It's all right. The little woman's in, an' waitin'. Canyou see my har?"

Having been assured that it was in a presentable condition,Jim walked boldly up to the door and knocked. Havingbeen admitted by the same girl who had received him before,there was no need to announce his name. Both men wentinto the little parlor of the house, and the girl in great gleeran upstairs to inform Miss Butterworth that there were twomen and a dog in waiting, who wished to see her. Miss Butterworthcame down from busy work, like one in a hurry, andwas met by Jim with extended hand, and the gladdest smilethat ever illuminated a human face.

"How fare ye, little woman?" said he. "I'm glad to seeye—gladder nor I can tell ye."

There was something in the greeting so hearty, so warmand tender and full of faith, that Miss Butterworth was touched.Up to that moment he had made no impression upon herheart, and, quite to her surprise, she found that she was gladto see him. She had had a world of trouble since she hadmet Jim, and the great, wholesome nature, fresh from thewoods, and untouched by the trials of those with whom shewas in daily association, was like a breeze in the feverishsummer, fresh from the mountains. She was, indeed, glad tosee him, and surprised by the warmth of the sentiment thatsprang within her heart in response to his greeting.

Miss Butterworth looked inquiringly, and with some embarrassmentat the stranger.

"That's one o' yer old friends, little woman," said Jim."Don't give 'im the cold shoulder. 'Tain't every day as afeller comes to ye from the other side o' Jordan."

Miss Butterworth naturally suspected the stranger's identity,and was carefully studying his face to assure herself that Mr.Benedict was really in her presence. When some look of hiseyes, or motion of his body, brought her the conclusive evidenceof his identity, she grasped both his hands, and said:

"Dear, dear, Mr. Benedict! how much you have suffered!I thank God for you, and for the good friend He has raisedup to help you. It's like seeing one raised from the dead."

Then she sat down at his side, and, apparently forgettingJim, talked long and tenderly of the past. She rememberedMrs. Benedict so well! And she had so many times carriedflowers and placed them upon her grave! She told him aboutthe troubles in the town, and the numbers of poor people whohad risked their little all and lost it in the great speculation;of those who were still hoping against hope that they shouldsee their hard-earned money again; of the execrations thatwere already beginning to be heaped upon Mr. Belcher; ofthe hard winter that lay before the village, and the wearinessof sympathy which had begun to tell upon her energies. Life,which had been once so full of the pleasure of action and industry,was settling, more and more, into dull routine, andshe could see nothing but trouble ahead, for herself and forall those in whom she was interested.

Mr. Benedict, for the first time since Jim had rescued himfrom the alms-house, became wholly himself. The sympathyof a woman unlocked his heart, and he talked in his old way.He alluded to his early trials with entire freedom, to his longillness and mental alienation, to his hopes for his boy, andespecially to his indebtedness to Jim. On this latter pointhe poured out his whole heart, and Jim himself was deeplyaffected by the revelation of his gratitude. He tried in vainto protest, for Mr. Benedict, having found his tongue, wouldnot pause until he had laid his soul bare before his benefactor.The effect that the presence of the sympathetic woman producedupon his protégé put a new thought into Jim's mind.He could not resist the conviction that the two were suited toone another, and that the "little woman," as he tenderlycalled her, would be happier with the inventor than she wouldbe with him. It was not a pleasant thought, but even thenhe cast aside his selfishness with a great struggle, and determinedthat he would not stand in the way of an event whichwould crush his fondest hopes. Jim did not know women aswell as he thought he did. He did not see that the two metmore like two women than like representatives of oppositesexes. He did not see that the sympathy between the pair wasthe sympathy of two natures which would be the happiest independence, and that Miss Butterworth could no more havechosen Mr. Benedict for a husband than she could have chosenher own sister.

Mr. Benedict had never been informed by Jim of the nameof the woman whom he hoped to make his wife, but he saw atonce, and with sincere pleasure, that he was in her presence;and when he had finished what he had to say to her, andagain heartily expressed his pleasure in renewing her acquaintance,he rose to go.

"Jim, I will not cut your call short, but I must get back,to my room and prepare for to-morrow's journey. Let meleave you here, and find my way back to my lodgings alone."

"All right," said Jim, "but we ain't goin' home to-morrer."

Benedict bade Miss Butterworth "good-night," but, as hewas passing out of the room, Jim remembered that there wassomething that he wished to say to him, and so passed outwith him, telling Miss Butterworth that he should soon return.

When the door closed behind them, and they stood alonein the darkness, Jim said, with his hand on his companion'sshoulder, and an awful lie in his throat:

"I brung ye here hopin' ye'd take a notion to this littlewoman. She'd do more for ye nor anybody else. She canmake yer clo'es, and be good company for ye, an'—"

"And provide for me. No, that won't do, Jim."

"Well, you'd better think on't."

"No, Jim, I shall never marry again."

"Now's yer time. Nobody knows what'll happen aforemornin'."

"I understand you, Jim," said Mr. Benedict, "and I knowwhat all this costs you. You are worthy of her, and I hopeyou'll get her."

Mr. Benedict tore himself away, but Jim said, "hold on abit."

Benedict turned, and then Jim inquired:

"Have ye got a piece of Indian rubber?"

"Yes."

"Then jest rub out the picter of the little feller in front ofthe stoop, an' put in Turk. If so be as somethin' happens to-night,I sh'd want to show her the plans in the mornin'; an'if she should ax me whose little feller it was, it would be sorto' cumbersome to tell her, an' I sh'd have to lie my way outon't."

Mr. Benedict promised to attend to the matter before heslept, and then Jim went back into the house.

Of the long conversation that took place that night betweenthe woodsman and the little tailoress we shall present norecord. That he pleaded his case well and earnestly, andwithout a great deal of bashfulness, will be readily believedby those who have made his acquaintance. That the woman,in her lonely circ*mstances, and with her hungry heart, couldlightly refuse the offer of his hand and life was an impossibility.From the hour of his last previous visit she had unconsciouslygone toward him in her affections, and when shemet him she learned, quite to her own surprise, that her hearthad found its home. He had no culture, but his nature wasmanly. He had little education, but his heart was true, andhis arm was strong. Compared with Mr. Belcher, with allhis wealth, he was nobility personified. Compared with thesordid men around her, with whom he would be an object ofsupercilious contempt, he seemed like a demigod. His eccentricities,his generosities, his originalities of thought andfancy, were a feast to her. There was more of him than shecould find in any of her acquaintances—more that was fresh,piquant, stimulating, and vitally appetizing. Having oncecome into contact with him, the influence of his presence hadremained, and it was with a genuine throb of pleasure thatshe found herself with him again.

When he left her that night, he left her in tears. Bendingover her, with his strong hands holding her cheeks tenderly,as she looked up into his eyes, he kissed her forehead.

"Little woman," said he, "I love ye. I never knowedwhat love was afore, an' if this is the kind o' thing they havein heaven, I want to go there when you do. Speak a goodword for me when ye git a chance."

Jim walked on air all the way back to his lodgings—walkedby his lodgings—stood still, and looked up at the stars—wentout to the waterfall, and watched the writhing, tumbling,roaring river—wrapped in transcendent happiness. Transformedand transfused by love, the world around him seemedquite divine. He had stumbled upon the secret of his existence.He had found the supreme charm of life. He feltthat a new principle had sprung to action within him, whichhad in it the power to work miracles of transformation. Hecould never be in the future exactly what he had been in thepast. He had taken a step forward and upward—a step irretraceable.

Jim had never prayed, but there was something about thisexperience that lifted his heart upward. He looked up to thestars, and said to himself: "He's somewhere up thar, Is'pose. I can't seen 'im, an' I must look purty small to Himif He can seen me; but I hope He knows as I'm obleegedto 'im, more nor I can tell 'im. When He made a goodwoman, He did the biggest thing out, an' when He started aman to lovin' on her, He set up the best business that wasever did. I hope He likes the 'rangement, and won't putnothin' in the way on't. Amen! I'm goin' to bed."

Jim put his last determination into immediate execution.He found Mr. Benedict in his first nap, from which he feltobliged to rouse him, with the information that it was "allright," and that the quicker the house was finished the betterit would be for all concerned.

The next morning, Turk having been substituted for thechild in the foreground of the front elevation of the hotel,the two men went up to Miss Butterworth's, and exhibitedand talked over the plans. They received many valuablehints from the prospective mistress of the prospective mansion.The stoop was to be made broader for the accommodationof visitors; more room for wardrobes was suggested,with little conveniences for housekeeping, which complicatedthe plans not a little. Mr. Benedict carefully noted them all,to be wrought out at his leisure.

Jim's love had wrought a miracle in the night. He hadsaid nothing about it to his architect, but it had lifted himabove the bare utilities of a house, so that he could see theuse of beauty. "Thar's one thing," said he, "as tharhain't none on us thought on; but it come to me last night.There's a place where the two ruffs come together that wantssomethin', an' it seems to me it's a cupalo—somethin' tostan' up over the whole thing, and say to them as comes,'Hallelujer!' We've done a good deal for house-keepin',now let's do somethin' for glory. It's jest like a ribbon on abonnet, or a blow on a potato-vine. It sets it off, an' makesa kind o' Fourth o' July for it. What do ye say, littlewoman?"

The "little woman" accepted the suggestion, and admittedthat it would at least make the building look more like ahotel.

All the details settled, the two men went away, and poorBenedict had a rough time in getting back to camp. Jimcould hardly restrain himself from going through in a singleday, so anxious was he to get at his traps and resume workupon the house. There was no fatigue too great for himnow. The whole world was bright and full of promise; andhe could not have been happier or more excited if he hadbeen sure that at the year's end a palace and a princess wereto be the reward of his enterprise.

CHAPTER XIII.

WHICH INTRODUCES SEVERAL RESIDENTS OF SEVENOAKS TO THEMETROPOLIS AND A NEW CHARACTER TO THE READER.

Harry Benedict was in the great city. When his storywas known by Mrs. Balfour—a quiet, motherly woman—andshe was fully informed of her husband's plans concerninghim, she received him with a cordiality and tenderness whichwon his heart and made him entirely at home. The wondersof the shops, the wonders of the streets, the wonders of theplaces of public amusem*nt, the music of the churches, theinspiration of the great tides of life that swept by him onevery side, were in such sharp contrast to the mean conditionsto which he had been accustomed, that he could hardlysleep. Indeed, the dreams of his unquiet slumbers wereformed of less attractive constituents than the visions of hiswaking hours. He had entered a new world, which stimulatedhis imagination, and furnished him with marvelous materialsfor growth. He had been transformed by the clothing of thelad whose place he had taken into a city boy, difficult to berecognized by those who had previously known him. Hehardly knew himself, and suspected his own consciousness ofcheating him.

For several days he had amused himself in his leisure hoursby watching a huge house opposite to that of the Balfours,into which was pouring a stream of furniture. Huge vanswere standing in front of it, or coming and departing, frommorning until night, Dressing-cases, book-cases, chairs,mirrors, candelabra, beds, tables—everything necessary andelegant in the furniture of a palace, were unloaded andcarried in. All day long, too, he could see through the largewindows the active figure and beautiful face of a woman whoseemed to direct and control the movements of all who wereengaged in the work.

The Balfours had noticed the same thing; but, beyondwondering who was rich or foolish enough to purchase andfurnish Palgrave's Folly, they had given the matter no attention.They were rich, of good family, of recognized cultureand social importance, and it did not seem to them that anyone whom they would care to know would be willing tooccupy a house so pronounced in vulgar display. They werepeople whose society no money could buy. If Robert Belcherhad been worth a hundred millions instead of one, the factwould not have been taken into consideration in decidingany social question relating to him.

Finally the furnishing was complete; the windows werepolished, the steps were furbished, and nothing seemed towait but the arrival of the family for which the dwelling hadbeen prepared.

One late afternoon, before the lamps were lighted in thestreets, he could see that the house was illuminated; and justas the darkness came on, a carriage drove up and a familyalighted. The doors were thrown open, the beautiful womanstood upon the threshold, and all ran up to enter. Shekissed the lady of the house, kissed the children, shook handscordially with the gentleman of the party, and then the doorswere swung to, and they were shut from the sight of thestreet; but just as the man entered, the light from the halland the light from the street revealed the flushed face andportly figure of Robert Belcher.

Harry knew him, and ran down stairs to Mrs. Balfour, paleand agitated as if he had seen a ghost. "It is Mr. Belcher,"he said, "and I must go back. I know he'll find me; I mustgo back to-morrow."

It was a long time before the family could pacify him and assurehim of their power to protect him; but they did it at last,though they left him haunted with the thought that he mightbe exposed at any moment to the new companions of his lifeas a pauper and the son of a pauper. The great humiliationhad been burned into his soul. The petty tyrannies of TomBuffum had cowed him, so that it would be difficult for himever to emerge from their influence into a perfectly free boyhoodand manhood. Had they been continued long enough,they would have ruined him. Once he had been entirely inthe power of adverse circ*mstances and a brutal will, and hewas almost incurably wounded.

The opposite side of the street presented very differentscenes. Mrs. Belcher found, through the neighborly servicesof Mrs. Dillingham, that her home was all prepared for her,even to the selection and engagement of her domestic service.A splendid dinner was ready to be served, for which Mr. Belcher,who had been in constant communication with his convenientand most officious friend, had brought the silver; andthe first business was to dispose of it. Mrs. Dillingham ledthe mistress of the house to her seat, distributed the children,and amused them all by the accounts she gave them of herefforts to make their entrance and welcome satisfactory. Mrs.Belcher observed her quietly, acknowledged to herself thewoman's personal charms—her beauty, her wit, her humor,her sprightliness, and her more than neighborly service; buther quick, womanly instincts detected something which shedid not like. She saw that Mr. Belcher was fascinated by her,and that he felt that she had rendered him and the family aservice for which great gratitude was due; but she saw thatthe object of his admiration was selfish—that she loved power,delighted in having things her own way, and, more than all,was determined to place the mistress of the house under obligationsto her. It would have been far more agreeable toMrs. Belcher to find everything in confusion, than to haveher house brought into habitable order by a stranger in whomshe had no trust, and upon whom she had no claim. Mr.Belcher had bought the house without her knowledge; Mrs.Dillingham had arranged it without her supervision. Sheseemed to herself to be simply a child, over whose life othershad assumed the offices of administration.

Mrs. Belcher was weary, and she would have been delightedto be alone with her family, but here was an intruder whomshe could not dispose of. She would have been glad to goover the house alone, and to have had the privilege of discovery,but she must go with one who was bent on showingher everything, and giving her reasons for all that had beendone.

Mrs. Dillingham was determined to play her cards wellwith Mrs. Belcher. She was sympathetic, confidential, mostrespectful; but she found that lady very quiet. Mr. Belcherfollowed them from room to room, with wider eyes for Mrs.Dillingham than for the details of his new home. Now hecould see them together—the mother of his children, andthe woman who had already won his heart away from her.The shapely lady, with her queenly ways, her vivacity, hergraceful adaptiveness to persons and circ*mstances, was sharplycontrasted with the matronly figure, homely manners, andunresponsive mind of his wife. He pitied his wife, he pitiedhimself, he pitied his children, he almost pitied the dumbwalls and the beautiful furniture around him.

Was Mrs. Dillingham conscious of the thoughts which possessedhim? Did she know that she was leading him aroundhis house, in her assumed confidential intimacy with his wife,as she would lead a spaniel by a silken cord? Was she awarethat, as she moved side by side with Mrs. Belcher, throughthe grand rooms, she was displaying herself to the best advantageto her admirer, and that, yoked with the wifehoodand motherhood of the house, she was dragging, while heheld, the plow that was tilling the deep carpets for tares thatmight be reaped in harvests of unhappiness? Would she havedropped the chain if she had? Not she.

To fascinate, and make a fool of, a man who was strong andcunning in his own sphere; to have a hand—gloved in officiousfriendship—in other lives, furnished the zest of her unemployedlife. She could introduce discord into a family withouteven acknowledging to herself that she had done it wittingly.She could do it, and weep over the injustice that charged herwith it. Her motives were always pure! She had alwaysdone her best to serve her friends! and what were her rewards?So the victories which she won by her smiles, she madepermanent by her tears. So the woman by whose intriguesthe mischief came was transformed into a victim, from whoseshapely shoulders the garment of blame slipped off, that societymight throw over them the robes of its respectful commiseration,and thus make her more interesting and lovelythan before!

Mrs. Belcher measured very carefully, or apprehended veryreadily, the kind of woman she had to deal with, and felt atonce that she was no match for her. She saw that she couldnot shake her off, so long as it was her choice to remain. Shereceived from her no direct offense, except the offense of heruninvited presence; but the presence meant service, and socould not be resented. And Mrs. Belcher could be of somuch service to her! Her life was so lonely—so meaningless!It would be such a joy to her, in a city full of shams, to haveone friend who would take her good offices, and so help togive to her life a modicum of significance!

After a full survey of the rooms, and a discussion of thebeauties and elegancies of the establishment, they all descendedto the dining-room, and, in response to Mrs. Dillingham'sorder, were served with tea.

"You really must excuse me, Mrs. Belcher," said the beautifullady deprecatingly, "but I have been here for a week,and it seems so much like my own home, that I ordered thetea without thinking that I am the guest and you are the mistress."

"Certainly, and I am really very much obliged to you;"and then feeling that she had been a little untrue to herself,Mrs. Belcher added bluntly: "I feel myself in a very awkwardsituation—obliged to one on whom I have no claim, and onewhom I can never repay."

"The reward of a good deed is in the doing, I assure you,"said Mrs. Dillingham, sweetly. "All I ask is that you makeme serviceable to you. I know all about the city, and allabout its ways. You can call upon me for anything; and nowlet's talk about the house. Isn't it lovely?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Belcher, "too lovely. While so manyare poor around us, it seems almost like an insult to them tolive in such a place, and flaunt our wealth in their faces. Mr.Belcher is very generous toward his family, and I have no wishto complain, but I would exchange it all for my little room inSevenoaks."

Mr. Belcher, who had been silent and had watched withcurious and somewhat anxious eyes the introductory passageof this new acquaintance, was rasped by Mrs. Belcher's remarkinto saying: "That's Mrs. Belcher, all over! that's thewoman, through and through! As if a man hadn't a right todo what he chooses with his money! If men are poor, whydon't they get rich? They have the same chance I had; andthere isn't one of 'em but would be glad to change placeswith me, and flaunt his wealth in my face. There's a preciouslot of humbug about the poor which won't wash with me.We're all alike."

Mrs. Dillingham shook her lovely head.

"You men are so hard," she said; "and Mrs. Belcher hasthe right feeling; but I'm sure she takes great comfort inhelping the poor. What would you do, my dear, if you hadno money to help the poor with?"

"That's just what I've asked her a hundred times," saidMr. Belcher. "What would she do? That's something shenever thinks of."

Mrs. Belcher shook her head, in return, but made no reply.She knew that the poor would have been better off if Mr.Belcher had never lived, and that the wealth which surroundedher with luxuries was taken from the poor. It was this, atthe bottom, that made her sad, and this that had filled her formany years with discontent.

When the tea was disposed of, Mrs. Dillingham rose to go.She lived a few blocks distant, and it was necessary for Mr.Belcher to walk home with her. This he was glad to do,though she assured him that it was entirely unnecessary.When they were in the street, walking at a slow pace, thelady, in her close, confiding way, said:

"Do you know, I take a great fancy to Mrs. Belcher?"

"Do you, really?"

"Yes, indeed. I think she's lovely; but I'm afraid shedoesn't like me. I can read—oh, I can read pretty well.She certainly didn't like it that I had arranged everythingand was there to meet her. But wasn't she tired? Wasn'tshe very tired? There certainly was something that waswrong."

"I think your imagination had something to do withit," said Mr. Belcher, although he knew that she wasright.

"No, I can read;" and Mrs. Dillingham's voice trembled."If she could only know how honestly I have tried to serveher, and how disappointed I am that my service has not beentaken in good part, I am sure that her amiable heart wouldforgive me."

Mrs. Dillingham took out her handkerchief, near a streetlamp, and wiped her eyes.

What could Mr. Belcher do with this beautiful, susceptible,sensitive creature? What could he do but reassure her?Under the influence of her emotion, his wife's offense grewflagrant, and he began by apologizing for her, and ended byblaming her.

"Oh! she was tired—she was very tired. That was all.I've laid up nothing against her; but you know I was disappointed,after I had done so much. I shall be all over it inthe morning, and she will see it differently then. I don'tknow but I should have been troubled to find a strangerin my house. I think I should. Now, you really mustpromise not to say a word of all this talk to your poor wife.I wouldn't have you do it for the world. If you are my friend(pressing his arm), you will let the matter drop just where itis. Nothing would induce me to be the occasion of any differencesin your home."

So it was a brave, true, magnanimous nature that was leaningso tenderly upon Mr. Belcher's arm! And he felt thatno woman who was not either shabbily perverse, or a fool,could misinterpret her. He knew that his wife had been annoyedat finding Mrs. Dillingham in the house. He dimlycomprehended, too, that her presence was an indelicate intrusion,but her intentions were so good!

Mrs. Dillingham knew exactly how to manipulate the coarseman at her side, and her relations to him and his wife. Herbad wisdom was not the result of experience, though she hadhad enough of it, but the product of an instinct which was justas acute, and true, and serviceable, ten years earlier in her lifeas it was then. She timed the walk to her purpose; andwhen Mr. Belcher parted with her, he went back leisurely tohis great house, more discontented with his wife than he hadever been. To find such beauty, such helpfulness, such sympathy,charity, forbearance, and sensitiveness, all combinedin one woman, and that woman kind and confidential towardhim, brought back to him the days of his youth, in the excitementof a sentiment which he had supposed was lost beyondrecall.

He crossed the street on arriving at his house, and took anevening survey of his grand mansion, whose lights were stillflaming through the windows. The passengers jostled him ashe looked up at his dwelling, his thoughts wandering back tothe woman with whom he had so recently parted.

He knew that his heart was dead toward the woman whoawaited his return. He felt that it was almost painfully alivetoward the one he had left behind him, and it was with theembarrassment of conscious guilt that he rang the bell at hisown door, and stiffened himself to meet the honest woman whohad borne his children. Even the graceless touch of an intriguingwoman's power—even the excitement of something likelove toward one who was unworthy of his love—had softenedhim, so that his conscience could move again. He felt thathis eyes bore a secret, and he feared that his wife could readit. And yet, who was to blame? Was anybody to blame?Could anything that had happened have been helped oravoided?

He entered, determining to abide by Mrs. Dillingham's injunctionof silence. He found the servants extinguishing thelights, and met the information that Mrs. Belcher had retired.His huge pile of trunks had come during his absence, and remainedscattered in the hall. The sight offended him, but,beyond a muttered curse, he said nothing, and sought his bed.

Mr. Belcher was not in good humor when he rose the nextmorning. He found the trunks where he left them on theprevious evening; and when he called for the servants tocarry them upstairs, he was met by open revolt. They werenot porters, and they would not lift boxes; that sort of workwas not what they were engaged for. No New York familyexpected service of that kind from those who were not hiredfor it.

The proprietor, who had been in the habit of exacting anyservice from any man or woman in his employ that he desired,was angry. He would have turned every one of them out ofthe house, if it had not been so inconvenient for him to losethem then. Curses trembled upon his lips, but he curbedthem, inwardly determining to have his revenge when the opportunityshould arise. The servants saw his eyes, and wentback to their work somewhat doubtful as to whether they hadmade a judicious beginning. They were sure they had not,when, two days afterward, every one of them was turned outof the house, and a new set installed in their places.

He called for Phipps, and Phipps was at the stable. Puttingon his hat, he went to bring his faithful servitor of Sevenoaks,and bidding him find a porter in the streets and remove thetrunks at Mrs. Belcher's direction, he sat down at the windowto watch for a passing newsboy. The children came down,cross and half sick with their long ride and their late dinner.Then it came on to rain in a most dismal fashion, and he sawbefore him a day of confinement and ennui. Without mentalresource—unable to find any satisfaction except in actionand intrigue—the prospect was anything but pleasant. Thehouse was large, and, on a dark day, gloomy. His humorwas not sweetened by noticing evidences of tears on Mrs.Belcher's face. The breakfast was badly cooked, and he rosefrom it exasperated. There was no remedy but to go out andcall upon Mrs. Dillingham. He took an umbrella, and, tellinghis wife that he was going out on business, he slammed thedoor behind him and went down the steps.

As he reached the street, he saw a boy scudding along underan umbrella, with a package under his arm. Taking himfor a newsboy, he called; "Here, boy! Give me somepapers." The lad had so shielded his face from the rain andthe house that he had not seen Mr. Belcher; and when helooked up he turned pale, and simply said: "I'm not a newsboy;"and then he ran away as if he were frightened.

There was something in the look that arrested Mr. Belcher'sattention. He was sure he had seen the lad before, but where,he could not remember. The face haunted him—hauntedhim for hours, even when in the cheerful presence of Mrs.Dillingham, with whom he spent a long and delightful hour. Shewas rosy, and sweet, and sympathetic in her morning wrapper—morecharming, indeed, than he had ever seen her in eveningdress. She inquired for Mrs. Belcher and the children, andheard with great good humor his account of his first collisionwith his New York servants. When he went out from herinspiring and gracious presence he found his self-complacencyrestored. He had simply been hungry for her; so his breakfastwas complete. He went back to his house with a mingledfeeling of jollity and guilt, but the moment he was with hisfamily the face of the boy returned. Where had he seenhim? Why did the face give him uneasiness? Why did hepermit himself to be puzzled by it? No reasoning, no diversioncould drive it from his mind. Wherever he turnedduring the long day and evening that white, scared face obtrudeditself upon him. He had noticed, as the lad liftedhis umbrella, that he carried a package of books under hisarm, and naturally concluded that, belated by the rain, hewas on his way to school. He determined, therefore, towatch him on the following morning, his own eyes reinforcedby those of his oldest boy.

The dark day passed away at last, and things were broughtinto more homelike order by the wife of the house, so thatthe evening was cozy and comfortable; and when the streetlamps were lighted again and the stars came out, and thenorth wind sounded its trumpet along the avenue, the spiritsof the family rose to the influence.

On the following morning, as soon as he had eaten hisbreakfast, he, with his boy, took a position at one of the windows,to watch for the lad whose face had so impressed andpuzzled him. On the other side of the avenue a tall mancame out, with a green bag under his arm, stepped into a passingstage, and rolled away. Ten minutes later two ladsemerged with their books slung over their shoulders, andcrossed toward them.

"That's the boy—the one on the left," said Mr. Belcher.At the same moment the lad looked up, and apparentlysaw the two faces watching him, for he quickenedhis pace.

"That's Harry Benedict," exclaimed Mr. Belcher's sonand heir. The words were hardly out of his mouth whenMr. Belcher started from his chair, ran down-stairs with allthe speed possible within the range of safety, and interceptedthe lads at a side door, which opened upon the street alongwhich they were running.

"Stop, Harry, I want to speak to you," said the proprietor,sharply.

Harry stopped, as if frozen to the spot in mortal terror.

"Come along," said Thede Balfour, tugging at his hand,"you'll be late at school."

Poor Harry could no more have walked than he could haveflown. Mr. Belcher saw the impression he had made uponhim, and became soft and insinuating in his manner.

"I'm glad to see you, my boy," said Mr. Belcher. "Comeinto the house, and see the children. They all rememberyou, and they are all homesick. They'll be glad to look atanything from Sevenoaks."

Harry was not reassured: he was only more intenselyfrightened. A giant, endeavoring to entice him into his cavein the woods, would not have terrified him more. At lengthhe found his tongue sufficiently to say that he was going toschool, and could not go in.

It was easy for Mr. Belcher to take his hand, limp andtrembling with fear, and under the guise of friendliness to leadhim up the steps, and take him to his room. Thede watchedthem until they disappeared, and then ran back to his home,and reported what had taken place. Mrs. Balfour was alone,and could do nothing. She did not believe that Mr. Belcherwould dare to treat the lad foully, with the consciousness thathis disappearance within his house had been observed, andwisely determined to do nothing but sit down at her windowand watch the house.

Placing Harry in a chair, Mr. Belcher sat down oppositeto him, and said:

"My boy, I'm very glad to see you. I've wanted to knowabout you more than any boy in the world. I suppose you'vebeen told that I am a very bad man, but I'll prove to you thatI'm not. There, put that ten-dollar gold piece in your pocket.That's what they call an eagle, and I hope you'll have a greatmany like it when you grow up."

The lad hid his hands behind his back, and shook his head.

"You don't mean to say that you won't take it!" said theproprietor in a wheedling tone.

The boy kept his hands behind him, and shook his head.

"Well, I suppose you are not to blame for disliking me;and now I want you to tell me all about your getting awayfrom the poor-house, and who helped you out, and whereyour poor, dear father is, and all about it. Come, now, youdon't know how much we looked for you, and how we allgave you up for lost. You don't know what a comfort it isto see you again, and to know that you didn't die in thewoods."

The boy simply shook his head.

"Do you know who Mr. Belcher is? Do you know he isused to having people mind him? Do you know that you'rehere in my house, and that you must mind me? Do youknow what I do to little boys when they disobey me? Now,I want you to answer my questions, and do it straight. Lyingwon't go down with me. Who helped you and yourfather to get out of the poor-house?"

Matters had proceeded to a desperate pass with the lad.He had thought very fast, and he had determined that nobribe and no threat should extort a word of information fromhim. His cheeks grew hot and flushed, his eyes burned, andhe straightened himself in his chair as if he expected deathor torture, and was prepared to meet either, as he replied:

"I won't tell you."

"Is your father alive? Tell me, you dirty little whelp? Don'tsay that you won't do what I bid you to do again. I have agreat mind to choke you. Tell me—is your father alive?"

"I won't tell you, if you kill me."

The wheedling had failed; the threatening had failed.Then Mr. Belcher assumed the manner of a man whosemotives had been misconstrued, and who wished for informationthat he might do a kind act to the lad's father.

"I should really like to help your father, and if he is poor,money would do him a great deal of good. And here is the littleboy who does not love his father well enough to get moneyfor him, when he can have it and welcome! The little boyis taken care of. He has plenty to eat, and good clothes towear, and lives in a fine house, but his poor father can takecare of himself. I think such a boy as that ought to beashamed of himself. I think he ought to kneel down andsay his prayers. If I had a boy who could do that, I shouldbe sorry that he'd ever been born."

Harry was proof against this mode of approach also, andwas relieved, because he saw that Mr. Belcher was baffled.His instincts were quick, and they told him that he was thevictor. In the meantime Mr. Belcher was getting hot. Hehad closed the door of his room, while a huge coal fire wasburning in the grate. He rose and opened the door. Harrywatched the movement, and descried the grand staircasebeyond his persecutor, as the door swung back. He hadlooked into the house while passing, during the previous week,and knew the relations of the staircase to the entrance on theavenue. His determination was instantaneously made, andMr. Belcher was conscious of a swift figure that passed underhis arm, and was half down the staircase before he couldmove or say a word. Before he cried "stop him!" Harry'shand was on the fastening of the door, and when he reachedthe door, the boy was half across the street.

He had calculated on smoothing over the rough places ofthe interview, and preparing a better report of the visit ofthe lad's friends on the other side of the avenue, but thematter had literally slipped through his fingers. He closedthe door after the retreating boy, and went back to his roomwithout deigning to answer the inquiries that were excited byhis loud command to "stop him."

Sitting down, and taking to himself his usual solace, andsmoking furiously for a while, he said: "D—-n!" Intothis one favorite and familiar expletive he poured his anger,his vexation, and his fear. He believed at the moment thatthe inventor was alive. He believed that if he had beendead his boy would, in some way, have revealed the fact.Was he still insane? Had he powerful friends? It certainlyappeared so. Otherwise, how could the lad be where he haddiscovered him? Was it rational to suppose that he was farfrom his father? Was it rational to suppose that the lad'sfriends were not equally the friends of the inventor? Howcould he know that Robert Belcher himself had not unwittinglycome to the precise locality where he would be underconstant surveillance? How could he know that a deeply laidplot was not already at work to undermine and circumvent him?The lad's reticence, determined and desperate, showed that heknew the relations that existed between his father and the proprietor,and seemed to show that he had acted under orders.

Something must be done to ascertain the residence ofPaul Benedict, if still alive, or to assure him of his death,if it had occurred. Something must be done to secure theproperty which he was rapidly accumulating. Already foreignGovernments were considering the advantages of theBelcher rifle, as an arm for the military service, and negotiationswere pending with more than one of them. Alreadyhis own Government, then in the first years of its great civilwar, had experimented with it, with the most favorableresults. The business was never so promising as it then appeared,yet it never had appeared so insecure.

In the midst of his reflections, none of which were pleasant,and in a sort of undefined dread of the consequences of hisindiscretions in connection with Harry Benedict, the bellrang, and Mr. and Mrs. Talbot were announced. The factorand his gracious lady were in fine spirits, and full of theircongratulations over the safe removal of the family to theirsplendid mansion. Mrs. Talbot was sure that Mrs. Belchermust feel that all the wishes of her heart were gratified. Therewas really nothing like the magnificence of the mansion.Mrs. Belcher could only say that it was all very fine, but Mr.Belcher, finding himself an object of envy, took great pridein showing his visitors about the house.

Mrs. Talbot, who in some way had ascertained that Mrs.Dillingham had superintended the arrangement of the house,said, in an aside to Mrs. Belcher: "It must have been a littlelonely to come here and find no one to receive you—no friend,I mean."

"Mrs. Dillingham was here," remarked Mrs. Belcher,quietly.

"But she was no friend of yours."

"No; Mr. Belcher had met her."

"How strange! How very strange!"

"Do you know her well?"

"I'm afraid I do; but now, really, I hope you won't permityourself to be prejudiced against her. I suppose shemeans well, but she certainly does the most unheard-of things.She's a restless creature—not quite right, you know, but shehas been immensely flattered. She's an old friend of mine,and I don't join the hue and cry against her at all, but shedoes such imprudent things! What did she say to you?"

Mrs. Belcher detected the spice of pique and jealousy inthis charitable speech, and said very little in response—nothingthat a mischief-maker could torture into an offense.

Having worked her private pump until the well whose watersshe sought refused to give up its treasures, Mrs. Talbotdeclared she would no longer embarrass the new house-keepingby her presence. She had only called to bid Mrs. Belcherwelcome, and to assure her that if she had no friends in thecity, there were hundreds of hospitable hearts that were readyto greet her. Then she and her husband went out, wavedtheir adieus from their snug little coupé, and drove away.

The call had diverted Mr. Belcher from his somber thoughts,and he summoned his carriage, and drove down town, wherehe spent his day in securing the revolution in his domesticservice, already alluded to, in talking business with his factor,and in making acquaintances on 'Change.

"I'm going to be in the middle of this thing, one of thosedays," said he to Talbot as they strolled back to the counting-roomof the latter, after a long walk among the brokers andbankers of Wall street. "If anybody supposes that I've comehere to lie still, they don't know me. They'll wake up somefine morning and find a new hand at the bellows."

Twilight found him at home again, where he had the supremepleasure of turning his very independent servants outof his house into the street, and installing a set who knew,from the beginning, the kind of man they had to deal with,and conducted themselves accordingly.

While enjoying his first cigar after dinner, a note washanded to him, which he opened and read. It was dated atthe house across the avenue. He had expected and dreadedit, but he did not shrink like a coward from its persual. Itread thus:

"MR. ROBERT BELCHER: I have been informed of theshameful manner in which you treated a member of my familythis morning—Master Harry Benedict. The bullying of asmall boy is not accounted a dignified business for a man inthe city which I learn you have chosen for your home, howeverit may be regarded in the little town from which youcame. I do not propose to tolerate such conduct toward anydependent of mine. I do not ask for your apology, for theexplanation was in my hands before the outrage was committed.I perfectly understand your relations to the lad, andtrust that the time will come when the law will define them,so that the public will also understand them. Meantime, youwill consult your own safety by letting him alone, and neverpresuming to repeat the scene of this morning.

"Yours, JAMES BALFOUR,

"Counselor-at-Law."

"Hum! ha!" exclaimed Mr. Belcher, compressing his lips,and spitefully tearing the letter into small strips and throwingthem into the fire. "Thank you, kind sir; I owe you one,"said he, rising, and walking his room. "That doesn't lookvery much as if Paul Benedict were alive. He's a counselor-at-law,he is; and he has inveigled a boy into his keeping,who, he supposes, has a claim on me; and he proposes tomake some money out of it. Sharp game!"

Mr. Belcher was interrupted in his reflections and his soliloquyby the entrance of a servant, with the information thatthere was a man at the door who wished to see him.

"Show him up."

The servant hesitated, and finally said: "He doesn't smellvery well, sir."

"What does he smell of?" inquired Mr. Belcher, laughing.

"Rum, sir, and several things."

"Send him away, then."

"I tried to, sir, but he says he knows you, and wants tosee you on particular business."

"Take him into the basem*nt, and tell him I'll be downsoon."

Mr. Belcher exhausted his cigar, tossed the stump into thefire, and, muttering to himself, "Who the devil!" went downto meet his caller.

As he entered a sort of lobby in the basem*nt that was usedas a servants' parlor, his visitor rose, and stood with greatshame-facedness before him. He did not extend his hand,but stood still, in his seedy clothes and his coat buttoned tohis chin, to hide his lack of a shirt. The blue look of thecold street had changed to a hot purple under the influenceof a softer atmosphere; and over all stood the wreck of a goodface, and a head still grand in its outline.

"Well, you look as if you were waiting to be damned,"said Mr. Belcher, roughly.

"I am, sir," responded the man solemnly.

"Very well; consider the business done, so far as I amconcerned, and clear out."

"I am the most miserable of men, Mr. Belcher."

"I believe you; and you'll excuse me if I say that yourappearance corroborates your statement."

"And you don't recognize me? Is it possible?" Andthe maudlin tears came into the man's rheumy eyes androlled down his cheeks. "You knew me in better days, sir;"and his voice trembled with weak emotion.

"No; I never saw you before. That game won't work, andnow be off."

"And you don't remember Yates?—Sam Yates—and thehappy days we spent together in childhood?" And the manwept again, and wiped his eyes with his coat-sleeve.

"Do you pretend to say that you are Sam Yates, the lawyer?"

"The same, at your service."

"What brought you to this?"

"Drink, and bad company, sir."

"And you want money?"

"Yes!" exclaimed the man, with a hiss as fierce as if hewere a serpent.

"Do you want to earn money?"

"Anything to get it."

"Anything to get drink, I suppose. You said 'anything.'Did you mean that?"

The man knew Robert Belcher, and he knew that the lastquestion had a great deal more in it than would appear to theordinary listener.

"Lift me out of the gutter," said he, "and keep me out,and—command me."

"I have a little business on hand," said Mr. Belcher, "thatyou can do, provided you will let your drink alone—a businessthat I am willing to pay for. Do you remember a manby the name of Benedict—a shiftless, ingenious dog, whoonce lived in Sevenoaks?"

"Very well."

"Should you know him again, were you to see him?"

'I think I should."

"Do you know you should? I don't want any thinkingabout it. Could you swear to him?"

"Yes. I don't think it would trouble me to swear to him."

"If I were to show you some of his handwriting, do yousuppose that would help you any?"

"It—might."

"I don't want any 'mights.' Do you know it would?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to sell yourself—body, soul, brains, legalknowledge, everything—for money?"

"I've sold myself already at a smaller price, and I don'tmind withdrawing from the contract for a better."

Mr. Belcher summoned a servant, and ordered somethingto eat for his visitor. While the man eagerly devoured hisfood, and washed it down with a cup of tea, Mr. Belcher wentto his room, and wrote an order on his tailor for a suit ofclothes, and a complete respectable outfit for the legal "deadbeat" who was feasting himself below. When he descended,he handed him the paper, and gave him money for a bath anda night's lodging.

"To-morrow morning I want you to come here clean, anddressed in the clothes that this paper will give you. If youdrink one drop before that time I will strip the clothes fromyour back. Come to this room and get a decent breakfast.Remember that you can't fool me, and that I'll have none ofyour nonsense. If you are to serve me, and get any moneyout of it, you must keep sober."

"I can keep sober—for a while—any way," said the man,hesitatingly and half despairingly.

"Very well, now be off; and mind, if I ever hear a wordof this, or any of our dealings outside, I'll thrash you as Iwould a dog. If you are true to me I can be of use to you.If you are not, I will kick you into the street."

The man tottered to his feet, and said: "I am ashamed tosay that you may command me. I should have scorned itonce, but my chance is gone, and I could be loyal to the devilhimself—for a consideration."

The next morning Mr. Belcher was informed that Yateshad breakfasted, and was awaiting orders. He descended tothe basem*nt, and stood confronted with a respectable-lookinggentleman, who greeted him in a courtly way, yet with adeprecating look in his eyes, which said, as plainly as wordscould express; "don't humiliate me any more than you canhelp! Use me, but spare the little pride I have, if you can."

The deprecatory look was lost upon Mr. Belcher. "Wheredid you get your clothes?" he inquired. "Come, now;give me the name of your tailor. I'm green in the city, yousee."

The man tried to smile, but the effort was a failure.

"What did you take for a night-cap last night, eh?"

"I give you my word of honor, sir, that I have not takena drop since I saw you."

"Word of honor! ha! ha! ha! Do you suppose I wantyour word of honor? Do you suppose I want a man ofhonor, anyway? If you have come here to talk about honor,you are no man for me. That's a sort of nonsense that Ihave no use for."

"Very well; my word of dishonor," responded the man,desperately.

"Now you talk. There's no use in such a man as youputting on airs, and forgetting that he wears my clothes andfills himself at my table."

"I do not forget it, sir, and I see that I am not likely to."

"Not while you do business with me; and now, sit downand hear me. The first thing you are to do is to ascertainwhether Paul Benedict is dead. It isn't necessary that youshould know my reasons. You are to search every insanehospital, public and private, in the city, and every alms-house.Put on your big airs and play philanthropist. Findall the records of the past year—the death records of the city—everythingthat will help to determine that the man is dead,as I believe he is. This will give you all you want to do forthe present. The man's son is in the city, and the boy andthe man left the Sevenoaks poor-house together. If the manis alive, he is likely to be near him. If he is dead he probablydied near him. Find out, too, if you can, when his boycame to live at Balfour's over the way, and where he camefrom. You may stumble upon what I want very soon, or itmay take you all winter. If you should fail then, I shall wantyou to take the road from here to Sevenoaks, and even toNumber Nine, looking into all the alms-houses on the way.The great point is to find out whether he is alive or dead, andto know, if he is dead, where, and exactly when, he died. Inthe meantime, come to me every week with a written reportof what you have done, and get your pay. Come alwaysafter dark, so that none of Balfour's people can see you.Begin the business, and carry it on in your own way. Youare old and sharp enough not to need any aid from me, andnow be off."

The man took a roll of bills that Mr. Belcher handed him,and walked out of the door without a word. As he rose tothe sidewalk, Mr. Balfour came out of the door opposite tohim, with the evident intention of taking a passing stage. Henodded to Yates, whom he had not only known in other days,but had many times befriended, and the latter sneaked offdown the street, while he, standing for a moment as if puzzled,turned, and with his latch-key re-entered his house.Yates saw the movement, and knew exactly what it meant.He only hoped that Mr. Belcher had not seen it, as, indeed,he had not, having been at the moment on his way upstairs.

Yates knew that, with his good clothes on, the keen lawyerwould give but one interpretation to the change, and that anyhope or direct plan he might have with regard to ascertainingwhen the boy was received into the family, and where hecame from, was nugatory. He would not tell Mr. Belcherthis.

Mr. Balfour called his wife to the window, pointed out theretreating form of Yates, gave utterance to his suspicions,and placed her upon her guard. Then he went to his office,as well satisfied that there was a mischievous scheme on footas if he had overheard the conversation between Mr. Belcherand the man who had consented to be his tool.

CHAPTER XIV.

WHICH TELLS OF A GREAT PUBLIC MEETING IN SEVENOAKS, THEBURNING IN EFFIGY OF MR. BELCHER, AND THAT GENTLEMAN'SINTERVIEW WITH A REPORTER.

Mr. Balfour, in his yearly journeys through Sevenoaks,had made several acquaintances among the citizens, and hadimpressed them as a man of ability and integrity; and, as hewas the only New York lawyer of their acquaintance, theyvery naturally turned to him for information and advice.Without consulting each other, or informing each other ofwhat they had done, at least half a dozen wrote to him themoment Mr. Belcher was out of the village, seeking informationconcerning the Continental Petroleum Company. Theytold him frankly about the enormous investments that theyand their neighbors had made, and of their fears concerningthe results. With a friendly feeling toward the people, heundertook, as far as possible, to get at the bottom of the matter,and sent a man to look up the property, and to find themen who nominally composed the Company.

After a month had passed away and no dividend was announced,the people began to talk more freely among themselves.They had hoped against hope, and fought theirsuspicions until they were tired, and then they sought insympathy to assuage the pangs of their losses and disappointments.

It was not until the end of two months after Mr. Belcher'sdeparture that a letter was received at Sevenoaks from Mr.Balfour, giving a history of the Company, which confirmedtheir worst fears. This history is already in the possession ofthe reader, but to that which has been detailed was added theinformation that, practically, the operations of the Companyhad been discontinued, and the men who formed it were scattered.Nothing had ever been earned, and the dividendswhich had been disbursed were taken out of the pockets ofthe principals, from moneys which they had received for stock.Mr. Belcher had absorbed half that had been received, at nocost to himself whatever, and had added the grand total tohis already bulky fortune. It was undoubtedly a gross swindle,and was, from the first, intended to be such; but it wasunder the forms of law, and it was doubtful whether a pennycould ever be recovered.

Then, of course, the citizens held a public meeting—thegreat panacea for all the ills of village life in America. Nothingbut a set of more or less impassioned speeches and a stringof resolutions could express the indignation of Sevenoaks.A notice was posted for several days, inviting all the residentstockholders in the Continental to meet in council, to seewhat was to be done for the security of their interests.

The little town-hall was full, and, scattered among theboisterous throng of men, were the pitiful faces and figuresof poor women who had committed their little all to the graspof the great scoundrel who had so recently despoiled anddeserted them.

The Rev. Mr. Snow was there, as became the pastor of aflock in which the wolf had made its ravages, and the meetingwas opened with prayer, according to the usual custom.Considering the mood and temper of the people, a prayer forthe spirit of forgiveness and fortitude would not have beenout of place, but it is to be feared that it was wholly a matterof form. It is noticeable that at political conventions, on theeve of conflicts in which personal ambition and party chicaneryplay prominent parts; on the inauguration of greatbusiness enterprises in which local interests meet in the determinedstrifes of selfishness, and at a thousand gatherings whoseobjects leave God forgotten and right and justice out of consideration,the blessing of the Almighty is invoked, while menwho are about to rend each other's reputations, and strive,without conscience, for personal and party masteries, bowreverent heads and mumble impatient "Amens."

But the people of Sevenoaks wanted their money back, andthat, certainly, was worth praying for. They wanted, also,to find some way to wreak their indignation upon RobertBelcher; and the very men who bowed in prayer after reachingthe hall walked under an effigy of that person on theirway thither, hung by the neck and dangling from a tree, andhad rare laughter and gratification in the repulsive vision.They were angry, they were indignant, they were exasperated,and the more so because they were more than half convincedof their impotence, while wholly conscious that they had beendecoyed to their destruction, befooled and overreached byone who knew how to appeal to a greed which his own ill-wonsuccesses and prosperities had engendered in them.

After the prayer, the discussion began. Men rose, tryingtheir best to achieve self-control, and to speak judiciously andjudicially, but they were hurled, one after another, into thevortex of indignation, and cheer upon cheer shook the hallas they gave vent to the real feeling that was uppermost intheir hearts.

After the feeling of the meeting had somewhat expendeditself, Mr. Snow rose to speak. In the absence of the greatshadow under which he had walked during all his pastorate,and under the blighting influence of which his manhoodhad shriveled, he was once more independent. The sorrowsand misfortunes of his people had greatly moved him. Asense of his long humiliation shamed him. He was poor, buthe was once more his own; and he owed a duty to the madmultitude around him which he was bound to discharge."My friends," said he, "I am with you, for better or forworse. You kindly permit me to share in your prosperity,and now, in the day of your trial and adversity, I will standby you. There has gone out from among us an incarnate evilinfluence, a fact which calls for our profound gratitude. Iconfess with shame that I have not only felt it, but haveshaped myself, though unconsciously, to it. It has vitiatedour charities, corrupted our morals, and invaded even thehouse of God. We have worshiped the golden calf. Wehave bowed down to Moloch. We have consented to liveunder a will that was base and cruel, in all its motives andends. We have been so dazzled by a great worldly success,that we have ceased to inquire into its sources. We havedone daily obeisance to one who neither feared God nor regardedman. We have become so pervaded with his spirit,so demoralized by his foul example, that when he held outeven a false opportunity to realize something of his success,we made no inquisition of facts or processes, and were willingto share with him in gains that his whole history would havetaught us were more likely to be unfairly than fairly won. Imourn for your losses, for you can poorly afford to sufferthem; but to have that man forever removed from us; to bereleased from his debasing influence; to be untrammeled inour action and in the development of our resources; to befree men and free women, and to become content with ourlot and with such gains as we may win in a legitimate way, isworth all that it has cost us. We needed a severe lesson, andwe have had it. It falls heavily upon some who are innocent.Let us, in kindness to these, find a balm for our own trials.And, now, let us not degrade ourselves by hot words and impotentresentments. They can do no good. Let us be men—Christianmen, with detestation of the rascality from whichwe suffer, but with pity for the guilty man, who, sooner orlater, will certainly meet the punishment he so richly deserves.'Vengeance is mine; I will repay,' saith the Lord."

The people of Sevenoaks had never before heard Mr. Snowmake such a speech as this. It was a manly confession, anda manly admonition. His attenuated form was straight andalmost majestic, his pale face was flushed, his tones were deepand strong, and they saw that one man, at least, breathedmore freely, now that the evil genius of the place was gone.It was a healthful speech. It was an appeal to their own conscioushistory, and to such remains of manhood as they possessed,and they were strengthened by it.

A series of the most objurgatory resolutions had been preparedfor the occasion, yet the writer saw that it would bebetter to keep them in his pocket. The meeting was at astand, when little Dr. Radcliffe, who was sore to his heart'score with his petty loss, jumped up and declared that he hada series of resolutions to offer. There was a world of unconscioushumor in his freak,—unconscious, because his resolutionswere intended to express his spite, not only against Mr.Belcher, but against the villagers, including Mr. Snow. Hebegan by reading in his piping voice the first resolutionpassed at the previous meeting which so pleasantly dismissedthe proprietor to the commercial metropolis of the country.The reading of this resolution was so sweet a sarcasm on theproceedings of that occasion, that it was received with pealsof laughter and deafening cheers, and as he went bitterly on,from resolution to resolution, raising his voice to overtop thejargon, the scene became too ludicrous for description. Theresolutions, which never had any sincerity in them, were sucha confirmation of all that Mr. Snow had said, and such a commenton their own duplicity and moral debasem*nt, that therewas nothing left for them but to break up and go home.

The laugh did them good, and complemented the correctivewhich had been administered to them by the minister.Some of them still retained their anger, as a matter of course,and when they emerged upon the street and found Mr. Belcher'seffigy standing upon the ground, surrounded by fa*gotsready to be lighted, they yelled: "Light him up, boys!"and stood to witness the sham auto-da-fé with a crowd ofvillage urchins dancing around it.

Of course, Mr. Belcher had calculated upon indignationand anger, and rejoiced in their impotence. He knew thatthose who had lost so much would not care to risk more in asuit at law, and that his property at Sevenoaks was so identifiedwith the life of the town—that so many were dependentupon its preservation for their daily bread—that they wouldnot be fool-hardy enough to burn it.

Forty-eight hours after the public meeting, Mr. Belcher,sitting comfortably in his city home, received from the postmana large handful of letters. He looked them over, andas they were all blazoned with the Sevenoaks post-mark, heselected that which bore the handwriting of his agent, andread it. The agent had not dared to attend the meeting, buthe had had his spies there, who reported to him fully the authorshipand drift of all the speeches in the hall, and the unseemlyproceedings of the street. Mr. Belcher did not laugh,for his vanity was wounded. The thought that a town inwhich he had ruled so long had dared to burn his effigy inthe open street was a humiliation; particularly so, as he didnot see how he could revenge himself upon the perpetratorsof it without compromising his own interests. He blurtedout his favorite expletive, lighted a new cigar, walked hisroom, and chafed like a caged tiger.

He was not in haste to break the other seals, but at last hesat down to the remainder of his task, and read a series ofpitiful personal appeals that would have melted any heart buthis own. They were from needy men and women whom hehad despoiled. They were a detail of suffering and disappointment,and in some cases they were abject prayers for restitution.He read them all, to the last letter and the lastword, and then quietly tore them into strips, and threw theminto the fire.

His agent had informed him of the sources of the publicinformation concerning the Continental Company, and herecognized James Balfour as an enemy. He had a premonitionthat the man was destined to stand in his way, and thathe was located just where he could overlook his operationsand his life. He would not have murdered him, but hewould have been glad to hear that he was dead. He wonderedwhether he was incorruptible, and whether he, Robert Belcher,could afford to buy him—whether it would not pay tomake his acquaintance—whether, indeed, the man were notendeavoring to force him to do so. Every bad motive whichcould exercise a man, he understood; but he was puzzled inendeavoring to make out what form of selfishness had movedMr. Balfour to take such an interest in the people of Sevenoaks.

At last he sat down at his table and wrote a letter to hisagent, simply ordering him to establish a more thoroughwatch over his property, and directing him to visit all thenewspaper offices of the region, and keep the reports of themeeting and its attendant personal indignities from publication.

Then, with an amused smile upon his broad face, he wrotethe following letter:

"TO THE REVEREND SOLOMON SNOW,

"Dear Sir: I owe an apology to the people of Sevenoaksfor never adequately acknowledging the handsome manner inwhich they endeavored to assuage the pangs of parting on theoccasion of my removal. The resolutions passed at theirpublic meeting are cherished among my choicest treasures, andthe cheers of the people as I rode through their ranks on themorning of my departure, still ring in my ears more delightfullythan any music I ever heard. Thank them, I pray you,for me, for their overwhelming friendliness. I now have arequest to make of them, and I make it the more boldly because,during the past ten years, I have never been approachedby any of them in vain when they have sought my benefactions.The Continental Petroleum Company is a failure, andall the stock I hold in it is valueless. Finding that my expensesin the city are very much greater than in the country,it has occurred to me that perhaps my friends there would bewilling to make up a purse for my benefit. I assure you thatit would be gratefully received; and I apply to you because,from long experience, I know that you are accomplished inthe art of begging. Your graceful manner in accepting giftsfrom me has given me all the hints I shall need in that respect,so that the transaction will not be accompanied by any clumsydetails. My butcher's bill will be due in a few days, and dispatchis desirable.

"With the most cordial compliments to Mrs. Snow, whomI profoundly esteem, and to your accomplished daughters,who have so long been spared to the protection of the paternalroof,

"I am your affectionate parishioner,

"ROBERT BELCHER."

Mr. Belcher had done what he considered a very neat andbrilliant thing. He sealed and directed the letter, rang hisbell, and ordered it posted. Then he sat back in his easychair, and chuckled over it. Then he rose and paraded himselfbefore his mirror.

"When you get ahead of Robert Belcher, drop us a line.Let it be brief and to the point. Any information thankfullyreceived. Are you, sir, to be bothered by this pettifogger?Are you to sit tamely down and be undermined? Is thatyour custom? Then, sir, you are a base coward. Who saidcoward? Did you, sir? Let this right hand, which I nowraise in air, and clench in awful menace, warn you not torepeat the damning accusation. Sevenoaks howls, and it iswell. Let every man who stands in my path take warning. Ibutton my coat; I raise my arms; I straighten my form, andthey flee away—flee like the mists of the morning, and overyonder mountain-top, fade in the far blue sky. And now,my dear sir, don't make an ass of yourself, but sit down.Thank you, sir. I make you my obeisance. I retire."

Mr. Belcher's addresses to himself were growing less frequentamong the excitements of new society. He had enoughto occupy his mind without them, and found sufficient competitionin the matter of dress to modify in some degree his vanityof person; but the present occasion was a stimulating one,and one whose excitements he could not share with another.

His missive went to its destination, and performed a thoroughlyhealthful work, because it destroyed all hope of anyrelief from his hands, and betrayed the cruel contempt withwhich he regarded his old townsmen and friends.

He slept as soundly that night as if he had been an innocentinfant; but on the following morning, sipping leisurelyand luxuriously at his coffee, and glancing over the pages ofhis favorite newspaper, he discovered a letter with startlingheadings, which displayed his own name and bore the date ofSevenoaks. The "R" at its foot revealed Dr. Radcliffe asthe writer, and the peppery doctor had not miscalculated indeciding that "The New York Tattler" would be the papermost affected by Mr. Belcher—a paper with more enterprisethan brains, more brains than candor, and with no conscienceat all; a paper which manufactured hoaxes and vended themfor news, bought and sold scandals by the sheet as if theywere country gingerbread, and damaged reputations one dayfor the privilege and profit of mending them the next.

He read anew, and with marvelous amplification, the storywith which the letter of his agent had already made him familiar.This time he had received a genuine wound, withpoison upon the barb of the arrow that had pierced him. Hecrushed the paper in his hand and ascended to his room. AllWall street would see it, comment upon it, and laugh over it.Balfour would read it and smile. New York and all thecountry would gossip about it. Mrs. Dillingham would peruseit. Would it change her attitude toward him? This wasa serious matter, and it touched him to the quick.

The good angel who had favored him all his life, andbrought him safe and sound out of every dirty difficulty of hiscareer, was already on his way with assistance, although hedid not know it. Sometimes this angel had assumed the formof a lie, sometimes that of a charity, sometimes that of apalliating or deceptive circ*mstance; but it had always appearedat the right moment; and this time it came in theform of an interviewing reporter. His bell rang, and a servantappeared with the card of "Mr. Alphonse Tibbets of 'TheNew York Tattler.'"

A moment before, he was cursing "The Tattler" for publishingthe record of his shame, but he knew instinctively thatthe way out of his scrape had been opened to him.

"Show him up," said the proprietor at once. He hadhardly time to look into his mirror, and make sure that his hairand his toilet were all right, before a dapper little fellow, witha professional manner, and a portfolio under his arm, wasushered into the room. The air of easy good-nature and goodfellowship was one which Mr. Belcher could assume at will,and this was the air that he had determined upon as a matterof policy in dealing with a representative of "The Tattler"office. He expected to meet a man with a guilty look,and a deprecating, fawning smile. He was, therefore, verymuch surprised to find in Mr. Tibbets a young gentlemanwithout the slightest embarrassment in his bearing, or theremotest consciousness that he was in the presence of a manwho might possibly have cause of serious complaint against"The Tattler." In brief, Mr. Tibbets seemed to be a manwho was in the habit of dealing with rascals, and liked them.Would Mr. Tibbets have a cup of coffee sent up to him? Mr.Tibbets had breakfasted, and, therefore, declined the courtesy.Would Mr. Tibbets have a cigar? Mr. Tibbets would,and, on the assurance that they were nicer than he would beapt to find elsewhere, Mr. Tibbets consented to put a handfulof cigars into his pocket. Mr. Tibbets then drew up to thetable, whittled his pencil, straightened out his paper, and proceededto business, looking much, as he faced the proprietor,like a Sunday-school teacher on a rainy day, with the onepupil before him who had braved the storm because he hadhis lesson at his tongue's end.

As the substance of the questions and answers appeared inthe next morning's "Tattler," hereafter to be quoted, it isnot necessary to recite them here. At the close of the interview,which was very friendly and familiar, Mr. Belcher rose,and with the remark: "You fellows must have a pretty roughtime of it," handed the reporter a twenty-dollar bank-note,which that gentleman pocketed without a scruple, and withoutany remarkable effusiveness of gratitude. Then Mr. Belcherwanted him to see the house, and so walked over it with him.Mr. Tibbets was delighted. Mr. Tibbets congratulated him.Mr. Tibbets went so far as to say that he did not believe therewas another such mansion in New York. Mr. Tibbets didnot remark that he had been kicked out of several of them,only less magnificent, because circ*mstances did not call forthe statement. Then Mr. Tibbets went away, and walked offhurriedly down the street to write out his report.

The next morning Mr. Belcher was up early in order toget his "Tattler" as soon as it was dropped at his door. Hesoon found, on opening the reeking sheet, the column whichheld the precious document of Mr. Tibbets, and read:

"The Riot at Sevenoaks!!!
"An interesting Interview with Col. Belcher!
"The original account grossly Exaggerated!
"The whole matter an outburst of Personal Envy!
"The Palgrave Mansion in a fume!
"Tar, feathers and fa*gots!
"A Tempest in a Tea-pot!
"Petroleum in a blaze, and a thousand fingers burnt!!!
"Stand out from under!!!"

The headings came near taking Mr. Belcher's breath away.He gasped, shuddered, and wondered what was coming.Then he went on and read the report of the interview:

"A 'Tattler' reporter visited yesterday the great proprietorof Sevenoaks, Colonel Robert Belcher, at his splendidmansion on Fifth Avenue. That gentleman had evidentlyjust swallowed his breakfast, and was comforting himself overthe report he had read in the 'Tattler' of that morning, byinhaling the fragrance of one of his choice Havanas. He isevidently a devotee of the seductive weed, and knows a goodarticle when he sees it. A copy of the 'Tattler' lay on thetable, which bore unmistakable evidences of having beenspitefully crushed in the hand. The iron had evidently enteredthe Colonel's righteous soul, and the reporter, havingfirst declined the cup of coffee hospitably tendered to himand accepted (as he always does when he gets a chance) acigar, proceeded at once to business.

"Reporter: Col. Belcher, have you seen the report in thismorning's 'Tattler' of the riot at Sevenoaks, which nominallyhad your dealings with the people for its occasion?

"Answer: I have, and a pretty mess was made of it.

"Reporter: Do you declare the report to be incorrect?

"Answer: I know nothing about the correctness or theincorrectness of the report, for I was not there.

"Reporter: Were the accusations made against yourself correct,presuming that they were fairly and truthfully reported?

"Answer: They were so far from being correct thatnothing could be more untruthful or more malicious.

"Reporter: Have you any objection to telling me the truestate of the case in detail?

"Answer: None at all. Indeed, I have been so foully misrepresented,that I am glad of an opportunity to place myselfright before a people with whom I have taken up my residence.In the first place, I made Sevenoaks. I have fed thepeople of Sevenoaks for more than ten years. I have carriedthe burden of their charities; kept their dirty ministers fromstarving; furnished employment for their women and children,and run the town. I had no society there, and ofcourse, got tired of my hum-drum life. I had worked hard,been successful, and felt that I owed it to myself and my familyto go somewhere and enjoy the privileges, social andeducational, which I had the means to command. I came toNew York without consulting anybody, and bought this house.The people protested, but ended by holding a public meeting,and passing a series of resolutions complimentary to me, ofwhich I very naturally felt proud; and when I came away,they assembled at the roadside and gave me the friendliestcheers.

"Reporter: How about the petroleum?

"Answer: Well, that is an unaccountable thing. I wentinto the Continental Company, and nothing would do for thepeople but to go in with me. I warned them—every man ofthem—but they would go in; so I acted as their agent in procuringstock for them. There was not a share of stock soldon any persuasion of mine. They were mad, they were wild,for oil. You wouldn't have supposed there was half so muchmoney in the town as they dug out of their old stockings toinvest in oil. I was surprised, I assure you. Well, the Continentalwent up, and they had to be angry with somebody;and although I held more stock than any of them, they tooka fancy that I had defrauded them, and so they came togetherto wreak their impotent spite on me. That's the sum andsubstance of the whole matter.

"Reporter: And that is all you have to say?

"Answer: Well, it covers the ground. Whether I shallproceed in law against these scoundrels for maligning me, Ihave not determined. I shall probably do nothing about it.The men are poor, and even if they were rich, what goodwould it do me to get their money? I've got money enough,and money with me can never offset a damage to character.When they get cool and learn the facts, if they ever do learnthem, they will be sorry. They are not a bad people at heart,though I am ashamed, as their old fellow-townsman, to saythat they have acted like children in this matter. There's ahalf-crazy, half-silly old doctor there by the name of Radcliffe,and an old parson by the name of Snow, whom I havehelped to feed for years, who lead them into difficulty. Butthey're not a bad people, now, and I am sorry for their sakethat this thing has got into the papers. It'll hurt the town.They have keen badly led, inflamed over false information,and they have disgraced themselves.

"This closed the interview, and then Col. Belcher politelyshowed the 'Tattler' reporter over his palatial abode.'Taken for all in all,' he does not expect 'to look upon itslike again.'

"None see it but to love it,
None name it but to praise.

"It was 'linked sweetness long drawn out,' and must havecost the gallant Colonel a pile of stamps. Declining an invitationto visit the stables,—for our new millionaire is a loverof horse-flesh, as well as the narcotic weed—and leaving thatgentleman to 'witch the world with wondrous horsemanship,'the 'Tattler' reporter withdrew, 'pierced through withEnvy's venomed darts,' and satisfied that his courtly entertainerhad been 'more sinned against than sinning.'"

Col. Belcher read the report with genuine pleasure, andthen, turning over the leaf, read upon the editorial page thefollowing:

"COL. BELCHER ALL RIGHT.—We are satisfied that the letterfrom Sevenoaks, published in yesterday's 'Tattler,' in regardto our highly respected fellow-citizen, Colonel RobertBelcher, was a gross libel upon that gentleman, and intended,by the malicious writer, to injure an honorable and innocentman. It is only another instance of the ingratitude of ruralcommunities toward their benefactors. We congratulate theredoubtable Colonel on his removal from so pestilent a neighborhoodto a city where his sterling qualities will find 'amplescope and verge enough,' and where those who suffer 'theslings and arrows of outrageous fortune' will not lay them tothe charge of one who can, with truthfulness, declare 'Thoucanst not say I did it.'"

When Mr. Belcher concluded, he muttered to himself,"Twenty dollars!—cheap enough." He had remained athome the day before; now he could go upon 'Change with aface cleared of all suspicion. A cloud of truth had overshadowedhim, but it had been dissipated by the genial sunlightof falsehood. His self-complacency was fully restoredwhen he received a note, in the daintiest text on the daintiestpaper, congratulating him on the triumphant establishment ofhis innocence before the New York public, and bearing as itssignature a name so precious to him that he took it to his ownroom before destroying it and kissed it.

CHAPTER XV.

WHICH TELLS ABOUT MRS. DILLINGHAM'S CHRISTMAS AND THENEW YEAR'S RECEPTION AT THE PALGRAVE MANSION.

A brilliant Christmas morning shone in at Mrs. Dillingham'swindow, where she sat quietly sunning the better sideof her nature. Her parlor was a little paradise, and all thingsaround her were in tasteful keeping with her beautiful self.The Christmas chimes were deluging the air with music;throngs were passing by on their way to and from church, andexchanging the greetings of the day; wreaths of holly werein her own windows and in those of her neighbors; and theinfluences of the hour—half poetical, half religious—heldthe unlovely and the evil within her in benign though temporarythrall. The good angel was dominant within her,while the bad angel slept.

Far down the vista of the ages, she was looking into astable where a baby lay, warm in its swaddling-clothes, themother bending over it. She saw above the stable a singlestar, which, palpitating with prophecy, shook its long raysout into the form of a cross, then drew them in until theycircled into a blazing crown. Far above the star the air waspopulous with lambent forms and resonant with shoutingvoices, and she heard the words: "Peace on earth, good-willto men!" The chimes melted into her reverie; the kindlysun encouraged it; the voices of happy children fed it, andshe was moved to tears.

What could she do now but think over her past life—a lifethat had given her no children—a life that had been filledneither by peace nor good-will? She had married an oldman for his money; had worried him out of his life, and hehad gone and left her childless. She would not charge herselfwith the crime of hastening to the grave her father andmother, but she knew she had not been a comfort to them.Her willfulness; her love of money and of power; her prideof person and accomplishments; her desire for admiration;her violent passions, had made her a torment to others and toherself. She knew that no one loved her for anything goodthat she possessed, and knew that her own heart was barrenof love for others. She felt that a little child who would callher "mother," clinging to her hand, or nestling in herbosom, could redeem her to her better self; and how couldshe help thinking of the true men who, with their hearts intheir fresh, manly hands, had prayed for her love in the dawnof her young beauty, and been spurned from her presence—mennow in the honorable walks of life with their little onesaround them? Her relatives had forsaken her. There wasabsolutely no one to whom she could turn for the sympathywhich in that hour she craved.

In these reflections, there was one person of her own bloodrecalled to whom she had been a curse, and of whom, for asingle moment, she could not bear to think. She had drivenhim from her presence—the one who, through all her childhood,had been her companion, her admirer, her loyal follower.He had dared to love and marry one whom she didnot approve, and she had angrily banished him from herside. If she only had him to love, she felt that she should bebetter and happier, but she had no hope that he would everreturn to her.

She felt now, with inexpressible loathing, the unworthinessof the charms with which she fascinated the base men aroundher. The only sympathy she had was from these, and theonly power she possessed was over them, and through them.The aim of her life was to fascinate them; the art of her lifewas to keep them fascinated without the conscious degradationof herself, and, so, to lead them whithersoever shewould. Her business was the manufacture of slaves—slavesto her personal charms and her imperious will. Each slavecarried around his own secret, treated her with distant deferencein society, spoke of her with respect, and congratulatedhimself on possessing her supreme favor. Not one of themhad her heart, or her confidence. With a true woman's instinct,she knew that no man who would be untrue to his wifewould be true to her. So she played with them as with puppiesthat might gambol around her, and fawn before her, butmight not smutch her robes with their dirty feet, or get theopportunity to bite her hand.

She had a house, but she had no home. Again and againthe thought came to her that in a million homes that morningthe air was full of music—hearty greetings between parentsand children, sweet prattle from lips unstained, merry laughterfrom bosoms without a care. With a heart full of tender regretsfor the mistakes and errors of the past, with unspeakablecontempt for the life she was living, and with vain yearningsfor something better, she rose and determined to join thethrongs that were pressing into the churches. Hastily preparedfor the street, she went out, and soon, her heart respondingto the Christmas music, and her voice to the Christmasutterances from the altar, she strove to lift her heart indevotion. She felt the better for it. It was an old habit, andthe spasm was over. Having done a good thing, she turnedher ear away from the suggestions of her good angel, and, inturning away, encountered the suggestions of worldliness fromthe other side, which came back to her with their old music.She came out of the church as one comes out of a theater,where for hours he has sat absorbed in the fictitious passionof a play, to the grateful rush and roar of Broadway, theflashing of the lights, and the shouting of the voices of thereal world.

Mr. Belcher called that evening, and she was glad to seehim. Arrayed in all her loveliness, sparkling with vivacityand radiant with health, she sat and wove her toils about him.She had never seemed lovelier in his eyes, and, as he thoughtof the unresponsive and quiet woman he had left behind him,he felt that his home was not on Fifth Avenue, but in thehouse where he then sat. Somehow—he could not tell how—shehad always kept him at a distance. He had not daredto be familiar with her. Up to a certain point he could carryhis gallantries, but no further. Then the drift of conversationwould change. Then something called her away. Hegrew mad with the desire to hold her hand, to touch her, tounburden his heart of its passion for her, to breathe his hopeof future possession; but always, when the convenient momentcame, he was gently repelled, tenderly hushed, adroitly diverted.He knew the devil was in her; he believed that shewas fond of him, and thus knowing and believing, he was athis wit's end to guess why she should be so persistently perverse.He had drank that day, and was not so easily managedas usual, and she had a hard task to hold him to his proprieties.There was only one way to do this, and that was toassume the pathetic.

Then she told him of her lonely day, her lack of employment,her wish that she could be of some use in the world,and, finally, she wondered whether Mrs. Belcher would liketo have her, Mrs. Dillingham, receive with her on New Year'sDay. If that lady would not consider it an intrusion, sheshould be happy to shut her own house, and thus be able topresent all the gentlemen of the city worth knowing, not onlyto Mrs. Belcher, but to her husband.

To have Mrs. Dillingham in the house for a whole day, andparticularly to make desirable acquaintances so easily, was arare privilege. He would speak to Mrs. Belcher about it, andhe was sure there could be but one answer. To be frankabout it, he did not intend there should be but one answer;but, for form's sake, it would be best to consult her. Mr.Belcher did not say—what was the truth—that the guilt in hisheart made him more careful to consult Mrs. Belcher in thematter than he otherwise would have been; but now that hisloyalty to her had ceased, he became more careful to preserveits semblance. There was a tender quality in Mrs. Dillingham'svoice as she parted with him for the evening, and ahalf returned, suddenly relinquished response to the pressureof his hand, which left the impression that she had checkedan eager impulse. Under the influence of these, the manwent out from her presence, flattered to his heart's core, andwith his admiration of her self-contained and prudent passionmore exalted than ever.

Mr. Belcher went directly home, and into Mrs. Belcher'sroom. That good lady was alone, quietly reading. Thechildren had retired, and she was spending her time after hercustom.

"Well, Sarah, what sort of a Christmas have you had?"

Mrs. Belcher bit her lip, for there was something in herhusband's tone which conveyed the impression that he waspreparing to wheedle her into some scheme upon which hehad set his heart, and which he felt or feared, would not beagreeable to her. She had noticed a change in him. He wastenderer toward her than he had been for years, yet her heartdetected the fact that the tenderness was a sham. She couldnot ungraciously repel it, yet she felt humiliated in acceptingit. So, as she answered his question with the words: "Oh,much the same as usual," she could not look into his facewith a smile upon her own.

"I've just been over to call on Mrs. Dillingham," said he.

"Ah?"

"Yes; I thought I would drop in and give her the complimentsof the season. She's rather lonely, I fancy."

"So am I."

"Well now, Sarah, there's a difference; you know there is.You have your children, and—"

"And she my husband."

"Well, she's an agreeable woman, and I must go out sometimes.My acquaintance with agreeable women in New Yorkis not very large."

"Why don't you ask your wife to go with you? I'm fondof agreeable women too."

"You are not fond of her, and I'm afraid she suspects it."

"I should think she would. Women who are glad toreceive alone the calls of married men, always do suspect theirwives of disliking them."

"Well, it certainly isn't her fault that men go to see herwithout their wives. Don't be unfair now, my dear."

"I don't think I am," responded Mrs. Belcher. "I noticethat women never like other women who are great favoriteswith men; and there must be some good reason for it. Womenlike Mrs. Dillingham, who abound in physical fascinations formen, have no liking for the society of their own sex. I havenever heard a woman speak well of her, and I have never heardher speak well of any other woman."

"I have, and, more than that, I have heard her speak wellof you. I think she is shamefully belied. Indeed, I do notthink that either of us has a better friend than she, and I havea proposition to present to you which proves it. She is willingto come to us on New Year's Day, and receive with you—tobring all her acquaintances into your house, and makethem yours and mine."

"Is it possible?"

"Yes; and I think we should be most ungrateful and discourteousto her, as well as impolitic with relation to ourselvesand to our social future, not to accept the proposition."

"I don't think I care to be under obligations to Mrs. Dillinghamfor society, or care for the society she will bring us.I am not pleased with a proposition of this kind that comesthrough my husband. If she were my friend it would be adifferent matter, but she is not. If I were to feel myselfmoved to invite some lady to come here and receive with me,it would be well enough; but this proposition is a stroke ofpatronage as far as I am concerned, and I don't like it. Itis like Mrs. Dillingham and all of her kind. Whatever mayhave been her motives, it was an indelicate thing to do, andshe ought to be ashamed of herself for doing it"

Mr. Belcher knew in his heart that his wife was right. Heknew that every word she had spoken was the truth. Heknew that he should never call on Mrs. Dillingham with hiswife, save as a matter of policy; but this did not modify hisdetermination to have his own way.

"You place me in a very awkward position, my dear,"said he, determined, as long as possible, to maintain an amiablemood.

"And she has placed me in one which you are helpingto fasten upon me, and not at all helping to relieve mefrom."

"I don't see how I can, my dear. I am compelled to goback to her with some answer; and, as I am determined tohave my house open, I must say whether you accept or declineher courtesy; for courtesy it is, and not patronage atall."

Mrs. Belcher felt the chain tightening, and knew that shewas to be bound, whether willing or unwilling. The consciousnessof her impotence did not act kindly upon her temper,and she burst out:

"I do not want her here. I wish she would have donewith her officious helpfulness. Why can't she mind her ownbusiness, and let me alone?"

Mr. Belcher's temper rose to the occasion; for, although hesaw in Mrs. Belcher's petulance and indignation that his victorywas half won, he could not quite submit to the abuse ofhis brilliant pet.

"I have some rights in this house myself, my dear, and Ifancy that my wishes are deserving of respect, at least."

"Very well. If it's your business, why did you come tome with it? Why didn't you settle it before you left theprecious lady, who is so much worthier your considerationthan your wife? Now go, and tell her that it is your willthat she shall receive with me, and that I tamely submit."

"I shall tell her nothing of the kind."

"You can say no less, if you tell her the truth."

"My dear, you are angry. Let's not talk about it anymore to-night. You will feel differently about it in themorning."

Of course, Mrs. Belcher went to bed in tears, cried over ituntil she went to sleep, and woke in the morning submissive,and quietly determined to yield to her husband's wishes. Ofcourse, Mr. Belcher was not late in informing Mrs. Dillinghamthat his wife would be most happy to accept her proposition.Of course, Mrs. Dillingham lost no time in sendingher card to all the gentlemen she had ever met, with the indorsem*nt,"Receives on New Year's with Mrs. Col. Belcher, —— FifthAvenue." Of course, too, after the task wasaccomplished, she called on Mrs. Belcher to express her gratitudefor the courtesy, and to make suggestions about theentertainment. Was it quite of course that Mrs. Belcher, inthe presence of this facile woman, overflowing with kind feeling,courteous deference, pleasant sentiment and sparklingconversation, should feel half ashamed of herself, and wonderhow one so good and bright and sweet could so have movedher to anger?

The day came at last, and at ten Mrs. Dillingham enteredthe grand drawing-room in her queenly appareling. Sheapplauded Mrs. Belcher's appearance, she kissed the children,all of whom thought her the loveliest lady they had ever seen,and in an aside to Mr. Belcher cautioned him against partakingtoo bountifully of the wines he had provided for hisguests. "Let us have a nice thing of it," she said, "andnothing to be sorry for."

Mr. Belcher was faithfully in her leading. It would havebeen no self-denial for him to abstain entirely for her sake.He would do anything she wished.

There was one thing noticeable in her treatment of the ladsof the family, and in their loyalty to her. She could win aboy's heart with a touch of her hand, a smile and a kiss.They clung to her whenever in her presence. They hungcharmed upon all her words. They were happy to do anythingshe desired; and as children see through shams morequickly than their elders, it could not be doubted that shehad a genuine affection for them. A child addressed the bestside of her nature, and evoked a passion that had never foundrest in satisfaction, while her heartiness and womanly beautyappealed to the boy nature with charms to which it yieldedunbounded admiration and implicit confidence.

The reception was a wonderful success. Leaving out ofthe account the numbers of gentlemen who came to see therevived glories of the Palgrave mansion, there was a large numberof men who had been summoned by Mrs. Dillingham'scards—men who undoubtedly ought to have been in betterbusiness or in better company. They were men in goodpositions—clergymen, merchants, lawyers, physicians, youngmen of good families—men whose wives and mothers andsisters entertained an uncharitable opinion of that lady; butfor this one courtesy of a year the men would not be calledto account. Mrs. Dillingham knew them all at sight, calledeach man promptly by name, and presented them all to herdear friend Mrs. Belcher, and then to Col. Belcher, who,dividing his attention between the drawing-room and thedining-room, played the host with rude heartiness and largehospitality.

Mrs. Belcher was surprised by the presence of a number ofmen whose names were familiar with the public—Membersof Congress, representatives of the city government, clergymeneven, who were generally supposed to be "at home" onthat day. Why had these made their appearance? Shecould only come to one conclusion, which was, that theyregarded Mrs. Dillingham as a show. Mrs. Dillingham in abeautiful house, arranged for self-exhibition, was certainlymore attractive than Mary, Queen of Scots, in wax, in a publichall; and she could be seen for nothing.

It is doubtful whether Mrs. Belcher's estimate of their sexwas materially raised by their tribute to her companion'spersonal attractions, but they furnished her with an interestingstudy. She was comforted by certain observations, viz.,that there were at least twenty men among them who, by theirmanner and their little speeches, which only a woman couldinterpret, showed that they were entangled in the same meshesthat had been woven around her husband; that they were asfoolish, as fond, as much deceived, and as treacherously entertainedas he.

She certainly was amused. Puffy old fellows with nosegaysin their button-holes grew gallant and young in Mrs. Dillingham'spresence, filled her ears with flatteries, received thegrateful tap of her fan, and were immediately banished to thedining-room, from which they emerged redder in the face andpuffier than ever. Dapper young men arriving in cabs threwoff their overcoats before alighting, and ran up the steps inevening dress, went through their automatic greeting andleave-taking, and ran out again to get through their task ofmaking almost numberless calls during the day. Steady oldmen like Mr. Tunbridge and Mr. Schoonmaker, who had hadthe previous privilege of meeting Mr. Belcher, were turnedover to Mrs. Belcher, with whom they sat down and had aquiet talk. Mrs. Dillingham seemed to know exactly how toapportion the constantly arriving and departing guests.Some were entertained by herself, some were given to Mr.Belcher, some to the hostess, and others were sent directly tothe refreshment tables to be fed.

Mr. Belcher was brought into contact with men of his ownkind, who did not fail to recognize him as a congenial spirit,and to express the hope of seeing more of him, now that hehad become "one of us." Each one knew some other onewhom he would take an early opportunity of presenting toMr. Belcher. They were all glad he was in New York. Itwas the place for him. Everything was open to such a manas he, in such a city, and they only wondered why he hadbeen content to remain so long, shut away from his own kind.

These expressions of brotherly interest were very pleasantto Mr. Belcher. They flattered him and paved the way for acareer. He would soon be hand-in-glove with them all. Hewould soon find the ways of their prosperity, and make himselffelt among them.

The long afternoon wore away, and, just as the sun wassetting, Mrs. Belcher was called from the drawing-room bysome family care, leaving Mr. Belcher and Mrs. Dillinghamtogether.

"Don't be gone long," said the latter to Mrs. Belcher, asshe left the room.

"Be gone till to-morrow morning," said Mr. Belcher, in awhisper at Mrs. Dillingham's ear.

"You're a wretch," said the lady.

"You're right—a very miserable wretch. Here you'vebeen playing the devil with a hundred men all day, and I'vebeen looking at you. Is there any article of your apparel thatI can have the privilege of kissing?"

Mrs. Dillingham laughed him in his face. Then she tooka wilted rose-bud from a nosegay at her breast, and gave it tohim.

"My roses are all faded," she said—"worth nothing to me—worthnothing to anybody—except you."

Then she passed to the window; to hide her emotion? tohide her duplicity? to change the subject? to give Mr. Belchera glance at her gracefully retreating figure? to show herself,framed by the window, into a picture for the delight ofhis devouring eyes?

Mr. Belcher followed her. His hand lightly touched herwaist, and she struck it down, as if her own were the velvetpaw of a lynx.

"You startled me so!" she said.

"Are you always to be startled so easily?"

"Here? yes."

"Everywhere?"

"Yes. Perhaps so."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For the perhaps."

"You are easily pleased and grateful for nothing; and, now,tell me who lives opposite to you?"

"A lawyer by the name of James Balfour."

"James Balfour? Why, he's one of my old flames. Heought to have been here to-day. Perhaps he'll be in thisevening."

"Not he."

"Why?"

"He has the honor to be an enemy of mine, and knowsthat I would rather choke him than eat my dinner."

"You men are such savages; but aren't those nice boys onthe steps?"

"I happen to know one of them, and I should like to knowwhy he is there, and how he came there. Between you andme, now—strictly between you and me—that boy is the onlyperson that stands between me and—and—a pile of money."

"Is it possible? Which one, now?"

"The larger."

"But, isn't he lovely?"

"He's a Sevenoaks pauper."

"You astonish me."

"I tell you the truth, and Balfour has managed, in someway, to get hold of him, and means to make money out of meby it. I know men. You can't tell me anything about men;and my excellent neighbor will have his hands full, wheneverhe sees fit to undertake his job."

"Tell me all about it now," said Mrs. Dillingham, her eyesalight with genuine interest.

"Not now, but I'll tell you what I would like to have youdo. You have a way of making boys love you, and men too—forthat matter—and precious little do they get for it."

"Candid and complimentary," she sighed.

"Well, I've seen you manage with my boys, and I wouldlike to have you try it with him. Meet him in the street,manage to speak to him, get him into your house, make himlove you. You can do it. You are bold enough, ingeniousenough, and subtle enough to do anything of that kind youwill undertake. Some time, if you have him under your influence,you may be of use to me. Some time, he may beglad to hide in your house. No harm can come to you inmaking his acquaintance."

"Do you know that you are talking very strangely to me?"

"No. I'm talking business. Is that a strange thing to awoman?"

Mrs. Dillingham made no reply, but stood and watched theboys, as they ran up and down the steps in play, with a smileof sympathy upon her face, and genuine admiration of thegraceful motions and handsome face and figure of the lad ofwhom Mr. Belcher had been talking. Her curiosity waspiqued, her love of intrigue was appealed to, and she determinedto do, at the first convenient opportunity, what Mr.Belcher desired her to do.

Then Mrs. Belcher returned, and the evening, like theafternoon, was devoted to the reception of guests, and when,at last, the clock struck eleven, and Mrs. Dillingham stoodbonneted and shawled ready to go home in the carriage thatwaited at the door, Mrs. Belcher kissed her, while Mr. Belcherlooked on in triumph.

"Now, Sarah, haven't we had a nice day?" said he.

"Very pleasant, indeed."

"And haven't I behaved well? Upon my word, I believeI shall have to stand treat to my own abstinence, before I goto bed."

"Yes, you've been wonderfully good," remarked his wife.

"Men are such angels!" said Mrs. Dillingham.

Then Mr. Belcher put on his hat and overcoat, led Mrs.Dillingham to her carriage, got in after her, slammed thedoor, and drove away.

No sooner were they in the carriage than Mrs. Dillinghamwent to talking about the little boy, in the most furious manner.Poor Mr. Belcher could not divert her, could not induceher to change the subject, could not get in a word edgewise,could not put forward a single apology for the kiss heintended to win, did not win his kiss at all. The little journeywas ended, the carriage door thrown open by her ownhand, and she was out without his help.

"Good-night; don't get out," and she flew up the stepsand rang the bell.

Mr. Belcher ordered the coachman to drive him home, andthen sank back on his seat, and crowding his lips together,and compressing his disappointment into his familiar expletive,he rode back to his house as rigid in every muscle as ifhe had been frozen.

"Is there any such thing as a virtuous devil, I wonder," hemuttered to himself, as he mounted his steps. "I doubt it;I doubt it."

The next day was icy. Men went slipping along upon theside-walks as carefully as if they were trying to follow a guidethrough the galleries of Versailles. And in the afternoon abeautiful woman called a boy to her, and begged him to giveher his shoulder and help her home. The request was sosweetly made, she expressed her obligations so courteously,she smiled upon him so beautifully, she praised him soingenuously, she shook his hand at parting so heartily;that he went home all aglow from his heart to his finger'sends.

Mrs. Dillingham had made Harry Benedict's acquaintance,which she managed to keep alive by bows in the street andbows from the window,—managed to keep alive until the ladworshiped her as a sort of divinity and, to win her smilingrecognition, would go out of his way a dozen blocks on anyerrand about the city.

He recognized her—knew her as the beautiful woman hehad seen in the great house across the street before Mr. Belcherarrived in town. Recognizing her as such, he kept thesecret of his devotion to himself, for fear that it would befrowned upon by his good friends the Balfours. Mr. Belcher,however, knew all about it, rejoiced in it, and countedupon it as a possible means in the accomplishment of hisends.

CHAPTER XVI.

WHICH GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF A VOLUNTARY AND AN INVOLUNTARYVISIT OF SAM YATES TO NUMBER NINE.

Mr. Belcher followed up the acquaintance which he hadso happily made on New Year's Day with many of the leadingoperators of Wall street, during the remainder of the winter,and, by the careful and skillful manipulation of the minorstocks of the market, not only added to his wealth by sureand steady degrees, but built up a reputation for sagacity andboldness. He struck at them with a strong hand, and graduallybecame a recognized power on 'Change. He knewthat he would not be invited into any combinations until hehad demonstrated his ability to stand alone. He understoodthat he could not win a leading position in any of the greatfinancial enterprises until he had shown that he had the skillto manage them. He was playing for two stakes—presentprofit and future power and glory; and he played with braveadroitness.

During the same winter the work at Number Nine went onaccording to contract. Mike Conlin found his second horseand the requisite sled, and, the river freezing solidly and continuously,he was enabled not only to draw the lumber to theriver, but up to the very point where it was to be used, andwhere Jim and Mr. Benedict were hewing and framing theirtimber, and pursuing their trapping with unflinching industry.Number Ten was transformed into a stable, where Mike kepthis horses on the nights of his arrival. Two trips a week wereall that he could accomplish, but the winter was so long, andhe was so industrious, that before the ice broke up, everythingfor the construction of the house had been delivered, even tothe bricks for the chimney, the lime for the plastering, andthe last clapboard and shingle. The planning, the chaffing,the merry stories of which Number Nine was the scene thatwinter, the grand, absorbing interest in the enterprise inwhich these three men were engaged, it would be pleasant torecount, but they may safely be left to the reader's imagination.What was Sam Yates doing?

He lived up to the letter of his instructions. Finding himselfin the possession of an assured livelihood, respectablydressed and engaged in steady employment, his appetite fordrink loosened its cruel hold upon him, and he was once morein possession of himself. All the week long he was busy invisiting hospitals, alms-houses and lunatic asylums, and inexamining their records and the mortuary records of the city.Sometimes he presented himself at the doors of public institutionsas a philanthropist, preparing by personal inspection forwriting some book, or getting statistics, or establishing aninstitution on behalf of a public benefactor. Sometimes hewent in the character of a lawyer, in search of a man who hadfallen heir to a fortune. He had always a plausible story totell, and found no difficulty in obtaining an entrance at allthe doors to which his inquisition led him. He was treatedeverywhere so courteously that his self-respect was wonderfullynourished, and he began to feel as if it were possible for himto become a man again.

On every Saturday night, according to Mr. Belcher's command,he made his appearance in the little basem*nt-room ofthe grand residence, where he was first presented to the reader.On these occasions he always brought a clean record of whathe had done during the week, which he read to Mr. Belcher,and then passed into that gentleman's hands, to be filed awayand preserved. On every visit, too, he was made to feel thathe was a slave. As his self-respect rose from week to week,the coarse and brutal treatment of the proprietor was increased.Mr. Belcher feared that the man was getting abovehis business, and that, as the time approached when he mightneed something very different from these harmless investigations,his instrument might become too fine for use.

Besides the ministry to his self-respect which his laborsrendered, there was another influence upon Sam Yates thattended to confirm its effects. He had in his investigationscome into intimate contact with the results of all forms ofvice. Idiocy, insanity, poverty, moral debasem*nt, diseasein a thousand repulsive forms, all these had frightened anddisgusted him. On the direct road to one of these terriblegoals he had been traveling. He knew it, and, with a shuddermany times repeated, felt it. He had been arrested inthe downward road, and, God helping him, he would neverresume it. He had witnessed brutal cruelties and neglectamong officials that maddened him. The professional indifferenceof keepers and nurses towards those who, if vicious,were still unfortunate and helpless, offended and outraged allof manhood there was left in him.

One evening, early in the spring, he made his customarycall upon Mr. Belcher, bringing his usual report. He hadcompleted the canvass of the city and its environs, and hadfound no testimony to the death or recent presence of Mr.Benedict. He hoped that Mr. Belcher was done with him,for he saw that his brutal will was the greatest obstacle to hisreform. If he could get away from his master, he couldbegin life anew; for his professional brothers, who well rememberedhis better days, were ready to throw business into hishands, now that he had become himself again.

"I suppose this ends it," said Yates, as he read his report,and passed it over into Mr. Belcher's hands.

"Oh, you do!"

"I do not see how I can be of further use to you."

"Oh, you don't!"

"I have certainly reason to be grateful for your assistance,but I have no desire to be a burden upon your hands. Ithink I can get a living now in my profession."

"Then we've found that we have a profession, have we?We've become highly respectable."

"I really don't see what occasion you have to taunt me.I have done my duty faithfully, and taken no more than myjust pay for the labor I have performed."

"Sam Yates, I took you out of the gutter. Do you knowthat?"

"I do, sir."

"Did you ever hear of my doing such a thing as thatbefore?"

"I never did."

"What do you suppose I did it for?"

"To serve yourself."

"You are right; and now let me tell you that I am notdone with you yet, and I shall not be done with you until Ihave in my hands a certificate of the death of Paul Benedict,and an instrument drawn up in legal form, making over tome all his right, title and interest in every patented inventionof his which I am now using in my manufactures. Do youhear that?"

"I do."

"What have you to say to it? Are you going to live upto your pledge, or are you going to break with me?"

"If I could furnish such an instrument honorably, I woulddo it."

"Hm! I tell you, Sam Yates, this sort of thing won't do."

Then Mr. Belcher left the room, and soon returned with aglass and a bottle of brandy. Setting them upon the table,he took the key from the outside of the door, inserted it uponthe inside, turned it, and then withdrew it, and put it in hispocket. Yates rose and watched him, his face pale, and hisheart thumping at his side like a tilt-hammer.

"Sam Yates," said Mr. Belcher, "you are getting altogethertoo virtuous. Nothing will cure you but a good, old-fashioneddrunk. Dip in, now, and take your fill. You canlie here all night if you wish to."

Mr. Belcher drew the cork, and poured out a tumblerfulof the choice old liquid. Its fragrance filled the little room.It reached the nostrils of the poor slave, who shivered as ifan ague had smitten him. He hesitated, advanced towardthe table, retreated, looked at Mr. Belcher, then at thebrandy, then walked the room, then paused before Mr. Belcher,who had coolly watched the struggle from his chair.The victim of this passion was in the supreme of torment.His old thirst was roused to fury. The good resolutions ofthe preceding weeks, the moral strength he had won, the motivesthat had come to life within him, the promise of a betterfuture, sank away into blank nothingness. A patch of fireburned on either cheek. His eyes were bloodshot.

"Oh God! Oh God!" he exclaimed, and buried his facein his hands.

"Fudge!" said Mr. Belcher. "What do you make an assof yourself for?"

"If you'll take these things out of the room, and see thatI drink nothing to-night, I'll do anything. They are hell anddamnation to me. Don't you see? Have you no pity onme? Take them away!"

Mr. Belcher was surprised, but he had secured the promisehe was after, and so he coolly rose and removed the offensivetemptation.

Yates sat down as limp as if he had had a sunstroke. Aftersitting a long time in silence, he looked up, and begged forthe privilege of sleeping in the house. He did not dare totrust himself in the street until sleep had calmed and strengthenedhim.

There was a lounge in the room, and, calling a servant,Mr. Belcher ordered blankets to be brought down. "Youcan sleep here to-night, and I will see you in the morning,"said he, rising, and leaving him without even the commoncourtesy of a "good-night."

Poor Sam Yates had a very bad night indeed. He washumiliated by the proof of his weakness, and maddened bythe outrage which had been attempted upon him and his goodresolutions. In the morning, he met Mr. Belcher, feeble andunrefreshed, and with seeming acquiescence received his directionsfor future work.

"I want you to take the road from here to Sevenoaks,stopping at every town on the way. You can be sure of this:he is not near Sevenoaks. The whole county, and in factthe adjoining counties, were all ransacked to find him. Hecannot have found asylum there; so he must be either betweenhere and Sevenoaks, or must have gone into the woods beyond.There's a trapper there, one Jim Fenton. He may have comeacross him in the woods, alive or dead, and I want you to goto his camp and find out whether he knows anything. Myimpression is that he knew Benedict well, and that Benedictused to hunt with him. When you come back to me, after afaithful search, with the report that you can find nothing ofhim, or with the report of his death, we shall be ready fordecisive operations. Write me when you have anything towrite, and if you find it necessary to spend money to secureany very desirable end, spend it."

Then Mr. Belcher put into the hands of his agent a roll ofbank-notes, and armed him with a check that might be usedin case of emergency, and sent him off.

It took Yates six long weeks to reach Sevenoaks. He laboreddaily with the same faithfulness that had characterized hisoperations in the city, and, reaching Sevenoaks, he foundhimself for a few days free from care, and at liberty to resumethe acquaintance with his early home, where he and RobertBelcher had been boys together.

The people of Sevenoaks had long before heard of the fallof Sam Yates from his early rectitude. They had once beenproud of him, and when he left them for the city, they expectedto hear great things of him. So when they learnedthat, after entering upon his profession with brilliant promise,he had ruined himself with drink, they bemoaned him for awhile, and at last forgot him. His relatives never mentionedhim, and when, well dressed, dignified, self-respectful, he appearedamong them again, it was like receiving one fromthe dead. The rejoicing of his relatives, the cordiality of hisold friends and companions, the reviving influences of thescenes of his boyhood, all tended to build up his self-respect,reinforce his strength, and fix his determinations for a newlife.

Of course he did not make known his business, and ofcourse he heard a thousand inquiries about Mr. Belcher, andlistened to the stories of the proprietor's foul dealings withthe people of his native town. His own relatives had beenstraitened or impoverished by the man's rascalities, and thefact was not calculated to strengthen his loyalty to his employer.He heard also the whole story of the connection ofMr. Belcher with Benedict's insanity, of the escape of thelatter from the poor-house, and of the long and unsuccessfulsearch that had been made for him.

He spent a delightful week among his friends in the oldvillage, learned about Jim Fenton and the way to reach him,and on a beautiful spring morning, armed with fishing tackle,started from Sevenoaks for a fortnight's absence in the woods.The horses were fresh, the air sparkling, and at mid-afternoonhe found himself standing by the river-side, with a row of tenmiles before him in a birch canoe, whose hiding-place MikeConlin had revealed to him during a brief call at his house.To his unused muscles it was a serious task to undertake, buthe was not a novice, and it was entered upon deliberately andwith a prudent husbandry of his power of endurance. Greatwas the surprise of Jim and Mr. Benedict, as they sat eatingtheir late supper, to hear the sound of the paddle down theriver, and to see approaching them a city gentleman, who,greeting them courteously, drew up in front of their cabin,took out his luggage, and presented himself.

"Where's Jim Fenton?" said Yates.

"That's me. Them as likes me calls me Jim, and them asdon't like me—wall, they don't call."

"Well, I've called, and I call you Jim."

"All right; let's see yer tackle," said Jim.

Jim took the rod that Yates handed to him, looked it over,and then said: "When ye come to Sevenoaks ye didn't thinko' goin' a fishin'. This 'ere tackle wasn't brung from thecity, and ye ain't no old fisherman. This is the sort theykeep down to Sevenoaks."

"No," said Yates, flushing; "I thought I should find nearyou the tackle used here, so I didn't burden myself."

"That seems reasomble," said Jim, "but it ain't. Atrout's a trout anywhere, an' ye hain't got no reel. Ye neverfished with anything but a white birch pole in yer life."

Yates was amused, and laughed. Jim did not laugh. Hewas just as sure that Yates had come on some errand, forwhich his fishing tackle was a cover, as that he had come atall. He could think of but one motive that would bring theman into the woods, unless he came for sport, and for sporthe did not believe his visitor had come at all. He was notdressed for it. None but old sportsmen, with nothing else todo, ever came into the woods at that season.

"Jim, introduce me to your friend," said Yates, turningto Mr. Benedict, who had dropped his knife and fork, and satuneasily witnessing the meeting, and listening to the conversation.

"Well, I call 'im Number Ten. His name's Williams;an' now if ye ain't too tired, perhaps ye'll tell us what theycall ye to home."

"Well, I'm Number Eleven, and my name's Williams, too."

"Then, if yer name's Williams, an' ye're Number 'leven,ye want some supper. Set down an' help yerself."

Before taking his seat, Yates turned laughingly to Mr.Benedict, shook his hand, and "hoped for a better acquaintance."

Jim was puzzled. The man was no ordinary man; he wasgood-natured; he was not easily perturbed; he was therewith a purpose, and that purpose had nothing to do with sportAfter Yates had satisfied his appetite with the coarse foodbefore him, and had lighted his cigar, Jim drove directly atbusiness.

"What brung ye here?" said he.

"A pair of horses and a birch canoe."

"Oh! I didn't know but 'twas a mule and a bandannerhankercher," said Jim; "and whar be ye goin' to sleep to-night?"

"In the canoe, I suppose, if some hospitable man doesn'tinvite me to sleep in his cabin."

"An' if ye sleep in his cabin, what be ye goin' to do to-morrer?"

"Get up."

"An' clear out?"

"Not a bit of it."

"Well, I love to see folks make themselves to home; butye don't sleep in no cabin o' mine till I know who ye be, an'what ye're arter."

"Jim, did you ever hear of entertaining angels unaware?"and Yates looked laughingly into his face.

"No, but I've hearn of angels entertainin' theirselves ontin-ware, an' I've had 'em here."

"Do you have tin peddlers here?" inquired Yates, lookingaround him.

"No, but we have paupers sometimes," and Jim lookedYates directly in the eye.

"What paupers?"

"From Sevenoaks."

"And do they bring tin-ware?"

"Sartin they do; leastways, one on 'em did, an' I neverseen but one in the woods, an' he come here one night tootin'on a tin horn, an' blowin' about bein' the angel Gabrel. Doyou see my har?"

"Rather bushy, Jim."

"Well, that's the time it come up, an' it's never been tiredenough to lay down sence."

"What became of Gabriel?"

"I skeered 'im, and he went off into the woods pertendin'he was tryin' to catch a bullet. That's the kind o' ball Iallers use when I have a little game with a rovin' angel thatcomes kadoodlin' round me."

"Did you ever see him afterward?" inquired Yates.

"Yes, I seen him. He laid down one night under a tree,an' he wasn't called to breakfast, an' he never woke up. SoI made up my mind he'd gone to play angel somewheres else,an' I dug a hole an' put 'im into it, an' he hain't neverriz, if so be he wasn't Number 'leven, an' his name wasWilliams."

Yates did not laugh, but manifested the most eager interest.

"Jim," said he, "can you show me his bones, and swearto your belief that he was an escaped pauper?"

"Easy."

"Was there a man lost from the poor-house about thattime?"

"Yes, an' there was a row about it, an' arterward oldBuffum was took with knowin' less than he ever knowed afore.He always did make a fuss about breathin', so he give it up."

"Well, the man you buried is the man I'm after."

"Yes, an' old Belcher sent ye. I knowed it. I smelt theold feller when I heern yer paddle. When a feller works forthe devil it ain't hard to guess what sort of a angel he is. Yemust feel mighty proud o' yer belongins."

"Jim, I'm a lawyer; it's my business. I do what I'mhired to do."

"Well," responded Jim, "I don't know nothin' aboutlawyers, but I'd rather be a natural born cuss nor a hiredone."

Yates laughed, but Jim was entirely sober. The lawyersaw that he was unwelcome, and that the sooner he was outof Jim's way, the better that freely speaking person wouldlike it. So he said quietly:

"Jim, I see that I am not welcome, but I bear you no illwill. Keep me to-night, and to-morrow show me this man'sbones, and sign a certificate of the statements you have madeto me, and I will leave you at once."

The woodsman made no more objection, and the nextmorning, after breakfast, the three men went together andfound the place of the pauper's burial. It took but a fewminutes to disinter the skeleton, and, after a silent look at it,it was again buried, and all returned to the cabin. Then thelawyer, after asking further questions, drew up a paper certifyingto all the essential facts in the case, and Jim signed it.

"Now, how be ye goin' to get back to Sevenoaks?" inquiredJim.

"I don't know. The man who brought me in is not tocome for me for a fortnight."

"Then ye've got to huff it," responded Jim.

"It's a long way."

"Ye can do it as fur as Mike's, an' he'll be glad to gitback some o' the hundred dollars that old Belcher got out ofhim."

"The row and the walk will be too much."

"I'll take ye to the landing," said Jim.

"I shall be glad to pay you for the job," responded Yates.

"An' ef ye do," said Jim, "there'll be an accident, an'two men'll get wet, an' one on 'em'll stan' a chance to bedrownded."

"Well, have your own way," said Yates.

It was not yet noon, and Jim hurried off his visitor. Yatesbade good-bye to Benedict, jumped into Jim's boat, and wassoon out of sight down the stream. The boat fairly leapedthrough the water under Jim's strong and steady strokes, andit seemed that only an hour had passed when the landing wasdiscovered.

They made the whole distance in silence. Jim, sitting athis oars, with Yates in the stern, had watched the lawyer witha puzzled expression. He could not read him. The manhad not said a word about Benedict. He had not once pronouncedhis name. He was evidently amused with something,and had great difficulty in suppressing a smile. Again andagain the amused expression suffused the lawyer's face, andstill, by an effort of will, it was smothered. Jim was in torture.The man seemed to be in possession of some greatsecret, and looked as if he only waited an opportunity beyondobservation to burst into a laugh.

"What the devil ye thinkin' on?" inquired Jim at last.

Yates looked him in the eyes, and replied coolly:

"I was thinking how well Benedict is looking."

Jim stopped rowing, holding his oars in the air. He wasdumb. His face grew almost livid, and his hair seemed torise and stand straight all over his head. His first impulsewas to spring upon the man and throttle him, but a moment'sreflection determined him upon another course. He let hisoars drop into the water, and then took up the rifle, which healways carried at his side. Raising it to his eye, he said:

"Now, Number 'leven, come an' take my seat. Ef yemake any fuss, I'll tip ye into the river, or blow yer brainsout. Any man that plays traitor with Jim Fenton, gits traitor'sfare."

Yates saw that he had made a fatal mistake, and that it wastoo late to correct it. He saw that Jim was dangerously excited,and that it would not do to excite him further. Hetherefore rose, and with feigned pleasantry, said he should bevery glad to row to the landing.

Jim passed him and took a seat in the stern of the boat.Then, as Yates took up the oars, Jim raised his rifle, and,pointing it directly at the lawyer's breast, said:

"Now, Sam Yates, turn this boat round."

Yates was surprised in turn, bit his lips, and hesitated.

"Turn this boat round, or I'll fix ye so't I can see throughye plainer nor I do now."

"Surely, Jim, you don't mean to have me row back. Ihaven't harmed you."

"Turn this boat round, quicker nor lightnin'."

"There, it's turned," said Yates, assuming a smile.

"Now row back to Number Nine."

"Come, Jim," said Yates, growing pale with vexation andapprehension, "this fooling has gone far enough."

"Not by ten mile," said Jim.

"You surely don't mean to take me back. You have noright to do it. I can prosecute you for this."

"Not if I put a bullet through ye, or drown ye."

"Do you mean to have me row back to Number Nine?"

"I mean to have you row back to Number Nine, or go tothe bottom leakin'," responded Jim.

Yates thought a moment, looked angrily at the determinedman before him, as if he were meditating some rash experiment,and then dipped his oars and rowed up-stream.

Great was the surprise of Mr. Benedict late in the afternoonto see Yates slowly rowing toward the cabin, and landingunder cover of Jim's rifle, and the blackest face that hehad ever seen above his good friend's shoulders.

CHAPTER XVII.

IN WHICH JIM CONSTRUCTS TWO HAPPY DAVIDS, RAISES HISHOTEL, AND DISMISSES SAM YATES.

When the boat touched the bank, Jim, still with his riflepointed at the breast of Sam Yates, said:

"Now git out, an' take a bee line for the shanty, an' seehow many paces ye make on't."

Yates was badly blown by his row of ten miles on the river,and could hardly stir from his seat; but Mr. Benedict helpedhim up the bank, and then Jim followed him on shore.

Benedict looked from one to the other with mingled surpriseand consternation, and then said:

"Jim, what does this mean?"

"It means," replied Jim, "that Number 'leven, an' hisname is Williams, forgot to 'tend to his feelin's over oldTilden's grave, an' I've axed 'im to come back an' use up hisclean hankerchers. He was took with a fit o' knowin' somethin',too, an' I'm goin' to see if I can cure 'im. It's a newsort o' sickness for him, an' it may floor 'im."

"I suppose there is no use in carrying on this farce anylonger," said Yates. "I knew you, Mr. Benedict, soon afterarriving here, and it seems that you recognized me; and now,here is my hand. I never meant you ill, and I did not expectto find you alive. I have tried my best to make you out adead man, and so to report you; but Jim has compelled me tocome back and make sure that you are alive."

"No, I didn't," responded Jim. "I wanted to let yeknow that I'm alive, and that I don't 'low no hired cusses tocome snoopin' round my camp, an' goin' off with a haw-hawbuttoned up in their jackets, without a thrashin'."

Benedict, of course, stood thunderstruck and irresolute.He was discovered by the very man whom his old persecutorhad sent for the purpose. He had felt that the discoverywould be made sooner or later—intended, indeed, that itshould be made—but he was not ready.

They all walked to the cabin in moody silence. Jim feltthat he had been hasty, and was very strongly inclined to believein the sincerity of Yates; but he knew it was safe to beon his guard with any man who was in the employ of Mr.Belcher. Turk saw there was trouble, and whined around hismaster, as if inquiring whether there was anything that hecould do to bring matters to an adjustment.

"No, Turk; he's my game," said Jim. "Ye couldn't eat'im no more nor ye could a muss rat."

There were just three seats in the cabin—two camp-stoolsand a chest.

"That's the seat for ye," said Jim to Yates, pointing tothe chest. "Jest plant yerself thar. Thar's somethin' inthat 'ere chest as'll make ye tell the truth."

Yates looked at the chest and hesitated.

"It ain't powder," said Jim, "but it'll blow ye worse norpowder, if ye don't tell the truth."

Yates sat down. He had not appreciated the anxiety ofBenedict to escape discovery, or he would not have been sosilly as to bruit his knowledge until he had left the woods. Hefelt ashamed of his indiscretion, but, as he knew that his motiveswere good, he could not but feel that he had been outraged.

"Jim, you have abused me," said he. "You have misunderstoodme, and that is the only apology that you canmake for your discourtesy. I was a fool to tell you what Iknew, but you had no right to serve me as you have servedme."

"P'raps I hadn't," responded Jim, doubtfully.

Yates went on:

"I have never intended to play you a trick. It may be abase thing for me to do, but I intended to deceive Mr. Belcher.He is a man to whom I owe no good will. He hasalways treated me like a dog, and he will continue the treatmentso long as I have anything to do with him; but he foundme when I was very low, and he has furnished me with themoney that has made it possible for me to redeem myself.Believe me, the finding of Mr. Benedict was the most unwelcomediscovery I ever made."

"Ye talk reasonable," said Jim; "but how be I goin' toknow that ye're tellin' the truth?"

"You cannot know," replied Yates. "The circ*mstancesare all against me, but you will be obliged to trust me. Youare not going to kill me; you are not going to harm me; foryou would gain nothing by getting my ill will. I forgiveyour indignities, for it was natural for you to be provoked,and I provoked you needlessly—childishly, in fact; but afterwhat I have said, anything further in that line will not beborne."

"I've a good mind to lick ye now," said Jim, on hearinghimself defied.

"You would be a fool to undertake it," said Yates.

"Well, what be ye goin' to tell old Belcher, anyway?"inquired Jim.

"I doubt whether I shall tell him anything. I have no intentionof telling him that Mr. Benedict is here, and I do notwish to tell him a lie. I have intended to tell him that in allmy journey to Sevenoaks I did not find the object of mysearch, and that Jim Fenton declared that but one pauper hadever come into the woods and died there."

"That's the truth," said Jim. "Benedict ain't no pauper,nor hain't been since he left the poor-house."

"If he knows about old Tilden," said Yates, "and I'mafraid he does, he'll know that I'm on the wrong scent. If hedoesn't know about him, he'll naturally conclude that thedead man was Mr. Benedict. That will answer his purpose."

"Old Belcher ain't no fool," said Jim.

"Well," said Yates, "why doesn't Mr. Benedict come outlike a man and claim his rights? That would relieve me, andsettle all the difficulties of the case."

Benedict had nothing to say for this, for there was what hefelt to be a just reproach in it.

"It's the way he's made," replied Jim—"leastways, partly.When a man's ben hauled through hell by the har, it takes 'ima few days to git over bein' dizzy an' find his legs ag'in; an'when a man sells himself to old Belcher, he mustn't squawkan' try to git another feller to help 'im out of 'is bargain. Yegot into't, an' ye must git out on't the best way ye can."

"What would you have me do?" inquired Yates.

"I want to have ye sw'ar, an' sign a Happy David."

"A what?"

"A Happy David. Ye ain't no lawyer if ye don't knowwhat a Happy David is, and can't make one."

Yates recognized, with a smile, the nature of the instrumentdisguised in Jim's pronunciation and conception, and inquired:

"What would you have me to swear to?"

"To what I tell ye."

"Very well. I have pen and paper with me, and am readyto write. Whether I will sign the paper will depend upon itscontents."

"Be ye ready?"

"Yes."

"Here ye have it, then. 'I solem-ny sw'ar, s'welp me!that I hain't seen no pauper, in no woods, with his name asBenedict.'"

Jim paused, and Yates, having completed the sentence,waited. Then Jim muttered to himself:

"With his name as Benedict—with his name is Benedict—withhis name was Benedict."

Then with a puzzled look, he said:

"Yates, can't ye doctor that a little?"

"Whose name was Benedict," suggested Yates.

"Whose name was Benedict," continued Jim. "Now readit over, as fur as ye've got."

"'I solemnly swear that I have seen no pauper in thewoods whose name was Benedict.'"

"Now look a here, Sam Yates! That sort o' thing won't do.Stop them tricks. Ye don't know me, an' ye don't knowwhar ye're settin' if you think that'll go down."

"Why, what's the matter?"

"I telled ye that Benedict was no pauper, an' ye say thatye've seen no pauper whose name was Benedict. That's jesttellin' that he's here. Oh, ye can't come that game! Nowbegin agin, an' write jest as I give it to ye. 'I solem-nysw'ar, s'welp me! that I hain't seen no pauper, in no woods,whose name was Benedict.'"

"Done," said Yates, "but it isn't grammar."

"Hang the grammar!" responded Jim; "what I want issense. Now jine this on: 'An' I solem-ny sw'ar, s'welp me!that I won't blow on Benedict, as isn't a pauper—no morenor Jim Fenton is—an' if so be as I do blow on Benedict—Igive Jim Fenton free liberty, out and out—to lick me—withoutgoin' to lor—but takin' the privlidge of self-defense.'"

Jim thought a moment. He had wrought out a large phrase.

"I guess," said he, "that covers the thing. Ye understand,don't ye, Yates, about the privlidge of self-defense?"

"You mean that I may defend myself if I can, don't you?"

"Yes. With the privlidge of self-defense. That's fair,an' I'd give it to a painter. Now read it all over."

Jim put his head down between his knees, the better tomeasure every word, while Yates read the complete document.Then Jim took the paper, and, handing it to Benedict, requestedhim to see if it had been read correctly. Assuredthat it was all right, Jim turned his eyes severely on Yates,and said:

"Sam Yates, do ye s'pose ye've any idee what it is to belicked by Jim Fenton? Do ye know what ye're sw'arin' to?Do ye reelize that I wouldn't leave enough on ye to pay forhavin' a funeral?"

Yates laughed, and said that he believed he understood thenature of an oath.

"Then sign yer Happy David," said Jim.

Yates wrote his name, and passed the paper into Jim'shands.

"Now," said Jim, with an expression of triumph on hisface, "I s'pose ye don't know that ye've be'n settin' on aBible; but it's right under ye, in that chest, an' it's hearnand seen the whole thing. If ye don't stand by yer HappyDavid, there'll be somethin' worse nor Jim Fenton arter ye,an' when that comes, ye can jest shet yer eyes, and gi'en itup."

This was too much for both Yates and Benedict. Theylooked into each other's eyes, and burst into a laugh. ButJim was in earnest, and not a smile crossed his rough face.

"Now," said he, "I want to do a little sw'arin' myself,and I want ye to write it."

Yates resumed his pen, and declared himself to be in readiness.

"I solem-ny sw'ar," Jim began, "s'welp me! that I willlick Sam Yates—as is a lawyer—with the privlidge of self-defense—ifhe ever blows on Benedict—as is not a pauper—nomore nor Jim Fenton is—an' I solem-ny sw'ar, s'welp me!that I'll foller 'im till I find 'im, an' lick 'im—with the privlidgeof self-defense."

Jim would have been glad to work in the last phrase again,but he seemed to have covered the whole ground, and so inquiredwhether Yates had got it all down.

Yates replied that he had.

"I'm a goin' to sign that, an' ye can take it along with ye.Swap seats."

Yates rose, and Jim seated himself upon the chest.

"I'm a goin' to sign this, settin' over the Bible. I ain'tgoin' to take no advantage on ye. Now we're squar'," saidhe, as he blazoned the document with his coarse and clumsysign-manual. "Put that in yer pocket, an' keep it for fiveyear."

"Is the business all settled?" inquired Yates.

"Clean," replied Jim.

"When am I to have the liberty to go out of the woods?"

"Ye ain't goin' out o' the woods for a fortnight. Ye're agoin' to stay here, an' have the best fishin' ye ever had in yerlife. It'll do ye good, an' ye can go out when yer man comesarter ye. Ye can stay to the raisin', an' gi'en us a little liftwith the other fellers that's comin'. Ye'll be as strong as ahoss when ye go out."

An announcement more welcome than this could not havebeen made to Sam Yates; and now that there was no secrecybetween them, and confidence was restored, he looked forwardto a fortnight of enjoyment. He laid aside his coat,and, as far as possible, reduced his dress to the requirementsof camp life. Jim and Mr. Benedict were very busy, so thathe was obliged to find his way alone, but Jim lent him hisfishing-tackle, and taught him how to use it; and, as he wasan apt pupil, he was soon able to furnish more fish to the campthan could be used.

Yates had many a long talk with Benedict, and the twomen found many points of sympathy, around which theycemented a lasting friendship. Both, though in different ways,had been very low down in the valley of helpless misfortune;both had been the subjects of Mr. Belcher's brutal will; andboth had the promise of a better life before them, which itwould be necessary to achieve in opposition to that will.Benedict was strengthened by this sympathy, and becameable to entertain plans for the assertion and maintenance ofhis rights.

When Yates had been at the camp for a week and hadtaken on the color and the manner of a woodsman, there cameone night to Number Nine a dozen men, to assist in the raisingof Jim's hotel. They were from the mill where he had purchasedhis lumber, and numbered several neighbors besides,including Mike Conlin. They came up the old "tote-road"by the river side, and a herd of buffaloes on a stampede couldhardly have made more noise. They were a rough, merryset, and Jim had all he could do to feed them. Luckily,trout were in abundant supply, and they supped like kings,and slept on the ground. The following day was one of theseverest labor, but when it closed, the heaviest part of thetimber had been brought and put up, and when the secondday ended, all the timbers were in their place, including thosewhich defined the outlines of Jim's "cupalo."

When the frame was at last complete, the weary men retiredto a convenient distance to look it over; and then theyemphasized their approval of the structure by three rousingcheers.

"Be gorry, Jim, ye must make us a spache," said MikeConlin. "Ye've plenty iv blarney; now out wid it."

But Jim was sober. He was awed by the magnitude of hisenterprise. There was the building in open outline. Therewas no going back. For better or for worse, it held his destiny,and not only his, but that of one other—perhaps of others still.

"A speech! a speech!" came from a dozen tongues.

"Boys," said Jim, "there's no more talk in me now northere is in one o' them chips. I don't seem to have no vent.I'm full, but it don't run. If I could stick a gimblet insomewhere, as if I was a cider-barrel, I could gi'en ye enough;but I ain't no barrel, an' a gimblet ain't no use. There's aman here as can talk. That's his trade, an' if he'll say whatI ought to say, I shall be obleeged to 'im. Yates is a lawyer,an' it's his business to talk for other folks, an' I hope he'lltalk for me."

"Yates! Yates!" arose on all sides.

Yates was at home in any performance of this kind, and,mounting a low stump, said:

"Boys, Jim wants me to thank you for the great serviceyou've rendered him. You have come a long distance to doa neighborly deed, and that deed has been generously completed.Here, in these forest shades, you have reared a monumentto human civilization. In these old woods you havebuilt a temple to the American household gods. The savagebeasts of the wilderness will fly from it, and the birds willgather around it. The winter will be the warmer for the firethat will burn within it, and the spring will come earlier inprospect of a better welcome. The river that washes its feetwill be more musical in its flow, because finer ears will be listening.The denizens of the great city will come here, yearafter year, to renew their wasted strength, and they will carryback with them the sweetest memories of these pure solitudes.

"To build a human home, where woman lives and littlechildren open their eyes upon life, and grow up and marryand die—a home full of love and toil, of pleasure and hopeand hospitality, is to do the finest thing that a man can do.I congratulate you on what you have done for Jim, and whatso nobly you have done for yourselves. Your whole life willbe sweeter for this service, and when you think of a lovelywoman presiding over this house, and of all the comfort itwill be to the gentle folk that will fill it full, you will be gladthat you have had a hand in it."

Yates made his bow and stepped down. His auditors allstood for a moment, under an impression that they were inchurch and had heard a sermon. Their work had been soidealized for them—it had been endowed with so much meaning—itseemed so different from an ordinary "raising"—thatthey lost, momentarily, the consciousness of their ownroughness and the homeliness of their surroundings.

"Be gorry!" exclaimed Mike, who was the first to breakthe silence, "I'd 'a' gi'en a dollar if me owld woman could'a' heard that. Divil a bit does she know what I've done forher. I didn't know mesilf what a purty thing it was whin Ibuilt me house. It's betther nor goin' to the church, bedad."

Three cheers were then given to Yates and three to Jim,and, the spell once dissolved, they went noisily back to thecabin and their supper.

That evening Jim was very silent. When they were aboutlying down for the night, he took his blankets, reached intothe chest, and withdrew something that he found there andimmediately hid from sight, and said that he was going tosleep in his house. The moon was rising from behind thetrees when he emerged from his cabin. He looked up at thetall skeleton of his future home, then approached it, andswinging himself from beam to beam, did not pause until he hadreached the cupola. Boards had been placed across it for theconvenience of the framers, and on these Jim threw his blankets.Under the little package that was to serve as his pillow he laidhis Bible, and then, with his eyes upon the stars, his hearttender with the thoughts of the woman for whom he was rearinga home, and his mind oppressed with the greatness of his undertaking,he lay a long time in a waking dream. "If so beHe cares," said Jim to himself—"if so be He cares for alittle buildin' as don't make no show 'longside o' His doin'sup thar an' down here, I hope He sees that I've got this Bibleunder my head, an' knows what I mean by it. I hope thething'll strike 'im favorable, an' that He knows, if He cares,that I'm obleeged to 'im."

At last, slumber came to Jim—the slumber of the toiler,and early the next morning he was busy in feeding his helpers,who had a long day's walk before them. When, at last, theywere all ferried over the river, and had started on their homewardway, Jim ascended to the cupola again, and waved hisbandanna in farewell.

Two days afterward, Sam Yates left his host, and rowedhimself down to the landing in the same canoe by which hehad reached Number Nine. He found his conveyance waiting,according to arrangement, and before night was housedamong his friends at Sevenoaks.

While he had been absent in the woods, there had been aconference among his relatives and the principal men of thetown, which had resulted in the determination to keep him inSevenoaks, if possible, in the practice of his profession.

To Yates, the proposition was the opening of a door intosafety and peace. To be among those who loved him, andhad a certain pride in him; to be released from his service toMr. Belcher, which he felt could go no farther without involvinghim in crime and dishonor; to be sustained in hisgood resolutions by the sympathy of friends, and the absenceof his city companions and temptations, gave him the promiseof perfect reformation, and a life of modest prosperity andgenuine self-respect.

He took but little time in coming to his conclusion, andhis first business was to report to Mr. Belcher by letter. Heinformed that gentleman that he had concluded to remain inSevenoaks; reported all his investigations on his way thitherfrom New York; inclosed Jim's statement concerning thedeath of a pauper in the woods; gave an account of the disintermentof the pauper's bones in his presence; inclosed themoney unused in expenses and wages, and, with thanks forwhat Mr. Belcher had done in helping him to a reform, closedhis missive in such a manner as to give the impression that heexpected and desired no further communication.

Great was Mr. Belcher's indignation when he received thisletter. He had not finished with Yates. He had anticipatedexactly this result from the investigations. He knew aboutold Tilden, for Buffum had told him; and he did not doubtthat Jim had exhibited to Yates the old man's bones. Hebelieved that Benedict was dead, but he did not know. Itwould be necessary, therefore, to prepare a document thatwould be good in any event.

If the reader remembers the opening chapter of this story,he will recall the statement of Miss Butterworth, that Mr.Belcher had followed Benedict to the asylum to procure hissignature to a paper. This paper, drawn up in legal form,had been preserved, for Mr. Belcher was a methodical, businessman; and when he had finished reading Yates's letter,and had exhausted his expletives after his usual manner, heopened a drawer, and, extracting the paper, read it through.It was more than six years old, and bore its date, and themarks of its age. All it needed was the proper signatures.

He knew that he could trust Yates no longer. He knew,too, that he could not forward his own ends by appearing tobe displeased. The reply which Yates received was one thatastonished him by its mildness, its expression of satisfactionwith his faithful labor, and its record of good wishes. Nowthat he was upon the spot, Mr. Yates could still serve him,both in a friendly and in a professional way. The first servicehe could render him was to forward to him autographletters from the hands of two men deceased. He wished toverify the signatures of these men, he said, but as they wereboth dead, he, of course, could not apply to them.

Yates did not doubt that there was mischief in this request.He guessed what it was, and he kept the letter; but after afew days he secured the desired autographs, and forwardedthem to Mr. Belcher, who filed them away with the documentabove referred to. After that, the great proprietor, as arelief from the severe pursuits of his life, amused himself byexperiments with inks and pens, and pencils, and with writingin a hand not his own, the names of "Nicholas Johnson"and "James Ramsey."

CHAPTER XVIII.

IN WHICH MRS. DILLINGHAM MAKES SOME IMPORTANT DISCOVERIES,BUT FAILS TO REVEAL THEM TO THE READER.

Mrs. Dillingham was walking back and forth alone throughher long drawing-room. She was revolving in her mind acompliment, breathed into her ear by her friend Mrs. Talbotthat day. Mrs. Talbot had heard from the mouth of one ofMrs. Dillingham's admirers the statement, confirmed with ahearty, good-natured oath, that he considered the fascinatingwidow "the best groomed woman in New York."

The compliment conveyed a certain intimation which wasnot pleasant for her to entertain. She was indebted to herskill in self-"grooming" for the preservation of her youthfulappearance. She had been conscious of this, but it was notpleasant to have the fact detected by her friends. Neitherwas it pleasant to have it bruited in society, and reported toher by one who rejoiced in the delicacy of the arrow which,feathered by friendship, she had been able to plant in thewidow's breast.

She walked to her mirror and looked at herself. Therewere the fine, familiar outlines of face and figure; therewere the same splendid eyes; but a certain charm beyond thepower of "grooming" to restore was gone. An incipient,almost invisible, brood of wrinkles was gathering about hereyes; there was a loss of freshness of complexion, and an expressionof weariness and age, which, in the repose of reflectionand inquisition, almost startled her.

Her youth was gone, and, with it, the most potentcharms of her person. She was hated and suspected by herown sex, and sought by men for no reason honorable either toher or to them. She saw that it was all, at no distant day, tohave an end, and that when the end should come, her lifewould practically be closed. When the means by which shehad held so many men in her power were exhausted, her powerwould cease. Into the blackness of that coming night shecould not bear to look. It was full of hate, and disappointment,and despair. She knew that there was a taint upon her—thetaint that comes to every woman, as certainly as death, whopatently and purposely addresses, through her person, the sensuouselement in men. It was not enough for her to rememberthat she despised the passion she excited, and contemned themen whom she fascinated. She knew it was better to leadeven a swine by a golden chain than by the ears.

She reviewed her relations to Mr. Belcher. That strong,harsh, brutal man, lost alike to conscience and honor, was inher hands. What should she do with him? He was becomingtroublesome. He was not so easily managed as the mostof her victims. She knew that, in his heart, he was carryingthe hope that some time in the future, in some way, shewould become his; that she had but to lift her finger to makethe Palgrave mansion so horrible a hell that the wife andmother would fly from it in indignant despair. She had nointention of doing this. She wished for no more intimaterelation with her victim than she had already established.

There was one thing in which Mr. Belcher had offended andhumiliated her. He had treated her as if he had fascinatedher. In his stupid vanity, he had fancied that his own personalattractions had won her heart and her allegiance, andthat she, and not himself, was the victim. He had tried touse her in the accomplishment of outside purposes; to makea tool of her in carrying forward his mercenary or knavishends. Other men had striven to hide their unlovely affairsfrom her, but the new lover had exposed his, and claimed herassistance in carrying them forward. This was a degradationthat she could not submit to. It did not natter her, or ministerto her self-respect.

Again and again had Mr. Belcher urged her to get the littleSevenoaks pauper into her confidence, and to ascertainwhether his father were still living. She did not doubt thathis fear of a man so poor and powerless as the child's fathermust be, was based in conscious knavery; and to be put tothe use of deceiving a lad whose smile of affectionate admirationwas one of the sweetest visions of her daily life, disgustedand angered her. The thought, in any man's mind, that shecould be so base, in consideration of a guilty affection for him,as to betray the confidence of an innocent child on his behalf,disgraced and degraded her.

And still she walked back and forth in her drawing-room.Her thoughts were uneasy and unhappy; there was no lovein her life. That life was leading to no satisfactory consummation.How could it be changed? What could she do?

She raised her eyes, looked across the street, and there saw,loitering along and casting furtive glances at her window, thevery lad of whom she had been thinking. He had soughtand waited for her recognition, and instead of receiving it inthe usual way, saw a beckoning finger. He waited a moment,to be sure that he had not misunderstood the sign, and then,when it was repeated, crossed over, and stood at the door.Mrs. Dillingham admitted the boy, then called the servant,and told him that, while the lad remained, she would not beat home to any one. As soon as the pair were in the drawing-roomshe stooped and kissed the lad, warming his heart with asmile so sweet, and a manner so cordial and gracious, that hecould not have told whether his soul was his own or hers.

She led him to her seat, giving him none, but sitting withher arm around him, as he stood at her side.

"You are my little lover, aren't you?" she said, with anembrace.

"Not so very little!" responded Harry, with a flush.

"Well, you love me, don't you?"

"Perhaps I do," replied he, looking smilingly into hereyes.

"You are a rogue, sir."

"I'm not a bad rogue."

"Kiss me."

Harry put his arms around Mrs. Dillingham's neck andkissed her, and received a long, passionate embrace in return,in which her starved heart expressed the best of its powerfulnature.

Nor clouds nor low-born vapors drop the dew. It onlygathers under a pure heaven and the tender eyes of stars.Mrs. Dillingham had always held a heart that could respondto the touch of a child. It was dark, its ways were crooked,it was not a happy heart, but for the moment her whole naturewas flooded with a tender passion. A flash of lightning fromheaven makes the darkest night its own, and gilds withglory the uncouth shapes that grope and crawl beneath itscover.

"And your name is Harry?" she said.

"Yes."

"Do you mind telling me about yourself?"

Harry hesitated. He knew that he ought not to do it.He had received imperative commands not to tell anybodyabout himself; but his temptation to yield to the beautifullady's wishes was great, for he was heart-starved like herself.Mrs. Balfour was kind, even affectionate, but he felt that hehad never filled the place in her heart of the boy she had lost.She did not take him into her embrace, and lavish caressesupon him. He had hungered for just this, and the impulseto show the whole of his heart and life to Mrs. Dillinghamwas irresistible.

"If you'll never tell."

"I will never tell, Harry."

"Never, never tell?"

"Never."

"You are Mr. Belcher's friend, aren't you?"

"I know Mr. Belcher."

"If Mr. Belcher should tell you that he would kill you ifyou didn't tell, what would you do?"

"I should call the police," responded Mrs. Dillingham,with a smile.

Then Harry, in a simple, graphic way, told her all aboutthe hard, wretched life in Sevenoaks, the death of his mother,the insanity of his father, the life in the poor-house, theescape, the recovery of his father's health, his present home,and the occasion of his own removal to New York. The narrativewas so wonderful, so full of pathos, so tragic, so out ofall proportion in its revelation of wretchedness to the littlelife at her side, that the lady was dumb. Unconsciously to herself—almostunconsciously to the boy—her arms closed aroundhim, and she lifted him into her lap. There, with his headagainst her breast, he concluded his story; and there weretears upon his hair, rained from the eyes that bent above him.They sat for a long minute in silence. Then the lady, tokeep herself from bursting into hysterical tears, kissed Harryagain and again, exclaiming:

"My poor, dear boy! My dear, dear child! And Mr.Belcher could have helped it all! Curse him!"

The lad jumped from her arms as if he had received thethrust of a dagger, and looked at her with great, startled,wondering eyes. She recognized in an instant the awful indiscretioninto which she had been betrayed by her fierce andsudden anger, and threw herself upon her knees before theboy, exclaiming:

"Harry, you must forgive me. I was beside myself withanger. I did not know what I was saying. Indeed, I didnot. Come to my lap again, and kiss me, or I shall bewretched."

Harry still maintained his attitude and his silence. A furiousword from an angel would not have surprised or painedhim more than this expression of her anger, that had flashedupon him like a fire from hell.

Still the lady knelt, and pleaded for his forgiveness.

"No one loves me, Harry. If you leave me, and do notforgive me, I shall wish I were dead. You cannot be so cruel."

"I didn't know that ladies ever said such words," saidHarry.

"Ladies who have little boys to love them never do," respondedMrs. Dillingham.

"If I love you, shall you ever speak so again?" inquiredHarry.

"Never, with you and God to help me," she responded.

She rose to her feet, led the boy to her chair, and oncemore held him in her embrace.

"You can do me a great deal of good, Harry—a great dealmore good than you know, or can understand. Men andwomen make me worse. There is nobody who can protectme like a child that trusts me. You can trust me."

Then they sat a long time in a silence broken only byHarry's sobs, for the excitement and the reaction had shakenhis nerves as if he had suffered a terrible fright.

"You have never told me your whole name, Harry," shesaid tenderly, with the design of leading him away from thesubject of his grief.

"Harry Benedict."

He felt the thrill that ran through her frame, as if it hadbeen a shock of electricity. The arms that held him trembled,and half relaxed their hold upon him. Her heart struggled,intermitted its beat, then throbbed against his reclining headas if it were a hammer. He raised himself, and looked up ather face. It was pale and ghastly; and her eyes were dimlylooking far off, as if unconscious of anything near.

"Are you ill?"

There was no answer.

"Are you ill?" with a voice of alarm.

The blood mounted to her face again.

"It was a bad turn," she said. "Don't mind it. I'mbetter now."

"Isn't it better for me to sit in a chair?" he inquired,trying to rise.

She tightened her grasp upon him.

"No, no. I am better with you here. I wish you werenever to leave me."

Again they sat a long time in silence. Then she said:

"Harry, can you write?"

"Yes."

"Well, there is a pencil on the table, and paper. Go andwrite your father's name. Then come and give me a kiss, andthen go home. I shall see you again, perhaps to-night. Isuppose I ought to apologize to Mrs. Balfour for keeping youso long."

Harry did her bidding. She did not look at him, but turnedher eyes to the window. There she saw Mr. Belcher, whohad just been sent away from the door. He bowed, and shereturned the bow, but the smile she summoned to her face byforce of habit, failed quickly, for her heart had learned todespise him.

Harry wrote the name, left it upon the table, and then cameto get his kiss. The caress was calmer and tenderer than anyshe had given him. His instinct detected the change; and,when he bade her a good night, it seemed as if she had grownmotherly,—as if a new life had been developed in her thatsubordinated the old,—as if, in her life, the sun had set, andthe moon had risen.

She had no doubt that as Harry left the door Mr. Belcherwould see him, and seek admission at once on his hatefulbusiness, for, strong as his passion was for Mrs. Dillingham,he never forgot his knavish affairs, in which he sought to useher as a tool. So when she summoned the servant to letHarry out, she told him that if Mr. Belcher should call, hewas to be informed that she was too ill to see him.

Mr. Belcher did call within three minutes after the doorclosed on the lad. He had a triumphant smile on his face,as if he did not doubt that Mrs. Dillingham had been engagedin forwarding his own dirty work. His face blackened as hereceived her message, and he went wondering home, with ill-naturedcurses on his lips that will not bear repeating.

Mrs. Dillingham closed the doors of her drawing-room,took the paper on which Harry had written, and resumed herseat. For the hour that lay between her and her dinner, she heldthe paper in her cold, wet hand. She knew the name sheshould find there, and she determined that before her eyeshould verify the prophecy of her heart, she would achieveperfect self-control.

Excited by the interview with the lad, and the prescienceof its waiting dénouement, her mind went back into his andhis father's history. Mr. Belcher could have alleviated thathistory; nay, prevented it altogether. What had been herown responsibility in the case? She could not have foreseenall the horrors of that history; but she, too, could have preventedit. The consciousness of this filled her with self-condemnation;yet she could not acknowledge herself to be ona level with Mr. Belcher. She was ready and anxious to rightall the wrongs she had inflicted; he was bent on increasingand confirming them. She cursed him in her heart for hisInjustice and cruelty, and almost cursed herself.

But she dwelt most upon the future which the discoveries ofthe hour had rendered possible to herself. She had found a wayout of her hateful life. She had found a lad who admired,loved, and trusted her, upon whom she could lavish her hungryaffections—one, indeed, upon whom she had a right tolavish them. The life which she had led from girlhood waslike one of those deep cañons in the far West, down whichher beautiful boat had been gliding between impassable wallsthat gave her only here and there glimpses of the heaven above.The uncertain stream had its fascinations. There were beautifulshallows over which she had glided smoothly and safely,rocks and rapids over which she had shot swiftly amid attractivedangers, crooked courses that led she did not knowwhither, landing-places where she could enjoy an hour of thekindly sun. But all the time she knew she was descending.The song of the waterfalls was a farewell song to scenes thatcould never be witnessed again. Far away perhaps, perhapsnear, waited the waters of the gulf that would drink thesparkling stream into its sullen depths, and steep it in its ownbitterness. It was beautiful all the way, but it was goingdown, down, down. It was seeking the level of its death;and the little boat that rode so buoyantly over the crests whichbetrayed the hidden rocks, would be but a chip among thewaves of the broad, wild sea that waited at the end.

Out of the fascinating roar that filled her ears; out of thesparkling rapids and sheeny reaches, and misty cataracts thatenchanted her eyes; and out of the relentless drift towardthe bottomless sea, she could be lifted! The sun shone overhead.There were rocks to climb where her hands wouldbleed; there were weary heights to scale; but she knew thaton the top there were green pastures and broad skies, and themusic of birds—places where she could rest, and from whichshe could slowly find her way back, in loving companionship,to the mountains of purity from which she had come.

She revolved the possibilities of the future; and, providedthe little paper in her hand should verify her expectations,she resolved to realize them. During the long hour in whichshe sat thinking, she discounted the emotion which the littlepaper in her hand held for her, so that, when she unfolded itand read it, she only kissed it, and placed it in her bosom.

After dinner, she ordered her carriage. Then, thinkingthat it might be recognized by Mr. Belcher, she changed herorder, and sent to a public stable for one that was not identifiedwith herself; and then, so disguising her person that inthe evening she would not be known, she ordered the driverto take her to Mr. Balfour's.

Mrs. Dillingham had met Mr. Balfour many times, but shehad never, though on speaking terms with her, cultivatedMrs. Balfour's acquaintance, and that lady did not fail toshow the surprise she felt when her visitor was announced.

"I have made the acquaintance of your little ward," saidMrs. Dillingham, "and we have become good friends. Ienticed him into my house to-day, and as I kept him a longtime, I thought I would come over and apologize for his absence."

"I did not know that he had been with you," said Mrs.Balfour, coolly.

"He could do no less than come to me when I asked himto do so," said Mrs. Dillingham; "and I was entirely toblame for his remaining with me so long. You ladies who havechildren cannot know how sweet their society sometimes is tothose who have none."

Mrs. Balfour was surprised. She saw in her visitor's eyesthe evidence of recent tears, and there was a moisture in themthen, and a subdued and tender tone to her voice which didnot harmonize at all with her conception of Mrs. Dillingham'snature and character. Was she trying her arts upon her?She knew of her intimacy with Mr. Belcher, and naturallyconnected the visit with that unscrupulous person's schemes.

Mrs. Balfour was soon relieved by the entrance of her husband,who greeted Mrs. Dillingham in the old, stereotyped,gallant way in which gentlemen were accustomed to addressher. How did she manage to keep herself so young? Wouldshe be kind enough to give Mrs. Balfour the name of her hair-dresser?What waters had she bathed in, what airs had shebreathed, that youth should clothe her in such immortal fashion?

Quite to his surprise, Mrs. Dillingham had nothing to sayto this badinage. She seemed either not to hear it at all, orto hear it with impatience. She talked in a listless way, andappeared to be thinking of anything but what was said.

At last, she asked Mr. Balfour if she could have the libertyto obtrude a matter of business upon him. She did not liketo interfere with his home enjoyments, but he would obligeher much by giving her half an hour of private conversation.Mr. Balfour looked at his wife, received a significant glance,and invited the lady into his library.

It was a long interview. Nine o'clock, ten o'clock, eleveno'clock sounded, and then Mrs. Balfour went upstairs. Itwas nearly midnight when Mrs. Dillingham emerged from thedoor. She handed a bank-note to the impatient coachman,and ordered him to drive her home. As she passed Mr.Belcher's corner of the street, she saw Phipps helping hismaster to mount the steps. He had had an evening of carousalamong some of his new acquaintances. "Brute!" she saidto herself, and withdrew her head from the window.

Admitted at her door, she went to her room in her unusualwrappings, threw herself upon her knees, and buried her facein her bed. She did not pray; she hardly lifted her thoughts.She was excessively weary. Why she knelt she did not know;but on her knees she thought over the occurrences of theevening. Her hungry soul was full—full of hopes, plans, purposes.She had found something to love.

What is that angel's name who, shut away from ten thousandselfish, sinful lives, stands always ready, when thebearers of those lives are tired of them, and are longing forsomething better, to open the door into a new realm? Whatpatience and persistence are his! Always waiting, alwaysprepared, cherishing no resentments, willing to lead, anxiousto welcome, who is he, and whence came he? If Mrs. Dillinghamdid not pray, she had a vision of this heavenlyvisitant, and kissed the hem of his garments.

She rose and walked to her dressing-table. There shefound a note in Mrs. Belcher's handwriting, inviting her to adrive in the Park with her and Mr. Belcher on the followingafternoon. Whether the invitation was self-moved, or theresult of a suggestion from Mr. Belcher, she did not know.In truth, she did not care. She had wronged Mrs. Belcher inmany ways, and she would go.

Why was it that when the new and magnificent carriagerolled up to her door the next afternoon, with its wonderfulhorses and showy equipage, and appointments calculated toattract attention, her heart was smitten with disgust? Shewas to be stared at; and, during all the drive, she was to sitface to face with a man who believed that he had fascinatedher, and who was trying to use her for all the base purposesin which it was possible for her to serve his will. What couldshe do with him? How, in the new relations of her life tohim, should she carry herself?

The drive was a quiet one. Mr. Belcher sat and feastedhis greedy, exultant eyes on the woman before him, and marveledat the adroitness with which, to use his own coarsephrase, she "pulled the wool" over the eyes of his wife. Inwhat a lovely way did she hide her passion for him! Howsweetly did she draw out the sympathy of the deceivedwoman at her side! Ah! he could trust her! Her changed,amiable, almost pathetic demeanor was attributed by him tothe effect of his power upon her, and her own subtle ingenuityin shielding from the eyes of Mrs. Belcher a love that shedeemed hopeless. In his own mind it was not hopeless. Inhis own determination, it should not be!

As for Mrs. Belcher, she had never so much enjoyed Mrs.Dillingham's society before. She blamed herself for nothaving understood her better; and when she parted with herfor the day, she expressed in hearty terms her wish that shemight see more of her in the future.

Mrs. Dillingham, on the return, was dropped at her owndoor first. Mr. Belcher alighted, and led her up the steps.Then, in a quiet voice, he said:

"Did you find out anything of the boy?"

"Yes, some things, but none that it would be of advantageto you to know."

"Well, stick to him, now that you have got hold of him."

"I intend to."

"Good for you!"

"I imagine that he has been pretty well drilled," said Mrs.Dillingham, "and told just what he may and must not say toany one."

"You can work it out of him. I'll risk you."

Mrs. Dillingham could hardly restrain her impatience, butsaid quietly:

"I fancy I have discovered all the secrets I shall ever discoverin him. I like the boy, and shall cultivate hisacquaintance; but, really, it will not pay you to rely uponme for anything. He is under Mr. Balfour's directions, andvery loyal."

Mr. Belcher remembered his own interview with the lad,and recognized the truth of the statement. Then he badeher good-bye, rejoined his wife, and rode home.

CHAPTER XIX.

IN WHICH MR. BELCHER BECOMES PRESIDENT OF THE CROOKEDVALLEY RAILROAD, WITH LARGE "TERMINAL FACILITIES,"AND MAKES AN ADVENTURE INTO A LONG-MEDITATEDCRIME.

Mr. Belcher had never made money so rapidly as duringthe summer following his removal to New York. The tidesof wealth rolled in faster than he could compute them.Twenty regiments in the field had been armed with the Belcherrifle, and the reports of its execution and its popularityamong officers and men, gave promise of future golden harveststo the proprietor. Ten thousand of them had beenordered by the Prussian Government. His agents in France,Russia, Austria, and Italy, all reported encouragingly concerningtheir attempts to introduce the new arm into themilitary service of those countries. The civil war had advancedthe price of, and the demand for, the products of hismills at Sevenoaks. The people of that village had never beforereceived so good wages, or been so fully employed. Itseemed as if there were work for every man, woman andchild, who had hands willing to work. Mr. Belcher boughtstocks upon a rising market, and unloaded again and again,sweeping into his capacious coffers his crops of profits. Bondsthat early in the war could be bought for a song, rose steadilyup to par. Stocks that had been kicked about the market foryears, took on value from day to day, and asserted themselvesas fair investments. From these, again and again, he harvestedthe percentage of advance, until his greed was gorged.

That he enjoyed his winnings, is true; but the great troublewith him was that, beyond a certain point, he could shownothing for them. He lived in a palace, surrounded by everyappointment of luxury that his wealth could buy. His stablesheld the choicest horse-flesh that could be picked out of thewhole country, from Maine to Kentucky. His diamond shirt-studswere worth thousands. His clothes were of the mostexpensive fabrics, made at the top of the style. His wife andchildren had money lavished upon them without stint. In thedirection of show, he could do no more. It was his glory todrive in the Park alone, with his servants in livery and hisfour horses, fancying that he was the observed of all observers,and the envied of all men.

Having money still to spend, it must find a market in otherdirections. He gave lavish entertainments at his club, atwhich wine flowed like water, and at which young and idlemen were gathered in and debauched, night after night. Hewas surrounded by a group of flatterers who laughed at hisjokes, repeated them to the public, humored his caprices, andlived upon his hospitalities. The plain "Colonel Belcher"of his first few months in New York, grew into the "General,"so that Wall street knew him, at last, by that title, withoutthe speaking of his name. All made way for "the General"whenever he appeared. "The General" was "bulling"this stock, and "bearing" that. All this was honey to hispalate, and he was enabled to forget something of his desirefor show in his love of glory. Power was sweet, as well asdisplay.

Of course, "the General" had forsaken, somewhat, hisorderly habits of life—those which kept him sound and strongin his old country home. He spent few evenings with hisfamily. There was so genuine a passion in his heart for Mrs.Dillingham, that he went into few excesses which compromiseda fair degree of truthfulness to her; but he was inthe theaters, in the resorts of fast men, among the clubs, andalways late in his bed. Phipps had a hard time in lookingafter and waiting upon him, but had a kind of sympatheticenjoyment in it all, because he knew there was more or lessof wickedness connected with it.

Mr. Belcher's nights began to tell upon his days. Itbecame hard for him to rise at his old hours; so, after awhile, he received the calls of his brokers in bed. From nineto ten, Mr. Belcher, in his embroidered dressing-gown, withhis breakfast at his side, gave his orders for the operations ofthe day. The bedroom became the General's headquarters,and there his staff gathered around him. Half a dozen cabsand carriages at his door in the morning became a dailyrecurring vision to residents and habitual passengers.

Mr. Talbot, not a regular visitor at this hour, sometimesmingled with the brokers, though he usually came late for thepurpose of a private interview. He had managed to retainthe General's favor, and to be of such use to him that thatgentleman, in his remarkable prosperity, had given up the ideaof reducing his factor's profits.

One morning, after the brokers and the General's lawyerwere gone, Talbot entered, and found his principal still inbed.

"Toll, it's a big thing," said Mr. Belcher.

"I believe you."

"Toll, what did I tell you? I've always worked to a programme,and exactly this was my programme when I camehere. How's your wife?"

"Quite well."

"Why don't we see more of her?"

"Well, Mrs. Talbot is a quiet woman, and knows her place.She isn't quite at home in such splendors as yours, you know,and she naturally recognizes my relations to you."

"Oh, nonsense, nonsense, Toll! She mustn't feel thatway. I like her. She is a devilish handsome woman."

"I shall tell her that you say so," said the obsequious Mr.Talbot.

"Toll, my boy, I've got an idea."

"Cherish it, General; you may never have another."

"Good for you. I owe you one."

"Not at all, General. I'm only paying off old debts."

"Toll, how are you doing now? Getting a living?"

"Thanks to you, General, I am thriving in a modest way.I don't aspire to any such profits as you seem to win so easily,so I have no fault to find."

"The General has been a godsend to you, hasn't he, eh?Happy day when you made his acquaintance, eh? Well, goahead; it's all right. Pile it up while you can."

"But you haven't told me about your idea," Mr. Talbotsuggested.

"Well, Toll, I'm pining for a railroad. I'm crying nightsfor a railroad. A fellow must have amusem*nts you know.Health must be taken care of, eh? All the fellows have railroads.It's well enough to keep horses and go to the theater.A steamship line isn't bad, but the trouble is, a man can't becaptain of his own vessels. No, Toll; I need a railroad.I'm yearning for engines, and double tracks, and runningover my own line."

"You might buy up a European kingdom or two, at apinch, General."

"Yes; but, Toll, you don't know what terminal facilitiesI've got for a railroad."

"Your pocket will answer for one end," said Talbot,laughing.

"Right, the first time," responded the General, "andglory will answer for the other. Toll, do you know what Isee at the other end?"

"No."

"I see a man of about the size of Robert Belcher in thechair of an Alderman. I see him seated on a horse, ridingdown Broadway at the head of a regiment. I see him Mayorof the City of New York. I see him Governor of the State.I see him President of the United States. I see no reasonwhy he cannot hold any one, or all these offices. All doorsyield to a golden key. Toll, I haven't got to go as far as Ihave come, to reach the top. Do you know it? Big thing!Yes, Toll, I must have a railroad."

"Have you selected the toy you propose to purchase?"inquired Talbot.

"Well, I've looked about some; but the trouble is, that allthe best of 'em are in hands that can hold them. I must buya poor one and build it up, or make it build me up."

"That's a pity."

"I don't know about that. The big ones are hard tohandle, and I'm not quite big enough for them yet. Whatdo you say to the Crooked Valley?"

"Poor road, and wants connections."

"Those are exactly the points. I can buy it for a song,issue bonds, and build the connections—issue plenty of bonds,and build plenty of connections. Terminal facilities large—?do you understand? Eh, Toll?"

Mr. Talbot laughed.

"I don't think you need any suggestions from me," hesaid.

"No; the General can manage this thing without help.He only wanted to open your eyes a little, and get you readyfor your day's work. You fellows who fiddle around with afew goods need waking up occasionally. Now, Toll, go offand let the General get up. I must have a railroad beforenight, or I shall not be able to sleep a wink. By-by!"

Talbot turned to leave the room, when Mr. Belcher arrestedhim with the question:

"Toll, would you like an office in the Crooked Valley corporation?"

Talbot knew that the corporation would have a disgracefulhistory, and a disastrous end—that it would be used by theGeneral for the purposes of stealing, and that the head of itwould not be content to share the plunder with others. Hehad no wish to be his principal's cat's-paw, or to be identifiedwith an enterprise in which, deprived of both will and voice,he should get neither profit nor credit. So he said:

"No, I thank you; I have all I can do to take care of yourgoods, and I am not ambitious."

"There'll be nothing for you to do, you know. I shallrun the whole thing."

"I can serve you better, General, where I am."

"Well, by-by; I won't urge you."

After Talbot left, Mr. Belcher rose and carefully dressedhimself. Phipps was already at the door with the carriage,and, half an hour afterward, the great proprietor, full of hisvain and knavish projects, took his seat in it, and was whirledoff down to Wall street. His brokers had already beencharged with his plans, and, before he reached the ground,every office where the Crooked Valley stock was held hadbeen visited, and every considerable deposit of it ascertained,so that, before night, by one grand swoop, the General hadabsorbed a controlling interest in the corporation.

A few days afterward, the annual meeting was held, Mr.Belcher was elected President, and every other office was filledby his creatures and tools. His plans for the future of theroad gradually became known, and the stock began to assumea better position on the list. Weak and inefficient corporationswere already in existence for completing the variousconnections of the road, and of these he immediately, andfor moderate sums, bought the franchises. Within twomonths, bonds were issued for building the roads, and theroads themselves were put under contract. The "terminalfacilities" of one end of every contract were faithfully attendedto by Mr. Belcher. His pockets were still capaciousand absorbent. He parted with so much of his appreciatedstock as he could spare without impairing his control, and soat the end of a few months, found himself in the possessionof still another harvest. Not only this, but he found hispower increased. Men watched him, and followed him intoother speculations. They hung around him, anxious to getindications of his next movement. They flattered him; theyfawned upon him; and to those whom he could in any wayuse for his own purposes, he breathed little secrets of the marketfrom which they won their rewards. People talked aboutwhat "the General" was doing, and proposed to do, as if hewere a well-recognized factor in the financial situation.

Whenever he ran over his line, which he often did for informationand amusem*nt, and for the pleasure of exercisinghis power, he went in a special car, at break-neck speed, bytelegraph, always accompanied by a body of friends andtoadies, whom he feasted on the way. Everybody wanted tosee him. He was as much a lion as if he had been anEmperor or a murderer. To emerge upon a platform at away-station, where there were hundreds of country peoplewho had flocked in to witness the exhibition, was his greatdelight. He spoke to them familiarly and good-naturedly;transacted his business with a rush; threw the whole villageinto tumult; waved his hand; and vanished in a cloud ofdust. Such enterprise, such confidence, such strength, suchinterest in the local prosperities of the line, found theirnatural result in the absorption of the new bonds. Theywere purchased by individuals and municipal corporations.Freight was diverted from its legitimate channels, and drawnover the road at a loss; but it looked like business. Passeswere scattered in every direction, and the passenger trafficseemed to double at once. All was bustle, drive, business.Under a single will, backed by a strong and orderly executivecapacity, the dying road seemed to leap into life. It had notan employé who did not know and take off his hat to theGeneral. He was a kind of god, to whom they all boweddown; and to be addressed or chaffed by him was an honorto be reported to friends, and borne home with self-gratulationsto wives and children.

The General, of course, had moments of superlative happiness.He never had enjoyed anything more than he enjoyedhis railroad. His notoriety with the common people alongthe line—the idea which they cherished that he could do anythinghe wished to do; that he had only to lift his hand towin gold to himself or to bear it to them—these were pleasantin themselves; but to have their obeisance witnessed by hiscity friends and associates, while they discussed his champagneand boned turkey from the abounding hampers which alwaysfurnished "the President's car"—this was the crown of hispleasure. He had a pleasure, too, in business. He never hadenough to do, and the railroad which would have loaded downan ordinary man with an ordinary conscience, was only apleasant diversion to him. Indeed, he was wont to reiterate,when rallied upon his new enterprise: "The fact was, I hadto do something for my health, you know."

Still, the General was not what could be called a thoroughlyhappy man. He knew the risks he ran on Change. He hadbeen reminded, by two or three mortifying losses, that the sundid not always shine on Wall street. He knew that his railroadwas a bubble, and that sooner or later it would burst.Times would change, and, after all, there was nothing thatwould last like his manufactures. With a long foresight, hehad ordered the funds received from the Prussian sales of theBelcher rifle to be deposited with a European banking houseat interest, to be drawn against in his foreign purchases ofmaterial; yet he never drew against this deposit. Self-confidentas he was, glutted with success as he was, he had in hisheart a premonition that some time he might want that moneyjust where it was placed. So there it lay, accumulating interest.It was an anchor to windward, that would hold himif ever his bark should drift into shallow or dangerous waters.

The grand trouble was, that he did not own a single patentby which he was thriving in both branches of his manufactures.He had calculated upon worrying the inventor into asale, and had brought his designs very nearly to realization,when he found, to his surprise and discomfiture, that he haddriven him into a mad-house. Rich as he was, therefore,there was something very unsubstantial in his wealth, even tohis own apprehension. Sometimes it all seemed like a bubble,which a sudden breath would wreck. Out of momentarydespondencies, originating in visions like these, he always rosewith determinations that nothing should come between himand his possessions and prosperities which his hand, by fairmeans or foul, could crush.

Mr. Balfour, a lawyer of faultless character and undoubtedcourage, held his secret. He could not bend him or buy him.He was the one man in all the world whom he was afraid of.He was the one man in New York who knew whether Benedictwas alive or not. He had Benedict's heir in his house,and he knew that by him the law would lay its hand on himand his possessions. He only wondered that the action wasdelayed. Why was it delayed? Was he, Mr. Belcher, readyfor it? He knew he was not, and he saw but one way bywhich he could become so. Over this he hesitated, hopingthat some event would occur which would render his projectedcrime unnecessary.

Evening after evening, when every member of his familywas in bed, he shut himself in his room, looked behind everyarticle of furniture to make himself sure that he was alone,and then drew from its drawer the long unexecuted contractwith Mr. Benedict, with the accompanying autograph letters,forwarded to him by Sam Yates. Whole quires of paper hetraced with the names of "Nicholas Johnson" and "JamesRamsey." After he had mastered the peculiarities of theirsigns manual, he took up that of Mr. Benedict. Then hewrote the three names in the relations in which he wishedthem to appear on the document. Then he not only burnedall the paper he had used, in the grate, but pulverized itsashes.

Not being able to ascertain whether Benedict were alive ordead, it would be necessary to produce a document whichwould answer his purpose in either case. Of course, it wouldbe requisite that its date should anticipate the inventor's insanity.He would make one more effort to ascertain a factthat had so direct a relation to his future security.

Accordingly, one evening after his railroad scheme wasfairly inaugurated, he called on Mrs. Dillingham, determinedto obtain from her what she knew. He had witnessed formonths her fondness for Harry Benedict. The boy had apparentlywith the consent of the Balfours, been frequently inher house. They had taken long drives together in the Park.Mr. Belcher felt that there was a peculiar intimacy betweenthe two, yet not one satisfactory word had he ever heard fromthe lady about her new pet. He had become conscious, too,of a certain change in her. She had been less in society,was more quiet than formerly, and more reticent in his presence,though she had never repulsed him. He had caughtfewer glimpses of that side of her nature and character whichhe had once believed was sympathetic with his own. Misledby his own vanity into the constant belief that she was seriouslyin love with himself, he was determined to utilize herpassion for his own purposes. If she would not give kisses,she should give confidence.

"Mrs. Dillingham," he said, "I have been waiting to hearsomething about your pauper protégé, and I have come to-nightto find out what you know about him and his father."

"If I knew of anything that would be of real advantage toyou, I would tell you, but I do not," she replied.

"Well, that's an old story. Tell that to the marines. I'msick of it."

Mrs. Dillingham's face flushed.

"I prefer to judge for myself, if it's all the same to you,"pursued the proprietor. "You've had the boy in your handsfor months, and you know him, through and through, or elseyou are not the woman I have taken you for."

"You have taken me for, Mr. Belcher?"

"Nothing offensive. Don't roll up your pretty eyes inthat way."

Mrs. Dillingham was getting angry.

"Please don't address me in that way again," she said.

"Well, what the devil have you to do with the boy anyway, if you are not at work for me? That's what I'd like toknow."

"I like him, and he is fond of me."

"I don't see how that helps me," responded Mr. Belcher.

"It is enough for me that I enjoy it."

"Oh, it is!"

"Yes, it is," with an emphatic nod of the head.

"Perhaps you think that will go down with me. Perhapsyou are not acquainted with my way of doing business."

"Are you doing business with me, Mr. Belcher? Am I apartner of yours? If I am, perhaps you will be kind enoughto tell me—business-like enough to tell me—why you wishme to worm secrets out of this boy."

It was Mr. Belcher's turn to color.

"No, I will not. I trust no woman with my affairs. Ikeep my own councils."

"Then do your own business," snappishly.

"Mrs. Dillingham, you and I are friends—destined, Itrust, to be better friends—closer friends—than we have everbeen. This boy is of no consequence to you, and you cannotafford to sacrifice a man who can serve you more than youseem to know, for him."

"Well," said the lady, "there is no use in acting under amask any longer. I would not betray the confidence of achild to serve any man I ever saw. You have been kind tome, but you have not trusted me. The lad loves me, andtrusts me, and I will never betray him. What I tell you istrue. I have learned nothing from him that can be of anygenuine advantage to you. That is all the answer you willever get from me. If you choose to throw away our friendship,you can take the responsibility," and Mrs. Dillinghamhid her face in her handkerchief.

Mr. Belcher had been trying an experiment, and he hadnot succeeded—could not succeed; and there sat the beautiful,magnanimous woman before him, her heart torn as hebelieved with love for him, yet loyal to her ideas of honor asthey related to a confiding child! How beautiful she was!Vexed he certainly was, but there was a balm for his vexationin these charming revelations of her character.

"Well," he said rising, and in his old good-natured tone,"there's no accounting for a woman. I'm not going tobother you."

He seized her unresisting hand, pressed it to his lips, andwent away. He did not hear the musical giggle that followedhim into the street, but, absorbed by his purpose, went homeand mounted to his room. Locking the door, and peeringabout among the furniture, according to his custom, he satdown at his desk, drew out the old contract, and started athis usual practice. "Sign it," he said to himself, "and thenyou can use it or not—just as you please. It's not the signingthat will trouble you; it's the using."

He tried the names all over again, and then, his heart beatingheavily against the desk, he spread the document and essayedhis task. His heart jarred him. His hand trembled.What could he do to calm himself? He rose and walked tohis mirror, and found that he was pale. "Are you afraid?"he said to himself. "Are you a coward? Ha! ha! ha! ha!Did I laugh? My God! how it sounded! Aren't you apretty King of Wall Street! Aren't you a lovely Presidentof the Crooked Valley Railroad! Aren't you a sweet sort ofa nabob! You must do it! Do you hear? You must do it!Eh? do you hear? Sit down, sir! Down with you, sir!and don't you rise again until the thing is done."

The heart-thumping passed away. The reaction, under thestrong spur and steady push of will, brought his nerves up tosteadiness, and he sat down, took his pencils and pens thathad been selected for the service, and wrote first the name ofPaul Benedict, and then, as witnesses, the names of NicholasJohnson and James Ramsey.

So the document was signed, and witnessed by men whomhe believed to be dead. The witnesses whose names he hadforged he knew to be dead. With this document he believedhe could defend his possession of all the patent rights onwhich the permanence of his fortune depended. He permittedthe ink to dry, then folded the paper, and put it backin its place. Then he shut and opened the drawer, and tookit out again. It had a genuine look.

Then he rang his bell and called for Phipps. When Phippsappeared, he said:

"Well, Phipps, what do you want?"

"Nothing, sir," and Phipps smiled.

"Very well; help yourself."

"Thank you, sir," and Phipps rubbed his hands.

"How are you getting along in New York, Phipps?"

"Very well, sir."

"Big thing to be round with the General, isn't it? It's atouch above Sevenoaks, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get enough to eat down-stairs?"

"Plenty."

"Good clothes to wear?"

"Very good," and Phipps looked down upon his toilet withgreat satisfaction.

"Stolen mostly from the General, eh?"

Phipps giggled.

"That's all; you can go. I only wanted to see if you werein the house, and well taken care of."

Phipps started to go. "By the way, Phipps, have you agood memory?—first-rate memory?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you remember everything that happened, a—say, sixyears ago?"

"I can try," said Phipps, with an intelligent glance intoMr. Belcher's eyes.

"Do you remember a day, about six years ago, when PaulBenedict came into my house at Sevenoaks, with NicholasJohnson and James Ramsey, and they all signed a paper together?"

"Very well," replied Phipps.

"And do you remember that I said to you, after they weregone, that that paper gave me all of Benedict's patentrights?"

Phipps looked up at the ceiling, and then said:

"Yes, sir, and I remember that I said, 'It will make youvery rich, won't it, Mr. Belcher?'"

"And what did I reply to you?"

"You said, 'That remains to be seen.'"

"All right. Do you suppose you should know that paperif you were to see it?"

"I think I should—after I'd seen it once."

"Well, there it is—suppose you take a look at it."

"I remember it by two blots in the corner, and the redlines down the side."

"You didn't write your own name, did you?"

"It seems to me I did."

"Suppose you examine the paper, under James Ramsey'sname, and see whether yours is there."

Mr. Felcher walked to his glass, turning his back uponPhipps. The latter sat down, and wrote his name upon thespot thus blindly suggested.

"It is here, sir."

"Ah! So you have found it! You distinctly rememberwriting it on that occasion, and can swear to it, and to thesignatures of the others?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"And all this was done in my library, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"How did you happen to be there when these other menwere there?"

"You called me in, sir."

"All right! You never smoke, Phipps?"

"Never in the stable, sir."

"Well, lay these cigars away where you have laid the restof 'em, and go to bed."

Phipps took the costly bundle of cigars that was handed tohim, carried them by habit to his nose, said "Thank you,sir," and went off down the stairs, felicitating himself on theease with which he had won so choice a treasure.

The effect of Phipps' signature on Mr. Belcher's mind wasa curious illustration of the self-deceptions in which a humanheart may indulge. Companionship in crime, the sharing ofresponsibility, the fact that the paper was to have been signedat the time it was drawn, and would have been signed but forthe accident of Benedict's insanity; the fact that he had paidmoneys with the expectation of securing a title to the inventionshe was using—all these gave to the paper an air ofgenuineness which surprised even Mr. Belcher himself.

When known evil seems absolutely good to a man, and consciousfalsehood takes on the semblance and the authority oftruth, the Devil has him fast.

CHAPTER XX.

IN WHICH "THE LITTLE WOMAN" ANNOUNCES HER ENGAGEMENTTO JIM FENTON AND RECEIVES THE CONGRATULATIONSOF HER FRIENDS.

After the frame of Jim's hotel was up, at Number Nine,and those who had assisted in its erection were out of thewoods, he and his architect entered with great industry uponthe task of covering it. Under Mr. Benedict's direction,Jim became an expert in the work, and the sound of twobusy hammers kept the echoes of the forest awake from dawnuntil sunset, every day. The masons came at last and put upthe chimneys; and more and more, as the days went on, thebuilding assumed the look of a dwelling. The grand objectwas to get their enterprise forwarded to a point that wouldenable them to finish everything during the following winter,with such assistance as it might be necessary to import fromSevenoaks. The house needed to be made habitable forworkmen while their work was progressing, and to this endMr. Benedict and Jim pushed their efforts without assistance.

Occasionally, Jim found himself obliged to go to Sevenoaksfor supplies, and for articles and tools whose necessity hadnot been anticipated. On these occasions, he always calledMike Conlin to his aid, and always managed to see "thelittle woman" of his hopes. She was busy with her preparations,carried on in secret; and he always left her with hishead full of new plans and his heart brimming with new satisfactions.It was arranged that they should be married in thefollowing spring, so as to be ready for city boarders; and allhis efforts were bent upon completing the house for occupation.

During the autumn, Jim took from the Sevenoaks Post-Officea letter for Paul Benedict, bearing the New Yorkpost mark, and addressed in the handwriting of a lady. Theletter was a great puzzle to Jim, and he watched its effectupon his companion with much curiosity. Benedict weptover it, and went away where he could weep alone. Whenhe came back, he was a transformed man. A new light wasin his eye, a new elasticity in all his movements.

"I cannot tell you about it, Jim," he said; "at least Icannot tell you now; but a great burden has been lifted frommy life. I have never spoken of this to you, or to anybody;but the first cruel wound that the world ever gave me hasbeen healed by a touch."

"It takes a woman to do them things," said Jim. "Iknowed when ye gin up the little woman, as was free fromwhat happened about an hour arter, that ye was firm' low an'savin' yer waddin'. Oh, ye can't fool me, not much!"

"What do you think of that, Jim?" said Benedict, smiling,and handing him a check for five hundred dollars that theletter had inclosed.

Jim looked it over and read it through with undisguisedastonishment.

"Did she gin it to ye?" he inquired.

"Yes."

"An' be ye a goin' to keep it?"

"Yes, I'm going to keep it."

Jim was evidently doubtful touching the delicacy both oftendering and receiving such a gift.

"If that thing had come to me from the little woman,"said he, "I should think she was gittin' oneasy, an' a littledubersome about my comin' to time. It don't seem jest thething for a woman to shell out money to a man. My natergoes agin it. I feel it all over me, an' I vow, I b'lieve thatif the little woman had did that thing to me, I sh'd rub outmy reckonin' an' start new."

"It's all right, though, Jim," responded Benedict, good-naturedly—"rightfor the woman to give it, and right for meto receive it. Don't trouble yourself at all about it."

Benedict's assurance did little to relieve Jim's bewilderment,who still thought it a very improper thing to receivemoney from a woman. He did not examine himself farenough to learn that Benedict's independence of his own careand provision was partly the cause of his pain. Five hundreddollars in the woods was a great deal of money. To Jim'sapprehension, the man had become a capitalist. Some onebeside himself—some one richer and more powerful than himself—hadtaken the position of benefactor toward his friend.He was glad to see Benedict happy, but sorry that he couldnot have been the agent in making him so.

"Well, I can't keep ye forever'n' ever, but I was a hopin'ye'd hang by till I git hold of the little woman," said Jim.

"Do you suppose I would leave you now, Jim?"

"Well, I knowed a yoke o' cattle couldn't start ye, with ahoss ahead on 'em; but a woman, Mr. Benedict "—and Jim'svoice sunk to a solemn and impressive key—"a woman withthe right kind of an eye, an' a takin' way, is stronger nor asteam Injun. She can snake ye 'round anywhere; an' thequeerest thing about it is that a feller's willin' to go, an' thinksit's purty. She tells ye to come, an' ye come smilin'; andthen she tells ye to go, an' ye go smilin'; and then she windsye 'round her finger, and ye feel as limber an' as willin' as ifye was a whip-lash, an' hadn't nothin' else to do."

"Nevertheless, I shall stay with you, Jim."

"Well, I hope ye will; but don't ye be too sartin; notthat I'm goin' to stan' atween ye an' good luck, but if yecal'late that a woman's goin' to let ye do jest as ye think yewill—leastways a woman as has five hundred dollars in yerpocket—yer eddication hasn't been well took care on. If Iwas sitooated like you, I'd jest walk up to the pastur'-bars likea hoss, an' whinner to git in, an' expect to be called with acorn-cob when she got ready to use me."

"Still, I shall stay with you, Jim."

"All right; here's hopin', an' here's my hand."

Benedict's letter, besides the check, held still another inclosure—anote from Mr. Balfour. This he had slipped intohis pocket, and, in the absorption of his attention producedby the principal communication, forgotten. At the close ofhis conversation with Jim, he remembered it, and took it outand read it. It conveyed the intelligence that the lawyerfound it impossible to leave the city according to his promise,for an autumn vacation in the woods. Still, he would findsome means to send up Harry if Mr. Benedict should insistupon it. The boy was well, and progressing satisfactorily inhis studies. He was happy, and found a new reason for happinessin his intimacy with Mrs. Dillingham, with whom hewas spending a good deal of his leisure time. If Mr. Benedictwould consent to a change of plans, it was his wish tokeep the lad through the winter, and then, with all his family,to go up to Number Nine in the spring, be present atJim's wedding, and assist in the inauguration of the newhotel.

Mr. Benedict was more easily reconciled to this change ofplan than he would have believed possible an hour previously.The letter, whose contents had so mystified and disturbedJim, had changed the whole aspect of his life. He repliedto this letter during the day, and wrote another to Mr. Balfour,consenting to his wishes, and acquiescing in his plans.For the first time in many years, he could see through all histrials, into the calm daylight. Harry was safe and happy ina new association with a woman who, more than any other,held his life in her hands. He was getting a new basis forlife in friendship and love. Shored up by affection and sympathy,and with a modest competence in his hands for allpresent and immediately prospective needs, his dependentnature could once more stand erect.

Henceforward he dropped his idle dreaming and becameinterested in his work, and doubly efficient in its execution.Jim once more had in possession the old friend whose cheerfulnessand good-nature had originally won his affection; andthe late autumn and winter which lay before them seemed fullof hopeful and happy enterprise.

Miss Butterworth, hearing occasionally through Jim of theprogress of affairs at Number Nine, began to think it abouttime to make known her secret among her friends. Alreadythey had begun to suspect that the little tailoress had a secret,out of which would grow a change in her life. She had madesome astonishing purchases at the village shops, which hadbeen faithfully reported. She was working early and late inher little room. She was, in the new prosperity of the villagers,collecting her trifling dues. She had given notice ofthe recall of her modest loans. There were many indicationsthat she was preparing to leave the town.

"Now, really," said Mrs. Snow to her one evening, whenMiss Butterworth was illuminating the parsonage by herpresence—"now, really, you must tell us all about it. I'mdying to know."

"Oh, it's too ridiculous for anything," said Miss Butterworth,laughing herself almost into hysterics.

"Now, what, Keziah? What's too ridiculous? You arethe most provoking person!"

"The idea of my getting married!"

Mrs. Snow jumped up and seized Miss Butterworth's hands,and said:

"Why, Keziah Butterworth! You don't tell me! Youwicked, deceitful creature!"

The three Misses Snow all jumped up with their mother,and pressed around the merry object of their earnest congratulations.

"So unexpected and strange, you know," said the oldest.

"So very unexpected!" said the second.

"And so very strange, too!" echoed Number Three.

"Well, it is too ridiculous for anything," Miss Butterworthrepeated. "The idea of my living to be an old maid, and,what's more, making up my mind to it, and then"—andthen Miss Butterworth plunged into a new fit of merriment.

"Well, Keziah, I hope you'll be very happy. Indeed Ido," said Mrs. Snow, becoming motherly.

"Happy all your life," said Miss Snow.

"Very happy," said Number Two.

"All your life long," rounded up the complement of goodwishes from the lips of the youngest of the trio.

"Well, I'm very much obliged to you—to you all "—saidMiss Butterworth, wiping her eyes; "but it certainly is themost ridiculous thing. I say to myself sometimes: 'KeziahButterworth! You little old fool! What are you going todo with that man? How are you going to live with him?'Goodness knows that I've racked my brain over it until I'mjust about crazy. Don't mention it, but I believe I'll use himfor a watch-dog—tie him up daytimes, and let him out nights,you know!"

"Why, isn't he nice?" inquired Mrs. Snow.

"Nice! He's as rough as a hemlock tree."

"What do you marry him for?" inquired Mrs. Snow inastonishment.

"I'm sure I don't know. I've asked myself the questiona thousand times."

"Don't you want to marry him?"

"I don't know. I guess I do."

"My dear," said Mrs. Snow, soberly, "This is a verysolemn thing."

"I don't see it in that light," said Miss Butterworth,indulging in a new fit of laughter. "I wish I could, but it'sthe funniest thing. I wake up laughing over it, and I go tosleep laughing over it, and I say to myself, 'what are youlaughing at, you ridiculous creature?'"

"Well, I believe you are a ridiculous creature," said Mrs.Snow.

"I know I am, and if anybody had told me a year ago thatI should ever marry Jim Fenton, I—"

"Jim Fenton!" exclaimed the whole Snow family.

"Well, what is there so strange about my marrying JimFenton?" and the little tailoress straightened in her chair,her eyes flashing, and the color mounting to her face.

"Oh, nothing; but you know—it's such a surprise—he'sso—he's so—well he's a—not cultivated—never has seenmuch society, you know; and lives almost out of the world,as it were."

"Oh, no! He isn't cultivated! He ought to have beenbrought up in Sevenoaks and polished! He ought to havebeen subjected to the civilizing and refining influences of BobBelcher!"

"Now, you mustn't be offended, Keziah. We are all yourfriends, and anxious for your welfare."

"But you think Jim Fenton is a brute."

"I have said nothing of the kind."

"But you think so."

"I think you ought to know him better than I do."

"Well, I do, and he is just the loveliest, manliest, noblest,splendidest old fellow that ever lived. I don't care if he doeslive out of the world. I'd go with him, and live with him,if he used the North Pole for a back log. Fah! I hate aslick man. Jim has spoiled me for anything but a true manin the rough. There's more pluck in his old shoes than youcan find in all the men of Sevenoaks put together. And he'sas tender—Oh, Mrs. Snow! Oh, girls! He's as tender as ababy—just as tender as a baby! He has said to me the mostwonderful things! I wish I could remember them. I nevercan, and I couldn't say them as he does if I could. Since Ibecame acquainted with him, it seems as if the world hadbeen made all over new. I'd become kind o' tired of humannature, you know. It seemed sometimes as if it was just aswell to be a cow as a woman; but I've become so much tohim, and he has become so much to me, that all the men andwomen around me have grown beautiful. And he loves mein a way that is so strong—and so protecting—and so sweetand careful—that—now don't you laugh, or you'll make meangry—I'd feel safer in his arms than I would in a church."

"Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed Mrs. Snow.

"Isn't it remarkable!" said Miss Snow.

"Quite delightful!" exclaimed the second sister, whoseenthusiasm could not be crammed into Miss Snow's expression.

"Really charming," added Number Three.

"You are quite sure you don't know what you want tomarry him for?" said Mrs. Snow, with a roguish twinkle inher eye. "You are quite sure you don't love him?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Miss Butterworth. "It's something.I wish you could hear him talk. His grammar wouldkill you. It would just kill you. You'd never breathe afterit. Such awful nominative cases as that man has! And youcan't beat him out of them. And such a pronunciation! Hiswords are just as rough as he is, and just like him. Theyseem to have a great deal more meaning in them than they dowhen they have good clothes on. You don't know how Ienjoy hearing him talk."

"I'm inclined to think you love him," said Mrs. Snow,smiling.

"I don't know. Isn't it the most ridiculous thing,now?"

"No; it isn't ridiculous at all," said Mrs. Snow, soberly.

Miss Butterworth's moon was sailing high that evening.There were but few clouds in her heaven, but occasionally atender vapor passed across the silver disk, and one passed atthis moment. Her eyes were loaded with tears as she lookedup in Mrs. Snow's face, and said:

"I was very lonely, you know. Life had become very tame,and I saw nothing before me different from my daily experience,which had grown to be wearisome. Jim came andopened a new life to me, offered me companionship, new circ*mstances,new surroundings. It was like being born again.And, do you know, I don't think it is natural for a woman tocarry her own life. I got very tired of mine, and when thisstrong man came, and was willing to take it up, and bear itfor me as the greatest pleasure I could bestow upon him, whatcould I do—now, what could I do? I don't think I'm proudof him, but I belong to him, and I'm glad; and that's allthere is about it;" and Miss Butterworth sprang to her feet asif she were about to leave the house.

"You are not going," said Mrs. Snow, catching her byboth shoulders, "so sit down."

"I've told you the whole: there's nothing more. I supposeit will be a great wonder to the Sevenoaks people, andthat they'll think I'm throwing myself away, but I do hopethey will let me alone."

"When are you to be married?"

"In the spring."

"Where?"

"Oh! anywhere. No matter where. I haven't thoughtabout that part of it."

"Then you'll be married right here, in this house. Youshall have a nice little wedding."

"Oh! and orange-blossoms!" exclaimed Miss Snow, clappingher hands.

"And a veil!" added Number Two.

"And a—" Number Three was not so familiar with suchoccasions as to be able to supply another article, so sheclapped her hands.

They were all in a delicious flutter. It would be so niceto have a wedding in the house! It was a good sign. Didthe young ladies think that it might break a sort of electricspell that hung over the parsonage, and result in a showerwhich would float them all off? Perhaps so. They were, atleast, very happy about it.

Then they all sat down again, to talk over the matter ofclothes. Miss Butterworth did not wish to make herselfridiculous.

"I've said a thousand times, if I ever said it once," sheremarked, "that there's no fool like an old fool. Now, Idon't want to hear any nonsense about orange-blossoms, orabout a veil. If there's anything that I do despise aboveboard, it's a bridal veil on an old maid. And I'm not goingto have a lot of things made up that I can't use. I'm justgoing to have a snug, serviceable set of clothes, and in threedays I'm going to look as if I'd been married ten years."

"It seems to me," said Miss Snow, "that you ought to dosomething. I'm sure, if I were in your place, that I shouldwant to do something."

The other girls tittered.

"Not that I ever expect to be in your place, or anythinglike it," she went on, "but it does seem to me as ifsomething extra ought to be done—white kid gloves or something."

"And white satin gaiters," suggested the youngest sister.

"I guess you'd think Jim Fenton was extra enough if youknew him," said Miss Butterworth, laughing. "There'splenty that's extra, goodness knows! without buying anything."

"Well," persisted the youngest Miss Snow, "I'd haveopen-worked stockings, and have my hair frizzed, any way."

"Oh, I speak to do your hair," put in the second daughter.

"You're just a lot of chickens, the whole of you," said thetailoress.

Miss Snow, whose age was hovering about the confines ofmature maidenhood, smiled a deprecating smile, and said thatshe thought she was about what they sold for chickens sometimes,and intimated that she was anything but tender.

"Well, don't be discouraged; that's all I have to say,"remarked Miss Butterworth. "If I can get married, anybodycan. If anybody had told me that—well isn't it too ridiculousfor anything? Now, isn't it?" And the little tailoresswent off into another fit of laughter. Then she jumped upand said she really must go.

The report that Jim Fenton was soon to lead to the hymenealaltar the popular village tailoress, spread with great rapidity,and as it started from the minister's family, it had agood send-off, and was accompanied by information that verypleasantly modified its effect upon the public mind. The menof the village who knew Jim a great deal better than thewomen, and who, in various ways, had become familiar withhis plans for a hotel, and recognized the fact that his enterprisewould make Sevenoaks a kind of thoroughfare for hisprospective city-boarders, decided that she had "done well."Jim was enterprising, and, as they termed it, "forehanded."His habits were good, his industry indefatigable, his commonsense and good nature unexampled. Everybody liked Jim.To be sure, he was rough and uneducated, but he was honorableand true. He would make a good "provider." MissButterworth might have gone further and fared worse. Onthe whole, it was a good thing; and they were glad for Jim'ssake and for Miss Butterworth's that it had happened.

The women took their cue from the men. They thought,however, that Miss Butterworth would be very lonesome, andfound various pegs on which to hang out their pity for a publicairing. Still, the little tailoress was surprised at the heartinessof their congratulations, and often melted to tears bythe presents she received from the great number of familiesfor whom, every year, she had worked. No engagement hadoccurred in Sevenoaks for a long time that created so muchinterest, and enlisted so many sympathies. They hoped shewould be very happy. They would be exceedingly sorry tolose her. Nobody could ever take her place. She had alwaysbeen one whom they could have in their families "withoutmaking any difference," and she never tattled.

So Miss Butterworth found herself quite a heroine, butwhenever Jim showed himself, the women all looked out ofthe windows, and made their own comments. After all, theycouldn't see exactly what Miss Butterworth could find to likein him. They saw a tall, strong, rough, good-natured-lookingman, whom all the men and all the boys greeted with genuineheartiness. They saw him pushing about his business withthe air of one who owned the whole village; but his clotheswere rough, and his boots over his trowsers. They hoped itwould all turn out well. There was "no doubt that he neededa woman badly enough."

Not only Miss Butterworth but Jim became the subject ofcongratulation. The first time he entered Sevenoaks after theannouncement of his engagement, he was hailed from everyshop, and button-holed at every corner. The good-naturedchaffing to which he was subjected he met with his old smile.

"Much obleeged to ye for leavin' her for a man as knowsa genuine creetur when he sees her," he said, to one andanother, who rallied him upon his matrimonial intentions.

"Isn't she rather old?" inquired one whose manners werenot learned of Lord Chesterfield.

"I dunno," he replied; "she's hearn it thunder enoughnot to be skeered, an' she's had the measles an' the whoopin'cough, an' the chicken pox, an' the mumps, an' got throughwith her nonsense."

CHAPTER XXI.

IN WHICH JIM GETS THE FURNITURE INTO HIS HOUSE, AND MIKECONLIN GETS ANOTHER INSTALLMENT OF ADVICE INTO JIM.

Jim had a weary winter. He was obliged to hire and toboard a number of workmen, whom it was necessary to bringin from Sevenoaks, to effect the finishing of his house. His moneyran low at last, and Mr. Benedict was called upon to writea letter to Mr. Balfour on his behalf, accepting that gentleman'soffer of pecuniary assistance. This was a humiliatingtrial to Jim, for he had hoped to enter upon his new life freefrom the burden of debt; but Mr. Balfour assured him thathe did not regard his contribution to the building-fund as aloan—it was only the payment for his board in advance.

Jim was astonished to learn the extent of Miss Butterworth'sresources. She proposed to furnish the house from thesavings of her years of active industry. She had studied itso thoroughly during its progress, though she had never seenit, that she could have found every door and gone throughevery apartment of it in the dark. She had received fromMr. Benedict the plan and dimensions of every room. Carpetswere made, matting was purchased, sets of furniture wereprocured, crockery, glass, linen, mirrors, curtains, kitchen-utensils,everything necessary to housekeeping, were boughtand placed in store, so that, when the spring came, all thatremained necessary was to give her order to forward them,and write her directions for their bestowal in the house.

The long-looked for time came at last. The freshets ofspring had passed away; the woods were filling with birds;the shad-blossoms were reaching their flat sprays out over theriver, and looking at themselves in the sunny waters; and thethrush, standing on the deck of the New Year, had piped allhands from below, and sent them into the rigging to spreadthe sails.

Jim's heart was glad. His house was finished, and nothingremained but to fill it with the means and appliances of life,and with that precious life to which they were to be devoted.The enterprise by which it was to be supported lay beforehim, and was a burden upon him; but he believed in himself,and was not afraid.

One morning, after he had gone over his house for thethousandth time, and mounted to the cupola for a finalsurvey, he started for Sevenoaks to make his arrangements forthe transportation of the furniture. Two new boats had beenplaced on the river by men who proposed to act as guides tothe summer visitors, and these he engaged to aid in the watertransportation of the articles that had been provided by "thelittle woman."

After his arrival in Sevenoaks, he was in consultation withher every day; and every day he was more impressed by themethod which she had pursued in the work of furnishing hislittle hotel.

"I knowed you was smarter nor lightnin'," he said to her;"but I didn't know you was smarter nor a man."

In his journeys, Jim was necessarily thrown into the companyof Mike Conlin, who was officiously desirous to placeat his disposal the wisdom which had been acquired by longyears of intimate association with the feminine element ofdomestic life, and the duties and practices of housekeeping.When the last load of furniture was on its way to NumberNine, and Jim had stopped at Mike's house to refresh hisweary team, Mike saw that his last opportunity for givingadvice had come, and he determined to avail himself of it.

"Jim," he said, "ye're jist nothing but a babby, an' yemust ax me some quistions. I'm an owld housekaper, an' Ikin tell ye everything, Jim."

Jim was tired with his work, and tired of Mike. The greatevent of his life stood so closely before him, and he was somuch absorbed by it, that Mike's talk had a harsher effectupon his sensibilities than the grating of a saw-mill.

"Ah! Mike! shut up, shut up!" he said. "Ye mean well,but ye're the ignorantest ramus I ever seen. Ye know how torun a shanty an' a pig-pen, but what do ye know about keepin' ahotel?"

"Bedad, if that's where ye are, what do ye know aboutkapin' a hotel yersilf? Ye'll see the time, Jim, when ye'llbe sorry ye turned the cold shoolder to the honest tongue ofMike Conlin."

"Well, Mike, ye understand a pig-pen better nor I do. Igi'en it up," said Jim, with a sigh that showed how painfullyMike was boring him.

"Yes, Jim, an' ye think a pig-pen is benathe ye, forgittin'a pig is the purtiest thing in life. Ah, Jim! whin ye git upin the marnin', a falin' shtewed, an' niver a bit o' breakfastin ye, an' go out in the djew barefut, as ye was borrn, lavin'yer coat kapin' company wid yer ugly owld hat, waitin' foryer pork and pertaties, an' see yer pig wid his two paws an' hisdirty nose rachin' oover the pin, an sayin' 'good-marnin' toye,' an' squalin' away wid his big v'ice for his porridge, ye'llremimber what I say. An', Jim, whin ye fade 'im, ah! whinye fade 'im! an' he jist lays down continted, wid his bellyfull, an' ye laugh to hear 'im a groontin' an' a shwearin' to'imself to think he can't ate inny more, an' yer owld womancalls ye to breakfast, ye'll go in jist happy—jist happy, now.Ah, ye can't tell me! I'm an owld housekaper, Jim."

"Ye're an old pig-keeper; that's what you be," said Jim."Ye're a reg'lar Paddy, Mike. Ye're a good fellow, but I'dsooner hearn a loon nor a pig."

"Divil a bit o' raison have ye got in ye, Jim. Ye can'tate a loon no more nor ye can ate a boot."

Mike was getting impatient with the incorrigible characterof Jim's prejudices, and Jim saw that he was grieving him.

"Well, I persume I sh'll have to keep pigs, Mike," hesaid, in a compromising tone; "but I shan't dress 'em incalliker, nor larn 'em to sing Old Hundred. I sh'll jest let'em rampage around the woods, an' when I want one on 'em,I'll shoot'im."

"Yis, bedad, an' thin ye'll shkin 'im, an' throw the ristof 'im intil the river," responded Mike, contemptuously.

"No, Mike; I'll send for ye to cut 'im up an' pack 'im."

"Now ye talk," said Mike; and this little overture offriendly confidence became a door through which he couldenter a subject more profoundly interesting to him than thatwhich related to his favorite quadruped.

"What kind of an owld woman have ye got, Jim? Jistopen yer heart like a box o' tobacky, Jim, an' lit me hilp ye.There's no man as knows more about a woman nor Mike Conlin.Ah, Jim! ye ought to 'ave seed me wid the girrls in theowld counthry! They jist rin afther me as if I'd been stalin'their little hearrts. There was a twilve-month whin they torethe very coat tails aff me back. Be gorry I could 'ave marriedme whole neighborhood, an' I jist had to marry the firrst oneI could lay me honest hands on, an' take mesilf away wid herto Ameriky."

This was too much for Jim. His face broadened into hisold smile.

"Mike," said he, "ye haven't got an old towel or a hossblanket about ye, have ye? I feel as if I was a goin' to cry."

"An' what the divil be ye goin' to cry for?"

"Well, Mike, this is a world o' sorrer, an' when a fellercomes to think of a lot o' women as is so hard pushed thatthey hanker arter Mike Conlin, it fetches me. It's worse norbein' without victuals, an' beats the cholery out o' sight."

"Oh, ye blaggard! Can't ye talk sinse whin yer betthersis thryin' to hilp ye? What kind of an owld woman have yegot, now?"

"Mike," said Jim, solemnly, "ye don't know what ye'retalkin' about. If ye did, ye wouldn't call her an old woman.She's a lady, Mike. She isn't one o' your kind, an' I ain'tone o' your kind, Mike. Can't ye see there's the differenceof a pig atween us? Don't ye know that if I was to go hazin'round in the mornin' without no clo'es to speak on, an' takin'comfort in a howlin' pig, that I shouldn't be up to keepin' ahotel? Don't be unreasomble; and, Mike, don't ye neverspeak to me about my old woman. That's a sort o' thingthat won't set on her."

Mike shook his head in lofty pity.

"Ah, Jim, I can see what ye're comin' to."

Then, as if afraid that his "owld woman" might overhearhis confession, he bent toward Jim, and half whispered:

"The women is all smarter nor the men, Jim; but yemustn't let 'em know that ye think it. Ye've got to call 'emyer owld women, or ye can't keep 'em where ye want 'em.Be gorry! I wouldn't let me owld woman know what I thinkof 'er fur fifty dollars. I couldn't kape me house over mehead inny time at all at all, if I should whishper it. She's jistas much of a leddy as there is in Sivenoaks, bedad, an' I haveto put on me big airs, an' thrash around wid me two hands inme breeches pockets, an' shtick out me lips like a lorrd, an'promise to raise the divil wid her whiniver she gits a fit o'high flyin', an' ye'll have to do the same, Jim, or jist laydown an' let 'er shtep on ye. Git a good shtart, Jim. Don'tye gin 'er the bit for five minutes. She'll rin away wid ye.Ye can't till me anything about women."

"No, nor I don't want to. Now you jest shut up, Mike.I'm tired a hearin' ye. This thing about women is one as hashalf the fun of it in larnin' it as ye go along. Ye mean wellenough, Mike, but yer eddication is poor; an' if it's all thesame to ye, I'll take my pudden straight an' leave yer sarsefor them as likes it."

Jim's utter rejection of the further good offices of Mike,in the endeavor to instruct him in the management of hisfuture relations with the little woman, did not sink very deepinto the Irishman's sensibilities. Indeed, it could not havedone so, for their waters were shallow, and, as at this momentMike's "owld woman" called both to dinner, the differencewas forgotten in the sympathy of hunger and the satisfactionsof the table.

Jim felt that he was undergoing a change—had undergoneone, in fact. It had never revealed itself to him so fully as itdid during his conversation with Mike. The building of thehotel, the study of the wants of another grade of civilizationthan that to which he had been accustomed, the frequent conversationswith Miss Butterworth, the responsibilities he hadassumed, all had tended to lift him; and he felt that MikeConlin was no longer a tolerable companion. The shallownessof the Irishman's mind and life disgusted him, and heknew that the time would soon come when, by a process asnatural as the falling of the leaves in autumn, he should dropa whole class of associations, and stand where he could lookdown upon them—where they would look up to him. Theposition of principal, the command of men, the conduct of,and the personal responsibility for, a great enterprise, hadgiven him conscious growth. His old life and his old associationswere insufficient to contain him.

After dinner they started on, for the first time accompaniedby Mike's wife. Before her marriage she had lived the lifecommon to her class—that of cook and housemaid in the familiesof gentlemen. She knew the duties connected withthe opening of a house, and could bring its machinery intoworking order. She could do a thousand things that a maneither could not do, or would not think of doing; and Jimhad arranged that she should be housekeeper until the mistressof the establishment should be installed in her office.

The sun had set before they arrived at the river, and theboats of the two guides, with Jim's, which had been broughtdown by Mr. Benedict, were speedily loaded with the furniture,and Mike, picketing his horses for the night, embarkedwith the rest, and all slept at Number Nine.

In three days Jim was to be married, and his cage was readyfor his bird. The stoop with its "settle," the ladder forposies, at the foot of which the morning-glories were alreadyplanted, and the "cupalo," had ceased to be dreams, and becomerealities. Still, it all seemed a dream to Jim. He wakedin the morning in his own room, and wondered whether hewere not dreaming. He went out upon his piazza, and sawthe cabin in which he had spent so many nights in his oldsimple life, then went off and looked up at his house or rangedthrough the rooms, and experienced the emotion of regret socommon to those in similar circ*mstances, that he couldnever again be what he had been, or be contented with whathe had been—that he had crossed a point in his life whichhis retiring feet could never repass. It was the natural reactionof the long strain of expectation which he had experienced,and would pass away; but while it was upon him hemourned over the death of his old self, and the hopelessobliteration of his old circ*mstances.

Mr. Balfour had been written to, and would keep his promiseto be present at the wedding, with Mrs. Balfour and the boys.Sam Yates, at Jim's request, had agreed to see to the preparationof an appropriate outfit for the bridegroom. Such invitationshad been given out as Miss Butterworth dictated, and the Snowfamily was in a flutter of expectation. Presents of a humbleand useful kind had been pouring in upon Miss Butterworthfor days, until, indeed, she was quite overwhelmed. It seemedas if the whole village were in a conspiracy of beneficence.

In a final conference with Mrs. Snow, Miss Butterworth said:

"I don't know at all how he is going to behave, and I'mnot going to trouble myself about it; he shall do just as hepleases. He has made his way with me, and if he is goodenough for me, he is good enough for other people. I'm notgoing to badger him into nice manners, and I'm going to bejust as much amused with him as anybody is. He isn't likeother people, and if he tries to act like other people, it will justspoil him. If there's anything that I do despise above board,it's a woman trying to train a man who loves her. If I werethe man, I should hate her."

CHAPTER XXII.

IN WHICH JIM GETS MARRIED, THE NEW HOTEL RECEIVES ITSMISTRESS, AND BENEDICT CONFERS A POWER OF ATTORNEY.

There was great commotion in the little Sevenoaks tavern.It was Jim's wedding morning, and on the previous eveningthere had been a sufficient number of arrivals to fill everyroom. Mr. and Mrs. Balfour, with the two boys, had comein in the evening stage; Jim and Mr. Benedict had arrivedfrom Number Nine. Friends of Miss Butterworth from adjoiningtowns had come, so as to be ready for the ceremonyof the morning. Villagers had thronged the noisy bar-roomuntil midnight, scanning and discussing the strangers, andspeculating upon the event which had called them together.Jim had moved among them, smiling, and returning theirgood-natured badinage with imperturbable coolness, so far asappearances went, though he acknowledged to Mr. Balfourthat he felt very much as he did about his first moose.

"I took a good aim," said he, "restin' acrost a stump, butthe stump was oneasy like; an' then I blazed away, an' whenI obsarved the moose sprawlin', I was twenty feet up a tree,with my gun in the snow; an' if they don't find me settin' onthe parson's chimbly about nine o'clock to-morrer mornin',it won't be on account o' my not bein' skeered."

But the wedding morning had arrived. Jim had had anuneasy night, with imperfect sleep and preposterous dreams.He had been pursuing game. Sometimes it was a bear thatattracted his chase, sometimes it was a deer, sometimes it wasa moose, but all the time it was Miss Butterworth, flying andlooking back, with robes and ribbons vanishing among thedistant trees, until he shot and killed her, and then he wokein a great convulsion of despair, to hear the singing of theearly birds, and to the realization of the fact that his days ofbachelor life were counted.

Mr. Benedict, with his restored boy in his arms, occupiedthe room next to his, a door opening between them. Bothwere awake, and were busy with their whispered confidences,when they became aware that Jim was roused and on his feet.In a huge bundle on the table lay Jim's wedding garments,which he eyed from time to time as he busied himself at hisbath.

"Won't ye be a purty bird with them feathers on! Thismakin' crows into bobolinks'll do for oncet, but, my! won'tthem things spin when I git into the woods agin?"

Benedict and Harry knew Jim's habit, and the measure ofexcitement that was upon him, and lay still, expecting to beamused by his soliloquies. Soon they heard him say:

"Oh, lay down, lay down, lay down, ye misable oldmop!"

It was an expression of impatience and disgust.

"What's the matter, Jim?" Mr. Benedict called.

"Here's my har," responded Jim, "actin' as if it was apiece o' woods or a hay-lot, an' there ain't no lodgin' it withnothin' short of a harricane. I've a good mind to git itshingled and san'-papered."

Then, shifting his address to the object of his care andanxiety, he went on:

"Oh, stick up, stick up, if you want to! Don't lay downon my 'count. P'rhaps ye want to see what's goin' on.P'rhaps ye're goin' to stand up with me. P'rhaps ye want toskeer somebody's hosses. If I didn't look no better nor you,I sh'd want to lay low; an', if I'd 'a slep as poor as ye did lastnight, I'd lop down in the fust bed o' bear's grease I couldfind. Hain't ye got no manners?"

This was too much for Harry, who, in his happy moodburst into the merriest laughter.

This furnished Jim with just the apology he wanted for afrolic, and rushing into the adjoining bedroom, he pulledHarry from his bed, seated him on the top of his head, andmarched with him struggling and laughing about the room.After he had performed sundry acrobatic feats with him, hecarried him back to his bed. Then he returned to his room,and entered seriously upon the task of arraying himself in hiswedding attire. To get on his collar and neck-tie properly,he was obliged to call for Mr. Benedict's assistance.

Jim was already getting red in the face.

"What on arth folks want to tie theirselves up in this wayfor in hot weather, is more nor I know," he said. "How doye s'pose them Mormons live, as is doin' this thing everythree days?"

Jim asked this question with his nose in the air, patientlywaiting the result of Mr. Benedict's manipulations at histhroat. When he could speak again, he added:

"I vow, if I was doin' a big business in this line, I'd gitsome tin things, an' have 'em soddered on, an' sleep in 'em."

This sent Harry into another giggle, and, with many soliloquiesand much merriment, the dressing in both rooms wenton, until, in Jim's room, all became still. When Benedictand his boy had completed their toilet, they looked in uponJim, and found him dressed and seated on his trunk.

"Good morning, Mr. Fenton," said Benedict, cheerfully.

Jim, who had been in deep thought, looked up, and said:

"Do ye know that that don't seem so queer to me as itused to? It seems all right fur pertickler friends to call meJim, but clo'es is what puts the Mister into a man. I felt itcomin' when I looked into the glass. Says I to myself: 'Jim,that's Mr. Fenton as is now afore ye. Look at 'im sharp,so that, if so be ye ever seen 'im agin' ye'll know 'im.' Inever knowed exactly where the Mister come from afore. Yehave to be measured for't. A pair o' shears, an' a needle an'thread, an' a hot goose is what changes a man into a Mister.It's a nice thing to find out, but it's uncomf'table. It ain'tso bad as it would be if ye couldn't strip it off when ye gittired on't, an' it's a good thing to know."

"Do clothes make Belcher a gentleman?" inquired Mr.Benedict.

"Well, it's what makes him a Mister, any way. When yegit his clo'es off thar ain't nothin' left of 'im. Dress 'im upin my old clo'es, as has got tar enough on 'em to paint aboat, an' there wouldn't be enough man in 'im to speak to."

How long Jim would have indulged in his philosophy ofthe power of dress had he not been disturbed will never beknown, for at this moment Mr. Balfour knocked at his door,and was admitted. Sam Yates followed, and both looked Jimover and pronounced him perfect. Even these familiar friendsfelt the power of dress, and treated Jim in a way to which hehad been unaccustomed. The stalwart figure, developed inevery muscle, and becomingly draped, was well calculated toexcite their admiration. The refractory hair which had givenits possessor so much trouble, simply made his head impressiveand picturesque. There was a man before them—humane,brave, bright, original. All he wanted was culture. Physicaland mental endowments were in excess, and the two men,trained in the schools, had learned to love—almost to reverehim. Until he spoke, they did not feel at home with him inhis new disguise.

They all descended to breakfast together. Jim was quietunder the feeling that his clothes were an unnatural expressionof himself, and that his words would make them a mockery.He was awed, too, by the presence of Mrs. Balfour, who methim at the table for the first time in her life. The sharp-eyed,smiling Yankee girls who waited at the meal, were very muchdevoted to Jim, who was ashamed to receive so much attention.On the whole, it was the most uncomfortable breakfasthe had ever eaten, but his eyes were quick to see all that wasdone, for he was about to open a hotel, and wished particularlyto learn the details of the table service.

There was great excitement, too, at the parsonage thatmorning. The Misses Snow were stirred by the romance ofthe occasion. They had little enough of this element in theirlives, and were disposed to make the most of it when it came.The eldest had been invited to accompany the bride to NumberNine, and spend a few weeks with her there. As this wasaccounted a great privilege by the two younger sisters, theyquietly shelved her, and told her that they were to have theirown way at home; so Miss Snow became ornamental andcritical. Miss Butterworth had spent the night with her, andthey had talked like a pair of school-girls until the small hoursof the morning. The two younger girls had slept together,and discussed at length the duties of their respective offices.One was to do the bride's hair and act as the general supervisorof her dress, the other was to arrange the flowers andtake care of the guests. Miss Butterworth's hair was notbeautiful, and how it was to be made the most of was the greatquestion that agitated the hair-dresser. All the possibilitiesof braid and plait and curl were canvassed. If she only hada switch, a great triumph could be achieved, but she hadnone, and, what was worse, would have none. A neighborhad sent in a potted white rose, full of buds and bloom, andover this the sisters quarreled. The hair would not be completewithout the roses, and the table would look "shameful"if the pot did not stand upon it, unshorn of a charm. Thehair-dresser proposed that the stems which she was bent ondespoiling should have some artificial roses tied to them, butthe disgraceful project was rejected with scorn. They wrangledover the dear little rose-bush and its burden until theywent to sleep—the one to dream that Miss Butterworth hadrisen in the morning with a new head of hair that reached toher knee, in whose luxuriance she could revel with interminabledelight, and the other that the house was filled with roses;that they sprouted out of the walls, fluttered with beads ofdew against the windows, strewed the floor, and filled the airwith odor.

Miss Butterworth was not to step out of the room—not beseen by any mortal eye—until she should come forth as abride. Miss Snow was summarily expelled from the apartment,and only permitted to bring in Miss Butterworth'sbreakfast, while her self-appointed lady's maid did her hair,and draped her in her new gray silk.

"Make just as big a fool of me, my dear, as you choose,"said the prospective bride to the fussy little girl who flutteredabout her. "It's only for a day, and I don't care."

Such patient manipulation, such sudden retirings for thestudy of effects, such delicious little experiments with a curl,such shifting of hair-pins, such dainty adjustments of rufflesand frills as were indulged in in that little room can only beimagined by the sex familiar with them. And then, in themidst of it all, came a scream of delight that stopped everything.Mrs. Balfour had sent in a great box full of the mostexquisite flowers, which she had brought all the way from thecity. The youngest Miss Snow was wild with her new wealth,and there were roses for Miss Butterworth's hair, and herthroat, and a bouquet for her hand. And after this camewonderful accessions to the refreshment table. Cake, withMiss Butterworth's initials; tarts, marked "Number Nine,"and Charlotte de Russe, with a "B" and an "F" hopelesslytwisted together in a monogram. The most excited exclamationsreached Miss Butterworth's ears in her imprisonment:

"Goodness, gracious me!"

"If there isn't another cake as big as a flour barrel!"

"Tell your mother she's an angel. She's coming down tohelp us eat it, I hope."

"Just look at this basket of little cakes! I was saying tomother this minute that that was all we wanted."

So the good things came, and the cheerful givers went, andMiss Butterworth took an occasional sip at her coffee, with ahuge napkin at her throat, and tears in her eyes, not drawnforth by the delicate tortures in progress upon her person.She thought of her weary years of service, her watchings bysick-beds, her ministry to the poor, her long loneliness, andacknowledged to herself that her reward had come. To beso loved and petted, and cared for, and waited upon, waspayment for every sacrifice and every service, and she feltthat she and the world were at quits.

Before the finishing touches to her toilet were given, therewas a tumult at the door. She could hear new voices. Theguests were arriving. She heard laughter and merry greetings;and still they poured in, as if they had come in a procession.Then there was a hush, followed by the sound of a carriage,the letting down of steps, and a universal murmur. Jim hadarrived, with Mr. and Mrs. Balfour and the boys. They hadhad great difficulty in getting him into the one hackneycoach which the village possessed, on account of his wish toride with the driver, "a feller as he knowed;" but he wasoverruled by Mrs. Balfour, who, on alighting, took his arm.He came up the garden walk, smiling in the faces and eyesof those gathered around the door and clustered at thewindows. In his wedding dress, he was the best figure in thecrowd, and many were the exclamations of feminine admiration.

On entering the door, he looked about him, saw the well-dressedand expectant company, the dainty baskets of flowers,the bountifully loaded table in the little dining-room, all thepreparations for his day of happiness, but he saw nowhere theperson who gave to him the significance of the occasion.

Mr. Snow greeted him cordially, and introduced him tothose who stood near.

"Well, parson, where's the little woman?" he said, at last,in a voice so loud that all heard the startling question. MissButterworth heard him, and laughed.

"Just hear him!" she exclaimed to the busy girl,whose work was now hurrying to a close. "If he doesn't astonishthem before he gets through, I shall be mistaken. Ido think it's the most ridiculous thing. Now isn't it! Theidea!"

Miss Snow, in the general character of outside manager andfuture companion of the bride, hurried to Jim's side at once,and said:

"Oh, Mr. Fenton!"

"Jest call me Jim."

"No, no, I won't. Now, Mr. Fenton, really! you can'tsee her until she is ready!"

"Oh can't I!" and Jim smiled.

Miss Snow had the impression, prevalent among women,that a bridegroom has no rights so long as they can keep himout of them, and that it is their privilege to fight him up tothe last moment.

"Now, really, Mr. Fenton, you must be patient," she said,in a whisper. "She is quite delicate this morning, and she'sgoing to look so pretty that you'll hardly know her."

"Well," said Jim, "if you've got a ticket into the placewhar she's stoppin', tell her that kingdom-come is here an'waitin'."

A ripple of laughter went around the circle, and Jim, findingthe room getting a little close, beckoned Mr. Snow out ofthe doors. Taking him aside and removing his hat, he said:

"Parson, do you see my har?"

"I do," responded the minister, good-naturedly.

"That riz last night," said Jim, solemnly.

"Is it possible?" and Mr. Snow looked at the intractablepile with genuine concern.

"Yes, riz in a dream. I thought I'd shot 'er. I wasfollerin' 'er all night. Sometimes she was one thing, an'sometimes she was another, but I drew a bead on 'er, an'down she went, an' up come my har quicker nor lightnin'.I don't s'pose it looks very purty, but I can't help it."

"Have you tried anything on it?" inquired Mr. Snowwith a puzzled look.

"Yis, everything but a hot flat iron, an' I'm a little afraido' that. If wust comes to wust, it'll have to be did, though.It may warm up my old brains a little, but if my har is wellsprinkled, and the thing is handled lively, it'll pay for tryin'."

The perfect candor and coolness of Jim's manner were toomuch for the unsuspicious spirit of the minister, who thoughtit all very strange. He had heard of such things, but thiswas the first instance he had ever seen.

"Parson," said Jim, changing the topic, "what's thedamage for the sort o' thing ye're drivin' at this mornin'?"

"The what?"

"The damage—what's the—well—damage? What do yeconsider a fa'r price?"

"Do you mean the marriage fee?"

"Yes, I guess that's what ye call it."

"The law allows us two dollars, but you will permit me toperform the ceremony for nothing. It's a labor of love,Mr. Fenton. We are all very much interested in Miss Butterworth,as you see."

"Well, I'm a little interested in 'er myself, an' I'm agoin' to pay for the splice. Jest tuck that X into yer jacket,an' tell yer neighbors as ye've seen a man as was five timesbetter nor the law."

"You are very generous."

"No; I know what business is, though. Ye have to getsomethin' to square the buryins an' baptizins with. When aman has a weddin', he'd better pay the whole thing in ajump. Parsons have to live, but how the devil they do it inSevenoaks is more nor I know."

"Mr. Fenton! excuse me!" said Mr. Snow, coloring,"but I am not accustomed to hearing language of that kind."

"No, I s'pose not," said Jim, who saw too late that he hadmade a mistake. "Your sort o' folks knuckle to the devilmore nor I do. A good bein' I take to, but a bad bein' I'mcareless with; an' I don't make no more o' slingin' his nameround nor I do kickin' an old boot."

Mr. Snow was obliged to laugh, and half a dozen others,who had gathered about them, joined in a merry chorus.

Then Miss Snow came out and whispered to her father, andgave a roguish glance at Jim. At this time the house was full,the little yard was full, and there was a crowd of boys at thegate. Mr. Snow took Jim by the arm and led him in. Theypressed through the crowd at the door, Miss Snow makingway for them, and so, in a sort of triumphal progress, theywent through the room, and disappeared in the apartmentwhere "the little woman," flushed and expectant, waited theirarrival.

It would be hard to tell which was the more surprised asthey were confronted by the meeting. Dress had wrought itsmiracle upon both of them, and they hardly knew each other.

"Well, little woman, how fare ye?" said Jim, and he advanced,and took her cheeks tenderly between his roughhands, and kissed her.

"Oh, don't! Mr. Fenton! You'll muss her hair!" exclaimedthe nervous little lady's maid of the morning, dancingabout the object of her delightful toils and anxieties, and readjustinga rose, and pulling out the fold of a ruffle.

"A purty job ye've made on't! The little woman'll neverlook so nice again," said Jim.

"Perhaps I shall—when I'm married again," said MissButterworth, looking up into Jim's eyes, and laughing.

"Now, ain't that sassy!" exclaimed Jim, in a burst of admiration."That's what took me the first time I seen 'er."

Then Miss Snow Number Two came in, and said it reallywas time for the ceremony to begin. Such a job as she hadhad in seating people!

Oh, the mysteries of that little room! How the people outsidewondered what was going on there! How the girls insiderejoiced in their official privileges!

Miss Snow took Jim by the button-hole:

"Mr. Fenton, you must take Miss Butterworth on your arm,you know, and lead her in front of the sofa, and turn around,and face father, and then do just what he tells you, and rememberthat there's nothing for you to say."

The truth was, that they were all afraid that Jim would notbe able to hold his tongue.

"Are we all ready?" inquired Mr. Snow, in a pleasant,official tone.

All were ready, and then Mr. Snow, going out with a bookin his hand, was followed by Jim and his bride, the little processionbeing completed by the three Misses Snow, who, witha great deal of care upon their faces, slipped out of the door,one after another, like three white doves from a window. Mr.Snow took his position, the pair wheeled and faced him, andthe three Misses Snow supported Miss Butterworth as impromptubridesmaids. It was an impressive tableau, and whenthe good pastor said: "Let us pray," and raised his thin,white hands, a painter in search of a subject could have askedfor nothing better.

When, at the close of his prayer, the pastor inquired if therewere any known obstacles to the union of the pair before himin the bonds of holy matrimony, and bade all objectors tospeak then, or forever after hold their peace, Jim lookedaround with a defiant air, as if he would like to see the manwho dared to respond to the call. No one did respond, andthe ceremony proceeded.

"James," said Mr. Snow.

"Jest call me—"

Miss Butterworth pinched Jim's arm, and he recalledMiss Snow's injunction in time to arrest his sentence in midpassage.

"James," the pastor repeated, and then went on to askhim, in accordance with the simple form of his sect, whetherhe took the woman whom he was holding by the hand to behis lawful and wedded wife, to be loved and cherished insickness and health, in prosperity and adversity, cleaving toher, and to her only.

"Parson," said Jim, "that's jest what I'm here for."

There would have been a titter if any other man had saidit, but it was so strong and earnest, and so much in character,that hardly a smile crossed a face that fronted him.

Then "Keziah" was questioned in the usual form, andbowed her response, and Jim and the little woman were declaredto be one. "What God hath joined together, let notman put asunder."

And then Mr. Snow raised his white hands again, and pronounceda formal benediction. There was a moment ofawkwardness, but soon the pastor advanced with his congratulations,and Mrs. Snow came up, and the three Misses Snow,and the Balfours, and the neighbors; and there were kissesand hand-shakings, and good wishes. Jim beamed aroundupon the fluttering and chattering groups like a great, good-naturedmastiff upon a playful collection of silken spaniels andsmart terriers. It was the proudest moment of his life. Evenwhen standing on the cupola of his hotel, surveying hisachievements, and counting his possessions, he had never feltthe thrill which moved him then. The little woman was his,and his forever. His manhood had received the highest publicrecognition, and he was as happy as if it had been the impositionof a crown.

"Ye made purty solemn business on't, Parson," said Jim.

"It's a very important step, Mr. Fenton," responded theclergyman.

"Step!" exclaimed Jim. "That's no name for't; it's awhole trip. But I sh'll do it. When I said it I meaned it.I sh'll take care o' the little woman, and atween you an' I,Parson, it's about the best thing as a man can do. Takin'care of a woman is the nateral thing for a man, an' no manain't much as doesn't do it, and glad o' the job."

The capacity of a country assembly for cakes, pies, andlemonade, is something quite unique, especially at a morningfestival. If the table groaned at the beginning, it sighed atthe close. The abundance that asserted itself in piles of daintieswas left a wreck. It faded away like a bank of snowbefore a drift of southern vapor. Jim, foraging among thesolids, found a mince pie, to which he devoted himself.

"This is the sort o' thing as will stan' by a man in trouble,"said he, with a huge piece in his hand.

Then, with a basket of cake, he vanished from the house,and distributed his burden among the boys at the gate.

"Boys, I know ye're hungry, 'cause ye've left yer breakfaston yer faces. Now git this in afore it rains."

The boys did not stand on the order of the service, buthelped themselves greedily, and left his basket empty in atwinkling.

"It beats all nater," said Jim, looking at them sympathetically,"how much boys can put down when they try. Ifthe facks could be knowed, without cuttin' into 'em, I'd bewillin' to bet somethin' that their legs is holler."

While Jim was absent, the bride's health was drunk in aglass of lemonade, and when he returned, his own health wasproposed, and Jim seemed to feel that something was expectedof him.

"My good frens," said he, "I'm much obleeged to ye.Ye couldn't 'a' treated me better if I'd 'a' been the presidentof this country. I ain't used to yer ways, but I know whenI'm treated well, an' when the little woman is treated well.I'm obleeged to ye on her 'count. I'm a goin' to take 'erinto the woods, an' take care on 'er. We are goin' to keep ahotel—me and the little woman—an' if so be as any of ye istook sick by overloadin' with cookies 'arly in the day, orbein' thinned out with lemonade, ye can come into thewoods, an' I'll send ye back happy."

There was a clapping of hands and a flutter of handkerchiefs,and a merry chorus of laughter, and then two vehiclesdrove up to the door. The bride bade a tearful farewell toher multitude of friends, and poured out her thanks to theminister's family, and in twenty minutes thereafter, two happyloads of passengers went pounding over the bridge, and offup the hill on the way to Number Nine. The horses werestrong, the morning was perfect, and Jim was in possessionof his bride. They, with Miss Snow, occupied one carriage,while Mr. Benedict and the Balfours filled the other. Not amember of the company started homeward until the bridalparty was seen climbing the hill in the distance, but waited,commenting upon the great event of the morning, and speculatingupon the future of the pair whose marriage they hadwitnessed. There was not a woman in the crowd who didnot believe in Jim; and all were glad that the little tailoresshad reached so pleasant and stimulating a change in her life.

When the voyagers had passed beyond the scattered farm-housesinto the lonely country, Jim, with his wife's help, releasedhimself from the collar and cravat that tormented him,and once more breathed freely. On they sped, shouting toone another from carriage to carriage, and Mike Conlin'shumble house was reached in a two hours' drive. There waschaffing at the door and romping among the trees while thehorses were refreshed, and then they pushed on again withsuch speed as was possible with poorer roads and sobererhorses; and two hours before sunset they were at the river.The little woman had enjoyed the drive. When she foundthat she had cut loose from her old life, and was entering uponone unknown and untried, in pleasant companionship, shewas thoroughly happy. It was all like a fairy story; andthere before her rolled the beautiful river, and, waiting on theshore, were the trunks and remnants of baggage that had beenstarted for their destination before daylight, and the guideswith their boats, and with wild flowers in their hat-bands.

The carriages were dismissed to find their way back to MikeConlin's that night, while Jim, throwing off his coat, assistedin loading the three boats. Mr. Balfour had brought alongwith him, not only a large flag for the hotel, but half a dozensmaller ones for the little fleet. The flags were soon mountedupon little rods, and set up at either end of each boat, andwhen the luggage was all loaded, and the passengers were allin their places—Jim taking his wife and Miss Snow in his ownfamiliar craft—they pushed out into the stream, and startedfor a race. Jim was the most powerful man of the three, andwas aching for work. It was a race all the way, but thebroader chest and harder muscles won. It was a regatta withoutspectators, but as full of excitement as if the shores hadbeen fringed with a cheering crowd.

The two women chatted together in the stern of Jim's boat,or sat in silence, as if they were enchanted, watching thechanging shores, while the great shadows of the woods deepenedupon them. They had never seen anything like it.It was a new world—God's world, which man had notmarred.

At last they heard the barking of a dog, and, looking farup among the woods, they caught the vision of a new building.The boys in the boats behind yelled with delight.Ample in its dimensions and fair in its outlines, there stoodthe little woman's home. Her eyes filled with tears, and shehid them on Miss Snow's shoulder.

"Be ye disap'inted, little woman?" inquired Jim, tenderly.

"Oh, no."

"Feelin's a little too many fur ye?"

The little woman nodded, while Miss Snow put her armaround her neck and whispered.

"A woman is a curi's bein'," said Jim. "She cries whenshe's tickled, an' she laughs when she's mad."

"I'm not mad," said the little woman, bursting into alaugh, and lifting her tear-burdened eyes to Jim.

"An' then," said Jim, "she cries and laughs all to oncet,an'a feller don't know whether to take off his jacket or putup his umberell."

This quite restored the "little woman," and her eyes weredry and merry as the boat touched the bank, and the twowomen were helped on shore. Before the other boats cameup, they were in the house, with the delighted Turk at theirheels, and Mike Conlin's wife courtseying before them.

It was a merry night at Number Nine. Jim's wife becamethe mistress at once. She knew where everything was to befound, as well as if she had been there for a year, and playedthe hostess to Mr. and Mrs. Balfour as agreeably as if her lifehad been devoted to the duties of her establishment.

Mr. Balfour could not make a long stay in the woods, buthad determined to leave his wife there with the boys. Hisbusiness was pressing at home, and he had heard somethingwhile at Sevenoaks that made him uneasy on Mr. Benedict'saccount. The latter had kept himself very quiet while at thewedding, but his intimacy with one of Mr. Balfour's boys hadbeen observed, and there were those who detected the likenessof this boy, though much changed by growth and better conditions,to the little Harry Benedict of other days. Mr. Balfourhad overheard the speculations of the villagers on thestrange Mr. Williams who had for so long a time been housedwith Jim Fenton, and the utterance of suspicions that he wasno other than their old friend, Paul Benedict. He knew thatthis suspicion would be reported by Mr. Belcher's agent atonce, and that Mr. Belcher would take desperate steps to securehimself in his possessions. What form these measures wouldtake—whether of fraud or personal violence—he could nottell.

He advised Mr. Benedict to give him a power of attorneyto prosecute Mr. Belcher for the sum due him on the use ofhis inventions, and to procure an injunction on his furtheruse of them, unless he should enter into an agreement to paysuch a royalty as should be deemed equitable by all theparties concerned. Mr. Benedict accepted the advice, andthe papers were executed at once.

Armed with this document, Mr. Balfour bade good-bye toNumber Nine and its pleasant company, and hastened backto the city, where he took the first opportunity to report tohis friends the readiness of Jim to receive them for thesummer.

It would be pleasant to follow them into their forestpastimes, but more stirring and important matters will holdus to the city.

CHAPTER XXIII.

IN WHICH MR. BELCHER EXPRESSES HIS DETERMINATION TOBECOME A "FOUNDER," BUT DROPS HIS NOUN INFEAR OF A LITTLE VERB OF THESAME NAME.

Mrs. Dillingham had a difficult rôle to play. She couldnot break with Mr. Belcher without exposing her motives andbringing herself under unpleasant suspicion and surveillance.She felt that the safety of her protégé and his father would bebest consulted by keeping peace with their enemy; yet everyapproach of the great scoundrel disgusted and humiliated her.That side of her nature which had attracted and encouragedhim was sleeping, and, under the new motives which were atwork within her, she hoped that it would never wake. Shelooked down the devious track of her past, counted over itsunworthy and most unwomanly satisfactions, and wondered.She looked back to a great wrong which she had once inflictedon an innocent man, with a self-condemnation so deep thatall the womanhood within her rose into the purpose of reparation.

The boy whom she had called to her side, and fastened byan impassioned tenderness more powerful even than her wonderfulart, had become to her a fountain of pure motives.She had a right to love this child. She owed a duty to himbeyond any woman living. Grasping her right, and acknowledgingher duty—a right and duty accorded to her by hisnominal protector—she would not have forfeited them for theworld. They soon became all that gave significance to herexistence, and to them she determined that her life should bedevoted. To stand well with this boy, to be loved, admiredand respected by him, to be to him all that a mother couldbe, to be guided by his pure and tender conscience toward herown reformation, to waken into something like life and nourishinto something like strength the starved motherhood withinher—these became her dominant motives.

Mr. Belcher saw the change in her, but was too gross in hisnature, too blind in his passion, and too vain in his imaginedpower, to comprehend it. She was a woman, and had herwhims, he thought. Whims were evanescent, and this particularwhim would pass away. He was vexed by seeing theboy so constantly with her. He met them walking togetherin the street, or straying in the park, hand in hand, or caughtthe lad looking at him from her window. He could not doubtthat all this intimacy was approved by Mr. Balfour. Was sheplaying a deep game? Could she play it for anybody buthimself—the man who had taken her heart by storm? Her actions,however, even when interpreted by his self-conceit, gavehim uneasiness. She had grown to be very kind and consideratetoward Mrs. Belcher. Had this friendship moved her tocrush the passion for her husband? Ah! if she could onlyknow how true he was to her in his untruthfulness!—howfaithful he was to her in his perjury!—how he had saved himselffor the ever-vanishing opportunity!

Many a time the old self-pity came back to the successfulscoundrel. Many a time he wondered why the fate whichhad been so kind to him in other things would not open thedoor to his wishes in this. With this unrewarded passiongnawing at his heart, and with the necessity of treating thewife of his youth with constantly increasing consideration, inorder to cover it from her sight, the General was anything buta satisfied and happy man. The more he thought upon it,the more morbid he grew, until it seemed to him that his wifemust look through his hypocritical eyes into his guilty heart.He grew more and more guarded in his speech. If he mentionedMrs. Dillingham's name, he always did it incidentally,and then only for the purpose of showing that he had no reasonto avoid the mention of it.

There was another thought that preyed upon him. He wasconsciously a forger. He had not used the document he hadforged, but he had determined to do so. Law had not laid itsfinger upon him, but its finger was over him. He had not yetcrossed the line that made him legally a criminal, but the linewas drawn before him, and only another step would be necessaryto place him beyond it. A brood of fears was gatheringaround him. They stood back, glaring upon him from thedistance; but they only waited another act in his career ofdishonor to crowd in and surround him with menace. Sometimeshe shrank from his purpose, but the shame of being impoverishedand beaten spurred him renewedly to determination.He became conscious that what there was of braveryin him was sinking into bravado. His self-conceit, and whatlittle he possessed of self-respect, were suffering. He dimlyapprehended the fact that he was a rascal, and it made himuncomfortable. It ceased to be enough for him to assure himselfthat he was no more a rascal than those around him. Hereached out on every side for means to maintain his self-respect.What good thing could he do to counterbalance his bad deeds?How could he shore himself up by public praise, by respectableassociations, by the obligations of the public for deeds ofbeneficence? It is the most natural thing in the world for thedishonest steward, who cheats his lord, to undertake to winconsideration against contingencies with his lord's money.

On the same evening in which the gathering at the Sevenoakstavern occurred, preceding Jim's wedding, Mr. Belchersat in his library, looking over the document which nominallyconveyed to him the right and title of Paul Benedict to hisinventions. He had done this many times since he had forgedthree of the signatures, and secured a fraudulent addition tothe number from the hand of Phipps. He had brought himselfto believe, to a certain extent, in their genuineness, andwas wholly sure that they were employed on behalf of justice.The inventions had cost Benedict little or no money, and he,Mr. Belcher, had developed them at his own risk. Withouthis money and his enterprise they would have amounted tonothing. If Benedict had not lost his reason, the documentwould have been legally signed. The cause of Benedict's lapsefrom sanity did not occur to him. He only knew that if theinventor had not become insane, he should have secured hissignature at some wretched price, and out of this convictionhe reared his self-justification.

"It's right!" said Mr. Belcher. "The State prison maybe in it, but it's right!"

And then, confirming his foul determination by an oath, headded:

"I'll stand by it."

Then he rang his bell, and called for Phipps.

"Phipps," said he, as his faithful and plastic servitor appeared,"come in, and close the door."

When Phipps, with a question in his face, walked up towhere Mr. Belcher was sitting at his desk, with the forgeddocument before him, the latter said:

"Phipps, did you ever see this paper before?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now, think hard—don't be in a hurry—and tell me whenyou saw it before. Take it in your hand, and look it all over,and be sure."

"I can't tell, exactly," responded Phipps, scratching hishad; "but I should think it might have been six yearsago, or more. It was a long time before we came fromSevenoaks."

"Very well; is that your signature?"

"It is, sir."

"Did you see Benedict write his name? Did you seeJohnson and Ramsey write their names?"

"I did, sir."

"Do you remember all the circ*mstances—what I said toyou, and what you said to me—why you were in the room?"

"Yes, sir."

"Phipps, do you know that if it is ever found out that youhave signed that paper within a few weeks, you are as good asa dead man?"

"I don't know what you mean, sir," replied Phipps, inevident alarm.

"Do you know that that signature is enough to send youto the State prison?"

"No, sir."

"Well, Phipps, it is just that, provided it isn't stuck to.You will have to swear to it, and stand by it. I know the thingis coming. I can feel it in my bones. Why it hasn't comebefore, the Lord only knows."

Phipps had great faith in the might of money, and entirefaith in Mr. Belcher's power to save him from any calamity.His master, during all his residence with and devotion to him,had shown himself able to secure every end he had sought,and he believed in him, or believed in his power, wholly.

"Couldn't you save me, sir, if I were to get into trouble?"he inquired, anxiously.

"That depends upon whether you stand by me, Phipps.It's just here, my boy. If you swear, through thick and thin,that you saw these men sign this paper, six years ago or more,that you signed it at the same time, and stand by your ownsignature, you will sail through all right, and do me a devilishgood turn. If you balk, or get twisted up in your own reins,or thrown off your seat, down goes your house. If you standby me, I shall stand by you. The thing is all right, and justas it ought to be, but it's a little irregular. It gives me whatbelongs to me, but the law happens to be against it."

Phipps hesitated, and glanced suspiciously, and even menacingly,at the paper. Mr. Belcher knew that he would liketo tear it in pieces, and so, without unseemly haste, he pickedit up, placed it in its drawer, locked it in, and put the key inhis pocket.

"I don't want to get into trouble," said Phipps.

"Phipps," said Mr. Belcher, in a conciliatory tone, "Idon't intend that you shall get into trouble."

Then, rising, and patting his servant on the shoulder, headded:

"But it all depends on your standing by me, and standingby yourself. You know that you will lose nothing by standingby the General, Phipps; you know me."

Phipps was not afraid of crime; he was only afraid of itspossible consequences; and Mr. Belcher's assurance of safety,provided he should remember his story and adhere to it, wasall that he needed to confirm him in the determination to dowhat Mr. Belcher wished him to do.

After Phipps retired, Mr. Belcher took out his documentagain, and looked it over for the hundredth time. He recomparedthe signatures which he had forged with their originals.Consciously a villain, he regarded himself still as aman who was struggling for his rights. But something of hisold, self-reliant courage was gone. He recognized the factthat there was one thing in the world more powerful thanhimself. The law was against him. Single-handed, he couldmeet men; but the great power which embodied the justiceand strength of the State awed him, and compelled him intoa realization of his weakness.

The next morning Mr. Belcher received his brokers andoperators in bed in accordance with his custom. He was notgood-natured. His operations in Wall street had not beenprosperous for several weeks. In some way, impossible to beforeseen by himself or his agents, everything had workedagainst him He knew that if he did not rally from this passageof ill-luck, he would, in addition to his loss of money,lose something of his prestige. He had a stormy time withhis advisers and tools, swore a great deal, and sent them off inanything but a pleasant frame of mind.

Talbot was waiting in the drawing-room when the brokersretired, and followed his card upstairs, where he found hisprincipal with an ugly frown upon his face.

"Toll," he whimpered, "I'm glad to see you. You'rethe best of 'em all, and in the long run, you bring me themost money."

"Thank you," responded the factor, showing his whiteteeth in a gratified smile.

"Toll, I'm not exactly ill, but I'm not quite myself. Howlong it will last I don't know, but just this minute the Generalis devilish unhappy, and would sell himself cheap. Thingsare not going right. I don't sleep well."

"You've got too much money," suggested Mr. Talbot.

"Well, what shall I do with it?"

"Give it to me."

"No, I thank you; I can do better. Besides, you aregetting more than your share of it now."

"Well, I don't ask it of you," said Talbot, "but if youwish to get rid of it, I could manage a little more of it withouttrouble."

"Toll, look here! The General wants to place a littlemoney where it will bring him some reputation with thehighly respectable old dons,—our spiritual fathers, you know—andthe brethren. Understand?"

"General, you are deep; you'll have to explain."

"Well, all our sort of fellows patronize something or other.They cheat a man out of his eye-teeth one day, and the next,you hear of them endowing something or other, or making aspeech to a band of old women, or figuring on a top-lofty listof directors. That's the kind of thing I want."

"You can get any amount of it, General, by paying for it.All they want is money; they don't care where it comesfrom."

"Toll, shut up. I behold a vision. Close your eyes now,and let me paint it for you. I see the General—GeneralRobert Belcher, the millionaire—in the aspect of a great publicbenefactor. He is dressed in black, and sits upon a platform,in the midst of a lot of seedy men in white chokers.They hand him a programme. There is speech-making goingon, and every speech makes an allusion to 'our benefactor,'and the brethren and sisters cheer. The General bows.High old doctors of divinity press up to be introduced.They are all after more. They flatter the General; theycoddle him. They give him the highest seat. They pretendto respect him. They defend him from all slanders. Theyare proud of the General. He is their man. I look intothe religious newspapers, and in one column I behold a curseon the stock-jobbing of Wall street, and in the next, thepraise of the beneficence of General Robert Belcher. I seethe General passing down Wall street the next day. I seehim laughing out of the corner of his left eye, while hisfriends punch him in the ribs. Oh, Toll! it's delicious!Where are your feelings, my boy? Why don't you cry?"

"Charming picture, General! Charming! but my handkerchiefis fresh, and I must save it. I may have a coldbefore night."

"Well, now, Toll, what's the thing to be done?"

"What do you say to soup-kitchens for the poor? Theydon't cost so very much, and you get your name in thepapers."

"Soup-kitchens be hanged! That's Mrs. Belcher's job.Besides, I don't want to get up a reputation for helping thepoor. They're a troublesome lot and full of bother; I don'tbelieve in 'em. They don't associate you with anybody butthemselves. What I want is to be in the right sort of a crowd."

"Have you thought of a hospital?"

"Yes, I've thought of a hospital, but I don't seem to hankerafter it. To tell the truth, the hospitals are pretty welltaken up already. I might work into a board of directors bypaying enough, I suppose, but it is too much the regularthing. What I want is ministers—something religious, youknow."

"You might run a church-choir," suggested Talbot, "or,better than that, buy a church, and turn the crank."

"Yes, but they are not quite large enough. I tell youwhat it is, Toll, I believe I'm pining for a theological seminary.Ah, my heart! my heart! If I could only tell you,Toll, how it yearns over the American people! Can't you see,my boy, that the hope of the nation is in educated and devotedyoung men? Don't you see that we are going to thedevil with our thirst for filthy lucre? Don't you understandhow noble a thing it would be for one of fortune's favoritesto found an institution with his wealth, that would bear downits blessings to unborn millions? What if that institutionshould also bear his name? What if that name should be foreverassociated with that which is most hallowed in our nationalhistory? Wouldn't it pay? Eh, Toll?"

Mr. Talbot laughed.

"General, your imagination will be the death of you, butthere is really nothing impracticable in your plan. All thesefellows want is your money. They will give you everythingyou want for it in the way of glory."

"I believe you; and wouldn't it be fun for the General?I vow I must indulge. I'm getting tired of horses; and theseconfounded suppers don't agree with me. It's a theologicalseminary or nothing. The tides of my destiny, Toll—youunderstand—the tides of my destiny tend in that direction,and I resign my bark to their sway. I'm going to be afounder, and I feel better already."

It was well that he did, for at this moment a dispatch washanded in which gave him a shock, and compelled him to askTalbot to retire while he dressed.

"Don't go away, Toll," he said; "I want to see you again."

The dispatch that roused the General from his dream ofbeneficence was from his agent at Sevenoaks, and read thus:"Jim Fenton's wedding occurred this morning. He was accompaniedby a man whom several old citizens firmly believeto be Paul Benedict, though he passed under another name.Balfour and Benedict's boy were here, and all are gone up toNumber Nine. Will write particulars."

The theological seminary passed at once into the realm ofdimly remembered dreams, to be recalled or forgotten as circ*mstancesshould determine. At present, there was something else to occupy the General's mind.

Before he had completed his toilet, he called for Talbot.

"Toll," said he, "if you were in need of legal advice ofthe best kind, and wanted to be put through a thing straight,whether it were right or not, to whom would you apply? Nowmind, I don't want any milksops."

"I know two or three lawyers here who have been through atheological seminary," Talbot responded, with a knowingsmile.

"Oh, get out! There's no joke about this. I mean businessnow."

"Well, I took pains to show you your man, at my house,once. Don't you remember him?"

"Cavendish?"

"Yes."

"I don't like him."

"Nor do I. He'll bleed you; but he's your man."

"All right; I want to see him."

"Get into my coupè, and I'll take you to his office."

Mr. Belcher went to the drawer that contained his forgeddocument. Then he went back to Talbot, and said:

"Would Cavendish come here?"

"Not he! If you want to see him, you must go where heis. He wouldn't walk into your door to accommodate you ifhe knew it."

Mr. Belcher was afraid of Cavendish, as far as he could beafraid of any man. The lawyer had bluffed everybody at thedinner-party, and, in his way, scoffed at everybody. He hadfelt in the lawyer's presence the contact of a nature whichpossessed more self-assertion and self-assurance than his own.He had felt that Cavendish could read him, could handle him,could see through his schemes. He shrank from exposinghimself, even to the scrutiny of this sharp man, whom hecould hire for any service. But he went again to the drawer,and, with an excited and trembling hand, drew forth the accurseddocument. With this he took the autographs on whichhis forgeries were based. Then he sat down by himself, andthought the matter all over, while Talbot waited in anotherroom. It was only by a desperate determination that hestarted at last, called Talbot down stairs, put on his hat, andwent out.

It seemed to the proprietor, as he emerged from his house,that there was something weird in the morning light. Helooked up, and saw that the sky was clear. He looked down,and the street was veiled in a strange shadow. The boyslooked at him as if they were half startled. Inquisitive facespeered at him from a passing omnibus. A beggar laughed ashe held out his greasy hat. Passengers paused to observe him.All this attention, which he once courted and accepted asflattery and fame, was disagreeable to him.

"Good God! Toll, what has happened since last night?"he said, as he sank back upon the satin cushions of the coupè.

"General, I don't think you're quite well. Don't dienow. We can't spare you yet."

"Die? Do I look like it?" exclaimed Mr. Belcher, slappinghis broad chest. "Don't talk to me about dying. Ihaven't thought about that yet."

"I beg your pardon. You know I didn't mean to distressyou."

Then the conversation dropped, and the carriage wheeledon. The roll of vehicles, the shouting of drivers, the panoramicscenes, the flags swaying in the morning sky, the busythrongs that went up and down Broadway, were but the sightsand sounds of a dimly apprehended dream. He was journeyingtoward guilt. What would be its end? Would he notbe detected in it at the first step? How could he sit beforethe hawk-eyed man whom he was about to meet without insome way betraying his secret?

When the coupè stopped, Talbot roused his companionwith difficulty.

"This can't be the place, Toll. We haven't come half amile."

"On the contrary, we have come three miles."

"It can't be possible, Toll. I must look at your horse.I'd no idea you had such an animal."

Then Mr. Belcher got out, and looked the horse over.He was a connoisseur, and he stood five minutes on the curb-stone,expatiating upon those points of the animal thatpleased him.

"I believe you came to see Mr. Cavendish," suggestedTalbot with a laugh.

"Yes, I suppose I must go up. I hate lawyers, anyway."

They climbed the stairway. They knocked at Mr. Cavendish'sdoor. A boy opened it, and took in their cards. Mr.Cavendish was busy, but would see them in fifteen minutes.Mr. Belcher sat down in the ante-room, took a newspaperfrom his pocket, and began to read. Then he took a penand scribbled, writing his own name with three other names,across which he nervously drew his pen. Then he drew forthhis knife, and tremblingly dressed his finger-nails. Havingcompleted this task, he took out a large pocket-book, withdrewa blank check, filled and signed it, and put it back.Realizing, at last, that Talbot was waiting to go in with him,he said:

"By the way, Toll, this business of mine is private."

"Oh, I understand," said Talbot; "I'm only going in tomake sure that Cavendish remembers you."

What Talbot really wished to make sure of was, thatCavendish should know that he had brought him his client.

At last they heard a little bell which summoned the boy,who soon returned to say that Mr. Cavendish would see them.Mr. Belcher looked around for a mirror, but discoveringnone, said:

"Toll, look at me! Am I all right? Do you see anythingout of the way?"

Talbot having looked him over, and reported favorablythey followed the boy into the penetralia of the great office,and into the presence of the great man. Mr. Cavendish didnot rise, but leaned back in his huge, carved chair, and rubbedhis hands, pale in their morning whiteness, and said, coldly:

"Good morning, gentlemen; sit down."

Mr. Talbot declined. He had simply brought to him hisfriend, General Belcher, who, he believed, had a matter ofbusiness to propose. Then, telling Mr. Belcher that heshould leave the coupé at his service, he retired.

Mr. Belcher felt that he was already in court. Mr. Cavendishsat behind his desk in a judicial attitude, with his newclient fronting him. The latter fell, or tried to force himself,into a jocular mood and bearing, according to his custom onserious occasions.

"I am likely to have a little scrimmage," said he, "and Ishall want your help, Mr. Cavendish."

Saying this, he drew forth a check for a thousand dollars,which he had drawn in the ante-room, and passed it over tothe lawyer. Mr. Cavendish took it up listlessly, held it byits two ends, read its face, examined its back, and tossed itinto a drawer, as if it were a suspicious sixpence.

"It's a thousand dollars," said Mr. Belcher, surprised thatthe sum had apparently made no impression.

"I see—a retainer—thanks!"

All the time the hawk-eyes were looking into Mr. Belcher.All the time the scalp was moving backward and forward, asif he had just procured a new one, that might be filled upbefore night, but for the moment was a trifle large. All thetime there was a subtle scorn upon the lips, the flavor ofwhich the finely curved nose apprehended with approval.

"What's the case, General?"

The General drew from his pocket his forged assignment,and passed it into the hand of Mr. Cavendish.

"Is that a legally constructed document?" he inquired.

Mr. Cavendish read it carefully, every word. He lookedat the signatures. He looked at the blank page on the back.He looked at the tape with which it was bound. He fingeredthe knot with which it was tied. He folded it carefully, andhanded it back.

"Yes—absolutely perfect," he said. "Of course I knownothing about the signatures. Is the assignor living?"

"That is precisely what I don't know," replied Mr. Belcher."I supposed him to be dead for years. I have nowreason to suspect that he is living."

"Have you been using these patents?

"Yes, and I've made piles of money on them."

"Is your right contested?"

"No; but I have reason to believe that it will be."

"What reason?" inquired Mr. Cavendish, sharply.

Mr. Belcher was puzzled.

"Well, the man has been insane, and has forgotten, verylikely, what he did before his insanity. I have reason tobelieve that such is the case, and that he intends to contestmy right to the inventions which this paper conveys to me."

"What reason, now?"

Mr. Belcher's broad expanse of face crimsoned into a blush,and he simply answered:

"I know the man."

"Who is his lawyer?"

"Balfour."

Mr. Cavendish gave a little start.

"Let me see that paper again," said he.

After looking it through again, he said, dryly:

"I know Balfour. He is a shrewd man, and a good lawyer:and unless he has a case, or thinks he has one, he willnot fight this document. What deviltry there is in it, I don'tknow, and I don't want you to tell me. I can tell youthat you have a hard man to fight. Where are these witnesses?"

"Two of them are dead. One of them is living, and isnow in the city."

"What can he swear to?"

"He can swear to his own signature, and to all the rest.He can relate and swear to all the circ*mstances attending theexecution of the paper."

"And you know that these rights were never previouslyconveyed."

"Yes, I know they never were."

"Then, mark you, General, Balfour has no case at all—providedthis isn't a dirty paper. If it is a dirty paper, andyou want me to serve you, keep your tongue to yourself.You've recorded it, of course."

"Recorded it?" inquired Mr. Belcher in an alarm whichhe did not attempt to disguise.

"You don't mean to tell me that this paper has beenin existence more than six years, and has not been recorded?"

"I didn't know it was necessary."

Mr. Cavendish tossed the paper back to the owner of it witha sniff of contempt.

"It isn't worth that!" said he, snapping his fingers.

Then he drew out the check from his drawer, and handedit back to Mr. Belcher.

"There's no case, and I don't want your money," said he.

"But there is a case!" said Mr. Belcher, fiercely, scaredout of his fear. "Do you suppose I am going to be cheatedout of my rights without a fight? I'm no chicken, and I'llspend half a million before I'll give up my rights."

Mr. Cavendish laughed.

"Well, go to Washington," said he, "and if you don't findthat Balfour or somebody else has been there before you, Ishall be mistaken. Balfour isn't very much of a chicken, andhe knows enough to know that the first assignment recordedthere holds. Why has he not been down upon you before this?Simply because he saw that you were making money for hisclient, and he preferred to take it all out of you in a singleslice. I know Balfour, and he carries a long head.Chicken!"

Mr. Belcher was in distress. The whole game was as obviousand real to him as if he had assured himself of its truth.He staggered to his feet. He felt the hand of ruin upon him.He believed that while he had been perfecting his crime hehad been quietly overreached. He lost his self-command, andgave himself up to profanity and bluster, at which Mr. Cavendishlaughed.

"There's no use in that sort of thing, General," said he."Go to Washington. Ascertain for yourself about it, and ifyou find it as I predict, make the best of it. You canmake a compromise of some sort. Do the best you can."

There was one thing that Mr. Cavendish had noticed.Mr. Belcher had made no response to him when he toldhim that if the paper was a dirty one he did not wish to knowit. He had made up his mind that there was mischief in it,somewhere. Either the consideration had never been paid,or the signatures were fraudulent, or perhaps the paper hadbeen executed when the assignor was demonstrably of unsoundmind. Somewhere, he was perfectly sure, there wasfraud.

"General," said he, "I have my doubts about this paper.I'm not going to tell you why. I understand that thereis one witness living who will swear to all these signatures."

"There is."

"Is he a credible witness? Has he ever committed acrime? Can anything wrong be proved against him?"

"The witness," responded Mr. Belcher, "is my manPhipps; and a more faithful fellow never lived. I've knownhim for years, and he was never in an ugly scrape in his life."

"Well, if you find that no one is before you on the records,come back; and when you come you may as well multiply thatcheck by ten. When I undertake a thing of this kind, I liketo provide myself against all contingencies."

Mr. Belcher groaned, and tore up the little check thatseemed so large when he drew it, and had shrunk to such contemptibledimensions in the hands of the lawyer.

"You lawyers put the lancet in pretty deep."

"Our clients never do!" said Mr. Cavendish through hissneering lips.

Then the boy knocked, and came in. There was anothergentleman who wished to see the lawyer.

"I shall go to Washington to-day, and see you on my return,"said Mr. Belcher.

Then, bidding the lawyer a good-morning, he went out, randown the stairs, jumped into Mr. Talbot's waiting coupé, andordered himself driven home. Arriving there, he hurriedlypacked a satchel, and, announcing to Mrs. Belcher that hehad been unexpectedly called to Washington, went out, andmade the quickest passage possible to Jersey City. As hehad Government contracts on hand, his wife asked no questions,and gave the matter no thought.

The moment Mr. Belcher found himself on the train, andin motion, he became feverishly excited. He cursed himselfthat he had not attended to this matter before. He had wonderedwhy Balfour was so quiet. With Benedict alive and incommunication, or with Benedict dead, and his heir in charge,why had he made no claim upon rights which were the basisof his own fortune? There could be but one answer to thesequestions, and Cavendish had given it!

He talked to himself, and attracted the attention of thosearound him. He walked the platforms at all the stationswhere the train stopped. He asked the conductor a dozentimes at what hour the train would arrive in Washington,apparently forgetting that he had already received his information.He did not reach his destination until evening, andthen, of course, all the public offices were closed. He metmen whom he knew, but he would not be tempted by theminto a debauch. He went to bed early, and, after a wearynight of sleeplessness, found himself at the Patent Office beforea clerk was in his place.

When the offices were opened, he sought his man, and revealedhis business. He prepared a list of the patents inwhich he was interested, and secured a search of the recordsof assignment. It was a long time since the patents had beenissued, and the inquisition was a tedious one; but it resulted,to his unspeakable relief, in the official statement that no oneof them had ever been assigned. Then he brought out hispaper, and, with a blushing declaration that he had not knownthe necessity of its record until the previous day, saw the assignmentplaced upon the books.

Then he was suddenly at ease. Then he could look abouthim. A great burden was rolled from his shoulders, and heknew that he ought to be jolly; but somehow his spirits didnot rise. As he emerged from the Patent Office, there wasthe same weird light in the sky that he had noticed the daybefore, on leaving his house with Talbot. The great dome ofthe Capitol swelled in the air like a bubble, which seemed asif it would burst. The broad, hot streets glimmered as if avolcano were breeding under them. Everything looked unsubstantial.He found himself watching for Balfour, andexpecting to meet him at every corner. He was in a newworld, and had not become wonted to it—the world of consciouscrime—the world of outlawry. It had a sun of its own,fears of its own, figures and aspects of its own. There was anew man growing up within him, whom he wished to hide.To this man's needs his face had not yet become hardened,his words had not yet been trained beyond the danger ofbetrayal, his eyes had not adjusted their pupils for vision andself-suppression.

He took the night train home, breakfasted at the Astor, andwas the first man to greet Mr. Cavendish when that gentlemanentered his chambers. Mr. Cavendish sat listlessly, and heardhis story. The lawyer's hands were as pale, his scalp as uneasy,and his lips as redolent of scorn as they were two daysbefore, while his nose bent to sniff the scorn with more evidentapproval than then. He apprehended more thoroughlythe character of the man before him, saw more clearlythe nature of his business, and wondered with contemptuousincredulity that Balfour had not been sharper andquicker.

After Mr. Belcher had stated the facts touching the Washingtonrecords, Mr. Cavendish said:

"Well, General, as far as appearances go, you have thelead. Nothing but the overthrow of your assignment candamage you, and, as I told you the day before yesterday, ifthe paper is dirty, don't tell me of it—that is, if you wantme to do anything for you. Go about your business, saynothing to anybody, and if you are prosecuted, come tome."

Still Mr. Belcher made no response to the lawyer's suggestiontouching the fraudulent nature of the paper; and the latterwas thoroughly confirmed in his original impression thatthere was something wrong about it.

Then Mr. Belcher went out upon Wall street, among hisbrokers, visited the Exchange, visited the Gold Room, jestedwith his friends, concocted schemes, called upon Talbot,wrote letters, and filled up his day. Going home to dinner,he found a letter from his agent at Sevenoaks, giving in detailhis reasons for supposing not only that Benedict had been inthe village, but that, from the time of his disappearance fromthe Sevenoaks poor-house, he had been living at NumberNine with Jim Fenton. Balfour had undoubtedly found himthere, as he was in the habit of visiting the woods. MikeConlin must also have found him there, and worst of all, SamYates must have discovered him. The instruments that hehad employed, at a considerable cost, to ascertain whetherBenedict were alive or dead had proved false to him. Thediscovery that Sam Yates was a traitor made him tremble. Itwas from him that he had procured the autographs on whichtwo of his forgeries were based. He sat down immediately,and wrote a friendly letter to Yates, putting some businessinto his hands, and promising more. Then he wrote to hisagent, telling him of his interest in Yates, and of his faithfulservice, and directing him to take the reformed man underhis wing, and, as far as possible, to attach him to the interestsof the concern.

Two days afterward, he looked out of his window and sawMr. Balfour descending the steps of his house with a travelingsatchel in his hand. Calling Phipps, he directed him to jumpinto the first cab, or carriage, pay double price, and make hisway to the ferry that led to the Washington cars, see if Balfourcrossed at that point, and learn, if possible, his destination.Phipps returned in an hour and a half with the informationthat the lawyer had bought a ticket for Washington.

Then Mr. Belcher knew that trouble was brewing, andbraced himself to meet it. In less than forty-eight hours,Balfour would know, either that he had been deceived byBenedict, or that a forgery had been committed. Balfour wascautious, and would take time to settle this question in hisown mind.

CHAPTER XXIV.

WHEREIN THE GENERAL LEAPS THE BOUNDS OF LAW, FINDS HIMSELFIN A NEW WORLD, AND BECOMES THE VICTIM OF HISFRIENDS WITHOUT KNOWING IT.

For several weeks the General had been leading a huge andunscrupulous combination for "bearing" International Mail.The stock had ruled high for a long time—higher than wasdeemed legitimate by those familiar with its affairs—and thecombination began by selling large blocks of the stock forfuture delivery, at a point or two below the market. Thenstories about the corporation began to be circulated upon thestreet, of the most damaging character—stories of fraud,peculation, and rapidly diminishing business—stories ofmaturing combinations against the company—stories of theimminent retirement of men deemed essential to the management.The air was full of rumors. One died only to makeplace for another, and men were forced to believe that wherethere was so much smoke there must be some fire. Still thecombination boldly sold. The stock broke, and went down,down, down, day after day, and still there were strong takersfor all that offered. The operation had worked like a charmto the point where it was deemed prudent to begin to re-purchase,when there occurred one of those mysterious changesin the market which none could have foreseen. It was believedthat the market had been oversold, and the holdersheld. The combination was short, and up went the stock bythe run. The most frantic efforts were made to cover, butwithout avail, and as the contracts matured, house after housewent down with a crash that startled the country. Mr. Belcher,the heaviest man of them all, turned the cold shoulderto his confrères in the stupendous mischief, and went home tohis dinner one day, conscious that half a million dollars hadslipped through his fingers. He ate but little, walked hisrooms for an hour like a caged tiger, muttered and swore tohimself, and finally went off to his club. There seemed to beno way in which he could drown his anger, disappointment,and sense of loss, except by a debauch, and he was broughthome by his faithful Phipps at the stage of confidential silliness.

When his brokers appeared at ten the next morning, hedrove them from the house, and then, with such wits as hecould muster, in a head still tortured by his night's excesses,thought over his situation. A heavy slice of his ready moneyhad been practically swept out of existence. If he was notcrippled, his wings were clipped. His prestige was departed.He knew that men would thereafter be wary of following him,or trusting to his sagacity. Beyond the power of his money,and his power to make money, he knew that he had no considerationon 'Change—that there were five hundred men whowould laugh to see the General go down—who had less feelingfor him, personally, than they entertained toward an ordinarydog. He knew this because so far, at least, he understoodhimself. To redeem his position was now the granddesideratum. He would do it or die!

There was one direction in which the General had permittedhimself to be shortened in, or, rather, one in which he hadvoluntarily crippled himself for a consideration. He had felthimself obliged to hold large quantities of the stock of theCrooked Valley Railroad, in order to maintain his seat at thehead of its management. He had parted with comparativelylittle of it since his first huge purchase secured the place hesought, and though the price he gave was small, the quantityraised the aggregate to a large figure. All this was unproductive.It simply secured his place and his influence.

No sooner had he thoroughly realized the great loss hehad met with, in connection with his Wall street conspiracy,than he began to revolve in his mind a scheme which he hadheld in reserve from the first moment of his control of theCrooked Valley Road. He had nourished in every possibleway the good-will of those who lived along the line. Notonly this, but he had endeavored to show his power to doanything he pleased with the stock.

The people believed that he only needed to raise a finger tocarry up the price of the stock in the market, and that thesame potent finger could carry it down at will. He hadalready wrought wonders. He had raised a dead road to life.He had invigorated business in every town through which itpassed. He was a king, whose word was law and whose willwas destiny. The rumors of his reverses in Wall street didnot reach them, and all believed that, in one way or another,their fortunes were united with his.

The scheme to which he reverted in the first bitter momentsof his loss could have originated in no brain less unscrupulousthan his own. He would repeat the game that had been sosuccessful at Sevenoaks. To do this, he only needed to callinto action his tools on the street and in the management.

In the midst of his schemes, the bell rang at the door, andTalbot was announced. Mr. Belcher was always glad to seehim, for he had no association with his speculations. Talbothad uniformly been friendly and ready to serve him. Intruth, Talbot was almost his only friend.

"Toll, have you heard the news?"

"About the International Mail?"

"Yes."

"I've heard something of it, and I've come around thismorning to get the facts. I shall be bored about them all dayby your good friends, you know."

"Well, Toll, I've had a sweat."

"You're not crippled?"

"No, but I've lost every dollar I have made since I've beenin the city. Jones has gone under; Pell has gone under.Cramp & Co. will have to make a statement, and get a littletime, but they will swim. The General is the only man ofthe lot who isn't shaken. But, Toll, it's devilish hard. Itscares me. A few more such slices would spoil my cheese."

"Well, now, General, why do you go into these thingsat all? You are making money fast enough in a regular business."

"Ah, but it's tame, tame, tame! I must have excitement.Theatres are played out, horses are played out, and suppersraise the devil with me."

"Then take it easy. Don't risk so much. You used to dothis sort of thing well—used to do it right every time. Yougot up a good deal of reputation for foresight and skill."

"I know, and every man ruined in the International Mailwill curse me. I led them into it. I shall have a sweet timein Wall street when I go there again. But it's like brandy;a man wants a larger dose every time, and I shall clean themout yet."

Talbot's policy was to make the General last. He wantedto advise him for his good, because his principal's permanentprosperity was the basis of his own. He saw that he wasgetting beyond control, and, under an exterior of complianceand complaisance, he was genuinely alarmed.

"Toll," said Mr. Belcher, "you are a good fellow."

"Thank you, General," said the factor, a smile spreadingaround his shining teeth. "My wife will be glad to know it."

"By the way—speaking of your wife—have you seen anythingof Mrs. Dillingham lately?"

"Nothing. She is commonly supposed to be absorbed bythe General."

"Common Supposition is a greater fool than I wish itwere."

"That won't do, General. There never was a more evidentcase of killing at first sight than that."

"Well, Toll, I believe the woman is fond of me, but she hasa queer way of showing it. I think she has changed. Itseems so to me, but she's a devilish fine creature. Ah, myheart! my heart! Toll."

"You were complaining of it the other day. It was atheological seminary then. Perhaps that is the name youknow her by."

"Not much theological seminary about her!" with alaugh.

"Well, there's one thing that you can comfort yourselfwith, General; she sees no man but you."

"Is that so?" inquired Mr. Belcher, eagerly.

"That is what everybody says."

Mr. Belcher rolled this statement as a sweet morsel underhis tongue. She must be hiding her passion from him underan impression of its hopelessness! Poor woman! He wouldsee her at the first opportunity.

"Toll," said Mr. Belcher, after a moment of delicious reflection,"you're a good fellow."

"I think I've heard that remark before."

"Yes, you're a good fellow, and I'd like to do somethingfor you."

"You've done a great deal for me already, General."

"Yes, and I'm going to do something more."

"Will you put it in my hand or my hat?" inquired Talbot,jocularly.

"Toll, how much Crooked Valley stock have you?"

"A thousand shares."

"What did you buy it for?"

"To help you."

"What have you kept it for?"

"To help keep the General at the head of the management."

"Turn about is fair play, isn't it?"

"That's the adage," responded Talbot.

"Well, I'm going to put that stock up; do you understand?"

"How will you do it?"

"By saying I'll do it. I want it whispered along the linethat the General is going to put that stock up within a week.They're all greedy. They are all just like the rest of us.They know it isn't worth a continental copper, but they wanta hand in the General's speculations, and the General wantsit understood that he would like to have them share in hisprofits."

"I think I understand," said Talbot.

"Toll, I've got another vision. Hold on now! I beholda man in the General's confidence—a reliable, business man—whowhispers to his friend that he heard the General saythat he had all his plans laid for putting up the CrookedValley stock within a week. This friend whispers it toanother friend. No names are mentioned. It goes fromfriend to friend. It is whispered through every town alongthe line. Everybody gets crazy over it, and everybodyquietly sends in an order for stock. In the meantime theGeneral and his factor, yielding to the pressure—melted beforethe public demand—gently and tenderly unload! The visionstill unrolls. Months later I behold the General buying backthe stock at his own price, and with it maintaining his placein the management. Have you followed me?"

"Yes, General, I've seen it all. I comprehend it, and Ishall unload with all the gentleness and tenderness possible."

Then the whimsical scoundrel and his willing lieutenantlaughed a long, heartless laugh.

"Toll, I feel better, and I believe I'll get up," said theGeneral. "Let this vision sink deep into your soul. Thengive it wings, and speed it on its mission. Remember thatthis is a vale of tears, and don't set your affections on thingsbelow. By-by!"

Talbot went down stairs, drawing on his gloves, and laughing.Then he went out into the warm light, buttoned up hiscoat instinctively, as if to hide the plot he carried, jumpedinto his coupé, and went to his business.

Mr. Belcher dressed himself with more than his usual care,went to Mrs. Belcher's room and inquired about his children,then went to his library, and drew forth from a secret drawera little book. He looked it over for a few minutes, thenplaced it in his packet, and went out. The allusion that hadbeen made to Mrs. Dillingham, and the assurance that he waspopularly understood to be her lover, and the only man whowas regarded by her with favor, intoxicated him, and his oldpassion came back upon him.

It was a strange manifestation of his brutal nature that atthis moment of his trouble, and this epoch of his cruelty andcrime, he longed for the comfort of a woman's sympathy.He was too much absorbed by his affairs to be moved by thatwhich was basest in his regard for his beautiful idol. If hecould feel her hand upon his forehead; if she could tell himthat she was sorry for him; if he could know that she lovedhim; ay, if he could be assured that this woman, whom hehad believed to be capable of guilt, had prayed for him, itwould have been balm to his heart. He was sore with struggle,and guilt, and defeat. He longed for love and tenderness.As if he were a great bloody dog, just coming fromthe fight of an hour, in which he had been worsted, andseeking for a tender hand to pat his head, and call him "poor,good old fellow," the General longed for a woman's lovingrecognition. He was in his old mood of self-pity. Hewanted to be petted, smoothed, commiserated, reassured;and there was only one woman in all the world from whomsuch ministry would be grateful.

He knew that Mrs. Dillingham had heard of his loss, forshe heard of and read everything. He wanted her to knowthat it had not shaken him. He would not for the worldhave her suppose that he was growing poor. Still to appearto her as a person of wealth and power; still to hold her confidenceas a man of multiplied resources, was, perhaps, thedeepest ambition that moved him. He had found that hecould not use her in the management of his affairs. Thoughfrom the first, up to the period of her acquaintance withHarry Benedict, she had led him on to love her by everycharm she possessed, and every art she knew, she had alwaysrefused to be debased by him in any way.

When he went out of his house, at the close of his interviewswith Talbot and Mrs. Belcher, it was without a definitelyformed purpose to visit the charming widow. Hesimply knew that his heart was hungry. The sun-flower isgross, but it knows the sun as well as the morning-glory, andturns to it as naturally. It was with like unreasoning instinctthat he took the little book from its drawer, put on his hat,went down his steps, and entered the street that led himtoward Mrs. Dillingham's house. He could not keep awayfrom her. He would not if he could, and so, in ten minutes,he was seated with her, vis a vis.

"You have been unfortunate, Mr. Belcher," she said, sympathetically."I am very sorry for you. It is not so bad asI heard, I am sure. You are looking very well."

"Oh! it is one of those things that may happen any day,to any man, operating as I do," responded Mr. Belcher, witha careless laugh. "The General never gets in too deep. Heis just as rich to-day as he was when he entered the city."

"I'm so glad to hear it—gladder than I can express," saidMrs. Dillingham, with heartiness.

Her effusiveness of good feeling and her evident relief fromanxiety, were honey to him.

"Don't trouble yourself about me," said he, musingly."The General knows what he's about, every time. He hasthe advantage of the rest of them, in his regular business."

"I can't understand how it is," responded Mrs. Dillingham,with fine perplexity. "You men are so differentfrom us. I should think you would be crazy with yourlosses."

Now, Mr. Belcher wished to impress Mrs. Dillingham permanentlywith a sense of his wisdom, and to inspire in her aninextinguishable faith in his sagacity and prudence. Hewanted her to believe in his power to retain all the wealth hehad won. He would take her into his confidence. He hadnever done this with relation to his business, and under thattreatment she had drifted away from him. Now that hefound how thoroughly friendly she was, he would try anothermethod, and bind her to him. The lady read him as plainlyas if he had been a book, and said:

"Oh, General! I have ascertained something that may beof use to you. Mr. Benedict is living. I had a letter fromhis boy this morning—dear little fellow—and he tells mehow well his father is, and how pleasant it is to be with himagain."

Mr. Belcher frowned.

"Do you know I can't quite stomach your whim—aboutthat boy? What under heaven do you care for him?"

"Oh, you mustn't touch that whim, General," said Mrs.Dillingham, laughing. "I am a woman, and I have a rightto it. He amuses me, and a great deal more than that. Iwouldn't tell you a word about him, or what he writes to me,if I thought it would do him any harm. He's my pet. Whatin the world have I to do but to pet him? How shall I fillmy time? I'm tired of society, and disgusted with men—atleast, with my old acquaintances—and I'm fond of children.They do me good. Oh, you mustn't touch my whim!"

"There is no accounting for tastes!" Mr. Belcher responded,with a laugh that had a spice of scorn and vexationin it.

"Now, General, what do you care for that boy? If youare a friend to me, you ought to be glad that he interestsme."

"I don't like the man who has him in charge. I believeBalfour is a villain."

"I'm sure I don't know," said the lady. "He never hasthe courtesy to darken my door. I once saw something ofhim. He is like all the rest, I suppose; he is tired of me."

Mrs. Dillingham had played her part perfectly, and theman before her was a blind believer in her loyalty to him.

"Let the boy go, and Balfour too," said the General."They are not pleasant topics to me, and your whim willwear out. When is the boy coming back?"

"He is to be away all summer, I believe."

"Good!"

Mrs. Dillingham laughed.

"Why, I am glad of it, if you are," she said.

Mr. Belcher drew a little book from his pocket.

"What have you there?" the lady inquired.

"Women have great curiosity," said Mr. Belcher, slappinghis knee with the little volume.

"And men delight to excite it," she responded.

"The General is a business man, and you want to know howhe does it," said he.

"I do, upon my word," responded the lady.

"Very well, the General has two kinds of business, and henever mixes one with the other."

"I don't understand."

"Well, you know he's a manufacturer—got his start in thatway. So he keeps that business by itself, and when he operatesin Wall street, he operates outside of it. He never risksa dollar that he makes in his regular business in any outsideoperation."

"And you have it all in the little book?"

"Would you like to see it?"

"Yes."

"Very well, you shall, when I've told you all about it. Isuppose that it must have been ten years ago that a man cameto Sevenoaks who was full of all sorts of inventions. I triedsome of them, and they worked well; so I went on furnishingmoney to him, and, at last, I furnished so much that he passedall his rights into my hands—sold everything to me. He gotinto trouble, and lost his head—went into an insane hospital,where I supported him for more than two years. Then hewas sent back as incurable, and, of course, had to go to thepoor house. I couldn't support him always, you know. I'dpaid him fairly, run all the risk, and felt that my hands wereclean."

"He had sold everything to you, hadn't he?" inquiredMrs. Dillingham, sympathetically.

"Certainly, I have the contract, legally drawn, signed, anddelivered."

"People couldn't blame you, of course."

"But they did."

"How could they, if you paid him all that belonged tohim?"

"That's Sevenoaks. That's the thing that drove me away.Benedict escaped, and they all supposed he was dead, andfancied that because I had made money out of him, I was responsiblefor him in some way. But I punished them. They'llremember me."

And Mr. Belcher laughed a brutal laugh that rasped Mrs.Dillingham's sensibilities almost beyond endurance.

"And, now," said the General, resuming, "this man Balfourmeans to get these patents that I've owned and used forfrom seven to ten years out of me. Perhaps he will do it,but it will be after the biggest fight that New York eversaw."

Mrs. Dillingham eyed the little book. She was very curiousabout it. She was delightfully puzzled to know how thesem*n who had the power of making money managed theiraffairs. Account-books were such conundrums to her!

She took a little hassock, placed it by Mr. Belcher's chair,and sat down, leaning by the weight of a feather against him.It was the first approach of the kind she had ever made, andthe General appreciated it.

"Now you shall show me all about it," she said.

The General opened the book. It contained the results,in the briefest space, of his profits from the Benedict inventions.It showed just how and where all those profits hadbeen invested and re-invested. Her admiration of the General'sbusiness habits and methods was unbounded. Sheasked a thousand silly questions, with one, occasionally,which touched an important point. She thanked him for theconfidence he reposed in her. She was delighted to knowhis system, which seemed to her to guard him from the accidentsso common to those engaged in great enterprises; andMr. Belcher drank in her flatteries with supreme satisfaction.They comforted him. They were balm to his disappointments.They soothed his wounded vanity. They assuredhim of perfect trust where he most tenderly wanted it.

In the midst of these delightful confidences, they were interrupted.A servant appeared who told Mr. Belcher thatthere was a messenger at the door who wished to see him onurgent business. Mrs. Dillingham took the little book tohold while he went to the door. After a few minutes, hereturned. It seemed that Phipps, who knew his master'shabits, had directed the messenger to inquire for him at Mrs.Dillingham's house, and that his brokers were in trouble anddesired his immediate presence in Wall street. The Generalwas very much vexed with the interruption, but declared thathe should be obliged to follow the messenger.

"Leave the little book until you come back," insisted Mrs.Dillingham, sweetly. "It will amuse me all day."

She held it to her breast with both hands, as if it were thesweetest treasure that had ever rested there.

"Will you take care of it?"

"Yes."

He seized her unresisting hand and kissed it.

"Between this time and dinner I shall be back. Then Imust have it again," he said.

"Certainly."

Then the General retired, went to his house and found hiscarriage waiting, and, in less than an hour, was absorbed inraveling the snarled affairs connected with his recent disastrousspeculation. The good nature engendered by his delightfulinterview with Mrs. Dillingham lasted all day, andhelped him like a cordial.

The moment he was out of the house, and had placed himselfbeyond the possibility of immediate return, the ladycalled her servant, and told him that she should be at hometo nobody during the day. No one was to be admitted butMr. Belcher, on any errand whatsoever.

Then she went to her room, and looked the little book overat her leisure. There was no doubt about the business skilland method of the man who had made every entry. Therewas no doubt in her own mind that it was a private book,which no eye but that of its owner had ever seen, before ithad been opened to her.

She hesitated upon the point of honor as to what she woulddo with it. It would be treachery to copy it, but it wouldbe treachery simply against a traitor. She did not understandits legal importance, yet she knew it containedthe most valuable information. It showed, in unmistakablefigures, the extent to which Benedict had been wronged.Perfectly sure that it was a record of the results of fraudagainst a helpless man and a boy in whom her heart was profoundlyinterested, her hesitation was brief. She locked herdoor, gathered her writing materials, and, by an hour's carefuland rapid work, copied every word of it.

After completing the copy, she went over it again andagain, verifying every word and figure. When she had repeatedthe process to her entire satisfaction, and even toweariness, she took her pen, and after writing: "This is atrue copy of the records of a book this day lent to me byRobert Belcher," she affixed the date and signed her name.

Then she carefully wrapped Mr. Belcher's book in a sheetof scented paper, wrote his name and the number and streetof his residence upon it, and placed it in her pocket. Thecopy was consigned to a drawer and locked in, to be recalledand re-perused at pleasure.

She understood the General's motives in placing theserecords and figures in her hands. The leading one, of course,related to his standing with her. He wanted her to knowhow rich he was, how prudent he was, how invincible he was.He wanted her to stand firm in her belief in him, whateverrumors might be afloat upon the street. Beyond this, thoughhe had made no allusion to it, she knew that he wanted theuse of her tongue among his friends and enemies alike. Shewas a talking woman, and it was easy for her, who had beenso much at home in the General's family, to strengthen hisreputation wherever she might touch the public. He wantedsomebody to know what his real resources were—somebodywho could, from personal knowledge of his affairs, asserttheir soundness without revealing their details. He believedthat Mrs. Dillingham would be so proud of the possession ofhis confidence, and so prudent in showing it, that his generalbusiness reputation, and his reputation for great wealth, wouldbe materially strengthened by her. All this she understood,because she knew the nature of the man, and appreciated theestimate which he placed upon her.

Nothing remained for her that day but the dreaded returnof Mr. Belcher. She was now more than ever at a loss toknow how she should manage him. She had resumed, duringher interview with him, her old arts of fascination, and seenhow easily she could make him the most troublesome ofslaves. She had again permitted him to kiss her hand. Shehad asked a favor of him and he had granted it. She hadcommitted a breach of trust; and though she justified herselfin it, she felt afraid and half ashamed to meet the man whomshe had so thoroughly befooled. She was disgusted with thenew intimacy with him which her own hand had invited, andheartily wished that the long game of duplicity were concluded.

The General found more to engage his attention than hehad anticipated, and after a few hours' absence from the fascinationsof his idol, he began to feel uneasy about his book.It was the first time it had ever left his hands. He grewnervous about it at last, and was haunted by a vague sense ofdanger. As soon, therefore, as it became apparent to himthat a second call upon Mrs. Dillingham that day would beimpracticable, he sent Phipps to her with a note apprisingher of the fact, and asking her to deliver to him the littleaccount-book he had left with her.

It was with a profound sense of relief that she handed it tothe messenger, and realized that, during that day and eveningat least, she should be free, and so able to gather back herold composure and self-assurance. Mr. Belcher's note sheplaced with her copy of the book, as her authority for passingit into other hands than those of its owner.

While these little things, which were destined to have largeconsequences, were in progress in the city, an incident occurredin the country, of no less importance in the grand outcome of events relating to Mr. Belcher and his victim.

It will be remembered that after Mr. Belcher had been apprisedby his agent at Sevenoaks that Mr. Benedict was undoubtedlyalive, and that he had lived, ever since his disappearance,at Number Nine, he wrote to Sam Yates, puttingprofitable business into his hands, and that he also directedhis agent to attach him, by all possible means, to the proprietor'sinterests. His motive, of course, was to shut the lawyer'smouth concerning the autograph letters he had furnished.He knew that Yates would remember the hints of forgerywhich he had breathed into his ear during their first interviewin the city, and would not be slow to conclude that those autographswere procured for some foul purpose. He had beencareful, from the first, not to break up the friendly relationsthat existed between them, and now that he saw that the lawyerhad played him false, he was more anxious than ever toconciliate him.

Yates attended faithfully to the business intrusted to him,and, on reporting results to Mr. Belcher's agent, accordingto his client's directions, was surprised to find him in a veryfriendly and confidential mood, and ready with a propositionfor further service. There were tangled affairs in which heneeded the lawyer's assistance, and, as he did not wish to havethe papers pertaining to them leave his possession, he invitedYates to his house, where they could work together during thebrief evenings, when he would be free from the cares ofthe mill.

So, for two or three weeks, Sam Yates occupied Mr. Belcher'slibrary—the very room in which that person was first introducedto the reader. There, under the shade of the oldSeven Oaks, he worked during the day, and there, in the evening,he held his consultations with the agent.

One day, during his work, he mislaid a paper, and in hissearch for it, had occasion to examine the structure of thegrand library table at which he wrote. The table had twosides, finished and furnished exactly alike, with duplicate setsof drawers opposite to each other. He pulled out one ofthese drawers completely, to ascertain whether his lost paperhad not slipped through a crack and lodged beyond it. Inreaching in, he moved, or thought he moved, the drawer thatmet him from the opposite side. On going to the oppositeside, however, he found that he had not moved the drawer atall. He then pulled that out, and, endeavoring to look throughthe space thus vacated by both drawers, found that it wasblocked by some obstacle that had been placed between them.Finding a cane in a corner of the room, he thrust it in, andpushed through to the opposite side a little secret drawer, unfurnishedwith a knob, but covered with a lid.

He resumed his seat, and held the little box in his hand.Before he had time to think of what he was doing, or to appreciatethe fact that he had no right to open a secret drawer,he had opened it. It contained but one article, and that wasa letter directed to Paul Benedict. The letter was sealed, sothat he was measurably relieved from the temptation to examineits contents. Of one thing he felt sure: that if it containedanything prejudicial to the writer's interests—and it wasaddressed in the handwriting of Robert Belcher—it had beenforgotten. It might be of great importance to the inventor.The probabilities were, that a letter which was deemed of sufficientimportance to secrete in so remarkable a manner wasan important one.

To Sam Yates, as to Mrs. Dillingham, with the little bookin her hand, arose the question of honor at once. His heartwas with Benedict. He was sure that Belcher had some foulpurpose in patronizing himself, yet he went through a hardstruggle before he could bring himself to the determinationthat Benedict and not Belcher should have the first handlingof the letter. Although the latter had tried to degrade him,and was incapable of any good motive in extending patronageto him, he felt that he had unintentionally surrounded himwith influences which had saved him from the most disgracefulruin. He was at that very moment in his employ. Hewas eating every day the bread which his patronage provided.

After all, was he not earning his bread? Was he under anyobligation to Mr. Belcher which his honest and faithful labordid not discharge? Mr. Belcher had written and addressedthe letter. He would deliver it, and Mr. Benedict should decidewhether, under all the circ*mstances, the letter wasrightfully his. He put it in his pocket, placed the little boxback in its home, replaced the drawers which hid it, and wenton with his work.

Yates carried the letter around in his pocket for severaldays. He did not believe the agent knew either of the existenceof the letter or the drawer in which it was hidden. Therewas, in all probability, no man but himself in the world whoknew anything of the letter. If it was a paper of no importanceto anybody, of course Mr. Belcher had forgotten it. Ifit was of great importance to Mr. Benedict, Mr. Belcher believedthat it had been destroyed.

He had great curiosity concerning its contents, and determinedto deliver it into Mr. Benedict's hand; so, at the conclusionof his engagement with Mr. Belcher's agent, he announcedto his friends that he had accepted Jim Fenton's invitationto visit the new hotel at Number Nine, and enjoy aweek of sport in the woods.

Before he returned, he became entirely familiar with thecontents of the letter, and, if he brought it back with him onhis return to Sevenoaks, it was for deposit in the post-office,directed to James Balfour in the handwriting of Paul Benedict.

The contents of this note were of such importance in theestablishment of justice that Yates, still doubtful of the proprietyof his act, was able to justify it to his conscience. Underthe circ*mstances, it belonged to the man to whom it was addressed,and not to Mr. Belcher at all. His own act mightbe doubtful, but it was in the interest of fair dealing, and inopposition to the schemes of a consummate rascal, to whom heowed neither respect nor good-will. He would stand by it,and take the consequences of it.

Were Mrs. Dillingham and Sam Yates justifiable in theirtreachery to Mr. Belcher? A nice question this, in casuistry!Certainly they had done as they would have been done by,had he been in their circ*mstances and they in his. He, atleast, who had tried to debauch both of them, could reasonablyfind no fault with them. Their act was the natural resultof his own influence. It was fruit from seeds of his own sowing.Had he ever approached them with a single noble andunselfish motive, neither of them could have betrayed him.

CHAPTER XXV.

IN WHICH THE GENERAL GOES THROUGH A GREAT MANY TRIALSAND MEETS AT LAST THE ONE HE HAS SO LONG ANTICIPATED.

The fact that the General had deposited the proceeds of hisforeign sales of arms with a European banking house, ostensiblysubject to draft for the materials of his manufactures, hasalready been alluded to. This deposit had been augmentedby subsequent sales, until it amounted to an imposing sum,which Mrs. Dillingham ascertained, from the little account-book,to be drawing a low rate of interest. With the proprietor,this heavy foreign deposit was partly a measureof personal safety, and partly a measure of projected iniquity.He had the instinct to provide against any possible contingenciesof fortune or crime.

Two or three days after his very agreeable call upon Mrs.Dillingham, he had so far mastered his difficulties connectedwith the International Mail that he could find time foranother visit, to which he had looked forward with eager anticipation.

"I was very much interested in your little book, Mr.Belcher," said the lady, boldly.

"The General is one of the ablest of our native authors,eh?" responded that facetious person, with a jolly laugh.

"Decidedly," said Mrs. Dillingham, "and so very terseand statistical."

"Interesting book, wasn't it?"

"Very! And it was so kind of you, General, to let me seehow you men manage such things!"

"We men!" and the General shrugged his shoulders.

"One man, then," said the lady, on seeing that he wasdisposed to claim a monopoly in the wisdom of business.

"Do you remember one little item—a modest little item—concerningmy foreign deposits? Eh?"

"Little item, General! What are you doing with so muchmoney over there?"

"Nothing, or next to nothing. That's my anchor to windward."

"It will hold," responded the lady, "if weight is all that'sneeded."

"I intend that it shall hold, and that it shall be larger beforeit is smaller."

"I don't understand it;" and Mrs. Dillingham shook herpretty head.

Mr. Belcher sat and thought. There was a curious flushupon his face, as he raised his eyes to hers, and looked intenselyinto them, in the endeavor to read the love that hidbehind them. He was desperately in love with her. Thepassion, a thousand times repelled by her, and a thousandtimes diverted by the distractions of his large affairs, hadbeen raised to new life by his last meeting with her; and thedeterminations of his will grew strong, almost to fierceness.He did not know what to say, or how to approach the subjectnearest to his heart. He had always frightened her so easily;she had been so quick to resent any approach to undue familiarity;she had so steadily ignored his insinuations, that hewas disarmed.

"What are you thinking about, General?"

"You've never seen me in one of my trances, have you?"inquired Mr. Belcher, with trembling lips and a forced laugh.

"No! Do you have trances?"

"Trances? Yes; and visions of the most stunning character.Talbot has seen me in two or three of them."

"Are they dangerous?"

"Not at all. The General's visions are always of a celestialcharacter,—warranted not to injure the most delicate constitution!I feel one of them coming on now. Don't disturbme."

"Shall I fan you?"

"Do, please!"

The General closed his eyes. He had never before betrayedsuch excitement in her presence, and had never before appearedso dangerous. While she determined that this shouldbe her last exposure to his approaches, she maintained herbrave and unsuspecting demeanor, and playfully waved herfan toward him.

"I behold," said the General, "a business man of greatability and great wealth, who discovers too late that his wifeis unequally yoked with an unbeliever. Love abides not inhis home, and his heart is afloat on the fierce, rolling sea. Heleaves his abode in the country, and seeks in the tumultuouslife of the metropolis to drown his disappointments. He therediscovers a beautiful woman, cast in Nature's finest mould,and finds himself, for the first time, matched. Gently thisheavenly creature repels him, though her heart yearns towardhim with unmistakable tenderness. She is a prudent woman.She has a position to maintain. She is alone. She is a friendto the wife of this unfortunate gentleman. She is hindered inmany ways from giving rein to the impulses of her heart.This man of wealth deposits a magnificent sum in Europe.This lady goes thither for health and amusem*nt, and drawsupon this sum at will. She travels from capital to capital, orhides herself in Alpine villages, but is found at last by himwho has laid his wealth at her feet."

The General revealed his vision with occasional glancesthrough half-closed eyes at the face that hung bowed beforehim. It was a desperate step, but he had determined to takeit when he entered the house. Humiliated, tormented, angry,Mrs. Dillingham sat before him, covering from his sight aswell as she could the passion that raged within her. Sheknew that she had invited the insult. She was conscious thather treatment of him, from the first, though she had endeavoredto change her relations with him without breaking hisfriendship, had nursed his base passion and his guilty purpose.She was undergoing a just punishment, and acknowledged toherself the fact. Once she would have delighted in tormentinghim. Once she would not have hesitated to drive himfrom her door. Once—but she was changed. A little boywho had learned to regard her as a mother, was thinking ofher in the distant woods. She had fastened to that childishlife the hungry instincts of her motherly nature. She hadturned away forever from all that could dishonor the lad, orhinder her from receiving his affection without an upbraidingconscience.

Mr. Belcher's instincts were quick enough to see that hisvision had not prospered in the mind to which he had revealedit; and yet, there was a hesitation in the manner of thewoman before him which he could not explain to himself, ifhe admitted that his proposition had been wholly offensive.Mrs. Dillingham's only wish was to get him out of the house.If she could accomplish this without further humiliation, itwas all she desired.

"General," she said, at last, "You must have been drinking.I do not think you know what you have said to me."

"On the contrary, I am perfectly sober," said he, risingand approaching her.

"You must not come near me. Give me time! give metime!" she exclaimed, rising and retreating.

Mr. Belcher was startled by the alarmed and angry lookin her eyes. "Time!" he said, fiercely; "Eternity, youmean."

"You pretend to care for me, and yet you disobey whatyou know to be my wish. Prove your friendship by leavingme. I wish to be alone."

"Leave you, with not so much as the touch of your hand?"he said.

"Yes."

The General turned on his heel, took up his hat, paused atthe door as if hesitating what to do; then, without a word,he went down stairs and into the street, overwhelmed withself-pity. He had done so much, risked so much, and accomplishedso little! That she was fond of him there was noquestion in his own mind; but women were so different frommen! Yet the villain knew that if she had been easily wonhis heart would have turned against her. The prize grewmore precious, through the obstacles that came between himand its winning. The worst was over, at least; she knew hisproject; and it would all come right in time!

As soon as he was out of the house, Mrs. Dillingham burstinto a fit of uncontrollable weeping. She had passed throughthe great humiliation of her life. The tree which she hadplanted and nursed through many years of unworthy aims hadborne its natural fruit. She groaned under the crushing punishment.She almost cursed herself. Her womanly instinctswere quick to apprehend the fact that only by her own consentor invitation, could any man reach a point so near toany woman that he could coolly breathe in her ear a base proposition. Yet, with all her self-loathing and self-condemnation,was mingled a hatred of the vile man who had insultedher, which would have half killed him had it been possible forhim to know and realize it.

After her first passion had passed away, the question concerningher future came up for settlement. She could notpossibly remain near Mr. Belcher. She must not be exposedto further visits from him. The thought that in the littleaccount-book which she had copied there was a record thatcovered a design for her own destruction, stung her to thequick. What should she do? She would consult Mr. Balfour.

She knew that on that evening Mr. Belcher would not be athome, that after the excitements and disappointments of thatday he would seek for solace in any place but that which heldhis wife and children. So, muffled in a slight disguise, andfollowed by her servant, she stole out of her house during theevening, and sought the house of the lawyer. To him shepoured out her heart. To him she revealed all that hadpassed between her and the proprietor, and to him she committedthe care of the precious document of which she hadpossessed herself, and the little note that accompanied it.

Mr. Balfour advised her to leave the city at once, and to goto some place where Mr. Belcher would not be able to findher. He knew of no place so fit for her in every respect asNumber Nine, with his own family and those most dear toher. Her boy and his father were there; it was health's ownhome; and she could remain away as long as it might benecessary. She would be wanted as a witness in a fewmonths, at furthest, in a suit which he believed would leaveher persecutor in a position where, forgetting others, hewould be absorbed in the effort to take care of himself.

Her determination was taken at once. Mr. Balfour accompaniedher home, and gave her all the necessary directionsfor her journey; and that night she packed a singletrunk in readiness for it. In the morning, leaving her houseto the care of trusty servants, she rode to the station, whileMr. Belcher was lolling feverishly in his bed, and in an hourwas flying northward toward the place that was to be her summerhome, and into a region that was destined to be associatedwith her future life, through changes and revolutions ofwhich she did not dream.

After her thirty-six hours of patient and fatiguing travelthe company at Jim Fenton's hotel, eager for letters from thecity, stood on the bank of the river, waiting the arrival ofthe guide who had gone down for the mail, and such passengersas he might find in waiting. They saw, as he came in sight,a single lady in the stern of the little boat, deeply veiled,whose name they could not guess. When she debarked amongthem, and looked around upon the waiting and curiousgroup, Harry was the first to detect her, and she smotheredhim with kisses. Mr. Benedict stood pale and trembling.Harry impulsively led her toward him, and in a moment theywere wrapped in a tender embrace. None but Mrs. Balfour,of all who were present, understood the relation that existedbetween the two, thus strangely reunited; but it soon becameknown, and the little romance added a new charm to the lifein the woods.

It would be pleasant to dwell upon the happy days and thepleasant doings of the summer that followed—the long twilightsthat Mr. Benedict and Mrs. Dillingham spent upon the water,their review of the events of the past, the humble confessionsof the proud lady, the sports and diversions of the wilderness,and the delights of society brought by circ*mstancesinto the closest sympathy. It would be pleasant to remainwith Jim and "the little woman," in their new enterprise andtheir new house-keeping; but we must return to the city, tofollow the fortunes of one who, if less interesting than thosewe leave behind, is more important in the present stage andultimate resolution of our little drama.

Soon after Mrs. Dillingham's departure from the city, Mr.Belcher missed her. Not content with the position in whichhe had left his affairs with her, he called at her house threedays after her disappearance, and learned that the servantseither did not know or would not tell whither she had gone.In his blind self-conceit, he could not suppose that she hadrun away from him. He could not conclude that she hadgone to Europe, without a word of her purpose breathed tohim. Still, even that was possible. She had hidden somewhere,and he should hear from her. Had he frightened her?Had he been too precipitate? Much as he endeavored toexplain her sudden disappearance to his own advantage, hewas left unsatisfied and uneasy.

A few days passed away, and then he began to doubt.Thrown back upon himself, deprived of the solace of hersociety, and released from a certain degree of restraint thatshe had always exercised upon him, he indulged more freelyin drink, and entered with more recklessness upon the excitementsof speculation.

The General had become conscious that he was not quite theman that he had been. His mind was darkened and dulledby crime. He was haunted by vague fears and apprehensions.With his frequent and appalling losses of money, he had losta measure of his faith in himself. His coolness of calculationhad been diminished; he listened with readier credulity torumors, and yielded more easily to the personal influencesaround him. Even the steady prosperity which attended hisregular business became a factor in his growing incapacity forthe affairs of the street. His reliance on his permanentsources of income made him more reckless in his speculations.

His grand scheme for "gently" and "tenderly" unloadinghis Crooked Valley stock upon the hands of his trustingdupes along the line, worked, however, to perfection. Itonly required rascality, pure and simple, under the existingconditions, to accomplish this scheme, and he found in theresults nothing left to be desired. They furnished him witha capital of ready money, but his old acquaintances discoveredthe foul trick he had played, and gave him a wide berth. Nomore gigantic combinations were possible to him, save withswindlers like himself, who would not hesitate to sacrifice himas readily and as mercilessly as he had sacrificed his ruralvictims.

Mrs. Dillingham had been absent a month when he oneday received a polite note from Mr. Balfour, as Paul Benedict'sattorney, requesting him, on behalf of his principal, topay over to him an equitable share of the profits upon hispatented inventions, and to enter into a definite contract forthe further use of them.

The request came in so different a form from what he hadanticipated, and was so tamely courteous, that he laughed overthe note in derision. "Milk for babes!" he exclaimed, andlaughed again. Either Balfour was a coward, or he felt thathis case was a weak one. Did he think the General was afool?

Without taking the note to Cavendish, who had told himto bring ten thousand dollars when he came again, and without consulting anybody, he wrote the following note in answer:—

"To James Balfour, Esq.:

"Your letter of this date received, and contents noted.Permit me to say in reply:

"1st. That I have no evidence that you are Paul Benedict'sattorney.

"2d. That I have no evidence that Paul Benedict is living,and that I do not propose to negotiate in any way, on anybusiness, with a fraud, or a man of straw.

"3d. That I am the legal assignee of all the patents originallyissued to Paul Benedict, which I have used and am nowusing. I hold his assignment in the desk on which I writethis letter, and it stands duly recorded in Washington, though,from my ignorance of the law, it has only recently been placedupon the books in the Patent Office.

"Permit me to say, in closing, that, as I bear you nomalice, I will show you the assignment at your pleasure, andthus relieve you from the danger of entering upon a conspiracyto defraud me of rights which I propose, with all themeans at my disposal, to defend.

"Yours, ROBERT BELCHER."

Mr. Belcher read over this letter with great satisfaction. Itseemed to him very dignified and very wise. He had savedhis ten thousand dollars for a while, at least, and bluffed, ashe sincerely believed, his dreaded antagonist.

Mr. Balfour did more than to indulge in his professionalsmile, over the frank showing of the General's hand, and thevoluntary betrayal of his line of defence. He filed away thenote among the papers relating to the case, took his hat,walked across the street, rang the bell, and sent up his cardto Mr. Belcher. That self-complacent gentleman had not expectedthis visit, although he had suggested it. Instead, therefore,of inviting Mr. Balfour to his library, he went down tothe drawing-room, where he found his visitor, quietly sittingwith his hat in his hand. The most formal of courtesiesopened the conversation, and Mr. Balfour stated his businessat once. "You were kind enough to offer to show me theassignment of Mr. Benedict's patents," he said. "I havecalled to see it."

"I've changed my mind," said the General.

"Do you suspect me of wishing to steal it?" inquired Mr.Balfour.

"No, but the fact is, I wrote my note to you without consultingmy lawyer."

"I thought so," said Mr. Balfour. "Good-day, sir."

"No offence, I hope," said Mr. Belcher, with a peculiartoss of the head, and a laugh.

"Not the least," said the lawyer, passing out of the door.

The General felt that he had made a mistake. He was inthe habit of making mistakes in those days. The habit wasgrowing upon him. Indeed, he suspected that he had madea mistake in not boldly exhibiting his assignment. How tomanage a lie, and not be managed by it, was a question thathad puzzled wiser heads than that of the General. He foundan egg in his possession that he was not ready to eat, thoughit was too hot to be held long in either hand, and could notbe dropped without disaster.

For a week, he was haunted with the expectation of a suit,but it was not brought, and then he began to breathe easier,and to feel that something must be done to divert his mindfrom the subject. He drank freely, and was loud-mouthedand blustering on the street. Poor Talbot had a hard time,in endeavoring to shield him from his imprudences. Hesaw that his effort to make his principal "last" was not likelyto be successful.

Rallied by his "friends" on his ill luck, the General declaredthat he only speculated for fun. He knew what hewas about. He never risked any money that he could notafford to lose. Everybody had his amusem*nt, and this washis.

He was secure for some months in his seat as President ofthe Crooked Valley Railroad, and calculated, of course, onbuying back his stock in his own time, at his own price. Inthe meantime, he would use his position for carrying on hisprivate schemes.

The time came at last when he wanted more ready money.A grand combination had been made, among his own unprincipledset, for working up a "corner" in the MuscogeeAir Line, and he had been invited into it. He was flatteredby the invitation, and saw in it a chance for redeeming hisposition, though, at bottom, the scheme was one for workingup a corner in Robert Belcher.

Under the plea that he expected, at no distant day, to goto Europe, for rest and amusem*nt, he mortgaged his house,in order, as he declared, that he might handle it the more easilyin the market. But Wall street knew the fact at once, andmade its comments. Much to the proprietor's disgust, itwas deemed of sufficient importance to find mention in thedaily press.

But even the sum raised upon his house, united with thatwhich he had received from unloading his Crooked Valleystock, was not sufficient to give him the preponderance in thegrand combination which he desired.

He still held a considerable sum in Crooked Valley bonds,for these were valuable. He had already used these as collaterals,in the borrowing of small sums at short time, tomeet emergencies in his operations. It was known by money-lendersthat he held them. Now the General was the manufacturerof these bonds. The books of the corporation wereunder his control, and he intended that they should remainso. It was very easy for him to make an over-issue, and hardfor him to be detected in his fraud, by any one who would bedangerous to him. The temptation to make this issue wasone which better men than he had yielded to in a weakmoment, and, to the little conscience which he possessed, therequisite excuses were ready. He did not intend that anyone should lose money by these bonds. He only proposed atemporary relief to himself. So he manufactured the bonds,and raised the money he wanted.

Meantime, the members of the very combination in whichhe had engaged, having learned of his rascally operation withthe stock, were secretly buying it back from the dupes alongthe road, at their own figures, with the purpose of oustinghim from the management, and taking the road to themselves.Of this movement he did not learn, until it was too late to beof use to him.

It was known, in advance, by the combination, that theworking up of the corner in Muscogee Air Line would be along operation. The stock had to be manipulated with greatcare, to avoid exciting a suspicion of the nature of thescheme, and the General had informed the holders of hisnotes that it might be necessary for him to renew them beforehe should realize from his operations. He had laid all hisplans carefully, and looked forward with an interest whichnone but he and those of his kind could appreciate, to theexcitements, intrigues, marches and counter-marches of themischievous campaign.

And then came down upon him the prosecution which hehad so long dreaded, and for which he had made the onlypreparation consistent with his greedy designs. Ten thousanddollars of his ready money passed at once into the hands ofMr. Cavendish, and Mr. Cavendish was satisfied with the fee,whatever may have been his opinion of the case. After a lastexamination of his forged assignment, and the putting ofPhipps to an exhaustive and satisfactory trial of his memorywith relation to it, he passed it into the lawyer's hands, andwent about his business with uncomfortable forebodings ofthe trial and its results.

It was strange, even to him, at this point of his career, thathe felt within himself no power to change his course. Noone knew better than he, that there was money enough inBenedict's inventions for both inventor and manufacturer.No one knew better than he, that there was a prosperouscourse for himself inside the pale of equity and law, yet hefound no motive to walk there. For the steps he had taken,there seemed no retreat. He must go on, on, to the end.The doors that led back to his old life had closed behind him.Those which opened before were not inviting, but he couldnot stand still. So he hardened his face, braced his nerves,stiffened his determination, and went on.

Of course he passed a wretched summer. He had intendedto get away for rest, or, rather, for an exhibition of himselfand his equipage at Newport, or Saratoga, or Long Branch;but through all the burning days of the season he was obligedto remain in the city, while other men were away and offtheir guard, to watch his Wall street operations, and preparefor the coup de grace by which he hoped to regain his losttreasure and his forfeited position. The legal trial thatloomed up before him, among the clouds of autumn, couldnot be contemplated without a shiver, and a sinking of theheart. His preparations for it were very simple, as theymainly related to the establishment of the genuineness of hisassignment.

The months flew away more rapidly with the proprietorthan with any of the other parties interested in the suit, andwhen, at last, only a fortnight was wanting to the time ofthe expected trial, Mr. Balfour wrote to Number Nine, orderinghis family home, and requiring the presence of Mr. Benedict,Mrs. Dillingham, Harry and Jim.

Just at this time, the General found himself in fresh difficulty.The corner in Muscogee Air Line, was as evasive asa huckleberry in a mouth bereft of its armament. Indeed,to use still further the homely but suggestive figure, the Generalfound that his tongue was in more danger than his huckleberry.His notes, too, secured by fraudulent collaterals,were approaching a second and third maturity. He waswithout ready money for the re-purchase of his CrookedValley stock, and had learned, in addition, that the stockhad already changed hands, in the execution of a purposewhich he more than suspected. Large purchases of materialfor the execution of heavy contracts in his manufactures haddrained his ready resources, in the department of his regularbusiness. He was getting short, and into a tight place. Stillhe was desperate, and determined to sacrifice nothing.

Mr. Benedict and Jim, on their arrival in the city, took uptheir residence in Mrs. Dillingham's house, and the landlordof Number Nine spent several days in making the acquaintanceof the city, under the guidance of his old companion,who was at home. Jim went through a great mental convulsion.At first, what seemed to him the magnitude of the life,enterprise and wealth of the city, depressed him. He declaredthat he "had ben growin' smaller an' smaller everyminute" since he left Sevenoaks. "I felt as if I'd allersben a fly, crawlin' 'round on the edge of a pudden," he said,when asked whether he enjoyed the city. But before thetrial came on, he had fully recovered his old equanimity.The city grew smaller the more he explored it, until, whencompared with the great woods, the lonely rivers, and thebroad solitudes in which he had spent his life, it seemed likea toy; and the men who chaffered in the market, and thewomen who thronged the avenues, or drove in the park, orfilled the places of amusem*nt, came to look like children,engaged in frolicsome games. He felt that people who had solittle room to breathe in must be small; and before the trialbrought him into practical contact with them, he was himselfa*gain, and quite ready to meet them in any encounter whichrequired courage or address.

CHAPTER XXVI.

IN WHICH THE CASE OF "BENEDICT VS. BELCHER" FINDS ITSELFIN COURT, AN INTERESTING QUESTION OF IDENTITYIS SETTLED, AND A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCETAKES PLACE.

"OYEZ! Oyez! All-persons-having-business-to-do-with-the-Circuit-Court-of-the-United-States-for-the-Southern-District-of-New-York,-draw-near,-give-your-attention,-and-you-shall-be-heard."

"That's the crier," whispered Mr. Benedict to Jim.

"What's the matter of 'im?" inquired the latter.

"That's the way they open the court."

"Well, if he opens it with cryin', he'll have a tough time ashuttin' on it," responded Jim, in a whisper so loud that heattracted attention.

There within the bar sat Mr. Balfour, calmly examining hispapers. He looked up among the assembled jurors, witnessesand idlers, and beckoned Benedict to his side. There satRobert Belcher with his counsel. The great rascal was flashilydressed, with a stupendous show of shirt-front, over which fell,down by the side of the diamond studs, a heavy gold chain.Brutality, vulgarity, self-assurance and an over-bearing will,all expressed themselves in his broad face, bold eyes andheavy chin. Mr. Cavendish, with his uneasy scalp, white hands,his scornful lips and his thin, twitching nostrils, looked thevery impersonation of impatience and contempt. If the wholecourt-room had been thronged with vermin instead of humanbeings, among which he was obliged to sit, he could not haveappeared more disgusted. Quite retired among the audience,and deeply veiled, sat Mrs. Dillingham. Mr. Belcher detectedher, and, though he could not see her face, felt that hecould not be mistaken as to her identity. Why was she there?Why, but to notice the progress and issue of the trial, in heranxiety for him? He was not glad to see her there.

He beckoned for Phipps, who sat uneasily, with a scaredlook upon his face, among the crowd.

"Is that Mrs. Dillingham?" he asked in a whisper.

Phipps assured him that it was. Then Mr. Belcher wroteupon his card the words: "Do not, for my sake, remain inthis room."

"Give this to her," he said to his servant.

The card was delivered, but the lady, quite to his surprise,did not stir. He thought of his little book, but it seemedimpossible that his idol, who had so long been hidden fromhis sight and his knowledge, could betray him.

A jury was empanneled, the case of Benedict vs. Belcherwas called, and the counsel of both parties declared themselvesready for the trial.

The suit was for damages, in the sum of half a million dollars,for the infringement of patents on machines, implementsand processes, of which it was declared that the plaintiff wasthe first and only inventor. The answer to the complaint allegedthe disappearance and death of Benedict, and declaredthe plaintiff to be an impostor, averred the assignment of allthe patents in question to the defendant, and denied the profits.

The judge, set somewhat deep in his shirt-collar, as if hishead and his heart were near enough together to hold easycommunication, watched the formal proceedings listlessly, outof a pair of pleasant eyes, and when they were completed,nodded to Mr. Balfour, in indication that he was ready toproceed.

Mr. Balfour, gathering his papers before him, rose to makethe opening for the prosecution.

"May it please the Court," he said, "and gentlemen ofthe jury, I have to present to you a case, either issue of whichit is not pleasant for me to contemplate. Either my clientor the defendant will go out of this court, at the conclusionof this case, a blackened man; and, as I have a warm friendshipfor one of them, and bear no malice to the other, I amfree to confess that, while I seek for justice, I shrink from theresults of its vindication."

Mr. Cavendish jumped up and interjected spitefully: "Ibeg the gentleman to spare us his hypothetical sentiment. Itis superfluous, so far as my client is concerned, and offensive."

Mr. Balfour waited calmly for the little explosion and theclearing away of the smoke, and then resumed. "I take nopleasure in making myself offensive to the defendant and hiscounsel," said he, "but, if I am interrupted, I shall be compelledto call things by their right names, and to do something more than hint at the real status of this case. I see othertrials, in other courts, at the conclusion of this action,—othertrials with graver issues. I could not look forward to themwith any pleasure, without acknowledging myself to be a knave.I could not refrain from alluding to them, without convictingmyself of carelessness and frivolity. Something more thanmoney is involved in the issue of this action. Either theplaintiff or the defendant will go out of this court wrecked incharacter, blasted in reputation, utterly ruined. The termsof the bill and the answer determine this result."

Mr. Cavendish sat through this exordium as if he sat onnettles, but wisely held his tongue, while the brazen-facedproprietor leaned carelessly over, and whispered to his counsel.Phipps, on his distant seat, grew white around the lips,and felt that he was on the verge of the most serious dangerof his life.

"The plaintiff, in this case," Mr. Balfour went on,"brings an action for damages for the infringement of variouspatent rights. I shall prove to you that these patents wereissued to him, as the first and only inventor; that he hasnever assigned them to any one; that they have been used bythe defendant for from seven to ten years, to his great profit;that he is using them still without a license, and without renderinga just consideration for them. I shall prove to youthat the defendant gained his first possession of these inventionsby a series of misrepresentations, false promises, oppressionsand wrongs, and has used them without license inconsequence of the weakness, illness, poverty and defencelessnessof their rightful owner. I shall prove to you that theirowner was driven to insanity by these perplexities and thepersecutions of the defendant, and that even after he becameinsane, the defendant tried to secure the execution of theassignment which he had sought in vain during the sanity ofthe patentee.

"I will not characterize by the name belonging to itthe instrument which is to be presented in answer to the billfiled in this case, further than to say that it has no legalstatus whatsoever. It is the consummate fruit of a tree thatwas planted in fraud; and if I do not make it so to appear, beforethe case is finished, I will beg pardon of the court, of you,gentlemen of the jury, and especially of the defendant andhis honorable counsel. First, therefore, I offer in evidencecertified copies of the patents in question."

Mr. Balfour read these documents, and they were examinedboth by Mr. Cavendish and the court.

The name of Paul Benedict was then called, as the firstwitness.

Mr. Benedict mounted the witness stand. He was pale andquiet, with a pink tinge on either cheek. He had the bearingand dress of a gentleman, and contrasted strangely with thecoarse, bold man to whom he had been indebted for so manywrongs and indignities. He was at last in the place to whichhe had looked forward with so much dread, but there cameto him a calmness and a self-possession which he had notanticipated. He was surrounded by powerful friends. Hewas menaced, too, by powerful enemies, and all his manhoodwas roused.

"What is your name?" asked Mr. Balfour.

"Paul Benedict."

"Where were you born?"

"In the city of New York."

"Are you the inventor of the machines, implements andprocesses named in the documents from the Patent Officewhich have just been read in your hearing?"

"I am, sir."

"And you are the only owner of all these patent rights?"

"I am, sir."

"What is your profession?"

"I was trained for a mechanical engineer."

"What has been your principal employment?"

"Invention."

"When you left New York, whither did you go?"

"To Sevenoaks."

"How many years ago was that?"

"Eleven or twelve, I suppose."

"Now I want you to tell to the Court, in a plain, brief way,the history of your life in Sevenoaks, giving with sufficientdetail an account of all your dealings with the defendant inthis case, so that we may perfectly understand how your inventionscame into Mr. Belcher's hands, and why you havenever derived any benefit from them."

It was a curious illustration of the inventor's nature that,at this moment, with his enemy and tormentor before him,he shrank from giving pain. Mr. Cavendish noticed his hesitation,and was on his feet in an instant. "May it please thecourt," said he, "there is a question concerning identity thatcomes up at this point, and I beg the privilege of asking it here."

The judge looked at Mr. Balfour, and the latter said:"Certainly."

"I would like to ask the witness," said Mr. Cavendish,"whether he is the Paul Benedict who left the city about thetime at which he testifies that he went away, in consequenceof his connection with a band of counterfeiters. Did you,sir, invent their machinery, or did you not?"

"I did not," answered the witness—his face all aflame.The idea that he could be suspected, or covertly charged, withcrime, in the presence of friends and strangers, was so terriblethat the man tottered on his feet.

Mr. Cavendish gave a significant glance at his client,whose face bloomed with a brutal smile, and then sat down.

"Is that all?" inquired Mr. Balfour.

"All, for the present," responded Mr. Cavendish, sneeringly,and with mock courtesy.

"May it please the Court," said Mr. Balfour, "I hope Imay be permitted to say that the tactics of the defendant areworthy of his cause." Then turning to Mr. Benedict, hesaid, "I trust the witness will not be disturbed by the insultthat has been gratuitously offered him, and will tell the historywhich I have asked him to tell."

Mr. Cavendish had made a mistake. At this insult, andthe gratification which it afforded Mr. Belcher, the inventor'spity died out of him, and he hardened to his work.

"When I went to Sevenoaks," said he, "I was very poor,as I have always been since. I visited Mr. Belcher's mill,and saw how great improvements could be made in hismachines and processes; and then I visited him, and told himwhat I could do for him. He furnished me with money formy work, and for securing the patents on my inventions, withthe verbal promise that I should share in such profits as mightaccrue from their use. He was the only man who had money;he was the only man who could use the inventions; and hekept me at work, until he had secured everything that hewished for. In the meantime, I suffered for the lack of thenecessaries of life, and was fed from day to day, and monthto month, and year to year, on promises. He never renderedme any returns, declared that the patents were nearlyuseless to him, and demanded, as a consideration for themoney he had advanced to me, the assignment of all mypatents to him. My only child was born in the midst of myearly trouble, and such were the privations to which my wifewas subjected that she never saw a day of health after theevent. She died at last, and in the midst of my deepest troubles,Mr. Belcher pursued me with his demands for the assignmentof my patents. He still held me to him by the bestowalof small sums, which necessity compelled me to accept. Healways had a remarkable power over me, and I felt that hewould lead me to destruction. I saw the hopes of years meltingaway, and knew that in time he would beat down my will,and, on his own terms, possess himself of all the results ofmy years of study and labor. I saw nothing but starvationbefore me and my child, and went down into a horror of greatdarkness."

A cold shiver ran over the witness, and his face grew paleand pinched, at this passage of his story. The court-housewas as still as midnight. Even the General lost his smile,and leaned forward, as if the narration concerned some monsterother than himself.

"What then?" inquired Mr. Balfour.

"I hardly know. Everything that I remember after thatwas confused and terrible. For years I was insane. I wentto the hospital, and was there supported by Mr. Belcher. Heeven followed me there, and endeavored to get my signatureto an assignment, but was positively forbidden by the superintendentof the asylum. Then, after being pronounced incurable,I was sent back to the Sevenoaks alms-house, where,for a considerable time, my boy was also kept; and from thathorrible place, by the aid of a friend, I escaped. I rememberit all as a long dream of torture. My cure came in thewoods, at Number Nine, where I have ever since lived, andwhere twice I have been sought and found by paid emissariesof Mr. Belcher, who did not love him well enough to betrayme. And, thanks to the ministry of the best friends that Godever raised up to a man, I am here to-day to claim my rights."

"These rights," said Mr. Balfour, "these rights which youhold in your patented inventions, for all these years used bythe defendant, you say you have never assigned."

"Never."

"If an assignment executed in due form should be presentedto you, what should you say?"

"I object to the question," said Mr. Cavendish, leapingto his feet. "The document has not yet been presented tohim."

"The gentleman is right," said Mr. Balfour; "the witnesshas never seen it. I withdraw the question; and now tell mewhat you know about Mr. Belcher's profits on the use of theseinventions."

"I cannot tell much," replied Mr. Benedict. "I knowthe inventions were largely profitable to him; otherwise hewould not have been so anxious to own them. I have neverhad access to his books, but I know he became rapidly richon his manufactures, and that, by the cheapness with whichhe produced them, he was able to hold the market, and toforce his competitors into bankruptcy."

"May it please the Court," said Mr. Balfour, "I am aboutdone with this witness, and I wish to say, just here, that ifthe defendant stands by his pleadings, and denies his profits,I shall demand the production of his books in Court. Wecan get definite information from them, at least." Thenbowing to Mr. Benedict, he told him that he had no furtherquestions to ask.

The witness was about to step down, when the Judge turnedto Mr. Cavendish, with the question: "Does the counsel forthe defendant wish to cross-examine the witness?"

"May it please the Court," said Mr. Cavendish rising,"the counsel for the defense regards the examination so farsimply as a farce. We do not admit that the witness is PaulBenedict, at all—or, rather, the Paul Benedict named in thepatents, certified copies of which are in evidence. The PaulBenedict therein named, has long been regarded as dead.This man has come and gone for months in Sevenoaks, amongthe neighbors of the real Paul Benedict, unrecognized. Hesays he has lived for years within forty miles of Sevenoaks,and at this late day puts forward his claims. There is nobodyin Court, sir. We believe the plaintiff to be a fraud, andthis prosecution a put-up job. In saying this, I would by nomeans impugn the honor of the plaintiff's counsel. Wisermen than he have been deceived and duped, and he may beassured that he is the victim of the villainies or the hallucinationsof an impostor. There are men in this room, ready totestify in this case, who knew Paul Benedict during all hisresidence in Sevenoaks; and the witness stands before themat this moment unrecognized and unknown. I cannot cross-examinethe witness, without recognizing his identity withthe Paul Benedict named in the patents. There is nothingbut a pretender in Court, may it please your honor, and I declineto have anything to do with him."

Mr. Cavendish sat down, with the air of a man whobelieved he had blasted the case in the bud, and that therewas nothing left to do but to adjourn.

"It seems to the Court, gentlemen," said the judge in aquiet tone, "that this question of identity should be settledas an essential preliminary to further proceedings."

"May it please your honor," said Mr. Balfour, rising, "Idid not suppose it possible, after the plaintiff had actuallyappeared in court, and shown himself to the defendant, thatthis question of identity would be mooted or mentioned.The defendant must know that I have witnesses here—that Iwould not appear here without competent witnesses—who willplace his identity beyond question. It seems, however, thatthis case is to be fought inch by inch, on every possibleground. As the first witness upon this point, I shall call forJames Fenton."

"Jest call me Jim," said the individual named, from hisdistant seat.

"James Fenton" was called to the stand, and Mr. Benedictstepped down. Jim advanced through the crowd, hishair standing very straight in the air, and his face illuminedby a smile that won every heart in the house, except thoseof the defendant and his counsel. A war-horse going intobattle, or a hungry man going to his dinner, could not havemanifested more rampant alacrity.

"Hold up your right hand," said the clerk.

"Sartin," said Jim. "Both on 'em if ye say so."

"You solemnly swear m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-so help youGod!"

"I raally wish, if ye ain't too tired, that ye'd say that overagin," said Jim. "If I'm a goin' to make a Happy David,I want to know what it is."

The clerk hesitated, and the judge directed him to repeatthe form of the oath distinctly. When this was done, Jimsaid: "Thank ye; there's nothin' like startin' squar."

"James Fenton," said Mr. Balfour, beginning a question.

"Jest call me Jim: I ain't no prouder here nor I be atNumber Nine," said the witness.

"Very well, Jim," said Mr. Balfour smiling, "tell us whoyou are."

"I'm Jim Fenton, as keeps a hotel at Number Nine. Myfather was an Englishman, my mother was a Scotchman, Iwas born in Ireland, an' raised in Canady, an' I've lived inNumber Nine for more nor twelve year, huntin', trappin'an' keepin' a hotel. I hain't never ben eddicated, but I cantell the truth when it's necessary, an' I love my friends an'hate my enemies."

"May it please the Court," said Mr. Cavendish with asneer, "I beg to suggest to the plaintiff's counsel that thewitness should be required to give his religious views."

Mr. Belcher laughed, and Mr. Cavendish sniffed his lips,as if they had said a good thing.

"Certainly," responded Mr. Balfour. "What are yourreligious views, Jim?"

"Well," said Jim, "I hain't got many, but I sh'd bes'prised if there wasn't a brimstone mine on t'other side, witha couple o' picks in it for old Belcher an' the man as helps'im."

The laugh was on Mr. Cavendish. The Court smiled, theaudience roared, and order was demanded.

"That will do," said Mr. Cavendish. "The religiousviews of the witness are definite and satisfactory."

"Jim, do you know Paul Benedict?" inquired Mr. Balfour.

"Well, I do," said Jim. "I've knowed 'im ever sence hecome to Sevenoaks."

"How did you make his acquaintance?"

"He used to come into the woods, fishin' an' huntin'.Him an' me was like brothers. He was the curisest creetur Iever seen, an' I hope he takes no 'fense in hearin' me say so.Ye've seen his tackle, Mr. Balfour, an' that split bamboo o' his,but the jedge hasn't seen it. I wish I'd brung it along. Fondof fishin', sir?" And Jim turned blandly and patronizingly tothe Court.

The Judge could not repress a little ripple of amusem*nt,which, from a benevolent mouth, ran out over his face.Biting his lips, he said: "The witness had better be confinedto the matter in hand."

"An' Jedge—no 'fense—but I like yer looks, an' if ye'llcome to Number Nine—it's a little late now—I'll"—

Mr. Cavendish jumped up and said fiercely: "I object tothis trifling."

"Jim," said Mr. Balfour, "the defendant's counsel objectsto your trifling. He has a right to do so, particularly as heis responsible for starting it. Now tell me whether the PaulBenedict you knew was the only man of the name who haslived in Sevenoaks since you have lived in Number Nine?"

"He was the only one I ever hearn on. He was the one asinvented Belcher's machines, any way. He's talked about'em with me a thousand times."

"Is he in the room?"

"Mostly," said Jim, with his bland smile.

"Give me a direct answer, now."

"Yis, he's in this room, and he's a settin' there by you,an' he's been a stannin' where I stan' now."

"How do you know that this is the same man who used tovisit you in the woods, and who invented Mr. Belcher's machines?"

"Well, it's a long story. I don't mind tellin' on it, if itwouldn't be too triflin'," with a comical wink at Mr. Cavendish.

"Go on and tell it," said Mr. Balfour.

"I knowed Benedict up to the time when he lost his mind,an' was packed off to the 'Sylum, an' I never seen 'im agintill I seen 'im in the Sevenoaks' poor-house. I come acrosthis little boy one night on the hill, when I was a trampin'home. He hadn't nothin' on but rags, an' he was as blue an'hungry as a spring bar. The little feller teched me ye know—techedmy feelins—an' I jest sot down to comfort 'im. Hetelled me his ma was dead, and that his pa was at old Buffum's,as crazy as a loon. Well, I stayed to old Buffum's that night,an' went into the poor-house in the mornin', with the doctor.I seen Benedict thar, an' knowed him. He was a lyin' onthe straw, an' he hadn't cloes enough on 'im to put in tea.An', says I, 'Mr. Benedict, give us your benediction;' an',says he, 'Jim!' That floored me, an' I jest cried and swar'dto myself. Well, I made a little 'rangement with him an' hisboy, to take 'im to Abram's bosom. Ye see he thought hewas in hell, an' it was a reasomble thing in 'im too; an' Itelled 'im that I'd got a settlement in Abram's bosom, an' Iaxed 'im over to spend the day. I took 'im out of the poor-housean' carried 'im to Number Nine, an' I cured 'im. He'slived there ever sence, helped me build my hotel, an' I comedown with 'im, to 'tend this Court, an' we brung his littleboy along too, an' the little feller is here, an' knows himbetter nor I do."

"And you declare, under oath, that the Paul Benedictwhom you knew in Sevenoaks, and at Number Nine—beforehis insanity—the Paul Benedict who was in the poor-house atSevenoaks and notoriously escaped from that institution—escapedby your help, has lived with you ever since, and hasappeared here in Court this morning," said Mr. Balfour.

"He's the same feller, an' no mistake, if so be he hain'tslipped his skin," said Jim, "an' no triflin'. I make myHappy David on't."

"Did Mr. Belcher ever send into the woods to find him?'"

"Yis," said Jim, laughing, "but I choked 'em off."

"How did you choke them off?"

"I telled 'em both I'd lick 'em if they ever blowed. Theydidn't want to blow any, to speak on, but Mike Conlin comein with a hundred dollars of Belcher's money in his jacket,an' helped me nuss my man for a week; an' I got a HappyDavid out o' Sam Yates, an' ther's the dockyment;" and Jimdrew from his pocket the instrument with which the reader isalready familiar.

Mr. Balfour had seen the paper, and told Jim that it wasnot necessary in the case. Mr. Belcher looked very red inthe face, and leaned over and whispered to his lawyer.

"That is all," said Mr. Balfour.

Mr. Cavendish rose. "You helped Mr. Benedict to escape,did you, Jim?"

"I said so," replied Jim.

"Did you steal the key when you were there first?"

"No; I borrered it, an' brung it back an left it in the door."

"Did you undo the fastenings of the outside door?"

"Yis, an' I did 'em up agin."

"Did you break down the grated door?"

"I remember about somethin' squeakin' an' givin' 'way,"replied Jim, with a smile. "It was purty dark, an' I couldn'tsee 'xactly what was a goin' on."

"Oh you couldn't! We have your confession, then, thatyou are a thief and a burglar, and that you couldn't see theman you took out."

"Well, now, Squar, that won't help ye any. Benedict isthe man as got away, an' I saved the town the board of twopaupers an' the cost of two pine coffins, an' sent old Buffumwhere he belonged, an' nobody cried but his pertickler friendas sets next to ye."

"I beg the Court's protection for my client, against theinsults of this witness," said Mr. Cavendish.

"When a man calls Jim Fenton a thief an' a buggler, hemust take what comes on't," said Jim. "Ye may thank yereverlastin' stars that ye didn't say that to me in the street,for I should 'a licked ye. I should 'a fastened that slipperyold scalp o' yourn tighter nor a drum-head."

"Witness," said the Judge, peremptorily, "you forgetwhere you are, sir. You must stop these remarks."

"Jedge look 'ere! When a man is insulted by a lawyer incourt, what can he do? I'm a reasomble man, but I can'ttake anybody's sarse. It does seem to me as if a lawyer assnubs a witness an calls 'im names, wants dressin' down too.Give Jim Fenton a fair shake, an' he's all right."

Jim's genial nature and his irrepressible tongue were toomuch for the court and the lawyers together. Mr. Cavendishwrithed in his seat. He could do nothing with Jim. Hecould neither scare nor control him, and saw that the witnesswas only anxious for another encounter. It was too evidentthat the sympathy of the jury and the increasing throng ofspectators was with the witness, and that they took delight inthe discomfiture of the defendant's counsel.

"May it please the Court," said Mr. Cavendish, "afterthe disgraceful confessions of the witness, and the revelationof his criminal character, it will not comport with my own self-respectto question him further."

"Paddlin' off, eh?" said Jim, with a comical smile.

"Witness," said the Judge, "be silent and step down."

"No 'fense, Jedge, I hope?"

"Step down, sir."

Jim saw that matters were growing serious. He liked theJudge, and had intended, in some private way, to explain thecondition of his hair as attributable to his fright on beingcalled into Court as a witness, but he was obliged to relinquishhis plan, and go back to his seat. The expression of hisface must have been most agreeable to the spectators, for therewas a universal giggle among them which called out the reproofof the Court.

"Helen Dillingham" was next called for. At the pronunciationof her name, and her quiet progress through thecourt-room to the stand, there was a hush in which nothingwas heard but the rustle of her own drapery. Mr. Belchergasped, and grew pale. Here was the woman whom he madlyloved. Here was the woman whom he had associated with hisscheme of European life, and around whom, more and more,as his difficulties increased and the possibilities of disasterpresented themselves, he had grouped his hopes and gatheredhis plans. Had he been the dupe of her cunning? Was heto be the object of her revenge? Was he to be betrayed?Her intimacy with Harry Benedict began to take on new significance.Her systematic repulses of his blind passion hadan explanation other than that which he had given them.Mr. Belcher thought rapidly while the formalities which precededher testimony were in progress.

Every man in the court-room leaned eagerly forward tocatch her first word. Her fine figure, graceful carriage andrich dress had made their usual impression.

"Mrs. Dillingham," said the Judge, with a courteousbow and gesture, "will you have the kindness to remove yourveil?"

The veil was quietly raised over her hat, and she stood revealed.She was not pale; she was fresh from the woods, andin the glory of renewed health. A murmur of admirationwent around the room like the stirring of leaves before avagrant breeze.

"Mrs. Dillingham," said Mr. Balfour, "where do you reside?"

"In this city, sir."

"Have you always lived here?"

"Always."

"Do you know Paul Benedict?"

"I do, sir."

"How long have you known him?"

"From the time I was born until he left New York, afterhis marriage."

"What is his relation to you?"

"He is my brother, sir."

Up to this answer, she had spoken quietly, and in a voicethat could only be heard through the room by the closestattention; but the last answer was given in a full, emphatictone.

Mr. Belcher entirely lost his self-possession. His face grewwhite, his eyes were wild, and raising his clenched fist hebrought it down with a powerful blow upon the table beforehim, and exclaimed: "My God!"

The court-room became in an instant as silent as death.The Judge uttered no reprimand, but looked inquiringly, andwith unfeigned astonishment, at the defendant.

Mr. Cavendish rose and begged the Court to overlook hisclient's excitement, as he had evidently been taken off hisguard.

"Paul Benedict is your brother, you say?" resumed Mr.Balfour.

"He is, sir."

"What was his employment before he left New York?"

"He was an inventor from his childhood, and received acareful education in accordance with his mechanical genius."

"Why did he leave New York?"

"I am ashamed to say that he left in consequence of myown unkindness."

"What was the occasion of your unkindness?"

"His marriage with one whom I did not regard as his ownsocial equal or mine."

"What was her name?"

"Jane Kendrick."

"How did you learn that he was alive?"

"Through his son, whom I invited into my house, after hewas brought to this city by yourself."

"Have you recently visited the cemetery at Sevenoaks?"

"I have, sir."

"Did you see the grave of your sister-in-law?"

"I did."

"Was there a headstone upon the grave?"

"There was a humble one."

"What inscription did it bear?"

"Jane Kendrick, wife of Paul Benedict."

"When and where did you see your brother first, after yourseparation?"

"Early last summer at a place called Number Nine."

"Did you recognise him?"

"I did, at once."

"Has anything occurred, in the intercourse of the summer,to make you suspect that the man whom you recognised asyour brother was an impostor?"

"Nothing. We have conversed with perfect familiarity ona thousand events and circ*mstances of our early life. I knowhim to be my brother as well as I know my own name, andmy own identity."

"That is all," said Mr. Balfour.

"Mrs. Dillingham," said Mr. Cavendish after holding along whispered conversation with his client, "you were gladto find your brother at last, were you not?"

"Very glad, sir."

"Why?"

"Because I was sorry for the misery which I had inflictedupon him, and to which I had exposed him."

"You were the victim of remorse, as I understand you?"

"Yes, sir; I suppose so."

"Were you conscious that your condition of mind unfittedyou to discriminate? Were you not so anxious to find yourbrother, in order to quiet your conscience, that you wereeasily imposed upon."

"No, sir, to both questions."

"Well, madam, such things have happened. Have youbeen in the habit of receiving Mr. Belcher at your house?"

"I have."

"You have been in the habit of receiving gentlemen ratherindiscriminately at your house, haven't you?"

"I object to the question," said Mr. Balfour quickly. "Itcarries a covert insult to the witness."

Mrs. Dillingham bowed to Mr. Balfour in acknowledgmentof his courtesy, but answered the question. "I have receivedyou, sir, and Mr. Belcher. I may have been indiscriminatein my courtesies. A lady living alone cannot always tell."

A titter ran around the court-room, in which Mr. Belcherjoined. His admiration was too much at the moment for hisself-interest.

"Did you know before you went to Number Nine, thatyour brother was there?" inquired Mr. Cavendish.

"I did, and the last time but one at which Mr. Belchercalled upon me I informed him of the fact."

"That your brother was there?"

"No, that Paul Benedict was there."

"How did you know he was there?"

"His little boy wrote me from there, and told me so."

Mr. Cavendish had found more than he sought. He wanted to harass the witness, but he had been withheld by hisclient. Baffled on one hand and restrained on the other—forMr. Belcher could not give her up, and learn to hate herin a moment—he told the witness he had no more questionsto ask.

Mrs. Dillingham drew down her veil again, and walked toher seat.

Harry Benedict was next called, and after giving satisfactoryanswers to questions concerning his understanding of thenature of an oath, was permitted to testify.

"Harry," said Mr. Balfour, "were you ever in Mr. Belcher'shouse?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell us how it happened that you were there."

"Mr. Belcher stopped me in the street, and led me up thesteps, and then up stairs into his room."

"What question did he ask you?"

"He wanted to know whether my father was alive."

"Did he offer you money if you would tell?"

"Yes, sir; he offered me a great gold piece of money, andtold me it was an eagle."

"Did you take it?"

"No, sir."

"Did he threaten you?"

"He tried to scare me, sir."

"Did he tell you that he should like to give your fathersome money?"

"Yes, sir."

"And did you tell him that your father was alive?"

"No, sir, I ran away;" and Harry could not restrain alaugh at the remembrance of the scene.

"Harry, is your father in this room?"

Harry looked at his father with a smile, and answered,"Yes, sir."

"Now, Harry, I want you to pick him out from all thesepeople. Be sure not to make any mistake. Mr. Belcher hasbeen so anxious to find him, that I presume he will be verymuch obliged to you for the information. Go and put yourhand on him."

Harry started at a run, and, dodging around the end of thebar, threw himself into his father's arms. The performanceseemed so comical to the lad, that he burst into a peal ofboyish laughter, and the scene had such a pretty touch ofnature in it, that the spectators cheered, and were only checkedby the stern reprimand of the judge, who threatened theclearing of the room if such a demonstration should again beindulged in.

"Does the counsel for the defence wish to cross-examinethe witness?" inquired the judge.

"I believe not," said Mr. Cavendish, with a nod; and thenHarry went to his seat, at the side of Jim Fenton, whohugged him so that he almost screamed. "Ye're a brick,little feller," Jim whispered. "That was a Happy David, an'a Goliar into the bargin. You've knocked the Ph'listine thistime higher nor a kite."

"May it please the Court," said Mr. Cavendish, "I havewitnesses here who knew Paul Benedict during all his residencein Sevenoaks, and who are ready to testify that theydo not know the person who presents himself here to-day, asthe plaintiff in this case. I comprehend the disadvantage atwhich I stand, with only negative testimony at my command.I know how little value it has, when opposed to such as hasbeen presented here; and while I am convinced that myclient is wronged, I shall be compelled, in the end, to acceptthe identity of the plaintiff as established. If I believedthe real Paul Benedict, named in the patents in question, inthis case, to be alive, I should be compelled to fight thisquestion to the end, by every means in my power, but themain question at issue, as to whom the title to these patentsrests in, can be decided between my client and a man ofstraw, as well as between him and the real inventor. That isthe first practical issue, and to save the time of the Court, Ipropose to proceed to its trial; and first I wish to cross-examinethe plaintiff."

Mr. Benedict resumed the stand.

"Witness, you pretend to be the owner of the patents inquestion, in this case, and the inventor of the machines, implementsand processes which they cover, do you?" said Mr.Cavendish.

"I object to the form of the question," said Mr. Balfour."It is an insult to the witness, and a reflection upon the gentleman'sown sincerity, in accepting the identity of the plaintiff."

"Very well," said Mr. Cavendish, "since the plaintiff'scounsel is so difficult to please! You are the owner of thesepatents, are you?"

"I am, sir."

"You have been insane, have you sir?"

"I suppose I have been, sir. I was very ill for a long time,and have no doubt that I suffered from mental alienation."

"What is your memory of things that occurred immediatelypreceding your insanity?"

Mr. Benedict and his counsel saw the bearings of this question,at once, but the witness would no more have lied thanhe would have stolen, or committed murder. So he answered:"It is very much confused, sir."

"Oh, it is! I thought so! Then you cannot swear to theevents immediately preceding your attack?"

"I am afraid I cannot, sir, at least, not in their order ordetail."

"No! I thought so!" said Mr. Cavendish, in his contemptuousmanner, and rasping voice. "I commend yourprudence. Now, witness, if a number of your neighborsshould assure you that, on the day before your attack, youdid a certain thing, which you do not remember to have done,how should you regard their testimony?"

"If they were credible people, and not unfriendly to me,I should be compelled to believe them."

"Why, sir! you are an admirable witness! I did not anticipatesuch candor. We are getting at the matter bravely.We have your confession, then, that you do not rememberdistinctly the events that occurred the day before your attack,and your assertion that you are ready to believe and acceptthe testimony of credible witnesses in regard to thoseevents."

"Yes, sir."

"Did you ever know Nicholas Johnson and James Ramsey?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where did you see them last?"

"In Mr. Belcher's library."

"On what occasion, or, rather, at what time?"

"I have sad reason to remember both the occasion and thedate, sir. Mr. Belcher had determined to get my signatureto an assignment, and had brought me to his house on anotherpretext entirely. I suppose he had summoned these men aswitnesses."

"Where are these men now?"

"Unhappily, they are both dead."

"Yes, unhappily indeed—unhappily for my client. Wasthere anybody else in the room?"

"I believe that Phipps, Mr. Belcher's man, was comingand going."

"Why, your memory is excellent, is it not? And you rememberthe date of this event too! Suppose you tell us whatit was."

"It was the 4th of May, 1860."

"How confused you must have been!" said Mr. Cavendish.

"These are things that were burnt into my memory," respondedthe witness. "There were other occurrences thatday, of which I have been informed, but of which I have nomemory."

"Ah, there are! Well, I shall have occasion to refresh yourmind upon still another, before I get through with you.Now, if I should show you an assignment, signed by yourselfon the very day you have designated, and also signed byJohnson, Ramsey and Phipps as witnesses, what should yousay to it?"

"I object to the question. The counsel should show thedocument to the witness, and then ask his opinion of it,"said Mr. Balfour.

The Court coincided with Mr. Balfour's view, and ruledaccordingly.

"Very well," said Mr. Cavendish, "we shall get at thatin good time. Now, witness, will you be kind enough to tellme how you remember that all this occurred on the 4th ofMay, 1860?"

"It happened to be the first anniversary of my wife'sdeath. I went from her grave to Mr. Belcher's house. Theday was associated with the saddest and most precious memoriesof my life."

"What an excellent memory!" said Mr. Cavendish; rubbinghis white hands together. "Are you familiar with thesignatures of Nicholas Johnson and James Ramsey?"

"I have seen them many times."

"Would you recognize them, if I were to show them toyou?"

"I don't know sir."

"Oh! your memory begins to fail now, does it? How isit that you cannot remember things with which you werefamiliar during a series of years, when you were perfectlysane, and yet can remember things so well that happenedwhen your mind was confused?"

Mr. Benedict's mind was getting confused again, and hebegan to stammer. Mr. Cavendish wondered that, in someway, Mr. Balfour did not come to the relief of his witness,but he sat perfectly quiet, and apparently unconcerned. Mr.Cavendish rummaged among his papers, and withdrew twoletters. These he handed to the witness. "Now," said he,"will the witness examine these letters, and tell us whether herecognizes the signatures as genuine?"

Mr. Benedict took the two letters, of which he had alreadyheard through Sam Yates, and very carefully read them. Hisquick, mechanical eye measured the length and every peculiarityof the signatures. He spent so much time upon themthat even the court grew impatient.

"Take all the time you need, witness," said Mr. Balfour.

"All day, of course, if necessary," responded Mr. Cavendishraspingly.

"I think these are genuine autograph letters, both ofthem," said Mr. Benedict.

"Thank you: now please hand them back to me."

"I have special reasons for requesting the Court to impoundthese letters," said Mr. Balfour. "They will be neededagain in the case."

"The witness will hand the letters to the clerk," said thejudge.

Mr. Cavendish was annoyed, but acquiesced gracefully.Then he took up the assignment, and said: "Witness, I holdin my hand a document signed, sealed and witnessed on the4th day of May, 1860, by which Paul Benedict conveys toRobert Belcher his title to the patents, certified copies ofwhich have been placed in evidence. I want you to examinecarefully your own signature, and those of Johnson and Ramsey.Happily, one of the witnesses is still living, and isready, not only to swear to his own signature, but to yoursand to those of the other witnesses."

Mr. Cavendish advanced, and handed Benedict the instrument.The inventor opened it, looked it hurriedly through,and then paused at the signatures. After examining themlong, with naked eyes, he drew a glass from his pocket, andscrutinized them with a curious, absorbed look, forgetful, apparently,where he was.

"Is the witness going to sleep?" inquired Mr. Cavendish;but he did not stir. Mr. Belcher drew a large handkerchieffrom his pocket, and wiped his red, perspiring face. It wasan awful moment to him. Phipps, in his seat, was as pale asa ghost, and sat watching his master.

At last Mr. Benedict looked up. He seemed as if he hadbeen deprived of the power of speech. His face was full ofpain and fright. "I do not know what to say to this," hesaid.

"Oh, you don't! I thought you wouldn't! Still, weshould like to know your opinion of the instrument," saidMr. Cavendish.

"I don't think you would like to know it, sir," said Benedict,quietly.

"What does the witness insinuate?" exclaimed the lawyer,jumping to his feet. "No insinuations, sir!"

"Insinuations are very apt to breed insinuations," said theJudge, quietly. "The witness has manifested no disinclinationto answer your direct questions."

"Very well," said Mr. Cavendish. "Is your signature atthe foot of that assignment?"

"It is not, sir."

"Perhaps those are not the signatures of the witnesses,"said Mr. Cavendish, with an angry sneer.

"Two of them, I have no doubt, are forgeries," respondedMr. Balfour, with an excited voice.

Mr. Cavendish knew that it would do no good to manifest anger;so he laughed. Then he sat down by the side of Mr. Belcher,and said something to him, and they both laughed together.

"That's all," he said, nodding to the witness.

"May it please the Court," said Mr. Balfour, "we gotalong so well with the question of identity that, with theleave of the defendant's counsel, I propose, in order to savethe time of the Court, that we push our inquiries directly intothe validity of this assignment. This is the essential question,and the defendant has only to establish the validity ofthe instrument to bring the case to an end at once. Thisdone, the suit will be abandoned."

"Certainly," said Mr. Cavendish, rising. "I agree to thescheme with the single provision on behalf of the defendant,that he shall not be debarred from his pleading of a denial ofprofits, in any event."

"Agreed," said Mr. Balfour.

"Very well," said Mr. Cavendish. "I shall call CorneliusPhipps, the only surviving witness of the assignment."

But Cornelius Phipps did not appear when he was called.A second call produced the same result. He was not in thehouse. He was sought for in every possible retreat about thehouse, but could not be found. Cornelius Phipps had mysteriouslydisappeared.

After consulting Mr. Belcher, Mr. Cavendish announcedthat the witness who had been called was essential at the presentstage of the case. He thought it possible that in thelong confinement of the court-room, Phipps had become suddenlyill, and gone home. He hoped, for the honor of theplaintiff in the case, that nothing worse had happened, andsuggested that the Court adjourn until the following day.

And the Court adjourned, amid tumultuous whispering.Mr. Belcher was apparently oblivious of the fact, and sat andstared, until touched upon the shoulder by his counsel, whenhe rose and walked out upon a world and into an atmospherethat had never before seemed so strange and unreal.

CHAPTER XXVII.

IN WHICH PHIPPS IS NOT TO BE FOUND, AND THE GENERAL ISCALLED UPON TO DO HIS OWN LYING.

At the appointed hour on the following morning, the Courtresumed its session. The plaintiff and defendant were bothin their places, with their counsel, and the witnesses of theprevious day were all in attendance. Among the little groupof witnesses there were two or three new faces—a professional-lookinggentleman with spectacles; a thin-faced, carefully-dressed,slender man, with a lordly air, and the bearing ofone who carried the world upon his shoulders and did notregard it as much of a burden; and, last, our old friend SamYates.

There was an appearance of perplexity and gloom on thecountenances of Mr. Cavendish and his client. They werein serious conversation, and it was evident that they were indifficulty. Those who knew the occasion of the abrupt adjournmentof the Court on the previous day looked in vainamong the witnesses for the face of Phipps. He was not inthe room, and, while few suspected the real state of the case,all understood how essential he was to the defendant, in hisattempt to establish the genuineness of the assignment.

At the opening of the Court, Mr. Cavendish rose to speak.His bold, sharp manner had disappeared. The instrumentwhich he had expected to use had slipped hopelessly out of hishand. He was impotent. "May it please the Court," hesaid, "the defendant in this case finds himself in a very embarrassingposition this morning. It was known yesterdaythat Cornelius Phipps, the only surviving witness of the assignment,mysteriously disappeared at the moment when his testimonywas wanted. Why and how he disappeared, I cannottell. He has not yet been found. All due diligence hasbeen exercised to discover him, but without success. I makeno charges of foul play, but it is impossible for me, knowingwhat I know about him—his irreproachable character, hisfaithfulness to my client, and his perfect memory of everyevent connected with the execution of the paper in question—toavoid the suspicion that he is by some means, and againsthis will, detained from appearing here this morning. I confess,sir, that I was not prepared for this. It is hard to believethat the plaintiff could adopt a measure so desperate asthis for securing his ends, and I will not criminate him; but Iprotest that the condition in which the defendant is left bythis defection, or this forcible detention—call it what youwill—demands the most generous consideration, and compelsme to ask the Court for suggestions as to the best course ofproceeding. There are now but two men in Court who sawthe paper executed, namely, the assignor and the assignee.The former has declared, with an effrontery which I havenever seen equalled, that he never signed the document whichso unmistakably bears his signature, and that the names oftwo of the witnesses are forgeries. I do not expect that, in astruggle like this, the testimony of the latter will be accepted,and I shall not stoop to ask it."

Mr. Cavendish hesitated, looked appealingly at the Judge,and then slowly took his seat, when Mr. Balfour, withoutwaiting for any suggestions from the Court, rose and said:

"I appreciate the embarrassment of the defense, and amquite willing to do all I can to relieve it. His insinuationsof foul dealing toward his witness are absurd, of course, and,to save any further trouble, I am willing to receive as a witness,in place of Mr. Phipps, Mr. Belcher himself, and topledge myself to abide by what he establishes. I can do nomore than this, I am sure, and now I challenge him to takethe stand."

The Judge watched the defendant and his counsel in theirwhispered consultation for a few minutes, and then said: "Itseems to the Court that the defense can reasonably ask fornothing more than this."

Mr. Belcher hesitated. He had not anticipated this turnof the case. There appeared to be no alternative, however,and, at last, he rose with a very red face, and walked to thewitness-stand, placing himself just where Mr. Balfour wantedhim—in a position to be cross-examined.

It is useless to rehearse here the story which had been preparedfor Phipps, and for which Phipps had been prepared.Mr. Belcher swore to all the signatures to the assignment, ashaving been executed in his presence, on the day correspondingwith the date of the paper. He was permitted to enlargeupon all the circ*mstances of the occasion, and to surroundthe execution of the assignment with the most ingenious plausibilities.He told his story with a fine show of candor, andwith great directness and clearness, and undoubtedly made aprofound impression upon the Court and the jury. Then Mr.Cavendish passed him into the hands of Mr. Balfour.

"Well, Mr. Belcher, you have told us a very straight story,but there are a few little matters which I would like to haveexplained," said Mr. Balfour. "Why, for instance, was yourassignment placed on record only a few months ago?"

"Because I was not a lawyer, sir," replied Mr. Belcher,delighted that the first answer was so easy and so plausible."I was not aware that it was necessary, until so informed byMr. Cavendish."

"Was Mr. Benedict's insanity considered hopeless from thefirst?"

"No," replied Mr. Belcher, cheerfully; "we were quitehopeful that we should bring him out of it."

"He had lucid intervals, then."

"Yes, sir."

"Was that the reason why, the next day after the allegedassignment, you wrote him a letter, urging him to make theassignment, and offering him a royalty for the use of hispatents?"

"I never wrote any such letter, sir. I never sent him anysuch letter, sir."

"You sent him to the asylum, did you?"

"I co-operated with others, sir, and paid the bills," saidMr. Belcher, with emphasis.

"Did you ever visit the asylum when he was there?"

"I did, sir."

"Did you apply to the superintendent for liberty to securehis signature to a paper?"

"I do not remember that I did. It would have been anunnatural thing for me to do. If I did, it was a paper onsome subordinate affair. It was some years ago, and the detailsof the visit did not impress themselves upon my memory."

"How did you obtain the letters of Nicholas Johnson andJames Ramsey? I ask this, because they are not addressedto you."

"I procured them of Sam Yates, in anticipation of the trialnow in progress here. The witnesses were dead, and Ithought they would help me in establishing the genuinenessof their signatures."

"What reason had you to anticipate this trial?"

"Well, sir, I am accustomed to providing for all contingencies.That is the way I was made, sir. It seemed tome quite probable that Benedict, if living, would forget whathe had done before his insanity, and that, if he were dead,some friend of his boy would engage in the suit on his behalf.I procured the autographs after I saw his boy in your hands,sir."

"So you had not seen these particular signatures at thetime when the alleged assignment was made."

"No, sir, I had not seen them."

"And you simply procured them to use as a defense in asuit which seemed probable, or possible, and which now,indeed, is in progress of trial?"

"That is about as clear a statement of the fact as I canmake, sir;" and Mr. Belcher bowed and smiled.

"I suppose, Mr. Belcher," said Mr. Balfour, "that itseems very strange to you that the plaintiff should have forgottenhis signature."

"Not at all, sir. On the contrary, I regard it as the mostnatural thing in the world. I should suppose that a man whohad lost his mind once would naturally lose his memory ofmany things."

"That certainly seems reasonable, but how is it that hedoes not recognize it, even if he does not remember thewriting of it?"

"I don't know; a man's signature changes with changinghabits, I suppose," responded the witness.

"You don't suppose that any genuine signature of yourscould pass under your eye undetected, do you?" inquiredMr. Balfour.

"No, sir, I don't. I'll be frank with you, sir."

"Well, now, I'm going to test you. Perhaps other men,who have always been sane, do sometimes forget their ownsignatures."

Mr. Balfour withdrew from his papers a note. Mr. Belchersaw it in the distance, and made up his mind that it wasthe note he had written to the lawyer before the beginning ofthe suit. The latter folded over the signature so that it mightbe shown to the witness, independent of the body of the letter,and then he stepped to him holding it in his hand, andasked him to declare it either a genuine signature or a forgery.

"That's my sign manual, sir."

"You are sure?"

"I know it, sir."

"Very well," said Mr. Balfour, handing the letter to theclerk to be marked. "You are right, I have no doubt, andI believe this is all I want of you, for the present."

"And now, may it please the Court," said Mr. Balfour,"I have some testimony to present in rebuttal of that of thedefendant. I propose, practically, to finish up this case withit, and to show that the story to which you have listened isfalse in every particular.

"First, I wish to present the testimony of Dr. Charles Barhydt."At the pronunciation of his name, the man in spectaclesarose, and advanced to the witness-stand.

"What is your name?" inquired Mr. Balfour.

"Charles Barhydt."

"What is your profession?"

"I am a physician."

"You have an official position, I believe."

"Yes, sir; I have for fifteen years been the superintendentof the State Asylum for the insane."

"Do you recognize the plaintiff in this case, as a formerpatient in the asylum?"

"I do, sir."

"Was he ever visited by the defendant while in yourcare?"

"He was, sir."

"Did the defendant endeavor to procure his signature toany document while he was in the asylum?"

"He did, sir."

"Did he apply to you for permission to get this signature,and did he importunately urge you to give him this permission?"

"He did, sir."

"Did you read this document?"

"I did, sir."

"Do you remember what it was?"

"Perfectly, in a general way. It was an assignment of anumber of patent rights and sundry machines, implementsand processes."

Mr. Balfour handed to the witness the assignment, and thensaid: "Be kind enough to look that through, and tell uswhether you ever saw it before."

After reading the document through, the Doctor said:

"This is the identical paper which Mr. Belcher showed meor a very close copy of it. Several of the patents named hereI remember distinctly, for I read the paper carefully, with aprofessional purpose. I was curious to know what had beenthe mental habits of my patient."

"But you did not give the defendant liberty to procure thesignature of the patentee?"

"I did not. I refused to do so on the ground that he wasnot of sound mind—that he was not a responsible person."

"When was this?"

"I have no record of the date, but it was after the 12th ofMay, 1860—the date of Mr. Benedict's admission to theasylum."

"That is all," said Mr. Balfour. Mr. Cavendish tried tocross-examine, but without any result, except to emphasizethe direct testimony, though he tried persistently to make thewitness remember that, while Mr. Belcher might have shownhim the assignment, and that he read it for the purpose whichhe had stated, it was another paper to which he had wishedto secure the patient's signature.

Samuel Yates was next called.

"You are a member of our profession, I believe," said Mr.Balfour.

"I am, sir."

"Have you ever been in the service of the defendant in thiscase?"

"Yes, sir."

"What have you done for him?"

"I worked many months in the endeavor to ascertainwhether Paul Benedict was living or dead."

"It isn't essential that we should go into that; and as thedefendant has testified that he procured the autograph letterswhich are in the possession of the Court from you, I presumeyou will corroborate his testimony."

"He did procure them of me, sir."

"Did he inform you of the purpose to which he wished toput them?"

"He did, sir. He said that he wished to verify some signatures."

"Were you ever employed in his library at Sevenoaks, byhis agent?"

"Yes, sir, I wrote there for several weeks."

"May it please the Court, I have a letter in my hand,the genuineness of whose signature has been recognized bythe defendant, written by Robert Belcher to Paul Benedict,which, as it has a direct bearing upon the case, I beg theprivilege of placing in evidence. It was written the next dayafter the date of the alleged assignment, and came inclosedfrom Benedict's hands to mine."

Mr. Belcher evidently recalled the letter, for he satlimp in his chair, like a man stunned. A fierce quarrel thenarose between the counsel concerning the admission of theletter. The Judge examined it, and said that he could see noreason why it should not be admitted. Then Mr. Balfourread the following note:

"SEVENOAKS, May 5, 1860.

"Dear Benedict:—I am glad to know that you are better.Since you distrust my pledge that I will give you a reasonableshare of the profits on the use of your patents, I will go toyour house this afternoon, with witnesses, and have an independentpaper prepared, to be signed by myself, after theassignment is executed, which will give you a definite claimupon me for royalty. We will be there at four o'clock.

"Yours, ROBERT BELCHER."

"Mr. Yates," said Mr. Balfour, "have you ever seen thisletter before?"

Yates took the letter, looked it over, and then said: "Ihave, sir. I found the letter in a drawer of the library-table,in Mr. Belcher's house at Sevenoaks. I delivered it unopenedto the man to whom it was addressed, leaving him to decidethe question as to whether it belonged to him or the writer.I had no idea of its contents at the time, but became acquaintedwith them afterwards, for I was present at the openingof the letter."

"That is all," said Mr. Balfour.

"So you stole this letter, did you?" inquired Mr. Cavendish.

"I found it while in Mr. Belcher's service, and took it personallyto the man to whom it was addressed, as he apparentlyhad the best right to it. I am quite willing to return it to thewriter, if it is decided that it belongs to him. I had no selfishend to serve in the affair."

Here the Judge interposed. "The Court," said he, "findsthis letter in the hands of the plaintiff, delivered by a manwho at the time was in the employ of the defendant, and hadthe contents of the room in his keeping. The paper has adirect bearing on the case, and the Court will not go back ofthe facts stated."

Mr. Cavendish sat down and consulted his client. Mr.Belcher was afraid of Yates. The witness not only knew toomuch concerning his original intentions, but he was a lawyerwho, if questioned too closely and saucily, would certainlymanage to bring in facts to his disadvantage. Yates hadalready damaged him sadly, and Mr. Belcher felt that it wouldnot do to provoke a re-direct examination. So, after a whisperedcolloquy with his counsel, the latter told the witnessthat he was done with him. Then Mr. Belcher and his counselconversed again for some time, when Mr. Balfour rose andsaid, addressing the Court:

"The defendant and his counsel evidently need time forconsultation, and, as there is a little preliminary work to bedone before I present another witness, I suggest that theCourt take a recess of an hour. In the meantime, I wish tosecure photographic copies of the signatures of the two autographletters, and of the four signatures of the assignment.I ask the Court to place these documents in the keeping ofan officer, to be used for this purpose, in an adjoining room,where I have caused a photographic apparatus to be placed,and where a skillful operator is now in waiting. I ask thisprivilege, as it is essential to a perfect demonstration of thecharacter of the document on which the decision of this casemust turn."

The Judge acceded to Mr. Balfour's request, both in regardto the recess and the use of the paper, and the assemblybroke up into little knots of earnest talkers, most of whommanifested no desire to leave the building.

Mr. Cavendish approached Mr. Balfour, and asked for aprivate interview. When they had retired to a lobby, hesaid: "You are not to take any advantage of this conversation.I wish to talk in confidence."

"Very well," said Mr. Balfour.

"My client," said Cavendish, "is in a devilish badbox. His principal witness has run away, his old friends allturn against him, and circ*mstantial evidence doesn't befriendhim. I have advised him to stop this suit right here, andmake a compromise. No one wants to kill the General. He'sa sharp man, but he is good-natured, and a useful citizen.He can handle these patents better than Benedict can, andmake money enough for both of them. What could Benedictdo if he had the patents in his hands? He's a simpleton.He's a nobody. Any man capable of carrying on his businesswould cheat him out of his eye-teeth."

"I am carrying on his business, myself, just at this time,"remarked Mr. Balfour, seriously.

"That's all right, of course; but you know that you and Ican settle this business better for these men than they cansettle it for themselves."

"I'll be frank with you," said Mr. Balfour. "I am notone who regards Robert Belcher as a good-natured manand a useful citizen, and I, for one—to use your own phrase—wantto kill him. He has preyed upon the public for tenyears, and I owe a duty not only to my client but to societyI understand how good a bargain I could make with him atthis point, but I will make no bargain with him. He is anunmitigated scoundrel, and he will only go out of this Courtto be arrested for crime; and I do not expect to drop himuntil I drop him into a Penitentiary, where he can reflect uponhis forgeries at leisure."

"Then you refuse any sort of a compromise."

"My dear sir," said Mr. Balfour, warmly, "do you supposeI can give a man a right to talk of terms who is in myhands? Do you suppose I can compromise with crime? Youknow I can't."

"Very well—let it go. I suppose I must go through withit. You understand that this conversation is confidential."

"I do: and you?"

"Oh, certainly!"

CHAPTER XXVIII.

IN WHICH A HEAVENLY WITNESS APPEARS WHO CANNOT BE CROSS-EXAMINED,AND BEFORE WHICH THE DEFENSE UTTERLYBREAKS DOWN.

At the re-assembling of the Court, a large crowd had comein. Those who had heard the request of Mr. Balfour hadreported what was going on, and, as the promised testimonyseemed to involve some curious features, the court-room presentedthe most crowded appearance that it had worn sincethe beginning of the trial.

Mr. Belcher had grown old during the hour. His consciousnessof guilt, his fear of exposure, the threatened lossof his fortune, and the apprehension of a retribution of disgracewere sapping his vital forces, minute by minute. Allthe instruments that he had tried to use for his own basepurposes were turned against himself. The great world thathad glittered around the successful man was growing dark,and, what was worse, there were none to pity him. He hadlived for himself; and now, in his hour of trouble, no onewas true to him, no one loved him—not even his wife andchildren!

He gave a helpless, hopeless sigh, as Mr. Balfour called tothe witness stand Prof. Albert Timms.

Prof. Timms was the man already described among thethree new witnesses, as the one who seemed to be consciousof bearing the world upon his shoulders, and to find it so inconsiderablea burden. He advanced to the stand with theair of one who had no stake in the contest. His impartialitycame from indifference. He had an opportunity to show hisknowledge and his skill, and he delighted in it.

"What is your name, witness?" inquired Mr. Balfour.

"Albert Timms, at your service."

"What is your calling, sir?"

"I have at present the charge of a department in theSchool of Mines. My specialties are chemistry and microscopy."

"You are specially acquainted with these branches ofnatural science, then."

"I am, sir."

"Have you been regarded as an expert in the detection offorgery?"

"I have been called as such in many cases of the kind, sir."

"Then you have had a good deal of experience in suchthings, and in the various tests by which such matters are determined?"

"I have, sir."

"Have you examined the assignment and the autographletters which have been in your hands during the recess ofthe Court?"

"I have, sir."

"Do you know either the plaintiff or the defendant in thiscase?"

"I do not, sir. I never saw either of them until to-day."

"Has any one told you about the nature of these papers,so as to prejudice your mind in regard to any of them?"

"No, sir. I have not exchanged a word with any one inregard to them."

"What is your opinion of the two letters?"

"That they are veritable autographs."

"How do you judge this?"

"From the harmony of the signatures with the text of thebody of the letters, by the free and natural shaping and interflowingof the lines, and by a general impression of truthfulnesswhich it is very difficult to communicate in words."

"What do you think of the signatures to the assignment?"

"I think they are all counterfeits but one."

"Prof. Timms, this is a serious matter. You should bevery sure of the truth of a statement like this. You say youthink they are counterfeits: why?"

"If the papers can be handed to me," said the witness,"I will show what leads me to think so."

The papers were handed to him, and, placing the letters onthe bar on which he had been leaning, he drew from hispocket a little rule, and laid it lengthwise along the signatureof Nicholas Johnson. Having recorded the measurement, henext took the corresponding name on the assignment.

"I find the name of Nicholas Johnson of exactly the samelength on the assignment that it occupies on the letter,"said he.

"Is that a suspicious circ*mstance?"

"It is, and, moreover," (going on with his measurements)"there is not the slightest variation between the two signaturesin the length of a letter. Indeed, to the naked eye,one signature is the counterpart of the other, in every characteristic."

"How do you determine, then, that it is anything but agenuine signature?"

"The imitation is too nearly perfect."

"How can that be?"

"Well; no man writes his signature twice alike. Thereis not one chance in a million that he will do so, withoutdefinitely attempting to do so, and then he will be obliged touse certain appliances to guide him."

"Now will you apply the same test to the other signature?"

Prof. Timms went carefully to work again with his measure.He examined the form of every letter in detail, and comparedit with its twin, and declared, at the close of his examination,that he found the second name as close a counterfeitas the first.

"Both names on the assignment, then, are exact fac-similesof the names on the autograph letters," said Mr. Balfour.

"They are, indeed, sir—quite wonderful reproductions."

"The work must have been done, then, by a very skillfulman," said Mr. Balfour.

The professor shook his head pityingly. "Oh, no, sir,"he said. "None but bunglers ever undertake a job like this.Here, sir, are two forged signatures. If one genuine signature,standing alone, has one chance in a million of being exactlylike any previous signature of the writer, two standing togetherhave not one chance in ten millions of being exactfac-similes of two others brought together by chance.

"How were these fac-similes produced?" inquired Mr.Balfour.

"They could only have been produced by tracing firstwith a pencil, directly over the signature to be counterfeited."

"Well, this seems very reasonable, but have you any furthertests?"

"Under this magnifying glass," said the professor, pushingalong his examination at the same time, "I see a markeddifference between the signatures on the two papers, which isnot apparent to the naked eye. The letters of the genuineautograph have smooth, unhesitating lines; those of thecounterfeits present certain minute irregularities that are inseparablefrom pains-taking and slow execution. Unless theCourt and the jury are accustomed to the use of a glass, andto examinations of this particular character, they will hardlybe able to see just what I describe, but I have an experimentwhich will convince them that I am right."

"Can you perform this experiment here, and now?"

"I can, sir, provided the Court will permit me to establishthe necessary conditions. I must darken the room, and as Inotice that the windows are all furnished with shutters, thematter may be very quickly and easily accomplished."

"Will you describe the nature of your experiment?"

"Well, sir, during the recess of the Court, I have hadphotographed upon glass all the signatures. These, with theaid of a solar microscope, I can project upon the wall behindthe jury, immensely enlarged, so that the peculiarities I havedescribed may be detected by every eye in the house, withothers, probably, if the sun remains bright and strong, that Ihave not alluded to."

"The experiment will be permitted," said the judge, "andthe officers and the janitor will give the Professor all the assistancehe needs."

Gradually, as the shutters were closed, the room grew dark,and the faces of Judge, Jury and the anxious-looking partieswithin the bar grew weird and wan among the shadows. Astrange silence and awe descended upon the crowd. Thegreat sun in heaven was summoned as a witness, and the sunwould not lie. A voice was to speak to them from a hundredmillions of miles away—a hundred millions of miles near therealm toward which men looked when they dreamed of theGreat White Throne.

They felt as a man might feel, were he conscious, in thedarkness of the tomb, when waiting for the trump of theresurrection and the breaking of the everlasting day. Menheard their own hearts beat, like the tramp of trooping hosts;yet there was one man who was glad of the darkness. Tohim the judgment day had come; and the closing shutterswere the rocks that covered him. He could see and not beseen. He could behold his own shame and not be consciousthat five hundred eyes were upon him.

All attention was turned to the single pair of shutters notentirely closed. Outside of these, the professor had establishedhis heliostat, and then gradually, by the aid ofdrapery, he narrowed down the entrance of light to a littleaperture where a single silver bar entered and pierced thedarkness like a spear. Then this was closed by the insertionof his microscope, and, leaving his apparatus in the hands ofan assistant, he felt his way back to his old position.

"May it please the Court, I am ready for the experiment,"he said.

"The witness will proceed," said the judge.

"There will soon appear upon the wall, above the heads ofthe Jury," said Prof. Timms, "the genuine signature ofNicholas Johnson, as it has been photographed from the autographletter. I wish the Judge and Jury to notice two thingsin this signature—the cleanly-cut edges of the letters, and thetwo lines of indentation produced by the two prongs of thepen, in its down-stroke. They will also notice that, in theup-stroke of the pen, there is no evidence of indentationwhatever. At the point where the up-stroke begins, and thedown-stroke ends, the lines of indentation will come togetherand cease."

As he spoke the last word, the name swept through thedarkness over an unseen track, and appeared upon the wall,within a halo of amber light. All eyes saw it, and all foundthe characteristics that had been predicted. The professorsaid not a word. There was not a whisper in the room.When a long minute had passed, the light was shut off.

"Now," said the professor, "I will show you in the sameplace, the name of Nicholas Johnson, as it has been photographedfrom the signatures to the assignment. What I wishyou to notice particularly in this signature is, first, the roughand irregular edges of the lines which constitute the letters.They will be so much magnified as to present very much theappearance of a Virginia fence. Second, another peculiaritywhich ought to be shown in the experiment—one which has adecided bearing upon the character of the signature. If thelight continues strong, you will be able to detect it. Thelines of indentation made by the two prongs of the pen willbe evident, as in the real signature. I shall be disappointedif there do not also appear a third line, formed by the pencilwhich originally traced the letters, and this line will not onlyaccompany, in an irregular way, crossing from side to side,the two indentations of the down-strokes of the pen, but itwill accompany irregularly the hair-lines. I speak of thislatter peculiarity with some doubt, as the instrument I use isnot the best which science now has at its command for thispurpose, though competent under perfect conditions."

He paused, and then the forged signatures appeared uponthe wall. There was a universal burst of admiration, andthen all grew still—as if those who had given way to theirfeelings were suddenly stricken with the consciousness thatthey were witnessing a drama in which divine forces wereplaying a part. There were the ragged, jagged edges of theletters; there was the supplementary line, traceable in everypart of them. There was man's lie—revealed, defined, convictedby God's truth!

The letters lingered, and the room seemed almost sensiblyto sink in the awful silence. Then the stillness was brokenby a deep voice. What lips it came from, no one knew, forall the borders of the room were as dark as night. It seemed,as it echoed from side to side, to come from every part of thehouse: "Mene, mene, tekel upharsin!" Such was the effectof these words upon the eager and excited, yet thoroughlysolemnized crowd, that when the shutters were thrown open,they would hardly have been surprised to see the bar coveredwith golden goblets and bowls of wassail, surrounded bylordly revellers and half-nude women, with the stricken Belshazzarat the head of the feast. Certainly Belshazzar, on hisnight of doom, could hardly have presented a more pitifulfront than Robert Belcher, as all eyes were turned upon him.His face was haggard, his chin had dropped upon his breast,and he reclined in his chair like one on whom the plague hadlaid its withering hand.

There stood Prof. Timms in his triumph. His experimenthad proved to be a brilliant success, and that was all he caredfor.

"You have not shown us the other signatures," said Mr.Balfour.

"False in one thing, false in all," responded the professor,shrugging his shoulders. "I can show you the others; theywould be like this; you would throw away your time."

Mr. Cavendish did not look at the witness, but pretendedto write.

"Does the counsel for the defense wish to question thewitness?" inquired Mr. Balfour, turning to him.

"No," very sharply.

"You can step down," said Mr. Balfour. As the witnesspassed him, he quietly grasped his hand and thanked him. Apoorly suppressed cheer ran around the court-room as he resumedhis seat. Jim Fenton, who had never before witnessedan experiment like that which, in the professor's hands, hadbeen so successful, was anxious to make some personal demonstrationof his admiration. Restrained from this by his surroundings,he leaned over and whispered: "Perfessor,you've did a big thing, but it's the fust time I ever knowedany good to come from peekin' through a key-hole."

"Thank you," and the professor nodded sidewise, evidentlydesirous of shutting Jim off, but the latter wanted furtherconversation.

"Was it you that said it was mean to tickle yer parson?"inquired Jim.

"What?" said the astonished professor, looking round inspite of himself.

"Didn't you say it was mean to tickle yer parson? Itsounded more like a furriner," said Jim.

When the professor realized the meaning that had been attachedby Jim to the "original Hebrew," he was taken withwhat seemed to be a nasal hemorrhage that called for hisimmediate retirement from the court-room.

What was to be done next? All eyes were turned uponthe counsel who were in earnest conversation. Too evidentlythe defense had broken down utterly. Mr. Cavendish wasangry, and Mr. Belcher sat beside him like a man who expectedevery moment to be smitten in the face, and whowould not be able to resent the blow.

"May it please the Court," said Mr. Cavendish, "it isimpossible, of course, for counsel to know what impressionthis testimony has made upon the Court and the jury. Dr.Barhydt, after a lapse of years, and dealings with thousandsof patients, comes here and testifies to an occurrence whichmy client's testimony makes impossible; a sneak discovers aletter which may have been written on the third or the fifthof May, 1860—it is very easy to make a mistake in the figure,and this stolen letter, never legitimately delivered,—possiblynever intended to be delivered under any circ*mstances—isproduced here in evidence; and, to crown all, we have hadthe spectacular drama in a single act by a man who has appealedto the imaginations of us all, and who, by his skill inthe management of an experiment with which none of us arefamiliar, has found it easy to make a falsehood appear like thetruth. The counsel for the plaintiff has been pleased to considerthe establishment or the breaking down of the assignmentas the practical question at issue. I cannot so regardit. The question is, whether my client is to be deprived ofthe fruits of long years of enterprise, economy and industry;for it is to be remembered that, by the plaintiff's own showing,the defendant was a rich man when he first knew him.I deny the profits from the use of the plaintiff's patented inventions,and call upon him to prove them. I not only callupon him to prove them, but I defy him to prove them. Itwill take something more than superannuated doctors, stolenletters and the performances of a mountebank to do this."

This speech, delivered with a sort of frenzied bravado, had awonderful effect upon Mr. Belcher. He straightened in hischair, and assumed his old air of self-assurance. He couldsympathize in any game of "bluff," and when it came downto a square fight for money his old self came back to him.During the little speech of Mr. Cavendish, Mr. Balfour waswriting, and when the former sat down, the latter rose, and,addressing the Court, said: "I hold in my hand a writtennotice, calling upon the defendant's counsel to produce inCourt a little book in the possession of his client entitled'Records of profits and investments of profits from manufacturesunder the Benedict patents,' and I hereby serve itupon him."

Thus saying, he handed the letter to Mr. Cavendish, whor*ceived and read it.

Mr. Cavendish consulted his client, and then rose andsaid: "May it please the Court, there is no such book inexistence."

"I happen to know," rejoined Mr. Balfour, "that there issuch a book in existence, unless it has recently been destroyed.This I stand ready to prove by the testimony ofHelen Dillingham, the sister of the plaintiff."

"The witness can be called," said the judge.

Mrs. Dillingham looked paler than on the day before,as she voluntarily lifted her veil, and advanced to the stand.She had dreaded the revelation of her own treachery towardthe treacherous proprietor, but she had sat and heard himperjure himself, until her own act, which had been performedon behalf of justice, became one of which she could hardlybe ashamed.

"Mrs. Dillingham," said Mr. Balfour, "have you been onfriendly terms with the defendant in this case?"

"I have, sir," she answered. "He has been a frequentvisitor at my house, and I have visited his family at his own."

"Was he aware that the plaintiff was your brother?"

"He was not."

"Has he, from the first, made a confidant of you?"

"In some things—yes."

"Do you know Harry Benedict—the plaintiff's son?"

"I do, sir."

"How long have you known him?"

"I made his acquaintance soon after he came to reside withyou, sir, in the city."

"Did you seek his acquaintance?"

"I did, sir."

"From what motive?"

"Mr. Belcher wished me to do it, in order to ascertain ofhim whether his father were living or dead."

"You did not then know that the lad was your nephew?"

"I did not, sir.'

"Have you ever told Mr. Belcher that your brother wasalive?"

"I told him that Paul Benedict was alive, at the last interviewbut one that I ever had with him."

"Did he give you at this interview any reason for his greatanxiety to ascertain the facts as to Mr. Benedict's life ordeath?"

"He did, sir."

"Was there any special occasion for the visit you alludeto?"

"I think there was, sir. He had just lost heavily in InternationalMail, and evidently came in to talk about business.At any rate, he did talk about it, as he had never donebefore."

"Can you give us the drift or substance of his conversationand statements?"

"Well, sir, he assured me that he had not been shaken byhis losses, said that he kept his manufacturing business entirelyseparate from his speculations, gave me a history of themanner in which my brother's inventions had come into hishands, and, finally, showed me a little account book, in whichhe had recorded his profits from manufactures under what hecalled the Benedict Patents."

"Did you read this book, Mrs. Dillingham?"

"I did, sir."

"Every word?"

"Every word."

"Did you hear me serve a notice on the defendant's counselto produce this book in Court?"

"I did, sir."

"In that notice did I give the title of the book correctly?"

"You did, sir."

"Was this book left in your hands for a considerable lengthof time?"

"It was, sir, for several hours."

"Did you copy it?"

"I did, sir, every word of it."

"Are you sure that you made a correct copy?"

"I verified it, sir, item by item, again and again."

"Can you give me any proof corroborative of your statementthat this book has been in your hands?"

"I can, sir."

"What is it?"

"A letter from Mr. Belcher, asking me to deliver the bookto his man Phipps."

"Is that the letter?" inquired Mr. Balfour, passing thenote into her hands.

"It is, sir."

"May it please the Court," said Mr. Balfour, turning tothe Judge, "the copy of this account-book is in my possession,and if the defendant persists in refusing to produce theoriginal, I shall ask the privilege of placing it in evidence."

During the examination of this witness, the defendant andhis counsel sat like men overwhelmed. Mr. Cavendish wasangry with his client, who did not even hear the curses whichwere whispered in his ear. The latter had lost not only hismoney, but the woman whom he loved. The perspirationstood in glistening beads upon his forehead. Once he put hishead down upon the table before him, while his frame wasconvulsed with an uncontrollable passion. He held it thereuntil Mr. Cavendish touched him, when he rose and staggeredto a pitcher of iced water upon the bar, and drank a longdraught. The exhibition of his pain was too terrible to excitein the beholders any emotion lighter than pity.

The Judge looked at Mr. Cavendish who was talkingangrily with his client. After waiting for a minute or two,he said: "Unless the original of this book be produced, theCourt will be obliged to admit the copy. It was made by onewho had it in custody from the owner's hands."

"I was not aware," said Mr. Cavendish fiercely, "that acrushing conspiracy like this against my client could be carriedon in any court of the United States, under judicialsanction."

"The counsel must permit the Court," said the Judgecalmly, "to remind him that it is so far generous toward hisdisappointment and discourtesy as to refrain from punishinghim for contempt, and to warn him against any repetition ofhis offense."

Mr. Cavendish sneered in the face of the Judge, but heldhis tongue, while Mr. Balfour presented and read the contentsof the document. All of Mr. Belcher's property at Sevenoaks,his rifle manufactory, the goods in Talbot's hands, andsundry stocks and bonds came into the enumeration, with theenormous foreign deposit, which constituted the General's"anchor to windward." It was a handsome showing. Judge,jury and spectators were startled by it, and were helped tounderstand, better than they had previously done, the magnitudeof the stake for which the defendant had played his desperategame, and the stupendous power of the temptationbefore which he had been led to sacrifice both his honor andhis safety.

Mr. Cavendish went over to Mr. Balfour, and they held along conversation, sotto voce. Then Mrs. Dillingham wasinformed that she could step down, as she would not bewanted for cross-examination. Mr. Belcher had so persistentlylied to his counsel, and his case had become so utterly hopeless,that even Cavendish practically gave it up.

Mr. Balfour then addressed the Court, and said that it hadbeen agreed between himself and Mr. Cavendish, in order tosave the time of the Court, that the case should be given tothe jury by the Judge, without presentation or argument ofcounsel.

The Judge occupied a few minutes in recounting the evidence,and presenting the issue, and without leaving theirseats the jury rendered a verdict for the whole amount ofdamages claimed.

The bold, vain-glorious proprietor was a ruined man. Theconsciousness of power had vanished. The law had grappledwith him, shaken him once, and dropped him. He had hada hint from his counsel of Mr. Balfour's intentions, and knewthat the same antagonist would wait but a moment to pounceupon him again, and shake the life out of him. It was curiousto see how, not only in his own consciousness, but in his appearance,he degenerated into a very vulgar sort of scoundrel.In leaving the Court-room, he skulked by the happy groupthat surrounded the inventor, not even daring to lift his eyesto Mrs. Dillingham. When he was rich and powerful, withsuch a place in society as riches and power commanded, hefelt himself to be the equal of any woman; but he had beendegraded and despoiled in the presence of his idol, and knewthat he was measurelessly and hopelessly removed from her.He was glad to get away from the witnesses of his disgrace,and the moment he passed the door, he ran rapidly down thestairs, and emerged upon the street.

CHAPTER XXIX.

WHEREIN MR. BELCHER, HAVING EXHIBITED HIS DIRTY RECORD,SHOWS A CLEAN PAIR OF HEELS.

The first face that Mr. Belcher met upon leaving the Court-Housewas that of Mr. Talbot.

"Get into my coupé," said Talbot. "I will take youhome."

Mr. Belcher got into the coupé quickly, as if he werehiding from some pursuing danger. "Home!" said he,huskily, and in a whimpering voice. "Home! Good God!I wish I knew where it was."

"What's the matter, General? How has the case gone?"

"Gone? Haven't you been in the house?"

"No; how has it gone?"

"Gone to hell," said Mr. Belcher, leaning over heavilyupon Talbot, and whispering it in his ear.

"Not so bad as that, I hope," said Talbot, pushing him off.

"Toll," said the suffering man, "haven't I always usedyou well? You are not going to turn against the General?You've made a good thing out of him, Toll."

"What's happened, General? Tell me."

"Toll, you'll be shut up to-morrow. Play your cardsright. Make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness."

Talbot sat and thought very fast. He saw that there wasserious trouble, and questioned whether he were not compromisinghimself. Still, the fact that the General had enrichedhim, determined him to stand by his old principal as far ashe could, consistently with his own safety.

"What can I do for you, General?" he said.

"Get me out of the city. Get me off to Europe. Youknow I have funds there."

"I'll do what I can, General."

"You're a jewel, Toll."

"By the way," said Talbot, "the Crooked Valley corporationheld its annual meeting to-day. You are out, and theyhave a new deal."

"They'll find out something to-morrow, Toll. It all comestogether."

When the coupé drove up at Palgrave's Folly, and theGeneral alighted, he found one of his brokers on the steps,with a pale face. "What's the matter?" said Mr. Belcher.

"The devil's to pay."

"I'm glad of it," said he. "I hope you'll get it all outof him."

"It's too late for joking," responded the man seriously."We want to see you at once. You've been over-reachedin this matter of the Air Line, and you've got some very uglyaccounts to settle."

"I'll be down to-morrow early," said the General.

"We want to see you to-night," said the broker.

"Very well, come here at nine o'clock."

Then the broker went away, and Mr. Belcher and Mr.Talbot went in. They ascended to the library, and there, ina few minutes, arranged their plans. Mrs. Belcher was notto be informed of them, but was to be left to get the newsof her husband's overthrow after his departure. "Sarah'sbeen a good wife, Toll," he said, "but she was unequallyyoked with an unbeliever and hasn't been happy for a goodmany years. I hope you'll look after her a little, Toll.Save something for her, if you can. Of course, she'll haveto leave here, and it won't trouble her much."

At this moment the merry voices of his children camethrough an opening door.

The General gave a great gulp in the endeavor to swallowhis emotion. After all, there was a tender spot in him.

"Toll, shut the door; I can't stand that. Poor little devils!What's going to become of them?"

The General was busy with his packing. In half an hourhis arrangements were completed. Then Talbot went to oneof the front rooms of the house, and, looking from thewindow, saw a man talking with the driver of his coupé. Itwas an officer. Mr. Belcher peeped through the curtain, andknew him. What was to be done? A plan of escape wasimmediately made and executed. There was a covered passageinto the stable from the rear of the house, and through thatboth the proprietor and Talbot made their way. Now thatPhipps had left him, Mr. Belcher had but a single servantwho could drive. He was told to prepare the horses at once,and to make himself ready for service. After everything wasdone, but the opening of the doors, Talbot went back throughthe house, and, on appearing at the front door of the mansion,was met by the officer, who inquired for Mr. Belcher.Mr. Talbot let him in, calling for a servant at the same time,and went out and closed the door behind him.

Simultaneously with this movement, the stable-doors flewopen, and the horses sprang out upon the street, and werehalf a mile on their way to one of the upper ferries, leadingto Jersey City, before the officer could get an answer to hisinquiries for Mr. Belcher. Mr. Belcher had been there onlyfive minutes before, but he had evidently gone out. Hewould certainly be back to dinner. So the officer waited untilconvinced that his bird had flown, and until the proprietorwas across the river in search of a comfortable bed amongthe obscure hotels of the town.

It had been arranged that Talbot should secure a state-roomon the Aladdin to sail on the following day, and makean arrangement with the steward to admit Mr. Belcher to iton his arrival, and assist in keeping him from sight.

Mr. Belcher sent back his carriage by the uppermost ferry,ate a wretched dinner, and threw himself upon his bed, wherehe tossed his feverish limbs until day-break. It was a nightthronged with nervous fears. He knew that New York wouldresound with his name on the following day. Could hereach his state-room on the Aladdin without being discovered?He resolved to try it early the next morning,though he knew the steamer would not sail until noon. Accordingly,as the day began to break, he rose and looked outof his dingy window. The milk-men only were stirring. Atthe lower end of the street he could see masts, and the pipesof the great steamers, and a ferry-boat crossing to get itsfirst batch of passengers for an early train. Then a wretchedman walked under his window, looking for something,—hoping,after the accidents of the evening, to find money forhis breakfast. Mr. Belcher dropped him a dollar, and theman looked up and said feebly: "May God bless you, sir!"

This little benediction was received gratefully. It woulddo to start on. He felt his way down stairs, called for hisreckoning, and when, after an uncomfortable and vexatiousdelay, he had found a sleepy, half-dressed man to receive hismoney, he went out upon the street, satchel in hand, andwalked rapidly toward the slip where the Aladdin lay asleep.

Talbot's money had done its work well, and the fugitivehad only to make himself known to the officer in charge tosecure an immediate entrance into the state-room that hadbeen purchased for him. He shut to the door and locked it;then he took off his clothes and went to bed.

Mr. Belcher's entrance upon the vessel had been observedby a policeman, but, though it was an unusual occurrence, thefact that he was received showed that he had been expected.As the policeman was soon relieved from duty, he gave thematter no farther thought, so that Mr. Belcher had practicallymade the passage from his library to his state-room unobserved.

After the terrible excitements of the two preceding days,and the sleeplessness of the night, Mr. Belcher with the firstsense of security fell into a heavy slumber. All through themorning there were officers on the vessel who knew that hewas wanted, but his state-room had been engaged for an invalidlady, and the steward assured the officers that she wasin the room, and was not to be disturbed.

The first consciousness that came to the sleeper was with thefirst motion of the vessel as she pushed out from her dock.He rose and dressed, and found himself exceedingly hungry.There was nothing to do, however, but to wait. The steamerwould go down so as to pass the bar at high tide, and lay tofor the mails and the latest passengers, to be brought downthe bay by a tug. He knew that he could not step from hishiding until the last policeman had left the vessel, with thecasting off of its tender, and so sat and watched from thelittle port-hole which illuminated his room the panorama ofthe Jersey and the Staten Island shores.

His hard, exciting life was retiring. He was leaving hisfoul reputation, his wife and children, his old pursuits andhis fondly cherished idol behind him. He was leaving dangerbehind. He was leaving Sing Sing behind! He had allEurope, with plenty of money, before him. His spirits beganto rise. He even took a look into his mirror, to be a witnessof his own triumph.

At four o'clock, after the steamer had lain at anchor fortwo or three hours, the tug arrived, and as his was the leewardside of the vessel, she unloaded her passengers upon thesteamer where he could see them. There were no faces thathe knew, and he was relieved. He heard a great deal oftramping about the decks, and through the cabin. Once, twomen came into the little passage into which his door opened.He heard his name spoken, and the whispered assurance thathis room was occupied by a sick woman; and then they wentaway.

At last, the orders were given to cast off the tug. He sawthe anxious looks of officers as they slid by his port-hole,and then he realized that he was free.

The anchor was hoisted, the great engine lifted itself to itsmighty task, and the voyage was begun. They had gonedown a mile, perhaps, when Mr. Belcher came out of hisstate-room. Supper was not ready—would not be ready foran hour. He took a hurried survey of the passengers, noneof whom he knew. They were evidently gentle-folk, mostlyfrom inland cities, who were going to Europe for pleasure.He was glad to see that he attracted little attention. He satdown on deck, and took up a newspaper which a passengerhad left behind him.

The case of "Benedict vs. Belcher" absorbed three or fourcolumns, besides a column of editorial comment, in whichthe General's character and his crime were painted with a freehand and in startling colors. Then, in the financial column,he found a record of the meeting of the Crooked Valley Corporation,to which was added the statement that suspicionswere abroad that the retiring President had been guilty ofcriminal irregularities in connection with the bonds of theCompany—irregularities which would immediately become amatter of official investigation. There was also an accountof his operations in Muscogee Air Line, and a rumor that hehad fled from the city, by some of the numerous out-goinglines of steamers, and that steps had already been taken tohead him off at every possible point of landing in this countryand Europe.

This last rumor was not calculated to increase his appetite,or restore his self-complacency and self-assurance. He lookedall these accounts over a second time, in a cursory way, andwas about to fold the paper, so as to hide or destroy it, whenhis eye fell upon a column of foreign despatches. He hadnever been greatly interested in this department of his newspaper,but now that he was on his way to Europe, they assumeda new significance; and, beginning at the top, he readthem through. At the foot of the column, he read thewords: "Heavy Failure of a Banking House;" and his attentionwas absorbed at once by the item which followed:

"The House of Tempin Brothers, of Berlin, has gonedown. The failure is said to be utterly disastrous, even thespecial deposits in the hands of the house having been used.The House was a favorite with Americans, and the failurewill inevitably produce great distress among those who aretraveling for pleasure. The house is said to have no assets,and the members are not to be found."

Mr. Belcher's "Anchor to windward" had snapped itscable, and he was wildly afloat, with ruin behind him, andstarvation or immediate arrest before. With curses on hiswhite lips, and with a trembling hand, he cut out the item,walked to his state-room, and threw the record of his crimeand shame out of the port-hole. Then, placing the littleexcerpt in the pocket of his waistcoat, he went on deck.

There sat the happy passengers, wrapped in shawls, watchingthe setting sun, thinking of the friends and scenes theyhad left behind them, and dreaming of the unknown worldthat lay before. Three or four elderly gentlemen weregathered in a group, discussing Mr. Belcher himself; butnone of them knew him. He had no part in the world ofhonor and of innocence in which all these lived. He was anoutlaw. He groaned when the overwhelming consciousnessof his disgrace came upon him—groaned to think that notone of all the pleasant people around could know himwithout shrinking from him as a monster.

He was looking for some one. A sailor engaged in servicepassed near him. Stepping to his side, Mr. Belcher askedhim to show him the captain. The man pointed to thebridge. "There's the Cap'n, sir—the man in the blue coatand brass buttons." Then he went along.

Mr. Belcher immediately made his way to the bridge. Hetouched his hat to the gruff old officer, and begged his pardonfor obtruding himself upon him, but he was in trouble, andwanted advice.

"Very well, out with it: what's the matter?" said theCaptain.

Mr. Belcher drew out the little item he had saved, andsaid: "Captain, I have seen this bit of news for the firsttime since I started. This firm held all the money I have inthe world. Is there any possible way for me to get back tomy home?"

"I don't know of any," said the captain.

"But I must go back."

"You'll have to swim for it, then."

Mr. Belcher was just turning away in despair, with athought of suicide in his mind, when the captain said:"There's Pilot-boat Number 10. She's coming round to getsome papers. Perhaps I can get you aboard of her, but youare rather heavy for a jump."

The wind was blowing briskly off shore, and the beautifulpilot-boat, with her wonderful spread of canvass, was cuttingthe water as a bird cleaves the air. She had been beatingtoward land, but, as she saw the steamer, she rounded to,gave way before the wind, worked toward the steamer's trackon the windward side, and would soon run keel to keel withher.

"Fetch your traps," said the captain. "I can get youon board, if you are in time."

Mr. Belcher ran to his state-room, seized his valise, andwas soon again on deck. The pilot-boat was within ten rodsof the steamer, curving in gracefully toward the monster, andrunning like a race-horse. The Captain had a bundle ofpapers in his hand. He held them while Mr. Belcher wentover the side of the vessel, down the ladder, and turnedhimself for his jump. There was peril in the venture, butdesperation had strung his nerves. The captain shouted, andasked the bluff fellows on the little craft to do him the personalfavor to take his passenger on shore, at their convenience.Then a sailor tossed them the valise, and the captaintossed them the papers. Close in came the little boat. Itwas almost under Mr. Belcher. "Jump!" shouted half adozen voices together, and the heavy man lay sprawling uponthe deck among the laughing crew. A shout and a clapping ofhands was heard from the steamer, "Number 10" sheered off,and continued her cruise, and, stunned and bruised, the Generalcrawled into the little cabin, where it took only tenminutes of the new motion to make him so sick that hishunger departed, and he was glad to lie where, during theweek that he tossed about in the cruise for in-coming vessels,he would have been glad to die.

One, two, three, four steamers were supplied with pilots,and an opportunity was given him on each occasion to go intoport, but he would wait. He had told the story of his bankers,given a fictitious name to himself, and managed to winthe good will of the simple men around him. His bottle ofbrandy and his box of cigars were at their service, and hisdress was that of a gentleman. His natural drollery took ona very amusing form during his sickness, and the men foundhim a source of pleasure rather than an incumbrance.

At length the last pilot was disposed of, and "Number10" made for home; and on a dark midnight she ran inamong the shipping above the Battery, on the North River,and was still.

Mr. Belcher was not without ready money. He was in thehabit of carrying a considerable sum, and, before leavingTalbot, he had drained that gentleman's purse. He gave ahandsome fee to the men, and, taking his satchel in his hand,went on shore. He was weak and wretched with long seasicknessand loss of sleep, and staggered as he walked alongthe wharf like a drunken man. He tried to get one of themen to go with him, and carry his burden, but each wantedthe time with his family, and declined to serve him at anyprice. So he followed up the line of shipping for a few blocks,went by the dens where drunken sailors and river-thieveswere carousing, and then turned up Fulton Street towardBroadway. He knew that the city cars ran all night, but hedid not dare to enter one of them. Reaching the Astor, hecrossed over, and, seeing an up-town car starting off withouta passenger, he stepped upon the front platform, where hedeposited his satchel, and sat down upon it. People cameinto the car and stepped off, but they could not see him. Hewas oppressed with drowsiness, yet he was painfully wideawake.

At length he reached the vicinity of his old splendors.The car was stopped, and, resuming his burden, he crossedover to Fifth Avenue, and stood in front of the palace whichhad been his home. It was dark at every window. Wherewere his wife and children? Who had the house in keeping?He was tired, and sat down on the curb-stone, under the verywindow where Mr. Balfour was at that moment sleeping. Heput his dizzy head between his hands, and whimpered like asick boy. "Played out!" said he; "played out!"

He heard a measured step in the distance. He must notbe seen by the watch; so he rose and bent his steps towardMrs. Dillingham's. Opposite to her house, he sat down uponthe curb-stone again, and recalled his old passion for her.The thought of her treachery and of his own fatuitous vanity—thereflection that he had been so blind in his self-conceit thatshe had led him to his ruin, stung him to the quick. He sawa stone at his feet. He picked it up, and, taking his satchelin one hand, went half across the street, and hurled the littlemissile at her window. He heard the crash of glass and ashrill scream, and then walked rapidly off. Then he heard awatchman running from a distance; for the noise was peculiar,and resounded along the street. The watchman met him andmade an inquiry, but passed on without suspecting the fugitive'sconnection with the alarm.

As soon as he was out of the street, he quickened his pace,and went directly to Talbot's. Then he rang the door-bell,once, twice, thrice. Mr. Talbot put his head out of the window,looked down, and, in the light of a street lamp, discoveredthe familiar figure of his old principal. "I'll comedown," he said, "and let you in."

The conference was a long one, and it ended in both goinginto the street, and making their way to Talbot's stable, twoor three blocks distant. There the coachman was roused, andthere Talbot gave Mr. Belcher the privilege of sleeping untilhe was wanted.

Mr. Talbot had assured Mr. Belcher that he would not besafe in his house, that the whole town was alive with rumorsabout him, and that while some believed he had escaped andwas on his way to Europe, others felt certain that he had notleft the city.

Mr. Belcher had been a railroad man, and Mr. Talbot wassure that the railroad men would help him. He would securea special car at his own cost, on a train that would leave onthe following night. He would see that the train should stopbefore crossing Harlem Bridge. At that moment the Generalmust be there. Mr. Talbot would send him up, to sit in hiscab until the train should stop, and then to take the last car,which should be locked after him; and he could go throughin it without observation.

A breakfast was smuggled into the stable early, where Mr.Belcher lay concealed, of which he ate greedily. Then hewas locked into the room, where he slept all day. At eighto'clock in the evening, a cab stood in the stable, ready toissue forth on the opening of the doors. Mr. Belcher tookhis seat in it, in the darkness, and then the vehicle was rapidlydriven to Harlem. After ten minutes of waiting, the dazzlinghead-light of a great train, crawling out of the city, showeddown the Avenue. He unlatched the door of his cab, tookhis satchel in his hand, and, as the last car on the train cameup to him, he leaped out, mounted the platform, and vanishedin the car, closing the door behind him. "All right!" wasshouted from the rear; the conductor swung his lantern,and the train thundered over the bridge and went roaring offinto the night.

The General had escaped. All night he traveled on, and,some time during the forenoon, his car was shunted from theTrunk line upon the branch that led toward Sevenoaks. Itwas nearly sunset when he reached the terminus. The railroadsympathy had helped and shielded him thus far, but therailroad ended there, and its sympathy and help were cut offshort with the last rail.

Mr. Belcher sent for the keeper of a public stable whom heknew, and with whom he had always been in sympathy,through the love of horse-flesh which they entertained incommon. As he had no personal friendship to rely on inhis hour of need, he resorted to that which had grown upbetween men who had done their best to cheat each other bysystematic lying in the trading of horses.

"Old Man Coates," for that was the name by which thestable keeper was known, found his way to the car where Mr.Belcher still remained hidden. The two men met as oldcronies, and Mr. Belcher said: "Coates, I'm in trouble, andam bound for Canada. How is Old Calamity?"

Now in all old and well regulated stables there is one horseof exceptional renown for endurance. "Old Calamity" wasa roan, with one wicked white eye, that in his best days haddone a hundred miles in ten hours. A great deal of moneyhad been won and lost on him, first and last, but he hadgrown old, and had degenerated into a raw-boned, toughbeast, that was resorted to in great emergencies, and reliedupon for long stretches of travel that involved extraordinaryhardship.

"Well, he's good yet," replied Old Man Coates.

"You must sell him to me, with a light wagon," said Mr.Belcher.

"I could make more money by telling a man who is lookingfor you in the hotel that you are here," said the old man,with a wicked leer.

"But you won't do it," responded the General. "Youcan't turn on a man who has loved the same horse with you,old man; you know you can't."

"Well, I can, but in course I won't;" and the stable-keeperwent into a calculation of the value of the horse andharness, with a wagon "that couldn't be broke down."

Old Man Coates had Belcher at a disadvantage, and, ofcourse, availed himself of it, and had no difficulty in makinga bargain which reduced the fugitive's stock of ready moneyin a fearful degree.

At half-past nine, that night, "Old Calamity" was drivendown to the side of the car by Coates' own hands, and in amoment the old man was out of the wagon and the newowner was in it. The horse, the moment Mr. Belcher tookthe reins, had a telegraphic communication concerning thekind of man who was behind him, and the nature of the taskthat lay before him, and struck off up the road toward Sevenoakswith a long, swinging trot that gave the driver a sense ofbeing lifted at every stride.

It was a curious incident in the history of Mr. Belcher'sflight to Canada, which practically began when he leapedupon the deck of Pilot-Boat Number 10, that he desired tosee every spot that had been connected with his previous life.A more sensitive man would have shunned the scenes whichhad been associated with his prosperous and nominally respectablecareer, but he seemed possessed with a morbiddesire to look once more upon the localities in which he hadmoved as king.

He had not once returned to Sevenoaks since he left thevillage for the metropolis; and although he was in bitterhaste, with men near him in pursuit, he was determined totake the longer road to safety, in order to revisit the scene ofhis early enterprise and his first successes. He knew that OldCalamity would take him to Sevenoaks in two hours, and thatthen the whole village would be in its first nap. The roadwas familiar, and the night not too dark. Dogs came outfrom farm-houses as he rattled by, and barked furiously. Hefound a cow asleep in the road, and came near being upset byher. He encountered one or two tramps, who tried to speakto him, but he flew on until the spires of the little town,where he had once held the supreme life, defined themselvesagainst the sky, far up the river. Here he brought hishorse down to a walk. The moment he was still, for he hadnot yet reached the roar of the falls, he became consciousthat a wagon was following him in the distance. Old ManCoates had not only sold him his horse, but he had sold hissecret!

Old Calamity was once more put into a trot, and in tenminutes he was by the side of his mill. Seeing the watchmanin front, he pulled up, and, in a disguised voice, inquired theway to the hotel. Having received a rough answer, he inquiredof the man whose mill he was watching.

"I don't know," responded the man. "It's stoppednow. It was old Belcher's once, but he's gone up, they say."

Mr. Belcher started on. He crossed the bridge, and droveup the steep hill toward his mansion. Arriving at the hight,he stood still by the side of the Seven Oaks, which had oncebeen the glory of his country home. Looking down into thetown, he saw lights at the little tavern, and, by the revelationsof the lantern that came to the door, a horse and wagon. Atthis moment, his great Newfoundland dog came boundingtoward him, growling like a lion. He had alighted to stretchhis limbs, and examine into the condition of his horse. Thedog came toward him faster and faster, and more and moremenacingly, till he reached him, and heard his own namecalled. Then he went down into the dust, and fawned uponhis old master pitifully. Mr. Belcher caressed him. Therewas still one creature living that recognized him, and acknowledgedhim as his lord. He looked up at his house and tooka final survey of the dim outlines of the village. Then hemounted his wagon, turned his horse around, and went slowlydown the hill, calling to his dog to follow. The huge creaturefollowed a few steps, then hesitated, then, almost crawling,he turned and sneaked away, and finally broke into arun and went back to the house, where he stopped and witha short, gruff bark scouted his retiring master.

Mr. Belcher looked back. His last friend had left him."Blast the brute!" he exclaimed. "He is like the rest of'em."

As he came down the road to turn into the main highway,a man stepped out from the bushes and seized Old Calamityby the bridle. Mr. Belcher struck his horse a heavy blow,and the angry beast, by a single leap, not only shook himselfclear of the grasp upon his bit, but hurled the interceptingfigure upon the ground. A second man stood ready to dealwith Mr. Belcher, but the latter in passing gave him a furiouscut with his whip, and Old Calamity was, in twenty seconds,as many rods away from both of them, sweeping up the longhill at a trot that none but iron sinews could long sustain.

The huge pile that constituted the Sevenoaks poor-housewas left upon his right, and in half an hour he began a longdescent, which so far relieved his laboring horse, that whenhe reached the level he could hardly hold him. The old fireof the brute was burning at its hottest. Mr. Belcher pulledhim in, to listen for the pursuit. Half a mile behind, hecould hear wheels tearing madly down the hill, and helaughed. The race had, for the time, banished from his mindthe history of the previous week, banished the memory of hishorrible losses, banished his sense of danger, banished hisnervous fears. It was a stern chase, proverbially a long one,and he had the best horse, and knew that he could not beovertaken. The sound of the pursuing wheels grew fainterand fainter, until they ceased altogether.

Just as the day was breaking, he turned from the mainroad into the woods, and as the occupants of a cabin wererising, he drove up and asked for shelter and a breakfast.

He remained there all day, and, just before night, passedthrough the forest to another road, and in the early morningwas driving quietly along a Canadian highway, surveying his"adopted country," and assuming the character of a loyalsubject of the good Queen of England.

CHAPTER XXX.

WHICH GIVES THE HISTORY OF AN ANNIVERSARY, PRESENTS ATABLEAU, AND DROPS THE CURTAIN.

Three months after Mr. Belcher's escape, the great worldhardly remembered that such a man as he had ever lived.Other rascals took his place, and absorbed the public attention,having failed to learn—what even their betters wereslow to apprehend—that every strong, active, bad man issystematically engaged in creating and shaping the instrumentsfor his own destruction. Men continued to be dazzledby their own success, until they could see neither the truthand right that lay along their way, nor the tragic end thatawaited them.

The execution in satisfaction of the judgment obtainedagainst Mr. Belcher was promptly issued and levied; claimantsand creditors of various sorts took all that the execution left;Mrs. Belcher and her children went to their friends in thecountry; the Sevenoaks property was bought for Mr. Benedict,and a thousand lives were adjusted to the new circ*mstances;but narrative palls when its details are anticipated.Let us pass them, regarding them simply as memories comingup—sometimes faintly, sometimes freshly—from the swiftlyretiring years, and close the book, as we began it, with apicture.

Sevenoaks looks, in its main features, as it looked when thereader first saw it. The river rolls through it with the oldsong that the dwellers upon its banks have heard through allthese changing years. The workmen and workwomen comeand go in the mill, in their daily round of duty, as they didwhen Phipps, and the gray trotters, and the great proprietorwere daily visions of the streets. The little tailoress returnstwice a year with her thrifty husband, to revisit her oldfriends; and she brings at last a little one, which she showswith great pride. Sevenoaks has become a summer thoroughfareto the woods, where Jim receives the city-folk inincredible numbers.

We look in upon the village on a certain summer evening,at five years' remove from the first occupation of the Belchermansion by Mr. Benedict. The mist above the falls cools theair and bathes the trees as it did when Robert Belcher lookedupon it as the incense which rose to his lordly enterprise.The nestling cottages, the busy shops, the fresh-looking spires,the distant woods, the more distant mountain, the old SevenOaks upon the Western plateau and the beautiful residencebehind them, are the same to-day that they were when wefirst looked upon them; but a new life and a new influenceinform them all. Nature holds her unvarying frame, but thelife upon the canvas is what we paint from year to year. Theriver sings to vice as it sings to virtue. The birds carolthe same, whether selfishness or love be listening. Thegreat mountains rejoice in the sun, or drape their brows inclouds, irrespective of the eyes that regard them.

This one fact remains good in Sevenoaks, and the worldover. The man who holds the financial power and the socialthrone of a town, makes that town, in a good degree, whathe is. If he is virtuous, noble, unselfish, good, the elementsbeneath him shape themselves, consciously or unconsciously,to his character. Vice shrinks into disgrace, or flies to morecongenial haunts. The greed for gold which grasps andover-reaches, becomes ashamed, or changes to neighborlyhelpfulness. The discontent that springs up in the shadowof an unprincipled and boastful worldly success, dies; andmen become happy in the toil that wins a comfortable shelterand daily bread, when he to whom all look up, looks downupon them with friendly and sympathetic eyes, and holds hiswealth and power in service of their good.

Paul Benedict is now the proprietor of Sevenoaks; andfrom the happy day in which he, with his sister and child,came to the occupation of the mansion which his old persecutorhad built for himself, the fortunes and character of the townhave mended. Even the poor-house has grown more comfortablein its apartments and administration, while year byyear its population has decreased. Through these first years,the quiet man has moved around his mill and his garden, hismind teeming with suggestions, and filling with new interest intheir work the dull brains that had been worn deep and drywith routine. All eyes turn upon him with affection. He istheir brother as well as their master.

In the great house, there is a happy woman. She has foundsomething to love and something to do. These were all sheneeded to make her supremely self-respectful, happy, and, inthe best degree, womanly. Willful, ambitious, sacrificing heryoung affections to gold at the first, and wasting years inidleness and unworthy intrigue, for the lack of affection andthe absence of motive to usefulness and industry, she hasfound, at last, the secret of her woman's life, and has acceptedit with genuine gratitude. In ministering to her brotherand her brother's child, now a stalwart lad, in watchingwith untiring eyes and helping with ready wit the unusedproprietor in his new circ*mstances, and in assisting the pooraround her, she finds her days full of toil and significance,and her nights brief with grateful sleep. She is the greatlady of the village, holding high consideration from her relationshipto the proprietor, and bestowing importance uponhim by her revelation of his origin and his city associations.

The special summer evening to which we allude is onewhich has long been looked forward to by all the people inwhom our story has made the reader sympathetically interested.It is an anniversary—the fifth since the new familytook up their residence in the grand house. Mr. and Mrs.Balfour with their boy are there. Sam Yates is there—nowthe agent of the mill—a trusty, prosperous man; and by aprocess of which we have had no opportunity to note the details,he has transformed Miss Snow into Mrs. Yates. Thematter was concluded some years ago, and they seem quitewonted to each other. The Rev. Mr. Snow, grown thinnerand grayer, and a great deal happier, is there with his wifeand his two unmarried daughters. He finds it easier to "takethings as they air," than formerly, and, by his old bridge,holds them against all comers. And who is this, and who arethese? Jim Fenton, very much smoothed exteriorly, butjolly, acute, outspoken, peculiar as ever. He walks aroundthe garden with a boy on his shoulder. The "little feller"that originally appeared in Mr. Benedict's plans of the newhotel is now in his hands—veritable flesh and blood; and"the little woman," sitting with Mrs. Snow, while Mrs. Dillinghamdirects the arrangement of the banquet that is beingspread in the pagoda, watches the pair, and exclaims: "Lookat them! now isn't it ridiculous?"

The warm sun hides himself behind the western hill,though still an hour above his setting. The roar of the fallingriver rises to their ears, the sound of the factory bell echoesamong the hills, and the crowd of grimy workmen and workwomenpours forth, darkening the one street that leads fromthe mill, and dissipating itself among the waiting cottages.All is tranquillity and beauty, while the party gather totheir out-door feast.

It is hardly a merry company, though a very happy one.It is the latest issue of a tragedy in which all have borne moreor less important parts. The most thoughtless of them cannotbut feel that a more powerful hand than their own hasshaped their lives and determined their destinies.

The boys are called in, and the company gather to theirbanquet, amid conversation and laughter.

Mr. Balfour turns to Jim and says: "How does this comparewith Number Nine, Jim? Isn't this better than the woods?"

Jim has been surveying the preparations with a critical andprofessional eye, for professional purposes. The hotel-keeperkeeps himself constantly open to suggestions, and the tablebefore him suggests so much, that his own establishment seemsvery humble and imperfect.

"I ben thinkin' about it," Jim responds. "When a manhas got all he wants, he's brung up standin' at the end of hisroad. If thar ain't comfort then, then there ain't no comfort.When he's got more nor he wants, then he's got by comfort,and runnin' away from it. I hearn the women talk aboutchurnin' by, so that the butter never comes, an' a man ashas more money nor he wants churns by his comfort, an'spends his life swashin' with his dasher, and wonderin' wherehis butter is. Old Belcher's butter never come, but he workedaway till his churn blowed up, an' he went up with it."

"So you think our good friend Mr. Benedict has got somuch that he has left comfort behind," says Mr. Balfour witha laugh.

"I should be afeard he had, if he could reelize it was allhis'n, but he can't. He hain't got no more comfort here, noway, nor he used to have in the woods." Then Jim leansover to Mr. Balfour's ear, and says: "It's the woman as doesit. It's purty to look at, but it's too pertickler for comfort."

Mr. Balfour sees that he and Jim are observed, and so speakslouder. "There is one thing," he says: "that I havelearned in the course of this business. It does not lie verydeep, but it is at least worth speaking of. I have learned howinfinitely more interesting and picturesque vulgar poverty isthan vulgar riches. One can find more poetry in a log cabinthan in all that wealth ever crowded into Palgrave's Folly.If poor men and poor women, honest and patient workers,could only apprehend the poetical aspects of their own livesand conditions, instead of imagining that wealth holds amonopoly of the poetry of life, they would see that they havethe best of it, and are really enviable people."

Jim knows, of course, that his old cabin in the woods is inMr. Balfour's mind, and feels himself called upon to saysomething in response. "If so be as ye're 'ludin' at me,"says he, "I'm much obleeged to ye, but I perfer a hotel to alog cabin, pertickler with a little woman and a little feller init, Paul B., by name."

"That's all right, Jim," says Mr. Balfour, "but I don'tcall that vulgar wealth which is won slowly, by honest industry.A man who has more money than he has brains, andmakes his surroundings the advertisem*nt of his possessions,rather than the expression of his culture, is a vulgar man, ora man of vulgar wealth."

"Did ye ever think," says Jim, "that riches rots or keepsaccordin' to their natur?—rots or keeps," he goes on, "accordin'to what goes into 'em when a man is gitten' 'emtogether? Blood isn't a purty thing to mix with money, an'I perfer mine dry. A golden sweetin' grows quick an' makesa big show, but ye can't keep it through the winter."

"That's true, Jim," responds Mr. Balfour. "Wealth takesinto itself the qualities by which it is won. Gathered bycrime or fraud, and gathered in haste, it becomes a curse tothose who hold it, and falls into ruin by its own corruptions.Acquired by honest toil, manly frugality, patient endurance,and patient waiting, it is full of good, and holds together bya force within itself."

"Poor Mrs. Belcher!" exclaims Mrs. Dillingham, as thereflection comes to her that that amiable lady was once themistress of the beautiful establishment over which she hasbeen called upon to preside.

"They say she is living nicely," says Mr. Snow, "andthat somebody sends her money, though she does not knowwhere it comes from. It is supposed that her husband savedsomething, and keeps himself out of sight, while he looksafter his family."

Mr. Benedict and Mrs. Dillingham exchange significantglances. Jim is a witness of the act, and knows what itmeans. He leans over to Mr. Benedict, and says: "WhenI seen sheet-lightnin', I know there's a shower where it comesfrom. Ye can't fool me about ma'am Belcher's money."

"You will not tell anybody, Jim," says Mr. Benedict, ina low tone.

"Nobody but the little woman," responds Jim; and then,seeing that his "little feller," in the distance, is draininga cup with more than becoming leisure, he shouts down thetable: "Paul B! Paul B! Ye can't git that mug on to yerhead with the brim in yer mouth. It isn't yer size, an' itdoesn't look purty on ye."

"I should like to know where the old rascal is," says Mrs.Snow, going back to the suggestion that Mr. Belcher wassupplying his family with money.

"Well, I can tell ye," replies Jim. "I've been a keepin'it in for this very meetin'."

"Oh Jim!" exclaim half a dozen voices, which means:"we are dying to hear all about it."

"Well," says Jim, "there was a feller as come to myhotel a month ago, and says he: 'Jim, did ye ever knowwhat had become of old Belcher?' 'No,' says I, 'I onlyknowed he cut a big stick, an' slid.' 'Well,' says he, 'I seen'im a month ago, with whiskers enough on 'is ugly face to setup a barberry-bush.' Says I, 'Where did ye seen 'im?''Where do ye guess', says he?' 'Swoppin' a blind hoss',says I, 'fur a decent one, an' gettin' boot.' 'No,' says he,'guess agin.' 'Preachin' at a camp-meetin',' says I, 'an'passin' round a hat arter it.' 'No,' says he, 'I seen 'imjest where he belonged. He was tendin' a little bar, on aS'n' Lor'nce steamboat. He was settin' on a big stool inthe middle of 'is bottles, where he could reach 'em all withoutdroppin' from his roost, an' when his customers was out hewas a peekin' into a little lookin'-glass, as stood aside of 'im,an' a combin' out his baird.' 'That settles it,' says I, 'you'veseen 'im, an no mistake.' 'Then,' says he, 'I called 'im'General,' an' he looked kind a skeered, an' says 'e to me,'Mum's the word! Crooked Valley an' Air Line is playedout, an' I'm workin' up a corner in Salt River,'—laughin',an' offerin' to treat.'

"I wonder how he came in such a place as that," saysMrs. Snow.

"That's the funniest part on't," responds Jim. "Hefound an old friend on the boat, as was much of a gentleman,—anold friend as was dressed within an inch of his life, an'sold the tickets."

"Phipps!" "Phipps!" shout half a dozen voices, anda boisterous laugh goes around the group.

"Ye've guessed right the fust time," Jim continues, "an'the gentlemanlest clerk, an' the poplarest man as ever writnames in a book, an' made change on a counter, with noend o' rings an' hankercher-pins, an' presents of silver mugs,an' rampin' resolootions of admirin' passingers. An' therethe two fellers be, a sailin' up an' down the S'n.' Lor'nce,as happy as two clams in high water, workin' up corners intheir wages, an' playin' into one another's hands like a pairof pickpockets; and what do ye think old Belcher said aboutPhipps?"

"What did he say?" comes from every side.

"Well, I can't tell percisely," responds Jim. "Fust hesaid it was proverdential, as Phipps run away when he did;an' then he put in somethin' that sounded as if it come froma book,—somethin' about tunin' the wind to the shearedram."

Jim is very doubtful about his quotation, and actuallyblushes scarlet under the fire of laughter that greets himfrom every quarter.

"I'm glad if it 'muses ye," says Jim, "but it wasn't anythingbetter nor that, considerin' the man as took it to himself."

"Jim, you'll be obliged to read up," says "the littlewoman," who still stands by her early resolutions to take herhusband for what he is, and enjoy his peculiarities with herneighbors.

"I be as I be," he responds. "I can keep a hotel, an'make money on it, an' pervide for my own, but when itcomes to books ye can trip me with a feather."

The little banquet draws to a close, and now two or threeinquire together for Mr. Yates. He has mysteriously disappeared!The children have already left the table, andPaul B. is romping with a great show of equine spirit aboutthe garden paths, astride of a stick. Jim is looking at him inundisguised admiration. "I do believe," he exclaims,"that the little feller thinks he's a hoss, with a neck morenor three feet long. See 'im bend it over agin the check-reinhe's got in his mind! Hear 'im squeal! Now look outfor his heels!"

At this moment, there rises upon the still evening air aconfused murmur of many voices. All but the children pauseand listen. "What is coming?" "Who is coming?""What is it?" break from the lips of the listeners. OnlyMrs. Yates looks intelligent, and she holds her tongue, andkeeps her seat. The sound comes nearer, and breaks intogreater confusion. It is laughter, and merry conversation,and the jar of tramping feet. Mr. Benedict suspects what itis, and goes off among his vines, in a state of painful unconcern!The boys run out to the brow of the hill, and come backin great excitement, to announce that the whole town isthronging up toward the house. Then all, as if apprehendingthe nature of the visit, gather about their table again, thatbeing the place where their visitors will expect to find them.

At length, Sam. Yates comes in sight, around the cornerof the mansion, followed closely by all the operatives of themill, dressed in their holiday attire. Mrs. Dillingham hasfound her brother, and with her hand upon his arm she goesout to meet his visitors. They have come to crown the feast,and signalize the anniversary, by bringing their congratulationsto the proprietor, and the beautiful lady who presidesover his house. There is a great deal of awkwardness amongthe young men, and tittering and blushing among the youngwomen, with side play of jest and coquetry, as they formthemselves in a line, preparatory to something formal, whichpresently appears.

Mr. Yates, the agent of the mill, who has consented to bethe spokesman of the occasion, stands in front, and faces Mr.Benedict and Mrs. Dillingham.

"Mr. Benedict," says he, "this demonstration in yourhonor is not one originated by myself, but, in some way, thesegood people who serve you learned that you were to have aformal celebration of this anniversary, and they have askedme to assist them in expressing the honor in which they holdyou, and the sympathy with which they enter into your rejoicing.We all know your history. Many of those whonow stand before you, remember your wrongs and your misfortunes;and there is not one who does not rejoice that youhave received that which your own genius won in the handsof another. There is not one who does not rejoice that theevil influence of this house is departed, and that one nowoccupies it who thoroughly respects and honors the manhoodand womanhood that labor in his service. We are glad toacknowledge you as our master, because we know that we canregard you as our friend. Your predecessor despised poverty—eventhe poverty into which he was born—and forgot, in thefirst moment of his success, that he had ever been poor, whileyour own bitter experiences have made you brotherly. Onbehalf of all those who now stand before you, let me thankyou for your sympathy, for your practical efforts to give us ashare in the results of your prosperity, and for the purifyinginfluences which go out from this dwelling into all our humblehomes. We give you our congratulations on this anniversary,and hope for happy returns of the day, until, among theinevitable changes of the future, we all yield our places tothose who are to succeed us."

Mr. Benedict's eyes are full of tears. He does not turn,however, to Mr. Balfour, for help. The consciousness ofpower, and, more than this, the consciousness of universalsympathy, give him self-possession and the power of expression.

"Mr. Yates," says Mr. Benedict, "when you call me master,you give me pain. When you speak of me as yourbrother, and the brother of all those whom you represent, youpay me the most grateful compliment that I have ever received.It is impossible for me to regard myself as anythingbut the creature and the instrument of a loving Providence.It is by no power of my own, no skill of my own, no providenceof my own, that I have been carried through the startlingchanges of my life. The power that has placed mewhere I am, is the power in which, during all my years ofadversity, I firmly trusted. It was that power which broughtme my friends—friends to whose good will and efficient serviceI owe my wealth and my ability to make life profitableand pleasant to you. Fully believing this, I can in no wayregard myself as my own, or indulge in pride and vain glory.You are all my brothers and sisters, and the dear Father ofus all has placed the power in my hands to do you good. Inthe patient and persistent execution of this stewardship liesthe duty of my life. I thank you all for your good will. Ithank you all for this opportunity to meet you, and to say toyou the words which have for five years been in my heart,waiting to be spoken. Come to me always with your troubles.Tell me always what I can do for you, to make your wayeasier. Help me to make this village a prosperous, virtuousand happy one—a model for all its neighbors. And now Iwish to take you all by the hand, in pledge of our mutualfriendship and of our devotion to each other."

Mr. Benedict steps forward with Mrs. Dillingham, and bothshake hands with Mr. Yates. One after another—some shyly,some confidently—the operatives come up and repeat theprocess, until all have pressed the proprietor's hand, and havereceived a pleasant greeting and a cordial word from hissister, of whom the girls are strangely afraid. There is amoment of awkward delay, as they start on their homewardway, and then they gather in a group upon the brow of thehill, and the evening air resounds with "three cheers" forMr. Benedict. The hum of voices begins again, the trampof a hundred feet passes down the hill, and our little party areleft to themselves.

They do not linger long. The Snows take their leave.Mr. and Mrs. Yates retire, with a lingering "good-night,"but the Balfours and the Fentons are guests of the house.They go in, and the lamps are lighted, while the "little feller—PaulB. by name"—is carried on his happy father'sshoulder to his bed up stairs.

Finally, Jim comes down, having seen his pet asleep, andfinds the company talking about Talbot. He and his pretty,worldly wife, finding themselves somewhat too intimately associatedwith the bad fame of Robert Belcher, had retiredto a country seat on the Hudson—a nest which they featheredwell with the profits of the old connection.

And now, as they take leave of each other for the night,and shake hands in token of their good-will, and their satisfactionwith the pleasures of the evening, Jim says: "Mr.Benedict, that was a good speech o' yourn. It struck mefavorble an' s'prised me some considable. I'd no idee yecould spread so afore folks. I shouldn't wonder if ye wasright about Proverdence. It seems kind o' queer that somebodyor somethin' should be takin keer o' you an' me, butI vow I don't see how it's all ben did, if so be as nobody nornothin' has took keer o' me, an' you too. It seems reasomblethat somethin's ben to work all the time that I hain't seed.The trouble with me is that I can't understand how a bein' asturns out worlds as if they was nothin' more nor snow-ballswould think o' stoppin' to pay 'tention to sech a feller as JimFenton."

"You are larger than a sparrow, Jim," says Mr. Benedictwith a smile.

"That's so."

"Larger than a hair."

Jim puts up his hand, brushes down the stiff crop thatcrowns his head, and responds with a comical smile, "I don'know 'bout that."

Jim pauses as if about to make some further remark, thinksbetter of it, and then, putting his big arm around his littlewife, leads her off, up stairs.

The lights of the great house go out one after another, thecataracts sing the inmates to sleep, the summer moon witcheswith the mist, the great, sweet heaven bends over the dreamingtown, and there we leave our friends at rest, to take up theburden of their lives again upon the happy morrow, beyondour feeble following, but still under the loving eye andguiding hand to which we confidently and gratefully committhem.