SEVENOAKS

A Story of Today

by

J. G. HOLLAND

New YorkGrosset & DunlapPublishersPublished by Arrangement with Charles Scribner's Sons

1875

CONTENTS. 

 CHAPTER I. 

 Which tells about Sevenoaks, and how Miss Butterworth passed one of her evenings

 CHAPTER II. 

 Mr. Belcher carries his point at the town-meeting, and the poor are knocked down to Thomas Buffum

 CHAPTER III. 

 In which Jim Fenton is introduced to the reader and introduces himself to Miss Butterworth

 CHAPTER IV. 

 In which Jim Fenton applies for lodgings at Tom Buffum's boarding-house, and finds his old friend

 CHAPTER V. 

 In which Jim enlarges his accommodations and adopts a violent method of securing boarders

 CHAPTER VI. 

 In which Sevenoaks experiences a great commotion, and comes to the conclusion that Benedict has met with foul play

 CHAPTER VII. 

 In which Jim and Mike Conlin pass through a great trial and come out victorious

 CHAPTER VIII. 

 In which Mr. Belcher visits New York, and becomes the Proprietor of "Palgrave's Folly. "

 CHAPTER IX. 

 Mrs. Talbot gives her little dinner party, and Mr. Belcher makes an exceedingly pleasant acquaintance

 CHAPTER X. 

 Which tells how a lawyer spent his vacation in camp, and took home a specimen of game that he had never before found in the woods

 CHAPTER XI. 

 Which records Mr. Belcher's connection with a great speculation and brings to a close his residence in Sevenoaks

 CHAPTER XII. 

 In which Jim enlarges his plans for a house, and completes his plans for a house-keeper

 CHAPTER XIII. 

 Which introduces several residents of Sevenoaks to the Metropolis and a new character to the reader

 CHAPTER XIV. 

 Which tells of a great public meeting in Sevenoaks, the burning in effigy of Mr. Belcher, and that gentleman's interview with a reporter

 CHAPTER XV. 

 Which tells about Mrs. Dillingham's Christmas and the New Year's Reception at the Palgrave Mansion

 CHAPTER XVI. 

 Which gives an account of a voluntary and an involuntary visit of Sam Yates to Number Nine

 CHAPTER XVII. 

 In which Jim constructs two happy-Davids, raises his hotel, and dismisses Sam Yates

 CHAPTER XVIII. 

 In which Mrs. Dillingham makes some important discoveries, but fails to reveal them to the reader

 CHAPTER XIX. 

 In which Mr. Belcher becomes President of the Crooked Valley Railroad, with large "Terminal facilities, " and makes an adventure into a long-meditated crime

 CHAPTER XX. 

 In which "the little woman" announces her engagement to Jim Fenton and receives the congratulations of her friends

 CHAPTER XXI. 

 In which Jim gets the furniture into his house, and Mike Conlin gets another installment of advice into Jim

 CHAPTER XXII. 

 In which Jim gets married, the new hotel receives its mistress, and Benedict confers a power of attorney

 CHAPTER XXIII. 

 In which Mr. Belcher expresses his determination to become a "founder, " but drops his noun in fear of a little verb of the same name

 CHAPTER XXIV. 

 Wherein the General leaps the bounds of law, finds himself in a new world, and becomes the victim of his friends without knowing it

 CHAPTER XXV. 

 In which the General goes through a great many trials, and meets at last the one he has so long anticipated

 CHAPTER XXVI. 

 In which the case of "Benedict _vs. _ Belcher" finds itself in court, an interesting question of identity is settled, and a mysterious disappearance takes place

 CHAPTER XXVII. 

 In which Phipps is not to be found, and the General is called upon to do his own lying

 CHAPTER XXVIII. 

 In which a heavenly witness appears who cannot be cross-examined, and before which the defense utterly breaks down

 CHAPTER XXIX. 

 Wherein Mr. Belcher, having exhibited his dirty record, shows a clean pair of heels

 CHAPTER XXX. 

 Which gives the history of an anniversary, presents a tableau, and drops the curtain

CHAPTER I. 

WHICH TELLS ABOUT SEVENOAKS, AND HOW MISS BUTTERWORTH PASSED ONE OF HEREVENINGS. 

Everybody has seen Sevenoaks, or a hundred towns so much like it, inmost particulars, that a description of any one of them would present itto the imagination--a town strung upon a stream, like beads upon athread, or charms upon a chain. Sevenoaks was richer in chain thancharms, for its abundant water-power was only partially used. Itplunged, and roared, and played, and sparkled, because it had not halfenough to do. It leaped down three or four cataracts in passing throughthe village; and, as it started from living springs far northward amongthe woods and mountains, it never failed in its supplies. 

Few of the people of Sevenoaks--thoughtless workers, mainly--either knewor cared whence it came, or whither it went. They knew it as "TheBranch;" but Sevenoaks was so far from the trunk, down to which it sentits sap, and from which it received no direct return, that nosignificance was attached to its name. But it roared all day, and roaredall night, summer and winter alike, and the sound became a part of theatmosphere. Resonance was one of the qualities of the oxygen which thepeople breathed, so that if, at any midnight moment, the roar had beensuddenly hushed, they would have waked with a start and a sense ofsuffocation, and leaped from their beds. 

Among the charms that dangled from this liquid chain--depending from thevest of a landscape which ended in a ruffle of woods toward the north, overtopped by the head of a mountain--was a huge factory that had beenadded to from time to time, as necessity demanded, until it had becomean imposing and not uncomely pile. Below this were two or threedilapidated saw-mills, a grist-mill in daily use, and a fulling-mill--aremnant of the old times when homespun went its pilgrimage to town--tobe fulled, colored, and dressed--from all the sparsely settled countryaround. 

On a little plateau by the side of The Branch was a row of stores anddram-shops and butchers' establishments. Each had a sort of square, false front, pierced by two staring windows and a door, that remindedone of a lion _couchant_--very large in the face and very thin in theflank. Then there were crowded in, near the mill, little rows ofone-story houses, occupied entirely by operatives, and owned by theowner of the mill. All the inhabitants, not directly connected with themill, were as far away from it as they could go. Their houses were setback upon either acclivity which rose from the gorge that the stream hadworn, dotting the hill-sides in every direction. There was a clumsytown-hall, there were three or four churches, there was a high schooland a low tavern. It was, on the whole, a village of importance, but thegreat mill was somehow its soul and center. A fair farming and grazingcountry stretched back from it eastward and westward, and Sevenoaks wasits only home market. 

It is not proposed, in this history, to tell where Sevenoaks was, and isto-day. It may have been, or may be, in Maine, or New Hampshire, orVermont, or New York. It was in the northern part of one of theseStates, and not far from the border of a wilderness, almost as deep andsilent as any that can be found beyond the western limit of settlementand civilization. The red man had left it forever, but the bear, thedeer and the moose remained. The streams and lakes were full of trout;otter and sable still attracted the trapper, and here and there alumberman lingered alone in his cabin, enamored of the solitude and thewild pursuits to which a hardly gentler industry had introduced him. Such lumber as could be drifted down the streams had long been cut anddriven out, and the woods were left to the hunter and his prey, and tothe incursions of sportsmen and seekers for health, to whom the ruderesidents became guides, cooks, and servants of all work, for the sakeof occasional society, and that ever-serviceable consideration--money. 

There were two establishments in Sevenoaks which stood so far away fromthe stream that they could hardly be described as attached to it. Northward, on the top of the bleakest hill in the region, stood theSevenoaks poor-house. In dimensions and population, it was utterly outof proportion to the size of the town, for the people of Sevenoaksseemed to degenerate into paupers with wonderful facility. There was oneman in the town who was known to be getting rich, while all the restgrew poor. Even the keepers of the dram-shops, though they seemed to doa thriving business, did not thrive. A great deal of work was done, butpeople were paid very little for it. If a man tried to leave the townfor the purpose of improving his condition, there was always somemortgage on his property, or some impossibility of selling what he hadfor money, or his absolute dependence on each day's labor for each day'sbread, that stood in the way. One by one--sick, disabled, discouraged, dead-beaten--they drifted into the poor-house, which, as the years wenton, grew into a shabby, double pile of buildings, between which ran acounty road. 

This establishment was a county as well as a town institution, and, theoretically, one group of its buildings was devoted to the receptionof county paupers, while the other was assigned to the poor ofSevenoaks. Practically, the keeper of both mingled his boardersindiscriminately, to suit his personal convenience. 

The hill, as it climbed somewhat abruptly from the western bank of thestream--it did this in the grand leisure of the old geologiccenturies--apparently got out of breath and sat down when its task washalf done. Where it sat, it left a beautiful plateau of five or sixacres, and from this it rose, and went on climbing, until it reached thesummit of its effort, and descended the other side. On the brow of thisplateau stood seven huge oaks which the chopper's axe, for some reasonor another, had spared; and the locality, in all the early years ofsettlement, was known by the name of "The Seven Oaks. " They formed anotable landmark, and, at last, the old designation having been worn byusage, the town was incorporated with the name of Sevenoaks, in a singleword. 

On this plateau, the owner of the mill, Mr. Robert Belcher--himself anexceptional product of the village--had built his residence--a large, white, pretentious dwelling, surrounded and embellished by all theappointments of wealth. The house was a huge cube, ornamented at itscorners and cornices with all possible flowers of a rude architecture, reminding one of an elephant, that, in a fit of incontinent playfulness, had indulged in antics characteristic of its clumsy bulk and brawn. Outside were ample stables, a green-house, a Chinese pagoda that wascalled "the summer-house, " an exquisite garden and trees, among whichlatter were carefully cherished the seven ancient oaks that had giventhe town its name. 

Robert Belcher was not a gentleman. He supposed himself to be one, buthe was mistaken. Gentlemen of wealth usually built a fine house; so Mr. Belcher built one. Gentlemen kept horses, a groom and a coachman; Mr. Belcher did the same. Gentlemen of wealth built green-houses forthemselves and kept a gardener; Mr. Belcher could do no less. He had nogentlemanly tastes, to be sure, but he could buy or hire these formoney; so he bought and hired them; and when Robert Belcher walkedthrough his stables and jested with his men, or sauntered into hisgreen-house and about his grounds, he rubbed his heavy hands together, and fancied that 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 heeither owned or controlled. He owned the great mill; he owned thewater-privilege; he owned many of the dwellings, and held mortgages onmany others; he owned the churches, for all purposes practical tohimself; he owned the ministers--if not, then this was another mistakethat he had made. So long as it was true that they could not livewithout him, he was content with his title. He patronized the church, and the church was too weak to decline his ostentatious courtesy. Hehumiliated every man who came into his presence, seeking a subscriptionfor a religious or charitable purpose, but his subscription was alwayssought, and as regularly obtained. Humbly to seek his assistance for anyhigh purpose was a concession to his power, and to grant the assistancesought was to establish an obligation. He was willing to pay forpersonal influence and personal glory, and he often paid right royally. 

Of course, Mr. Belcher's residence had a library; all gentlemen havelibraries. Mr. Belcher's did not contain many books, but it contained agreat deal of room for them. Here he spent his evenings, kept his papersin a huge safe built into the wall, smoked, looked down on the twinklingvillage and his huge mill, counted his gains and constructed hisschemes. Of Mrs. Belcher and the little Belchers, he saw but little. Hefed and dressed them well, as he did his horses. All gentlemen feed anddress their dependents well. He was proud of his family as he saw themriding in their carriage. They looked gay and comfortable, and were, ashe thought, objects of envy among the humbler folk of the town, all ofwhich reflected pleasantly upon himself. 

On a late April evening, of a late spring in 18--, he was sitting inhis library, buried in a huge easy chair, thinking, smoking, scheming. The shutters were closed, the lamps were lighted, and a hickory fire wasblazing upon the hearth. Around the rich man were spread the luxurieswhich his wealth had bought--the velvet carpet, the elegant chairs, theheavy library table, covered with costly appointments, pictures in broadgold frames, and one article of furniture that he had not beenaccustomed to see in a gentleman's library--an article that sprang outof his own personal wants. This was an elegant pier-glass, into whosedepths he was accustomed to gaze in self-admiration. He was flashilydressed in a heavy coat, buff waistcoat, and drab trousers. A gold chainof fabulous weight hung around his neck and held his Jurgensen repeater. 

He rose and walked his room, and rubbed his hands, as was his habit;then paused before his mirror, admired his robust figure and large face, brushed his hair back from his big brow, and walked on again. Finally, he paused before his glass, and indulged in another habit peculiar tohimself. 

"Robert Belcher, " said he, addressing the image in the mirror, "you area brick! Yes, sir, you are a brick! You, Robert Belcher, sir, are analmighty smart man. You've outwitted the whole of 'em. Look at me, sir!Dare you tell me, sir, that I am not master of the situation? Ah! youhesitate; it is well! They all come to me, every man of 'em It is 'Mr. Belcher, will you be so good?' and 'Mr. Belcher, I hope you are verywell, ' and 'Mr. Belcher, I want you to do 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'll shake your rascally head off your shoulders! Down, down in thedust, and beg my pardon! It is well; go! Get you gone, sir, and remembernot to beard the lion in his den!"

Exactly what this performance meant, it would be difficult to say. Mr. Belcher, in his visits to the city, had frequented theaters and admiredthe villains of the plays he had seen represented. He had noticedfigures upon the boards that reminded him of his own. His addresses tohis mirror afforded him an opportunity to exercise his gifts ofspeech and action, and, at the same time, to give form to hisself-gratulations. They amused him; they ministered to his preposterousvanity. He had no companions in the town, and the habit gave him a senseof society, and helped to pass away his evenings. At the close of hiseffort he sat down and lighted another cigar. Growing drowsy, he laid itdown on a little stand at his side, and settled back in his chair for anap. He had hardly shut his eyes when there came a rap upon his door. 

"Come in!"

"Please, sir, " said a scared-looking maid, opening the door just wideenough 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 would like to seeyou. "

Now, Miss Butterworth was the one person in all Sevenoaks who was notafraid of Robert Belcher. She had been at the public school with himwhen they were children; she had known every circumstance of hishistory; she was not dependent on him in any way, and she carried in herhead an honest and fearless tongue. She was an itinerant tailoress, andhaving worked, first and last, in nearly every family in the town, sheknew the circumstances of them all, and knew too well the connection ofRobert Belcher with their troubles and reverses. In Mr. Belcher'spresent condition of self-complacency and somnolency, she was not awelcome visitor. Belligerent as he had been toward his own image in themirror, he shrank from meeting Keziah Butterworth, for he knewinstinctively that she had come with some burden of complaint. 

"Come in, " said Mr. Belcher to his servant, "and shut the door behindyou. "

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

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

The girl retired, and soon afterward Mrs. Belcher came, and reportedthat she could do nothing with Miss Butterworth--that Miss Butterworthwas determined to see him before she left the house. 

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

As soon as Mrs. Belcher retired, her husband hurried to the mirror, brushed his hair back fiercely, and then sat down to a pile of papersthat he always kept conveniently upon his library table. 

"Come in, " said Mr. Belcher, in his blandest tone, when Miss Butterworthwas conducted to his room. 

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

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

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

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

"Well, Miss Butterworth--happy to see you--hope you are well--take achair. "

"Humph, " exclaimed Miss Butterworth, dropping down upon the edge of alarge chair, whose back felt no pressure from her own during theinterview. The expression of Mr. Belcher's happiness in seeing her, andhis kind suggestion concerning her health, had overspread MissButterworth's countenance with a derisive smile, and though she wasevidently moved to tell him that he lied, she had reasons forrestraining her tongue. 

They formed a curious study, as they sat there together, during thefirst embarrassing moments. The man had spent his life in schemes forabsorbing the products of the labor of others. He was cunning, brutal, vain, showy, and essentially vulgar, from his head to his feet, inevery fiber of body and soul. The woman had earned with her own busyhands every dollar of money she had ever possessed. She would not havewronged a dog for her own personal advantage. Her black eyes, lean andspirited face, her prematurely whitening locks, as they were exposed bythe backward fall of her old-fashioned, quilted hood, presented aphysiognomy at once piquant and prepossessing. 

Robert Belcher knew that the woman before him was fearless andincorruptible. He knew that she despised him--that bullying andbrow-beating would have no influence with her, that his ready badinagewould not avail, and that coaxing and soft words would be equallyuseless. In her presence, he was shorn of all his weapons; and he neverfelt so defenseless and 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 the fire, and pressingher lips together. 

There was nothing to be said to this, so Mr. Belcher looked doggedly ather, and waited. 

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

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

"He knew more than any man in Sevenoaks, but he didn't know how to takecare of himself, " she went on. "He was the most ingenious creature Godever made, I do think, and his name was Paul Benedict. "

Mr. Belcher grew pale and fidgeted in his chair. 

"And his name was Paul Benedict. He invented something, andthen he took it to Robert Belcher, and he put it into hismill, and-paid-him-just-as-little-for-it-as-he-could. Andthen he invented something 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 grew poorer and poorer, while-Mr. -Belcher-grew-richer-and-richer-all-the-time. Andthen he invented a gun, and then his little wife died, and what with the expenses of doctors and funerals andsuch things, and the money it 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 RobertBelcher for money. "

"And get it, " said Mr. Belcher. 

"How much, now? A hundred little dollars for what was worth a hundredthousand, unless-everybody-lies. The whole went in a day, and then hewent crazy. "

"Well, you know I sent him to the asylum, " responded Mr. 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 had advanced, " saidMr. Belcher. 

"No; you wanted legal possession of a property which would have made himrich; that's what it was, and you didn't get it, and you never will getit. He can't be cured, and he's been sent back, and is up at TomBuffum's now, and I've seen him to-day. "

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

The gratification of the man with the news was unmistakable. PaulBenedict had no relatives or friends that he knew of. All his dealingswith him had been without witnesses. The only person living besidesRobert Belcher, who knew exactly what had passed between his victim andhimself, was hopelessly insane. The difference, to him, betweenobtaining possession 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 availing himself of PaulBenedict's last invention, no one in Sevenoaks knew; but all the townknew that he was getting rich, apparently much faster than he ever wasbefore, and that, in a distant town, there was a manufactory of what wasknown as "The Belcher Rifle. "

Mr. Belcher concluded that he was still "master of the situation. "Benedict's testimony could not be taken in a court of justice. The townitself was in his hands, so that it would institute no suit onBenedict's behalf, now that he had come upon it for support; for the TomBuffum to whom Miss Butterworth had alluded was the keeper of thepoor-house, and was one of his own creatures. 

Miss Butterworth had sufficient sagacity to comprehend the reasons forMr. Belcher's change of look and manner, and saw that her evening'smission would prove fruitless; but her true woman's heart would notpermit her to relinquish her project. 

"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 springing to her eyes inspite of herself, and forgetting all the proprieties she had determinedto observe, "you are a brute. You know you are a brute. He is in alittle cell, no larger than--than--a pig-pen. There isn't a bit offurniture in it. He sleeps on the straw, and in the straw, and under thestraw, and his victuals are poked at him as if he were a beast. He is apoor, patient, emaciated wretch, and he sits on the floor all day, andweaves the most beautiful things out of the straw he sits on, and TomBuffum's girls have got them in the house for ornaments. And he talksabout his rifle, and explains it, and explains it, and explains it, whenanybody will listen to him, and his clothes are all in rags, and thatlittle boy 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 at him, andcalls to him, and cries about him whenever he dares. And you sit here, in your great house, with your carpets and chairs, that half smotheryou, and your looking-glasses and your fine clothes, and don't start toyour feet when I tell you this. I tell you if God doesn't damn everybodywho is responsible for this wickedness, then there is no such thing as aGod. "

Miss Butterworth was angry, and had grown more and more angry with everyword. She had brooded over the matter all the afternoon, and her pent-upindignation had overflowed beyond control. She felt that she had spokentruth which Robert Belcher ought to hear and to heed, yet she knew thatshe had lost her hold upon him. Mr. Belcher listened with the greatestcoolness, while a half smile overspread his face. 

"Don't you think I'm a pretty good-natured man to sit here, " said he, "and hear myself abused in this way, without getting angry?"

"No, I think you are a bad-natured man. I think you are thehardest-hearted and worst man I ever saw. What in God's name has PaulBenedict done, that he should be treated in this way? There are a dozenthere just like him, or worse. Is it a crime to lose one's reason? Iwish you could spend one night in Paul Benedict's room. "

"Thank you. I prefer my present quarters. "

"Yes, you look around on your present quarters, as you call 'em, andthink you'll always have 'em. You won't. Mark my words; you won't. Sometime you'll overreach yourself, and cheat yourself out of 'em. See ifyou don't. "

"It takes a smart man to cheat himself, Miss Butterworth, " respondedMr. 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: "MissButterworth, I have given you considerable time, and perhaps you'll bekind enough to state your business. I'm a practical man, and I reallydon't see anything that particularly concerns me in all this talk. Ofcourse, I'm sorry for Benedict and the rest of 'em, but Sevenoaks isn'ta very rich town, and it cannot afford to board its paupers at thehotel, or to give them many luxuries. "

Miss Butterworth was calm again. She knew that she had done her cause nogood, but was determined to finish her errand. 

"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-meetingcomes to-morrow, and the town's poor are to be sold at auction, and topass into Tom Buffum's hands again, unless you prevent it. I can't makea speech, and I can't vote. I never wanted to until now. You can doboth, and if you don't reform this business, and set Tom Buffum at doingsomething else, and treat God's poor more like human beings, I shall getout of Sevenoaks before it sinks; for sink it will if there is any holebig 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 is a friend ofmine, and I've always regarded him as a very good man for the place. Ofcourse, if there's anything wrong it ought to be righted, but I thinkyou've exaggerated. "

"No, you don't mean to do anything. I see it. Good-night, " and she hadswept out of the door before he could say another word, or rise from hischair. 

She went down the hill into the village. The earth was stiffening withthe frost that lingered late in that latitude, and there were patches ofice, across which she picked her way. There was a great moon overhead, but just then all beautiful things, and all things that tended to lifther thoughts upward, seemed a mockery. She reached the quiet home ofRev. Solomon Snow. 

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

There was only one way to ascertain--so she knocked at the door, and wasreceived so kindly by Mr. Snow and Mrs. Snow and the three Misses Snow, that she sat down and unburdened herself--first, of course, as regardedMr. Robert Belcher, and second, as concerned the Benedicts, father andson. 

The position of Mr. Belcher was one which inspired the minister withcaution, but the atmosphere was freer in his house than in that of theproprietor. The vocal engine whose wheels had slipped upon the trackwith many a whirr, as she started her train in the great house on thehill, found a down grade, and went off easily. Mr. Snow sat in hisarm-chair, his elbows resting on either support, the thumb and everyfinger of each hand touching its twin at the point, and forming a kindof gateway in front of his heart, which seemed to shut out or let inconviction at his will. Mrs. Snow and the girls, whose admiration ofMiss Butterworth for having dared to invade Mr. Belcher's library wasunbounded, dropped their work, and listened with eager attention. Mr. Snow opened the gate occasionally to let in a statement, but for themost part kept it closed. The judicial attitude, the imperturbablespectacles, the long, pale face and white cravat did not prevent MissButterworth from "freeing her mind;" and when she finished the task, agood deal had been made of the case of the insane paupers of Sevenoaks, and there was very little left of Mr. Robert Belcher and Mr. ThomasBuffum. 

At the close of her account of what she had seen at the poor-house, andwhat had passed between her and the great proprietor, Mr. Snow cast hiseyes up to the ceiling, pursed his lips, and somewhere in theprofundities of his nature, or in some celestial laboratory, unseen byany eyes but his own, prepared his judgments. 

"Cases of this kind, " said he, at last, to his excited visitor, whoseeyes glowed like coals as she looked into his impassive face, "are to betreated with great prudence. We are obliged to take things as they air. Personally (with a rising inflection and a benevolent smile), I shouldrejoice to see the insane poor clothed and in their right mind. "

"Let us clothe 'em, then, anyway, " interjected Miss Butterworth, impatiently. "And, as for being in their right mind, that's more thancan be said of those that have the care of 'em. "

"Personally--Miss Butterworth, excuse me--I should rejoice to see themclothed and in their right mind, but the age of miracles is past. Wehave to deal with the facts of to-day--with things as they air. It ispossible, nay, for aught I know, it may be highly probable, that inother towns pauperism may fare better than it does with us. It is to beremembered that Sevenoaks is itself poor, and its poverty becomes one ofthe factors of the problem which you have propounded to us. The town ofBuxton, our neighbor over here, pays taxes, let us say, of seven millson the dollar; we pay seven mills on the dollar. Buxton is rich; we arepoor. Buxton has few paupers; we have many. Consequently, Buxton maymaintain its paupers in what may almost be regarded as a state ofaffluence. It may go as far as feather-beds and winter fires for theaged; nay, it may advance to some economical form of teeth-brushes, andstill demand no more sacrifice from its people than is constantlydemanded of us to maintain our poor in a humbler way. Then there arecertain prudential considerations--certain, I might almost say, moralconsiderations--which are to be taken into account. It will never do, ina town like ours, to make pauperism attractive--to make our pauperestablishments comfortable asylums for idleness. It must, in some way, be made to seem a hardship to go to the poor-house. "

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

"Excuse me, Miss Butterworth; let me repeat, that it must be made toseem a hardship to go to the poor-house. Let us say that we haveaccomplished this very desirable result. So far, so good. Give oursystem whatever credit may belong to it, and still let us franklyacknowledge that we have suffering left that ought to be alleviated. Howmuch? In what way? Here we come into contact with another class offacts. Paupers have less of sickness and death among them than any-otherclass in the community. There are paupers in our establishment that havebeen there for twenty-five years--a fact which, if it proves anything, proves that a large proportion of the wants of our present civilizationare not only artificial in their origin, but harmful in theirgratifications. Our poor are compelled to go back nearer to nature--toold mother nature--and they certainly get a degree of compensation forit. It increases the expenses of the town, to be sure. "

"Suppose we inquire of them, " struck in Miss Butterworth again, "andfind out whether they would not rather be treated better and dieearlier. "

"Paupers are hardly in a position to be consulted in that way, "responded Mr. Snow, "and the alternative is one which, considering theirmoral condition, they would have no right to entertain. "

Miss Butterworth had sat through this rather desultory disquisition withwhat patience she could command, breaking in upon it impulsively atvarious points, and seen that it was drifting nowhere--at least, that itwas not drifting toward the object of her wishes. Then she took up theburden of talk, and carried it on in her very direct way. 

"All you say is well enough, I suppose, " she began, "but I don't stop toreason about it, and I don't wish to. Here is a lot of human beingsthat are treated like brutes--sold every year to the lowest bidder, tobe kept. They go hungry, and naked, and cold. They are in the hands of aman who has no more blood in his heart than there is in a turnip, and wepretend to be Christians, and go to church, and coddle ourselves withcomforts, and pay no more attention to them than we should if theirsouls had gone where their money went. I tell you it's a sin and ashame, and I know it. I feel it. And there's a gentleman among 'em, andhis little boy, and they must be taken out of that place, or treatedbetter in it. I've made up my mind to that, and if the men of Sevenoaksdon't straighten matters on that horrible old hill, then they're just nomen at all. "

Mr. Snow smiled a calm, self-respectful smile, that said, as plainly aswords could say: "Oh! I know women: they are amiably impulsive, butimpracticable. "

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

"Yes, I've been there. "

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

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

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

The three Misses Snow tittered, and looked at one another, but wereimmediately solemnized by a glance from their father. 

Mrs. Snow, having found her tongue--a characteristically lively andemphatic one--went on to say:--

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

"Easily said, my dear, " responded Mr. Snow, "but you forget that Mr. Belcher is Buffum's friend, and that it is impossible to carry anymeasure against him in Sevenoaks. I grant that it ought not to be so. Iwish it were otherwise; but we must take things as they air. "

"To take things as they air, " was a cardinal aphorism in Mr. Snow'sbudget of wisdom. It was a good starting-point for any range ofreasoning, and exceedingly useful to a man of limited intellect andlittle moral courage. The real truth of the case had dawned upon MissButterworth, and it had rankled in the breast of Mrs. Snow from thebeginning of his pointless talk. He was afraid of offending RobertBelcher, for not only did his church need repairing, but his salary wasin arrears, and the wolf that had chased so many up the long hill towhat was popularly known as Tom Buffum's Boarding House he had heardmany a night, while his family was sleeping, howling with menace in thedistance. 

Mrs. Snow rebelled, in every part of her nature, against the power whichhad cowed her reverend companion. There is nothing that so goads aspirited woman to madness as the realization that any man controls herhusband. He may be subservient to her--a cuckold even--but to be matedwith a man whose soul is neither his own nor wholly hers, is to her thetorment of torments. 

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

"Amen! and my name is Butterworth, " responded that lady, making surethat there should be no mistake as to the responsibility for theutterance. 

"Why, mother!" exclaimed the three hisses Snow, in wonder. 

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

"Amen, again!" responded Miss Butterworth. 

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

"No, that is just what I don't forget, " said Mrs. Snow. "I see aChristian pastor afraid of a man of the world, who cares no more aboutChristianity than he does about a pair of old shoes, and who patronizesit for the sake of shutting its mouth against him. It makes me angry, and makes me wish I were a man; and you ought to go to that meetingto-morrow, as a Christian pastor, and put down this shame andwickedness. You have influence, if you will use it. All the people wantis a leader, and some one to tell them the truth. "

"Yes, father, I'm sure you have a _great_ deal of influence, " said theelder 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 his fingerstogether, --whether to keep out the flattery that thus came like a subtlebalm to his heart, or to keep in the self-complacency which had beenengendered, was not apparent. 

He smiled, looking benevolently out upon the group, and said: "Oh, youwomen are so hasty, so hasty, so hasty! I had not said that I would notinterfere. Indeed, I had pretty much made up my mind to do so. But Iwanted you in advance to see things as they air. It may be thatsomething can be done, and it certainly will be a great satisfaction tome if I can be the humble instrument for the accomplishment of areform. "

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

"Yes!" and Mr. Snow looked straight into Miss Butterworth's tearfuleyes, and smiled. 

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

"Dear, " said Mrs. Snow, springing and catching her by the arm, "don'tyou think you ought to put on something more? It's very chillyto-night. "

"Not a rag. I'm hot. I believe I should roast if I had on a feathermore. "

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

"Certainly, just as well as not, " repeated the elder Miss Snow, followedby the second with: "as well as not, " and by the third with: "and beglad to do it. "

"No--no--no--no"--to each. "I can get along better without him, and Idon't mean to give him a chance to take back what he has said. "

Miss Butterworth ran down the steps, the whole family standing in theopen door, with Mr. Snow, in his glasses, behind his good-natured, cackling flock, thoroughly glad that his protective services were deemedof so small value by the brave little tailoress. 

Then Miss Butterworth could see the moon and the stars. Then she couldsee how beautiful the night was. Then she became conscious of theeverlasting roar of the cataracts, and of the wreaths of mist that theysent up into the crisp evening air. To the fear of anything inSevenoaks, in the day or in the night, she was a stranger; so, with alight heart, talking and humming to herself, she went by the silentmill, the noisy dram-shops, and, with her benevolent spirit full of hopeand purpose, reached the house where, in a humble hired room she hadgarnered all her treasures, including the bed and the linen which shehad prepared years before for an event that never took place. 

"The Lord add His blessing, and to His name be all the praise, " shesaid, as she extinguished the candle, laughing in spite of herself, tothink how she had blurted out the prayer and the ascription in the faceof Solomon Snow. 

"Well, he's a broken reed--a broken reed--but I hope Mrs. Snow will tiesomething to him--or starch him--or--something--to make him standstraight for once, " and then she went to sleep, and dreamed of fightingwith Robert Belcher all night. 

CHAPTER II. 

MR. BELCHER CARRIES HIS POINT AT THE TOWN-MEETING, AND THE POOR AREKNOCKED DOWN TO THOMAS BUFFUM. 

The abrupt departure of Miss Butterworth left Mr. Belcher piqued andsurprised. Although he regarded himself as still "master of thesituation"--to use his own pet phrase, --the visit of that spirited womanhad in various ways humiliated him. To sit in his own library, with anintruding woman who not only was not afraid of him but despised him, tosit before her patiently and be called "Bob Belcher, " and a brute, andnot to have the privilege of kicking her out of doors, was the severestpossible trial of his equanimity. She left him so suddenly that he hadnot had the opportunity to insult her, for he had fully intended to dothis before she retired. He had determined, also, as a matter of course, that in regard to the public poor of Sevenoaks he would give all hisinfluence toward maintaining the existing state of things. The idea ofbeing influenced by a woman, particularly by a woman over whom he had noinfluence, to change his policy with regard to anything, public orprivate, was one against which all the brute within him rebelled. 

In this state of mind, angry with himself for having tolerated one whohad so boldly and ruthlessly wounded his self-love, he had but oneresort. He could not confess his humiliation to his wife; and there wasno one in the world with whom he could hold conversation on the subject, except his 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 he had beenwhipped, he stood a full minute regarding his disgraced and speechlessimage. "Are you Robert Belcher, Esquire, of Sevenoaks?" he inquired, atlength. "Are you the person who has been insulted by a woman? Look atme, sir! Turn not away! Have you any constitutional objections totelling me how you feel? Are you, sir, the proprietor of this house? Areyou the owner of yonder mill? Are you the distinguished person whocarries Sevenoaks in his pocket? How are the mighty fallen! And you, sir, who have been insulted by a tailoress, can stand here, and look mein the face, and still pretend to be a man! You are a scoundrel, sir--alow, mean-spirited scoundrel, sir. You are nicely dressed, but you are apuppy. Dare to tell me you are not, and I will grind you under my foot, as I would grind a worm. 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 fiercest facialexpression and the most menacing gesticulations, he became calm, andproceeded:

"Benedict at the poor-house, hopelessly insane! Tell me now, and, markyou, no lies here! Who developed his inventions? Whose money was risked?What did it cost Benedict? Nothing. What did it cost Robert Belcher?More thousands than Benedict ever dreamed of. Have you done your 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 andlast, a great deal of money for him; and any man or woman who disputesme is a liar--a base, malignant liar! Who is still master of thesituation? Whose name is Norval? Whose are these Grampian Hills? Whointends to go to the town-meeting to-morrow, and have things fixed aboutas he wants them? Who will make Keziah Butterworth weep and howl withanguish? Let Robert Belcher alone! Alone! Far in azure depths of space(here Mr. Belcher extended both arms heavenward, and regarded his imageadmiringly), far--far away! Well, you're a pretty good-looking man, after all, and I'll let you off this time; but don't let me catch youplaying baby to another woman! I think you'll be able to take care ofyourself [nodding slowly. ] By-by! Good-night!"

Mr. Belcher retired from the glass with two or three profound bows, hisface beaming with restored self-complacency, and, taking his chair, heresumed his cigar. At this moment, there arose in his memory a singlesentence he had read in the warrant for the meeting of the morrow: "Tosee if the town 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 the public places ofthe village, it had not impressed him particularly. Now, he saw MissButterworth's hand in it. Evidently, Mr. Belcher was not the only manwho had been honored by a call from that philanthropic woman. As hethought the matter over, he regretted that, for the sake of giving formand force to his spite against her, he should be obliged to relinquishthe popularity he might have won by favoring a reformative measure. Hesaw something in it, also, that might be made to add to Tom Buffum'sprofits, but even this consideration weighed nothing against his desirefor personal revenge, to be exhibited in the form of triumphant personalpower. 

He rose from his chair, walked his room, swinging his hands backward andforward, casting furtive glances into his mirror, and then rang hisbell. He had arrived at a conclusion. He had fixed upon his scheme, andwas ready for work. 

"Tell Phipps to come here, " he said to the maid who responded to thesummons. 

Phipps was his coachman, body-servant, table-waiter, pet, butt for hisjests, tool, man of all occasions. He considered himself a part of Mr. Belcher's personal property. To be the object of his clumsy badinage, when visitors were present and his master was particularly amiable, wasequivalent to an honorable public notice. He took Mr. Belcher's cast-offclothes, and had them reduced in their dimensions for his own wearing, and was thus always able to be nearly as well dressed and foppish as theman for whom they were originally made. He was as insolent to others ashe was obsequious to his master--a flunky 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 with his cunningeyes into Mr. Belcher's face, as if questioning his mood. 

"How is your health? You look feeble. Overwhelmed by your tremendousduties? Been sitting up late along back? Eh? You rascal! Who's the happywoman?"

Phipps laughed, and twiddled his fingers. 

"You're a precious fellow, and I've got to get rid of you. You arealtogether too many for me. Where did you get that coat? It seems to meI've seen something like that before. Just tell me how you do it, man. Ican't dress the way you do. Yes, Phipps, you're too many for me!"

Phipps smiled, aware that he was expected to make no reply. 

"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-morrow morning atseven o'clock. "

"Yes, sir. "

"And Phipps, gather all the old clothes about the house that you can'tuse yourself, and tie 'em up in a bundle, and put 'em into the back ofthe wagon. Mum is the word, and if Mrs. Belcher asks you any questions, tell her I think of turning Sister of Charity. "

Phipps snickered. 

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

"Yes, sir. "

"And Phipps, remember:--seven o'clock, sharp, and no soldiering. "

"Yes, sir. "

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

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

"Now make yourself scarce, " said his master, and the man retired, entirely conscious that the person he served had some rascally scheme onfoot, and heartily sympathetic with him in the project of its execution. 

Promptly at seven the next morning, the rakish pair of trotters stoodbefore the door, with a basket and a large bundle in the back of therakish little wagon. Almost at the same moment, the proprietor came out, buttoning his overcoat. Phipps leaped out, then followed his master intothe wagon, who, taking the reins, drove off at a rattling pace up thelong hill toward Tom Buffum's boarding-house. The road lay entirelyoutside of the village, so that the unusual drive was not observed. 

Arriving at the poor-house, Mr. Belcher gave the reins to his servant, and, with a sharp rap upon the door with the butt of his whip, summonedto the latch the red-faced and stuffy keeper. What passed between them, Phipps did not hear, although he tried very hard to do so. At the closeof a half hour's buzzing conversation, Tom Buffum took the bundle fromthe wagon, and pitched it into his doorway. Then, with the basket on hisarm, he and Mr. Belcher made their way across the street to thedormitories and cells occupied by the paupers of both sexes and all agesand conditions. Even the hard-hearted proprietor saw that which woundedhis blunted sensibilities; but he looked on with a bland face, andwitnessed the greedy consumption of the stale dainties of his own table. 

It was by accident that he was led out by a side passage, and there hecaught glimpses of the cells to which Miss Butterworth had alluded, andinhaled an atmosphere which sickened him to paleness, and brought to hislips the exclamation: "For God's sake let's get out of this. "

"Ay! ay!" came tremblingly from behind the bars of a cell, "let's getout of this. "

Mr. Belcher pushed toward the light, but not so quickly that a pair ofeyes, glaring from the straw, failed to recognize him. 

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

It was a call of wild distress--a whine, a howl, an objurgation, allcombined. It was repeated as long as he could hear it. It sounded in hisears as he descended the hill. It came again and again to him as he wasseated at his comfortable breakfast. It rang in the chambers of hisconsciousness for hours, and only a firm and despotic will expelled itat 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 to which his wife and children werenot admitted. The relations between himself and his wife were not new inthe world. He wished to retain her respect, so he never revealed to herhis iniquities. She wished as far as possible to respect him, so shenever made uncomfortable inquiries. He was bountiful to her. He had beenbountiful to many others. She clothed and informed all his acts ofbeneficence with the motives which became them. If she was ever shockedby his vulgarity, he never knew it by any word of hers, in disapproval. If she had suspicions, she did not betray them. Her children weretrained to respect their father, and among them she found thesatisfactions of her life. He had long ceased to be her companion. Asan associate, friend, lover, she had given him up, and, burying in herheart all her griefs and all her loneliness, had determined to make thebest of her life, and to bring her children to believe that their fatherwas a man of honor, of whom they had no reason to be ashamed. If she wasproud, hers was an amiable pride, and to Mr. Belcher's credit let it besaid that he respected her as much as he wished her to honor him. 

For an hour after breakfast, Mr. Belcher was occupied in his library, with his agent, in the transaction of his daily business. Then, just asthe church bell rang its preliminary summons for the assembling of thetown-meeting, Phipps came to the door again with the rakish grays andthe rakish wagon, and Mr. Belcher drove down the steep hill into thevillage, exchanging pleasant words with the farmers whom he encounteredon the way, and stopping at various shops, to speak with those upon whomhe depended for voting through whatever public schemes he found itdesirable to favor. 

The old town-hall was thronged for half-an-hour before the timedesignated in the warrant. Finally, the bell ceased to ring, at theexact moment when Mr. Belcher drove to the door and ascended the steps. There was a buzz all over the house when he entered, and he wassurrounded at once. 

"Have it just as you want it, " shaking his head ostentatiously andmotioning them away, "don't mind anything about me. I'm a passenger, " hesaid aloud, and with a laugh, as the meeting was called to order and thewarrant read, and a nomination for moderator demanded. 

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

Peter Vernol had represented the district in the Legislature, and wassupposed to be familiar with parliamentary usage. He was one of Mr. Belcher's men, of course--as truly owned and controlled by him as Phippshimself. 

Peter Vernol became moderator by acclamation. He was a young man, and, ascending the platform very red in the face, and looking out upon theassembled 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 open his overcoat, "that the Rev. Solomon Snow, whom I am exceedingly glad to see present, open our deliberations with prayer. "

The moderator, forgetting apparently that the motion had not been put, thereupon invited the reverend gentleman to the platform, from which, when his service had been completed, he with dignity retired--but withthe painful consciousness that in some way Mr. Belcher had become awareof the philanthropic task he had undertaken. He knew he was beaten, atthe very threshold of his enterprise--that his conversations of themorning among his neighbors had been reported, and that Paul Benedictand his fellow-sufferers would be none the better for him. 

The business connected with the various articles of the warrant wastransacted without notable discussion or difference. Mr. Belcher'sticket for town officers, which he took pains to show to those aroundhim, was unanimously adopted. When it came to the question of schools, Mr. Belcher indulged in a few flights of oratory. He thought itimpossible for a town like Sevenoaks to spend too much money forschools. He felt himself indebted to the public school for all that hewas, and all that he had won. The glory of America, in his view--itspre-eminence above all the exhausted and decayed civilizations of theOld World--was to be found in popular education. It was thedistinguishing feature of our new and abounding national life. Drop it, falter, recede, and the darkness that now hangs over England, and thethick darkness that envelops the degenerating hordes of the Continent, would settle down upon fair America, and blot her out forever from thelist of the earth's teeming nations. He would pay good wages toteachers. He would improve school-houses, and he would do it as a matterof economy. It was, in his view, the only safeguard against theencroachments of a destructive pauperism. "We are soon, " said Mr. Belcher, "to consider whether we will take any steps for the improvementof the condition of the poor, now supported at the public charge. Hereis our first step. Let us endow our children with such a degree ofintelligence that pauperism shall be impossible. In this thing I go handin hand with the clergy. On many points I do not agree with them, but onthis matter of popular education, I will do them the honor to say thatthey have uniformly been in advance of the rest of us. I join hands withthem here to-day, and, as any advance in our rate of taxation forschools will bear more heavily upon me than upon any other citizen--I donot say it boastingly, gentlemen--I pledge myself to support and standby it. "

Mr. Belcher's speech, delivered with majestic swellings of his broadchest, the ostentatious removal of his overcoat, and brilliant passagesof oratorical action, but most imperfectly summarized in this report, was received with cheers. Mr. Snow himself feebly joined in theapproval, although he knew it was intended to disarm him. His strength, his resolution, his courage, ebbed away with sickening rapidity; and hewas not reassured by a glance toward the door, where he saw, sittingquite alone, Miss Butterworth herself, who had come in for the purposepartly of strengthening him, and partly of informing herself concerningthe progress of a reform which had taken such strong hold upon hersympathies. 

At length the article in the warrant which most interested that goodlady was taken up, and Mr. Snow rose to speak upon it. He spoke of thereports he had heard concerning the bad treatment that the paupers, andespecially those who were hopelessly insane, had received in thealms-house, enlarged upon the duties of humanity and Christianity, andexpressed the conviction that the enlightened people of Sevenoaks shouldspend more money for the comfort of the unfortunate whom Heaven hadthrown upon their charge, and particularly that they should institute amore searching and competent inspection of their pauper establishment. 

As he took his seat, all eyes were turned upon Mr. Belcher, and thatgentleman rose for a second exhibition of his characteristic eloquence. 

"I do not forget, " said Mr. Belcher, "that we have present here to-dayan old and well-tried public servant. I see before me Mr. Thomas Buffum, who, for years, has had in charge the poor, not only of this town, butof this county. I do not forget that his task has been one of greatdelicacy, with the problem constantly before him how to maintain incomfort our most unfortunate class of population, and at the same timeto reduce to its minimum the burden of our taxpayers. That he has solvedthis problem and served the public well, I most firmly believe. He hasbeen for many years my trusted personal friend, and I cannot sit hereand hear his administration questioned, and his integrity and humanitydoubted, without entering my protest. [Cheers, during which Mr. Buffumgrew very red in the face. ] He has had a task to perform before whichthe bravest of us would shrink. We, who sit in our peaceful homes, knowlittle of the hardships to which this faithful public servant has beensubjected. Pauperism is ungrateful. Pauperism is naturally filthy. Pauperism is 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 standby him. " [Tremendous cheers. ]

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

"An open-hand, free competition: this has been my policy, in a businessof whose prosperity you are the best judges. I say an open-hand and freecompetition in everything. How shall we dispose of our poor? Shall theybe disposed of by private arrangement--sold out to favorites, of whoseresponsibility we know nothing? [Cries of no, no, no!] If anybody who isresponsible--and now he is attacked, mark you, I propose to stand behindand be responsible for Mr. Buffum myself--can do the work cheaper andbetter than Mr. Buffum, let him enter at once upon the task. But let thecompetition be free, nothing covered up. Let us have clean hands in thisbusiness, if nowhere else. If we cannot have impartial dealing, wherethe interests of humanity are concerned, we are unworthy of the trust wehave assumed. I give the Rev. Mr. Snow credit for motives that areunimpeachable--unimpeachable, sir. I do not think him capable ofintentional wrong, and I wish to ask him, here and now, whether, withina recent period, he has visited the pauper establishment of Sevenoaks. "

Mr. Snow rose and acknowledged that it was a long time since he hadentered Mr. Buffum's establishment. 

"I thought so. He has listened to the voice of rumor. Very well. I haveto say that I have been there recently, and have walked through theestablishment. I should do injustice to myself, and fail to hint to thereverend gentleman, and all those who sympathize with him, what I regardas one of their neglected duties, if I should omit to mention that I didnot go empty-handed. [Loud cheers. ] It is easy for those who neglecttheir own duties to suspect that others do the same. I know our paupersare not supported in luxury. We cannot afford to support them in luxury;but I wash my hands of all responsibility for inhumanity and inattentionto their reasonable wants. The reverend gentleman himself knows, Ithink, whether any man ever came to me for assistance on behalf of anyhumane or religious object, and went away without aid, I cannot consentto be placed in a position that reflects upon my benevolence, and, leastof all, by the reverend gentleman who has reflected upon thatadministration of public charity which has had, and still retains, myapproval. I therefore move that the usual sum be appropriated for thesupport of the poor, and that at the close of this meeting the care ofthe poor for the ensuing year be disposed of at public auction to thelowest bidder. "

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

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

"Mr. Moderator, " said he, in a screaming voice, "as I am the medicalattendant and inspector of our pauper establishment, it becomes properfor me, in seconding the motion of Mr. Belcher, as I heartily do, to saya few words, and submit my report for the past year. "

Dr. Radcliffe was armed with a large document, and the assembled votersof Sevenoaks were getting tired. 

"I move, " said Mr. Belcher, "that, as the hour is late, the reading ofthe report be dispensed with. " The motion was seconded, and carried_nem. Con_. 

The Doctor was wounded in a sensitive spot, and was determined not to beput down. 

"I may at least say, " he went on, "that I have made some discoveriesduring the past year that ought to be in the possession of thescientific world. It takes less food to support a pauper than it doesany other man, and I believe the reason is that he hasn't any mind. If Itake two potatoes, one goes to the elaboration of mental processes, theother to the support of the physical economy. The pauper has only aphysical economy, and he needs but one potato. Anemia is the normalcondition of the pauper. He breathes comfortably an atmosphere whichwould give a healthy man asphyxia. Hearty food produces inflammatorydiseases and a general condition of hypertrophy. The character of thediseases at the poor-house, during the past year, has been typhoid. Ihave suggested to Mr. Buffum better ventilation, a change fromfarinaceous to nitrogenous food as conducive to a better condition ofthe mucous surfaces and a more perfect oxydation of 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 thequestion, amid the protests of Dr. Radcliffe; and it was triumphantlycarried. 

And now, as the town-meeting drops out of this story, let us leave it, and leave Mr. Thomas Buffum at its close to underbid all contestants forthe privilege of feeding the paupers of Sevenoaks for another year. 

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH JIM FENTON IS INTRODUCED TO THE READER AND INTRODUCES HIMSELFTO MISS BUTTERWORTH. 

Miss Butterworth, while painfully witnessing the defeat of her hopesfrom the last seat in the hall, was conscious of the presence at herside of a very singular-looking personage, who evidently did not belongin Sevenoaks. He was a woodsman, who had been attracted to the hall byhis desire to witness the proceedings. His clothes, originally of strongmaterial, were patched; he held in his hand a fur cap without a visor;and a rifle leaned on the bench at his side. She had been attracted tohim by his thoroughly good-natured face, his noble, muscular figure, andcertain exclamations that escaped from his lips during the speeches. Finally, he turned to her, and with a smile so broad and full that itbrought an answer to her own face, he said: "This 'ere breathin' isworse nor an old swamp. I'm goin', and good-bye to ye!"

Why this remark, personally addressed to her, did not offend her, comingas it did from a stranger, she did not know; but it certainly did notseem impudent. There was something so simple and strong and manly abouthim, as he had sat there by her side, contrasted with the baser andbetter dressed men before her, that she took his address as an honorablecourtesy. 

When the woodsman went out upon the steps of the town-hall, to get abreath, he found there such an assembly of boys as usually gathers invillages on the smallest public occasion. Squarely before the door stoodMr. Belcher's grays, and in Mr. Belcher's wagon sat Mr. Belcher's man, Phipps. Phipps was 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. The boys were laughing athis funny remarks, envying him his proud eminence, and discussing themerits of the horses and the various points of the attractiveestablishment. 

As the stranger appeared, he looked down upon the boys with a broadsmile, which attracted them at once, and quite diverted them from theirflattering attentions to Phipps--a fact quickly perceived by the latter, and as quickly revenged in a way peculiar to himself and the man fromwhom he had learned it. 

"This is the hippopotamus, gentlemen, " said Phipps, "fresh from hisnative woods. He sleeps underneath the banyan-tree, and lives on thenuts of the hick-o-ree, and pursues his prey with his tail extendedupward and one eye open, and has been known when excited by hunger toeat small boys, spitting out their boots with great violence. Keep outof his way, gentlemen! Keep out of his way, and observe his wickednessat a distance. "

Phipps's saucy speech was received with a great roar by the boys, whowere surprised to notice that the animal himself was not only notdisturbed, but very much amused by being shown up as a curiosity. 

"Well, you're a new sort of a monkey, anyway, " said the woodsman, afterthe laugh had subsided. "I never hearn one talk afore. "

"You never will again, " retorted Phipps, "if you give me any more ofyour lip. "

The woodsman walked quickly toward Phipps, as if he were about to pullhim from his seat. 

Phipps saw the motion, started the horses, and was out of his way in aninstant. 

The boys shouted in derision, but Phipps did not come back, and thestranger was the hero. They gathered around him, asking questions, allof which he good-naturedly answered. He seemed to be pleased with theirsociety, as if he were only a big boy himself, and wanted to make themost of the limited time which his visit to the town afforded him. 

While he was thus standing as the center of an inquisitive and admiringgroup, Miss Butterworth came out of the town-hall. Her eyes were full oftears, and her eloquent face expressed vexation and distress. Thestranger saw the look and the tears, and, leaving the boys, heapproached her without the 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, conscious that in thatkind inquiry there breathed as genuine respect and sympathy as ever hadreached her ears in the voice of a man. 

"Because, " said the man, still walking along at her side, "I'm spilin'to do somethin' for somebody, and I wouldn't mind thrashin' anybodyyou'd p'int out. "

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

"Well, I shouldn't like to kill 'im, " responded the man, "unless it wasan accident in the woods--a great ways off--for a turkey or ahedgehog--and the gun half-cocked. "

The little tailoress smiled through her tears, though she felt veryuneasy at being observed in company and conversation with therough-looking stranger. He evidently divined the thoughts whichpossessed her, and said, as if only the mention of his name would makehim an acquaintance:

"I'm Jim Fenton. I trap for a livin' up in Number Nine, and have jestbrung 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 must shoulder my sack andbe off. I don't see women much, but I'm fond of 'em, and they're prettyapt to like me. "

"Good-bye, " said the woman. "I think you're the best man I've seento-day;" and then, as if she had said more than became a modest woman, she added, "and that isn't saying very much. "

They parted, and Jim Fenton stood perfectly still in the street andlooked at her, until she disappeared around a corner. "That's what Icall a genuine creetur', " he muttered to himself at last, "a genuinecreetur'. "

Then Jim Fenton went into the store, where he had sold his skins andbought his supplies, and, after exchanging a few jokes with those whohad observed his interview with Miss Butterworth, he shouldered his sackas he called it, and started for Number Nine. The sack was a contrivanceof his own, with two pouches which depended, one before and one behind, from his broad shoulders. Taking his rifle in his hand, he bade thegroup that had gathered around him a hearty good-bye, and started on hisway. 

The afternoon was not a pleasant one. The air was raw, and, as the sunwent toward its setting, the wind came on to blow from the north-west. This was just as he would have it. It gave him breath, and stimulatedthe vitality that was necessary to him in the performance of his longtask. A tramp of forty miles was not play, even to him, and this longdistance was to be accomplished before he could reach the boat thatwould bear him and his burden into the woods. 

He crossed the Branch at its principal bridge, and took the same path upthe hill that Robert Belcher had traveled in the morning. About half-wayup the hill, as he was going on with the stride of a giant, he saw alittle boy at the side of the road, who had evidently been weeping. Hewas thinly and very shabbily clad, and was shivering with cold. Thegreat, healthy heart within Jim Fenton was touched in an instant. 

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

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

"I guess not. You're as blue as a whetstone. You haven't got as much onyou 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't wish to take it, sir. "

"Now, that's good! Don't wish to take it! Why, what's your name? You'rea 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 in anotherflow of tears. 

"Well, well, well, well! If that ain't the strangest thing I ever hearnon! Paul Benedict, of Sevenoaks, in Tom Buffum's Boardin'-house!"

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

Jim Fenton set his rifle against a rock at the roadside, slowly liftedoff his pack and placed it near the rifle, and then sat down on a stoneand called the boy to him, folding him in his great warm arms to hiswarm breast. 

"Harry, my boy, " said Jim, "your pa and me was old friends. We havehunted together, fished together, eat together, and slept togethermany's the day and night. He was the best shot that ever come into thewoods. I've seed him hit a deer at fifty rod many's the time, and heused to bring up the nicest tackle for fishin', every bit of it madewith 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' a year inthe woods jest to have 'im with me for a fortnight. I never charged 'ima red cent fur nothin', and I've got some of his old tackle now that hegive me. Him an' me was like brothers, and he used to talk aboutreligion, and tell me I ought to shift over, but I never could see'zactly what I ought to shift over from, or shift over to; but I let 'imtalk, 'cause he liked to. He used to go out behind the trees nights, andI hearn him sayin' somethin'--somethin' very low, as I am talkin' to yenow. Well, he was prayin'; that's the fact about it, I s'pose; and yeknow I felt jest as safe when that man was round! I don't believe Icould a' been drownded when 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; but perhaps it'llall come out right. Where's your ma, boy?"

Harry gave a great, shuddering gasp, and, answering him that she wasdead, gave himself up to another fit of crying. 

"Oh, now don't! now don't!" said Jim tenderly, pressing the distressedlad still closer to his heart. "Don't ye do it; it don't do no good. Itjest 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 thepoor-house. She's all right. God Almighty's bound to take care o' her. Now, ye jest stop that sort o' thing. She's better off with him nor shewould be with Tom Buffum--any amount better off. Doesn't Tom Buffumtreat your pa well?"

"Oh, no, sir; he doesn't give him enough to eat, and he doesn't let himhave things in his room, because he says he'll hurt himself, or breakthem all to pieces, and he doesn't give him good clothes, nor anythingto cover himself up with when it's cold. "

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

"Yes, sir. "

"It won't do fur me to tell ye, 'cause I'm rough, but if there'sanything awful bad--oh, bad as anything can be, in Skeezacks--I shouldsay that Tom Buffum was an old Skeezacks. "

Jim Fenton was feeling his way. 

"I should say he was an infernal old Skeezacks. That isn't very bad, isit?"

"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 said it, butunless a feller has got some sort o' religion he has a mighty hard timenamin' people in this world. What's that?"

Jim started with the sound in his ear of what seemed to be a cry ofdistress. 

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

Then Jim thought of the speeches he had heard in the town-meeting, andrecalled the distress of Miss Butterworth, and the significance of allthe scenes he had so recently witnessed. 

"Look 'ere, boy; can ye keep right 'ere, " tapping him on his breast, "whatsomever I tell ye? Can you keep yer tongue still?--hope you'll dieif ye don't?"

There was something in these questions through which the intuitions ofthe lad saw help, both for his father and himself. Hope strung hislittle muscles in an instant, his attitude became 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' to stay to thepoor-house to-night, if they'll keep me, an' I guess they will; and I'mgoin' to see yer pa too, and somehow you and he must be got out of thisplace. "

The boy threw his arms around Jim's neck, and kissed him passionately, again and again, without the power, apparently, to give any otherexpression to his emotions. 

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

Jim paused, as if to realize how sweet it was to hold the trustingchild in his arms, and to be thus caressed, and then said: "Ye must bemighty keerful, and do just as I bid ye. If I stay to the poor-houseto-night, I shall want to see ye in the mornin', and I shall want to seeye alone. Now ye know there's a big stump by the side of the road, half-way up to the old school-house. "

Harry gave his assent. 

"Well, I want ye to be thar, ahead o' me, and then I'll tell ye jestwhat I'm a goin' to do, and jest what I want to have ye do. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Now mind, ye mustn't know me when I'm about the house, and mustn't tellanybody you've seed me, and I mustn't know you. Now ye leave all therest to Jim Fenton, yer pa's old friend. Don't ye begin to feel a littlebetter now?"

"Yes, sir. "

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

Harry kissed him, and then Jim said: "Now make tracks for yer oldboardin'-house. I'll be along bimeby. "

The boy started upon a brisk run, and Jim still sat upon the stonewatching him until he disappeared somewhere among the angles of thetumble-down buildings that constituted the establishment. 

"Well, Jim Fenton, " he said to himself, "ye've been spilin' fursomethin' to do fur somebody. I guess ye've got it, and not a very smalljob neither. "

Then he shouldered his pack, took up his rifle, looked up at the cloudyand blustering sky, and pushed up the hill, still talking to himself, and saying: "A little boy of about his haighth and bigness ain't a badthing to take. "

CHAPTER IV. 

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

As Jim walked up to the door of the building occupied by Tom Buffum'sfamily, he met the head of the family coming out; and as, hitherto, thatpersonage has escaped description, it will be well for the reader tomake his acquaintance. The first suggestion conveyed by his rotundfigure was, that however scantily he furnished his boarders, he neverstinted himself in the matter of food. He had the sluggish, clumsy lookof a heavy eater. His face was large, his almost colorless eyes weresmall, and, if one might judge by the general expression of hisfeatures, his favorite viand was pork. Indeed, if the swine into whichthe devils once entered had left any descendants, it would be legitimateto suppose that the breed still thrived in the most respectable styconnected with his establishment. He was always hoarse, and spoke eitherin a whisper or a wheeze. For this, or for some other reason notapparent, he was a silent man, rarely speaking except when addressed bya question, and never making conversation with anybody. From the time hefirst started independently in the world, he had been in some publicoffice. Men with dirty work to do had found him wonderfully serviceable, and, by ways which it would be hard to define to the ordinary mind, hehad so managed that every town and county office, in which there was anymoney, had been by turns in his hands. 

"Well, Mr. Buffum, how fare ye?" said Jim, walking heartily up to him, and shaking his hand, his face glowing with good-nature. 

Mr. Buffum's attempt to respond to this address ended in a wheeze and acough. 

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

Buffum made no reply, but stooped down, took a sliver from a log, andbegan to pick his teeth. Jim watched him with quiet amusement. The moreMr. Buffum thought, the more furious he grew with his toothpick. 

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

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

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

To the women of Tom Buffum's household, a visitor was a godsend. Socially, they had lived all their lives in a state of starvation. Theyknew all about Jim Fenton, and had exchanged many a saucy word with him, as he had passed their house on his journeys to and from Sevenoaks. 

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

"In course, " responded Jim, "an' I can take up with what ye haven'tgot. "

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

"So is mine to home, " responded Jim. "I allers sleep hangin' on agambrel, between two slabs. "

While Mr. Tom Buffum's "women" were laughing, Jim lifted off his pack, placed his rifle in the corner of the room, and sat down in front of thefire, running on with his easygoing tongue through preposterousstories, and sundry flattering allusions to the beauty andattractiveness of the women to whose hospitalities he had committedhimself. 

After supper, to which he did full justice, the family drew around theevening fire, and while Mr. Buffum went, or seemed to go, to sleep, inhis chair, his guest did his best to entertain the minor members of thegroup. 

"This hollerin' ye have here reminds me, " said Jim, "of Number Nine. Ther's some pretty tall hollerin' thar nights. Do ye see how my ha'rsticks up? I can't keep it down. It riz one night jest about where yousee it now, and it's mostly been thar ever sence. Combin' don't do nogood Taller don't do no good. Nothin' don't do no good. I s'pose if Mr. Buffum, a-snorin' jest as hard as he does now, should set on it for afortnight, it would spring right up like a staddle, with a b'ar ketchedat the eend of it, jest as quick as he let up on me. " At this there wasa slight rumble in Mr. Buffum's throat. 

"Why, what made it rise so?" inquired the most interested and eldestMiss Buffum. 

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

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

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

"Now, Jim Fenton, you shall go along and tell your story, and not keepus on tenter-hooks all night, " said Miss Buffum sharply. 

"I don't want to scare the dear little heart out o' ye, " said Jim, witha killing look of his eyes, "but if ye will hear it, I s'pose I musttell ye. Ye see I'm alone purty much all the time up thar. I don't haveno such times as I'm havin' here to-night, with purty gals 'round me. Well, one night I hearn a loon, or thought I hearn one. It sounded 'wayoff on the lake, and bimeby it come nigher, and then I thought it was apainter, but it didn't sound 'zactly like a painter. My dog Turk hedon't mind such things, but he knowed it wa'r'n't a loon and wa'r'n't apainter. So he got up and went to the door, and then the yell come agin, and he set up the most un'arthly howl I ever hearn. I flung one o' myboots 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 skeeters waspurty busy, and I thought I'd git up. So I went to my cabin door andflung it open. The moon was shinin', and the woods was still, but Turk, he rushed out, and growled and barked like mad. Bimeby he got tired, andcome back lookin' kind o' skeered, and says I: 'Ye're a purty dog, ain'tye?' Jest then I hearn the thing nigher, and I begun to hear the brushcrack. I knowed I'd got to meet some new sort of a creetur, and I jeststepped back and took my rifle. When I stood in the door agin, I seensomethin' comin'. It was a walkin' on two legs like a man, and it was aman, or somethin' that looked like one. He come toward the cabin, andstopped about three rod off. He had long white hair that looked jestlike silk under the moon, and his robes was white, and he had somethin'in his hand that shined like silver. I jest drew up my rifle, and saysI: 'Whosomever you be, stop, or I'll plug ye. ' What do ye s'pose he did?He jest took that shinin' thing and swung it round and round his head, and I begun to feel the ha'r start, and up it come all over me. Then heput suthin' to his mouth, and then I knowed it was a trumpet, and hejest blowed till all the woods rung, and rung, and rung agin, and Ihearn it comin' back from the mountain, louder nor it was itself. Andthen says I to 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 agood deal of a toot; who be ye callin' to dinner?' And says he: 'It'sthe last day! Come to jedgment! I'm the Angel Gabr'el!' 'Well, ' says I, 'if ye're the Angel Gabr'el, cold lead won't hurt ye, so mind yer eyes!'At that I drew a bead on 'im, and if ye'll b'lieve it, I knocked a tinhorn out of his hands and picked it up the next mornin', and he went offinto the woods like a streak o' lightnin'. But my ha'r hain't never comedown. "

Jim stroked the refractory locks toward his forehead with his huge hand, and they rose behind it like a wheat-field behind a summer wind. As hefinished the manipulation, Mr. Buffum gave symptoms of life. Like avolcano under premonitory signs of an eruption, a wheezy chuckle seemedto begin somewhere in the region of his boots, and rise, growing moreand more audible, until it burst into a full demonstration, that washalf laugh and half cough. 

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

The truth was that Mr. Buffum had not slept at all. The simulation ofsleep had been indulged in simply to escape the necessity of talking. 

"It was old Tilden, " said Mr. Buffum, and then went off into another fitof coughing and laughing that nearly strangled him. 

"I wonder if it was!" seemed to come simultaneously from the lips of themother 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 wasleft of 'im. There wasn't much left but an old shirt and some bones, an'I guess he wa'n't no great shakes of an angel. I buried 'im where Ifound 'im, and said nothin' to nobody. "

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

"The truth is, " said Mrs. Buffum, "that folks made a great fuss abouthis gettin' away from here and never bein' found. I thought 'twas a goodriddance myself, but people seem to think that these crazy critturs arejust as much consequence as any body, when they don't know a thing. Hewas always arter our dinner horn, and blowin', and thinkin' he was theAngel Gabriel. Well, it's a comfort to know he's buried, and isn't nomore expense. "

"I sh'd like to see some of these crazy people, " said Jim. "They must bea jolly set. My ha'r can't stand any straighter nor it does now, andwhen you feed the animals in the mornin', I'd kind o' like to go roundwith ye. "

The women insisted that he ought not to do it. Only those who understoodthem, and were used to them, ought to see them. 

"You see, we can't give 'em much furnitur', " said Mrs. Buffum. "Theybreak it, and they tear their beds to pieces, and all we can do is tojest keep them alive. As for keepin' their bodies and souls together, Idon't s'pose they've got any souls. They are nothin' but animils, as yousay, and I don'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 blowed about oldTilden, 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', " said Mrs. Buffum, "and we shall clean up a little, and put in new straw, and p'r'aps youcan go round with him?"

Mr. Buffum nodded his assent, and after an evening spent instory-telling and chaffing, Jim went to bed upon the shakedown in anupper room to which he was conducted. 

Long before he was on his feet in the morning, the paupers of theestablishment had been fed, and things had been put in order for themedical inspector. Soon after breakfast, the Doctor's crazy little gigwas seen ascending the hill, and Mr. Buffum and Jim were at the doorwhen he drove up. Buffum took the Doctor aside, and told him of Jim'sdesire to make the rounds with him. Nothing could have delighted thelittle man more than a proposition of this kind, because it gave him anopportunity to talk. Jim had measured his man when he heard him speakthe previous day, and as they crossed the road together, he said:"Doctor, they didn't treat ye very well down there yesterday. I said tomyself; '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 jest as good asstomped on by a set o' fellows that didn't know a hole in the groundwhen they seen it?' and, says I, answerin' myself, 'ye'd 'a' made thefur fly, and spilt blood. '"

"Ah, " responded the Doctor, "Violence resteth in the bosom 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 hearn a great dealabout science, but I live up in the woods, and I can't read very much, and ye see I ain't edicated, and I made up my mind if I ever found a manas knowed what science was, I'd ask him. "

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

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

"Not in Sevenoaks, " replied the Doctor, with a bitter smile. 

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

"Pardon me, Mr. Fenton, " replied the Doctor. "You'll excuse me, when Iveil you that you have not arrived at that mental altitude--thatintellectual plane--"

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

The case being hopeless, the Doctor went on and opened the door intowhat he was pleased to call "the insane ward. " As Jim put his head intothe 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 out its days andnights within the stingy cells, his great heart melted with pity. Forthe first moments, his disposition to jest passed away, and all his soulrose up in indignation. If profane words came to his lips, they camefrom genuine commiseration, and a sense of the outrage that had beencommitted upon those who had been stamped with the image of theAlmighty. 

"This is a case of Shakspearean madness, " said Dr. Radcliffe, pausingbefore the barred and grated cell that held a half-nude woman. It was alittle box of a place, with a rude bedstead in one corner, filthy beyondthe power of water to cleanse. The occupant sat on a little bench inanother corner, with her eyes rolled up to Jim's in a tragic expression, which would make the fortune of an actress. He felt of his hair, impulsively. 

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

She gave him no answer, but glared at him as if she would search thevery 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 that had left herbrain 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 try it on; but if sheain't I'll take the next one. "

"Oh, she doesn't know what she's about, but it's a very curious form ofinsanity, and has almost a romantic interest attached to it from thefact that it did not escape the notice of the great bard. "

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

The Doctor looked at his visitor inquisitively, but the woodman's facewas as innocent as that of a child. Then they passed on to the nextcell, and there they found another Woman sitting quietly in the corner, among the straw. 

"How fare ye, this mornin'?" inquired Jim, with a voice full ofkindness. 

"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 tenyear 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 for fifteen years, "replied the Doctor, coolly. "That's rather an interesting case, too. I've given it a good deal of study. It's hopeless, of course, but it's amarked case, and full of suggestion to a scientific man. "

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

The Doctor laughed, and led him on to the next cell, and here he foundthe most wretched creature he had ever seen. He greeted her as he hadgreeted the others, and she looked up to him with surprise, raisedherself from the straw, and said:

"You speak like a Christian. "

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

"Well, I ain't no Christian, as I knows on, " he responded, "an' I don'tthink they're very plenty in these parts; but I'm right sorry for ye. You look as if you might be a good sort 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 theworld. All the people have got the plague, and they don't know it. Mychildren all died of it, and went to hell. Everybody is going to hell, and nothing can 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, " saidJim. 

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

"I really can't, this mornin', " he replied, "for I've got a good waysto tramp to-day; but if I ever want to kill anybody I'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 wasmade by Mr. Buffum. She had begged him to kill her so often that hethought he would put her to the test, and he agreed he would do so. Sohe set her up by that wall, and took a heavy stick from the wood-pile, raised it as high as the room would permit, and then brought it downwith great violence, burying the end of the bludgeon in the plastering. I suppose he came within three inches of her head, and she never winked. It was a very interesting experiment, as it illustrated the genuinenessof her desire for death Otherwise the case is much like many others. "

"Very interestin', " responded Jim, "very! Didn't you never think ofmakin' her so easy and comfortable that she wouldn't want any body tokill her? I sh'd think that would be an interestin' experiment. "

Now the Doctor had one resort, which, among the people of Sevenoaks, wasinfallible, whenever he wished to check argumentation on any subjectrelating to his profession. Any man who undertook to argue a medicalquestion with him, or make a suggestion relating to medical treatment, he was in the habit of flooring at once, by wisely and almost pityinglyshaking his head, and saying: "It's very evident to me, sir, that you'venot received a medical education. " So, when Jim suggested, in hispeculiar way, that the woman ought to be treated better, the Doctor sawthe point, and made his usual response. 

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

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

And Jim seized the Doctor's hand, and gave it a pressure which raisedthe little man off the floor. 

The Doctor looked at him with eyes equally charged with amusement andamazement. He never had been met in that way before, and was notinclined to leave the field without in some way convincing Jim of hisown superiority. 

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

"Well, I seen a good many garters, " replied the woodsman, 'in thestores, 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't make muchuse of 'em. "

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

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

"If you were in one of these cells, " said the Doctor, "I should thinkyou were as mad as a March hare. "

At this moment the Doctor's attention was called to a few harmlesspatients who thronged toward him as soon as they learned that he was inthe building, begging for medicine; for if there is anything that apauper takes supreme delight in it is drugs. Passing along with them toa little lobby, where he could inspect them more conveniently, he leftJim behind, as that personage did not prove to be so interesting andimpressible as he had hoped. Jim watched him as he moved away, with aquiet chuckle, and then turned to pursue his investigations. The nextcell he encountered held the man he was looking for. Sitting in thestraw, talking to himself or some imaginary companion, he saw his oldfriend. It took him a full minute to realize that the gentle sportsman, the true Christian, the delicate man, the delightful companion, wasthere before him, a wreck--cast out from among his fellows, confined ina noisome cell, and hopelessly given over to his vagrant fancies and thetender mercies of Thomas Buffum. When the memory of what Paul Benedicthad been to him, at one period of his life, came to Jim, with the fullrealization of his present misery and degradation, the strong man weptlike a child. He drew an old silk handkerchief from his pocket, blew hisnose as if it had been a trumpet, and then slipped up to the cell andsaid, softly: "Paul Benedict, give us your benediction. "

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

"Good God! he knows me, " said Jim, whimpering. "Yes, Mr. Benedict, I'mthe 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 ye git in here?"

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

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

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

"Oh, yes; I see! I guess you're right, " said Jim, falling in with hisfancy. 

"But where did you come from, Jim? I never heard that you 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 such a place asthis!" said Benedict, wonderingly. 

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

"How did you get across the gulf?"

"I jest shoved over in a birch, an' ye must be perlite enough to returnthe call, " replied Jim, in the most matter-of-course manner possible. 

Benedict looked down upon his torn and wretched clothing, and thenturned his pitiful eyes up to Jim, who saw the thoughts that werepassing in the poor man's mind. 

"Never mind your clo'es, " he said. "I dress jest the same there as I didin Number Nine, and nobody says a word. The fact is, they don't mindvery much about clo'es there, any way. I'll come over and git ye, yeknow, an' interjuce ye, and ye shall have jest as good a time as JimFenton can give ye. "

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

"Yes, an' plenty of amanition. There ain't no game to speak on--only afew pa'tridge; but we can shoot at a mark all day, ef we want to. "

Benedict tottered to his feet and came to the grated door, with his eyesall alight with hope and expectation. "Jim, you always were a goodfellow, " said he, dropping his voice to a whisper, "I'll show you myimprovements. Belcher mustn't get hold of them. He's after them. I hearhim round nights, but he shan't have them. I've got a new tumbler, and--"

"Well, never mind now, " replied Jim. "It'll be jest as well when ye comeover to spend the day with me. Now ye look a here! Don't you say nothin'about this to nobody. They'll all want to go, and we can't have 'em. Youan' I want to git red of the crowd, ye know. We allers did. So when Icome arter ye, jest keep mum, and we'll have a high old time. "

All the intellect that Benedict could exercise was summoned tocomprehend this injunction. He nodded his head; he laid it up in hismemory. Hope had touched him, and he had won at least a degree ofmomentary strength and steadiness from her gracious finger. 

"Now jest lay down an' rest, an' keep your thoughts to yerself till Icome agin. Don't tell nobody I've be'n here, and don't ask leave ofnobody. I'll settle with the old boss if he makes any sort of a row; andye know when Jim Fenton says he'll stand between ye and all harm hemeans it, an' nothin' else. "

"Yes, Jim. "

"An' when I come here--most likely in the night--I'll bring a robe toput 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, while Jim went alongto rejoin the Doctor. Outside of this door was still a solid one, whichhad been thrown wide open in the morning for the purpose of admittingthe air. In this door Jim discovered a key, which he quietly placed inhis pocket, and which he judged, by its size, was fitted to the lock ofthe inner as well as the outer door. He had already discovered that thedoor by which he entered the building was bolted upon the outside, thekeeper doubtless supposing that no one would wish to enter so foul aplace, and trusting thus to keep the inmates in durance. 

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

"Yes, I see it, " replied the Doctor tartly. He thought he had shaken offhis unpleasant visitor, and his return disturbed him. 

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

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

"I'd jest combed it when you come this mornin'. D'ye ever 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' my hand? Thatstands up jest the same. Why, Doctor, I feel like a hedgehog! What am Igoin' to do?"

"Why, this is really very interesting!" said the Doctor, taking out hisnote-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 a Scotchman, I wasborn in Ireland, raised in Canady, and have lived for ten year in NumberNine. "

"How does your head feel now?"

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

The Doctor looked him over as if he were a bullock, and went on with hisstatistics: "Weight, about two hundred pounds; height, six feet two;temperament, sanguine-bilious. "

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

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

"I'd like to see the case again, " said Dr. Radcliffe, nodding. "I shallnot detain you long. The matter has a certain scientific interest. "

"Well, good-bye, Doctor, " said Jim, holding down his hair. "I'm off forNumber Nine. I'm much obleeged for lettin' me go round with ye; an' Inever want to go agin. "

Jim went out into the pleasant morning air. The sun had dispelled thelight frost of the night, the sky was blue overhead, and the blue-birds, whose first spring notes were as sweet and fresh as the blossoms of thearbutus, were caroling among the maples. Far away to the north he couldsee the mountain at whose foot his cabin stood, red in the sunshine, save where in the deeper gorges the snow still lingered. Sevenoaks layat the foot of the hill, on the other hand, and he could see the peoplepassing to and fro along its streets, and, perched upon the hill-sideamong its trees and gardens, the paradise that wealth had built forRobert Belcher. The first emotion that thrilled him as he emerged fromthe shadows of misery and mental alienation was that of gratitude. Hefilled his lungs with the vitalizing air, but expired his long breathwith a sigh. 

"What bothers me, " said Jim to himself, "is, that the Lord lets one setof people that is happy, make it so thunderin' rough for another set ofpeople that is onhappy. An' there's another thing that bothers me, " hesaid, continuing his audible cogitations. "How do they 'xpect a felleris goin' to git well, when they put 'im where a well feller'd git sick?I vow I think that poor old creetur that wanted me to kill her isstraighter in her brains than any body I seen on the lot. I couldn'tlive there a week, an' if I was a hopeless case, an' know'd it, I'd hangmyself on a nail. "

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

"Jolly lot you've got over there, " said Jim. "If I had sech a family asthem, I'd take 'em 'round for a show, and hire Belcher's man to do thetalkin'. 'Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and see how a Christian can treata feller bein'. Here's a feller that's got sense enough left to thinkhe's in hell. Observe his wickedness, gentlemen, and don't be afraid touse your handkerchers. '"

As Jim talked, he found he was getting angry, and that the refractoryhair that covered his poll began to feel hot. It would not do to betrayhis feelings, so he ended his sally with a huge laugh that had about asmuch music and heartiness in it as the caw of a crow. Buffum joined himwith his wheezy chuckle, but having sense enough to see that Jim hadreally been pained, he explained that he kept his paupers as well as hecould afford to. 

"Oh, I know it, " said Jim. "If there's anything wrong about it, it don'tbegin with you, Buffum, nor it don't end with you; but it seems a littlerough to a feller like me to see people shut up, an' in the dark, whenthere's good breathin' an' any amount o' sunshine to be had, free gratisfor nothin'. "

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

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

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

Jim winked, nodded, and indicated that he not only understood Mr. Buffum, but would act upon his hint. Then he went into the house, badegood-bye to Mr. Buffum's "women, " kissed his hand gallantly to the elderMiss Buffum, who declared, in revenge, that she would not help him onwith his pack, although she had intended to do so, ands after havinggathered his burdens, trudged off northward. 

From the time he entered the establishment on the previous evening, hehad not caught a glimpse of Harry Benedict. "He's cute, " said Jim, "an'jest the little chap for this business. " As he came near the stump overthe brow of 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 little figure. The lad wastransformed. Jim thought when he saw him first that he was a prettyboy, but there was something about him now that thrilled the woodsmanwith admiration. 

Jim came up to him with: "Mornin, ' Harry!" and the mountain that shoneso gloriously in the light before him, was not more sunny than Jim'sface. He sat down behind the stump without removing his pack, and oncemore had the little fellow in his arms. 

"Harry, " said Jim, "I've had ye in my arms all night--a little livething--an' I've be'n a longin' to git at ye agin. If ye want to, verymuch, you can put yer arms round my neck, an' hug me like a little bar. Thar, that's right, that's right. 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 restof 'em?"

"Yes, sir, all of them. "

"Now, remember, to-day is Wednesday. It will be seven days to nextWednesday, then Thursday will be eight, Friday, nine, Saturday, ten. Youalways 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--I shallcome agin. Saturday night, don't ye go to bed. Leastways, ef ye do, yemust git out of the house afore ten o'clock, and come straight to thisold stump. Can ye git away, an' nobody seen ye?"

"Yes, I hope so, " replied the boy. "They don't mind anything about us. Icould stay out all night, and they wouldn't know where I was. "

"Well, that's all right, now. Remember--be jest here with all the clo'esye've got, at ten o'clock, Saturday night--ten days off--cut 'em in astick every day--the next Saturday after the next one, an' don't gitmixed. "

The boy assured him that he should make no mistake. 

"When I come, I sh'll bring a hoss and wagin. It'll be a stiddy hoss, and I sh'll come here to this stump, an' stop till I seen ye. Then ye'llhold the hoss till I go an' git yer pa, and then we'll wopse 'im up insome blankits, an' make a clean streak for the woods. It'll be lateSunday mornin' afore any body knows he's gone, and there won't be nopeople on the road where we are goin', and ef we're druv into cover, Iknow where the cover is. Jim Fenton's got friends on the road, andthey'll be mum as beetles. Did ye ever seen a beetle, Harry?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Well, they work right along and don't say nothin' to nobody, but theykeep workin'; an' you an' me has got to be jest like beetles. Remember!an' now git back to Tom Buffum's the best way ye can. "

The boy reassured Jim, gave him a kiss, jumped over the fence, and creptalong through the bushes toward the house. Jim watched him, wrapped inadmiration. 

"He's got the ra-al hunter in 'im, jest like his father, but there'smore in 'im nor there ever was in his father. I sh'd kinder liked to 'a'knowed his ma, " said Jim, as he took up his rifle and started in earnestfor his home. 

As he plodded along his way, he thought over all the experiences of themorning. 

"Any man, " said he to himself, "who can string things together in theway Benedict did this mornin' can be cured. Startin' in hell, he was allright, an' everything reasomble. The startin' is the principal p'int, an' if I can git 'im to start from Number Nine, I'll fetch 'im round. Henever was so much 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 that he's been thereafore, and he'll look round to find Abram, an' he won't see 'im, and hiscraze 'll kind o' leak out of 'im afore he knows it. "

Jim's theory was his own, but it would be difficult for Dr. Radcliffe, and all his fellow-devotees of science, to controvert it. It contentedhim, at least; and full of plans and hopes, stimulated by the thoughtthat he had a job on hand that would not only occupy his thoughts, butgive exercise to the benevolent impulses of his heart, he pressed on, the miles disappearing behind him and shortening before, as if theground had been charmed. 

He stopped at noon at a settler's lonely house, occupied by Mike Conlin, a friendly Irishman. Jim took the man aside and related his plans. Mikeentered at once upon the project with interest and sympathy, and Jimknew that he could trust him wholly. It was arranged that Jim shouldreturn to Mike the evening before the proposed descent upon Tom Buffum'sestablishment, and sleep. The following evening Mike's horse would beplaced at Jim's disposal, and he and the Benedicts were to drive throughduring the night to the point on the river where he would leave hisboat. Mike was to find his horse there and take him home. 

Having accomplished his business, Jim went on, and before the twilighthad deepened into night, he found himself briskly paddling up thestream, and at ten o'clock he had drawn his little boat up the beach, and embraced Turk, his faithful dog, whom he had left, not only to takecare of his cabin, but to provide for himself. He had already eaten hissupper, and five minutes after he entered his cabin he and his dog weresnoring side by side in a sleep too profound to be disturbed, even bythe trumpet of old Tilden. 

CHAPTER V. 

IN WHICH, JIM ENLARGES HIS ACCOMMODATIONS AND ADOPTS A VIOLENT METHOD OFSECURING BOARDERS. 

When Jim Fenton waked from his long and refreshing sleep, after hisweary tramp and his row upon the river, the sun was shining brightly, the blue-birds were singing, the partridges were drumming, and a redsquirrel, which even Turk would not disturb, was looking for provisionsin his cabin, or eyeing him saucily from one of the beams over his head. He lay for a moment, stretching his huge limbs and rubbing his eyes, thinking over what he had undertaken, and exclaiming at last: "Well, Jim, ye've got a big contrack, " he jumped up, and, striking a fire, cooked his breakfast. 

His first work was to make an addition to his accommodations forlodgers, and he set about it in thorough earnest. Before noon he hadstripped bark enough from the trees in his vicinity to cover a buildingas large as his own. The question with him was whether he should put upan addition to his cabin, or hide a new building somewhere behind thetrees in his vicinity. In case of pursuit, his lodgers would need acover, and this he knew he could not give them in his cabin; for all whowere in the habit of visiting the woods were familiar with thatstructure, and would certainly notice any addition to it, and be curiousabout it. Twenty rods away there was a thicket of hemlock, and byremoving two or three trees in its center, he could successfully hidefrom any but the most inquisitive observation the cabin he proposed toerect. His conclusion was quickly arrived at, and before he slept thatnight the trees were down, the frame was up, and the bark was gathered. The next day sufficed to make the cabin habitable; but he lingered aboutthe work for several days, putting up various appointments ofconvenience, building a broad bed of hemlock boughs, so deep andfragrant and inviting, that he wondered he had never undertaken to do asmuch for himself as he had thus gladly done for others, and making surethat there was no crevice at which the storms of spring and summer couldforce an entrance. 

When he could do no more, he looked it over with approval and said:"Thar! If I'd a done that for Miss Butterworth, I couldn't 'a' donebetter nor that. " Then he went back to his cabin muttering: "I wonderwhat she'd 'a' said if she'd hearn that little speech o' mine!"

What remained for Jim to do was to make provision to feed his boarders. His trusty rifle stood in the corner of his cabin, and Jim had but totake it in his hand to excite the expectations of his dog, and toreceive from him, in language as plain as an eager whine and a waggingtail could express, an offer of assistance. Before night there hung infront of his cabin a buck, dragged with difficulty through the woodsfrom the place where he had shot him. A good part of the following daywas spent in cutting from the carcass every ounce of flesh, and packingit into pails, to be stowed in a spring whose water, summer and winteralike, was almost at the freezing point. 

"He'll need a good deal o' lookin' arter, and I shan't hunt much thefust few days, " said Jim to himself; "an' as for flour, there's a sackon't, an' as for pertaters, we shan't want many on 'em till they comeagin, an' as for salt pork, there's a whole bar'l buried, an' as for therest, let me alone!"

Jim had put off the removal for ten days, partly to get time for all hispreparations, and partly that the rapidly advancing spring might givehim warmer weather for the removal of a delicate patient. He found, however, at the conclusion of his labors, that he had two or three sparedays on his hands. His mind was too busy and too much excited by hisenterprise to permit him to engage in any regular employment, and heroamed around the woods, or sat whittling in the sun, or smoked, orthought of Miss Butterworth. It was strange how, when the business uponhis hands was suspended, he went back again and again, to his briefinterview with that little woman. He thought of her eyes full of tears, of her sympathy with the poor, of her smart and saucy speech when heparted with her, and he said again and again to himself, what he said onthat occasion: "she's a genuine creetur!" and the last time he said it, on the day before his projected expedition, he added: "an' who knows!"

Then a bright idea seized him, and taking out a huge jack-knife, he wentthrough the hemlocks to his new cabin, and there carved into the slabsof bark that constituted its door, the words "Number Ten. " This was thecrowning grace of that interesting structure. He looked at it close, andthen from a distance, and then he went back chuckling to his cabin, topass his night in dreams of fast driving before the fury of allSevenoaks, with Phipps and his gray trotters in advance. 

Early on Friday morning preceding his proposed descent upon thepoor-house, he gave his orders to Turk. 

"I'm goin' away, Turk, " said he. "I'm goin' away agin. Ye was a good dogwhen I went away afore, and ye berhaved a good deal more like aChristian nor a Turk. Look out for this 'ere cabin, and look out foryerself. I'm a goin' to bring back a sick man, an' a little feller toplay with ye. Now, ole feller, won't that be jolly? Ye must'n't make nonoise when I come--understand?"

Turk wagged his tail in assent, and Jim departed, believing that his doghad understood every word as completely as if he were a man. "Good-bye--here's hopin', " said Jim, waving his hand to Turk as hepushed his boat from the bank, and disappeared down the river. The dogwatched him until he passed from sight, and then went back to the cabinto mope away the period of his master's absence. 

Jim sat in the stern of his little boat, guiding and propelling it withhis paddle. Flocks of ducks rose before him, and swashed down with afluttering ricochet into the water again, beyond the shot of his rifle. A fish-hawk, perched above his last year's nest, sat on a dead limb andwatched him as he glided by. A blue heron rose among the reeds, lookedat him quietly, and then hid behind a tree. A muskrat swam shorewardfrom his track, with only his nose above water. A deer, feeding amongthe lily-pads, looked up, snorted, and then wheeled and plunged into thewoods. All these things he saw, but they made no more impression uponhis memory than is left upon the canvas by the projected images of amagic-lantern. His mind was occupied by his scheme, which had neverseemed so serious a matter as when he had started upon its fulfilment. All the possibilities of immediate detection and efficient pursuitpresented themselves to him. He had no respect for Thomas Buffum, yetthere was the thought that he was taking away from him one of thesources of his income. He would not like to have Buffum suppose that hecould be guilty of a mean act, or capable of making an ungrateful returnfor hospitality. Still he did not doubt his own motives, or his abilityto do good to Paul Benedict and his boy. 

It was nearly ten miles from Jim's cabin, down the winding river, to thepoint where he was to hide his boat, and take to the road which wouldlead him to the house of Mike Conlin, half way to Sevenoaks. Rememberingbefore he started that the blind cart-road over which he must bring hispatient was obstructed at various points by fallen trees, he broughtalong his axe, and found himself obliged to spend the whole day on hiswalk, and in clearing the road for the passage of a wagon. It was sixo'clock before he reached Mike's house, the outermost post of the"settlement, " which embraced in its definition the presence of women andchildren. 

"Be gorry, " said Mike, who had long been looking for him, "I was afearedye'd gi'en it up. The old horse is ready this two hours. I've took morenor three quarts o' dander out iv 'is hide, and gi'en 'im four quartso' water and a pail iv oats, an' he'll go. "

Mike nodded his head as if he were profoundly sure of it. Jim had usedhorses in his life, in the old days of lumbering and logging, and wasquite at home with them. He had had many a drive with Mike, and knew theanimal he would be required to handle--a large, hardy, raw-bonedcreature, that had 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 had put up for himfood enough to last him and such accessions to his party as he expectedto secure during the night, and supplied him abundantly with wrappings, he went to the stable, mounted the low, strong wagon before which Mikehad placed the horse, and with a hearty "good luck to ye!" from theIrishman ringing in his ears, started on the road to Sevenoaks. Thisportion of the way was easy. The road was worn somewhat, and moderatelywell kept; and there was nothing to interfere with the steady jog whichmeasured the distance at the rate of six miles an hour. For three steadyhours he went on, the horse no more worried than if he had been standingin the stable. At nine o'clock the lights in the farmers' cottages bythe wayside were extinguished, and the families they held were in bed. Then the road began to grow dim, and the sky to become dark. The ficklespring weather gave promise of rain. Jim shuddered at the thought of theexposure to which, in a shower, his delicate friend would be subjected, but thought that if he could but get him to the wagon, and cover himwell before its onset, he could shield him from harm. 

The town clock was striking ten as he drove up to the stump where he wasto meet Benedict's boy. He stopped and whistled. A whistle came back inreply, and a dark little object crept out from behind the stump, andcame up to the wagon. 

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

"He's been very bad to-day, " said Harry. "He says he's going toAbraham's bosom on a visit, and he's been walking around in his room, and wondering why you don't come for him. "

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

"To me, " replied the boy. "And he told me not to speak to Mr. Buffumabout it. "

Jim breathed a sigh of relief, and saying "All right!" he leaped fromthe wagon. Then taking out a heavy blanket, he said:

"Now, Harry, you jest stand by the old feller's head till I git back toye. He's out o' the road, an' ye needn't stir if any body comes along. "

Harry went up to the old horse, patted his nose and his breast, and toldhim he was good. The creature seemed to understand it, and gave him notrouble. Jim then stalked off noiselessly into the darkness, and the boywaited with a trembling and expectant heart. 

Jim reached the poor-house, and stood still in the middle of the roadbetween the two establishments. The lights in both had beenextinguished, and stillness reigned in that portion occupied by ThomasBuffum and his family. The darkness was so great that Jim could almostfeel it. No lights were visible except in the village at the foot of thehill, and these were distant and feeble, through an open window--leftopen that the asthmatic keeper of the establishment might be suppliedwith breath--he heard a stertorous snore. On the other side matters werenot so silent. There were groans, and yells, and gabble from the reekingand sleepless patients, who had been penned up for the long and terriblenight. Concluding that every thing was as safe for his operations as itwould become at any time, he slowly felt his way to the door of the wardwhich held Paul Benedict, and found it fastened on the outside, as hehad anticipated. Lifting the bar from the iron arms that held it, andpushing back the bolt, he silently opened the door. Whether the darknesswithin was greater than that without, or whether the preternaturallyquickened ears of the patients detected the manipulations of thefastenings, he did not know, but he was conscious at once that thetumult within was hushed. It was apparent that they had been visited inthe night before, and that the accustomed intruder had come on no gentleerrand.. There was not a sound as Jim felt his way along from stall tostall, sickened almost to retching by the insufferable stench thatreached his nostrils and poisoned every inspiration. 

On the morning of his previous visit he had taken all the bearings withreference to an expedition in the darkness, and so, feeling his wayalong the hall, he had little difficulty in finding the cell in which hehad left his old friend. 

Jim tried the door, but found it locked. His great fear was that thelock would be changed, but it had not been meddled with, and had eitherbeen furnished with a new key, or had been locked with a skeleton. Heslipped the stolen key in, and the bolt slid back. Opening the outerdoor, he tried the inner, but the key did not fit the lock. Here was adifficulty not entirely unexpected, but seeming to be insurmountable. Hequietly went back to the door of entrance, and as quietly closed it, that no sound of violence might reach and wake the inmates of the houseacross the road. Then he returned, and whispered in a low voice to theinmate:

"Paul Benedict, give us your benediction. "

"Jim, " responded the man in a whisper, so light that it could reach noear 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 door a sudden pull, into which he put all the might of his huge frame. A thousand poundswould not have measured it, and the door yielded, not at the bolt, butat the hinges. Screws deeply imbedded were pulled out bodily. A secondlighter wrench 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, throwing over the poorman's shoulders an ample blanket; and putting one of his large armsaround him, he led him shuffling out of the hall, and shut and boltedthe door. 

He had no sooner done this, than the bedlam inside broke loose. Therewere yells, and howls, and curses, but Jim did not stop for these. Dizzied with his effort, enveloped in thick darkness, and the wind whichpreceded the approaching shower blowing a fierce gale, he was obliged tostop a moment to make sure that he was walking in the right direction. He saw the lights of the village, and, finding the road, managed to keepon it until he reached the horse, that had become uneasy under thepremonitory tumult of the storm. Lifting Benedict into the wagon as ifhe had been a child, he wrapped him warmly, and put the boy in behindhim, to kneel and see that his father did not fall out. Then he turnedthe horse around, and started toward Number Nine. The horse knew theroad, and was furnished with keener vision than the man who drove him. Jim was aware of this, and letting the reins lie loose upon his back, the animal struck into a long, swinging trot, in prospect of home andanother "pail iv oats. "

They had not gone a mile when the gathering tempest came down upon them. It rained in torrents, the lightning illuminated the whole region againand again, and the thunder cracked, and boomed, and rolled off among thewoods and hills, as if the day of doom had come. 

The war of the elements harmonized strangely with the weird fancies ofthe weak man who sat at Jim's side. He rode in perfect silence formiles. At last the wind went down, and the rain settled to a steadyfall. 

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

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

"Does Father Abraham know I'm coming?" inquired Benedict. "Does heexpect me to-night?"

"Yes, " responded Jim, "an' he'd 'a' sent afore, but he's jest wore outwith company. He's a mighty good-natered man, an' I tell 'im they takethe advantage of 'im. But I've posted 'im 'bout ye, and ye're allright. "

"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 jestlay right down in the boat, an' go to sleep. I'll wake ye up, ye know, when we run in. "

The miles slid behind into the darkness, and, at last, the rainsubsiding somewhat, Jim stopped, partly to rest his smoking horse, andpartly to feed his half-famished companions. Benedict ate mechanicallythe food that Jim fished out of the basket with a careful hand, and theboy ate as only boys can eat. Jim himself was hungry, and nearlyfinished what they left. 

At two o'clock in the morning, they descried Mike Conlin's light, and inten minutes the reeking horse and the drenched inmates of the wagondrove up to the door. Mike was waiting to receive them. 

"Mike, this is my particular friend, Benedict. Take 'im in, 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 withsundry cheerful remarks he placed his guests before it, relieving themof their soaked wrappings. Then he went to the stable, and fed andgroomed his horse, and returned eagerly, to chat with Jim, who satsteaming 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 lookingup. 

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

"Yes, Mike is a Catholic, an' all his folks; an' he's got to stay here agood while, an' he's jest settled down an' gone to housekeepin'. "

"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' the road is jistlovely--jist lovely; an' afore ye start I'm goin' to give ye a drap that'll make ye think so. "

They sat a whole hour before the fire, and then Mike mixed the draughthe had promised to the poor patient. It was not a heavy one, but, forthe time, it lifted the man so far out of his weakness that he couldsleep, and the moment his brain felt the stimulus, he dropped into aslumber so profound that when the time of departure came he could not beawakened. As there was no time to be lost, a bed was procured from aspare chamber, with pillows; the wagon was brought to the door, and theman was carried out as unconscious as if he were in his last slumber, and tenderly put to bed in the wagon. Jim declined the dram that Mikeurged upon him, for he had need of all his wits, and slowly walked thehorse away on the road to his boat. If Benedict had been wide awake andwell, he could not have traveled the road safely faster than a walk; andthe sleep, and the bed which it rendered necessary, became the happiestaccidents of the journey. 

For two long hours the horse plodded along the stony and uneven road, and then the light began to redden in the east, and Jim could see theroad sufficiently to increase his speed with safety. It was not untillong after the sun had risen that Benedict awoke, and found himself tooweak to rise. Jim gave him more food, answered his anxious inquiries inhis own way, and managed to keep him upon his bed, from which heconstantly tried to rise in response to his wandering impulses. It wasnearly noon when they found themselves at the river; and thepreparations for embarkation were quickly made. The horse was tied andfed, the wagon unfastened, and the whole establishment was left for Miketo reclaim, according to the arrangement that Jim had made with him. 

The woodsman saw that his patient would not be able to sit, and so felthimself compelled to take along the bed. Arranging this with the pillowsin the bow of his boat, and placing Benedict upon it, with his boy athis feet, he shoved off, and started up the stream. 

After running along against the current for a mile, Benedict havingquietly rested meantime, looked up and said weakly:

"Jim, is this the gulf?"

"Yes, " responded Jim, cheerfully. "This is the gulf, and a purty place'tis too. I've seed a sight o' worser places nor this. "

"It's very beautiful, " responded Benedict. "We must be getting prettynear. "

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

The poor, wandering mind was trying to realize the heavenly scenes thatit believed were about to burst upon its vision. The quiet, sunlitwater, the trees still bare but bourgeoning, the songs of birds, theblue sky across which fleecy clouds were peacefully floating, thebreezes that kissed his fevered cheek, the fragrance of the borderingevergreens, and the electric air that entered his lungs so longaccustomed to the poisonous fetor of his cell, were well calculated tofoster his delusion, and to fill his soul with a peace to which it hadlong been a stranger. An exquisite languor stole upon him, and under thepressure of his long fatigue, his eyelids fell, and he dropped into aquiet slumber. 

When the boy saw that his father was asleep, he crept back to Jim andsaid:

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

"Call me Jim. The Doctor called me 'Mr. Fenton, ' and it 'most killedme. "

"Well, Jim. "

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

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

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

The lad's troubled mind was satisfied, and he crept back to his father'sfeet, where he lay until he discovered Turk, whining and wagging histail in front of the little hillock that was crowned by Jim's cabin. 

The long, hard, weird journey was at an end. The boat came up broadsideto the shore, and Jim leaped out, and showered as many caresses upon hisdog as he received from the faithful brute. 

CHAPTER VI. 

IN WHICH SEVENOAKS EXPERIENCES A GREAT COMMOTION, AND COMES TO THECONCLUSION THAT BENEDICT HAS MET WITH FOUL PLAY. 

Thomas Buffum and his family slept late on Sunday morning, and theoperating forces of the establishment lingered in their beds. When, atlast, the latter rose and opened the doors of the dormitories, theescape of Benedict was detected. Mr. Buffum was summoned at once, andhastened across the street in his shirt-sleeves, which, by the way, wasabout as far toward full dress as he ever went when the weather did notcompel him to wear a coat. Buffum examined the inner door and saw thatit had been forced by a tremendous exercise of muscular power. Heremembered the loss of the key, and knew that some one had assisted inthe operation. 

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

An attendant rushed to the room where the boy usually slept, and cameback with the report that the bed had not been occupied. Then there wasa search outside for tracks, but the rain had obliterated them all. Thekeeper was in despair. He did not believe that Benedict could havesurvived the storm of the night, and he did not doubt that the boy hadundertaken to hide his father somewhere. 

"Go out, all of you, all round, and find 'em, " hoarsely whispered Mr. Buffum, "and bring 'em back, and say nothing about it. "

The men, including several of the more reliable paupers, dividedthemselves into little squads, and departed without breakfast, in orderto get back before the farmers should drive by on their way to church. The orchards, the woods, the thickets--all possible covers--weresearched, and searched, of course, in vain. One by one the partiesreturned to report that they could not find the slightest sign of thefugitives. 

Mr. Buffum, who had not a question that the little boy had planned andexecuted the escape, assisted by the paroxysmal strength of his insanefather, felt that he was seriously compromised. The flight and undoubteddeath of old Tilden were too fresh in the public mind to permit this newreflection upon his faithfulness and efficiency as a public guardian topass without a popular tumult. He had but just assumed the charge of theestablishment for another year, and he knew that Robert Belcher would beseriously offended, for more reasons than the public knew, or than thatperson would be willing to confess. He had never in his life been inmore serious trouble. He hardly tasted his breakfast, and was too crustyand cross to be safely addressed by any member of his family. Personallyhe was not in a condition to range the fields, and when he had receivedthe reports of the parties who had made the search, he felt that he hada job to undertake too serious for his single handling. 

In the meantime, Mr. Belcher had risen at his leisure, in blissfulunconsciousness of the calamities that had befallen his _protégé_. Heowned a pew in every church in Sevenoaks, and boasted that he had nopreferences. Once every Sunday he went to one of these churches; andthere was a fine flutter throughout the building whenever he and hisfamily appeared. He felt that the building had received a special honorfrom his visit; but if he was not guided by his preferences, hecertainly was by his animosities. If for three or four Sabbaths insuccession he honored a single church by his presence, it was usually topay off a grudge against some minister or member of another flock. Hedelighted to excite the suspicion that he had at last become attached toone clergyman, and that the other churches were in danger of beingforsaken by him. It would be painful to paint the popular weakness andthe ministerial jealousy--painful to describe the lack of Christiandignity--with which these demonstrations of worldly caprice andarrogance, were watched by pastor and flock. 

After the town meeting and the demonstration of the Rev. Solomon Snow, it was not expected that Mr. Belcher would visit the church of thelatter for some months. During the first Sabbath after this event, therewas gloom in that clergyman's congregation; for Mr. Belcher, in hisroutine, should have illuminated their public services by his presence, but he did not appear. 

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

But during the week following, Mr. Belcher had had a satisfactoryinterview with Mr. Snow, and on the morning of the flight of Benedict hedrove in the carriage with his family up to the door of that gentleman'schurch, and gratified the congregation and its reverend head by walkingup the broad aisle, and, with his richly dressed flock, taking his oldseat. 

As he looked around upon the humbler parishioners, he seemed to say, byhis patronizing smile: "Mr. Snow and the great proprietor are at peace. Make yourselves easy, and enjoy your sunshine while it lasts. "

Mr. Buffum never went to church. He had a theory that it was necessaryfor him to remain in charge of his establishment, and that he was doinga good thing by sending his servants and dependents. When, therefore, heentered Mr. Snow's church on the Sunday morning which found Mr. Belchercomfortably seated there, and stumped up the broad aisle in hisshirt-sleeves, the amazement of the minister and the congregation may beimagined. If he had been one of his own insane paupers _en deshabille_he could not have excited more astonishment or more consternation. 

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

Bending to his patron's ear, he whispered a few words, received a fewwords in return, and then retired. The proprietor's face was red withrage and mortification, but he tried to appear unconcerned, and theservices went on to their conclusion. Boys who sat near the windowsstretched their necks to see whether smoke was issuing from thepoor-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 frequently than usual. When themeeting was dismissed, a hundred heads came together in chatteringsurmise, and when they walked into the streets, the report of Benedict'sescape with his little boy met them. They understood, too, why Buffumhad come to Mr. Belcher with his trouble. He was Mr. Belcher's man, andMr. Belcher had publicly assumed responsibility for him. 

No more meetings were held in any of the churches of Sevenoaks that day. The ministers came to perform the services of the afternoon, and, finding their pews empty, went home. A reward of one hundred dollars, offered by Mr. Belcher to any one who would find Benedict and his boy, "and return them in safety to the home provided for them by the town, "was a sufficient apology, without the motives of curiosity and humanityand the excitement of a search in the fields and woods, for a universalrelinquishment of Sunday habits, and the pouring out of the wholepopulation on an expedition of discovery. 

Sevenoaks and its whole vicinity presented a strange aspect thatafternoon. There had slept in the hearts of the people a pleasant andsympathetic memory of Mr. Benedict. They had seen him struggling, dreaming, hopeful, yet always disappointed, dropping lower and lowerinto poverty, and, at last, under accumulated trials, deprived of hisreason. They knew but little of his relations to Mr. Belcher, but theyhad a strong suspicion that he had been badly treated by theproprietor, and that it had been in the power of the latter to save himfrom wreck. So, when it became known that he had escaped with his boyfrom the poor-house, and that both had been exposed to the storm of theprevious night, they all--men and boys--covered the fields, and filledthe woods for miles around, in a search so minute that hardly a rod ofcover was left unexplored. 

It was a strange excitement which stirred the women at home, as well asthe men afield. Nothing was thought of but the fugitives and thepursuit. 

Robert Belcher, in the character of principal citizen, was riding backand forth behind his gray trotters, and stimulating the search in everyquarter. Poor Miss Butterworth sat at her window, making indiscriminateinquiries of every passenger, or going about from house to house, working off her nervous anxiety 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, thehill was covered by hundreds of weary and excited men. Some were surethey had discovered traces of the fugitives. Others expressed theconviction that they had thrown themselves into a well. One man, who didnot love Mr. Belcher, and had heard the stories of his ill-treatment ofBenedict, breathed the suspicion that both he and his boy had beenfoully dealt with by one who had an interest in getting them out of theway. 

It was a marvel to see how quickly this suspicion took wing. It seemedto be the most rational theory of the event. It went from mouth to mouthand ear to ear, as the wind breathes among the leaves of a forest; butthere were reasons in every man's mind, or instincts in his nature, thatwithheld the word "murder" from the ear of Mr. Belcher. As soon as thesuspicion became general, the aspect of every incident of the flightchanged. Then they saw, apparently for the first time, that a manweakened by disease and long confinement, and never muscular at hisbest, could not have forced the inner door of Benedict's cell. Then theyconnected Mr. Belcher's behavior during the day with the affair, and, though they said nothing at the time, they thought of his ostentatiousanxiety, his evident perturbation when Mr. Buffum announced to him theescape, his offer of the reward for Benedict's discovery, and hisexcited personal appearance among them. He acted like a guilty man--aman who was trying to blind them, and divert suspicion from himself. 

To the great horror of Mr. Buffum, his establishment was thoroughlyinspected and ransacked, and, as one after another left the hill for hishome, he went with indignation and shame in his heart, and curses on hislips. Even if Benedict and his innocent boy had been murdered, murderwas not the only foul deed that had been committed on the hill. Thepoor-house itself was an embodied crime against humanity and againstChristianity, for which the town of Sevenoaks at large was responsible, though it had been covered from their sight by Mr. Belcher and thekeeper. It would have taken but a spark to kindle a conflagration. Suchwas the excitement that only a leader was needed to bring the tumult ofa violent mob around the heads of the proprietor and his _protégé_. 

Mr. Belcher was not a fool, and he detected, as he sat in his wagontalking with Buffum in a low tone, the change that had come over theexcited groups around him. They looked at him as they talked, with aserious scrutiny to which he was unused. They no more addressed him withsuggestions and inquiries. They shunned his neighborhood, and silentlywent off down the hill. He knew, as well as if they had been spoken, that there were not only suspicions against him, but indignation overthe state of things that had been discovered in the establishment, forwhose keeper he had voluntarily become responsible. Notwithstanding allhis efforts to assist them in their search, he knew that in their heartsthey charged him with Benedict's disappearance. At last he bade Buffumgood-night, and went down the hill to his home. 

He had no badinage for Phipps during that drive, and no pleasantreveries in his library during that evening, for all the possibilitiesof the future passed through his mind in dark review. If Benedict hadbeen murdered, who could have any interest in his death but himself? Ifhe had died from exposure, his secrets would be safe, but the charge ofhis death would be brought to his door, as Miss Butterworth had alreadybrought the responsibility for his insanity there. If he had got awayalive, and should recover, or if his boy should get into hands thatwould ultimately claim for him his rights, then his prosperity would beinterfered with. He did not wish to acknowledge to himself that hedesired the poor man's death, but he was aware that in his death hefound the most hopeful vision of the night. Angry with the publicfeeling that accused him of a crime of which he was not guilty, andguilty of a crime of which definitely the public knew little or nothing, there was no man in Sevenoaks so unhappy as he. He loved power andpopularity. He had been happy in the thought that he controlled thetown, and for the moment, at least, he knew the town had slippeddisloyally out of his hands. 

An impromptu meeting of citizens was held that evening, at which Mr. Belcher did not assist. The clergymen were all present, and there seemedto be a general understanding that they had been ruled long enough inthe interest and by the will of a single man. A subscription was raisedfor a large amount, and the sum offered to any one who would discoverthe fugitives. 

The next morning Mr. Belcher found the village quiet and very reticent, and having learned that a subscription had been raised without callingupon him, he laughingly expressed his determination to win the rewardfor himself. 

Then he turned his grays up the hill, had a long consultation with Mr. Buffum, who informed him of the fate of old Tilden, and started at arapid pace toward Number Nine. 

CHAPTER VII. 

IN WHICH JIM AND MIKE CONLIN PASS THROUGH A GREAT TRIAL AND COME OUTVICTORIOUS. 

"There, Turk, there they be!" said Jim to his dog, pointing to hispassengers, as he stood caressing him, with one foot on the land and theother holding the boat to the shore. "There's the little chap that I'vebrung to play with ye, an' there's the sick man that we've got to takecare on. Now don't ye make no row. "

Turk looked up into his master's face, then surveyed the new comers witha wag of his tail that had all the force of a welcome, and, when Harryleaped on shore, he smelt him over, licked his hand, and accepted him asa satisfactory companion. 

Jim towed his boat around a point into a little cove where there was abeach, and then drew it by a long, strong pull entirely out of thewater. Lifting Benedict and carrying him to his own cabin, he left himin charge of Harry and the dog, while he went to make his bed in "NumberTen. " His arrangements completed, he transferred his patient to thequarters prepared for him, where, upheld and pillowed by the sweetestcouch that weary body ever rested upon, he sank into slumber. 

Harry and the dog became inseparable companions at once; and as it wasnecessary for Jim to watch with Benedict during the night, he had nodifficulty in inducing the new friends to occupy his cabin together. Thedog understood his responsibility and the lad accepted his protector;and when both had been bountifully fed they went to sleep side by side. 

It was, however, a troubled night at Number Ten. The patient'simagination had been excited, his frame had undergone a great fatigue, and the fresh air, no less than the rain that had found its way to hisperson through all his wrappings, on the previous night, had produced apowerful impression upon his nervous system. It was not strange that themorning found Jim unrefreshed, and his patient in a high, deliriousfever. 

"Now's the time, " said Jim to himself, "when a feller wants some sort o'religion or a woman; an' I hain't got nothin' but a big dog an' a littleboy, an' no doctor nearer 'n forty mile. "

Poor Jim! He did not know that the shock to which he had subjected theenfeebled lunatic was precisely what was needed to rouse every effort ofnature to effect a cure. He could not measure the influence of thesubtle earth-currents that breathed over him. He did not know that therewas better medicine in the pure air, in the balsamic bed, in the broadstillness, in the nourishing food and the careful nursing, than in allthe drugs of the world. He did not know that, in order to reach theconvalescence for which he so ardently longed, his patient must go downto the very basis of his life, and begin and build up anew; that inchanging from an old and worn-out existence to a fresh and healthy one, there must come a point between the two conditions where there wouldseem to be no life, and where death would appear to be the only naturaldetermination. He was burdened with his responsibility; and only theconsciousness that his motives were pure and his patient no morehopeless in his hands than in those from which he had rescued him, strengthened his equanimity and sustained his courage. 

As the sun rose, Benedict fell into an uneasy slumber, and, while Jimwatched his heavy breathing, the door was noiselessly opened, and Harryand the dog looked in. The hungry look of the lad summoned Jim to newduties, and leaving Harry to watch his father, he went off to prepare abreakfast for his family. 

All that day and all the following night Jim's time was so occupied infeeding the well and administering to the sick, that his ownsleeplessness began to tell upon him. He who had been accustomed to thesleep of a healthy and active man began to look haggard, and to long forthe assistance of a trusty hand. It was with a great, irrepressibleshout of gratification that, at the close of the second day, he detectedthe form of Mike Conlin walking up the path by the side of the river, with a snug pack of provisions upon his back. 

Jim pushed his boat from the shore, and ferried Mike over to his cabin. The Irishman had reached the landing ten miles below to learn that thebirch canoe in which he had expected to ascend the river had either beenstolen or washed away. He was, therefore, obliged to take the old"tote-road" worn in former years by the lumbermen, at the side of theriver, and to reach Jim's camp on foot. He was very tired, but thewarmth of his welcome brought a merry twinkle to his eyes and the readyblarney to his tongue. 

"Och! divil a bit wud ye be glad to see Mike Conlin if ye knowed he'dcome to arrist ye. Jim, ye're me prisoner. Ye've been stalin a pauper--apair iv 'em, faith--an' ye must answer fur it wid yer life to owldBelcher. Come along wid me. None o' yer nonsinse, or I'll put a windy inye. "

Jim eyed him with a smile, but he knew that no ordinary errand hadbrought 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 bedacint, ye shall have part of it. "

Although Jim saw that Mike was apparently in sport, he knew that theoffer of a cash reward for his own betrayal was indeed a sore temptationto 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 it there'd beniver a man to blame but Mike Conlin. "

Jim said no more, but went to work and got a bountiful supper for Mike. When he had finished, he took him over to Number Ten, where Harry andTurk were watching. Quietly opening the door of the cabin, he entered. Benedict lay 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 aword, both turned and retired. 

"Mike, " said Jim, as they retraced their way, "that man an' me was likebrothers. I found 'im in the devil's own hole, an' any man as comesatween me an' him must look out fur 'imself forever arter. Jim Fenton'sa good-natered man when he ain't riled, but he'd sooner fight nor eatwhen he is. Will ye help me, or won't ye?"

Mike made no reply, but opened his pack and brought out a tumbler ofjelly. "There, ye bloody blaggard, wouldn't ye be afther lickin' thatnow?" said he; and then, as he proceeded to unload the pack, his tongueran on in comment. (A paper of crackers. ) "Mash 'em all to smithereensnow. Give it to 'em, Jim. " (A roasted chicken. ) "Pitch intil therooster, Jim. Crack every bone in 'is body. " (A bottle of brandy. )"Knock the head aff his shoolders and suck 'is blood. " (A package oftea. ) "Down with the tay! It's insulted ye, Jim. " (A piece of maplesugar. ) "Och! the owld, brown rascal! ye'll be afther doin Jim Fenton abad turn, will ye? Ye'll be brakin 'is teeth fur 'im. " Then followed aplate, cup and saucer, and these were supplemented by an old shirt andvarious knick-knacks that only a woman would remember in trying toprovide for an invalid far away from the conveniences and comforts ofhome. 

Jim watched Mike with tearful eyes, which grew more and more loaded andluminous as the disgorgement of the contents of the pack progressed. 

"Mike, will ye forgive me?" said Jim, stretching out his hand. "I wasafeared the money'd be too many for ye; but barrin' yer big foot an' theugly nose that's on ye, ye're an angel. "

"Niver ye mind me fut, " responded Mike. "Me inimies don't like it, an'they can give a good raison fur it; an' as fur me nose, it'll lookworser nor it does now when Jim Fenton gets 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 back and told Jim allabout it. 

"Ye see, afther ye wint away that night I jist lay down an' got a bit iva shnooze, an' in the mornin' I shtarted for me owld horse. It was a bigthramp to where ye lift him, and comin' back purty slow, I picked up afew shticks and put intil the wagin for me owld woman--pine knots an'the like o' that. I didn't git home much afore darruk, and me owld horsewasn't more nor in the shtable an' I 'atin' me supper, quiet like, aforeBelcher druv up to me house wid his purty man on the seat wid 'im. An'says he: 'Mike Conlin! Mike Conlin! Come to the dour wid ye!' So I wintto the dour, an' he says, says he: 'Hev ye seen a crazy old feller wid ab'y?' An' says I: 'There's no crazy owld feller wid a b'y been by mehouse in the daytime. If they wint by at all at all, it was when mefamily was aslape. ' Then he got out of his wagin and come in, and helooked 'round in all the corners careless like, and thin he said hewanted to go to the barrun. So we wint to the barrun, and he looked allabout purty careful, and he says, says he: 'What ye been doin' wid theowld horse on a Sunday, Mike?' And says I to him, says I: 'Jist apickin' up a few shticks for the owld woman. ' An' when he come out hesee the shticks in the wagin, and he says, says he: 'Mike, if ye'll findthese fellers in the woods I'll give ye five hundred dollars. ' And saysI: 'Squire Belcher, ' says I (for I knowed he had a wake shpot in 'im), 'ye are richer nor a king, and Mike Conlin's no betther nor a pauperhimself. Give me a hundred dollars, ' says I, 'an' I'll thry it. And begorry I've got it right there' (slapping his pocket. ) 'Take alongsomethin' for 'em to ate, ' says he, 'and faith I've done that same andfound me min; an' now I'll stay wid ye fur a week an' 'arn me hundreddollars. "

The week that Mike promised Jim was like a lifetime. To have some onewith him to share his vigils and his responsibility lifted a greatburden from his shoulders. But the sick man grew weaker and weaker everyday. He was assiduously nursed and literally fed with dainties; but thetwo men went about their duties with solemn faces, and talked almost ina whisper. Occasionally one of them went out for delicate game, and byalternate watches they managed to get sufficient sleep to recruit theirexhausted energies. 

One morning, after Mike had been there four or five days, both stood byBenedict's bed, and felt that a crisis was upon him. A great uneasinesshad possessed him for some hours, and then he had sunk away into astupor or a sleep, they could not determine which. 

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

"Mike, " said Jim, "somethin' must be did. We've did our best an' nothin'comes on't; an' Benedict is nearer Abram's bosom nor I ever meant heshould come in my time. I ain't no doctor; you ain't no doctor. We'venussed 'im the best we knowed, but I guess he's a goner. It's toothunderin' bad, for I'd set my heart on puttin' 'im through. "

"Well, " said Mike, "I've got me hundred dollars, and you'll git yer payin the nixt wurruld. "

"I don't want no pay, " responded Jim. "An' what do ye know about thenext 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 like o' me to answerfor the praste. "

"Well, I wish he was here, in Number Nine, an' we'd see what we couldgit out of 'im. I've got to the eend o' my rope. "

The truth was that Jim was becoming religious. When his own strong righthand failed in any enterprise, he always came to a point where thepossibilities of a superior wisdom and power dawned upon him. He hadnever offered a prayer in his life, but the wish for some medium orinstrument of intercession was strong within him. At last an idea struckhim, and he turned to Mike and told him to go down to his old cabin, andstay there while he sent the boy back to him. 

When Harry came up, with an anxious face, Jim took him between hisknees. 

"Little feller, " said he, "I need comfortin'. It's a comfort to have yehere in my arms, an' I don't never want to have you go 'way from me. Your pa is awful sick, and perhaps he ain't never goin' to be no better. The rain and the ride, I'm afeared, was too many fur him; but I've didthe best I could, 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'veallers been a pretty good boy, hain't ye? And don't ye s'pose ye can goout here a little ways behind a tree and pray? I'll hold on to the dog;an' it seems to me, if I was the Lord, I sh'd pay 'tention to what alittle feller like you was sayin'. There ain't nobody here but you to doit now, ye know. I can nuss your pa and fix his vittles, and set up with'im nights, but I can't pray. I wasn't brung up to it. Now, if ye'll dothis, I won't ax ye to do nothin' else. "

The boy was serious. He looked off with his great black eyes into thewoods. He had said his prayers many times when he did not know that hewanted anything. Here was a great emergency, the most terrible that hehad ever encountered. He, a child, was the only one who could pray forthe life of his father; and the thought of the responsibility, though itwas only dimly entertained, or imperfectly grasped, overwhelmed him. Hiseyes, that had been strained so long, filled with tears, and, burstinginto a fit of uncontrollable weeping, he threw his arms around Jim'sneck, where he sobbed away his sudden and almost hysterical passion. Then he gently disengaged himself and went away. 

Jim took off his cap, and holding fast his uneasy and inquiring dog, bowed his head as if he were in a church. Soon, among the songs of birdsthat were turning the morning into music, and the flash of waves thatran shoreward before the breeze, and the whisper of the wind among theevergreens, there came to his ear the voice of a child, pleading for hisfather's life. The tears dropped from his eyes and rolled down upon hisbeard. There was an element of romantic superstition in the man, ofwhich his request was the offspring, and to which the sound of thechild's voice appealed with irresistible power. 

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

"My boy, ye've did the right thing. It's better nor all the nussin', an'ye must do that every mornin'--every mornin'; an' don't ye take no foran answer. Now jest go in with me an' see your pa. "

Jim would not have been greatly surprised to see the rude little roomthronged with angels, but he was astonished, almost to fainting, to seeBenedict open his eyes, look about him, then turn his questioning gazeupon him, and recognize him by a faint smile, so like the look of otherdays--so full of intelligence and peace, that the woodsman dropped uponhis knees and hid his face in the blankets. He did not say a word, butleaving the boy passionately kissing his father, he ran to his owncabin. 

Seizing Mike by the shoulders, he shook him as if he intended to killhim. 

"Mike, " said he, "by the great horned spoons, the little fellow hasfetched 'im! Git yer pa'tridge-broth and yer brandy quicker'n'lightnin'. Don't talk to me no more 'bout yer priest; I've got a trickworth two o' that. "

Both men made haste back to Number Ten, where they found their patientquite able to take the nourishment and stimulant they brought, but stillunable to speak. He soon sank into a refreshing slumber, and gave signsof mending throughout the day. The men who had watched him with suchcareful anxiety were full of hope, and gave vent to their lightenedspirits in the chaffing which, in their careless hours, had becomehabitual with them. The boy and the dog rejoiced too in sympathy; and ifthere had been ten days of storm and gloom, ended by a brilliantoutshining sun, the aspect of the camp could not have been more suddenlyor happily changed. 

Two days and nights passed away, and then Mike declared that he must gohome. The patient had spoken, and knew where he was. He only rememberedthe past as a dream. First, it was dark and long, and full of horror, but at length all had become bright; and Jim was made supremely happy tolearn that he had had a vision of the glory toward which he hadpretended to conduct him. Of the fatherly breast he had slept upon, ofthe golden streets through which he had walked, of the river of thewater of life, of the shining ones with whom he had strolled incompanionship, of the marvelous city which hath foundations, and theineffable beauty of its Maker and Builder, he could not speak in full, until years had passed 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 sumand substance of Jim's philosophy, and it would be hard for science tosupplant it. 

"Well, " said Jim to Mike, "ye've be'n a godsend. Ye've did more good ina week nor ye'll do agin if ye live a thousand year. Ye've arned yerhundred dollars, and ye haven't found no pauper, and ye can tell 'em so. Paul Benedict ain't no pauper, an' he ain't no crazy man either. "

"Be gorry ye're right!" said Mike, who was greatly relieved at findinghis report shaped for him in such a way that he would not be obliged totell a falsehood. 

"An' thank yer old woman for me, " said Jim, "an' tell her she's thequeen of the huckleberry bushes, an' a jewel to the side o' the road shelives on. "

"Divil a bit will I do it, " responded Mike. "She'll be so grand I can'tlive wid her. "

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

They chaffed one another until Mike passed out of sight among the trees;and Jim, notwithstanding his new society, felt lonelier, as he turnedback to his cabin, than he had ever felt when there was no human beingwithin twenty miles of him. 

The sun of early May had begun to shine brightly, the willows weregrowing green by the side of the river, the resinous buds were swellingdaily, and making ready to burst into foliage, the birds returned oneafter another from their winter journeyings, and the thrushes filled themornings and the evenings alike with their carolings. Spring had come tothe woods again, with words of promise and wings of fulfillment, andJim's heart was full of tender gladness. He had gratified his benevolentimpulses, and he found upon his hands that which would tax theirabounding energies. Life had never seemed to him so full of significanceas it did then. He could see what he had been saving money for, and hefelt that out of the service he was rendering to the poor and thedistressed was growing a love for them that gave a new and almost divineflavor to his existence. 

Benedict mended slowly, but he mended daily, and gave promise of thepermanent recovery of a healthy body and a sound mind. It was a happyday for Jim when, with Harry and the dog bounding before him, andBenedict leaning on his arm, he walked over to his old cabin, and allate together at his own rude table. Jim never encouraged his friend'squestions. He endeavored, by every practical way, to restrain his mindfrom wandering into the past, and encouraged him to associate his futurewith his present society and surroundings. The stronger the patientgrew, the more willing he became to shut out the past, which, as memorysometimes--nay, too often--recalled it, was an unbroken history oftrial, disappointment, grief, despair, and dreams of great darkness. 

There was one man whom he could never think of without a shudder, andwith that man his possible outside life was inseparably associated. Mr. Belcher had always been able, by his command of money and his coarse anddespotic will, to compel him into any course or transaction that hedesired. His nature was offensive to Benedict to an extreme degree, andwhen in his presence, particularly when he entered it driven bynecessity, he felt shorn of his own manhood. He felt him to be withoutconscience, without principle, without humanity, and was sure that itneeded only to be known that the insane pauper had become a sound andhealthy man to make him the subject of a series of persecutions orpersuasions that would wrest from him the rights and values on which thegreat proprietor was foully battening. These rights and values he neverintended to surrender, and until he was strong and independent enough tosecure them to himself, he did not care to expose his gentler will tothe machinations of the great scoundrel who had thrived upon hisunrewarded genius. 

So, by degrees, he came to look upon the woods as his home. He was thereat peace. His wife had faded out of the world, his life had been a fatalstruggle with the grossest selfishness, he had come out of the shadowsinto a new life, and in that life's simple conditions, cared for byJim's strong arms, and upheld by his manly and cheerful companionship, he intended to build safely the structure of his health, and to erect onthe foundation of a useful experience a better life. 

In June, Jim did his planting, confined almost entirely to vegetables, as there was no mill near enough to grind his wheat and corn should hesucceed in growing them. By the time the young plants were ready fordressing, Benedict could assist Jim for an hour every day; and when theautumn came, the invalid of Number Ten had become a heavier man than heever was before. Through the disguise of rags, the sun-browned features, the heavy beard, and the generous and almost stalwart figure, his oldand most intimate friends would have failed to recognize the delicateand attenuated man they had once known. Jim regarded him with greatpride, and almost 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 indulged in one oftheir long talks, "do ye s'pose ye can make a house?"

"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' a frame, 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 down very deepinto a brown study. 

During September, he was in the habit of receiving the visits ofsportsmen, one of whom, a New York lawyer, who bore the name of Balfour, had come into the woods every year for several successive years. Hebecame aware that his supplies were running low, and that not only wasit necessary to lay in a winter's stock of flour and pork, but that hishelpless _protégés_ should be supplied with clothing for the coming coldweather. Benedict had become quite able to take care of himself and hisboy; so one day Jim, having furnished himself with a supply of moneyfrom his long accumulated hoard, went off down the river for a week'sabsence. 

He had a long consultation with Mike Conlin, who agreed to draw hislumber to the river whenever he should see fit to begin his enterprise. He had taken along a list of tools, furnished him by Benedict; and Mikecarried him to Sevenoaks with the purpose of taking back whatever, inthe way of stores, they should purchase. Jim was full of reminiscencesof his night's drive, and pointed out to Mike all the localities of hisgreat enterprise. Things had undergone a transformation about thepoor-house, and Jim stopped and inquired tenderly for Tom Buffum, andlearned that soon after the escape of Benedict the man had gone off inan apoplectic fit. 

"He was a pertickler friend o' mine, " said Jim, smiling in the face ofthe new occupant, "an' I'm glad he went off so quick he didn't knowwhere he was goin'. Left some rocks, didn't he?"

The man having replied to Jim's tender solicitude, that he believed thefamily were sufficiently well provided for, the precious pair ofsympathizers went off down the hill. 

Jim and Mike had a busy day in Sevenoaks, and at about eight o'clock inthe evening, Miss Keziah Butterworth was surprised in her room by theannouncement that there was a strange man down stairs who desired to seeher. As she entered the parlor of the little house, she saw a tall manstanding upright 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 into his face toread his features in the dim light. "You are Jim Fenton, whom I met lastspring at the town meeting. "

"I knowed you'd remember me. Women allers does. Be'n purty chirk thissummer?"

"Very well, I thank you, sir, " and Miss Butterworth dropped a courtesy, and then, sitting down, she pointed him to a chair. 

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

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

"Oh, I can't do it, " said Miss Butterworth at once. "I'm crowded todeath 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, shakingher 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 little boy. They hasnothin' but rags on 'em, an' won't have till ye make these clo'es. Theman is a pertickler friend o' mine, an' the boy is a cute little chap, an' he can pray better nor any minister in Sevenoaks. If you knowed whatI know, Miss Butterworth, I don't know but you'd do somethin' that you'dbe ashamed of, an' I don't know but you'd do something that I sh'd beashamed of. Strange things has happened, an' if ye want to know whatthey be, you must make these clo'es. "

Jim had aimed straight at one of the most powerful motives in humannature, and the woman began to relent, and to talk more as if it werepossible for her to undertake the job. 

"It may be, " said the tailoress, thinking, and scratching the top of herhead with a hair-pin, "that I _can_ work it in; but I haven't themeasure. "

"Well, now, let's see, " said Jim, pondering. "Whar is they about such aman? Don't ye remember a man that used to be here by the nameof--of--Benedict, wasn't it?--a feller about up to my ear--only fleshiernor he was? An' the little feller--well, he's bigger nor Benedict'sboy--bigger, leastways, nor he was then. "

Miss Butterworth rose to her feet, went up to Jim, and looked himsharply in the eyes. 

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

"All that any feller knows I know, " said Jim, "an' I've never tellednobody 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 upnights to do it. "

"Give us your hand, " said Jim, and he had a woman's hand in his ownalmost before he knew it, and his face grew crimson to the roots of hisbushy hair. 

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

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

"Well, turn about's fa'r play, they say, an' I think you're the mostgenuine creetur' I ever seen, " responded Jim. "All we want up in thewoods now is a woman, an' I'd sooner have ye 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 kind of a buckle. "

"But you're a blockhead--a great, good blockhead. That's just what youare, " said Miss Butterworth, laughing in spite of herself. 

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

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

"I hain't been jokin', " said Jim. "I'm in 'arnest. I been thinkin' o' yeever sence the town-meetin'. I been kinder livin' on yer looks. I'vedreamt about ye nights; an' when I've be'n helpin' Benedict, I took someo' 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, ye gitrampageous, or tell me I'm jokin'. 'Twon't be no joke if Jim Fenton goesaway from this house feelin' that the only woman he ever seen as hethought was wuth a row o' pins feels herself better nor he is. "

Miss Butterworth cast down her eyes, and trotted her knees nervously. She felt that Jim was really in earnest--that he thoroughly respectedher, and that behind his rough exterior there was as true a man as shehad ever seen; but the life to which he would introduce her, the gossipto which she would be subjected by any intimate connection with him, andthe uprooting of the active social life into which the routine of herdaily labor led her, would be a great hardship. Then there was anotherconsideration which weighed heavily with her. In her room were thememorials of an early affection and the disappointment of a life. 

"Mr. Fenton, " she said, looking up--

"Jest call me Jim. "

"Well, Jim--" and Miss Butterworth smiled through tearful eyes--"I musttell you that I was once engaged to be married. "

"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 week before the day wehad 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 Fenton wouldn'tbring that man to life if he could, and go to your weddin' singin'hallelujer, you must think he's meaner nor a rat. But ye know he's dead, an' ye never can see him no more. He's a goner, an' ye're all alone, an'here's a man as'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'm doin'. "

Miss Butterworth could not help smiling at Jim's earnestness andingenuity, but his proposition was so sudden and strange, and she had solong ago given up any thought of marrying, that it was impossible forher to give him an answer then, unless she should give him the answerwhich he deprecated. 

"Jim, " she said at last, "I believe you are a good man. I believe youare honorable, and that you mean well toward me; but we have beenbrought up very differently, and the life into which you wish to bringme would be very strange to me. I doubt whether I could be happy in it. "

Jim saw that it would not help him to press his suit further at thattime, and recognized the reasonableness of her hesitation. He knew hewas rough and unused to every sort of refinement, but he also knew thathe was truthful, and honorable, and faithful; and with trust in his ownmotives and trust in Miss Butterworth's good sense and discretion, hewithheld any further exhibition of his wish to settle the affair on thespot. 

"Well, Miss Butterworth, " he said, rising, "ye know yer own business, but there'll be a house, an' a stoop, an' a bureau, an' a little ladderfor flowers, an' Mike Conlin will draw the lumber, an' Benedict'll putit together, an' Jim Fenton'll be the busiest and happiest man in ahundred mile. "

As Jim rose, Miss Butterworth also stood up, and looked up into hisface. Jim regarded her with tender admiration. 

"Do ye know I take to little things wonderful, if they're only alive?"said he. "There's Benedict's little boy! I feel 'im fur hours arter I'vehad 'im in my arms, jest because he's alive an' little. An' I don'tknow--I--I vow, I guess I better go away. Can you git the clo'es made intwo days, so I can 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 promise Jim remained inSevenoaks. 

How he got out of the house he did not remember, but he went away verymuch exalted. What he did during those two days it did not matter tohim, so long as he could walk over to Miss Butterworth's each night, andwatch her light from his cover in the trees. 

Before the tailoress closed her eyes in sleep that night her brisk andready shears had cut the cloth for the two suits at a venture, and inthe morning the work was parceled among her benevolent friends, as awork of charity whose objects were not to be mentioned. 

When Jim called for the clothes, they were done, and there was no moneyto be paid for the labor. The statement of the fact embarrassed Jim morethan anything that had occurred in 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. Idon't want no man that I do fur to be beholden to workin' women fortheir clo'es. "

Jim took the big bundle under his left arm, and, extending his righthand, he took Miss Butterworth's, and said: "Good-bye, little woman; Ish'll see ye agin, an' here's hopin'. Don't hurt yerself, and think aswell of me as ye can. I hate to go away an' leave every thing looselike, but I s'pose I must. Yes, I don't like to go away so"--and Jimshook his head tenderly--"an' arter I go ye mustn't kick a stone on theroad or 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 moistwith the effect of the unconscious poetry of his closing utterance. 

It was still early in the evening when Jim reached the hotel, and he hadhardly mounted the steps when the stage drove up, and Mr. Balfour, encumbered with a gun, all sorts of fishing-tackle and a lad of twelveyears, leaped out. He was on his annual vacation; and with all thehilarity and heartiness of a boy let loose from school greeted Jim, whose irresistibly broad smile was full of welcome. 

It was quickly arranged that Jim and Mike should go on that night withtheir load of stores; that Mr. Balfour and his boy should follow in themorning with a team to be hired for the occasion, and that Jim, reachinghome first, should return and meet his guests with his boat at thelanding. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

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

The shadow of a mystery hung over Sevenoaks for many months. Handbillsadvertising the fugitives were posted in all directions throughout thecountry, but nothing came of them but rumors. The newspapers, far andnear, told the story, but it resulted in nothing save such an airing ofthe Sevenoaks poor-house, and the county establishment connected withthe same, that Tom Buffum, who had lived for several years on theborder-land of apoplexy, passed suddenly over, and went so far that henever returned to meet the official inquiry into his administration. TheAugean stables were cleansed by the Hercules of public opinion; and withthe satisfied conscience and restored self-complacency procured by thisact, the people at last settled down upon the conviction that Benedictand his boy had shared the fate of old Tilden--that they had lostthemselves in the distant forest, and met their death alike beyond helpand discovery. 

Mr. Belcher found himself without influence in the adjustment of the newadministration. Sevenoaks turned the cold shoulder to him. Nobody wentto him with the reports that connected him with the flight and fate ofthe crazed inventor, yet he knew, through instincts which men of hisnature often possess in a remarkable degree, that he was deeply blamedfor the causes of Benedict's misfortunes. It has already been hintedthat at first he was suspected of knowing guiltily more about thedisappearance of the fugitives than he would be willing to tell, butthere were only a few minds in which the suspicion was long permitted tolinger. When the first excitement passed away and men began to think, it was impossible for them to imagine motives sufficiently powerful toinduce the rich proprietor to pursue a lunatic pauper to his death. 

Mr. Belcher never had encouraged the neighborly approaches which, in anemergency like this, might have given him comfort and companionship. Recognizing no equals in Sevenoaks--measuring his own social position bythe depth of his purse and the reach of his power--he had been in thehabit of dispensing his society as largess to the humble villagers. Torecognize a man upon the street, and speak to him in a familiar way, wasto him like the opening of his purse and throwing the surprise of adollar into a beggar's hat. His courtesies were charities; hispoliteness was a boon; he tossed his jokes into a crowd of dirtyemployes as he would toss a handful of silver coin. Up to this time hehad been sufficient unto himself. By money, by petty revenges, bypersonal assumption, he had managed to retain his throne for a longdecade; and when he found his power partly ignored and partly defied, and learned that his personal courtesies were not accepted at their oldvalue, he not only began to feel lonesome, but he grew angry. He heldhot discussions with his image in the mirror night after night, in hislonely library, where a certain measure which had once seemed a distantpossibility took shape more and more as a purpose. In some way he wouldrevenge himself upon the people of the town. Even at a personalsacrifice, he would pay them off for their slight upon him; and he knewthere was no way in which he could so effectually do this as by leavingthem. He had dreamed many times, as he rapidly accumulated his wealth, of arriving at a point where he could treat his splendid home as asummer resort, and take up his residence in the great city among thoseof his own kind. He had an uneasy desire for the splendors of city life, yet his interests had always held him to Sevenoaks, and he had contentedhimself there simply because he had his own way, and was accounted "theprincipal citizen. " His village splendors were without competition. Hiswill was law. His self-complacency, fed and flourishing in his countryhome, had taken the place of society; but this had ceased to beall-sufficient, even before the change occurred in the atmosphere aroundhim. 

It was six months after the reader's first introduction to him that, showily dressed as he always was, he took his place before his mirrorfor a conversation with the striking-looking person whom he sawreflected there. 

"Robert Belcher, Esquire, " said he, "are you played out? Who says playedout? Did you address that question to me, sir? Am I the subject of thatinsulting remark? Do you dare to beard the lion in his den? Withdraw thedagger that you have aimed at my breast, or I will not hold myselfresponsible for the consequences. Played out, with a million dollars inyour pocket? Played out, with wealth pouring in in mighty waves? Whosename is Norval still? Whose are these Grampian Hills? In yonder silentheavens the stars still shine, printing on boundless space the words ofgolden promise. Will you leave Sevenoaks? Will you go to yondermetropolis, and there reap, in honor and pleasure, the rewards of yourenterprise? Will you leave Sevenoaks howling in pain? Will you leavethese scurvy ministers to whine for their salaries and whine to emptyair? Ye fresh fields and pastures new, I yield, I go, I reside! I spurnthe dust of Sevenoaks from my feet. I hail the glories of the distantmart. I make my bow to you, sir. You ask my pardon? It is well! Go!"

The next morning, after a long examination of his affairs, in conferencewith his confidential agent, and the announcement to Mrs. Belcher thathe was about to start for New York on business, Phipps took him and histrunk on a drive of twenty miles, to the northern terminus of a railroadline which, with his connections, would bear him to the city of hishopes. 

It is astonishing how much room a richly dressed snob can occupy in arailway car without receiving a request to occupy less, or endangeringthe welfare of his arrogant eyes. Mr. Belcher occupied always two seats, and usually four. It was pitiful to see feeble women look at hisabounding supply, then look at him, and then pass on. It was pitiful tosee humbly dressed men do the same. It was pitiful to see gentlemen putthemselves to inconvenience rather than dispute with him his right toall the space he could cover with his luggage and his feet. Mr. Belcherwatched all these exhibitions with supreme satisfaction. They were atribute to his commanding personal appearance. Even the conductorsrecognized the manner of man with whom they had to deal, and shunnedhim. He not only got the worth of his money in his ride, but the worthof the money of several other people. 

Arriving at New York, he went directly to the Astor, then the leadinghotel of the city. The clerk not only knew the kind of man who stoodbefore him recording his name, but he knew him; and while he assigned tohis betters, men and women, rooms at the top of the house, Mr. Belchersecured, without difficulty, a parlor and bedroom on the second floor. The arrogant snob was not only at a premium on the railway train, but atthe hotel. When he swaggered into the dining-room, the head waiter tookhis measure instinctively, and placed him as a figure-head at the top ofthe hall, where he easily won to himself the most careful and obsequiousservice, the choicest viands, and a large degree of quiet observationfrom the curious guests. In the office, waiters ran for him, hackmentook off their hats to him, his cards were delivered with greatpromptitude, and even the courtly principal deigned to inquire whetherhe found everything to his mind. In short, Mr. Belcher seemed to findthat his name was as distinctly "Norval" in New York as in Sevenoaks, and that his "Grampian Hills" were movable eminences that stood aroundand smiled upon him wherever he went. 

Retiring to his room to enjoy in quiet his morning cigar and to lookover the papers, his eye was attracted, among the "personals, " to anitem which read as follows:

"Col. Robert Belcher, the rich and well-known manufacturer of Sevenoaks, and the maker of the celebrated Belcher rifle, has arrived in town, andoccupies a suite of apartments at the Astor. "

His title, he was aware, had been manufactured, in order to give thehighest significance to the item, by the enterprising reporter, but itpleased him. The reporter, associating his name with fire-arms, hadchosen a military title, in accordance with the custom which makes"commodores" of enterprising landsmen who build and manage lines ofmarine transportation and travel, and "bosses" of men who controlelection gangs, employed to dig the dirty channels to political success. 

He read it again and again, and smoked, and walked to his glass, andcoddled himself with complacent fancies. He felt that all doors openedthemselves widely to the man who had money, and the skill to carry it inhis own magnificent way. In the midst of pleasant thoughts, there came arap at the door, and he received from the waiter's little salver thecard of his factor, "Mr. Benjamin Talbot. " Mr. Talbot had read the"personal" which had so attracted and delighted himself, and had madehaste to pay his respects to the principal from whose productions he wascoining a fortune. 

Mr. Talbot was the man of all others whom Mr. Belcher desired to see;so, with a glance at the card, he told the waiter promptly to show thegentleman up. 

No man in the world understood Mr. Belcher better than the quick-wittedand obsequious factor. He had been in the habit, during the ten years inwhich he had handled Mr. Belcher's goods, of devoting his whole time tothe proprietor while that person was on his stated visits to the city. He took him to his club to dine; he introduced him to congenial spirits;he went to the theater with him; he went with him to grosser resorts, which do not need to be named in these pages; he drove with him to theraces; he took him to lunch at suburban hotels, frequented by fast menwho drove fast horses; he ministered to every coarse taste and vulgardesire possessed by the man whose nature and graceless caprices he socarefully studied. He did all this at his own expense, and at the sametime he kept his principal out of the clutches of gamblers and sharpers. It was for his interest to be of actual use to the man whose desires heaimed to gratify, and so to guard and shadow him that no deep harm wouldcome to him. It was for his interest to keep Mr. Belcher to himself, while he gave him the gratifications that a coarse man living in thecountry so naturally seeks among the opportunities and excitements ofthe city. 

There was one thing, however, that Mr. Talbot had never done. He hadnever taken Mr. Belcher to his home. Mrs. Talbot did not wish to seehim, and Mr. Talbot did not wish to have her see him. He knew that Mr. Belcher, after his business was completed, wanted something besides aquiet dinner with women and children. His leanings were not towardvirtue, but toward safe and half-reputable vice; and exactly what hewanted consistent with his safety as a business man, Mr. Talbot wishedto give him. To nurse his good-will, to make himself useful, and, as faras possible, essential to the proprietor, and to keep him sound and makehim last, was Mr. Talbot's study and his most determined ambition. 

Mr. Belcher was seated in a huge arm chair, with his back to the doorand his feet in another chair, when the second rap came, and Mr. Talbot, with a radiant smile, entered. 

"Well, Toll, my boy, " said the proprietor, keeping his seat withoutturning, and extending his left hand. "How are you? Glad to see you. Come round to pay your respects to the Colonel, eh? How's business, andhow's your folks?"

Mr. Talbot was accustomed to this style of greeting from his principal, and, responding heartily to it and the inquiries accompanying it, hetook a seat. With hat and cane in hand he sat on his little chair, showing his handsome teeth, twirling his light mustache, and looking atthe proprietor with his keen gray eyes, his whole attitude andphysiognomy expressing the words as plainly as if he had spoken them:"I'm your man; now, what are you up to?"

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

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

"I vow, I guess that's true! You fellows, without any blood, are apt toget waked up when the old boys come in from the country. Toll, lock thedoor. "

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 that you owned thehorse. "

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

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

"Well, I'm tired with living where there is so much infernal babble, andmeddling with other people's business. If I sneeze, the people thinkthere's been an earthquake; and when I whistle, they call it ahurricane. "

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

"Yes; but a man gets tired being king of the roost, and longs for somerooster to fight. "

Mr. Talbot saw the point toward which Mr. Belcher was drifting, andprepared himself for it. He had measured his chances for losing hisbusiness, and when, at last, his principal came out with the frankstatement, that he had made up his mind to come to New York to live, hewas all ready with his overjoyed "No!" and with his smooth little handto bestow upon 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, you know. Wemust be highly respectable citizens, and keep ourselves straight. "

"Don't you undertake to teach your grandmother how to suck eggs, "responded the proprietor with a huge laugh, in which the factor joined. Then he added, thoughtfully: "I haven't said a word to the woman aboutit, and she may make a fuss, but she knows me pretty well; and there'llbe the biggest kind of a row in the town; but the fact is, Toll, I'm atthe end of my rope there. I'm making money hand over hand, and I'venothing to show for it. I've spent about everything I can up there, andnobody sees it. I might just as well be buried; and if a fellow can'tshow what he gets, what's the use of having it? I haven't but one lifeto 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 open their eyes, myname isn't Robert Belcher. "

Mr. Belcher had exposed motives in this little speech that he had noteven alluded to in his addresses to his image in the mirror. Talbot sawthat something had gone wrong in the town, that he was playing off a bitof revenge, and, above all, that the vulgar desire for display was moreprominent among Mr. Belcher's motives for removal than that personsuspected. 

"I have a few affairs to attend to, " said Mr. Talbot, rising, "but aftertwelve o'clock I will be at your service while you remain in the city. We shall have no difficulty in finding a house to suit you, I am sure, and you can get everything done in the matter of furniture at theshortest notice. I will hunt houses with you for a week, if you wish. "

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

Mr. Talbot went out, but instead of going to his office, went straighthome, and surprised Mrs. Talbot by his sudden reappearance. 

"What on earth!"--said she, looking up from a bit of embroidery onwhich 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, her possessive pronounstumbling and fainting away without reaching its object. "_Must_ we havethat 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 the truth that aprincipal out of town, and away from his wife and family, was a verydifferent person to deal with from one in the town and in the occupationof a grand establishment, with his dependents. They saw that they mustmake themselves essential to him in the establishment of his socialposition, and that they must introduce him and his wife to theirfriends. Moreover, they had heard good reports of Mrs. Belcher, and hadthe impression that she would be either an inoffensive or a valuableacquisition to their circle of friends. 

There was nothing to do, therefore, but to make a dinner-party in Mr. Belcher's honor. The guests were carefully selected, and Mrs. Talbotlaid aside her embroidery and wrote her invitations, while Mr. Talbotmade his next errand at the office of the leading real estate broker, with whom he concluded a private arrangement to share in the commissionof any sale that might be made to the customer whom he proposed to bringto him in the course of the day. Half an-hour before twelve, he was inhis own office, and in the thirty minutes that lay between his arrivaland the visit of the proprietor, he had arranged his affairs for anyabsence that would be necessary. 

When Mr. Belcher came in, looking from side to side, with the air of aman who owned all he saw, even the clerks, who respectfully bowed to himas he passed, he found Mr. Talbot waiting; also, a bunch of thecostliest cigars. 

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

"Toll, you're a jewel, " said Mr. Belcher, drawing out one of thefragrant rolls and lighting it. 

"Now, before we go a step, " said Talbot, "you must agree to come to myhouse to-morrow night to dinner, and meet some of my friends. When youcome to New York, you'll want 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 of thing, and, faith, I'm not up to it, but I suppose all a man has to do is to put ona 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 thebest one in the city, and I'll show you the inside of more fine housesbefore night than you have ever seen. "

Talbot took the proprietor's arm and led him to a carriage in waiting. Then he took him to Pine street, and introduced him, in the mostdeferential manner, to the broker who held half of New York at hisdisposal, and knew the city as he knew his alphabet. 

The broker took the pair of house-hunters to a private room, andunfolded a map of the city before them. On this he traced, with awell-kept finger-nail, a series of lines, --like those fancifulisothermal definitions that embrace the regions of perennial summer onthe range of the Northern Pacific Railroad, --within which socialrespectability made its home. Within certain avenues and certainstreets, he explained that it was a respectable thing to live. Outsideof these arbitrary boundaries, nobody who made any pretense torespectability should buy a house. The remainder of the city, was forthe vulgar--craftsmen, petty shopkeepers, salaried men, and theshabby-genteel. He insisted that a wealthy man, making an entrance uponNew York life, should be careful to locate himself somewhere upon thecharmed territory which he defined. He felt in duty bound to say this toMr. Belcher, as he was a stranger; and Mr. Belcher was, of course, grateful for the information. 

Then he armed Mr. Talbot, as Mr. Belcher's city friend and helper, witha bundle of permits, with which they set off upon their quest. 

They visited a dozen houses in the course of the afternoon, carefullychosen in their succession by Mr. Talbot, who was as sure of Mr. Belcher's tastes as he was of his own. One street was too quiet, one wastoo dark; one house was too small, and one was too tame; one house hadno stable, another had too small a stable. At last, they came out uponFifth avenue, and drove up to a double front, with a stable almost asample and as richly appointed as the house itself. It had been built, and occupied for a year or two, by an exploded millionaire, and was anelephant upon the hands of his creditors. Robert Belcher was happy atonce. The marvelous mirrors, the plate glass, the gilded cornices, thegrand staircase, the glittering chandeliers, the evidences of lavishexpenditure in every fixture, and in all the finish, excited him likewine. 

"Now you talk!" said he to the smiling factor; and as he went to thewindow, and saw the life of the street, rolling by in costly carriages, or sweeping the sidewalks with shining silks and mellow velvets, he feltthat he was at home. Here he could see and be seen. Here his splendorscould be advertised. Here he could find an expression for his wealth, bythe side of which his establishment at Sevenoaks seemed too mean to bethought of without humiliation and disgust. Here was a house thatgratified his sensuous nature through and through, and appealedirresistibly to his egregious vanity. He did not know that the grand andgaudy establishment bore the name of "Palgrave's Folly, " and, probably, it would have made no difference with him if he had. It suited him, andwould, in his hands, become Belcher's Glory. 

The sum demanded for the place, though very large, did not cover itsoriginal cost, and in this fact Mr. Belcher took great comfort. To enjoyfifty thousand dollars, which somebody else had made, was a charmingconsideration with him, and one that did much to reconcile him to anexpenditure far beyond his original purpose. 

When he had finished his examination of the house, he returned to hishotel, as business hours were past, and he could make no further headwaythat day in his negotiations. The more he thought of the house, the moreuneasy he became. Somebody might have seen him looking at it, and soreached the broker first, and snatched it from his grasp. He did notknow that it had been in the market for two years, waiting for just sucha man as himself. 

Talbot was fully aware of the state of Mr. Belcher's mind, and knew thatif he did not reach him early the next morning, the proprietor wouldarrive at the broker's before him. Accordingly, when Mr. Belcherfinished his breakfast that morning, he found his factor waiting forhim, with the information that the broker would not be in his office foran hour and a-half, and that there was time to look further, if furthersearch were desirable. He hoped that Mr. Belcher would not be in ahurry, or take any step that he would ultimately regret. Mr. Belcherassured him that he knew what he wanted when he saw it, and had no fearsabout the matter, except that somebody might anticipate him. 

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

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

"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 thatthey will take. "

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

"Yes. "

"Then go ahead. "

They had a long talk about business, and then Talbot went out, and, after an extended interview with the broker, sent a messenger for Mr. Belcher. When that gentleman came in, he found that Talbot had boughtthe house for ten thousand dollars less than the price originallydemanded. Mr. Belcher deposited a handsome sum as a guaranty of his goodfaith, and ordered the papers to be made out at once. 

After their return to the hotel, Mr. Talbot sat down to a table, andwent through a long calculation. 

"It will cost you, Mr. Belcher, " said the factor, deliberately, "atleast twenty-five thousand dollars to furnish that housesatisfactorily. "

Mr. Belcher gave a long whistle. 

"At least twenty-five thousand dollars, and I doubt whether you get offfor 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 the best furnisher wecan find. I happen to know the man who is at the top of the style, and Isuppose the best thing--as you and I don't know much about thematter--is to let him have his own way, and hold him responsible for theresults. "

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

They found the arbiter of style in his counting-room. Mr. Talbotapproached him first, and held a long private conversation with him. Mr. Belcher, in his self-complacency, waited, fancying that Talbot wasrepresenting his own importance and the desirableness of so rare acustomer, and endeavoring to 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 assistance to hiscountry friends, that it savored of mercenariness, amounting tovillainy, it is to be said, on his behalf, that he was simply practicingthe morals that Mr. Belcher had taught him. Mr. Belcher had not failedto debauch or debase the moral standard of every man over whom he hadany direct influence. If Talbot had practiced his little game upon anyother man, Mr. Belcher would have patted his shoulder and told him hewas a "jewel. " So much of Mr. Belcher's wealth had been won by sharp andmore than doubtful practices, that that wealth itself stood before theworld as a premium on rascality, and thus became, far and wide, ademoralizing influence upon the feverishly ambitious and the young. Besides, Mr. Talbot quieted what little conscience he had in the matterby the consideration that his commissions were drawn, not from Mr. Belcher, but from the profits which others would make out of him, andthe further consideration that it was no more than right for him to getthe money back that he had spent, and was spending, for his principal'sbenefit. 

Mr. Belcher was introduced, and the arbiter of style conversed learnedlyof Tuscan, Pompeiian, Elizabethan, Louis Quatorze, buhl, _marqueterie_, &. C. , &c. , till the head of the proprietor, to whom all these words werestrangers, and all his talk Greek, was thrown into a hopeless muddle. 

Mr. Belcher listened to him as long as he could do so with patience, andthen brought him to a conclusion by a slap upon his knee. 

"Come, now!" said he, "you understand your business, and I understandmine. If you were to take up guns and gutta-percha, I could probablytalk your head off, but I don't know anything about these things. What Iwant is something right. Do the whole thing up brown. Do you understandthat?"

The arbiter of style smiled pityingly, and admitted that he comprehendedhis customer. 

It was at last arranged that the latter should make a study of thehouse, and furnish it according to his best ability, within a specifiedsum of expenditure and a specified period of time; and then theproprietor took his leave. 

Mr. Belcher had accomplished a large amount of business within two days, but he had worked according to his habit. The dinner party remained, andthis was the most difficult business that he had ever undertaken, yet hehad a strong desire to see how it was done. He learned quickly what heundertook, and he had already "discounted, " to use his own word, acertain amount of mortification connected with the affair. 

CHAPTER IX. 

MRS. TALBOT GIVES HER LITTLE DINNER PARTY, AND MR. BELCHER MAKES ANEXCEEDINGLY PLEASANT ACQUAINTANCE. 

Mrs. Talbot had a very dear friend. She had been her dear friend eversince the two had roomed together at boarding-school. Sometimes she hadquestioned whether in reality Mrs. Helen Dillingham was her dear friend, or whether the particular friendship was all on the other side; but Mrs. Dillingham had somehow so manipulated the relation as always to appearto be the favored party. When, therefore, the dinner was determinedupon, Mrs. Dillingham's card of invitation was the first one addressed. She was a widow and alone. She complemented Mr. Belcher, who was alsoalone. 

Exactly the position Mrs. Dillingham occupied in society, it would behard to define. Everybody invited her, and yet everybody, without anydefinite reason, considered her 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, and sheformed the theater of the struggle of a black angel and a white one, neither of whom ever won a complete victory, or held whatever advantagehe gained for any considerable length of time. Nothing could be finerthan Mrs. Dillingham in her fine moods; nothing coarser when the blackangel was enjoying one of his victories, and the white angel had satdown to breathe. It was the impression given in these latter momentsthat fixed upon her the suspicion that she was not quite what she oughtto be. The flowers bloomed where she walked, but there was dust on them. The cup she handed to her friends was pure to the eye, but it had amuddy taste. She was a whole woman in sympathy, power, beauty, andsensibility, and yet one felt that somewhere within she harbored adevil--a refined devil in its play, a gross one when it had the woman atunresisting advantage. 

Next came the Schoonmakers, an elderly gentleman and his wife, who dinedout a great deal, and lived on the ancient respectability of theirfamily. They talked much about "the old New Yorkers, " and of the inroadsand devastations of the parvenu. They were thoroughly posted on oldfamily estates and mansions, the intermarriages of the Dutcharistocracy, and the subject of heraldry. Mr. Schoonmaker made a hobbyof old Bibles, and Mrs. Schoonmaker of old lace. The two hobbiescombined gave a mingled air of erudition and gentility to the pair thatwas quite impressive, while their unquestionably good descent was asource of social capital to all of humbler origin who were fortunateenough to draw them to their tables. 

Next came the Tunbridges. Mr. Tunbridge was the president of a bank, andMrs. Tunbridge was the president of Mr. Tunbridge--a large, billowywoman, who "brought him his money, " according to the speech of the town. Mr. Tunbridge had managed his trust with great skill, and was glad atany time, and at any social sacrifice, to be brought into contact withmen who carried large deposit accounts. 

Next in order were Mr. And Mrs. Cavendish. Mr. Cavendish was a lawyer--ahook-nosed, hawk-eyed man, who knew a little more about everything thananybody else did, and was celebrated in the city for successfullymanaging the most intractable cases, and securing the most princelyfees. If a rich criminal were brought into straits before the law, healways sent for Mr. Cavendish. If the unprincipled managers of a greatcorporation wished to ascertain just how closely before the wind theycould sail without being swamped, they consulted Mr. Cavendish. He waseverywhere accounted a great lawyer by those who estimated acuteness tobe above astuteness, 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 description of Mrs. Talbot's dinner party in advance. They were such people as Mr. And Mrs. Talbot naturally drew around them. The minister was invited, partly as amatter of course, and partly to occupy Mr. Schoonmaker on the subject ofBibles. The doctor was invited because Mrs. Talbot was fond of him, andbecause he always took "such an interest in the family. "

When Mr. Belcher arrived at Talbot's beautiful but quiet house, theguests had all assembled, and, clothing their faces with that veneer ofsmile which hungry people who are about to dine at another man's expensefeel compelled to wear in the presence of their host, they were chattingover the news of the day. 

It is probable that the great city was never the scene of a personalintroduction that gave more quiet amusement to an assemblage of gueststhan that of the presentation of Mr. Belcher. That gentleman's firstimpression as he entered the room was that Talbot had invited a companyof clergymen to meet him. His look of surprise as he took a survey ofthe assembly was that of a knave who found himself for the first time ingood company; but as he looked from the gentlemen to the ladies, intheir gay costumes and display of costly jewelry, he concluded that theycould not be the wives of clergymen. The quiet self-possession of thegroup, and the consciousness that he was not _en régle_ in the matter ofdress, oppressed him; but he was bold, and he knew that they knew thathe was worth a million of dollars. 

The "stiff upper lip" was placed at its stiffest in the midst of hisflorid expanse of face, as, standing still, in the center of the room, he greeted one after another to whom he was presented, in a waypeculiarly his own. 

He had never been in the habit of lifting his hat, in courtesy to man orwoman. Even the touching its brim with his fingers had degenerated intoa motion that began with a flourish toward it, and ended with a suaveextension of his palm toward the object of his obeisance. On thisoccasion he quite forgot that he had left his hat in the hall, and so, assuming that 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 beenwilling to tell Mr. Belcher what they were laughing at. 

The last person to whom he was introduced was Mrs. Dillingham, the ladywho stood nearest to him--so near that the hand flourish seemed absurdeven to him, and half died in the impulse to make it. Mrs. Dillingham, in her black and her magnificent diamonds, went down almost upon thefloor in the demonstration of her admiring and reverential courtesy, andpronounced the name of Mr. Belcher with a musical distinctness ofenunciation that arrested and charmed the ears of all who heard it. Itseemed as if every letter were swimming in a vehicle compounded ofrespect, veneration, and affection. The consonants flowed shining andsmooth like gold-fish through a globe of crystal illuminated by the sun. The tone in which she spoke the name seemed to rob it of all vulgarassociations, and to inaugurate it as the key-note of a fine socialsymphony. 

Mr. Belcher was charmed, and placed by it at his ease. It wrought uponhim and upon the company the effect which she designed. She wasdetermined he should not only show at his best, but that he should beconscious of the favor she had won for him. 

Before dinner was announced, Mr. Talbot made a little speech to hisguests, ostensibly to give them the good news that Mr. Belcher hadpurchased the mansion, built and formerly occupied by Mr. Palgrave, butreally to explain that he had caught him in town on business, and takenhim at the disadvantage of distance from his evening dress, though, ofcourse, he did not say it in such and so many words. The speech wasunnecessary. Mrs. Dillingham had told the whole story in her ownunapproachable way. 

When dinner was announced Mr. Belcher was requested to lead Mrs. Talbotto her seat, and was himself placed between his hostess and Mrs. Dillingham. Mrs. Talbot was a stately, beautiful woman, and bore off herelegant toilet like a queen. In her walk into the dining-room, hershapely arm rested upon the proprietor's, and her brilliant eyes lookedinto his with an expression that flattered to its utmost all the foolthere was in him. There was a little rivalry between the "dear friends;"but the unrestricted widow was more than a match for the circumspect andguarded wife, and Mr. Belcher was delighted to find himself seated sideby side with the former. 

He had not talked five minutes with Mrs. Dillingham before he knew her. The exquisite varnish that covered her person and her manners not onlyrevealed, but made beautiful, the gnarled and stained wood beneath. Underneath the polish he saw the element that allied her with himself. There was no subject upon which she could not lead or accompany him withbrilliant talk, yet he felt that there was a coarse under-current ofsympathy by which he could lead her, or she could lead him--where?

The courtly manners of the table, the orderly courses that came and wentas if the domestic administration were some automatic machine, and theexquisite appointments of the board, all exercised a powerful moralinfluence upon him; and though they did not wholly suppress him, theytoned him down, 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 only amused, butpleased. In the first place, much could be forgiven to the man who ownedPalgrave's Folly. No small consideration was due to one who, in a quietcountry town, had accumulated a million dollars. A person who had thepower to reward attention with grand dinners and splendid receptions wascertainly not a person to be treated lightly. 

Mr. Tunbridge undertook to talk finance with him, but retired under thelaugh raised by Mr. Belcher's statement that he had been so busy makingmoney that he had had no time to consider questions of finance. Mr. Schoonmaker and the minister were deep in Bibles, and on referring somequestion to Mr. Belcher concerning "The Breeches Bible, " received inreply the statement that he had never arrived any nearer a BreechesBible than a pocket handkerchief with the Lord's Prayer on it. Mr. Cavendish simply sat and criticised the rest. He had never seen anybodyyet who knew anything about finance. The Chamber of Commerce was a setof old women, the Secretary of the Treasury was an ass, and the Chairmanof the Committee of Ways and Means was a person he should be unwillingto take as an office-boy. As for him, he never could see the fun of oldBibles. If he wanted a Bible he would get a new one. 

Each man had his shot, until the conversation fell from the general tothe particular, and at last Mr. Belcher found himself engaged in themost delightful conversation of his life with the facile woman at hisside. He could make no approach to her from any quarter without beingpromptly met. She was quite as much at home, and quite as graceful, inbandying badinage as in expatiating upon the loveliness of country lifeand the ritual of her church. 

Mr. Talbot did not urge wine upon his principal, for he saw that he wasexcited and off his guard; and when, at length, the banquet came to itsconclusion, the proprietor declined to remain with the gentlemen and thesupplementary wine and cigars, but took coffee in the drawing-room withthe ladies. Mrs. Dillingham's eye was on Mrs. Talbot, and when she sawher start toward them from her seat, she took Mr. Belcher's arm for atour among the artistic treasures of the house. 

"My dear Kate, " said Mrs. Dillingham, "give me the privilege of showingMr. Belcher some of your beautiful things. "

"Oh, certainly, " responded Mrs. Talbot, her face flushing, "and don'tforget yourself, my child, among the rest. "

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

They went from painting to painting, and sculpture to sculpture, andthen, over a cabinet of bric-à-brac, she quietly led the conversation toMr. Belcher's prospective occupation of the Palgrave mansion. She hadnothing in the world to do. She should be so happy to assist poor Mrs. Belcher in the adjustment of her housekeeping. It would be a realpleasure to her to arrange the furniture, and do anything to help thatquiet country lady in inaugurating the splendors of city life. She knewall the caterers, all the confectioners, all the modistes, all the cityways, and all the people worth knowing. She was willing to become, forMrs. Belcher's sake, city-directory, commissionaire, adviser, director, everything. She would take it as a great kindness if she could bepermitted to make herself useful. 

All this was honey to the proprietor. How Mrs. Dillingham would shine inhis splendid mansion! How she would illuminate his landau! How she wouldsave his quiet wife, not to say himself, from the _gaucheries_ of whichboth would be guilty until the ways of the polite world could belearned! How delightful it would be to have a sympathetic friend whoseintelligent and considerate advice would be always ready!

When the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room, and disturbed theconfidential _tête-à-tête_ of these new friends, Mrs. Dillinghamdeclared it was time to go, and Mr. Belcher insisted on seeing her homein his own carriage. 

The dinner party broke up with universal hand-shakings. Mr. Belcher wascongratulated on his magnificent purchase and prospects. They would allbe happy to make Mrs. Belcher's acquaintance, and she really must loseno time in letting them know when she would be ready to receivevisitors. 

Mr. Belcher saw Mrs. Dillingham home. He held her pretty hands atparting, as if he were an affectionate older brother who was about tosail on a voyage around the world. At last he hurriedly relinquished herto the man-servant who had answered her summons, then ran down the stepsand drove to his hotel. 

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

"Where did she find it, old boy? Eh? Where did she find it? Was it thefigure? Was it the face? Hang the swallow tails! Must you, sir, come tosuch a humiliation? How are the mighty fallen! The lion of Sevenoaks inthe skin 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 youare no Mrs. Dillingham. By the gods! Wouldn't she swim around my houselike 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 addressthat remark to me, sir? By the way, how do you think you got along? Didyou make a fool of yourself, or did you make a fool of somebody? Honorsare easy. Let Robert Belcher alone! Is Toll making money a little toofast? What do you think? Perhaps you will settle that question by andby. You will keep him while you can use him. Then Toll, my boy, you candrift. In the meantime, splendor! and in the meantime let Sevenoakshowl, and learn to let Robert Belcher alone. "

From these dizzy heights of elation Mr. Belcher descended to his bed andhis heavy dreams, and the next morning found him whirling away at therate of thirty miles an hour, but not northward. Whither was he going?

CHAPTER X. 

WHICH TELLS HOW A LAWYER SPENT HIS VACATION IN CAMP, AND TOOK HOME ASPECIMEN OF GAME THAT HE HAD NEVER BEFORE FOUND IN THE WOODS. 

It was a bright moonlight night when Mike Conlin and Jim started offfrom Sevenoaks for home, leaving Mr. Balfour and his boy to follow. Theold horse had a heavy load, and it was not until an hour past midnightthat Mike's house was reached. There Jim made the new clothes, comprising a complete outfit for his boarders at Number Ten, into aconvenient package, and swinging it over his shoulders, started for hisdistant cabin on foot. Mike, after resting himself and his horse, was tofollow in the morning with the tools and stores, so as to arrive at theriver at as early an hour as Mr. Balfour could complete the journey fromSevenoaks, with his lighter load and swifter horses. 

Jim Fenton, who had lain still for several days, and was full of hisschemes for Mr. Balfour and his protégés in camp, and warm with hismemories of Miss Butterworth, simply gloried in his moonlight tramp. Theaccumulated vitality of his days of idleness was quite enough to makeall the fatigues before him light and pleasant. At nine o'clock the nextmorning he stood by the side of his boat again. The great stillness ofthe woods, responding in vivid color to the first kisses of the frost, half intoxicated him. No world-wide wanderer, returning after many yearsto the home of his childhood, could have felt more exulting gladnessthan he, as he shoved his boat from the bank and pushed up the shiningstream in the face of the sun. 

Benedict and Harry had not been idle during his absence. A deer hadbeen shot and dressed; trout had been caught and saved alive; a cave hadbeen dug for the preservation of vegetables; and when Jim shouted, fardown the stream, to announce his approach, there were three happypersons on shore, waiting to welcome him--Turk being the third, andapparently oblivious of the fact that he was not as much a human beingas any of the party. Turk added the "tiger" to Harry's three cheers, andJim was as glad as a boy when his boat touched the shore, and hereceived the affectionate greetings of the party. 

A choice meal was nearly in readiness for him, but not a mouthful wouldhe taste until he had unfolded his treasures, and displayed to theastonished eyes of Mr. Benedict and the lad the comfortable clothing hehad brought for them. 

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

Jim's idea of the word "indigoes" was, that it drew its meaning partlyfrom the color of the articles designated, and partly from their office. They were blue undergoes--in other words, blue flannel shirts. 

Jim sat down and waited. He saw that, while Harry was hilarious over hisgood fortune, Mr. Benedict was very silent and humble. It was twentyminutes before Harry reappeared; and when he came bounding toward Jim, even Turk did not know him. Jim embraced him, and could not help feelingthat he had acquired a certain amount of property in the lad. 

When Mr. Benedict came forth from the little cabin, and found Jimchaffing and petting his boy, he was much embarrassed. He could notspeak, but walked directly past the pair, and went out upon the bank ofthe river, with his eyes averted. 

Jim comprehended it all. Leaving Harry, he went up to his guest, andplaced his hand upon his shoulder. "Will ye furgive me, Mr. Benedict? Ididn't go fur to make it hard fur ye. "

"Jim, " said Mr. Benedict, struggling to retain his composure, "I cannever repay your overwhelming kindness, and the fact oppresses me. "

"Well, " said Jim, "I s'pose I don't make 'lowance enough fur thedifference in folks. Ye think ye oughter pay fur this sort o' thing, an'I don't want no pay. I git comfort enough outen it, anyway. "

Benedict turned, took and warmly pressed Jim's hand, and then they wentback to their dinner. After they had eaten, and Jim had sat down to hispipe, he told his guests that they were to have visitors that night--aman from the city and his little boy--and that they would spend afortnight with them. The news alarmed Mr. Benedict, for his nerves werestill weak, and it was a long time before he could be reconciled to thethought of intrusion upon his solitude; but Jim reassured him by hisenthusiastic accounts of Mr. Balfour, and Harry was overjoyed with thethought of having a companion in the strange lad. 

"I thought I'd come home an' git ye ready, " said Jim; "fur I knowed ye'dfeel bad to meet a gentleman in yer old poor-house fixin's. Burn 'em orbury 'em as soon as I'm gone. I don't never want to see them thingsagin. "

Jim went off again down the river, and Mr. Benedict and Harry busiedthemselves in cleaning the camp, and preparing Number Ten for thereception of Mr. Balfour and his boy, having previously determined totake up their abode with Jim for the winter. The latter had a hardafternoon. He was tired with his night's tramp, and languid with loss ofsleep. When he arrived at the landing he found Mr. Balfour waiting. Hehad passed Mike Conlin on the way, and even while they were talking theIrishman came in sight. After half-an-hour of busy labor, the goods andpassengers were bestowed, Mike was paid for the transportation, and theclosing journeys of the day were begun. 

When Jim had made half of the weary row up the river, he ran into alittle cove to rest and wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Then heinformed Mr. Balfour that he was not alone in the camp, and, in his owninimitable way, having first enjoined the strictest secrecy, he told thestory 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'm at yer sarvice, and ye shallhave the best time in the woods that I can give ye. "

Then he enlarged upon the accomplishments of Benedict's boy. 

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

Jim did not recognize the germs of change that existed in his accidentalremark, but he noticed that a shade of pain passed over the lawyer'sface. 

"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 this character, sohe did not try to utter any; but, after a minute of silence, he said:"That's what floors me. Them dies that's got everything, and them livesthat's got nothin'--lives through thick and thin. It seems sort o'strange to me that the Lord runs everything so kind o' car'less like, when there ain't nobody to bring it to his mind. "

Mr. Balfour made no response, and Jim resumed his oars. But for themoon, it would have been quite dark when Number Nine was reached, but, once there, the fatigues of the journey were forgotten. It was ThedeBalfour's first visit to the woods, and he was wild with excitement. Mr. Benedict and Harry gave the strangers a cordial greeting. The night wasfrosty and crisp, and Jim drew his boat out of the water, and permittedhis stores to remain in it through the night. A hearty supper preparedthem all for sleep, and Jim led his city friends to Number Ten, to enjoytheir camp by themselves. A camp-fire, recently lighted, awaited them, and, with its flames illuminating the weird scenes around them, theywent to sleep. 

The next day was Sunday. To the devoutly disposed, there is no silencethat seems so deeply hallowed as that which pervades the forest on thatholy day. No steamer plows the river; no screaming, rushing trainprofanes the stillness; the beasts that prowl, and the birds that fly, seem gentler than on other days; and the wilderness, with its pillarsand arches, and aisles, becomes a sanctuary. Prayers that no ears canhear but those of the Eternal; psalms that win no responses except fromthe echoes; worship that rises from hearts unencumbered by care, andundistracted by pageantry and dress--all these are possible in thewoods; and the great Being to whom the temples of the world are rearedcannot have failed to find, in ten thousand instances, the purestofferings in lonely camps and cabins. 

They had a delightful and bountiful breakfast, and, at its close, theydivided themselves naturally into a double group. The two boys and Turkwent off by themselves to watch the living things around them, while themen remained together by the camp-fire. 

Mr. Balfour drew out a little pocket-Testament, and was soon absorbed inreading. Jim watched him, as a hungry dog watches a man at his meal, andat last, having grown more and more uneasy, he said:

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

Mr. Balfour looked up and smiled, and then read to him the parable ofthe talents. 

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

"You must remember, Jim, that all he needed was to ask for wisdom inorder to receive it, " said Mr. Benedict. 

"No; the man that traveled into a fur country stan's for the Almighty, and he'd got out o' the way. He'd jest gi'n these fellers his capital, and quit, and left 'em to go it alone. They couldn't go arter 'im, andhe couldn't 'a' hearn a word they said. He did what he thought was allright, and didn't want to be bothered. I never think about prayin' tillI git into a tight place. It stan's to reason that the Lord don't wantpeople comin' to him to do things that they can do theirselves. Ishouldn't pray for breath; I sh'd jest h'ist the winder. If I wanted abucket o' water, I sh'd go for it. If a man's got common sense, and apair o' hands, he hain't no business to be botherin' other folks till hegits into what he can't git out of. When he's squeezed, then in coursehe'll squeal. It seems to me that it makes a sort of a spooney of a manto be always askin' for what he can git if he tries. If the feller thatonly had one talent had brushed round, he could 'a' made a spec on it, an' had somethin' to show fur it, but he jest hid it. I don't stan' upfor 'im. I think he was meaner nor pusly not to make the best on't, buthe didn't need to pray for sense, for the man didn't want 'im to use nomore nor his nateral stock, an' he knowed if he used that he'd be allright. "

"But we are told to pray, Jim, " said Mr. Balfour, "and assured that itis pleasant to the Lord to receive our petitions. We are even told topray for our daily bread. "

"Well, it can't mean jest that, fur the feller that don't work for'tdon't git it, an' he hadn't oughter git it. If he don't lift his hands, but jest sets with his mouth open, he gits mostly flies. The old birds, with a nest full o' howlin' young ones, might go on, I s'pose, pickin'up grasshoppers till the cows come home, an' feedin' 'em, but theydon't. They jest poke 'em out o' the nest, an' larn 'em to fly an' pickup their own livin'; an' that's what makes birds on 'em. They praymighty hard fur their daily bread, I tell ye, and the way the old birdsanswer is jest to poke 'em out, and let 'em slide. I don't see manyprayin' folks, an' I don't see many folks any way; but I have a consaitthat a feller can pray so much an' do so little, that he won't benobody. He'll jest grow weaker an' weaker all the time. "

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

The former had always delighted to hear Jim talk, and never lost anopportunity to set him going; but he did not know that Jim's expositionof the parable had a personal motive. Mr. Benedict knew that it had, andwas very serious over it. His nature was weak in many respects. His willwas weak; he had no combativeness; he had a wish to lean. He had beenbaffled and buffeted in the world. He had gone down into the darkness, praying all the way; and now that he had come out of it, and had solittle society; now that his young life was all behind him, and so fewearthly hopes beckoned him on, he turned with a heart morbidly religiousto what seemed to him the only source of comfort open to him. Jim hadwatched him with pain. He had seen him, from day to day, spending hishours alone, and felt that prayer formed almost the staple of his life. He had seen him willing to work, but knew that his heart was not in it. He was not willing to go back into the world, and assert his place amongmen. The poverty, disease, and disgrace of his former life dwelt in hismemory, and he shrank from the conflicts and competitions which would benecessary to enable him to work out better results for himself. 

Jim thoroughly believed that Benedict was religiously diseased, and thathe never could become a man again until he had ceased to live soexclusively in the spiritual world. He contrived all possible ways tokeep him employed. He put responsibility upon him. He stimulated himwith considerations of the welfare of Harry. He disturbed him in hisretirement. He contrived fatigues that would induce sound sleep. To usehis own language, he had tried to cure him of "loppin', " but with veryunsatisfactory results. 

Benedict comprehended Jim's lesson, and it made an impression upon him;but to break himself of his habit of thought and life was as difficultas the breaking of morbid habits always is. He knew that he was a weakman, and saw that he had never fully developed that which was manliestwithin him. He saw plainly, too, that his prayers would not develop it, and that nothing but a faithful, bold, manly use of his powers couldaccomplish the result. He knew that he had a better brain, and a brainbetter furnished, than that of Robert Belcher, yet he had known to hissorrow, and well-nigh to his destruction, that Robert Belcher could windhim around his finger. Prayer had never saved him from this, and nothingcould save him but a development of his own manhood. Was he too old forhope? Could he break away from the delights of his weakness, and growinto something stronger and better? Could he so change the attitude ofhis soul that it should cease to be exigent and receptive, and become apositive, self-poised, and active force? He sighed when these questionscame to him, but he felt that Jim had helped him in many practical ways, and could help him still further. 

A stranger, looking upon the group, would have found it a curious andinteresting study. Mr. Balfour was a tall, lithe man, with not aredundant ounce of flesh on him. He was as straight as an arrow, bore onhis shoulders a fine head that gave evidence in its contour of equalbenevolence and force, and was a practical, fearless, straightforward, true man. He enjoyed humor, and though he had a happy way of evoking itfrom others, possessed or exhibited very little himself. Jim was betterthan a theater to him. He spent so much of his time in the conflicts ofhis profession, that in his vacations he simply opened heart and mindto entertainment. A shrewd, frank, unsophisticated nature was a constantfeast to him, and though he was a keen sportsman, the woods would havehad few attractions without Jim. 

Mr. Benedict regarded him with profound respect, as a man who possessedthe precise qualities which had been denied to himself--self-assertion, combativeness, strong will, and "push. " Even through Benedict's amplebeard, a good reader of the human face would have detected the weakchin, while admiring the splendid brow, silken curls, and handsome eyesabove it. He was a thoroughly gentle man, and, curiously enough, attracted the interest of Mr. Balfour in consequence of his gentleness. The instinct of defense and protection to everything weak and dependentwas strong within the lawyer; and Benedict affected him like a woman. Itwas easy for the two to become friends, and as Mr. Balfour grew familiarwith the real excellences of his new acquaintance, with his intelligencein certain directions, and his wonderful mechanical ingenuity, heconceived just as high a degree of respect for him as he could entertainfor one who was 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 along so welltogether, particularly as he had pressing employment on his hands, inpreparing for the winter. So, after the first day, Benedict became Mr. Balfour's guide during the fortnight which he passed in the woods. 

The bright light of Monday morning was the signal for the beginning oftheir sport, and Thede, who had never thrown a fly, was awake at thefirst day-light; and before Jim had the breakfast of venison and cakesready, he had strung his tackle and leaned his rod against the cabin inreadiness for his enterprise. They had a day of satisfactory fishing, and brought home half-a-hundred spotted beauties that would havedelighted the eyes of any angler in the world; and when their goldenflesh stood open and broiling before the fire, or hissed and sputteredin the frying-pan, watched by the hungry and admiring eyes of thefishermen, they were attractive enough to be the food of the gods. Andwhen, at last, the group gathered around the rude board, with appetitesthat seemed measureless, and devoured the dainties prepared for them, the pleasures of the day were crowned. 

But all this was comparatively tame sport to Mr. Balfour. He had comefor larger game, and waited only for the nightfall to deepen intodarkness to start upon his hunt for deer. The moon had passed her full, and would not rise until after the ordinary bed-time. The boys wereanxious to be witnesses of the sport, and it was finally concluded, thatfor once, at least, they should be indulged in their desire. 

The voice of a hound was never heard in the woods, and even the "stillhunting" practiced by the Indian was never resorted to until after thestreams were frozen. 

Jim had been busy during the day in picking up pine knots, and diggingout old stumps whose roots were charged with pitch. These he hadcollected and split up into small pieces, so that everything should bein readiness for the "float. " As soon as the supper was finished, hebrought a little iron "Jack, " mounted upon a standard, and proceeded tofix this upright in the bow of the boat. Behind this he placed a squareof sheet iron, so that a deer, dazzled by the light of the blazing pine, would see nothing behind it, while the occupants of the boat could seeeverything ahead without being blinded by the light, of which they couldsee nothing. Then he fixed a knob of tallow upon the forward sight ofMr. Balfour's gun, so that, projecting in front of the sheet ironscreen, it would be plainly visible and render necessary only theraising of the breech to the point of half-hiding the tallow, in orderto procure as perfect a range as if it were broad daylight. 

All these preparations were familiar to Mr. Balfour, and, loading hisheavy shot-gun with a powerful charge, he waited impatiently for thedarkness. 

At nine o'clock, Jim said it was time to start, and, lighting historch, he took his seat in the stern of the boat, and bade Mr. Balfourtake his place in the bow, where a board, placed across the boat, madehim a comfortable seat. The boys, warmly wrapped, took their placestogether in the middle of the boat, and, clasping one another's handsand shivering with excitement, bade good-night to Mr. Benedict, whopushed them from the shore. 

The night was still, and Jim's powerful paddle urged the little craft upthe stream with a push so steady, strong, and noiseless, that itspassengers might well have imagined that the unseen river-spirits had itin tow. The torch cast its long glare into the darkness on either bank, and made shadows so weird and changeful that the boys imagined they sawevery form of wild beast and flight of strange bird with which pictureshad made them familiar. Owls hooted in the distance. A wild-cat screamedlike a frightened child. A partridge, waked from its perch by a flash ofthe torch, whirred off into the woods. 

At length, after paddling up the stream for a mile, they heard thegenuine crash of a startled animal. Jim stopped and listened. Then camethe spiteful stroke of a deer's forefeet upon the leaves, and a whistleso sharp, strong and vital, that it thrilled every ear that heard it. Itwas a question, a protest, a defiance all in one; but not a sign of theanimal could be seen. He was back in the cover, wary and watching, andwas not to be tempted nearer by the light. 

Jim knew the buck, and knew that any delay on his account would beuseless. 

"I knowed 'im when I hearn 'im whistle, an' he knowed me. He's been shotat from this boat more nor twenty times. 'Not any pine-knots on myplate, ' says he. 'I seen 'em afore, an' you can pass. ' I used to gitkind o' mad at 'im, an' promise to foller 'im, but he's so 'cute, I sorto' like 'im. He 'muses me. "

While Jim waited and talked in a low tone, the buck was evidentlyexamining the light and the craft, at his leisure and at a distance. Then he gave another lusty whistle that was half snort, and bounded offinto the woods by leaps that struck every foot upon the ground at thesame instant, and soon passed beyond hearing. 

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

The tension upon the nerves of the boys was relieved, and they whisperedbetween themselves about what they had seen, or thought they had seen. 

All became still, as Jim turned his boat up the stream again. Afterproceeding 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 moment it wasrunning in shallow water, among grass and rushes. The bottom of thestream was plainly visible, and Mr. Balfour saw that they had left theriver, and were pushing up the debouchure of a sluggish little affluent. They brushed along among the grass for twenty or thirty rods, when, atthe same instant, every eye detected a figure in the distance. Twoblazing, quiet, curious eyes were watching them. Jim had an instinctwhich assured him that the deer was fascinated by the light, and so hepushed toward him silently, then stopped, and held his boat perfectlystill. This was the signal for Mr. Balfour, and in an instant the woodswere startled by a discharge that deafened the silence. 

There was a violent splash in the water, a scramble up the bank, a boundor two toward the woods, a pitiful bleat, and then all was still. 

"We've got 'im, " said Jim. "He's took jest one buckshot through hisheart. Ye didn't touch his head nor his legs. He jest run till the bloodleaked out and he gi'n it up. Now, boys, you set here, and singhallelujer till we bring 'im in. "

The nose of the little craft was run against the bank, and Mr. Balfour, seizing the torch, sprang on shore, and Jim followed him into the woods. They soon found track of the game by the blood that dabbled the bushes, and stumbled upon the beautiful creature stone dead--fallen prone, withhis legs doubled under him. Jim swung him across his shoulders, and, tottering behind Mr. Balfour, bore him back to the boat. Placing him inthe bottom, the two men resumed their seats, and Jim, after carefullyworking himself out of the inlet into the river, settled down to a long, swift stroke that bore them back to the camp just as the moon began toshow herself above the trees. 

It was a night long to be remembered by the boys, a fitting inaugurationof the lawyer's vacation, and an introduction to woodcraft from which, in after years, the neophytes won rare stores of refreshment and health. 

Mr. Benedict received them with hearty congratulations, and the perfectsleep of the night only sharpened their desire for further depredationsupon the game that lived around them, in the water and on the land. 

As the days passed on, they caught trout until they were tired of thesport; they floated for deer at night; they took weary tramps in alldirections, and at evening, around the camp-fires, rehearsed theirexperiences. 

During all this period, Mr. Balfour was watching Harry Benedict. Thecontrast between the lad and his own son was as marked as that betweenthe lad's father and himself, but the positions were reversed. Harryled, contrived, executed. He was positive, facile, amiable, and the boyswere as happy together as their parents were. Jim had noticed theremarkable interest that Mr. Balfour took in the boy, and had begun tosuspect that he entertained intentions which would deprive the camp ofone of its chief sources of pleasure. 

One day when the lawyer and his guide were quietly eating their lunch inthe forest, Mr. Balfour went to work, in his quiet, lawyer-like way, toascertain the details of Benedict's history; and he heard them all. When he heard who had benefited by his guide's inventions, and learnedjust how matters stood with regard to the Belcher rifle, he became, forthe first time since he had been in the woods, thoroughly excited. Hehad a law-case before him as full of the elements of romance as any thathe had ever been engaged in. A defrauded inventor, living in the forestin poverty, having escaped from the insane ward of an alms-house, andthe real owner of patent rights that were a mine of wealth to the manwho believed 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 positionof this uncomplaining, dependent man, who could not fight his ownbattles, made an irresistible appeal to his sense of justice and hismanhood. 

The moment, however, that the lawyer proposed to assist in righting thewrong, Mr. Benedict became dangerously excited. He could tell his story, but the thought of going out into the world again, and, particularly ofengaging in a conflict with Robert Belcher, was one that he could notentertain. He was happier in the woods than he had been for many years. The life was gradually strengthening him. He hoped the time would comewhen he could get something for his boy, but, for the present, he couldengage in no struggle for reclaiming and maintaining his rights. Hebelieved that an attempt to do it would again drive him to distraction, and that, somehow, Mr. Belcher would get the advantage of him. His fearof the great proprietor had become morbidly acute, and Mr. Balfour couldmake no headway against it. It was prudent to let the matter drop for awhile. 

Then Mr. Balfour opened his heart in regard to the boy. He told Benedictof the loss with which he had already acquainted Jim, of the lonelinessof his remaining son, of the help that Harry could afford him, the needin which the lad stood of careful education, and the accomplishments hecould win among better opportunities and higher society. He would takethe boy, and treat him, up to the time of his majority, as his own. IfMr. Benedict could ever return the money expended for him, he could havethe privilege of doing so, but it would never be regarded as a debt. Once every year the lawyer would bring the lad to the woods, so that heshould not forget his father, and if the time should ever come when itseemed practicable to do so, a suit would be instituted that would givehim the rights so cruelly withheld from his natural protector. 

The proposition was one which taxed to its utmost Mr. Benedict's powerof self-control. He loved his boy better than he loved himself. He hopedthat, in some way, life would be pleasanter and more successful to thelad than it had been to him. He did not wish him to grow up illiterateand in the woods; but how he was to live without him he could not tell. The plucking out of an eye would have given him less pain than theparting with his boy, though he felt from the first that the lad wouldgo. 

Nothing could be determined without consulting Jim, and as theconversation had destroyed the desire for further sport, they packedtheir fishing-tackle and returned to camp. 

"The boy was'n't got up for my 'commodation, " said Jim, when theproposition was placed before him. "I seen the thing comin' for a week, an' I've brung my mind to't. We hain't got no right to keep 'im up here, if he can do better. Turk ain't bad company fur them as likes dogs, buthe ain't improvin'. I took the boy away from Tom Buffum 'cause I coulddo better by 'im nor he could, and when a man comes along that can dobetter by 'im nor I can, he's welcome to wade in. I hain't no right tospile a little feller's life 'cause I like his company. I don't thinkmuch of a feller that would cheat a man out of a jews-harp 'cause heliked to fool with it. Arter all, this sendin' the boy off is jestturnin' 'im out to pastur' to grow, an' takin' 'im in in the fall. Hemay git his head 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 'im in thestable. I sh'll hate to say good-bye t' the little feller, but I sh'llvote to have 'im go, unanimous. "

Mr. Benedict was not a man who had will enough to withstand the rationaland personal considerations that were brought to bear upon him, and thenthe two boys were brought into the consultation. Thede was overjoyedwith the prospect of having for a home companion the boy to whom he hadbecome so greatly attached, and poor Harry was torn by a conflict ofinclinations. To leave Jim and his father behind was a great sorrow; andhe was half angry with himself to think that he could find any pleasurein the prospect of a removal. But the love of change, natural to a boy, and the desire to see the wonders of the great city, with accounts ofwhich Thede had excited his imagination, overcame his inclination toremain in the camp. The year of separation would be very short, hethought, so that, after all, it was only a temporary matter. The momentthe project of going away took possession of him, his regrets died, andthe exit from the woods seemed to him like a journey into dreamland, from which he should return in the morning. 

How to get the lad through Sevenoaks, where he would be sure to berecognised, and so reveal the hiding-place of his father, became at oncea puzzling question. Mr. Balfour had arranged with the man who broughthim into the woods to return in a fortnight and take him out, and as hewas a man who had known the Benedicts it would not be safe to trust tohis silence. 

It was finally arranged that Jim should start off at once with Harry, and engage Mike Conlin to go through Sevenoaks with him in the night, and deliver him at the railroad at about the hour when the regular stagewould arrive with Mr. Balfour. The people of Sevenoaks were nottravelers, and it would be a rare chance that should bring one of themthrough to that point. The preparations were therefore made at once, andthe next evening poor Benedict was called upon to part with his boy. Itwas a bitter struggle, but it was accomplished, and, excited by thestrange life that was opening before him, the boy entered the boat withJim, and waved his adieus to the group that had gathered upon the bankto see them off. 

Poor Turk, who had apparently understood all that had passed in theconversations of the previous day, and become fully aware of thebereavement that he was about to suffer, stood upon the shore and howledand whined as they receded into the distance. Then he went up to Thede, and licked his hand, as if he would say; "Don't leave me as the otherboy has done; if you do, I shall be inconsolable. "

Jim effected his purpose, and returned before light the next morning, and on the following day he took Mr. Balfour and Thede down the river, and delivered them to the man whom he found waiting for them. Theprogramme was carried out in all its details, and two days afterward thetwo boys were sitting side by side in the railway-car that was hurryingthem toward the great city. 

CHAPTER XI. 

WHICH RECORDS MR. BELCHER'S CONNECTION WITH A GREAT SPECULATION ANDBRINGS TO A CLOSE HIS RESIDENCE IN SEVENOAKS. 

Whither was he going? He had a little fortune in his pockets--more moneythan prudent men are in the habit of carrying with them--and a scheme inhis mind. After the purchase of Palgrave's Folly, and the inaugurationof a scale of family expenditure far surpassing all his previousexperience, Mr. Belcher began to feel poor, and to realize the necessityof extending his enterprise. To do him justice, he felt that he hadsurpassed the proprieties of domestic life in taking so important a stepas that of changing his residence without consulting Mrs. Belcher. Hedid not wish to meet her at once; so it was easy for him, when he leftNew York, to take a wide diversion on his way home. 

For several months the reports of the great oil discoveries ofPennsylvania had been floating through the press. Stories of enormousfortunes acquired in a single week, and even in a single day, were rife;and they had excited his greed with a strange power. He had witnessed, too, the effect of these stories upon the minds of the humble people ofSevenoaks. They were uneasy in their poverty, and were in the habit ofreading with avidity all the accounts that emanated from the new centerof speculation. The monsters of the sea had long been chased into theice, and the whalers had returned with scantier fares year after year;but here was light for the world. The solid ground itself was echoingwith the cry: "Here she blows!" and "There she blows!" and the longharpoons went down to its vitals, and were fairly lifted out by thepressure of the treasure that impatiently waited for deliverance. 

Mr. Belcher had long desired to have a hand in this new business. To seea great speculation pass by without yielding him any return was verypainful to him. During his brief stay in New York he had been approachedby speculators from the new field of promise; and had been able by hisquick wit and ready business instinct to ascertain just the way in whichmoney was made and was to be made. He dismissed them all, for he had themeans in his hands of starting nearer the sources of profit thanthemselves, and to be not only one of the "bottom ring, " but to be thebottom man. No moderate profit and no legitimate income would satisfyhim. He would gather the investments of the multitude into his owncapacious pockets, or he would have nothing to do with the matter. Hewould sweep the board, fairly or foully, or he would not play. 

As he traveled along westward, he found that the company was made up ofmen whose tickets took them to his own destination. Most of them werequiet, with ears open to the few talkers who had already been there, andwere returning. Mr. Belcher listened to them, laughed at them, scoffedat their schemes, and laid up carefully all that they said. Before hearrived at Corry he had acquired a tolerable knowledge of theoil-fields, and determined upon his scheme of operations. 

As he drew nearer the great center of excitement, he came more intocontact with the masses who had gathered there, crazed with the spiritof speculation. Men were around him whose clothes were shining withbitumen. The air was loaded with the smell of petroleum. Derricks werethrown up on every side; drills were at work piercing the earth;villages were starting among stumps still fresh at the top, as if theirtrees were cut but yesterday; rough men in high boots were ranging thecountry; the depots were glutted with portable Steam-engines and allsorts of mining machinery, and there was but one subject ofconversation. Some new well had begun to flow with hundreds of barrelsof petroleum _per diem_. Some new man had made a fortune. Farmers, whohad barely been able to get a living from their sterile acres, hadbecome millionaires. The whole region was alive with fortune-hunters, from every quarter of the country. Millions of dollars were in thepockets of men who were ready to purchase. Seedy, crazy, visionaryfellows were working as middle-men, to talk up schemes, and win theirbread, with as much more as they could lay their hands on. The very airwas charged with the contagion of speculation, and men seemed ready tobelieve anything and do anything. It appeared, indeed, as if a man hadonly to buy, to double his money in a day; and half the insane multitudebelieved it. 

Mr. Belcher kept himself quiet, and defended himself from the influencesaround him by adopting and holding his scoffing mood. He believednothing. He was there simply to see what asses men could make ofthemselves; but he kept his ears open. The wretched hotel at which he atlast found accommodations was thronged with fortune-seekers, among whomhe moved self-possessed and quite at home. On the second day his moodbegan to tell on those around him. There were men there who knew abouthim and his great wealth--men who had been impressed with his sagacity. He studied them carefully, gave no one his confidence, and quietly laidhis plans. On the evening of the third day he returned to the hotel, andannounced that he had had the good fortune to purchase a piece ofproperty that he proposed to operate and improve on his own account. 

Then he was approached with propositions for forming a company. He hadpaid fifty thousand dollars for a farm--paid the money--and beforemorning he had sold half of it for what he gave for the whole, andformed a company with the nominal capital of half a million of dollars, a moiety of the stock being his own at no cost to him whatever. Thearrangements were all made for the issue of stock and the commencementof operations, and when, three days afterward, he started fromTitusville on his way home, he had in his satchel blank certificates ofstock, all signed by the officers of the Continental Petroleum Company, to be limited in its issue to the sum of two hundred and fifty thousanddollars. He never expected to see the land again. He did not expect thatthe enterprise would be of the slightest value to those who shouldinvest in it. He expected to do just what others were doing--to sell hisstock and pocket the proceeds, while investors pocketed their losses. Itwas all an acute business operation with him; and he intended to takeadvantage of the excitement of the time to "clean out" Sevenoaks and allthe region round about his country home, while his confreres operated intheir own localities. He chuckled over his plans as if he contemplatedsome great, good deed that would be of incalculable benefit to hisneighbors. He suffered no qualm of conscience, no revolt of personalhonor, no spasm of sympathy or pity. 

As soon as he set out upon his journey homeward he began to think of hisNew York purchase. He had taken a bold step, and he wished that he hadsaid something to Mrs. Belcher about his plans, but he had been so muchin the habit of managing everything in his business without consultingher, that it did not occur to him before he started from home that anymatter of his was not exclusively his own. He would just as soon havethought of taking Phipps into his confidence, or of deferring to hiswishes in any project, as of extending those courtesies to his wife. There was another consideration which weighed somewhat heavily upon hismind. He was not entirely sure that he would not be ashamed of Mrs. Belcher in the grand home which he had provided for himself. Herespected her, and had loved her in his poor, sensual fashion, somechangeful years in the past; he had regarded her as a good mother, and, at least, as an inoffensive wife; but she was not Mrs. Dillingham. Shewould not be at home in the society of which he had caught a glimpse, or among the splendors to which he would be obliged to introduce her. Even Talbot, the man who was getting rich upon the products of hisenterprise, had a more impressive wife than he. And thus, with muchreflection, this strange, easy-natured brute without a conscience, wrought up his soul into self-pity. In some way he had been defrauded. It never could have been intended that a man capable of winning so manyof his heart's desires as he had proved himself to be, should be tied toa woman incapable of illuminating and honoring his position. If he onlyhad a wife of whose person he could be proud! If he only had a wifewhose queenly presence and manners would give significance to thesplendors of the Palgrave mansion!

There was no way left for him, however, but to make the best of hiscircumstances, and put a brave face upon the matter. Accordingly, thenext morning after his arrival, he told, with such display of enthusiasmas he could assume, the story of his purchase. The children were allattention, and made no hesitation to express their delight with thechange that lay before them. Mrs. Belcher grew pale, choked over herbreakfast, and was obliged to leave the table. At the close of the meal, Mr. Belcher followed her to her room, and found her with dry eyes and anangry face. 

"Robert, you have determined to kill me, " she said, almost fiercely. 

"Oh, no, Sarah; not quite so bad as that. "

"How could you take a step which you knew would give me a life-longpain? Have I not suffered enough? Is it not enough that I have ceasedpractically to have a husband?--that I have given up all society, andbeen driven in upon my children? Am I to have no will, no consideration, no part or lot in my own life?"

"Put it through, Sarah; you have the floor, and I'm ready to take it allnow. "

"And it is all for show, " she went on, "and is disgusting. There is nota soul in the city that your wealth can bring to me that will give mesociety. I shall be a thousand times lonelier there than I have beenhere; and you compel me to go where I must receive people whom I shalldespise, and who, for that reason, will dislike me. You propose to forceme into a life that is worse than emptiness. I am more nearly contenthere than I can ever be anywhere else, and I shall never leave herewithout a cruel sense of sacrifice. "

"Good for you, Sarah!" said Mr. Belcher. "You're more of a trump than Ithought you were; and if it will do you any good to know that I thinkI've been a little rough with you, I don't mind telling you so. But thething is done, and it can't be undone. You can have your own sort oflife there as you do here, and I can have mine. I suppose I could gothere and run the house alone; but it isn't exactly the thing for Mrs. Belcher's husband to do. People might talk, you know, and they wouldn'tblame me. "

"No; they would blame me, and I must go, whether I wish to go or not. "

Mrs. Belcher had talked until she could weep, and brushing her eyes shewalked to the window. Mr. Belcher sat still, casting furtive glances ather, and drumming with his fingers on his knees. When she couldsufficiently command herself, she returned, and said:

"Robert, I have tried to be a good wife to you. I helped you in yourfirst struggles, and then you were a comfort to me. But your wealth haschanged you, and you know that for ten years I have had no husband. Ihave humored your caprices; I have been careful not to cross your will. I have taken your generous provision, and made myself and my childrenwhat you desired; but I am no more to you than a part of yourestablishment. I do not feel that my position is an honorable one. Iwish to God that I had one hope that it would ever become so. "

"Well, by-by, Sarah. You'll feel better about it. "

Then Mr. Belcher stooped and kissed her forehead, and left her. 

That little attention--that one shadow of recognition of the oldrelations, that faint show of feeling--went straight to her starvingheart. And then, assuming blame for what seemed, at the moment ofreaction, her unreasonable selfishness, she determined to say no more, and to take uncomplainingly whatever life her husband might provide forher. 

As for Mr. Belcher, he went off to his library and his cigar with awound in his heart. The interview with his wife, while it had excited inhim a certain amount of pity for her, had deepened his pity for himself. She had ceased to be what she had once been to him; yet his experiencein the city 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. " Itwas "the mistake of a lifetime" just discovered, though she had bornehis children and held his respect for fifteen years. He still felt thewarmth of Mrs. Dillingham's hands within his own, the impression of herconfiding clasp upon his arm, and the magnetic influence of her splendidpresence. Reason as he would, he felt defrauded of his rights; and hewondered whether any combination of circumstances would ever permit himto achieve them. As this amounted to wondering whether Mrs. Belcherwould die, he strove to banish the question from his mind; but itreturned and 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 the greatproprietor had been to the oil regions. The fact was talked over amongthe people in the shops, in the street, in social groups that gatheredat evening; and there was great curiosity to know what he had learned, and what opinions he had formed. Mr. Belcher knew how to play his cards, and having set the people talking, he filled out and sent to each of thewives of the five pastors of the village, as a gift, a certificate offive shares of the stock of the Continental Petroleum Company. Ofcourse, they were greatly delighted, and, of course, twenty-four hourshad not passed by when every man, woman and child in Sevenoaks wasacquainted with the transaction. People began to revise their judgmentsof the man whom they had so severely condemned. After all, it was theway in which he had done things in former days, and though they had cometo a vivid apprehension of the fact that he had done them for a purpose, which invariably terminated in himself, they could not see what therewas to be gained by so munificent a gift. Was he not endeavoring, byself-sacrifice, to win back a portion of the consideration he hadformerly enjoyed? Was it not a confession of wrong-doing, or wrongjudgment? There were men who shook their heads, and "didn't know aboutit;" but the preponderance of feeling was on the side of the proprietor, who sat in his library and imagined just what was in progress aroundhim, --nay, calculated upon it, as a chemist calculates the results ofcertain combinations in his laboratory. He knew the people a great dealbetter than they knew him, or even themselves. 

Miss Butterworth called at the house of the Rev. Solomon Snow, who, immediately upon her entrance, took his seat in his arm-chair, andadjusted his bridge. The little woman was so combative and incisive thatthis always seemed a necessary precaution on the part of that gentleman. 

"I want to see it!" said Miss Butterworth, without the slightestindication of the object of her curiosity. 

Mrs. Snow rose without hesitation, and, going to a trunk In her bedroom, brought out her precious certificate of stock, and placed it in thehands of the tailoress. 

It certainly was a certificate of stock, to the amount of five shares, in the Continental Petroleum Company, and Mr. Belcher's name was notamong the signatures of the officers. 

"Well, that beats me!" exclaimed Miss Butterworth. "What do you supposethe 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 need it; but what _does_ hewant?"

"You'll find out some time. Take my word for it, he has a large axe togrind. "

"I think, " said Mr. Snow judicially, "that it is quite possible that wehave been unjust to Mr. Belcher. He is certainly a man of generousinstincts, but with great eccentricities. Before condemning him _intoto_ (here Mr. Snow opened his bridge to let out the charity that wasrising within him, and closed it at once for fear Miss Butterworth wouldget in a protest), let us be sure that there is a possible selfishmotive for this most unexpected munificence. When we ascertain the truestate of the case, then we can take things as they air. Until we havearrived at the necessary knowledge, it becomes us to withhold all severejudgments. A generous deed has its reflex influence; and it may be thatsome good may come to Mr. Belcher from this, and help to mold hischaracter to nobler issues. I sincerely hope it may, and that we shallrealize dividends that will add permanently to our somewhat restrictedsources of income. "

Miss Butterworth sat during the speech, and trotted her knee. She had nofaith in the paper, and she frankly said so. 

"Don't be fooled, " she said to Mrs. Snow. "By and by you will find outthat it is all a trick. Don't expect anything. I tell you I know RobertBelcher, and I know he's a knave, if there ever was one. I can feelhim--I can feel him now--chuckling over this business, for business itis. "

"What would you do if you were in my place?" inquired Mrs. Snow. "Wouldyou send it back to him?"

"Yes, or I'd take it with a pair of tongs and throw it out of thewindow. I tell you there's a nasty trick done up in that paper; and ifyou're going to keep it, don't say anything about it. "

The family laughed, and even Mr. Snow unbent himself so far as to smileand wipe his spectacles. Then the little tailoress went away, wonderingwhen the mischief would reveal itself, but sure that it would appear ingood time. In good time--that is, in Mr. Belcher's good time--it didappear. 

To comprehend the excitement that followed, it must be remembered thatthe people of Sevenoaks had the most implicit confidence in Mr. Belcher's business sagacity. He had been upon the ground, and knewpersonally all about the great discoveries. Having investigated forhimself, he had invested his funds in this Company. If the people couldonly embark in his boat, they felt that they should be safe. He woulddefend their interests while defending his own. So the field was allready for his reaping. Not Sevenoaks alone, but the whole country wasopen to any scheme which connected them with the profits of these greatdiscoveries, and when the excitement at Sevenoaks passed away at last, and men regained their senses, in the loss of their money, they had thecompany of a multitude of ruined sympathizers throughout the length andbreadth of the land. Not only the simple and the impressible yielded tothe wave of speculation that swept the country, but the shrewdestbusiness men formed its crest, and were thrown high and dry beyond allothers, in the common wreck, when it reached the shore. 

On the evening of the fourth day after his return, Mr. Belcher waswaited upon at his house by a self-constituted committee of citizens, who merely called to inquire into the wonders of the region he hadexplored. Mr. Belcher was quite at his ease, and entered at once upon anarrative of his visit. He had supposed that the excitement was withoutany good foundation, but the oil was really there; and he did not seewhy the business was not as legitimate and sound as any in the world. The whole world needed the oil, and this was the one locality whichproduced it. There was undoubtedly more or less of wild speculationconnected with it, and, considering the value of the discoveries, it wasnot to be wondered at. On the whole, it was the biggest thing that hadturned up during his lifetime. 

Constantly leading them away from the topic of investment, he regaledtheir ears with the stories of the enormous fortunes that had been made, until there was not a man before him who was not ready to invest halfthe fortune he possessed in the speculation. Finally, one of the morefrank and impatient of the group informed Mr. Belcher that they had comeprepared to invest, if they found his report favorable. 

"Gentlemen, " said Mr. Belcher, "I really cannot take the responsibilityof advising you. I can act for myself, but when it comes to advising myneighbors, it is another matter entirely. You really must excuse me fromthis. I have gone into the business rather heavily, but I have done itwithout advice, and you must do the same. It isn't right for any man tolead another into experiments of this sort, and it is hardly the fairthing to ask him to do it. I've looked for myself, but the fact that Iam satisfied is no good reason for your being so. "

"Very well, tell us how to do it, " said the spokesman. "We cannot leaveour business to do what you have done, and we shall be obliged to runsome risk, if we go into it at all. "

"Now, look here, " said the wily proprietor, "you are putting me in ahard place. Suppose the matter turns out badly; are you going to come tome, and charge me with leading you into it?"

"Not at all, " was responded, almost in unison. 

"If you want to go into the Continental, I presume there is still somestock to be had. If you wish me to act as your agent, I will serve youwith a great deal of pleasure, but, mark you, I take no responsibility. I will receive your money, and you shall have your certificates as soonas the mail will bring them; and, if I can get no stock of the Company, you shall have some of my own. "

They protested that they did not wish to put him to inconvenience, butquietly placed their money in his hands. Every sum was carefully countedand recorded, and Mr. Belcher assured them that they should have theircertificates within five days. 

As they retired, he confidentially told them that they had better keepthe matter from any but their particular friends. If there was any manamong those friends who would like "a chance in, " he might come to him, and he would do what he could for him. 

Each of these men went off down the hill, full of dreams of suddenwealth, and, as each of them had three or four particular friends towhom Mr. Belcher's closing message was given, that gentleman wasthronged with visitors the next day, each one of whom he saw alone. Allof these, too, had particular friends, and within ten days Mr. Belcherhad pocketed in his library the munificent sum of one hundred and fiftythousand dollars. After a reasonable period, each investor received acertificate of his stock through the mail. 

It was astonishing to learn that there was so much money in the village. It came in sums of one hundred up to five hundred dollars, from the mostunexpected sources--little hoards that covered the savings of manyyears. It came from widows and orphans; it came from clergymen; it camefrom small tradesmen and farmers; it came from the best business men inthe place and region. 

The proprietor was in daily communication with his confederates andtools, and the investors were one day electrified by the informationthat the Continental had declared a monthly dividend of two per cent. This was what was needed to unload Mr. Belcher of nearly all the stockhe held, and, within one month of his arrival from the oil-fields, hehad realized a sum sufficient to pay for his new purchase in the city, and the costly furniture with which he proposed to illuminate it. 

Sevenoaks was happy. The sun of prosperity had dawned upon the people, and the favored few who supposed that they were the only ones to whomthe good fortune had come, were surprised to find themselves a greatmultitude. The dividend was the talk of the town. Those who hadinvested a portion of their small means invested more, and those whosegood angel had spared them from the sacrifice yielded to the glitteringtemptation, and joined their lot with their rejoicing neighbors. Mr. Belcher walked or drove among them, and rubbed his hands over their goodfortune. He knew very well that if he were going to reside longer amongthe people, his position would be a hard one; but he calculated thatwhen the explosion should come, he should be beyond its reach. 

It was a good time for him to declare the fact that he was about toleave them; and this he did. An earthquake would not have filled themwith greater surprise and consternation. The industries of the town werein his hands. The principal property of the village was his. He wasidentified with the new enterprise upon which they had built such highhope, and they had come to believe that he was a kindlier man than theyhad formerly supposed him to be. 

Already, however, there were suspicions in many minds that there werebubbles on their oil, ready to burst, and reveal the shallowness of thematerial beneath them; but these very suspicions urged them to treat Mr. Belcher well, and to keep him interested for them. They protestedagainst his leaving them. They assured him of their friendship. Theytold him that he had grown up among them, and that they could not butfeel that he belonged to them. They were proud of the position andprosperity he had won for himself. They fawned upon him, and when, atlast, he told them that it was too late--that he had purchased andfurnished a home for himself in the city--they called a public meeting, and, after a dozen regretful and complimentary speeches, from clergy andlaity, resolved:

"1st. That we have learned with profound regret that our distinguishedfellow-citizen, ROBERT BELCHER, Esq. , is about to remove his residencefrom among us, and to become a citizen of the commercial emporium of ourcountry. 

"2d. That we recognize in him a gentleman of great business enterprise, of generous instincts, of remarkable public spirit, and a personalillustration of the beneficent influence of freedom and of freedemocratic institutions. 

"3d. That the citizens of Sevenoaks will ever hold in kindly remembrancea gentleman who has been identified with the growth and importance oftheir beloved village, and that they shall follow him to his new homewith heartiest good wishes and prayers for his welfare. 

"4th. That whenever in the future his heart and his steps shall turntoward his old home, and the friends of his youth, he shall be greetedwith voices of welcome, and hearts and homes of hospitality. 

"5th. That these resolutions shall be published in the county papers, and that a copy shall be presented to the gentleman named therein, by acommittee to be appointed by the chairman. "

As was quite natural, and quite noteworthy, under the circumstances, thecommittee appointed was composed of those most deeply interested in theaffairs of the Continental Petroleum Company. 

Mr. Belcher received the committee very graciously, and made them a neatlittle speech, which he had carefully prepared for the occasion. Inconcluding, he alluded to the great speculation in which they, with somany of their fellow-citizens, had embarked. 

"Gentlemen, " said he, "there is no one who holds so large an interest inthe Continental as myself. I have parted with many of my shares togratify the desire of the people of Sevenoaks to possess them, but Istill hold more than any of you. If the enterprise prospers, I shallprosper with you. If it goes down, as I sincerely hope it may not--morefor your sakes, believe me, than my own--I shall suffer with you. Let ushope for the best. I have already authority for announcing to you thatanother monthly dividend of two per cent. Will be paid you before I amcalled upon to leave you. That certainly looks like prosperity. Gentlemen, I bid you farewell. "

When they had departed, having first heartily shaken the proprietor'shand, that gentleman locked his door, and gazed for a long time into hismirror. 

"Robert Belcher, " said he, "are you a rascal? Who says rascal? Are youany worse than the crowd? How badly would any of these preciousfellow-citizens of yours feel if they knew their income was drawn fromother men's pockets? Eh? Wouldn't they prefer to have somebody sufferrather than lose their investments? Verily, verily, I say unto you, theywould. Don't talk to me about being a rascal! You're just a littlesharper than the rest of them--that's all. They wanted to get moneywithout earning it, and wanted me to help them to do it. I wanted to getmoney without earning it, and I wanted them to help me to do it. Ithappens that they will be disappointed and that I am satisfied. Don'tsay rascal to me, sir. If I ever hear that word again I'll throttle you. Is that question settled? It is? Very well. Let there be peace betweenus.... List! I hear the roar of the mighty city! Who lives in yonderpalace? Whose wealth surrounds him thus with luxuries untold? Who walksout of yonder door and gets into that carriage, waiting with impatientsteeds? Is that gentleman's name Belcher? Take a good look at him as herolls away, bowing right and left to the gazing multitude. He is gone. The abyss of heaven swallows up his form, and yet I linger. Whylingerest thou? Farewell! and again I say, farewell!"

Mr. Belcher had very carefully covered all his tracks. He had insistedon having his name omitted from the list of officers of the ContinentalPetroleum Company. He had carefully forwarded the names of all who hadinvested in its stock for record, so that, if the books should ever bebrought to light, there should be no apparent irregularity in hisdealings. His own name was there with the rest, and a small amount ofmoney had been set aside for operating expenses, so that something wouldappear to have been done. 

The day approached for his departure, and his agent, with his family, was installed in his house for its protection; and one fine morning, having first posted on two or three public places the announcement of asecond monthly dividend to be paid through his agent to the stockholdersin the Continental, he, with his family, rode down the hill in hiscoach, followed by an enormous baggage-wagon loaded with trunks, andpassed through the village. Half of Sevenoaks was out to witness thedeparture. Cheers rent the air from every group; and if a conqueror hadreturned from the most sacred patriotic service he could not havereceived a heartier ovation than that bestowed upon the gracelessfugitive. He bowed from side to side in his own lordly way, andflourished and extended his pudgy palm in courtly courtesy. 

Mrs. Belcher sat back in her seat, shrinking from all thesedemonstrations, for she knew that her husband was unworthy of them. Thecarriages disappeared in the distance, and then--sad, suspicious, uncommunicative--the men went off to draw their last dividend and goabout their work. They fought desperately against their own distrust. Inthe proportion that they doubted the proprietor they were ready todefend him; but there was not a man of them who had not been fairlywarned that he was running his own risk, and who had not sought for theprivilege of throwing away his money. 

CHAPTER XII. 

IN WHICH JIM ENLARGES HIS PLANS FOR A HOUSE, AND COMPLETES HIS PLANS FORA HOUSE-KEEPER. 

When, at last, Jim and Mr. Benedict were left alone by the departure ofMr. Balfour and the two lads, they sat as if they had been stranded by asudden squall after a long and pleasant voyage. Mr. Benedict was plungedinto profound dejection, and Jim saw that he must be at once andpersistently diverted. 

"I telled Mr. Balfour, " said he, "afore he went away, about the house. Itelled him about the stoop, an' the chairs, an' the ladder for posies torun up on, an' I said somethin' about cubberds and settles, an' otherthingembobs that have come into my mind; an' says he: 'Jim, be ye goin'to splice?' 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 yertime, if ye're ever goin' to, for the hay-day of your life is a passin'away. ' An' says I: 'No, ye don't. My hay-day has jest come, and my grassis dry an' it'll keep. It's good for fodder, an' it wouldn't make a badbed. '"

"What did he say to that?" inquired Mr. Benedict. 

"Says he: 'I shouldn't wonder if ye was right. Have ye found the woman?''Yes, ' says I. 'I have found a genuine creetur. ' An' says he: 'What isher name?' An' says I: 'That's tellin'. It's a name as oughter bechanged, an' it won't be my fault if it ain't. ' An' then says he: 'Can Ibe of any 'sistance to ye?' An' says I: 'No. Courtin' is like dyin'; yecan't trust it to another feller. Ye've jest got to go it alone. ' An'then he laughed, an' says he: 'Jim, I wish ye good luck, an' I hopeye'll live to have a little feller o' yer own. ' An' says I: 'OldJerusalem! If I ever have a little feller o' my own, ' says I, 'thisworld will have to spread to hold me. '"

Then Jim put his head down between his knees, and thought. When itemerged from its hiding his eyes were moist, and he said:

"Ye must 'scuse me, Mr. Benedict, for ye know what the feelin's of a pais. It never come to me in this way afore. "

Benedict could not help smiling at this new exhibition of sympathy; forJim, in the comprehension of his feelings in the possible event ofpossessing offspring, had arrived at a more vivid sense of hiscompanion's bereavement. 

"Now, I tell ye what it is, " said Jim. "You an' me has got to bebrushin' round. We can't set here an' think about them that's gone; an'now I want to tell ye 'bout another thing that Mr. Balfour said. Sayshe: 'Jim, if ye're goin' to build a house, build a big one, an' keep ahotel. I'll fill it all 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' when ye gitready for company, let a feller know. ' I tell ye, it made my eyes stickout to think on't. 'Jim Fenton's hotel! says I. 'I don't b'lieve I canswing it. ' 'If ye want any more money'n ye've got, ' says he, 'call onme. '"

The idea of a hotel, with all its intrusions upon his privacy and allits diversions, was not pleasant to Mr. Benedict; but he saw at oncethat no woman worthy of Jim could be expected to be happy in the woodsentirely deprived of society. It would establish a quicker and moreregular line of communication with Sevenoaks, and thus make a changefrom its life to 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 wasentirely at home. He could not only make plans of the two floors, butan elevation of the front; and when, after two days of work, withfrequent questions and examinations by Jim, his drawings were concluded, they held a long discussion over them. It was all very wonderful to Jim, and all very satisfactory--at least, he said so; and yet he did not seemto be entirely content. 

"Tell me, Jim, just what the trouble is, " said his architect, "for I seethere's something wanting. "

"I don't see, " said Jim, "jest where ye're goin' to put '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 we want it?"

"Certainly. "

"An' now, can't ye make yer picter look kind o' cozy like, with a littlefeller playin' on the ground down there afore the stoop?"

Mr. Benedict not only could do this, but he did it; and then Jim tookit, and looked at it for a long time. 

"Well, little feller, ye can play thar till ye're tired, right on thatpaper, an' then ye must come into the house, an' let yer ma wash yerface;" and then Jim, realizing the comical side of all this charmingdream, laughed till the woods rang again, and Benedict laughed with him. It was a kind of clearing up of the cloud of sentiment that envelopedthem both, and they were ready to work. They settled, after a longdiscussion, upon the site of the new house, which was back from theriver, near Number Ten. There were just three things to be done duringthe remainder of the autumn and the approaching winter. A cellar was tobe excavated, the timber for the frame of the new house was to be cutand hewed, and the lumber was to be purchased and drawn to the river. Before the ground should freeze, they determined to complete the cellar, which was to be made small--to be, indeed, little more than a cavebeneath the house, that would accommodate such stores as it would benecessary to shield from the frost. A fortnight of steady work, by boththe men, not only completed the excavation, but built the wall. 

Then came the selection of timber for the frame. It was all found nearthe spot, and for many days the sound of two axes was heard through thegreat stillness of the Indian summer; for at this time nature, as wellas Jim, was in a dream. Nuts were falling from the hickory-trees, andsquirrels were leaping along the ground, picking up the stores on whichthey were to subsist during the long winter that lay before them. Therobins had gone away southward, and the voice of the thrushes was still. A soft haze steeped the wilderness in its tender hue--a hue that carriedwith it the fragrance of burning leaves. At some distant forest shrine, the priestly winds were swinging their censers, and the whole temple waspervaded with the breath of worship. Blue-jays were screaming amongleathern-leaved oaks, and the bluer kingfishers made their long diagonalflights from side to side of the river, chattering like magpies. Therewas one infallible sign that winter was close upon the woods. The wildgeese, flying over Number Nine, had called to Jim with news from theArctic, and he 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 upon lowscaffoldings, where it could be conveniently hewed during the winter;then two days were spent in hunting and in setting traps for sable andotter, and then the two men were ready to arrange for the lumber. 

This involved the necessity of a calculation of the materials required, and definite specifications of the same. Not only this, but it requiredthat Mr. Benedict should himself accompany Jim on the journey to themill, three miles beyond Mike Conlin's house. He naturally shrank fromthis exposure of himself; but so long as he was not in danger of comingin contact with Mr. Belcher, or with any one whom he had previouslyknown, he was persuaded that the trip would not be unpleasant to him. Intruth, as he grew stronger personally, and felt that his boy was out ofharm's way, 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 Nine again until hehad seen Sevenoaks, and that one most interesting person there with whomhe had associated his future, although he did not mention his plan toMr. Benedict. 

The ice was already gathering in the stream, and the winter wasdescending so rapidly that they despaired of taking their boat down tothe old landing, and permitting it to await their return, as they wouldbe almost certain to find it frozen in, and be obliged to leave it thereuntil spring. They were compelled, therefore, to make the completejourney on foot, following to the lower landing the "tote-road" thatMike Conlin had taken when he came to them on his journey of discovery. 

They started early one morning about the middle of November, and, as theweather was cold, Turk bore them company. Though Mr. Benedict had becomequite hardy, the tramp of thirty miles over the frozen ground, that hadalready received a slight covering of snow, was a cruel one, and taxedto their utmost his powers of endurance. 

Jim carried the pack of provisions, and left his companion without aload; so by steady, quiet, and almost speechless walking, they made theentire distance to Mike Conlin's house before the daylight had entirelyfaded from the pale, cold sky. Mike was taken by surprise. He couldhardly be made to believe that the hearty-looking, comfortably-dressedman whom he found in Mr. Benedict was the same whom he had left manymonths before in the rags of a pauper and the emaciation of a feebleconvalescent. The latter expressed to Mike the obligations he felt forthe service which Jim informed him had been rendered by the good-naturedIrishman, and Mike blushed while protesting that it was "nothing atall, at all, " and thinking of the hundred dollars that he earned soeasily. 

"Did ye know, Jim, " said Mike, to change the subject, "that owld Belcherhas gone to New Yorrk to live?"

"No. "

"Yis, the whole kit an' boodle of 'em is gone, an' the purty man wid'em. "

"Hallelujer!" roared Jim. 

"Yis, and be gorry he's got me hundred dollars, " said Mike. 

"What did ye gi'en it to 'im for, Mike? I didn't take ye 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 tolose this, ' says he. 'I should miss me slape, Mike, ' says he, 'if itshouldn't all come back to ye. ' 'An' if it don't, ' says I, 'there'll betwo uv us lyin' awake, an' ye'll have plinty of company; an' what theylose in dhraimin' 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' saysI, 'they're all goin' in, an' I'm goin' wid 'em. ' 'Very well, ' says he, lookin' kind o' sorry, and then, be gorry, he scooped the whole pile, an' barrin' the ile uv his purty spache, divil a bit have I seen morenor four dollars. "

"Divil a bit will ye see agin, " said Jim, shaking his head. "Mike, ye'rea fool. "

"That's jist what I tell mesilf, " responded Mike; "but there's betthermusic nor hearin' it repaited; an' I've got betther company in it, barrin' Mr. Benedict's presence, nor I've got here in me own house. "

Jim, finding Mike a little sore over his loss, refrained from furtherallusion to it; and Mr. Benedict declared himself ready for bed. Jim hadimpatiently waited for this announcement, for he was anxious to have along talk with Mike 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'mgoin' to show ye somethin' that'll s'prise ye. "

When his order was obeyed, he unrolled the precious plans. 

"Now, ye must remember, Mike, that this isn't the house; these is plans, as Mr. Benedict has drawed. That's the kitchen, and that's thesettin'-room, and that's the cubberd, and that's the bedroom for us, yeknow, and on that other paper is the chambers. "

Mike looked at it all earnestly, and with a degree of awe, and thenshook his head. 

"Jim, " said he, "I don't want to bodder ye, but ye've jist been fooled. Don't ye see that divil a place 'ave ye got for the pig?"

"Pig!" exclaimed Jim, with contempt. "D'ye s'pose I build a house for apig? I ain't no pig, an' she ain't no pig. "

"The proof of the puddin' is in the atin', Jim; an' ye don't know thefurrst thing about house-kapin'. Ye can no more kape house widout a pig, nor ye can row yer boat widout a paddle. I'm an owld house-kaper, Jim, an' I know; an' a man that don't tend to his pig furrst, is no betthernor 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 about house-kapin'widout a pig. Ye might give 'im that little shtoop 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, for Mike sawthat Jim was disappointed, if not disgusted. Jim was looking at hisbeautiful stoop, and thinking of the pleasant dreams he had associatedwith it. The idea of Mike's connecting the life of a pig with that stoopwas more than he could bear. 

"Why, Mike, " said he, in an injured tone, "that stoop's the place whereshe's agoin' to set. "

"Oh! I didn't know, Jim, ye was agoin' to kape hins. Now, ef you'reagoin' to kape hins, ye kin do as ye plase, Jim, in coorse; but yemusn't forgit the pig, Jim. Be gorry, he ates everything that nobodyilse kin ate, and then ye kin ate him. "

Mike had had his expression of opinion, and shown to his ownsatisfaction that his judgments were worth something. Having done this, he became amiable, sympathetic, and even admiring. Jim was obliged totell him the same things a great many times, and to end at last withoutthe satisfaction of knowing that the Irishman comprehended the preciousplans. He would have been glad to make a confidant of Mike, but theIrishman's obtuseness and inability to comprehend his tenderersentiments, repulsed him, and drove him back upon himself. 

Then came up the practical question concerning Mike's ability to drawthe lumber for the new house. Mike thought he could hire a horse for hiskeeping, and a sled for a small sum, that would enable him to double hisfacilities for doing the job; and then a price for the work was agreedupon. 

The next morning, Jim and Mr. Benedict pursued their journey to thelumber-mill, and there spent the day in selecting their materials, andfilling out their specifications. 

The first person Mr. Benedict saw on entering the mill was a young manfrom Sevenoaks, whom he had known many years before. He colored as if hehad been detected in a crime, but the man gave him no sign that therecognition was mutual. His old acquaintance had no memory of him, apparently; and then he realized the change that must have passed uponhim during his long invalidism and his wonderful recovery. 

They remained with the proprietor of the mill during the night. 

"I jest call 'im Number Ten, " said Jim, in response to the inquiriesthat were made of him concerning his companion, "He never telled me hisname, an' I never axed 'im. I'm 'Number Nine, ' an' he's 'Number Ten, 'and that's all thar is about it. "

Jim's oddities were known, and inquiries were pushed no further, thoughJim gratuitously informed his host that the man had come into the woodsto get well and was willing to work to fill up his time. 

On the following morning, Jim proposed to Mr. Benedict to go on toSevenoaks for the purchase of more tools, and the nails and hardwarethat would be necessary in finishing the house. The experience of thelatter during the previous day showed him that he need not feardetection, and, now that Mr. Belcher was out of the way, Jim found himpossessed by a strong desire to make the proposed visit. The road wasnot difficult, and before sunset the two men found themselves housed inthe humble lodgings that had for many years been familiar to Jim. Mr. Benedict went into the streets, and among the shops, the next morning, with great reluctance; but this soon wore off as he met man after manwhom he knew, who failed to recognize him. In truth, so many things hadhappened, that the memory of the man who, long ago, had been given up asdead had passed out of mind. The people would have been no moresurprised to see a sleeper of the village cemetery among them than theywould to have realized 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 when night came, Jimcould no longer be restrained from the visit that gave significance, notonly to his journey, but to all his plans. Not a woman had been seen onthe street during the day whom Jim had not scanned with an anxious andgreedy look, in the hope of seeing the one figure that was the desire ofhis eyes--but he had not seen it. Was she ill? Had she left Sevenoaks?He would not inquire, but he would know before he slept. 

"There's a little business as must be did afore I go, " said Jim, to Mr. Benedict in the evening, "an' I sh'd like to have ye go with me, if yefeel up to't. " Mr. Benedict felt up to it, and the two went outtogether. They walked along the silent street, and saw the great mill, ablaze with light. The mist from the falls showed white in the frostyair, and, without saying a word, they crossed the bridge, and climbed ahill dotted with little dwellings. 

Jim's heart was in his mouth, for his fears that ill had happened to thelittle tailoress had made him nervous; and when, at length, he caughtsight of the light in her window, he grasped Mr. Benedict by the armalmost fiercely, and exclaimed:

"It's all right. The little woman's in, an' waitin'. Can you see myhar?"

Having been assured that it was in a presentable condition, Jim walkedboldly up to the door and knocked. Having been admitted by the same girlwho had received him before, there was no need to announce his name. Both men went into the little parlor of the house, and the girl in greatglee ran upstairs to inform Miss Butterworth that there were two men anda dog in waiting, who wished to see her. Miss Butterworth came down frombusy work, like one in a hurry, and was met by Jim with extended hand, and the gladdest smile that ever illuminated a human face. 

"How fare ye, little woman?" said he. "I'm glad to see ye--gladder nor Ican tell ye. "

There was something in the greeting so hearty, so warm and tender andfull of faith, that Miss Butterworth was touched. Up to that moment hehad made no impression upon her heart, and, quite to her surprise, shefound that she was glad to see him. She had had a world of trouble sinceshe had met Jim, and the great, wholesome nature, fresh from the woods, and untouched by the trials of those with whom she was in dailyassociation, was like a breeze in the feverish summer, fresh from themountains. She was, indeed, glad to see him, and surprised by the warmthof the sentiment that sprang within her heart in response to hisgreeting. 

Miss Butterworth looked inquiringly, and with some embarrassment at thestranger. 

"That's one o' yer old friends, little woman, " said Jim. "Don't give 'imthe cold shoulder. 'Tain't every day as a feller comes to ye from theother side o' Jordan. "

Miss Butterworth naturally suspected the stranger's identity, and wascarefully studying his face to assure herself that Mr. Benedict wasreally in her presence. When some look of his eyes, or motion of hisbody, brought her the conclusive evidence of his identity, she graspedboth his hands, and said:

"Dear, dear, Mr. Benedict! how much you have suffered! I thank God foryou, and for the good friend He has raised up to help you. It's likeseeing one raised from the dead. "

Then she sat down at his side, and, apparently forgetting Jim, talkedlong and tenderly of the past. She remembered Mrs. Benedict so well! Andshe had so many times carried flowers and placed them upon her grave!She told him about the troubles in the town, and the numbers of poorpeople who had risked their little all and lost it in the greatspeculation; of those who were still hoping against hope that theyshould see their hard-earned money again; of the execrations that werealready beginning to be heaped upon Mr. Belcher; of the hard winter thatlay before the village, and the weariness of sympathy which had begun totell upon her energies. Life, which had been once so full of thepleasure of action and industry, was settling, more and more, into dullroutine, and she could see nothing but trouble ahead, for herself andfor all those in whom she was interested. 

Mr. Benedict, for the first time since Jim had rescued him from thealms-house, became wholly himself. The sympathy of a woman unlocked hisheart, and he talked in his old way. He alluded to his early trials withentire freedom, to his long illness and mental alienation, to his hopesfor his boy, and especially to his indebtedness to Jim. On this latterpoint he poured out his whole heart, and Jim himself was deeply affectedby the revelation of his gratitude. He tried in vain to protest, forMr. Benedict, having found his tongue, would not pause until he had laidhis soul bare before his benefactor. The effect that the presence of thesympathetic woman produced upon his _protégé_ put a new thought intoJim's mind. He could not resist the conviction that the two were suitedto one another, and that the "little woman, " as he tenderly called her, would be happier with the inventor than she would be with him. It wasnot a pleasant thought, but even then he cast aside his selfishness witha great struggle, and determined that he would not stand in the way ofan event which would crush his fondest hopes. Jim did not know women aswell as he thought he did. He did not see that the two met more like twowomen than like representatives of opposite sexes. He did not see thatthe sympathy between the pair was the sympathy of two natures whichwould be the happiest in dependence, and that Miss Butterworth could nomore have chosen Mr. Benedict for a husband than she could have chosenher own sister. 

Mr. Benedict had never been informed by Jim of the name of the womanwhom he hoped to make his wife, but he saw at once, and with sincerepleasure, that he was in her presence; and when he had finished what hehad to say to her, and again heartily expressed his pleasure in renewingher acquaintance, he rose to go. 

"Jim, I will not cut your call short, but I must get back, to my roomand prepare for to-morrow's journey. Let me leave you here, and find myway 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 he was passing outof the room, Jim remembered that there was something that he wished tosay to him, and so passed out with him, telling Miss Butterworth that heshould soon return. 

When the door closed behind them, and they stood alone in the darkness, Jim said, with his hand on his companion's shoulder, and an awful lie inhis throat:

"I brung ye here hopin' ye'd take a notion to this little woman. She'ddo more for ye nor anybody else. She can make yer clo'es, and be goodcompany 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 afore mornin'. "

"I understand you, Jim, " said Mr. Benedict, "and I know what all thiscosts you. You are worthy of her, and I hope you'll get her. "

Mr. Benedict tore himself away, but Jim said, "hold on a bit. "

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 of thestoop, an' put in Turk. If so be as somethin' happens to-night, I sh'dwant to show her the plans in the mornin'; an' if she should ax me whoselittle feller it was, it would be sort o' cumbersome to tell her, an' Ish'd have to lie my way out on't. "

Mr. Benedict promised to attend to the matter before he slept, and thenJim went back into the house. 

Of the long conversation that took place that night between the woodsmanand the little tailoress we shall present no record. That he pleaded hiscase well and earnestly, and without a great deal of bashfulness, willbe readily believed by those who have made his acquaintance. That thewoman, in her lonely circumstances, and with her hungry heart, couldlightly refuse the offer of his hand and life was an impossibility. Fromthe hour of his last previous visit she had unconsciously gone towardhim in her affections, and when she met him she learned, quite to herown surprise, that her heart had found its home. He had no culture, buthis nature was manly. He had little education, but his heart was true, and his arm was strong. Compared with Mr. Belcher, with all his wealth, he was nobility personified. Compared with the sordid men around her, with whom he would be an object of supercilious contempt, he seemed likea demigod. His eccentricities, his generosities, his originalities ofthought and fancy, 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 once come into contact withhim, the influence of his presence had remained, and it was with agenuine throb of pleasure that she found herself with him again. 

When he left her that night, he left her in tears. Bending over her, with his strong hands holding her cheeks tenderly, as she looked up intohis eyes, he kissed her forehead. 

"Little woman, " said he, "I love ye. I never knowed what love was afore, an' if this is the kind o' thing they have in heaven, I want to go therewhen you do. Speak a good word for me when ye git a chance. "

Jim walked on air all the way back to his lodgings--walked by hislodgings--stood still, and looked up at the stars--went out to thewaterfall, and watched the writhing, tumbling, roaring river--wrapped intranscendent happiness. Transformed and transfused by love, the worldaround him seemed quite divine. He had stumbled upon the secret of hisexistence. He had found the supreme charm of life. He felt that a newprinciple had sprung to action within him, which had in it the power towork miracles of transformation. He could never be in the future exactlywhat he had been in the past. He had taken a step forward and upward--astep irretraceable. 

Jim had never prayed, but there was something about this experience thatlifted his heart upward. He looked up to the stars, and said to himself:"He's somewhere up thar, I s'pose. I can't seen 'im, an' I must lookpurty small to Him if He can seen me; but I hope He knows as I'mobleeged to 'im, more nor I can tell 'im. When He made a good woman, Hedid the biggest thing out, an' when He started a man to lovin' on her, He set up the best business that was ever did. I hope He likes the'rangement, and won't put nothin' in the way on't. Amen! I'm goin' tobed. "

Jim put his last determination into immediate execution. He found Mr. Benedict in his first nap, from which he felt obliged to rouse him, withthe information that it was "all right, " and that the quicker the housewas finished the better it would be for all concerned. 

The next morning, Turk having been substituted for the child in theforeground of the front elevation of the hotel, the two men went up toMiss Butterworth's, and exhibited and talked over the plans. Theyreceived many valuable hints from the prospective mistress of theprospective mansion. The stoop was to be made broader for theaccommodation of visitors; more room for wardrobes was suggested, withlittle conveniences for housekeeping, which complicated the plans not alittle. Mr. Benedict carefully noted them all, to be wrought out at hisleisure. 

Jim's love had wrought a miracle in the night. He had said nothing aboutit to his architect, but it had lifted him above the bare utilities of ahouse, so that he could see the use of beauty. "Thar's one thing, " saidhe, "as thar hain't none on us thought on; but it come to me last night. There's a place where the two ruffs come together that wants somethin', an' it seems to me it's a cupalo--somethin' to stan' up over the wholething, and say to them as comes, 'Hallelujer!' We've done a good dealfor house-keepin', now let's do somethin' for glory. It's jest like aribbon on a bonnet, or a blow on a potato-vine. It sets it off, an'makes a kind o' Fourth o' July for it. What do ye say, little woman?"

The "little woman" accepted the suggestion, and admitted that it wouldat least make the building look more like a hotel. 

All the details settled, the two men went away, and poor Benedict had arough time in getting back to camp. Jim could hardly restrain himselffrom going through in a single day, so anxious was he to get at histraps and resume work upon the house. There was no fatigue too great forhim now. The whole world was bright and full of promise; and he couldnot have been happier or more excited if he had been sure that at theyear's end a palace and a princess were to be the reward of hisenterprise. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

WHICH INTRODUCES SEVERAL RESIDENTS OF SEVENOAKS TO THE METROPOLIS AND ANEW CHARACTER TO THE READER. 

Harry Benedict was in the great city. When his story was known by Mrs. Balfour--a quiet, motherly woman--and she was fully informed of herhusband's plans concerning him, she received him with a cordiality andtenderness which won his heart and made him entirely at home. Thewonders of the shops, the wonders of the streets, the wonders of theplaces of public amusement, the music of the churches, the inspirationof the great tides of life that swept by him on every side, were in suchsharp contrast to the mean conditions to which he had been accustomed, that he could hardly sleep. Indeed, the dreams of his unquiet slumberswere formed of less attractive constituents than the visions of hiswaking hours. He had entered a new world, which stimulated hisimagination, and furnished him with marvelous materials for growth. Hehad been transformed by the clothing of the lad whose place he had takeninto a city boy, difficult to be recognized by those who had previouslyknown him. He hardly knew himself, and suspected his own consciousnessof cheating him. 

For several days he had amused himself in his leisure hours by watchinga huge house opposite to that of the Balfours, into which was pouring astream of furniture. Huge vans were standing in front of it, or comingand departing, from morning until night, Dressing-cases, book-cases, chairs, mirrors, candelabra, beds, tables--everything necessary andelegant in the furniture of a palace, were unloaded and carried in. Allday long, too, he could see through the large windows the active figureand beautiful face of a woman who seemed to direct and control themovements of all who were engaged in the work. 

The Balfours had noticed the same thing; but, beyond wondering who wasrich or foolish enough to purchase and furnish Palgrave's Folly, theyhad given the matter no attention. They were rich, of good family, ofrecognized culture and social importance, and it did not seem to themthat any one whom they would care to know would be willing to occupy ahouse so pronounced in vulgar display. They were people whose society nomoney could buy. If Robert Belcher had been worth a hundred millionsinstead of one, the fact would not have been taken into consideration indeciding any social question relating to him. 

Finally the furnishing was complete; the windows were polished, thesteps were furbished, and nothing seemed to wait but the arrival of thefamily for which the dwelling had been prepared. 

One late afternoon, before the lamps were lighted in the streets, hecould see that the house was illuminated; and just as the darkness cameon, a carriage drove up and a family alighted. The doors were thrownopen, the beautiful woman stood upon the threshold, and all ran up toenter. She kissed the lady of the house, kissed the children, shookhands cordially with the gentleman of the party, and then the doors wereswung to, and they were shut from the sight of the street; but just asthe man entered, the light from the hall and the light from the streetrevealed the flushed face and portly figure of Robert Belcher. 

Harry knew him, and ran down stairs to Mrs. Balfour, pale and agitatedas if he had seen a ghost. "It is Mr. Belcher, " he said, "and I must goback. I know he'll find me; I must go back to-morrow. "

It was a long time before the family could pacify him and assure him oftheir power to protect him; but they did it at last, though they lefthim haunted with the thought that he might be exposed at any moment tothe new companions of his life as a pauper and the son of a pauper. Thegreat humiliation had been burned into his soul. The petty tyrannies ofTom Buffum had cowed him, so that it would be difficult for him ever toemerge from their influence into a perfectly free boyhood and manhood. Had they been continued long enough, they would have ruined him. Once hehad been entirely in the power of adverse circumstances and a brutalwill, and he was almost incurably wounded. 

The opposite side of the street presented very different scenes. Mrs. Belcher found, through the neighborly services of Mrs. Dillingham, thather home was all prepared for her, even to the selection and engagementof her domestic service. A splendid dinner was ready to be served, forwhich Mr. Belcher, who had been in constant communication with hisconvenient and most officious friend, had brought the silver; and thefirst business was to dispose of it. Mrs. Dillingham led the mistress ofthe house to her seat, distributed the children, and amused them all bythe accounts she gave them of her efforts to make their entrance andwelcome satisfactory. Mrs. Belcher observed her quietly, acknowledged toherself the woman's personal charms--her beauty, her wit, her humor, hersprightliness, and her more than neighborly service; but her quick, womanly instincts detected something which she did not like. She sawthat Mr. Belcher was fascinated by her, and that he felt that she hadrendered him and the family a service for which great gratitude was due;but she saw that the object of his admiration was selfish--that sheloved power, delighted in having things her own way, and, more than all, was determined to place the mistress of the house under obligations toher. It would have been far more agreeable to Mrs. Belcher to findeverything in confusion, than to have her house brought into habitableorder by a stranger in whom she had no trust, and upon whom she had noclaim. Mr. Belcher had bought the house without her knowledge; Mrs. Dillingham had arranged it without her supervision. She seemed toherself to be simply a child, over whose life others had assumed theoffices of administration. 

Mrs. Belcher was weary, and she would have been delighted to be alonewith her family, but here was an intruder whom she could not dispose of. She would have been glad to go over the house alone, and to have had theprivilege of discovery, but she must go with one who was bent on showingher everything, and giving her reasons for all that had been done. 

Mrs. Dillingham was determined to play her cards well with Mrs. Belcher. She was sympathetic, confidential, most respectful; but she found thatlady very quiet. Mr. Belcher followed them from room to room, with widereyes for Mrs. Dillingham than for the details of his new home. Now hecould see them together--the mother of his children, and the woman whohad already won his heart away from her. The shapely lady, with herqueenly ways, her vivacity, her graceful adaptiveness to persons andcircumstances, was sharply contrasted with the matronly figure, homelymanners, and unresponsive mind of his wife. He pitied his wife, hepitied himself, he pitied his children, he almost pitied the dumb wallsand the beautiful furniture around him. 

Was Mrs. Dillingham conscious of the thoughts which possessed him? Didshe know that she was leading him around his house, in her assumedconfidential intimacy with his wife, as she would lead a spaniel by asilken cord? Was she aware that, as she moved side by side with Mrs. Belcher, through the grand rooms, she was displaying herself to the bestadvantage to her admirer, and that, yoked with the wifehood andmotherhood of the house, she was dragging, while he held, the plow thatwas tilling the deep carpets for tares that might be reaped in harvestsof unhappiness? Would she have dropped the chain if she had? Not she. 

To fascinate, and make a fool of, a man who was strong and cunning inhis own sphere; to have a hand--gloved in officious friendship--in otherlives, furnished the zest of her unemployed life. She could introducediscord into a family without even acknowledging to herself that she haddone it wittingly. She could do it, and weep over the injustice thatcharged her with it. Her motives were always pure! She had always doneher best to serve her friends! and what were her rewards? So thevictories which she won by her smiles, she made permanent by her tears. So the woman by whose intrigues the mischief came was transformed into avictim, from whose shapely shoulders the garment of blame slipped off, that society might throw over them the robes of its respectfulcommiseration, and thus make her more interesting and lovely thanbefore!

Mrs. Belcher measured very carefully, or apprehended very readily, thekind of woman she had to deal with, and felt at once that she was nomatch for her. She saw that she could not shake her off, so long as itwas her choice to remain. She received from her no direct offense, except the offense of her uninvited presence; but the presence meantservice, and so could not be resented. And Mrs. Belcher could be of somuch service to her! Her life was so lonely--so meaningless! It would besuch a joy to her, in a city full of shams, to have one friend who wouldtake her good offices, and so help to give to her life a modicum ofsignificance!

After a full survey of the rooms, and a discussion of the beauties andelegancies of the establishment, they all descended to the dining-room, and, in response to Mrs. Dillingham's order, were served with tea. 

"You really must excuse me, Mrs. Belcher, " said the beautiful ladydeprecatingly, "but I have been here for a week, and it seems so muchlike my own home, that I ordered the tea without thinking that I am theguest and you are the mistress. "

"Certainly, and I am really very much obliged to you;" and then feelingthat she had been a little untrue to herself, Mrs. Belcher addedbluntly: "I feel myself in a very awkward situation--obliged to one onwhom I have no claim, and one whom 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 make me serviceable to you. I know all about the city, and all about its ways. You can call upon mefor anything; and now let's talk about the house. Isn't it lovely?"

"Yes, " said Mrs. Belcher, "too lovely. While so many are poor around us, it seems almost like an insult to them to live in such a place, andflaunt our wealth in their faces. Mr. Belcher is very generous towardhis family, and I have no wish to complain, but I would exchange it allfor my little room in Sevenoaks. "

Mr. Belcher, who had been silent and had watched with curious andsomewhat anxious eyes the introductory passage of this new acquaintance, was rasped by Mrs. Belcher's remark into saying: "That's Mrs. Belcher, all over! that's the woman, through and through! As if a man hadn't aright to do what he chooses with his money! If men are poor, why don'tthey get rich? They have the same chance I had; and there isn't one of'em but would be glad to change places with me, and flaunt his wealth inmy face. There's a precious lot of humbug about the poor which won'twash with me. We're all alike. "

Mrs. Dillingham shook her lovely head. 

"You men are so hard, " she said; "and Mrs. Belcher has the rightfeeling; but I'm sure she takes great comfort in helping the poor. Whatwould you do, my dear, if you had no money to help the poor with?"

"That's just what I've asked her a hundred times, " said Mr. Belcher. "What would she do? That's something she never thinks of. "

Mrs. Belcher shook her head, in return, but made no reply. She knew thatthe poor would have been better off if Mr. Belcher had never lived, andthat the wealth which surrounded her with luxuries was taken from thepoor. It was this, at the bottom, that made her sad, and this that hadfilled her for many years with discontent. 

When the tea was disposed of, Mrs. Dillingham rose to go. She lived afew blocks distant, and it was necessary for Mr. Belcher to walk homewith her. This he was glad to do, though she assured him that it wasentirely unnecessary. When they were in the street, walking at a slowpace, the lady, 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 she doesn't like me. I can read--oh, I can read pretty well. She certainly didn't like itthat I had arranged everything and was there to meet her. But wasn't shetired? Wasn't she very tired? There certainly was something that waswrong. "

"I think your imagination had something to do with it, " said Mr. Belcher, although he knew that she was right. 

"No, I can read;" and Mrs. Dillingham's voice trembled. "If she couldonly know how honestly I have tried to serve her, and how disappointed Iam that my service has not been taken in good part, I am sure that heramiable heart would forgive me. "

Mrs. Dillingham took out her handkerchief, near a street lamp, and wipedher eyes. 

What could Mr. Belcher do with this beautiful, susceptible, sensitivecreature? What could he do but reassure her? Under the influence of heremotion, his wife's offense grew flagrant, and he began by apologizingfor her, and ended by blaming her. 

"Oh! she was tired--she was very tired. That was all. I've laid upnothing against her; but you know I was disappointed, after I had doneso much. I shall be all over it in the morning, and she will see itdifferently then. I don't know but I should have been troubled to finda stranger in my house. I think I should. Now, you really must promisenot to say a word of all this talk to your poor wife. I wouldn't haveyou do it for the world. If you are my friend (pressing his arm), youwill let the matter drop just where it is. Nothing would induce me to bethe occasion of any differences in your home. "

So it was a brave, true, magnanimous nature that was leaning so tenderlyupon Mr. Belcher's arm! And he felt that no woman who was not eithershabbily perverse, or a fool, could misinterpret her. He knew that hiswife had been annoyed at finding Mrs. Dillingham in the house. He dimlycomprehended, too, that her presence was an indelicate intrusion, buther intentions were so good!

Mrs. Dillingham knew exactly how to manipulate the coarse man at herside, and her relations to him and his wife. Her bad wisdom was not theresult of experience, though she had had enough of it, but the productof an instinct which was just as acute, and true, and serviceable, tenyears earlier in her life as it was then. She timed the walk to herpurpose; and when Mr. Belcher parted with her, he went back leisurely tohis great house, more discontented with his wife than he had ever been. To find such beauty, such helpfulness, such sympathy, charity, forbearance, and sensitiveness, all combined in one woman, and thatwoman kind and confidential toward him, brought back to him the days ofhis youth, in the excitement of a sentiment which he had supposed waslost beyond recall. 

He crossed the street on arriving at his house, and took an eveningsurvey of his grand mansion, whose lights were still flaming through thewindows. The passengers jostled him as he looked up at his dwelling, histhoughts wandering back to the woman with whom he had so recentlyparted. 

He knew that his heart was dead toward the woman who awaited his return. He felt that it was almost painfully alive toward the one he had leftbehind him, and it was with the embarrassment of conscious guilt thathe rang the bell at his own door, and stiffened himself to meet thehonest woman who had borne his children. Even the graceless touch of anintriguing woman's power--even the excitement of something like lovetoward one who was unworthy of his love--had softened him, so that hisconscience could move again. He felt that his eyes bore a secret, and hefeared that his wife could read it. And yet, who was to blame? Wasanybody to blame? Could anything that had happened have been helped oravoided?

He entered, determining to abide by Mrs. Dillingham's injunction ofsilence. He found the servants extinguishing the lights, and met theinformation that Mrs. Belcher had retired. His huge pile of trunks hadcome during his absence, and remained scattered in the hall. The sightoffended him, but, beyond a muttered curse, he said nothing, and soughthis bed. 

Mr. Belcher was not in good humor when he rose the next morning. Hefound the trunks where he left them on the previous evening; and when hecalled for the servants to carry them upstairs, he was met by openrevolt. They were not porters, and they would not lift boxes; that sortof work was not what they were engaged for. No New York family expectedservice of that kind from those who were not hired for it. 

The proprietor, who had been in the habit of exacting any service fromany man or woman in his employ that he desired, was angry. He would haveturned every one of them out of the house, if it had not been soinconvenient for him to lose them then. Curses trembled upon his lips, but he curbed them, inwardly determining to have his revenge when theopportunity should arise. The servants saw his eyes, and went back totheir work somewhat doubtful as to whether they had made a judiciousbeginning. They were sure they had not, when, two days afterward, everyone of them was turned out of the house, and a new set installed intheir places. 

He called for Phipps, and Phipps was at the stable. Putting on his hat, he went to bring his faithful servitor of Sevenoaks, and bidding himfind a porter in the streets and remove the trunks at Mrs. Belcher'sdirection, he sat down at the window to watch for a passing newsboy. Thechildren came down, cross and half sick with their long ride and theirlate dinner. Then it came on to rain in a most dismal fashion, and hesaw before him a day of confinement and ennui. Without mentalresource--unable to find any satisfaction except in action andintrigue--the prospect was anything but pleasant. The house was large, and, on a dark day, gloomy. His humor was not sweetened by noticingevidences of tears on Mrs. Belcher's face. The breakfast was badlycooked, and he rose from it exasperated. There was no remedy but to goout and call upon Mrs. Dillingham. He took an umbrella, and, telling hiswife that he was going out on business, he slammed the door behind himand went down the steps. 

As he reached the street, he saw a boy scudding along under an umbrella, with a package under his arm. Taking him for a newsboy, he called;"Here, boy! Give me some papers. " The lad had so shielded his face fromthe rain and the house that he had not seen Mr. Belcher; and when helooked up he turned pale, and simply said: "I'm not a newsboy;" and thenhe ran away as if he were frightened. 

There was something in the look that arrested Mr. Belcher's attention. He was sure he had seen the lad before, but where, he could notremember. The face haunted him--haunted him for hours, even when in thecheerful presence of Mrs. Dillingham, with whom he spent a long anddelightful hour. She was rosy, and sweet, and sympathetic in her morningwrapper--more charming, indeed, than he had ever seen her in eveningdress. She inquired for Mrs. Belcher and the children, and heard withgreat good humor his account of his first collision with his New Yorkservants. When he went out from her inspiring and gracious presence hefound his self-complacency restored. He had simply been hungry for her;so his breakfast was complete. He went back to his house with a mingledfeeling of jollity and guilt, but the moment he was with his family theface of the boy returned. Where had he seen him? Why did the face givehim uneasiness? Why did he permit himself to be puzzled by it? Noreasoning, no diversion could drive it from his mind. Wherever he turnedduring the long day and evening that white, scared face obtruded itselfupon him. He had noticed, as the lad lifted his umbrella, that hecarried a package of books under his arm, and naturally concluded that, belated by the rain, he was on his way to school. He determined, therefore, to watch him on the following morning, his own eyesreinforced by those of his oldest boy. 

The dark day passed away at last, and things were brought into morehomelike order by the wife of the house, so that the evening was cozyand comfortable; and when the street lamps were lighted again and thestars came out, and the north wind sounded its trumpet along the avenue, the spirits of the family rose to the influence. 

On the following morning, as soon as he had eaten his breakfast, he, with his boy, took a position at one of the windows, to watch for thelad whose face had so impressed and puzzled him. On the other side ofthe avenue a tall man came out, with a green bag under his arm, steppedinto a passing stage, and rolled away. Ten minutes later two ladsemerged with their books slung over their shoulders, and crossed towardthem. 

"That's the boy--the one on the left, " said Mr. Belcher. At the samemoment the lad looked up, and apparently saw the two faces watching him, for he quickened his pace. 

"That's Harry Benedict, " exclaimed Mr. Belcher's son and heir. The wordswere hardly out of his mouth when Mr. Belcher started from his chair, ran down-stairs with all the speed possible within the range of safety, and intercepted the lads at a side door, which opened upon the streetalong which 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 lateat school. "

Poor Harry could no more have walked than he could have flown. Mr. Belcher saw the impression he had made upon him, and became soft andinsinuating in his manner. 

"I'm glad to see you, my boy, " said Mr. Belcher. "Come into the house, and see the children. They all remember you, and they are all homesick. They'll be glad to look at anything from Sevenoaks. "

Harry was not reassured: he was only more intensely frightened. A giant, endeavoring to entice him into his cave in the woods, would not haveterrified him more. At length he found his tongue sufficiently to saythat he was going to school, and could not go in. 

It was easy for Mr. Belcher to take his hand, limp and trembling withfear, and under the guise of friendliness to lead him up the steps, andtake him to his room. Thede watched them until they disappeared, andthen 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. Belcher would dare to treat the lad foully, with the consciousness thathis disappearance within his house had been observed, and wiselydetermined to do nothing but sit down at her window and watch the house. 

Placing Harry in a chair, Mr. Belcher sat down opposite to him, andsaid:

"My boy, I'm very glad to see you. I've wanted to know about you morethan any boy in the world. I suppose you've been told that I am a verybad man, but I'll prove to you that I'm not. There, put that ten-dollargold piece in your pocket. That's what they call an eagle, and I hopeyou'll have a great many 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 the proprietor ina 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 wantyou to tell me all about your getting away from the poor-house, and whohelped you out, and where your poor, dear father is, and all about it. Come, now, you don't know how much we looked for you, and how we allgave you up for lost. You don't know what a comfort it is to see youagain, and to know that you didn't die in the woods. "

The boy simply shook his head. 

"Do you know who Mr. Belcher is? Do you know he is used to having peoplemind him? Do you know that you're here in my house, and that you _must_mind me? Do you know what I do to little boys when they disobey me? Now, I want you to answer my questions, and do it straight. Lying won't godown with me. Who helped you and your father to get out of thepoor-house?"

Matters had proceeded to a desperate pass with the lad. He had thoughtvery fast, and he had determined that no bribe and no threat shouldextort a word of information from him. His cheeks grew hot and flushed, his eyes burned, and he straightened himself in his chair as if heexpected death or torture, and was prepared to meet either, as hereplied:

"I won't tell you. "

"Is your father alive? Tell me, you dirty little whelp? Don't say thatyou won't do what I bid you to do again. I have a great mind to chokeyou. 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. Belcherassumed the manner of a man whose motives had been misconstrued, and whowished for information that he might do a kind act to the lad's father. 

"I should really like to help your father, and if he is poor, moneywould do him a great deal of good. And here is the little boy who doesnot love his father well enough to get money for him, when he can haveit and welcome! The little boy is taken care of. He has plenty to eat, and good clothes to wear, and lives in a fine house, but his poor fathercan take care of himself. I think such a boy as that ought to be ashamedof himself. I think he ought to kneel down and say his prayers. If I hada boy who could do that, I should be sorry that he'd ever been born. "

Harry was proof against this mode of approach also, and was relieved, because he saw that Mr. Belcher was baffled. His instincts were quick, and they told him that he was the victor. In the meantime Mr. Belcherwas getting hot. He had closed the door of his room, while a huge coalfire was burning in the grate. He rose and opened the door. Harrywatched the movement, and descried the grand staircase beyond hispersecutor, as the door swung back. He had looked into the house whilepassing, during the previous week, and knew the relations of thestaircase to the entrance on the avenue. His determination wasinstantaneously made, and Mr. Belcher was conscious of a swift figurethat passed under his arm, and was half down the staircase before hecould move or say a word. Before he cried "stop him!" Harry's hand wason the fastening of the door, and when he reached the door, the boy washalf across the street. 

He had calculated on smoothing over the rough places of the interview, and preparing a better report of the visit of the lad's friends on theother side of the avenue, but the matter had literally slipped throughhis fingers. He closed the door after the retreating boy, and went backto his room without deigning to answer the inquiries that were excitedby his loud command to "stop him. "

Sitting down, and taking to himself his usual solace, and smokingfuriously for a while, he said: "D---n!" Into this one favorite andfamiliar expletive he poured his anger, his vexation, and his fear. Hebelieved at the moment that the inventor was alive. He believed that ifhe had been dead his boy would, in some way, have revealed the fact. Was he still insane? Had he powerful friends? It certainly appeared so. Otherwise, how could the lad be where he had discovered him? Was itrational to suppose that he was far from his father? Was it rational tosuppose that the lad's friends were not equally the friends of theinventor? How could he know that Robert Belcher himself had notunwittingly come to the precise locality where he would be underconstant surveillance? How could he know that a deeply laid plot was notalready at work to undermine and circumvent him? The lad's reticence, determined and desperate, showed that he knew the relations that existedbetween his father and the proprietor, and seemed to show that he hadacted under orders. 

Something must be done to ascertain the residence of Paul Benedict, ifstill alive, or to assure him of his death, if it had occurred. Something must be done to secure the property which he was rapidlyaccumulating. Already foreign Governments were considering theadvantages of the Belcher rifle, as an arm for the military service, andnegotiations were pending with more than one of them. Already his ownGovernment, then in the first years of its great civil war, hadexperimented with it, with the most favorable results. The business wasnever so promising as it then appeared, yet it never had appeared soinsecure. 

In the midst of his reflections, none of which were pleasant, and in asort of undefined dread of the consequences of his indiscretions inconnection with Harry Benedict, the bell rang, and Mr. And Mrs. Talbotwere announced. The factor and his gracious lady were in fine spirits, and full of their congratulations over the safe removal of the family totheir splendid mansion. Mrs. Talbot was sure that Mrs. Belcher must feelthat all the wishes of her heart were gratified. There was reallynothing like the magnificence of the mansion. Mrs. Belcher could onlysay that it was all very fine, but Mr. Belcher, finding himself anobject of envy, took great pride in showing his visitors about thehouse. 

Mrs. Talbot, who in some way had ascertained that Mrs. Dillingham hadsuperintended the arrangement of the house, said, in an aside to Mrs. Belcher: "It must have been a little lonely to come here and find no oneto 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 permit yourself tobe prejudiced against her. I suppose she means well, but she certainlydoes the most unheard-of things. She's a restless creature--not quiteright, you know, but she has been immensely flattered. She's an oldfriend of mine, and I don't join the hue and cry against her at all, butshe does such imprudent things! What did she say to you?"

Mrs. Belcher detected the spice of pique and jealousy in this charitablespeech, and said very little in response--nothing that a mischief-makercould torture into an offense. 

Having worked her private pump until the well whose waters she soughtrefused to give up its treasures, Mrs. Talbot declared she would nolonger embarrass the new house-keeping by her presence. She had onlycalled to bid Mrs. Belcher welcome, and to assure her that if she had nofriends in the city, there were hundreds of hospitable hearts that wereready to greet her. Then she and her husband went out, waved theiradieus from their snug little coupé, and drove away. 

The call had diverted Mr. Belcher from his somber thoughts, and hesummoned his carriage, and drove down town, where he spent his day insecuring the revolution in his domestic service, already alluded to, intalking business with his factor, and in making acquaintances on'Change. 

"I'm going to be in the middle of this thing, one of those days, " saidhe to Talbot as they strolled back to the counting-room of the latter, after a long walk among the brokers and bankers of Wall street. "Ifanybody supposes that I've come here to lie still, they don't know me. They'll wake up some fine morning and find a new hand at the bellows. "

Twilight found him at home again, where he had the supreme pleasure ofturning his very independent servants out of his house into the street, and installing a set who knew, from the beginning, the kind of man theyhad to deal with, and conducted themselves accordingly. 

While enjoying his first cigar after dinner, a note was handed to him, which he opened and read. It was dated at the house across the avenue. He had expected and dreaded it, but he did not shrink like a coward fromits persual. It read thus:

"MR. ROBERT BELCHER: I have been informed of the shameful manner inwhich you treated a member of my family this morning--Master HarryBenedict. The bullying of a small boy is not accounted a dignifiedbusiness for a man in the city which I learn you have chosen for yourhome, however it may be regarded in the little town from which you came. I do not propose to tolerate such conduct toward any dependent of mine. I do not ask for your apology, for the explanation was in my handsbefore the outrage was committed. I perfectly understand your relationsto the lad, and trust that the time will come when the law will definethem, so that the public will also understand them. Meantime, you willconsult your own safety by letting him alone, and never presuming torepeat the scene of this morning. 

"Yours, JAMES BALFOUR, "Counselor-at-Law. "

"Hum! ha!" exclaimed Mr. Belcher, compressing his lips, and spitefullytearing the letter into small strips and throwing them into the fire. "Thank you, kind sir; I owe you one, " said he, rising, and walking hisroom. "_That_ doesn't look very much as if Paul Benedict were alive. He's a counselor-at-law, he is; and he has inveigled a boy into hiskeeping, who, he supposes, has a claim on me; and he proposes to makesome money out of it. Sharp game!"

Mr. Belcher was interrupted in his reflections and his soliloquy by theentrance of a servant, with the information that there was a man at thedoor who wished to see him. 

"Show him up. "

The servant hesitated, and finally said: "He doesn't smell very 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 to see you onparticular business. "

"Take him into the basement, and tell him I'll be down soon. "

Mr. Belcher exhausted his cigar, tossed the stump into the fire, and, muttering to himself, "Who the devil!" went down to meet his caller. 

As he entered a sort of lobby in the basement that was used as aservants' parlor, his visitor rose, and stood with great shame-facednessbefore him. He did not extend his hand, but stood still, in his seedyclothes and his coat buttoned to his chin, to hide his lack of a shirt. The blue look of the cold street had changed to a hot purple under theinfluence of 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 am concerned, andclear out. "

"I am the most miserable of men, Mr. Belcher. "

"I believe you; and you'll excuse me if I say that your appearancecorroborates your statement. "

"And you don't recognize me? Is it possible?" And the maudlin tears cameinto the man's rheumy eyes and rolled down his cheeks. "You knew me inbetter days, sir;" and his voice trembled with weak emotion. 

"No; I never saw you before. That game won't work, and now be off. "

"And you don't remember Yates?--Sam Yates--and the happy days we spenttogether in childhood?" And the man wept again, and wiped his eyes withhis 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 he were a serpent. 

"Do you want to earn money?"

"Anything to get it. "

"Anything to get drink, I suppose. You said 'anything. ' Did you meanthat?"

The man knew Robert Belcher, and he knew that the last question had agreat deal more in it than would appear to the ordinary listener. 

"Lift me out of the gutter, " said he, "and keep me out, and--commandme. "

"I have a little business on hand, " said Mr. Belcher, "that you can do, provided you will let your drink alone--a business that I am willing topay for. Do you remember a man by the name of Benedict--a shiftless, ingenious dog, who once 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 thinking about it. Could youswear 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 you suppose thatwould 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, legal knowledge, everything--for money?"

"I've sold myself already at a smaller price, and I don't mindwithdrawing from the contract for a better. "

Mr. Belcher summoned a servant, and ordered something to eat for hisvisitor. While the man eagerly devoured his food, and washed it downwith a cup of tea, Mr. Belcher went to his room, and wrote an order onhis tailor for a suit of clothes, and a complete respectable outfit forthe legal "dead beat" who was feasting himself below. When he descended, he handed him the paper, and gave him money for a bath and a night'slodging. 

"To-morrow morning I want you to come here clean, and dressed in theclothes that this paper will give you. If you drink one drop before thattime I will strip the clothes from your back. Come to this room and geta decent breakfast. Remember that you can't fool me, and that I'll havenone of your nonsense. If you are to serve me, and get any money out ofit, you must keep sober. "

"I can keep sober--for a while--any way, " said the man, hesitatingly andhalf despairingly. 

"Very well, now be off; and mind, if I ever hear a word of this, or anyof our dealings outside, I'll thrash you as I would a dog. If you aretrue to me I can be of use to you. If you are not, I will kick you intothe street. "

The man tottered to his feet, and said: "I am ashamed to say that youmay command me. I should have scorned it once, but my chance is gone, and I could be loyal to the devil himself--for a consideration. "

The next morning Mr. Belcher was informed that Yates had breakfasted, and was awaiting orders. He descended to the basement, and stoodconfronted with a respectable-looking gentleman, who greeted him in acourtly way, yet with a deprecating look in his eyes, which said, asplainly as words could express; "don't humiliate me any more than youcan help! Use me, but spare the little pride I have, if you can. "

The deprecatory look was lost upon Mr. Belcher. "Where did you get yourclothes?" he inquired. "Come, now; give me the name of your tailor. I'mgreen in the city, you see. "

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 taken a drop since Isaw you. "

"Word of honor! ha! ha! ha! Do you suppose I want your word of honor? Doyou suppose I want a man of honor, anyway? If you have come here to talkabout 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 you putting on airs, andforgetting that he wears my clothes and fills 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 down and hear me. Thefirst thing you are to do is to ascertain whether Paul Benedict is dead. It isn't necessary that you should know my reasons. You are to searchevery insane hospital, public and private, in the city, and everyalms-house. Put on your big airs and play philanthropist. Find all therecords of the past year--the death records of the city--everything thatwill help to determine that the man is dead, as I believe he is. Thiswill give you all you want to do for the present. The man's son is inthe city, and the boy and the man left the Sevenoaks poor-housetogether. If the man is alive, he is likely to be near him. If he isdead he probably died near him. Find out, too, if you can, when his boycame to live at Balfour's over the way, and where he came from. You maystumble upon what I want very soon, or it may take you all winter. Ifyou should fail then, I shall want you to take the road from here toSevenoaks, and even to Number Nine, looking into all the alms-houses onthe 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. In themeantime, come to me every week with a written report of what you havedone, and get your pay. Come always after dark, so that none ofBalfour's people can see you. Begin the business, and carry it on inyour own way. You are old and sharp enough not to need any aid from me, and now be off. "

The man took a roll of bills that Mr. Belcher handed him, and walked outof the door without a word. As he rose to the sidewalk, Mr. Balfour cameout of the door opposite to him, with the evident intention of taking apassing stage. He nodded to Yates, whom he had not only known in otherdays, but had many times befriended, and the latter sneaked off down thestreet, while he, standing for a moment as if puzzled, turned, and withhis latch-key re-entered his house. Yates saw the movement, and knewexactly 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 lawyer would givebut one interpretation to the change, and that any hope or direct planhe might have with regard to ascertaining when the boy was received intothe family, and where he came from, was nugatory. He would not tell Mr. Belcher this. 

Mr. Balfour called his wife to the window, pointed out the retreatingform of Yates, gave utterance to his suspicions, and placed her upon herguard. Then he went to his office, as well satisfied that there was amischievous scheme on foot as if he had overheard the conversationbetween Mr. Belcher and the man who had consented to be his tool. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

WHICH TELLS OF A GREAT PUBLIC MEETING IN SEVENOAKS, THE BURNING INEFFIGY OF MR. BELCHER, AND THAT GENTLEMAN'S INTERVIEW WITH A REPORTER. 

Mr. Balfour, in his yearly journeys through Sevenoaks, had made severalacquaintances among the citizens, and had impressed them as a man ofability and integrity; and, as he was the only New York lawyer of theiracquaintance, they very naturally turned to him for information andadvice. Without consulting each other, or informing each other of whatthey had done, at least half a dozen wrote to him the moment Mr. Belcherwas out of the village, seeking information concerning the ContinentalPetroleum Company. They told him frankly about the enormous investmentsthat they and their neighbors had made, and of their fears concerningthe results. With a friendly feeling toward the people, he undertook, asfar as possible, to get at the bottom of the matter, and sent a man tolook up the property, and to find the men who nominally composed theCompany. 

After a month had passed away and no dividend was announced, the peoplebegan to talk more freely among themselves. They had hoped against hope, and fought their suspicions until they were tired, and then they soughtin sympathy to assuage the pangs of their losses and disappointments. 

It was not until the end of two months after Mr. Belcher's departurethat a letter was received at Sevenoaks from Mr. Balfour, giving ahistory of the Company, which confirmed their worst fears. This historyis already in the possession of the reader, but to that which has beendetailed was added the information that, practically, the operations ofthe Company had been discontinued, and the men who formed it werescattered. Nothing had ever been earned, and the dividends which hadbeen disbursed were taken out of the pockets of the principals, frommoneys which they had received for stock. Mr. Belcher had absorbed halfthat had been received, at no cost to himself whatever, and had addedthe grand total to his already bulky fortune. It was undoubtedly a grossswindle, and was, from the first, intended to be such; but it was underthe forms of law, and it was doubtful whether a penny could ever berecovered. 

Then, of course, the citizens held a public meeting--the great panaceafor all the ills of village life in America. Nothing but a set of moreor less impassioned speeches and a string of resolutions could expressthe indignation of Sevenoaks. A notice was posted for several days, inviting all the resident stockholders in the Continental to meet incouncil, to see what was to be done for the security of their interests. 

The little town-hall was full, and, scattered among the boisterousthrong of men, were the pitiful faces and figures of poor women who hadcommitted their little all to the grasp of the great scoundrel who hadso recently despoiled and deserted them. 

The Rev. Mr. Snow was there, as became the pastor of a flock in whichthe wolf had made its ravages, and the meeting was opened with prayer, according to the usual custom. Considering the mood and temper of thepeople, a prayer for the spirit of forgiveness and fortitude would nothave been out of place, but it is to be feared that it was wholly amatter of form. It is noticeable that at political conventions, on theeve of conflicts in which personal ambition and party chicanery playprominent parts; on the inauguration of great business enterprises inwhich local interests meet in the determined strifes of selfishness, andat a thousand gatherings whose objects leave God forgotten and right andjustice out of consideration, the blessing of the Almighty is invoked, while men who are about to rend each other's reputations, and strive, without conscience, for personal and party masteries, bow reverent headsand mumble impatient "Amens. "

But the people of Sevenoaks wanted their money back, and that, certainly, was worth praying for. They wanted, also, to find some way towreak their indignation upon Robert Belcher; and the very men who bowedin prayer after reaching the hall walked under an effigy of that personon their way thither, hung by the neck and dangling from a tree, and hadrare laughter and gratification in the repulsive vision. They wereangry, they were indignant, they were exasperated, and the more sobecause they were more than half convinced of their impotence, whilewholly conscious that they had been decoyed to their destruction, befooled and overreached by one who knew how to appeal to a greed whichhis own ill-won successes and prosperities had engendered in them. 

After the prayer, the discussion began. Men rose, trying their best toachieve self-control, and to speak judiciously and judicially, but theywere hurled, one after another, into the vortex of indignation, andcheer upon cheer shook the hall as they gave vent to the real feelingthat was uppermost in their hearts. 

After the feeling of the meeting had somewhat expended itself, Mr. Snowrose to speak. In the absence of the great shadow under which he hadwalked during all his pastorate, and under the blighting influence ofwhich his manhood had shriveled, he was once more independent. Thesorrows and misfortunes of his people had greatly moved him. A sense ofhis long humiliation shamed him. He was poor, but he was once more hisown; and he owed a duty to the mad multitude around him which he wasbound to discharge. "My friends, " said he, "I am with you, for better orfor worse. You kindly permit me to share in your prosperity, and now, inthe day of your trial and adversity, I will stand by you. There has goneout from among us an incarnate evil influence, a fact which calls forour profound gratitude. I confess with shame that I have not only feltit, but have shaped myself, though unconsciously, to it. It has vitiatedour charities, corrupted our morals, and invaded even the house of God. We have worshiped the golden calf. We have bowed down to Moloch. We haveconsented to live under a will that was base and cruel, in all itsmotives and ends. We have been so dazzled by a great worldly success, that we have ceased to inquire into its sources. We have done dailyobeisance to one who neither feared God nor regarded man. We have becomeso pervaded with his spirit, so demoralized by his foul example, thatwhen he held out even a false opportunity to realize something of hissuccess, we made no inquisition of facts or processes, and were willingto share with him in gains that his whole history would have taught uswere more likely to be unfairly than fairly won. I mourn for yourlosses, for you can poorly afford to suffer them; but to have that manforever removed from us; to be released from his debasing influence; tobe untrammeled in our action and in the development of our resources; tobe free men and free women, and to become content with our lot and withsuch gains as we may win in a legitimate way, is worth all that it hascost us. We needed a severe lesson, and we have had it. It falls heavilyupon some who are innocent. Let us, in kindness to these, find a balmfor our own trials. And, now, let us not degrade ourselves by hot wordsand impotent resentments. They can do no good. Let us be men--Christianmen, with detestation of the rascality from which we suffer, but withpity for the guilty man, who, sooner or later, will certainly meet thepunishment he so richly deserves. 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, 'saith the Lord. "

The people of Sevenoaks had never before heard Mr. Snow make such aspeech as this. It was a manly confession, and a manly admonition. Hisattenuated form was straight and almost majestic, his pale face wasflushed, his tones were deep and strong, and they saw that one man, atleast, breathed more freely, now that the evil genius of the place wasgone. It was a healthful speech. It was an appeal to their own conscioushistory, and to such remains of manhood as they possessed, and they werestrengthened by it. 

A series of the most objurgatory resolutions had been prepared for theoccasion, yet the writer saw that it would be better to keep them in hispocket. The meeting was at a stand, when little Dr. Radcliffe, who wassore to his heart's core with his petty loss, jumped up and declaredthat he had a series of resolutions to offer. There was a world ofunconscious humor in his freak, --unconscious, because his resolutionswere intended to express his spite, not only against Mr. Belcher, butagainst the villagers, including Mr. Snow. He began by reading in hispiping voice the first resolution passed at the previous meeting whichso pleasantly dismissed the proprietor to the commercial metropolis ofthe country. The reading of this resolution was so sweet a sarcasm onthe proceedings of that occasion, that it was received with peals oflaughter and deafening cheers, and as he went bitterly on, fromresolution to resolution, raising his voice to overtop the jargon, thescene became too ludicrous for description. The resolutions, which neverhad any sincerity in them, were such a confirmation of all that Mr. Snowhad said, and such a comment on their own duplicity and moraldebasement, that there was nothing left for them but to break up and gohome. 

The laugh did them good, and complemented the corrective which had beenadministered to them by the minister. Some of them still retained theiranger, as a matter of course, and when they emerged upon the street andfound Mr. Belcher's effigy standing upon the ground, surrounded byfagots ready to be lighted, they yelled: "Light him up, boys!" and stoodto witness the sham _auto-da-fé_ with a crowd of village urchins dancingaround it. 

Of course, Mr. Belcher had calculated upon indignation and anger, andrejoiced in their impotence. He knew that those who had lost so muchwould not care to risk more in a suit at law, and that his property atSevenoaks was so identified with the life of the town--that so many weredependent upon 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, sittingcomfortably in his city home, received from the postman a large handfulof letters. He looked them over, and as they were all blazoned with theSevenoaks post-mark, he selected that which bore the handwriting of hisagent, and read it. The agent had not dared to attend the meeting, buthe had had his spies there, who reported to him fully the authorship anddrift of all the speeches in the hall, and the unseemly proceedings ofthe street. Mr. Belcher did not laugh, for his vanity was wounded. Thethought that a town in which he had ruled so long had dared to burn hiseffigy in the open street was a humiliation; particularly so, as he didnot see how he could revenge himself upon the perpetrators of it withoutcompromising his own interests. He blurted out his favorite expletive, lighted a new cigar, walked his room, and chafed like a caged tiger. 

He was not in haste to break the other seals, but at last he sat down tothe remainder of his task, and read a series of pitiful personal appealsthat would have melted any heart but his own. They were from needy menand women whom he had despoiled. They were a detail of suffering anddisappointment, and in some cases they were abject prayers forrestitution. He read them all, to the last letter and the last word, andthen quietly tore them into strips, and threw them into the fire. 

His agent had informed him of the sources of the public informationconcerning the Continental Company, and he recognized James Balfour asan enemy. He had a premonition that the man was destined to stand in hisway, and that he was located just where he could overlook his operationsand his life. He would not have murdered him, but he would have beenglad to hear that he was dead. He wondered whether he wasincorruptible, and whether he, Robert Belcher, could afford to buyhim--whether it would not pay to make his acquaintance--whether, indeed, the man were not endeavoring to force him to do so. Every bad motivewhich could exercise a man, he understood; but he was puzzled inendeavoring to make out what form of selfishness had moved Mr. Balfourto take such an interest in the people of Sevenoaks. 

At last he sat down at his table and wrote a letter to his agent, simplyordering him to establish a more thorough watch over his property, anddirecting him to visit all the newspaper offices of the region, and keepthe reports of the meeting and its attendant personal indignities frompublication. 

Then, with an amused smile upon his broad face, he wrote the followingletter:

"TO THE REVEREND SOLOMON SNOW, "_Dear Sir_: I owe an apology to the people of Sevenoaks for neveradequately acknowledging the handsome manner in which they endeavored toassuage the pangs of parting on the occasion of my removal. Theresolutions passed at their public meeting are cherished among mychoicest treasures, and the cheers of the people as I rode through theirranks on the morning of my departure, still ring in my ears moredelightfully than any music I ever heard. Thank them, I pray you, forme, for their overwhelming friendliness. I now have a request to make ofthem, and I make it the more boldly because, during the past ten years, I have never been approached by any of them in vain when they havesought my benefactions. The Continental Petroleum Company is a failure, and all the stock I hold in it is valueless. Finding that my expenses inthe city are very much greater than in the country, it has occurred tome that perhaps my friends there would be willing to make up a purse formy benefit. I assure you that it would be gratefully received; and Iapply to you because, from long experience, I know that you areaccomplished in the art of begging. Your graceful manner in acceptinggifts from me has given me all the hints I shall need in that respect, so that the transaction will not be accompanied by any clumsy details. My butcher's bill will be due in a few days, and dispatch is desirable. 

"With the most cordial compliments to Mrs. Snow, whom I profoundlyesteem, and to your accomplished daughters, who have so long been sparedto the protection of the paternal roof, "I am your affectionate parishioner, "ROBERT BELCHER. "

Mr. Belcher had done what he considered a very neat and brilliant thing. He sealed and directed the letter, rang his bell, and ordered it posted. Then he sat back in his easy chair, and chuckled over it. Then he roseand paraded himself before his mirror. 

"When you get ahead of Robert Belcher, drop us a line. Let it be briefand to the point. Any information thankfully received. Are you, sir, tobe bothered by this pettifogger? Are you to sit tamely down and beundermined? Is that your custom? Then, sir, you are a base coward. Whosaid coward? Did you, sir? Let this right hand, which I now raise inair, and clench in awful menace, warn you not to repeat the damningaccusation. Sevenoaks howls, and it is well. Let every man who stands inmy path take warning. I button my coat; I raise my arms; I straighten myform, and they 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 youmy obeisance. I retire. "

Mr. Belcher's addresses to himself were growing less frequent among theexcitements of new society. He had enough to occupy his mind withoutthem, and found sufficient competition in the matter of dress to modifyin some degree his vanity of person; but the present occasion was astimulating one, and one whose excitements he could not share withanother. 

His missive went to its destination, and performed a thoroughlyhealthful work, because it destroyed all hope of any relief from hishands, and betrayed the cruel contempt with which he regarded his oldtownsmen and friends. 

He slept as soundly that night as if he had been an innocent infant; buton the following morning, sipping leisurely and luxuriously at hiscoffee, and glancing over the pages of his favorite newspaper, hediscovered a letter with startling headings, which displayed his ownname and bore the date of Sevenoaks. The "R" at its foot revealed Dr. Radcliffe as the writer, and the peppery doctor had not miscalculated indeciding that "The New York Tattler" would be the paper most affected byMr. Belcher--a paper with more enterprise than brains, more brains thancandor, and with no conscience at all; a paper which manufactured hoaxesand vended them for news, bought and sold scandals by the sheet as ifthey were country gingerbread, and damaged reputations one day for theprivilege and profit of mending them the next. 

He read anew, and with marvelous amplification, the story with which theletter of his agent had already made him familiar. This time he hadreceived a genuine wound, with poison upon the barb of the arrow thathad pierced him. He crushed the paper in his hand and ascended to hisroom. All Wall street would see it, comment upon it, and laugh over it. Balfour would read it and smile. New York and all the country wouldgossip about it. Mrs. Dillingham would peruse it. Would it change herattitude toward him? This was a serious matter, and it touched him tothe quick. 

The good angel who had favored him all his life, and brought him safeand sound out of every dirty difficulty of his career, was already onhis way with assistance, although he did not know it. Sometimes thisangel had assumed the form of a lie, sometimes that of a charity, sometimes that of a palliating or deceptive circumstance; but it hadalways appeared at the right moment; and this time it came in the formof an interviewing reporter. His bell rang, and a servant appeared withthe card of "Mr. Alphonse Tibbets of 'The New York Tattler. '"

A moment before, he was cursing "The Tattler" for publishing the recordof his shame, but he knew instinctively that the way out of his scrapehad been opened to him. 

"Show him up, " said the proprietor at once. He had hardly time to lookinto his mirror, and make sure that his hair and his toilet were allright, before a dapper little fellow, with a professional manner, and aportfolio under his arm, was ushered into the room. The air of easygood-nature and good fellowship was one which Mr. Belcher could assumeat will, and this was the air that he had determined upon as a matter ofpolicy in dealing with a representative of "The Tattler" office. Heexpected to meet a man with a guilty look, and a deprecating, fawningsmile. He was, therefore, very much surprised to find in Mr. Tibbets ayoung gentleman without the slightest embarrassment in his bearing, orthe remotest consciousness that he was in the presence of a man whomight possibly have cause of serious complaint against "The Tattler. " Inbrief, Mr. Tibbets seemed to be a man who was in the habit of dealingwith rascals, and liked them. Would Mr. Tibbets have a cup of coffeesent up to him? Mr. Tibbets had breakfasted, and, therefore, declinedthe courtesy. Would Mr. Tibbets have a cigar? Mr. Tibbets would, and, onthe assurance that they were nicer than he would be apt to findelsewhere, Mr. Tibbets consented to put a handful of cigars into hispocket. Mr. Tibbets then drew up to the table, whittled his pencil, straightened out his paper, and proceeded to business, looking much, ashe faced the proprietor, like a Sunday-school teacher on a rainy day, with the one pupil 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 in the nextmorning's "Tattler, " hereafter to be quoted, it is not necessary torecite them here. At the close of the interview, which was very friendlyand familiar, Mr. Belcher rose, and with the remark: "You fellows musthave a pretty rough time of it, " handed the reporter a twenty-dollarbank-note, which that gentleman pocketed without a scruple, and withoutany remarkable effusiveness of gratitude. Then Mr. Belcher wanted him tosee the house, and so walked over it with him. Mr. Tibbets wasdelighted. Mr. Tibbets congratulated him. Mr. Tibbets went so far as tosay that he did not believe there was another such mansion in New York. Mr. Tibbets did not remark that he had been kicked out of several ofthem, only less magnificent, because circumstances did not call for thestatement. Then Mr. Tibbets went away, and walked off hurriedly down thestreet to write out his report. 

The next morning Mr. Belcher was up early in order to get his "Tattler"as soon as it was dropped at his door. He soon found, on opening thereeking sheet, the column which held 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 fagots! "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 thereport of the interview:

"A 'Tattler' reporter visited yesterday the great proprietor ofSevenoaks, Colonel Robert Belcher, at his splendid mansion on FifthAvenue. That gentleman had evidently just swallowed his breakfast, andwas comforting himself over the report he had read in the 'Tattler' ofthat morning, by inhaling the fragrance of one of his choice Havanas. Heis evidently a devotee of the seductive weed, and knows a good articlewhen he sees it. A copy of the 'Tattler' lay on the table, which boreunmistakable evidences of having been spitefully crushed in the hand. The iron had evidently entered the Colonel's righteous soul, and thereporter, having first declined the cup of coffee hospitably tendered tohim and accepted (as he always does when he gets a chance) a cigar, proceeded at once to business. 

"_Reporter_: Col. Belcher, have you seen the report in this morning's'Tattler' of the riot at Sevenoaks, which nominally had your dealingswith 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 the incorrectness ofthe 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 that nothing could bemore untruthful or more malicious. 

"_Reporter:_ Have you any objection to telling me the true state of thecase in detail?

"_Answer:_ None at all. Indeed, I have been so foully misrepresented, that I am glad of an opportunity to place myself right before a peoplewith whom I have taken up my residence. In the first place, I madeSevenoaks. I have fed the people of Sevenoaks for more than ten years. Ihave carried the burden of their charities; kept their dirty ministersfrom starving; furnished employment for their women and children, andrun the town. I had no society there, and of course, got tired of myhum-drum life. I had worked hard, been successful, and felt that I owedit to myself and my family to go somewhere and enjoy the privileges, social and educational, which I had the means to command. I came to NewYork without consulting anybody, and bought this house. The peopleprotested, but ended by holding a public meeting, and passing a seriesof resolutions complimentary to me, of which I very naturally feltproud; and when I came away, they assembled at the roadside and gave methe friendliest cheers. 

"_Reporter:_ How about the petroleum?

"_Answer:_ Well, that is an unaccountable thing. I went into theContinental Company, and nothing would do for the people but to go inwith me. I warned them--every man of them--but they would go in; so Iacted as their agent in procuring stock for them. There was not a shareof stock sold on any persuasion of mine. They were mad, they were wild, for oil. You wouldn't have supposed there was half so much money in thetown as they dug out of their old stockings to invest in oil. I wassurprised, I assure you. Well, the Continental went up, and they had tobe angry with somebody; and although I held more stock than any of them, they took a fancy that I had defrauded them, and so they came togetherto wreak their impotent spite on me. That's the sum and substance of thewhole matter. 

"_Reporter:_ And that is all you have to say?

"_Answer:_ Well, it covers the ground. Whether I shall proceed in lawagainst these scoundrels for maligning me, I have not determined. Ishall probably do nothing about it. The men are poor, and even if theywere rich, what good would it do me to get their money? I've got moneyenough, and money with me can never offset a damage to character. Whenthey get cool and learn the facts, if they ever do learn them, they willbe sorry. They are not a bad people at heart, though I am ashamed, astheir old fellow-townsman, to say that they have acted like children inthis matter. There's a half-crazy, half-silly old doctor there by thename of Radcliffe, and an old parson by the name of Snow, whom I havehelped to feed for years, who lead them into difficulty. But they're nota bad people, now, and I am sorry for their sake that this thing has gotinto 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 politely showed the'Tattler' reporter over his palatial abode. 'Taken for all in all, ' hedoes not expect 'to look upon its like again. '

 "None see it but to love it, None name it but to praise. 

"It was 'linked sweetness long drawn out, ' and must have cost thegallant Colonel a pile of stamps. Declining an invitation to visit thestables, --for our new millionaire is a lover of horse-flesh, as well asthe narcotic weed--and leaving that gentleman to 'witch the world withwondrous horsemanship, ' the 'Tattler' reporter withdrew, 'piercedthrough with Envy's venomed darts, ' and satisfied that his courtlyentertainer had been 'more sinned against than sinning. '"

Col. Belcher read the report with genuine pleasure, and then, turningover the leaf, read upon the editorial page the following:

"COL. BELCHER ALL RIGHT. --We are satisfied that the letter fromSevenoaks, published in yesterday's 'Tattler, ' in regard to our highlyrespected fellow-citizen, Colonel Robert Belcher, was a gross libel uponthat gentleman, and intended, by the malicious writer, to injure anhonorable and innocent man. It is only another instance of theingratitude of rural communities toward their benefactors. Wecongratulate the redoubtable Colonel on his removal from so pestilent aneighborhood to a city where his sterling qualities will find 'amplescope and verge enough, ' and where those who suffer 'the slings andarrows of outrageous fortune' will not lay them to the charge of one whocan, with truthfulness, declare 'Thou canst not say I did it. '"

When Mr. Belcher concluded, he muttered to himself, "Twentydollars!--cheap enough. " He had remained at home the day before; now hecould go upon 'Change with a face cleared of all suspicion. A cloud oftruth had overshadowed him, but it had been dissipated by the genialsunlight of falsehood. His self-complacency was fully restored when hereceived a note, in the daintiest text on the daintiest paper, congratulating him on the triumphant establishment of his innocencebefore the New York public, and bearing as its signature a name soprecious to him that he took it to his own room before destroying it andkissed it. 

CHAPTER XV. 

WHICH TELLS ABOUT MRS. DILLINGHAM'S CHRISTMAS AND THE NEW YEAR'SRECEPTION AT THE PALGRAVE MANSION. 

A brilliant Christmas morning shone in at Mrs. Dillingham's window, where she sat quietly sunning the better side of her nature. Her parlorwas a little paradise, and all things around her were in tastefulkeeping with her beautiful self. The Christmas chimes were deluging theair with music; throngs were passing by on their way to and from church, and exchanging the greetings of the day; wreaths of holly were in herown windows and in those of her neighbors; and the influences of thehour--half poetical, half religious--held the unlovely and the evilwithin her in benign though temporary thrall. The good angel wasdominant within her, while the bad angel slept. 

Far down the vista of the ages, she was looking into a stable where ababy lay, warm in its swaddling-clothes, the mother bending over it. Shesaw above the stable a single star, which, palpitating with prophecy, shook its long rays out into the form of a cross, then drew them inuntil they circled into a blazing crown. Far above the star the air waspopulous with lambent forms and resonant with shouting voices, and sheheard the words: "Peace on earth, good-will to men!" The chimes meltedinto her reverie; the kindly sun encouraged it; the voices of happychildren fed it, and she was moved to tears. 

What could she do now but think over her past life--a life that hadgiven her no children--a life that had been filled neither by peace norgood-will? She had married an old man for his money; had worried himout of his life, and he had gone and left her childless. She would notcharge herself with the crime of hastening to the grave her father andmother, but she knew she had not been a comfort to them. Herwillfulness; her love of money and of power; her pride of person andaccomplishments; her desire for admiration; her violent passions, hadmade her a torment to others and to herself. She knew that no one lovedher for anything good that she possessed, and knew that her own heartwas barren of love for others. She felt that a little child who wouldcall her "mother, " clinging to her hand, or nestling in her bosom, couldredeem her to her better self; and how could she help thinking of thetrue men who, with their hearts in their fresh, manly hands, had prayedfor her love in the dawn of her young beauty, and been spurned from herpresence--men now in the honorable walks of life with their little onesaround them? Her relatives had forsaken her. There was absolutely no oneto whom she could turn for the sympathy which in that hour she craved. 

In these reflections, there was one person of her own blood recalled towhom she had been a curse, and of whom, for a single moment, she couldnot bear to think. She had driven him from her presence--the one who, through all her childhood, had been her companion, her admirer, herloyal follower. He had dared to love and marry one whom she did notapprove, and she had angrily banished him from her side. If she only hadhim to love, she felt that she should be better and happier, but she hadno hope that he would ever return to her. 

She felt now, with inexpressible loathing, the unworthiness of thecharms with which she fascinated the base men around her. The onlysympathy she had was from these, and the only power she possessed wasover them, and through them. The aim of her life was to fascinate them;the art of her life was to keep them fascinated without the consciousdegradation of herself, and, so, to lead them whithersoever she would. Her business was the manufacture of slaves--slaves to her personalcharms and her imperious will. Each slave carried around his own secret, treated her with distant deference in society, spoke of her withrespect, and congratulated himself on possessing her supreme favor. Notone of them had her heart, or her confidence. With a true woman'sinstinct, she knew that no man who would be untrue to his wife would betrue to her. So she played with them as with puppies that might gambolaround her, and fawn before her, but might not smutch her robes withtheir dirty feet, or get the opportunity to bite her hand. 

She had a house, but she had no home. Again and again the thought cameto her that in a million homes that morning the air was full ofmusic--hearty greetings between parents and children, sweet prattle fromlips unstained, merry laughter from bosoms without a care. With a heartfull of tender regrets for the mistakes and errors of the past, withunspeakable contempt for the life she was living, and with vainyearnings for something better, she rose and determined to join thethrongs that were pressing into the churches. Hastily prepared for thestreet, she went out, and soon, her heart responding to the Christmasmusic, and her voice to the Christmas utterances from the altar, shestrove to lift her heart in devotion. She felt the better for it. It wasan old habit, and the spasm was over. Having done a good thing, sheturned her ear away from the suggestions of her good angel, and, inturning away, encountered the suggestions of worldliness from the otherside, which came back to her with their old music. She came out of thechurch as one comes out of a theater, where for hours he has satabsorbed in the fictitious passion of a play, to the grateful rush androar of Broadway, the flashing of the lights, and the shouting of thevoices of the real world. 

Mr. Belcher called that evening, and she was glad to see him. Arrayed inall her loveliness, sparkling with vivacity and radiant with health, shesat and wove her toils about him. She had never seemed lovelier in hiseyes, and, as he thought of the unresponsive and quiet woman he had leftbehind him, he felt that his home was not on Fifth Avenue, but in thehouse where he then sat. Somehow--he could not tell how--she had alwayskept him at a distance. He had not dared to be familiar with her. Up toa certain point he could carry his gallantries, but no further. Then thedrift of conversation would change. Then something called her away. Hegrew mad with the desire to hold her hand, to touch her, to unburden hisheart of its passion for her, to breathe his hope of future possession;but always, when the convenient moment came, he was gently repelled, tenderly hushed, adroitly diverted. He knew the devil was in her; hebelieved that she was fond of him, and thus knowing and believing, hewas at his wit's end to guess why she should be so persistentlyperverse. He had drank that day, and was not so easily managed as usual, and she had a hard task to hold him to his proprieties. There was onlyone way to do this, and that was to assume the pathetic. 

Then she told him of her lonely day, her lack of employment, her wishthat she could be of some use in the world, and, finally, she wonderedwhether Mrs. Belcher would like to have her, Mrs. Dillingham, receivewith her on New Year's Day. If that lady would not consider it anintrusion, she should be happy to shut her own house, and thus be ableto present all the gentlemen of the city worth knowing, not only to Mrs. Belcher, but to her husband. 

To have Mrs. Dillingham in the house for a whole day, and particularlyto make desirable acquaintances so easily, was a rare privilege. Hewould speak to Mrs. Belcher about it, and he was sure there could be butone answer. To be frank about it, he did not intend there should be butone 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 his heartmade him more careful to consult Mrs. Belcher in the matter than heotherwise would have been; but now that his loyalty to her had ceased, he became more careful to preserve its semblance. There was a tenderquality in Mrs. Dillingham's voice as she parted with him for theevening, and a half returned, suddenly relinquished response to thepressure of his hand, which left the impression that she had checked aneager impulse. Under the influence of these, the man went out from herpresence, flattered to his heart's core, and with his admiration of herself-contained and prudent passion more exalted than ever. 

Mr. Belcher went directly home, and into Mrs. Belcher's room. That goodlady was alone, quietly reading. The children had retired, and she wasspending her time after her custom. 

"Well, Sarah, what sort of a Christmas have you had?"

Mrs. Belcher bit her lip, for there was something in her husband's tonewhich conveyed the impression that he was preparing to wheedle her intosome scheme upon which he had set his heart, and which he felt orfeared, would not be agreeable to her. She had noticed a change in him. He was tenderer toward her than he had been for years, yet her heartdetected the fact that the tenderness was a sham. She could notungraciously repel it, yet she felt humiliated in accepting it. So, asshe answered his question with the words: "Oh, much the same as usual, "she could not look into his face with 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 compliments of theseason. She's rather lonely, I fancy. "

"So am I. "

"Well now, Sarah, there's a difference; you know there is. You have yourchildren, and--"

"And she my husband. "

"Well, she's an agreeable woman, and I must go out sometimes. Myacquaintance with agreeable women in New York is not very large. "

"Why don't you ask your wife to go with you? I'm fond of agreeablewomen too. "

"You are not fond of her, and I'm afraid she suspects it. "

"I should think she would. Women who are glad to receive alone the callsof married men, always do suspect their wives of disliking them. "

"Well, it certainly isn't her fault that men go to see her without theirwives. Don't be unfair now, my dear. "

"I don't think I am, " responded Mrs. Belcher. "I notice that women neverlike other women who are great favorites with men; and there must besome good reason for it. Women like Mrs. Dillingham, who abound inphysical fascinations for men, have no liking for the society of theirown sex. I have never heard a woman speak well of her, and I have neverheard her speak well of any other woman. "

"I have, and, more than that, I have heard her speak well of you. Ithink she is shamefully belied. Indeed, I do not think that either of ushas a better friend than she, and I have a proposition to present to youwhich proves it. She is willing to come to us on New Year's Day, andreceive with you--to bring all her acquaintances into your house, andmake them yours and mine. "

"Is it possible?"

"Yes; and I think we should be most ungrateful and discourteous to her, as well as impolitic with relation to ourselves and to our socialfuture, not to accept the proposition. "

"I don't think I care to be under obligations to Mrs. Dillingham forsociety, or care for the society she will bring us. I am not pleasedwith a proposition of this kind that comes through my husband. If shewere my friend it would be a different matter, but she is not. If I wereto feel myself moved to invite some lady to come here and receive withme, it would be well enough; but this proposition is a stroke ofpatronage as far as I am concerned, and I don't like it. It is like Mrs. Dillingham and all of her kind. Whatever may have been her motives, itwas an indelicate thing to do, and she ought to be ashamed of herselffor doing it"

Mr. Belcher knew in his heart that his wife was right. He knew thatevery word she had spoken was the truth. He knew that he should nevercall on Mrs. Dillingham with his wife, save as a matter of policy; butthis did not modify his determination 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 amiable mood. 

"And she has placed me in one which you are helping to fasten upon me, and not at all helping to relieve me from. "

"I don't see how I can, my dear. I am compelled to go back to her withsome answer; and, as I am determined to have my house open, I must saywhether you accept or decline her courtesy; for courtesy it is, and notpatronage at all. "

Mrs. Belcher felt the chain tightening, and knew that she was to bebound, whether willing or unwilling. The consciousness of her impotencedid not act kindly upon her temper, and she burst out:

"I do not want her here. I wish she would have done with her officioushelpfulness. Why can't she mind her own business, and let me alone?"

Mr. Belcher's temper rose to the occasion; for, although he saw in Mrs. Belcher's petulance and indignation that his victory was half won, hecould not quite submit to the abuse of his brilliant pet. 

"I have some rights in this house myself, my dear, and I fancy that mywishes are deserving of respect, at least. "

"Very well. If it's your business, why did you come to me with it? Whydidn't you settle it before you left the precious lady, who is so muchworthier your consideration than your wife? Now go, and tell her that itis your will that 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 any more to-night. Youwill feel differently about it in the morning. "

Of course, Mrs. Belcher went to bed in tears, cried over it until shewent to sleep, and woke in the morning submissive, and quietlydetermined to yield to her husband's wishes. Of course, Mr. Belcher wasnot late in informing Mrs. Dillingham that his wife would be most happyto accept her proposition. Of course, Mrs. Dillingham lost no time insending her card to all the gentlemen she had ever met, with theindorsement, "Receives on New Year's with Mrs. Col. Belcher, ---- FifthAvenue. " Of course, too, after the task was accomplished, she called onMrs. Belcher to express her gratitude for the courtesy, and to makesuggestions about the entertainment. Was it quite of course that Mrs. Belcher, in the presence of this facile woman, overflowing with kindfeeling, courteous deference, pleasant sentiment and sparklingconversation, should feel half ashamed of herself, and wonder how one sogood and bright and sweet could so have moved her to anger?

The day came at last, and at ten Mrs. Dillingham entered the granddrawing-room in her queenly appareling. She applauded Mrs. Belcher'sappearance, she kissed the children, all of whom thought her theloveliest lady they had ever seen, and in an aside to Mr. Belchercautioned him against partaking too bountifully of the wines he hadprovided for his guests. "Let us have a nice thing of it, " she said, "and nothing to be sorry for. "

Mr. Belcher was faithfully in her leading. It would have been noself-denial for him to abstain entirely for her sake. He would doanything she wished. 

There was one thing noticeable in her treatment of the lads of thefamily, and in their loyalty to her. She could win a boy's heart with atouch of her hand, a smile and a kiss. They clung to her whenever inher presence. They hung charmed upon all her words. They were happy todo anything she desired; and as children see through shams more quicklythan their elders, it could not be doubted that she had a genuineaffection for them. A child addressed the best side of her nature, andevoked a passion that had never found rest in satisfaction, while herheartiness and womanly beauty appealed to the boy nature with charms towhich it yielded unbounded admiration and implicit confidence. 

The reception was a wonderful success. Leaving out of the account thenumbers of gentlemen who came to see the revived glories of the Palgravemansion, there was a large number of men who had been summoned by Mrs. Dillingham's cards--men who undoubtedly ought to have been inbetter business or in better company. They were men in goodpositions--clergymen, merchants, lawyers, physicians, young men of goodfamilies--men whose wives and mothers and sisters entertained anuncharitable opinion of that lady; but for this one courtesy of a yearthe men would not be called to account. Mrs. Dillingham knew them all atsight, called each man promptly by name, and presented them all to herdear friend Mrs. Belcher, and then to Col. Belcher, who, dividing hisattention between the drawing-room and the dining-room, played the hostwith rude heartiness and large hospitality. 

Mrs. Belcher was surprised by the presence of a number of men whosenames were familiar with the public--Members of Congress, representatives of the city government, clergymen even, who weregenerally supposed to be "at home" on that day. Why had these made theirappearance? She could only come to one conclusion, which was, that theyregarded Mrs. Dillingham as a show. Mrs. Dillingham in a beautifulhouse, arranged for self-exhibition, was certainly more attractive thanMary, Queen of Scots, in wax, in a public hall; and she could be seenfor nothing. 

It is doubtful whether Mrs. Belcher's estimate of their sex wasmaterially raised by their tribute to her companion's personalattractions, but they furnished her with an interesting study. She wascomforted by certain observations, viz. , that there were at least twentymen among them who, by their manner and their little speeches, whichonly a woman could interpret, showed that they were entangled in thesame meshes that had been woven around her husband; that they were asfoolish, as fond, as much deceived, and as treacherously entertained ashe. 

She certainly was amused. Puffy old fellows with nosegays in theirbutton-holes grew gallant and young in Mrs. Dillingham's presence, filled her ears with flatteries, received the grateful tap of her fan, and were immediately banished to the dining-room, from which theyemerged redder in the face and puffier than ever. Dapper young menarriving in cabs threw off their overcoats before alighting, and ran upthe steps in evening dress, went through their automatic greeting andleave-taking, and ran out again to get through their task of makingalmost numberless calls during the day. Steady old men like Mr. Tunbridge and Mr. Schoonmaker, who had had the previous privilege ofmeeting Mr. Belcher, were turned over to Mrs. Belcher, with whom theysat down and had a quiet talk. Mrs. Dillingham seemed to know exactlyhow to apportion the constantly arriving and departing guests. Some wereentertained by herself, some were given to Mr. Belcher, some to thehostess, and others were sent directly to the refreshment tables to befed. 

Mr. Belcher was brought into contact with men of his own kind, who didnot fail to recognize him as a congenial spirit, and to express the hopeof seeing more of him, now that he had become "one of us. " Each one knewsome other one whom he would take an early opportunity of presenting toMr. Belcher. They were all glad he was in New York. It was the place forhim. Everything was open to such a man as he, in such a city, and theyonly wondered why he had been content to remain so long, shut away fromhis own kind. 

These expressions of brotherly interest were very pleasant to Mr. Belcher. They flattered him and paved the way for a career. He wouldsoon be hand-in-glove with them all. He would soon find the ways oftheir prosperity, and make himself felt among them. 

The long afternoon wore away, and, just as the sun was setting, Mrs. Belcher was called from the drawing-room by some family care, leavingMr. Belcher and Mrs. Dillingham together. 

"Don't be gone long, " said the latter to Mrs. Belcher, as she left theroom. 

"Be gone till to-morrow morning, " said Mr. Belcher, in a whisper at Mrs. Dillingham's ear. 

"You're a wretch, " said the lady. 

"You're right--a very miserable wretch. Here you've been playing thedevil with a hundred men all day, and I've been looking at you. Is thereany article of your apparel that I can have the privilege of kissing?"

Mrs. Dillingham laughed him in his face. Then she took a wilted rose-budfrom a nosegay at her breast, and gave it to him. 

"My roses are all faded, " she said--"worth nothing to me--worth nothingto anybody--except you. "

Then she passed to the window; to hide her emotion? to hide herduplicity? to change the subject? to give Mr. Belcher a glance at hergracefully retreating figure? to show herself, framed by the window, into a picture for the delight of his devouring eyes?

Mr. Belcher followed her. His hand lightly touched her waist, and shestruck it down, as if her own were the velvet paw 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 wholives opposite to you?"

"A lawyer by the name of James Balfour. "

"James Balfour? Why, he's one of my old flames. He ought to have beenhere to-day. Perhaps he'll be in this evening. "

"Not he. "

"Why?"

"He has the honor to be an enemy of mine, and knows that I would ratherchoke him than eat my dinner. "

"You men are such savages; but aren't those nice boys on the steps?"

"I happen to know one of them, and I should like to know why he isthere, and how he came there. Between you and me, now--strictly betweenyou and me--that boy is the only person that stands between meand--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 some way, to get holdof him, and means to make money out of me by it. I know men. You can'ttell me anything about men; and my excellent neighbor will have hishands full, whenever he sees fit to undertake his job. "

"Tell me all about it now, " said Mrs. Dillingham, her eyes alight withgenuine interest. 

"Not now, but I'll tell you what I would like to have you do. You have away of making boys love you, and men too--for that matter--and preciouslittle do they get for it. "

"Candid and complimentary, " she sighed. 

"Well, I've seen you manage with my boys, and I would like to have youtry it with him. Meet him in the street, manage to speak to him, get himinto your house, make him love you. You can do it. You are bold enough, ingenious enough, and subtle enough to do anything of that kind you willundertake. Some time, if you have him under your influence, you may beof use to me. Some time, he may be glad to hide in your house. No harmcan come to you in making his acquaintance. "

"Do you know that you are talking very strangely to me?"

"No. I'm talking business. Is that a strange thing to a woman?"

Mrs. Dillingham made no reply, but stood and watched the boys, as theyran up and down the steps in play, with a smile of sympathy upon herface, and genuine admiration of the graceful motions and handsome faceand figure of the lad of whom Mr. Belcher had been talking. Hercuriosity was piqued, her love of intrigue was appealed to, and shedetermined to do, at the first convenient opportunity, what Mr. Belcherdesired her to do. 

Then Mrs. Belcher returned, and the evening, like the afternoon, wasdevoted to the reception of guests, and when, at last, the clock struckeleven, and Mrs. Dillingham stood bonneted and shawled ready to go homein the carriage that waited at the door, Mrs. Belcher kissed her, whileMr. Belcher looked 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 believe I shall have tostand treat to my own abstinence, before I go to 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 hercarriage, got in after her, slammed the door, and drove away. 

No sooner were they in the carriage than Mrs. Dillingham went totalking about the little boy, in the most furious manner. Poor Mr. Belcher could not divert her, could not induce her to change thesubject, could not get in a word edgewise, could not put forward asingle apology for the kiss he intended to win, did not win his kiss atall. The little journey was ended, the carriage door thrown open by herown hand, and she was out without his help. 

"Good-night; don't get out, " and she flew up the steps and rang thebell. 

Mr. Belcher ordered the coachman to drive him home, and then sank backon his seat, and crowding his lips together, and compressing hisdisappointment into his familiar expletive, he rode back to his house asrigid in every muscle as if he had been frozen. 

"Is there any such thing as a virtuous devil, I wonder, " he muttered tohimself, as he mounted his steps. "I doubt it; I doubt it. "

The next day was icy. Men went slipping along upon the side-walks ascarefully as if they were trying to follow a guide through the galleriesof Versailles. And in the afternoon a beautiful woman called a boy toher, and begged him to give her his shoulder and help her home. Therequest was so sweetly made, she expressed her obligations socourteously, she smiled upon him so beautifully, she praised him soingenuously, she shook his hand at parting so heartily; that he wenthome all aglow from his heart to his finger's ends. 

Mrs. Dillingham had made Harry Benedict's acquaintance, which shemanaged to keep alive by bows in the street and bows from thewindow, --managed to keep alive until the lad worshiped her as a sort ofdivinity and, to win her smiling recognition, would go out of his way adozen blocks on any errand about the city. 

He recognized her--knew her as the beautiful woman he had seen in thegreat house across the street before Mr. Belcher arrived in town. Recognizing her as such, he kept the secret of his devotion to himself, for fear that it would be frowned 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 his ends. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

WHICH GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF A VOLUNTARY AND AN INVOLUNTARY VISIT OF SAMYATES TO NUMBER NINE. 

Mr. Belcher followed up the acquaintance which he had so happily made onNew Year's Day with many of the leading operators of Wall street, duringthe remainder of the winter, and, by the careful and skillfulmanipulation of the minor stocks of the market, not only added to hiswealth by sure and steady degrees, but built up a reputation forsagacity and boldness. He struck at them with a strong hand, andgradually became a recognized power on 'Change. He knew that he wouldnot be invited into any combinations until he had demonstrated hisability to stand alone. He understood that he could not win a leadingposition in any of the great financial enterprises until he had shownthat he had the skill to manage them. He was playing for twostakes--present profit and future power and glory; and he played withbrave adroitness. 

During the same winter the work at Number Nine went on according tocontract. Mike Conlin found his second horse and the requisite sled, and, the river freezing solidly and continuously, he was enabled notonly to draw the lumber to the river, but up to the very point where itwas to be used, and where Jim and Mr. Benedict were hewing and framingtheir timber, and pursuing their trapping with unflinching industry. Number Ten was transformed into a stable, where Mike kept his horses onthe nights of his arrival. Two trips a week were all that he couldaccomplish, but the winter was so long, and he was so industrious, thatbefore the ice broke up, everything for the construction of the househad been delivered, even to the bricks for the chimney, the lime for theplastering, and the last clapboard and shingle. The planning, thechaffing, the merry stories of which Number Nine was the scene thatwinter, the grand, absorbing interest in the enterprise in which thesethree men were engaged, it would be pleasant to recount, but they maysafely be left to the reader's imagination. What was Sam Yates doing?

He lived up to the letter of his instructions. Finding himself in thepossession of an assured livelihood, respectably dressed and engaged insteady employment, his appetite for drink loosened its cruel hold uponhim, and he was once more in possession of himself. All the week long hewas busy in visiting hospitals, alms-houses and lunatic asylums, and inexamining their records and the mortuary records of the city. Sometimeshe presented himself at the doors of public institutions as aphilanthropist, preparing by personal inspection for writing some book, or getting statistics, or establishing an institution on behalf of apublic benefactor. Sometimes he went in the character of a lawyer, insearch of a man who had fallen heir to a fortune. He had always aplausible story to tell, and found no difficulty in obtaining anentrance at all the doors to which his inquisition led him. He wastreated everywhere so courteously that his self-respect was wonderfullynourished, and he began to feel as if it were possible for him to becomea man again. 

On every Saturday night, according to Mr. Belcher's command, he made hisappearance in the little basement-room of the grand residence, where hewas first presented to the reader. On these occasions he always broughta clean record of what he 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 that he was aslave. As his self-respect rose from week to week, the coarse and brutaltreatment of the proprietor was increased. Mr. Belcher feared that theman was getting above his business, and that, as the time approachedwhen he might need something very different from these harmlessinvestigations, his instrument might become too fine for use. 

Besides the ministry to his self-respect which his labors rendered, there was another influence upon Sam Yates that tended to confirm itseffects. He had in his investigations come into intimate contact withthe results of all forms of vice. Idiocy, insanity, poverty, moraldebasement, disease in a thousand repulsive forms, all these hadfrightened and disgusted him. On the direct road to one of theseterrible goals he had been traveling. He knew it, and, with a shuddermany times repeated, felt it. He had been arrested in the downward road, and, God helping him, he would never resume it. He had witnessed brutalcruelties and neglect among officials that maddened him. Theprofessional indifference of keepers and nurses towards those who, ifvicious, were still unfortunate and helpless, offended and outraged allof manhood there was left in him. 

One evening, early in the spring, he made his customary call upon Mr. Belcher, bringing his usual report. He had completed the canvass of thecity and its environs, and had found no testimony to the death or recentpresence of Mr. Benedict. He hoped that Mr. Belcher was done with him, for he saw that his brutal will was the greatest obstacle to his reform. If he could get away from his master, he could begin life anew; for hisprofessional brothers, who well remembered his better days, were readyto throw business into his hands, now that he had become himself again. 

"I suppose this ends it, " said Yates, as he read his report, and passedit 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 haveno desire to be a burden upon your hands. I think I can get a living nowin my profession. "

"Then we've found that we have a profession, have we? We've becomehighly respectable. "

"I really don't see what occasion you have to taunt me. I have done myduty faithfully, and taken no more than my just pay for the labor I haveperformed. "

"Sam Yates, I took you out of the gutter. Do you know that?"

"I do, sir. "

"Did you ever hear of my doing such a thing as that before?"

"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 not done with you yet, and I shall not be done with you until I have in my hands a certificateof the death of Paul Benedict, and an instrument drawn up in legal form, making over to me all his right, title and interest in every patentedinvention of his which I am now using in my manufactures. Do you hearthat?"

"I do. "

"What have you to say to it? Are you going to live up to your pledge, orare you going to break with me?"

"If I could furnish such an instrument honorably, I would do it. "

"Hm! I tell you, Sam Yates, this sort of thing won't do. "

Then Mr. Belcher left the room, and soon returned with a glass and abottle of brandy. Setting them upon the table, he took the key from theoutside of the door, inserted it upon the inside, turned it, and thenwithdrew it, and put it in his pocket. Yates rose and watched him, hisface pale, and his heart thumping at his side like a tilt-hammer. 

"Sam Yates, " said Mr. Belcher, "you are getting altogether too virtuous. Nothing will cure you but a good, old-fashioned drunk. Dip in, now, andtake your fill. You can lie here all night if you wish to. "

Mr. Belcher drew the cork, and poured out a tumblerful of the choiceold liquid. Its fragrance filled the little room. It reached thenostrils of the poor slave, who shivered as if an ague had smitten him. He hesitated, advanced toward the table, retreated, looked at Mr. Belcher, then at the brandy, then walked the room, then paused beforeMr. Belcher, who had coolly watched the struggle from his chair. Thevictim of this passion was in the supreme of torment. His old thirst wasroused to fury. The good resolutions of the preceding weeks, the moralstrength he had won, the motives that had come to life within him, thepromise of a better future, sank away into blank nothingness. A patch offire burned on either cheek. His eyes were bloodshot. 

"Oh God! Oh God!" he exclaimed, and buried his face in his hands. 

"Fudge!" said Mr. Belcher. "What do you make an ass of yourself for?"

"If you'll take these things out of the room, and see that I drinknothing to-night, I'll do anything. They are hell and damnation to me. Don't you see? Have you no pity on me? Take them away!"

Mr. Belcher was surprised, but he had secured the promise he was after, and so he coolly rose and removed the offensive temptation. 

Yates sat down as limp as if he had had a sunstroke. After sitting along time in silence, he looked up, and begged for the privilege ofsleeping in the house. He did not dare to trust himself in the streetuntil sleep had calmed and strengthened him. 

There was a lounge in the room, and, calling a servant, Mr. Belcherordered blankets to be brought down. "You can sleep here to-night, and Iwill see you in the morning, " said he, rising, and leaving him withouteven the common courtesy of a "good-night. "

Poor Sam Yates had a very bad night indeed. He was humiliated by theproof of his weakness, and maddened by the outrage which had beenattempted upon him and his good resolutions. In the morning, he met Mr. Belcher, feeble and unrefreshed, and with seeming acquiescence receivedhis directions for future work. 

"I want you to take the road from here to Sevenoaks, stopping at everytown on the way. You can be sure of this: he is not near Sevenoaks. Thewhole county, and in fact the adjoining counties, were all ransacked tofind him. He cannot have found asylum there; so he must be eitherbetween here and Sevenoaks, or must have gone into the woods beyond. There's a trapper there, one Jim Fenton. He may have come across him inthe woods, alive or dead, and I want you to go to his camp and find outwhether he knows anything. My impression is that he knew Benedict well, and that Benedict used to hunt with him. When you come back to me, aftera faithful search, with the report that you can find nothing of him, orwith the report of his death, we shall be ready for decisive operations. Write me when you have anything to write, and if you find it necessaryto spend money to secure any very desirable end, spend it. "

Then Mr. Belcher put into the hands of his agent a roll of bank-notes, and armed him with a check that might be used in case of emergency, andsent him off. 

It took Yates six long weeks to reach Sevenoaks. He labored daily withthe same faithfulness that had characterized his operations in the city, and, reaching Sevenoaks, he found himself for a few days free from care, and at liberty to resume the acquaintance with his early home, where heand Robert Belcher had been boys together. 

The people of Sevenoaks had long before heard of the fall of Sam Yatesfrom his early rectitude. They had once been proud of him, and when heleft them for the city, they expected to hear great things of him. Sowhen they learned that, after entering upon his profession withbrilliant promise, he had ruined himself with drink, they bemoaned himfor a while, and at last forgot him. His relatives never mentioned him, and when, well dressed, dignified, self-respectful, he appeared amongthem again, it was like receiving one from the dead. The rejoicing ofhis relatives, the cordiality of his old friends and companions, thereviving influences of the scenes of his boyhood, all tended to build uphis self-respect, reinforce his strength, and fix his determinations fora new life. 

Of course he did not make known his business, and of course he heard athousand inquiries about Mr. Belcher, and listened to the stories of theproprietor's foul dealings with the people of his native town. His ownrelatives had been straitened or impoverished by the man's rascalities, and the fact was not calculated to strengthen his loyalty to hisemployer. He heard also the whole story of the connection of Mr. Belcherwith Benedict's insanity, of the escape of the latter from thepoor-house, and of the long and unsuccessful search that had been madefor him. 

He spent a delightful week among his friends in the old village, learnedabout Jim Fenton and the way to reach him, and on a beautiful springmorning, armed with fishing tackle, started from Sevenoaks for afortnight's absence in the woods. The horses were fresh, the airsparkling, and at mid-afternoon he found himself standing by theriver-side, with a row of ten miles before him in a birch canoe, whosehiding-place Mike Conlin had revealed to him during a brief call at hishouse. To his unused muscles it was a serious task to undertake, but hewas not a novice, and it was entered upon deliberately and with aprudent husbandry of his power of endurance. Great was the surprise ofJim and Mr. Benedict, as they sat eating their late supper, to hear thesound of the paddle down the river, and to see approaching them a citygentleman, who, greeting them courteously, drew up in front of theircabin, 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 as don't likeme--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 thensaid: "When ye come to Sevenoaks ye didn't think o' goin' a fishin'. This 'ere tackle wasn't brung from the city, and ye ain't no oldfisherman. This is the sort they keep down to Sevenoaks. "

"No, " said Yates, flushing; "I thought I should find near you the tackleused here, so I didn't burden myself. "

"That seems reasomble, " said Jim, "but it ain't. A trout's a troutanywhere, an' ye hain't got no reel. Ye never fished with anything but awhite birch pole in yer life. "

Yates was amused, and laughed. Jim did not laugh. He was just as surethat Yates had come on some errand, for which his fishing tackle was acover, as that he had come at all. He could think of but one motive thatwould bring the man into the woods, unless he came for sport, and forsport he did not believe his visitor had come at all. He was not dressedfor it. None but old sportsmen, with nothing else to do, ever came intothe woods at that season. 

"Jim, introduce me to your friend, " said Yates, turning to Mr. Benedict, who had dropped his knife and fork, and sat uneasily witnessing themeeting, and listening to the conversation. 

"Well, I call 'im Number Ten. His name's Williams; an' now if ye ain'ttoo tired, perhaps ye'll tell us what they call 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 somesupper. Set down an' help yerself. "

Before taking his seat, Yates turned laughingly to Mr. Benedict, shookhis hand, and "hoped for a better acquaintance. "

Jim was puzzled. The man was no ordinary man; he was good-natured; hewas not easily perturbed; he was there with a purpose, and that purposehad nothing to do with sport After Yates had satisfied his appetitewith the coarse food before him, and had lighted his cigar, Jim drovedirectly at business. 

"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 bandanner hankercher, " saidJim; "and whar be ye goin' to sleep to-night?"

"In the canoe, I suppose, if some hospitable man doesn't invite me tosleep 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; but ye don't sleepin 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 Yateslooked laughingly into his face. 

"No, but I've hearn of angels entertainin' theirselves on tin-ware, an'I've had 'em here. "

"Do you have tin peddlers here?" inquired Yates, looking around him. 

"No, but we have paupers sometimes, " and Jim looked Yates directly inthe eye. 

"What paupers?"

"From Sevenoaks. "

"And do they bring tin-ware?"

"Sartin they do; leastways, one on 'em did, an' I never seen but one inthe woods, an' he come here one night tootin' on a tin horn, an' blowin'about bein' the angel Gabrel. Do you see my har?"

"Rather bushy, Jim. "

"Well, that's the time it come up, an' it's never been tired enough tolay 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 I allers use when I have alittle game with a rovin' angel that comes 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'tcalled to breakfast, an' he never woke up. So I made up my mind he'dgone to play angel somewheres else, an' I dug a hole an' put 'im intoit, an' he hain't never riz, if so be he wasn't Number 'leven, an' hisname was Williams. "

Yates did not laugh, but manifested the most eager interest. 

"Jim, " said he, "can you show me his bones, and swear to your beliefthat he was an escaped pauper?"

"Easy. "

"Was there a man lost from the poor-house about that time?"

"Yes, an' there was a row about it, an' arterward old Buffum was tookwith knowin' less than he ever knowed afore. He always did make a fussabout 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 the old feller whenI heern yer paddle. When a feller works for the devil it ain't hard toguess what sort of a angel _he_ is. Ye must feel mighty proud o' yerbelongins. "

"Jim, I'm a lawyer; it's my business. I do what I'm hired to do. "

"Well, " responded Jim, "I don't know nothin' about lawyers, but I'drather be a natural born cuss nor a hired one. "

Yates laughed, but Jim was entirely sober. The lawyer saw that he wasunwelcome, and that the sooner he was out of Jim's way, the better thatfreely speaking person would like it. So he said quietly:

"Jim, I see that I am not welcome, but I bear you no ill will. Keep meto-night, and to-morrow show me this man's bones, and sign a certificateof the statements you have made to me, and I will leave you at once. "

The woodsman made no more objection, and the next morning, afterbreakfast, the three men went together and found the place of thepauper's burial. It took but a few minutes to disinter the skeleton, and, after a silent look at it, it was again buried, and all returned tothe cabin. Then the lawyer, after asking further questions, drew up apaper certifying to all the essential facts in the case, and Jim signedit. 

"Now, how be ye goin' to get back to Sevenoaks?" inquired Jim. 

"I don't know. The man who brought me in is not to come for me for afortnight. "

"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 git back some o'the hundred dollars that old Belcher got out of him. "

"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 getwet, an' one on 'em'll stan' a chance to be drownded. "

"Well, have your own way, " said Yates. 

It was not yet noon, and Jim hurried off his visitor. Yates badegood-bye to Benedict, jumped into Jim's boat, and was soon out of sightdown the stream. The boat fairly leaped through the water under Jim'sstrong and steady strokes, and it seemed that only an hour had passedwhen the landing was discovered. 

They made the whole distance in silence. Jim, sitting at his oars, withYates in the stern, had watched the lawyer with a puzzled expression. Hecould not read him. The man had not said a word about Benedict. He hadnot once pronounced his name. He was evidently amused with something, and had great difficulty in suppressing a smile. Again and again theamused expression suffused the lawyer's face, and still, by an effort ofwill, it was smothered. Jim was in torture. The man seemed to be inpossession of some great secret, and looked as if he only waited anopportunity beyond observation 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 was dumb. His facegrew almost livid, and his hair seemed to rise and stand straight allover his head. His first impulse was to spring upon the man and throttlehim, but a moment's reflection determined him upon another course. Helet his oars 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 ye make any fuss, I'lltip ye into the river, or blow yer brains out. Any man that playstraitor with Jim Fenton, gits traitor's fare. "

Yates saw that he had made a fatal mistake, and that it was too late tocorrect it. He saw that Jim was dangerously excited, and that it wouldnot do to excite him further. He therefore rose, and with feignedpleasantry, said he should be very glad to row to the landing. 

Jim passed him and took a seat in the stern of the boat. Then, as Yatestook up the oars, Jim raised his rifle, and, pointing it directly at thelawyer'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 through ye plainernor I do now. "

"Surely, Jim, you don't mean to have me row back. I haven'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 and apprehension, "this fooling has gone far enough. "

"Not by ten mile, " said Jim. 

"You surely don't mean to take me back. You have no right to do it. Ican 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 to the bottomleakin', " responded Jim. 

Yates thought a moment, looked angrily at the determined man before him, as if he were meditating some rash experiment, and then dipped his oarsand rowed up-stream. 

Great was the surprise of Mr. Benedict late in the afternoon to seeYates slowly rowing toward the cabin, and landing under cover of Jim'srifle, and the blackest face that he had ever seen above his goodfriend's shoulders. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

IN WHICH JIM CONSTRUCTS TWO HAPPY DAVIDS, RAISES HIS HOTEL, ANDDISMISSES SAM YATES. 

When the boat touched the bank, Jim, still with his rifle pointed at thebreast of Sam Yates, said:

"Now git out, an' take a bee line for the shanty, an' see how many pacesye make on't. "

Yates was badly blown by his row of ten miles on the river, and couldhardly stir from his seat; but Mr. Benedict helped him up the bank, andthen Jim followed him on shore. 

Benedict looked from one to the other with mingled surprise andconsternation, and then said:

"Jim, what does this mean?"

"It means, " replied Jim, "that Number 'leven, an' his name is Williams, forgot to 'tend to his feelin's over old Tilden's grave, an' I've axed'im to come back an' use up his clean hankerchers. He was took with afit o' knowin' somethin', too, an' I'm goin' to see if I can cure 'im. It's a new sort o' sickness for him, an' it may floor 'im. "

"I suppose there is no use in carrying on this farce any longer, " saidYates. "I knew you, Mr. Benedict, soon after arriving here, and it seemsthat you recognized me; and now, here is my hand. I never meant you ill, and I did not expect to find you alive. I have tried my best to make youout a dead man, and so to report you; but Jim has compelled me to comeback and make sure that you are alive. "

"No, I didn't, " responded Jim. "I wanted to let ye know that I'm alive, and that I don't 'low no hired cusses to come snoopin' round my camp, an' goin' off with a haw-haw buttoned up in their jackets, without athrashin'. "

Benedict, of course, stood thunderstruck and irresolute. He wasdiscovered by the very man whom his old persecutor had sent for thepurpose. He had felt that the discovery would be made sooner orlater--intended, indeed, that it should be made--but he was not ready. 

They all walked to the cabin in moody silence. Jim felt that he had beenhasty, and was very strongly inclined to believe in the sincerity ofYates; but he knew it was safe to be on his guard with any man who wasin the employ of Mr. Belcher. Turk saw there was trouble, and whinedaround his master, 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 yecould a muss rat. "

There were just three seats in the cabin--two camp-stools and a chest. 

"That's the seat for ye, " said Jim to Yates, pointing to the chest. "Jest plant yerself thar. Thar's somethin' in that 'ere chest as'll makeye tell the truth. "

Yates looked at the chest and hesitated. 

"It ain't powder, " said Jim, "but it'll blow ye worse nor powder, if yedon't tell the truth. "

Yates sat down. He had not appreciated the anxiety of Benedict to escapediscovery, or he would not have been so silly as to bruit his knowledgeuntil he had left the woods. He felt ashamed of his indiscretion, but, as he knew that his motives were good, he could not but feel that he hadbeen outraged. 

"Jim, you have abused me, " said he. "You have misunderstood me, and thatis the only apology that you can make for your discourtesy. I was a foolto tell you what I knew, but you had no right to serve me as you haveserved me. "

"P'raps I hadn't, " responded Jim, doubtfully. 

Yates went on:

"I have never intended to play you a trick. It may be a base thing forme to do, but I intended to deceive Mr. Belcher. He is a man to whom Iowe no good will. He has always treated me like a dog, and he willcontinue the treatment so long as I have anything to do with him; but hefound me when I was very low, and he has furnished me with the moneythat has made it possible for me to redeem myself. Believe me, thefinding of Mr. Benedict was the most unwelcome discovery I ever made. "

"Ye talk reasonable, " said Jim; "but how be I goin' to know that ye'retellin' the truth?"

"You cannot know, " replied Yates. "The circumstances are all against me, but you will be obliged to trust me. You are not going to kill me; youare not going to harm me; for you would gain nothing by getting my illwill. I forgive your indignities, for it was natural for you to beprovoked, and I provoked you needlessly--childishly, in fact; but afterwhat I have said, anything further in that line will not be borne. "

"I've a good mind to lick ye now, " said Jim, on hearing himself 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 intention oftelling him that Mr. Benedict is here, and I do not wish to tell him alie. I have intended to tell him that in all my journey to Sevenoaks Idid not find the object of my search, and that Jim Fenton declared thatbut one pauper had ever come into the woods and died there. "

"That's the truth, " said Jim. "Benedict ain't no pauper, nor hain't beensince he left the poor-house. "

"If he knows about old Tilden, " said Yates, "and I'm afraid he does, he'll know that I'm on the wrong scent. If he doesn't know about him, he'll naturally conclude that the dead man was Mr. Benedict. That willanswer his purpose. "

"Old Belcher ain't no fool, " said Jim. 

"Well, " said Yates, "why doesn't Mr. Benedict come out like a man andclaim his rights? That would relieve me, and settle all the difficultiesof the case. "

Benedict had nothing to say for this, for there was what he felt to be ajust reproach in it. 

"It's the way he's made, " replied Jim--"leastways, partly. When a man'sben hauled through hell by the har, it takes 'im a few days to git overbein' dizzy an' find his legs ag'in; an' when a man sells himself to oldBelcher, he mustn't squawk an' try to git another feller to help 'im outof 'is bargain. Ye got into't, an' ye must git out on't the best way yecan. "

"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 know what a Happy Davidis, and can't make one. "

Yates recognized, with a smile, the nature of the instrument disguisedin 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 ready to write. WhetherI will sign the paper will depend upon its contents. "

"Be ye ready?"

"Yes. "

"Here ye have it, then. 'I solem-ny sw'ar, s'welp me! that I hain't seenno pauper, in no woods, with his name as Benedict. '"

Jim paused, and Yates, having completed the sentence, waited. Then Jimmuttered to himself:

"With his name _as_ Benedict--with his name _is_ Benedict--with his 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 read it over, as fur asye've got. "

"'I solemnly swear that I have seen no pauper in the woods whose namewas Benedict. '"

"Now look a here, Sam Yates! That sort o' thing won't do. Stop themtricks. Ye don't know me, an' ye don't know whar ye're settin' if youthink that'll go down. "

"Why, what's the matter?"

"I telled ye that Benedict was no pauper, an' ye say that ye've seen nopauper whose name was Benedict. That's jest tellin' that he's here. Oh, ye can't come that game! Now begin agin, an' write jest as I give it toye. 'I solem-ny sw'ar, s'welp me! that I hain't seen no pauper, in nowoods, whose name was Benedict. '"

"Done, " said Yates, "but it isn't grammar. "

"Hang the grammar!" responded Jim; "what I want is sense. Now jine thison: 'An' I solem-ny sw'ar, s'welp me! that I won't blow on Benedict, asisn't a pauper--no more nor Jim Fenton is--an' if so be as I do blow onBenedict--I give Jim Fenton free liberty, out and out--to lickme--without goin' 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 itto a painter. Now read it all over. "

Jim put his head down between his knees, the better to measure everyword, while Yates read the complete document. Then Jim took the paper, and, handing it to Benedict, requested him to see if it had been readcorrectly. Assured that it was all right, Jim turned his eyes severelyon Yates, and said:

"Sam Yates, do ye s'pose ye've any idee what it is to be licked by JimFenton? Do ye know what ye're sw'arin' to? Do ye reelize that I wouldn'tleave enough on ye to pay for havin' a funeral?"

Yates laughed, and said that he believed he understood the nature of anoath. 

"Then sign yer Happy David, " said Jim. 

Yates wrote his name, and passed the paper into Jim's hands. 

"Now, " said Jim, with an expression of triumph on his face, "I s'pose yedon't know that ye've be'n settin' on a Bible; but it's right under ye, in that chest, an' it's hearn and seen the whole thing. If ye don'tstand by yer Happy David, there'll be somethin' worse nor Jim Fentonarter ye, an' when that comes, ye can jest shet yer eyes, and gi'en itup. "

This was too much for both Yates and Benedict. They looked into eachother's eyes, and burst into a laugh. But Jim was in earnest, and not asmile crossed his rough face. 

"Now, " said he, "I want to do a little sw'arin' myself, and I want ye towrite it. "

Yates resumed his pen, and declared himself to be in readiness. 

"I solem-ny sw'ar, " Jim began, "s'welp me! that I will lick SamYates--as is a lawyer--with the privlidge of self-defense--if he everblows on Benedict--as is not a pauper--no more nor Jim Fenton is--an' Isolem-ny sw'ar, s'welp me! that I'll foller 'im till I find 'im, an'lick 'im--with the privlidge of self-defense. "

Jim would have been glad to work in the last phrase again, but he seemedto have covered the whole ground, and so inquired whether Yates had gotit all down. 

Yates replied that he had. 

"I'm a goin' to sign that, an' ye can take it along with ye. Swapseats. "

Yates rose, and Jim seated himself upon the chest. 

"I'm a goin' to sign this, settin' over the Bible. I ain't goin' totake no advantage on ye. Now we're squar', " said he, as he blazoned thedocument with his coarse and clumsy sign-manual. "Put that in yerpocket, an' keep it for five year. "

"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 a goin' to stayhere, an' have the best fishin' ye ever had in yer life. It'll do yegood, an' ye can go out when yer man comes arter ye. Ye can stay to theraisin', an' gi'en us a little lift with the other fellers that'scomin'. Ye'll be as strong as a hoss when ye go out. "

An announcement more welcome than this could not have been made to SamYates; and now that there was no secrecy between them, and confidencewas restored, he looked forward to a fortnight of enjoyment. He laidaside his coat, and, as far as possible, reduced his dress to therequirements of 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 was an aptpupil, he was soon able to furnish more fish to the camp than could beused. 

Yates had many a long talk with Benedict, and the two men found manypoints of sympathy, around which they cemented a lasting friendship. Both, though in different ways, had been very low down in the valley ofhelpless misfortune; both had been the subjects of Mr. Belcher's brutalwill; and both had the promise of a better life before them, which itwould be necessary to achieve in opposition to that will. Benedict wasstrengthened by this sympathy, and became able to entertain plans forthe assertion and maintenance of his rights. 

When Yates had been at the camp for a week and had taken on the colorand the manner of a woodsman, there came one night to Number Nine adozen men, to assist in the raising of Jim's hotel. They were from themill where he had purchased his lumber, and numbered several neighborsbesides, including Mike Conlin. They came up the old "tote-road" by theriver side, and a herd of buffaloes on a stampede could hardly have mademore noise. They were a rough, merry set, and Jim had all he could do tofeed them. Luckily, trout were in abundant supply, and they supped likekings, and slept on the ground. The following day was one of theseverest labor, but when it closed, the heaviest part of the timber hadbeen brought and put up, and when the second day ended, all the timberswere in their place, including those which defined the outlines of Jim's"cupalo. "

When the frame was at last complete, the weary men retired to aconvenient distance to look it over; and then they emphasized theirapproval of the structure by three rousing cheers. 

"Be gorry, Jim, ye must make us a spache, " said Mike Conlin. "Ye'veplenty iv blarney; now out wid it. "

But Jim was sober. He was awed by the magnitude of his enterprise. Therewas the building in open outline. There was no going back. For better orfor worse, it held his destiny, and not only his, but that of oneother--perhaps of others still. 

"A speech! a speech!" came from a dozen tongues. 

"Boys, " said Jim, "there's no more talk in me now nor there is in one o'them chips. I don't seem to have no vent. I'm full, but it don't run. IfI could stick a gimblet in somewhere, as if I was a cider-barrel, Icould gi'en ye enough; but I ain't no barrel, an' a gimblet ain't nouse. There's a man here as can talk. That's his trade, an' if he'll saywhat I 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'll talk forme. "

"Yates! Yates!" arose on all sides. 

Yates was at home in any performance of this kind, and, mounting a lowstump, said:

"Boys, Jim wants me to thank you for the great service you've renderedhim. You have come a long distance to do a neighborly deed, and thatdeed has been generously completed. Here, in these forest shades, youhave reared a monument to human civilization. In these old woods youhave built a temple to the American household gods. The savage beasts ofthe wilderness will fly from it, and the birds will gather around it. The winter will be the warmer for the fire that will burn within it, andthe spring will come earlier in prospect of a better welcome. The riverthat washes its feet will be more musical in its flow, because finerears will be listening. The denizens of the great city will come here, year after 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 little children open theireyes upon life, and grow up and marry and die--a home full of love andtoil, of pleasure and hope and hospitality, is to do the finest thingthat a man can do. I congratulate you on what you have done for Jim, andwhat so nobly you have done for yourselves. Your whole life will besweeter for this service, and when you think of a lovely woman presidingover this house, and of all the comfort it will be to the gentle folkthat will fill it full, you will be glad that you have had a hand init. "

Yates made his bow and stepped down. His auditors all stood for amoment, under an impression that they were in church and had heard asermon. Their work had been so idealized for them--it had been endowedwith so much meaning--it seemed so different from an ordinary"raising"--that they lost, momentarily, the consciousness of their ownroughness and the homeliness of their surroundings. 

"Be gorry!" exclaimed Mike, who was the first to break the silence, "I'd'a' gi'en a dollar if me owld woman could 'a' heard that. Divil a bitdoes she know what I've done for her. I didn't know mesilf what a purtything it was whin I built me house. It's betther nor goin' to thechurch, bedad. "

Three cheers were then given to Yates and three to Jim, and, the spellonce dissolved, they went noisily back to the cabin and their supper. 

That evening Jim was very silent. When they were about lying down forthe night, he took his blankets, reached into the chest, and withdrewsomething that he found there and immediately hid from sight, and saidthat he was going to sleep in his house. The moon was rising from behindthe trees when he emerged from his cabin. He looked up at the tallskeleton of his future home, then approached it, and swinging himselffrom beam to beam, did not pause until he had reached the cupola. Boardshad been placed across it for the convenience of the framers, and onthese Jim threw his blankets. Under the little package that was to serveas his pillow he laid his Bible, and then, with his eyes upon the stars, his heart tender with the thoughts of the woman for whom he was rearinga home, and his mind oppressed with the greatness of his undertaking, helay a long time in a waking dream. "If so be He cares, " said Jim tohimself--"if so be He cares for a little buildin' as don't make no show'longside o' His doin's up thar an' down here, I hope He sees that I'vegot this Bible under 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'mobleeged to 'im. "

At last, slumber came to Jim--the slumber of the toiler, and early thenext morning he was busy in feeding his helpers, who had a long day'swalk before them. When, at last, they were all ferried over the river, and had started on their homeward way, Jim ascended to the cupola again, and waved his bandanna in farewell. 

Two days afterward, Sam Yates left his host, and rowed himself down tothe landing in the same canoe by which he had reached Number Nine. Hefound his conveyance waiting, according to arrangement, and before nightwas housed among his friends at Sevenoaks. 

While he had been absent in the woods, there had been a conferenceamong his relatives and the principal men of the town, which hadresulted in the determination to keep him in Sevenoaks, if possible, inthe practice of his profession. 

To Yates, the proposition was the opening of a door into safety andpeace. To be among those who loved him, and had a certain pride in him;to be released from his service to Mr. Belcher, which he felt could gono farther without involving him in crime and dishonor; to be sustainedin his good resolutions by the sympathy of friends, and the absence ofhis city companions and temptations, gave him the promise of perfectreformation, and a life of modest prosperity and genuine self-respect. 

He took but little time in coming to his conclusion, and his firstbusiness was to report to Mr. Belcher by letter. He informed thatgentleman that he had concluded to remain in Sevenoaks; reported all hisinvestigations on his way thither from New York; inclosed Jim'sstatement concerning the death of a pauper in the woods; gave an accountof the disinterment of the pauper's bones in his presence; inclosed themoney unused in expenses and wages, and, with thanks for what Mr. Belcher had done in helping him to a reform, closed his missive in sucha manner as to give the impression that he expected and desired nofurther communication. 

Great was Mr. Belcher's indignation when he received this letter. He hadnot finished with Yates. He had anticipated exactly this result from theinvestigations. He knew about old Tilden, for Buffum had told him; andhe did not doubt that Jim had exhibited to Yates the old man's bones. Hebelieved that Benedict was dead, but he did not know. It would benecessary, therefore, to prepare a document that would be good in anyevent. 

If the reader remembers the opening chapter of this story, he willrecall the statement of Miss Butterworth, that Mr. Belcher had followedBenedict to the asylum to procure his signature to a paper. This paper, drawn up in legal form, had been preserved, for Mr. Belcher was amethodical, business man; and when he had finished reading Yates'sletter, and had exhausted his expletives after his usual manner, heopened a drawer, and, extracting the paper, read it through. It was morethan six years old, and bore its date, and the marks of its age. All itneeded was the proper signatures. 

He knew that he could trust Yates no longer. He knew, too, that he couldnot forward his own ends by appearing to be displeased. The reply whichYates received was one that astonished him by its mildness, itsexpression of satisfaction with his faithful labor, and its record ofgood wishes. Now that he was upon the spot, Mr. Yates could still servehim, both in a friendly and in a professional way. The first service hecould render him was to forward to him autograph letters from the handsof two men deceased. He wished to verify the signatures of these men, hesaid, but as they were both dead, he, of course, could not apply tothem. 

Yates did not doubt that there was mischief in this request. He guessedwhat it was, and he kept the letter; but after a few days he secured thedesired autographs, and forwarded them to Mr. Belcher, who filed themaway with the document above referred to. After that, the greatproprietor, as a relief from the severe pursuits of his life, amusedhimself by experiments with inks and pens, and pencils, and with writingin a hand not his own, the names of "Nicholas Johnson" and "JamesRamsey. "

CHAPTER XVIII. 

IN WHICH MRS. DILLINGHAM MAKES SOME IMPORTANT DISCOVERIES, BUT FAILS TOREVEAL THEM TO THE READER. 

Mrs. Dillingham was walking back and forth alone through her longdrawing-room. She was revolving in her mind a compliment, breathed intoher ear by her friend Mrs. Talbot that day. Mrs. Talbot had heard fromthe mouth of one of Mrs. Dillingham's admirers the statement, confirmedwith a hearty, good-natured oath, that he considered the fascinatingwidow "the best groomed woman in New York. "

The compliment conveyed a certain intimation which was not pleasant forher to entertain. She was indebted to her skill in self-"grooming" forthe preservation of her youthful appearance. She had been conscious ofthis, but it was not pleasant to have the fact detected by her friends. Neither was it pleasant to have it bruited in society, and reported toher by one who rejoiced in the delicacy of the arrow which, feathered byfriendship, she had been able to plant in the widow's breast. 

She walked to her mirror and looked at herself. There were the fine, familiar outlines of face and figure; there were the same splendid eyes;but a certain charm beyond the power of "grooming" to restore was gone. An incipient, almost invisible, brood of wrinkles was gathering abouther eyes; there was a loss of freshness of complexion, and an expressionof weariness and age, which, in the repose of reflection andinquisition, almost startled her. 

Her youth was gone, and, with it, the most potent charms of her person. She was hated and suspected by her own sex, and sought by men for noreason honorable either to her or to them. She saw that it was all, atno distant day, to have an end, and that when the end should come, herlife would practically be closed. When the means by which she had heldso many men in her power were exhausted, her power would cease. Into theblackness of that coming night she could not bear to look. It was fullof hate, and disappointment, and despair. She knew that there was ataint upon her--the taint that comes to every woman, as certainly asdeath, who patently and purposely addresses, through her person, thesensuous element in men. It was not enough for her to remember that shedespised the passion she excited, and contemned the men whom shefascinated. She knew it was better to lead even a swine by a goldenchain than by the ears. 

She reviewed her relations to Mr. Belcher. That strong, harsh, brutalman, lost alike to conscience and honor, was in her hands. What shouldshe do with him? He was becoming troublesome. He was not so easilymanaged as the most of her victims. She knew that, in his heart, he wascarrying the hope that some time in the future, in some way, she wouldbecome his; that she had but to lift her finger to make the Palgravemansion so horrible a hell that the wife and mother would fly from it inindignant despair. She had no intention of doing this. She wished for nomore intimate relation with her victim than she had already established. 

There was one thing in which Mr. Belcher had offended and humiliatedher. He had treated her as if he had fascinated her. In his stupidvanity, he had fancied that his own personal attractions had won herheart and her allegiance, and that she, and not himself, was the victim. He had tried to use her in the accomplishment of outside purposes; tomake a tool of her in carrying forward his mercenary or knavish ends. Other men had striven to hide their unlovely affairs from her, but thenew lover had exposed his, and claimed her assistance in carrying themforward. This was a degradation that she could not submit to. It didnot natter her, or minister to her self-respect. 

Again and again had Mr. Belcher urged her to get the little Sevenoakspauper into her confidence, and to ascertain whether his father werestill living. She did not doubt that his fear of a man so poor andpowerless as the child's father must be, was based in conscious knavery;and to be put to the use of deceiving a lad whose smile of affectionateadmiration was one of the sweetest visions of her daily life, disgustedand angered her. The thought, in any man's mind, that she could be sobase, in consideration of a guilty affection for him, as to betray theconfidence of an innocent child on his behalf, disgraced and degradedher. 

And still she walked back and forth in her drawing-room. Her thoughtswere uneasy and unhappy; there was no love in her life. That life wasleading to no satisfactory consummation. How could it be changed? Whatcould she do?

She raised her eyes, looked across the street, and there saw, loiteringalong and casting furtive glances at her window, the very lad of whomshe had been thinking. He had sought and waited for her recognition, andinstead of receiving it in the usual way, saw a beckoning finger. Hewaited a moment, to be sure that he had not misunderstood the sign, andthen, 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 be at home to any one. As soon asthe pair were in the drawing-room she stooped and kissed the lad, warming his heart with a smile so sweet, and a manner so cordial andgracious, that he could not have told whether his soul was his own orhers. 

She led him to her seat, giving him none, but sitting with her armaround him, as he stood at her side. 

"You are my little lover, aren't you?" she said, with an embrace. 

"Not so very little!" responded Harry, with a flush. 

"Well, you love me, don't you?"

"Perhaps I do, " replied he, looking smilingly into her eyes. 

"You are a rogue, sir. "

"I'm not a bad rogue. "

"Kiss me. "

Harry put his arms around Mrs. Dillingham's neck and kissed her, andreceived a long, passionate embrace in return, in which her starvedheart expressed the best of its powerful nature. 

Nor clouds nor low-born vapors drop the dew. It only gathers under apure heaven and the tender eyes of stars. Mrs. Dillingham had alwaysheld a heart that could respond to the touch of a child. It was dark, its ways were crooked, it was not a happy heart, but for the moment herwhole nature was flooded with a tender passion. A flash of lightningfrom heaven makes the darkest night its own, and gilds with glory theuncouth shapes that grope and crawl beneath its cover. 

"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 receivedimperative commands not to tell anybody about himself; but histemptation to yield to the beautiful lady's wishes was great, for he washeart-starved like herself. Mrs. Balfour was kind, even affectionate, but he felt that he had never filled the place in her heart of the boyshe had lost. She did not take him into her embrace, and lavish caressesupon him. He had hungered for just this, and the impulse to show thewhole of his heart and life to Mrs. Dillingham was 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 if you didn'ttell, 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 about the hard, wretched life in Sevenoaks, the death of his mother, the insanity of hisfather, the life in the poor-house, the escape, the recovery of hisfather's health, his present home, and the occasion of his own removalto New York. The narrative was so wonderful, so full of pathos, sotragic, so out of all proportion in its revelation of wretchedness tothe little life at her side, that the lady was dumb. Unconsciously toherself--almost unconsciously to the boy--her arms closed around him, and she lifted him into her lap. There, with his head against herbreast, he concluded his story; and there were tears upon his hair, rained from the eyes that bent above him. They sat for a long minute insilence. Then the lady, to keep herself from bursting into hystericaltears, kissed Harry again and again, exclaiming:

"My poor, dear boy! My dear, dear child! And Mr. Belcher could havehelped it all! Curse him!"

The lad jumped from her arms as if he had received the thrust of adagger, and looked at her with great, startled, wondering eyes. Sherecognized in an instant the awful indiscretion into which she had beenbetrayed by her fierce and sudden anger, and threw herself upon herknees before the boy, exclaiming:

"Harry, you must forgive me. I was beside myself with anger. I did notknow what I was saying. Indeed, I did not. Come to my lap again, andkiss me, or I shall be wretched. "

Harry still maintained his attitude and his silence. A furious word froman angel would not have surprised or pained him more than thisexpression of her anger, that had flashed upon him like a fire fromhell. 

Still the lady knelt, and pleaded for his forgiveness. 

"No one loves me, Harry. If you leave me, and do not forgive me, I shallwish I were dead. You cannot be so cruel. "

"I didn't know that ladies ever said such words, " said Harry. 

"Ladies who have little boys to love them never do, " responded Mrs. Dillingham. 

"If I love you, shall you ever speak so again?" inquired Harry. 

"Never, with you and God to help me, " she responded. 

She rose to her feet, led the boy to her chair, and once more held himin her embrace. 

"You can do me a great deal of good, Harry--a great deal more good thanyou know, or can understand. Men and women make me worse. There isnobody who can protect me like a child that trusts me. You can trustme. "

Then they sat a long time in a silence broken only by Harry's sobs, forthe excitement and the reaction had shaken his nerves as if he hadsuffered a terrible fright. 

"You have never told me your whole name, Harry, " she said tenderly, withthe design of leading him away from the subject of his grief. 

"Harry Benedict. "

He felt the thrill that ran through her frame, as if it had been a shockof electricity. The arms that held him trembled, and half relaxed theirhold upon him. Her heart struggled, intermitted its beat, then throbbedagainst his reclining head as if it were a hammer. He raised himself, and looked up at her face. It was pale and ghastly; and her eyes weredimly looking 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'm better now. "

"Isn't it better for me to sit in a chair?" he inquired, trying torise. 

She tightened her grasp upon him. 

"No, no. I am better with you here. I wish you were never 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 and write yourfather's name. Then come and give me a kiss, and then go home. I shallsee you again, perhaps to-night. I suppose I ought to apologize to Mrs. Balfour for keeping you so long. "

Harry did her bidding. She did not look at him, but turned her eyes tothe window. There she saw Mr. Belcher, who had just been sent away fromthe door. He bowed, and she returned the bow, but the smile she summonedto her face by force of habit, failed quickly, for her heart had learnedto despise him. 

Harry wrote the name, left it upon the table, and then came to get hiskiss. The caress was calmer and tenderer than any she had given him. Hisinstinct detected the change; and, when he bade her a good night, itseemed as if she had grown motherly, --as if a new life had beendeveloped in her that subordinated the old, --as if, in her life, the sunhad set, and the moon had risen. 

She had no doubt that as Harry left the door Mr. Belcher would see him, and seek admission at once on his hateful business, for, strong as hispassion was for Mrs. Dillingham, he never forgot his knavish affairs, inwhich he sought to use her as a tool. So when she summoned the servantto let Harry out, she told him that if Mr. Belcher should call, he wasto be informed that she was too ill to see him. 

Mr. Belcher did call within three minutes after the door closed on thelad. He had a triumphant smile on his face, as if he did not doubt thatMrs. Dillingham had been engaged in forwarding his own dirty work. Hisface blackened as he received her message, and he went wondering home, with ill-natured curses on his lips that will not bear repeating. 

Mrs. Dillingham closed the doors of her drawing-room, took the paper onwhich Harry had written, and resumed her seat. For the hour that laybetween her and her dinner, she held the paper in her cold, wet hand. She knew the name she should find there, and she determined that beforeher eye should verify the prophecy of her heart, she would achieveperfect self-control. 

Excited by the interview with the lad, and the prescience of its waiting_dénouement_, her mind went back into his and his father's history. Mr. Belcher could have alleviated that history; nay, prevented italtogether. What had been her own responsibility in the case? She couldnot have foreseen all the horrors of that history; but she, too, couldhave prevented it. The consciousness of this filled her withself-condemnation; yet she could not acknowledge herself to be on alevel with Mr. Belcher. She was ready and anxious to right all thewrongs she had inflicted; he was bent on increasing and confirming them. She cursed him in her heart for his Injustice and cruelty, and almostcursed herself. 

But she dwelt most upon the future which the discoveries of the hour hadrendered possible to herself. She had found a way out of her hatefullife. She had found a lad who admired, loved, and trusted her, upon whomshe could lavish her hungry affections--one, indeed, upon whom she had aright to lavish them. The life which she had led from girlhood was likeone of those deep cañons in the far West, down which her beautiful boathad been gliding between impassable walls that gave her only here andthere glimpses of the heaven above. The uncertain stream had itsfascinations. There were beautiful shallows over which she had glidedsmoothly and safely, rocks and rapids over which she had shot swiftlyamid attractive dangers, crooked courses that led she did not knowwhither, landing-places where she could enjoy an hour of the kindlysun. But all the time she knew she was descending. The song of thewaterfalls was a farewell song to scenes that could never be witnessedagain. Far away perhaps, perhaps near, waited the waters of the gulfthat would drink the sparkling stream into its sullen depths, and steepit in its own bitterness. It was beautiful all the way, but it was goingdown, down, down. It was seeking the level of its death; and the littleboat that rode so buoyantly over the crests which betrayed the hiddenrocks, would be but a chip among the waves of the broad, wild sea thatwaited at the end. 

Out of the fascinating roar that filled her ears; out of the sparklingrapids and sheeny reaches, and misty cataracts that enchanted her eyes;and out of the relentless drift toward the bottomless sea, she could belifted! The sun shone overhead. There were rocks to climb where herhands would bleed; there were weary heights to scale; but she knew thaton the top there were green pastures and broad skies, and the music ofbirds--places where she could rest, and from which she could slowly findher way back, in loving companionship, to the mountains of purity fromwhich she had come. 

She revolved the possibilities of the future; and, provided the littlepaper in her hand should verify her expectations, she resolved torealize them. During the long hour in which she sat thinking, shediscounted the emotion which the little paper in her hand held for her, so that, when she unfolded it and read it, she only kissed it, andplaced it in her bosom. 

After dinner, she ordered her carriage. Then, thinking that it might berecognized by Mr. Belcher, she changed her order, and sent to a publicstable for one that was not identified with herself; and then, sodisguising her person that in the evening she would not be known, sheordered the driver to take her to Mr. Balfour's. 

Mrs. Dillingham had met Mr. Balfour many times, but she had never, though on speaking terms with her, cultivated Mrs. Balfour'sacquaintance, and that lady did not fail to show the surprise she feltwhen her visitor was announced. 

"I have made the acquaintance of your little ward, " said Mrs. Dillingham, "and we have become good friends. I enticed him into myhouse to-day, and as I kept him a long time, I thought I would come overand 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 him to do so, " saidMrs. Dillingham; "and I was entirely to blame for his remaining with meso long. You ladies who have children cannot know how sweet theirsociety sometimes is to those who have none. "

Mrs. Balfour was surprised. She saw in her visitor's eyes the evidenceof recent tears, and there was a moisture in them then, and a subduedand tender tone to her voice which did not harmonize at all with herconception of Mrs. Dillingham's nature and character. Was she trying herarts 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, whogreeted Mrs. Dillingham in the old, stereotyped, gallant way in whichgentlemen were accustomed to address her. How did she manage to keepherself so young? Would she be kind enough to give Mrs. Balfour the nameof 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 say to thisbadinage. She seemed either not to hear it at all, or to hear it withimpatience. She talked in a listless way, and appeared to be thinking ofanything but what was said. 

At last, she asked Mr. Balfour if she could have the liberty to obtrudea matter of business upon him. She did not like to interfere with hishome enjoyments, but he would oblige her much by giving her half an hourof private conversation. Mr. Balfour looked at his wife, received asignificant glance, and invited the lady into his library. 

It was a long interview. Nine o'clock, ten o'clock, eleven o'clocksounded, and then Mrs. Balfour went upstairs. It was nearly midnightwhen Mrs. Dillingham emerged from the door. She handed a bank-note tothe impatient coachman, and ordered him to drive her home. As she passedMr. Belcher's corner of the street, she saw Phipps helping his master tomount the steps. He had had an evening of carousal among some of his newacquaintances. "Brute!" she said to herself, and withdrew her head fromthe window. 

Admitted at her door, she went to her room in her unusual wrappings, threw herself upon her knees, and buried her face in her bed. She didnot pray; she hardly lifted her thoughts. She was excessively weary. Whyshe knelt she did not know; but on her knees she thought over theoccurrences of the evening. 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 thousand selfish, sinful lives, stands always ready, when the bearers of those lives aretired of them, and are longing for something better, to open the doorinto a new realm? What patience and persistence are his! Always waiting, always prepared, cherishing no resentments, willing to lead, anxious towelcome, who is he, and whence came he? If Mrs. Dillingham did not pray, she had a vision of this heavenly visitant, and kissed the hem of hisgarments. 

She rose and walked to her dressing-table. There she found a note inMrs. Belcher's handwriting, inviting her to a drive in the Park with herand Mr. Belcher on the following afternoon. Whether the invitation wasself-moved, or the result of a suggestion from Mr. Belcher, she did notknow. In truth, she did not care. She had wronged Mrs. Belcher in manyways, and she would go. 

Why was it that when the new and magnificent carriage rolled up to herdoor the next afternoon, with its wonderful horses and showy equipage, and appointments calculated to attract attention, her heart was smittenwith disgust? She was to be stared at; and, during all the drive, shewas to sit face to face with a man who believed that he had fascinatedher, and who was trying to use her for all the base purposes in which itwas possible for her to serve his will. What could she do with him? How, in the new relations of her life to him, should she carry herself?

The drive was a quiet one. Mr. Belcher sat and feasted his greedy, exultant eyes on the woman before him, and marveled at the adroitnesswith which, to use his own coarse phrase, she "pulled the wool" over theeyes of his wife. In what a lovely way did she hide her passion for him!How sweetly did she draw out the sympathy of the deceived woman at herside! Ah! he could trust her! Her changed, amiable, almost patheticdemeanor was attributed by him to the effect of his power upon her, andher own subtle ingenuity in shielding from the eyes of Mrs. Belcher alove that she deemed 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'ssociety before. She blamed herself for not having understood her better;and when she parted with her for the day, she expressed in hearty termsher wish that she might see more of her in the future. 

Mrs. Dillingham, on the return, was dropped at her own door first. Mr. Belcher alighted, and led her up the steps. Then, in a quiet voice, hesaid:

"Did you find out anything of the boy?"

"Yes, some things, but none that it would be of advantage to you toknow. "

"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 to any one. "

"You can work it out of him. I'll risk you. "

Mrs. Dillingham could hardly restrain her impatience, but said quietly:

"I fancy I have discovered all the secrets I shall ever discover in him. I like the boy, and shall cultivate his acquaintance; but, really, itwill not pay you to rely upon me for anything. He is under Mr. Balfour'sdirections, and very loyal. "

Mr. Belcher remembered his own interview with the lad, and recognizedthe truth of the statement. Then he bade her good-bye, rejoined hiswife, and rode home. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

IN WHICH MR. BELCHER BECOMES PRESIDENT OF THE CROOKED VALLEY RAILROAD, WITH LARGE "TERMINAL FACILITIES, " AND MAKES AN ADVENTURE INTO ALONG-MEDITATED CRIME. 

Mr. Belcher had never made money so rapidly as during the summerfollowing his removal to New York. The tides of wealth rolled in fasterthan he could compute them. Twenty regiments in the field had been armedwith the Belcher rifle, and the reports of its execution and itspopularity among officers and men, gave promise of future goldenharvests to the proprietor. Ten thousand of them had been ordered by thePrussian Government. His agents in France, Russia, Austria, and Italy, all reported encouragingly concerning their attempts to introduce thenew arm into the military service of those countries. The civil war hadadvanced the price of, and the demand for, the products of his mills atSevenoaks. The people of that village had never before received so goodwages, or been so fully employed. It seemed as if there were work forevery man, woman and child, who had hands willing to work. Mr. Belcherbought stocks upon a rising market, and unloaded again and again, sweeping into his capacious coffers his crops of profits. Bonds thatearly in the war could be bought for a song, rose steadily up to par. Stocks that had been kicked about the market for years, took on valuefrom day to day, and asserted themselves as fair investments. Fromthese, again and again, he harvested the percentage of advance, untilhis greed was gorged. 

That he enjoyed his winnings, is true; but the great trouble with himwas that, beyond a certain point, he could show nothing for them. Helived in a palace, surrounded by every appointment of luxury that hiswealth could buy. His stables held the choicest horse-flesh that couldbe picked out of the whole country, from Maine to Kentucky. His diamondshirt-studs were worth thousands. His clothes were of the most expensivefabrics, made at the top of the style. His wife and children had moneylavished upon them without stint. In the direction of show, he could dono more. It was his glory to drive in the Park alone, with his servantsin livery and his four horses, fancying that he was the observed of allobservers, and the envied of all men. 

Having money still to spend, it must find a market in other directions. He gave lavish entertainments at his club, at which wine flowed likewater, and at which young and idle men were gathered in and debauched, night after night. He was surrounded by a group of flatterers wholaughed at his jokes, repeated them to the public, humored his caprices, and lived upon his hospitalities. The plain "Colonel Belcher" of hisfirst few months in New York, grew into the "General, " so that Wallstreet knew him, at last, by that title, without the speaking of hisname. 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 desire for show inhis love of glory. Power was sweet, as well as display. 

Of course, "the General" had forsaken, somewhat, his orderly habits oflife--those which kept him sound and strong in his old country home. Hespent few evenings with his family. There was so genuine a passion inhis heart for Mrs. Dillingham, that he went into few excesses whichcompromised a fair degree of truthfulness to her; but he was in thetheaters, in the resorts of fast men, among the clubs, and always latein his bed. Phipps had a hard time in looking after and waiting uponhim, but had a kind of sympathetic enjoyment in it all, because he knewthere was more or less of wickedness connected with it. 

Mr. Belcher's nights began to tell upon his days. It became hard for himto rise at his old hours; so, after a while, he received the calls ofhis brokers in bed. From nine to ten, Mr. Belcher, in his embroidereddressing-gown, with his breakfast at his side, gave his orders for theoperations of the day. The bedroom became the General's headquarters, and there his staff gathered around him. Half a dozen cabs and carriagesat his door in the morning became a daily recurring vision to residentsand habitual passengers. 

Mr. Talbot, not a regular visitor at this hour, sometimes mingled withthe brokers, though he usually came late for the purpose of a privateinterview. He had managed to retain the General's favor, and to be ofsuch use to him that that gentleman, in his remarkable prosperity, hadgiven up the idea of reducing his factor's profits. 

One morning, after the brokers and the General's lawyer were gone, Talbot entered, and found his principal still in bed. 

"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, andexactly this was my programme when I came here. 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'tquite at home in such splendors as yours, you know, and she naturallyrecognizes my relations to you. "

"Oh, nonsense, nonsense, Toll! She mustn't feel that way. 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 aspireto any such profits as you seem to win so easily, so I have no fault tofind. "

"The General has been a godsend to you, hasn't he, eh? Happy day whenyou made his acquaintance, eh? Well, go ahead; it's all right. Pile itup while you can. "

"But you haven't told me about your idea, " Mr. Talbot suggested. 

"Well, Toll, I'm pining for a railroad. I'm crying nights for arailroad. A fellow must have amusements you know. Health must be takencare of, eh? All the fellows have railroads. It's well enough to keephorses and go to the theater. A steamship line isn't bad, but thetrouble is, a man can't be captain of his own vessels. No, Toll; I needa railroad. I'm yearning for engines, and double tracks, and runningover my own line. "

"You might buy up a European kingdom or two, at a pinch, General. "

"Yes; but, Toll, you don't know what terminal facilities I've got for arailroad. "

"Your pocket will answer for one end, " said Talbot, laughing. 

"Right, the first time, " responded the General, "and glory will answerfor the other. Toll, do you know what I see at the other end?"

"No. "

"I see a man of about the size of Robert Belcher in the chair of anAlderman. I see him seated on a horse, riding down Broadway at the headof a regiment. I see him Mayor of the City of New York. I see himGovernor of the State. I see him President of the United States. I seeno reason why 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 I have come, to reach the top. Do you know it? Big thing! Yes, Toll, I must have arailroad. "

"Have you selected the toy you propose to purchase?" inquired Talbot. 

"Well, I've looked about some; but the trouble is, that all the best of'em are in hands that can hold them. I must buy a poor one and build itup, or make it build me up. "

"That's a pity. "

"I don't know about that. The big ones are hard to handle, and I'm notquite big enough for them yet. What do 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, andbuild the connections--issue plenty of bonds, and build plenty ofconnections. Terminal facilities large--? do you understand? Eh, Toll?"

Mr. Talbot laughed. 

"I don't think you need any suggestions from me, " he said. 

"No; the General can manage this thing without help. He only wanted toopen your eyes a little, and get you ready for your day's work. Youfellows who fiddle around with a few goods need waking up occasionally. Now, Toll, go off and let the General get up. I must have a railroadbefore night, or I shall not be able to sleep a wink. By-by!"

Talbot turned to leave the room, when Mr. Belcher arrested him with thequestion:

"Toll, would you like an office in the Crooked Valley corporation?"

Talbot knew that the corporation would have a disgraceful history, and adisastrous end--that it would be used by the General for the purposes ofstealing, and that the head of it would not be content to share theplunder with others. He had no wish to be his principal's cat's-paw, orto be identified with an enterprise in which, deprived of both will andvoice, he should get neither profit nor credit. So he said:

"No, I thank you; I have all I can do to take care of your goods, and Iam not ambitious. "

"There'll be nothing for you to do, you know. I shall run the wholething. "

"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 dressed himself. Phipps was already at the door with the carriage, and, half an hourafterward, the great proprietor, full of his vain and knavish projects, took his seat in it, and was whirled off down to Wall street. Hisbrokers had already been charged with his plans, and, before he reachedthe 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 had absorbed a controllinginterest in the corporation. 

A few days afterward, the annual meeting was held, Mr. Belcher waselected President, and every other office was filled by his creaturesand tools. His plans for the future of the road gradually became known, and the stock began to assume a better position on the list. Weak andinefficient corporations were already in existence for completing thevarious connections of the road, and of these he immediately, and formoderate sums, bought the franchises. Within two months, bonds wereissued for building the roads, and the roads themselves were put undercontract. The "terminal facilities" of one end of every contract werefaithfully attended to by Mr. Belcher. His pockets were still capaciousand absorbent. He parted with so much of his appreciated stock as hecould spare without impairing his control, and so at the end of a fewmonths, found himself in the possession of still another harvest. Notonly this, but he found his power increased. Men watched him, andfollowed him into other speculations. They hung around him, anxious toget indications of his next movement. They flattered him; they fawnedupon him; and to those whom he could in any way use for his ownpurposes, he breathed little secrets of the market from which they wontheir rewards. People talked about what "the General" was doing, andproposed to do, as if he were a well-recognized factor in the financialsituation. 

Whenever he ran over his line, which he often did for information andamusement, and for the pleasure of exercising his power, he went in aspecial car, at break-neck speed, by telegraph, always accompanied by abody of friends and toadies, whom he feasted on the way. Everybodywanted to see him. He was as much a lion as if he had been an Emperor ora murderer. To emerge upon a platform at a way-station, where there werehundreds of country people who had flocked in to witness the exhibition, was his great delight. He spoke to them familiarly and good-naturedly;transacted his business with a rush; threw the whole village intotumult; waved his hand; and vanished in a cloud of dust. Suchenterprise, such confidence, such strength, such interest in the localprosperities of the line, found their natural result in the absorptionof the new bonds. They were purchased by individuals and municipalcorporations. Freight was diverted from its legitimate channels, anddrawn over the road at a loss; but it looked like business. Passes werescattered in every direction, and the passenger traffic seemed to doubleat once. All was bustle, drive, business. Under a single will, backed bya strong and orderly executive capacity, the dying road seemed to leapinto life. It had not an _employé_ who did not know and take off his hatto the General. He was a kind of god, to whom they all bowed down; andto be addressed or chaffed by him was an honor to be reported tofriends, and borne home with self-gratulations to wives and children. 

The General, of course, had moments of superlative happiness. He neverhad enjoyed anything more than he enjoyed his railroad. His notorietywith the common people along the line--the idea which they cherishedthat he could do anything he wished to do; that he had only to lift hishand to win gold to himself or to bear it to them--these were pleasantin themselves; but to have their obeisance witnessed by his city friendsand associates, while they discussed his champagne and boned turkey fromthe abounding hampers which always furnished "the President's car"--thiswas the crown of his pleasure. He had a pleasure, too, in business. Henever had enough to do, and the railroad which would have loaded down anordinary man with an ordinary conscience, was only a pleasant diversionto him. Indeed, he was wont to reiterate, when rallied upon his newenterprise: "The fact was, I had to do something for my health, youknow. "

Still, the General was not what could be called a thoroughly happy man. He knew the risks he ran on Change. He had been reminded, by two orthree mortifying losses, that the sun did not always shine on Wallstreet. He knew that his railroad was a bubble, and that sooner or laterit would burst. Times would change, and, after all, there was nothingthat would last like his manufactures. With a long foresight, he hadordered the funds received from the Prussian sales of the Belcher rifleto be deposited with a European banking house at interest, to be drawnagainst in his foreign purchases of material; yet he never drew againstthis deposit. Self-confident as he was, glutted with success as he was, he had in his heart a premonition that some time he might want thatmoney just where it was placed. So there it lay, accumulating interest. It was an anchor to windward, that would hold him if ever his barkshould drift into shallow or dangerous waters. 

The grand trouble was, that he did not own a single patent by which hewas thriving in both branches of his manufactures. He had calculatedupon worrying the inventor into a sale, and had brought his designs verynearly to realization, when he found, to his surprise and discomfiture, that he had driven him into a mad-house. Rich as he was, therefore, there was something very unsubstantial in his wealth, even to his ownapprehension. Sometimes it all seemed like a bubble, which a suddenbreath would wreck. Out of momentary despondencies, originating invisions like these, he always rose with determinations that nothingshould come between him and his possessions and prosperities which hishand, by fair means or foul, could crush. 

Mr. Balfour, a lawyer of faultless character and undoubted courage, heldhis secret. He could not bend him or buy him. He was the one man in allthe world whom he was afraid of. He was the one man in New York who knewwhether Benedict was alive or not. He had Benedict's heir in his house, and he knew that by him the law would lay its hand on him and hispossessions. He only wondered that the action was delayed. Why was itdelayed? Was he, Mr. Belcher, ready for it? He knew he was not, and hesaw but one way by which he could become so. Over this he hesitated, hoping that some event would occur which would render his projectedcrime unnecessary. 

Evening after evening, when every member of his family was in bed, heshut himself in his room, looked behind every article of furniture tomake himself sure that he was alone, and then drew from its drawer thelong unexecuted contract with Mr. Benedict, with the accompanyingautograph letters, forwarded to him by Sam Yates. Whole quires of paperhe traced with the names of "Nicholas Johnson" and "James Ramsey. " Afterhe had mastered the peculiarities of their signs manual, he took up thatof Mr. Benedict. Then he wrote the three names in the relations in whichhe wished them to appear on the document. Then he not only burned allthe paper he had used, in the grate, but pulverized its ashes. 

Not being able to ascertain whether Benedict were alive or dead, itwould be necessary to produce a document which would answer his purposein either case. Of course, it would be requisite that its date shouldanticipate the inventor's insanity. He would make one more effort toascertain a fact that had so direct a relation to his future security. 

Accordingly, one evening after his railroad scheme was fairlyinaugurated, he called on Mrs. Dillingham, determined to obtain from herwhat she knew. He had witnessed for months her fondness for HarryBenedict. The boy had apparently with the consent of the Balfours, beenfrequently in her house. They had taken long drives together in thePark. Mr. Belcher felt that there was a peculiar intimacy between thetwo, yet not one satisfactory word had he ever heard from the lady abouther 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 morereticent in his presence, though she had never repulsed him. He hadcaught fewer glimpses of that side of her nature and character which hehad once believed was sympathetic with his own. Misled by his own vanityinto the constant belief that she was seriously in love with himself, hewas determined to utilize her passion for his own purposes. If she wouldnot give kisses, she should give confidence. 

"Mrs. Dillingham, " he said, "I have been waiting to hear something aboutyour pauper _protégé_, and I have come to-night to find out what youknow about him and his father. "

"If I knew of anything that would be of real advantage to you, I wouldtell you, but I do not, " she replied. 

"Well, that's an old story. Tell that to the marines. I'm sick of it. "

Mrs. Dillingham's face flushed. 

"I prefer to judge for myself, if it's all the same to you, " pursued theproprietor. "You've had the boy in your hands for months, and you knowhim, through and through, or else you are not the woman I have taken youfor. "

"You have taken me for, Mr. Belcher?"

"Nothing offensive. Don't roll up your pretty eyes in that 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 any way, if you arenot at work for me? That's what I'd like to know. "

"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. Perhaps you are notacquainted with my way of doing business. "

"Are you doing business with me, Mr. Belcher? Am I a partner of yours?If I am, perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me--business-likeenough to tell me--why you wish me 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. I keep my owncouncils. "

"Then do your own business, " snappishly. 

"Mrs. Dillingham, you and I are friends--destined, I trust, to be betterfriends--closer friends--than we have ever been. This boy is of noconsequence to you, and you cannot afford to sacrifice a man who canserve you more than you seem to know, for him. "

"Well, " said the lady, "there is no use in acting under a mask anylonger. I would not betray the confidence of a child to serve any man Iever saw. You have been kind to me, but you have not trusted me. The ladloves me, and trusts me, and I will never betray him. What I tell you istrue. I have learned nothing from him that can be of any genuineadvantage to you. That is all the answer you will ever get from me. Ifyou choose to throw away our friendship, you can take theresponsibility, " and Mrs. Dillingham hid her face in her handkerchief. 

Mr. Belcher had been trying an experiment, and he had notsucceeded--could not succeed; and there sat the beautiful, magnanimouswoman before him, her heart torn as he believed with love for him, yetloyal to her ideas of honor as they related to a confiding child! Howbeautiful she was! Vexed he certainly was, but there was a balm for hisvexation in these charming revelations of her character. 

"Well, " he said rising, and in his old good-natured tone, "there's noaccounting for a woman. I'm not going to bother you. "

He seized her unresisting hand, pressed it to his lips, and went away. He did not hear the musical giggle that followed him into the street, but, absorbed by his purpose, went home and mounted to his room. Lockingthe door, and peering about among the furniture, according to hiscustom, he sat down at his desk, drew out the old contract, and startedat his usual practice. "Sign it, " he said to himself, "and then you canuse it or not--just as you please. It's not the signing that willtrouble you; it's the using. "

He tried the names all over again, and then, his heart beating heavilyagainst the desk, he spread the document and essayed his task. His heartjarred him. His hand trembled. What could he do to calm himself? He roseand walked to his 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? MyGod! how it sounded! Aren't you a pretty King of Wall Street! Aren't youa lovely President of the Crooked Valley Railroad! Aren't you a sweetsort of a nabob! You _must_ do it! Do you hear? You _must_ do it! Eh? doyou hear? Sit down, sir! Down with you, sir! and don't you rise againuntil the thing is done. "

The heart-thumping passed away. The reaction, under the strong spur andsteady push of will, brought his nerves up to steadiness, and he satdown, took his pencils and pens that had been selected for the service, and wrote first the name of Paul Benedict, and then, as witnesses, thenames of Nicholas Johnson and James Ramsey. 

So the document was signed, and witnessed by men whom he believed to bedead. The witnesses whose names he had forged he knew to be dead. Withthis document he believed he could defend his possession of all thepatent rights on which the permanence of his fortune depended. Hepermitted the ink to dry, then folded the paper, and put it back in itsplace. Then he shut and opened the drawer, and took it out again. It hada genuine look. 

Then he rang his bell and called for Phipps. When Phipps appeared, hesaid:

"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 a touch aboveSevenoaks, eh?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Get enough to eat down-stairs?"

"Plenty. "

"Good clothes to wear?"

"Very good, " and Phipps looked down upon his toilet with greatsatisfaction. 

"Stolen mostly from the General, eh?"

Phipps giggled. 

"That's all; you can go. I only wanted to see if you were in the house, and well taken care of. "

Phipps started to go. "By the way, Phipps, have you a goodmemory?--first-rate memory?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Can you remember everything that happened, a--say, six years ago?"

"I can try, " said Phipps, with an intelligent glance into Mr. Belcher'seyes. 

"Do you remember a day, about six years ago, when Paul Benedict cameinto my house at Sevenoaks, with Nicholas Johnson and James Ramsey, andthey all signed a paper together?"

"Very well, " replied Phipps. 

"And do you remember that I said to you, after they were gone, that thatpaper gave me all of Benedict's patent rights?"

Phipps looked up at the ceiling, and then said:

"Yes, sir, and I remember that I said, 'It will make you very 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 paper if you were to seeit?"

"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 red lines down theside. "

"You didn't write your own name, did you?"

"It seems to me I did. "

"Suppose you examine the paper, under James Ramsey's name, and seewhether yours is there. "

Mr. Felcher walked to his glass, turning his back upon Phipps. Thelatter sat down, and wrote his name upon the spot thus blindlysuggested. 

"It is here, sir. "

"Ah! So you have found it! You distinctly remember writing it on thatoccasion, and can swear to it, and to the signatures 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 men were 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 rest of 'em, and goto bed. "

Phipps took the costly bundle of cigars that was handed to him, carriedthem by habit to his nose, said "Thank you, sir, " and went off down thestairs, felicitating himself on the ease with which he had won so choicea treasure. 

The effect of Phipps' signature on Mr. Belcher's mind was a curiousillustration of the self-deceptions in which a human heart may indulge. Companionship in crime, the sharing of responsibility, the fact that thepaper was to have been signed at the time it was drawn, and would havebeen signed but for the accident of Benedict's insanity; the fact thathe had paid moneys with the expectation of securing a title to theinventions he 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 conscious falsehoodtakes on the semblance and the authority of truth, the Devil has himfast. 

CHAPTER XX. 

IN WHICH "THE LITTLE WOMAN" ANNOUNCES HER ENGAGEMENT TO JIM FENTON ANDRECEIVES THE CONGRATULATIONS OF HER FRIENDS. 

After the frame of Jim's hotel was up, at Number Nine, and those who hadassisted in its erection were out of the woods, he and his architectentered with great industry upon the task of covering it. Under Mr. Benedict's direction, Jim became an expert in the work, and the sound oftwo busy hammers kept the echoes of the forest awake from dawn untilsunset, every day. The masons came at last and put up the chimneys; andmore and more, as the days went on, the building assumed the look of adwelling. The grand object was to get their enterprise forwarded to apoint that would enable them to finish everything during the followingwinter, with such assistance as it might be necessary to import fromSevenoaks. The house needed to be made habitable for workmen while theirwork was progressing, and to this end Mr. Benedict and Jim pushed theirefforts without assistance. 

Occasionally, Jim found himself obliged to go to Sevenoaks for supplies, and for articles and tools whose necessity had not been anticipated. Onthese occasions, he always called Mike Conlin to his aid, and alwaysmanaged to see "the little woman" of his hopes. She was busy with herpreparations, carried on in secret; and he always left her with his headfull of new plans and his heart brimming with new satisfactions. It wasarranged that they should be married in the following spring, so as tobe ready for city boarders; and all his efforts were bent uponcompleting the house for occupation. 

During the autumn, Jim took from the Sevenoaks Post-Office a letter forPaul Benedict, bearing the New York post mark, and addressed in thehandwriting of a lady. The letter was a great puzzle to Jim, and hewatched its effect upon his companion with much curiosity. Benedict weptover it, and went away where he could weep alone. When he came back, hewas a transformed man. A new light was in his eye, a new elasticity inall his movements. 

"I cannot tell you about it, Jim, " he said; "at least I cannot tell younow; but a great burden has been lifted from my life. I have neverspoken of this to you, or to anybody; but the first cruel wound that theworld ever gave me has been healed by a touch. "

"It takes a woman to do them things, " said Jim. "I knowed when ye gin upthe little woman, as was free from what happened about an hour arter, that ye was firm' low an' savin' yer waddin'. Oh, ye can't fool me, notmuch!"

"What do you think of that, Jim?" said Benedict, smiling, and handinghim a check for five hundred dollars that the letter had inclosed. 

Jim looked it over and read it through with undisguised astonishment. 

"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 of tendering andreceiving such a gift. 

"If that thing had come to me from the little woman, " said he, "I shouldthink she was gittin' oneasy, an' a little dubersome about my comin' totime. It don't seem jest the thing for a woman to shell out money to aman. My nater goes agin it. I feel it all over me, an' I vow, I b'lievethat if the little woman had did that thing to me, I sh'd rub out myreckonin' an' start new. "

"It's all right, though, Jim, " responded Benedict, good-naturedly--"right for the woman to give it, and right for me toreceive it. Don't trouble yourself at all about it. "

Benedict's assurance did little to relieve Jim's bewilderment, who stillthought it a very improper thing to receive money from a woman. He didnot examine himself far enough to learn that Benedict's independence ofhis own care and provision was partly the cause of his pain. Fivehundred dollars in the woods was a great deal of money. To Jim'sapprehension, the man had become a capitalist. Some one besidehimself--some one richer and more powerful than himself--had taken theposition of benefactor toward his friend. He was glad to see Benedicthappy, but sorry that he could not 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 bytill 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 a hoss ahead on'em; but a woman, Mr. Benedict "--and Jim's voice sunk to a solemn andimpressive key--"a woman with the right kind of an eye, an' a takin'way, is stronger nor a steam Injun. She can snake ye 'round anywhere;an' the queerest thing about it is that a feller's willin' to go, an'thinks it's purty. She tells ye to come, an' ye come smilin'; and thenshe tells ye to go, an' ye go smilin'; and then she winds ye 'round herfinger, and ye feel as limber an' as willin' as if ye 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; not that I'm goin' tostan' atween ye an' good luck, but if ye cal'late that a woman's goin'to let ye do jest as ye think ye will--leastways a woman as has fivehundred dollars in yer pocket--yer eddication hasn't been well took careon. If I was sitooated like you, I'd jest walk up to the pastur'-barslike a 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 into his pocket, and, in theabsorption of his attention produced by the principal communication, forgotten. At the close of his conversation with Jim, he remembered it, and took it out and read it. It conveyed the intelligence that thelawyer found it impossible to leave the city according to his promise, for an autumn vacation in the woods. Still, he would find some means tosend up Harry if Mr. Benedict should insist upon it. The boy was well, and progressing satisfactorily in his studies. He was happy, and found anew reason for happiness in his intimacy with Mrs. Dillingham, with whomhe was spending a good deal of his leisure time. If Mr. Benedict wouldconsent to a change of plans, it was his wish to keep the lad throughthe winter, and then, with all his family, to go up to Number Nine inthe spring, be present at Jim's wedding, and assist in the inaugurationof the new hotel. 

Mr. Benedict was more easily reconciled to this change of plan than hewould have believed possible an hour previously. The letter, whosecontents had so mystified and disturbed Jim, had changed the wholeaspect of his life. He replied to this letter during the day, and wroteanother to Mr. Balfour, consenting to his wishes, and acquiescing in hisplans. For the first time in many years, he could see through all histrials, into the calm daylight. Harry was safe and happy in a newassociation with a woman who, more than any other, held his life in herhands. He was getting a new basis for life in friendship and love. Shored up by affection and sympathy, and with a modest competence in hishands for all present and immediately prospective needs, his dependentnature could once more stand erect. 

Henceforward he dropped his idle dreaming and became interested in hiswork, and doubly efficient in its execution. Jim once more had inpossession the old friend whose cheerfulness and good-nature hadoriginally won his affection; and the late autumn and winter which laybefore them seemed full of hopeful and happy enterprise. 

Miss Butterworth, hearing occasionally through Jim of the progress ofaffairs at Number Nine, began to think it about time to make known hersecret among her friends. Already they had begun to suspect that thelittle tailoress had a secret, out of which would grow a change in herlife. She had made some astonishing purchases at the village shops, which had been 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 of the recall of hermodest loans. There were many indications that she was preparing toleave the town. 

"Now, really, " said Mrs. Snow to her one evening, when Miss Butterworthwas illuminating the parsonage by her presence--"now, really, you musttell us all about it. I'm dying to know. "

"Oh, it's too ridiculous for anything, " said Miss Butterworth, laughingherself almost into hysterics. 

"Now, what, Keziah? What's too ridiculous? You _are_ the most provokingperson!"

"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! You wicked, deceitfulcreature!"

The three Misses Snow all jumped up with their mother, and pressedaround 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 Butterworth repeated. "The idea of my living to be an old maid, and, what's more, making up mymind to it, and then"--and then Miss Butterworth plunged into a new fitof merriment. 

"Well, Keziah, I hope you'll be very happy. Indeed I do, " 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 good wishes from thelips of the youngest of the trio. 

"Well, I'm very much obliged to you--to you all "--said MissButterworth, wiping her eyes; "but it certainly is the most ridiculousthing. I say to myself sometimes: 'Keziah Butterworth! You little oldfool! What _are_ you going to do with that man? How _are_ you going tolive with him?' Goodness knows that I've racked my brain over it untilI'm just about crazy. Don't mention it, but I believe I'll use him for awatch-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 in astonishment. 

"I'm sure I don't know. I've asked myself the question a thousandtimes. "

"Don't you want to marry him?"

"I don't know. I guess I do. "

"My dear, " said Mrs. Snow, soberly, "This is a very solemn thing. "

"I don't see it in that light, " said Miss Butterworth, indulging in anew fit of laughter. "I wish I could, but it's the funniest thing. Iwake up laughing over it, and I go to sleep laughing over it, and I sayto myself, 'what are you laughing 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 that I should evermarry Jim Fenton, I--"

"Jim Fenton!" exclaimed the whole Snow family. 

"Well, what is there so strange about my marrying Jim Fenton?" and thelittle tailoress straightened in her chair, her eyes flashing, and thecolor mounting to her face. 

"Oh, nothing; but you know--it's such a surprise--he's so--he's so--wellhe's a--not cultivated--never has seen much society, you know; and livesalmost out of the world, as it were. "

"Oh, no! He isn't cultivated! He ought to have been brought up inSevenoaks and polished! He ought to have been subjected to thecivilizing and refining influences of Bob Belcher!"

"Now, you mustn't be offended, Keziah. We are all your friends, andanxious 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 does live outof the world. I'd go with him, and live with him, if he used the NorthPole for a back log. Fah! I hate a slick man. Jim has spoiled me foranything but a true man in the rough. There's more pluck in his oldshoes than you can find in all the men of Sevenoaks put together. Andhe's as tender--Oh, Mrs. Snow! Oh, girls! He's as tender as a baby--justas tender as a baby! He has said to me the most wonderful things! I wishI could remember them. I never can, and I couldn't say them as he doesif I could. Since I became acquainted with him, it seems as if the worldhad been made all over new. I'd become kind o' tired of human nature, you know. It seemed sometimes as if it was just as well to be a cow as awoman; but I've become so much to him, and he has become so much to me, that all the men and women around me have grown beautiful. And he lovesme in a way that is so strong--and so protecting--and so sweet andcareful--that--now don't you laugh, or you'll make me angry--I'd feelsafer 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, whose enthusiasm couldnot be crammed into Miss Snow's expression. 

"Really charming, " added Number Three. 

"You are quite sure you don't know what you want to marry him for?" saidMrs. Snow, with a roguish twinkle in her eye. "You are quite sure youdon't love him?"

"Oh, I don't know, " said Miss Butterworth. "It's something. I wish youcould hear him talk. His grammar would kill you. It would just kill you. You'd never breathe after it. Such awful nominative cases as that manhas! And you can't beat him out of them. And such a pronunciation! Hiswords are just as rough as he is, and just like him. They seem to have agreat deal more meaning in them than they do when they have good clotheson. You don't know how I enjoy 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 butfew clouds in her heaven, but occasionally a tender vapor passed acrossthe silver disk, and one passed at this moment. Her eyes were loadedwith tears as she looked up in Mrs. Snow's face, and said:

"I was very lonely, you know. Life had become very tame, and I sawnothing before me different from my daily experience, which had grown tobe wearisome. Jim came and opened a new life to me, offered mecompanionship, new circumstances, new surroundings. It was like beingborn 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 this strong mancame, and was willing to take it up, and bear it for me as the greatestpleasure I could bestow upon him, what could I do--now, what could I do?I don't think I'm proud of him, but I belong to him, and I'm glad; andthat's all there is about it;" and Miss Butterworth sprang to her feetas if she were about to leave the house. 

"You are not going, " said Mrs. Snow, catching her by both shoulders, "sosit down. "

"I've told you the whole: there's nothing more. I suppose it will be agreat wonder to the Sevenoaks people, and that they'll think I'mthrowing myself away, but I do hope they will let me alone. "

"When are you to be married?"

"In the spring. "

"Where?"

"Oh! anywhere. No matter where. I haven't thought about that part ofit. "

"Then you'll be married right here, in this house. You shall have a nicelittle wedding. "

"Oh! and orange-blossoms!" exclaimed Miss Snow, clapping her hands. 

"And a veil!" added Number Two. 

"And a--" Number Three was not so familiar with such occasions as to beable to supply another article, so she clapped her hands. 

They were all in a delicious flutter. It would be so nice to have awedding in the house! It was a good sign. Did the young ladies thinkthat it might break a sort of electric spell that hung over theparsonage, and result in a shower which would float them all off?Perhaps so. They were, at least, very happy about it. 

Then they all sat down again, to talk over the matter of clothes. MissButterworth did not wish to make herself ridiculous. 

"I've said a thousand times, if I ever said it once, " she remarked, "that there's no fool like an old fool. Now, I don't want to hear anynonsense about orange-blossoms, or about a veil. If there's anythingthat I do despise above board, it's a bridal veil on an old maid. AndI'm not going to 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 three days I'mgoing to look as if I'd been married ten years. "

"It seems to me, " said Miss Snow, "that you ought to do something. I'msure, if I were in your place, that I should want to do something. "

The other girls tittered. 

"Not that I ever expect to be in your place, or anything like it, " shewent on, "but it does seem to me as if something extra ought to bedone--white kid gloves or something. "

"And white satin gaiters, " suggested the youngest sister. 

"I guess you'd think Jim Fenton was extra enough if you knew him, " saidMiss Butterworth, laughing. "There's plenty that's extra, goodnessknows! without buying anything. "

"Well, " persisted the youngest Miss Snow, "I'd have open-workedstockings, 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 the tailoress. 

Miss Snow, whose age was hovering about the confines of maturemaidenhood, smiled a deprecating smile, and said that she thought shewas about what they sold for chickens sometimes, and intimated that shewas anything but tender. 

"Well, don't be discouraged; that's all I have to say, " remarked MissButterworth. "If I can get married, anybody can. If anybody had told methat--well isn't it too ridiculous for anything? Now, isn't it?" And thelittle tailoress went off into another fit of laughter. Then she jumpedup and said she really must go. 

The report that Jim Fenton was soon to lead to the hymeneal altar thepopular village tailoress, spread with great rapidity, and as it startedfrom the minister's family, it had a good send-off, and was accompaniedby information that very pleasantly modified its effect upon the publicmind. The men of the village who knew Jim a great deal better than thewomen, and who, in various ways, had become familiar with his plans fora hotel, and recognized the fact that his enterprise would makeSevenoaks a kind of thoroughfare for his prospective city-boarders, decided that she had "done well. " Jim was enterprising, and, as theytermed it, "forehanded. " His habits were good, his industryindefatigable, his common sense and good nature unexampled. Everybodyliked Jim. To be sure, he was rough and uneducated, but he was honorableand true. He would make a good "provider. " Miss Butterworth might havegone further and fared worse. On the whole, it was a good thing; andthey were glad for Jim's sake and for Miss Butterworth's that it hadhappened. 

The women took their cue from the men. They thought, however, that MissButterworth would be very lonesome, and found various pegs on which tohang out their pity for a public airing. Still, the little tailoress wassurprised at the heartiness of their congratulations, and often meltedto tears by the presents she received from the great number of familiesfor whom, every year, she had worked. No engagement had occurred inSevenoaks for a long time that created so much interest, and enlisted somany sympathies. They hoped she would be very happy. They would beexceedingly sorry to lose her. Nobody could ever take her place. She hadalways been one whom they could have in their families "without makingany difference, " and she never tattled. 

So Miss Butterworth found herself quite a heroine, but whenever Jimshowed himself, the women all looked out of the windows, and made theirown comments. After all, they couldn't see exactly what Miss Butterworthcould find to like in him. They saw a tall, strong, rough, good-natured-looking man, whom all the men and all the boys greeted withgenuine heartiness. They saw him pushing about his business with theair of one who owned the whole village; but his clothes were rough, andhis boots over his trowsers. They hoped it would all turn out well. There was "no doubt that he needed a woman badly enough. "

Not only Miss Butterworth but Jim became the subject of congratulation. The first time he entered Sevenoaks after the announcement of hisengagement, he was hailed from every shop, and button-holed at everycorner. The good-natured chaffing to which he was subjected he met withhis old smile. 

"Much obleeged to ye for leavin' her for a man as knows a genuinecreetur when he sees her, " he said, to one and another, who rallied himupon his matrimonial intentions. 

"Isn't she rather old?" inquired one whose manners were not learned ofLord Chesterfield. 

"I dunno, " he replied; "she's hearn it thunder enough not to be skeered, an' she's had the measles an' the whoopin' cough, an' the chicken pox, an' the mumps, an' got through with her nonsense. "

CHAPTER XXI. 

IN WHICH JIM GETS THE FURNITURE INTO HIS HOUSE, AND MIKE CONLIN GETSANOTHER INSTALLMENT OF ADVICE INTO JIM. 

Jim had a weary winter. He was obliged to hire and to board a number ofworkmen, whom it was necessary to bring in from Sevenoaks, to effect thefinishing of his house. His money ran low at last, and Mr. Benedict wascalled upon to write a letter to Mr. Balfour on his behalf, acceptingthat gentleman's offer of pecuniary assistance. This was a humiliatingtrial to Jim, for he had hoped to enter upon his new life free from theburden of debt; but Mr. Balfour assured him that he did not regard hiscontribution to the building-fund as a loan--it was only the payment forhis board in advance. 

Jim was astonished to learn the extent of Miss Butterworth's resources. She proposed to furnish the house from the savings of her years ofactive industry. She had studied it so thoroughly during its progress, though she had never seen it, that she could have found every door andgone through every apartment of it in the dark. She had received fromMr. Benedict the plan and dimensions of every room. Carpets were made, matting was purchased, sets of furniture were procured, crockery, glass, linen, mirrors, curtains, kitchen-utensils, everything necessary tohousekeeping, were bought and placed in store, so that, when the springcame, all that remained 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 of spring had passedaway; the woods were filling with birds; the shad-blossoms were reachingtheir flat sprays out over the river, and looking at themselves in thesunny waters; and the thrush, standing on the deck of the New Year, hadpiped all hands from below, and sent them into the rigging to spread thesails. 

Jim's heart was glad. His house was finished, and nothing remained butto fill it with the means and appliances of life, and with that preciouslife to which they were to be devoted. The enterprise by which it was tobe supported lay before him, and was a burden upon him; but he believedin himself, and was not afraid. 

One morning, after he had gone over his house for the thousandth time, and mounted to the cupola for a final survey, he started for Sevenoaksto make his arrangements for the transportation of the furniture. Twonew boats had been placed on the river by men who proposed to act asguides to the summer visitors, and these he engaged to aid in the watertransportation of the articles that had been provided by "the littlewoman. "

After his arrival in Sevenoaks, he was in consultation with her everyday; and every day he was more impressed by the method which she hadpursued in the work of furnishing his little hotel. 

"I knowed you was smarter nor lightnin', " he said to her; "but I didn'tknow you was smarter nor a man. "

In his journeys, Jim was necessarily thrown into the company of MikeConlin, who was officiously desirous to place at his disposal the wisdomwhich had been acquired by long years of intimate association with thefeminine element of domestic life, and the duties and practices ofhousekeeping. When the last load of furniture was on its way to NumberNine, and Jim had stopped at Mike's house to refresh his weary team, Mike saw that his last opportunity for giving advice had come, and hedetermined to avail himself of it. 

"Jim, " he said, "ye're jist nothing but a babby, an' ye must ax me somequistions. I'm an owld housekaper, an' I kin tell ye everything, Jim. "

Jim was tired with his work, and tired of Mike. The great event of hislife stood so closely before him, and he was so much absorbed by it, that Mike's talk had a harsher effect upon his sensibilities than thegrating of a saw-mill. 

"Ah! Mike! shut up, shut up!" he said. "Ye mean well, but ye're theignorantest ramus I ever seen. Ye know how to run a shanty an' apig-pen, but what do ye know about keepin' a hotel?"

"Bedad, if that's where ye are, what do ye know about kapin' a hotelyersilf? Ye'll see the time, Jim, when ye'll be sorry ye turned the coldshoolder to the honest tongue of Mike Conlin. "

"Well, Mike, ye understand a pig-pen better nor I do. I gi'en it up, "said Jim, with a sigh that showed how painfully Mike was boring him. 

"Yes, Jim, an' ye think a pig-pen is benathe ye, forgittin' a pig is thepurtiest thing in life. Ah, Jim! whin ye git up in the marnin', a falin'shtewed, an' niver a bit o' breakfast in ye, an' go out in the djewbarefut, as ye was borrn, lavin' yer coat kapin' company wid yer uglyowld hat, waitin' for yer pork and pertaties, an' see yer pig wid histwo paws an' his dirty nose rachin' oover the pin, an sayin''good-marnin' to ye, ' an' squalin' away wid his big v'ice for hisporridge, ye'll remimber what I say. An', Jim, whin ye fade 'im, ah!whin ye fade 'im! an' he jist lays down continted, wid his belly full, an' ye laugh to hear 'im a groontin' an' a shwearin' to 'imself to thinkhe can't ate inny more, an' yer owld woman calls ye to breakfast, ye'llgo in jist happy--jist happy, now. Ah, ye can't tell me! I'm an owldhousekaper, Jim. "

"Ye're an old pig-keeper; that's what you be, " said Jim. "Ye're areg'lar Paddy, Mike. Ye're a good fellow, but I'd sooner hearn a loonnor a pig. "

"Divil a bit o' raison have ye got in ye, Jim. Ye can't ate a loon nomore nor ye can ate a boot. "

Mike was getting impatient with the incorrigible character of Jim'sprejudices, and Jim saw chat he was grieving him. 

"Well, I persume I sh'll have to keep pigs, Mike, " he said, in acompromising tone; "but I shan't dress 'em in calliker, nor larn 'em tosing 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 rist of 'im intilthe 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 of friendlyconfidence became a door through which he could enter a subject moreprofoundly interesting to him than that which related to his favoritequadruped. 

"What kind of an owld woman have ye got, Jim? Jist open yer heart like abox o' tobacky, Jim, an' lit me hilp ye. There's no man as knows moreabout a woman nor Mike Conlin. Ah, Jim! ye ought to 'ave seed me wid thegirrls in the owld counthry! They jist rin afther me as if I'd beenstalin' their little hearrts. There was a twilve-month whin they torethe very coat tails aff me back. Be gorry I could 'ave married me wholeneighborhood, an' I jist had to marry the firrst one I could lay mehonest hands on, an' take mesilf away wid her to Ameriky. "

This was too much for Jim. His face broadened into his old smile. 

"Mike, " said he, "ye haven't got an old towel or a hoss blanket aboutye, 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 feller comes to thinkof a lot o' women as is so hard pushed that they hanker arter MikeConlin, it fetches me. It's worse nor bein' without victuals, an' beatsthe cholery out o' sight. "

"Oh, ye blaggard! Can't ye talk sinse whin yer betthers is thryin' tohilp ye? What kind of an owld woman have ye got, now?"

"Mike, " said Jim, solemnly, "ye don't know what ye're talkin' about. Ifye did, ye wouldn't call her an old woman. She's a lady, Mike. She isn'tone o' your kind, an' I ain't one o' your kind, Mike. Can't ye seethere's the difference of a pig atween us? Don't ye know that if I wasto 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 never speak to me aboutmy old woman. That's a sort o' thing that 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 overhear his confession, he bent toward Jim, and half whispered:

"The women is all smarter nor the men, Jim; but ye mustn't let 'em knowthat ye think it. Ye've got to call 'em yer owld women, or ye can't keep'em where ye want 'em. Be gorry! I wouldn't let me owld woman know whatI think of 'er fur fifty dollars. I couldn't kape me house over me headinny time at all at all, if I should whishper it. She's jist as much ofa leddy as there is in Sivenoaks, bedad, an' I have to put on me bigairs, an' thrash around wid me two hands in me breeches pockets, an'shtick out me lips like a lorrd, an' promise to raise the divil wid herwhiniver she gits a fit o' high flyin', an' ye'll have to do the same, Jim, or jist lay down an' let 'er shtep on ye. Git a good shtart, Jim. Don't ye gin 'er the bit for five minutes. She'll rin away wid ye. Yecan't till me anything about women. "

"No, nor I don't want to. Now you jest shut up, Mike. I'm tired ahearin' ye. This thing about women is one as has half the fun of it inlarnin' it as ye go along. Ye mean well enough, Mike, but yer eddicationis poor; an' if it's all the same to ye, I'll take my pudden straightan' leave yer sarse for them as likes it. "

Jim's utter rejection of the further good offices of Mike, in theendeavor to instruct him in the management of his future relations withthe little woman, did not sink very deep into the Irishman'ssensibilities. Indeed, it could not have done so, for their waters wereshallow, and, as at this moment Mike's "owld woman" called both todinner, the difference was forgotten in the sympathy of hunger and thesatisfactions of the table. 

Jim felt that he was undergoing a change--had undergone one, in fact. Ithad never revealed itself to him so fully as it did during hisconversation with Mike. The building of the hotel, the study of thewants of another grade of civilization than that to which he had beenaccustomed, the frequent conversations with Miss Butterworth, theresponsibilities he had assumed, all had tended to lift him; and he feltthat Mike Conlin was no longer a tolerable companion. The shallowness ofthe Irishman's mind and life disgusted him, and he knew that the timewould soon come when, by a process as natural as the falling of theleaves in autumn, he should drop a whole class of associations, andstand where he could look down upon them--where they would look up tohim. The position of principal, the command of men, the conduct of, andthe personal responsibility for, a great enterprise, had given himconscious growth. His old life and his old associations wereinsufficient to contain him. 

After dinner they started on, for the first time accompanied by Mike'swife. Before her marriage she had lived the life common to herclass--that of cook and housemaid in the families of gentlemen. She knewthe duties connected with the opening of a house, and could bring itsmachinery into working order. She could do a thousand things that a maneither could not do, or would not think of doing; and Jim had arrangedthat she should be housekeeper until the mistress of the establishmentshould be installed in her office. 

The sun had set before they arrived at the river, and the boats of thetwo guides, with Jim's, which had been brought down by Mr. Benedict, were speedily loaded with the furniture, and Mike, picketing his horsesfor the night, embarked with the rest, and all slept at Number Nine. 

In three days Jim was to be married, and his cage was ready for hisbird. The stoop with its "settle, " the ladder for posies, at the footof which the morning-glories were already planted, and the "cupalo, " hadceased to be dreams, and become realities. Still, it all seemed a dreamto Jim. He waked in the morning in his own room, and wondered whether hewere not dreaming. He went out upon his piazza, and saw the cabin inwhich he had spent so many nights in his old simple life, then went offand looked up at his house or ranged through the rooms, and experiencedthe emotion of regret so common to those in similar circumstances, thathe could never again be what he had been, or be contented with what hehad been--that he had crossed a point in his life which his retiringfeet could never repass. It was the natural reaction of the long strainof expectation which he had experienced, and would pass away; but whileit was upon him he mourned over the death of his old self, and thehopeless obliteration of his old circumstances. 

Mr. Balfour had been written to, and would keep his promise to bepresent at the wedding, with Mrs. Balfour and the boys. Sam Yates, atJim's request, had agreed to see to the preparation of an appropriateoutfit for the bridegroom. Such invitations had been given out as MissButterworth dictated, and the Snow family was in a flutter ofexpectation. Presents of a humble and useful kind had been pouring inupon Miss Butterworth for days, until, indeed, she was quiteoverwhelmed. It seemed as if the whole village were in a conspiracy ofbeneficence. 

In a final conference with Mrs. Snow, Miss Butterworth said:

"I don't know at all how he is going to behave, and I'm not going totrouble myself about it; he shall do just as he pleases. He has made hisway with me, and if he is good enough for me, he is good enough forother people. I'm not going to badger him into nice manners, and I'mgoing to be just 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 awoman trying to train a man who loves her. If I were the man, I shouldhate her. "

CHAPTER XXII. 

IN WHICH JIM GETS MARRIED, THE NEW HOTEL RECEIVES ITS MISTRESS, ANDBENEDICT CONFERS A POWER OF ATTORNEY. 

There was great commotion in the little Sevenoaks tavern. It was Jim'swedding morning, and on the previous evening there had been a sufficientnumber of arrivals to fill every room. Mr. And Mrs. Balfour, with thetwo boys, had come in in the evening stage; Jim and Mr. Benedict hadarrived from Number Nine. Friends of Miss Butterworth from adjoiningtowns had come, so as to be ready for the ceremony of the morning. Villagers had thronged the noisy bar-room until midnight, scanning anddiscussing the strangers, and speculating upon the event which hadcalled them together. Jim had moved among them, smiling, and returningtheir good-natured badinage with imperturbable coolness, so far asappearances went, though he acknowledged to Mr. Balfour that he feltvery much as he did about his first moose. 

"I took a good aim, " said he, "restin' acrost a stump, but the stump wasoneasy like; an' then I blazed away, an' when I obsarved the moosesprawlin', I was twenty feet up a tree, with my gun in the snow; an' ifthey don't find me settin' on the parson's chimbly about nine o'clockto-morrer mornin', it won't be on account o' my not bein' skeered. "

But the wedding morning had arrived. Jim had had an uneasy night, withimperfect sleep and preposterous dreams. He had been pursuing game. Sometimes it was a bear that attracted his chase, sometimes it was adeer, sometimes it was a moose, but all the time it was MissButterworth, flying and looking back, with robes and ribbons vanishingamong the distant trees, until he shot and killed her, and then he wokein a great convulsion of despair, to hear the singing of the earlybirds, and to the realization of the fact that his days of bachelor lifewere counted. 

Mr. Benedict, with his restored boy in his arms, occupied the room nextto his, a door opening between them. Both were awake, and were busy withtheir whispered confidences, when they became aware that Jim was rousedand on his feet. In a huge bundle on the table lay Jim's weddinggarments, which he eyed from time to time as he busied himself at hisbath. 

"Won't ye be a purty bird with them feathers on! This makin' crows intobobolinks'll do for oncet, but, my! won't them things spin when I gitinto the woods agin?"

Benedict and Harry knew Jim's habit, and the measure of excitement thatwas upon him, and lay still, expecting to be amused by his soliloquies. Soon they heard him say:

"Oh, lay down, lay down, lay _down_, ye misable old mop!"

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 a piece o' woods ora hay-lot, an' there ain't no lodgin' it with nothin' short of aharricane. I've a good mind to git it shingled and san'-papered. "

Then, shifting his address to the object of his care and anxiety, hewent on:

"Oh, stick up, stick up, if you want to! Don't lay down on my 'count. P'rhaps ye want to see what's goin' on. P'rhaps ye're goin' to stand upwith me. P'rhaps ye want to skeer somebody's hosses. If I didn't look nobetter nor you, I sh'd want to lay low; an', if I'd 'a slep as poor asye did last night, 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 mood burst into themerriest laughter. 

This furnished Jim with just the apology he wanted for a frolic, andrushing into the adjoining bedroom, he pulled Harry from his bed, seatedhim on the top of his head, and marched with him struggling and laughingabout the room. After he had performed sundry acrobatic feats with him, he carried him back to his bed. Then he returned to his room, andentered seriously upon the task of arraying himself in his weddingattire. To get on his collar and neck-tie properly, he was obliged tocall for Mr. Benedict's assistance. 

Jim was already getting red in the face. 

"What on arth folks want to tie theirselves up in this way for in hotweather, is more nor I know, " he said. "How do ye s'pose them Mormonslive, as is doin' this thing every three days?"

Jim asked this question with his nose in the air, patiently waiting theresult of Mr. Benedict's manipulations at his throat. When he couldspeak again, he added:

"I vow, if I was doin' a big business in this line, I'd git some tinthings, an' have 'em soddered on, an' sleep in 'em. "

This sent Harry into another giggle, and, with many soliloquies and muchmerriment, the dressing in both rooms went on, until, in Jim's room, allbecame still. When Benedict and his boy had completed their toilet, theylooked in upon Jim, 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 it used to? It seemsall right fur pertickler friends to call me Jim, but clo'es is what putsthe Mister into a man. I felt it comin' 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. Ye have to bemeasured for't. A pair o' shears, an' a needle an' thread, an' a hotgoose is what changes a man into a Mister. It's a nice thing to findout, but it's uncomf'table. It ain't so bad as it would be if yecouldn't strip it off when ye git tired on't, an' it's a good thing toknow. "

"Do clothes make Belcher a gentleman?" inquired Mr. Benedict. 

"Well, it's what makes him a Mister, any way. When ye git his clo'es offthar ain't nothin' left of 'im. Dress 'im up in my old clo'es, as hasgot tar enough on 'em to paint a boat, an' there wouldn't be enough manin 'im to speak to. "

How long Jim would have indulged in his philosophy of the power of dresshad he not been disturbed will never be known, for at this moment Mr. Balfour knocked at his door, and was admitted. Sam Yates followed, andboth looked Jim over and pronounced him perfect. Even these familiarfriends felt the power of dress, and treated Jim in a way to which hehad been unaccustomed. The stalwart figure, developed in every muscle, and becomingly draped, was well calculated to excite their admiration. The refractory hair which had given its possessor so much trouble, simply made his head impressive and picturesque. There was a man beforethem--humane, brave, bright, original. All he wanted was culture. Physical and mental endowments were in excess, and the two men, trainedin the schools, had learned to love--almost to revere him. Until hespoke, they did not feel at home with him in his new disguise. 

They all descended to breakfast together. Jim was quiet under thefeeling that his clothes were an unnatural expression of himself, andthat his words would make them a mockery. He was awed, too, by thepresence of Mrs. Balfour, who met him at the table for the first time inher life. The sharp-eyed, smiling Yankee girls who waited at the meal, were very much devoted to Jim, who was ashamed to receive so muchattention. On the whole, it was the most uncomfortable breakfast he hadever eaten, but his eyes were quick to see all that was done, for he wasabout to open a hotel, and wished particularly to learn the details ofthe table service. 

There was great excitement, too, at the parsonage that morning. TheMisses Snow were stirred by the romance of the occasion. They had littleenough of this element in their lives, and were disposed to make themost of it when it came. The eldest had been invited to accompany thebride to Number Nine, and spend a few weeks with her there. As this wasaccounted a great privilege by the two younger sisters, they quietlyshelved her, and told her that they were to have their own way at home;so Miss Snow became ornamental and critical. Miss Butterworth had spentthe night with her, and they had talked like a pair of school-girlsuntil the small hours of the morning. The two younger girls had slepttogether, and discussed at length the duties of their respectiveoffices. One was to do the bride's hair and act as the generalsupervisor of her dress, the other was to arrange the flowers and takecare of the guests. Miss Butterworth's hair was not beautiful, and howit was to be made the most of was the great question that agitated thehair-dresser. All the possibilities of braid and plait and curl werecanvassed. If she only had a switch, a great triumph could be achieved, but she had none, and, what was worse, would have none. A neighbor hadsent in a potted white rose, full of buds and bloom, and over this thesisters quarreled. The hair would not be complete without the roses, andthe table would look "shameful" if the pot did not stand upon it, unshorn of a charm. The hair-dresser proposed that the stems which shewas bent on despoiling should have some artificial roses tied to them, but the disgraceful project was rejected with scorn. They wrangled overthe dear little rose-bush and its burden until they went to sleep--theone to dream that Miss Butterworth had risen in the morning with a newhead of hair that reached to her knee, in whose luxuriance she couldrevel with interminable delight, and the other that the house was filledwith roses; that they sprouted out of the walls, fluttered with beads ofdew against the windows, strewed the floor, and filled the air withodor. 

Miss Butterworth was not to step out of the room--not be seen by anymortal eye--until she should come forth as a bride. Miss Snow wassummarily expelled from the apartment, and only permitted to bring inMiss Butterworth's breakfast, while her self-appointed lady's maid didher hair, and draped her in her new gray silk. 

"Make just as big a fool of me, my dear, as you choose, " said theprospective bride to the fussy little girl who fluttered about her. "It's only for a day, and I don't care. "

Such patient manipulation, such sudden retirings for the study ofeffects, such delicious little experiments with a curl, such shifting ofhair-pins, such dainty adjustments of ruffles and frills as wereindulged in in that little room can only be imagined by the sex familiarwith them. And then, in the midst of it all, came a scream of delightthat stopped everything. Mrs. Balfour had sent in a great box full ofthe most exquisite flowers, which she had brought all the way from thecity. The youngest Miss Snow was wild with her new wealth, and therewere roses for Miss Butterworth's hair, and her throat, and a bouquetfor her hand. And after this came wonderful accessions to therefreshment table. Cake, with Miss 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 exclamations reachedMiss 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 to help us eat it, Ihope. "

"Just look at this basket of little cakes! I was saying to mother thisminute that that was all we wanted. "

So the good things came, and the cheerful givers went, and MissButterworth took an occasional sip at her coffee, with a huge napkin ather throat, and tears in her eyes, not drawn forth by the delicatetortures in progress upon her person. She thought of her weary years ofservice, her watchings by sick-beds, her ministry to the poor, her longloneliness, and acknowledged to herself that her reward had come. To beso loved and petted, and cared for, and waited upon, was payment forevery sacrifice and every service, and she felt that she and the worldwere at quits. 

Before the finishing touches to her toilet were given, there was atumult at the door. She could hear new voices. The guests were arriving. She heard laughter and merry greetings; and still they poured in, as ifthey had come in a procession. Then there was a hush, followed by thesound of a carriage, the letting down of steps, and a universal murmur. Jim had arrived, with Mr. And Mrs. Balfour and the boys. They had hadgreat difficulty in getting him into the one hackney coach which thevillage possessed, on account of his wish to ride with the driver, "afeller as he knowed;" but he was overruled by Mrs. Balfour, who, onalighting, took his arm. He came up the garden walk, smiling in thefaces and eyes of those gathered around the door and clustered at thewindows. In his wedding dress, he was the best figure in the crowd, andmany were the exclamations of feminine admiration. 

On entering the door, he looked about him, saw the well-dressed andexpectant company, the dainty baskets of flowers, the bountifully loadedtable in the little dining-room, all the preparations for his day ofhappiness, but he saw nowhere the person who gave to him thesignificance of the occasion. 

Mr. Snow greeted him cordially, and introduced him to those who stoodnear. 

"Well, parson, where's the little woman?" he said, at last, in a voiceso loud that all heard the startling question. Miss Butterworth heardhim, and laughed. 

"Just hear him!" she exclaimed to the busy girl, whose work was nowhurrying to a close. "If he doesn't astonish them before he getsthrough, I shall be mistaken. I do think it's the most ridiculous thing. Now isn't it! The idea!"

Miss Snow, in the general character of outside manager and futurecompanion 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't see her until sheis ready!"

"Oh can't I!" and Jim smiled. 

Miss Snow had the impression, prevalent among women, that a bridegroomhas no rights so long as they can keep him out of them, and that it istheir privilege to fight him up to the last moment. 

"Now, really, Mr. Fenton, you _must_ be patient, " she said, in awhisper. "She is quite delicate this morning, and she's going to look sopretty that you'll hardly know her. "

"Well, " said Jim, "if you've got a ticket into the place whar she'sstoppin', tell her that kingdom-come is here an' waitin'. "

A ripple of laughter went around the circle, and Jim, finding the roomgetting a little close, beckoned Mr. Snow out of the doors. Taking himaside 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 intractable pile withgenuine concern. 

"Yes, riz in a dream. I thought I'd shot 'er. I was follerin' 'er allnight. Sometimes she was one thing, an' sometimes she was another, but Idrew a bead on 'er, an' down she went, an' up come my har quicker norlightnin'. I don't s'pose it looks very purty, but I can't help it. "

"Have you tried anything on it?" inquired Mr. Snow with a puzzled look. 

"Yis, everything but a hot flat iron, an' I'm a little afraid o' that. If wust comes to wust, it'll have to be did, though. It may warm up myold brains a little, but if my har is well sprinkled, and the thing ishandled lively, it'll pay for tryin'. "

The perfect candor and coolness of Jim's manner were too much for theunsuspicious spirit of the minister, who thought it all very strange. Hehad heard of such things, but this was the first instance he had everseen. 

"Parson, " said Jim, changing the topic, "what's the damage for the sorto' thing ye're drivin' at this mornin'?"

"The what?"

"The damage--what's the--well--damage? What do ye consider a fa'rprice?"

"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 to perform theceremony for nothing. It's a labor of love, Mr. Fenton. We are all verymuch interested in Miss Butterworth, as you see. "

"Well, I'm a little interested in 'er myself, an' I'm a goin' to pay forthe splice. Jest tuck that X into yer jacket, an' tell yer neighbors asye've seen a man as was five times better nor the law. "

"You are very generous. "

"No; I know what business is, though. Ye have to get somethin' to squarethe buryins an' baptizins with. When a man has a weddin', he'd betterpay the whole thing in a jump. Parsons have to live, but how the devilthey do it in Sevenoaks is more nor I know. "

"Mr. Fenton! excuse me!" said Mr. Snow, coloring, "but I am notaccustomed to hearing language of that kind. "

"No, I s'pose not, " said Jim, who saw too late that he had made amistake. "Your sort o' folks knuckle to the devil more nor I do. A goodbein' I take to, but a bad bein' I'm careless with; an' I don't make nomore o' slingin' his name round nor I do kickin' an old boot. "

Mr. Snow was obliged to laugh, and half a dozen others, who had gatheredabout them, joined in a merry chorus. 

Then Miss Snow came out and whispered to her father, and gave a roguishglance at Jim. At this time the house was full, the little yard wasfull, and there was a crowd of boys at the gate. Mr. Snow took Jim bythe arm and led him in. They pressed through the crowd at the door, MissSnow making way for them, and so, in a sort of triumphal progress, theywent through the room, and disappeared in the apartment where "thelittle woman, " flushed and expectant, waited their arrival. 

It would be hard to tell which was the more surprised as they wereconfronted by the meeting. Dress had wrought its miracle upon both ofthem, and they hardly knew each other. 

"Well, little woman, how fare ye?" said Jim, and he advanced, and tookher cheeks tenderly between his rough hands, and kissed her. 

"Oh, don't! Mr. Fenton! You'll muss her hair!" exclaimed the nervouslittle lady's maid of the morning, dancing about the object of herdelightful toils and anxieties, and readjusting a rose, and pulling outthe fold of a ruffle. 

"A purty job ye've made on't! The little woman'll never look so niceagain, " said Jim. 

"Perhaps I shall--when I'm married again, " said Miss Butterworth, 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 really was time for theceremony to begin. Such a job as she had had in seating people!

Oh, the mysteries of that little room! How the people outside wonderedwhat was going on there! How the girls inside rejoiced in their officialprivileges!

Miss Snow took Jim by the button-hole:

"Mr. Fenton, you must take Miss Butterworth on your arm, you know, andlead her in front of the sofa, and turn around, and face father, andthen do just what he tells you, and remember that there's nothing foryou to say. "

The truth was, that they were all afraid that Jim would not be able tohold 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 book in his hand, was followed by Jim and his bride, the little procession being completedby the three Misses Snow, who, with a great deal of care upon theirfaces, slipped out of the door, one after another, like three whitedoves from a window. Mr. Snow took his position, the pair wheeled andfaced him, and the three Misses Snow supported Miss Butterworth asimpromptu bridesmaids. It was an impressive tableau, and when the goodpastor said: "Let us pray, " and raised his thin, white hands, a painterin search of a subject could have asked for nothing better. 

When, at the close of his prayer, the pastor inquired if there were anyknown obstacles to the union of the pair before him in the bonds of holymatrimony, and bade all objectors to speak then, or forever after holdtheir peace, Jim looked around with a defiant air, as if he would liketo see the man who 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 recalled Miss Snow'sinjunction in time to arrest his sentence in midpassage. 

"James, " the pastor repeated, and then went on to ask him, in accordancewith the simple form of his sect, whether he took the woman whom he washolding by the hand to be his lawful and wedded wife, to be loved andcherished in sickness and health, in prosperity and adversity, cleavingto her, 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 said it, but it wasso strong and earnest, and so much in character, that hardly a smilecrossed a face that fronted him. 

Then "Keziah" was questioned in the usual form, and bowed her response, and Jim and the little woman were declared to be one. "What God hathjoined together, let not man put asunder. "

And then Mr. Snow raised his white hands again, and pronounced a formalbenediction. There was a moment of awkwardness, but soon the pastoradvanced with his congratulations, and Mrs. Snow came up, and the threeMisses Snow, and the Balfours, and the neighbors; and there were kissesand hand-shakings, and good wishes. Jim beamed around upon thefluttering and chattering groups like a great, good-natured mastiff upona playful collection of silken spaniels and smart terriers. It was theproudest moment of his life. Even when standing on the cupola of hishotel, surveying his achievements, and counting his possessions, he hadnever felt the 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 imposition of acrown. 

"Ye made purty solemn business on't, Parson, " said Jim. 

"It's a very important step, Mr. Fenton, " responded the clergyman. 

"Step!" exclaimed Jim. "That's no name for't; it's a whole trip. But Ish'll do it. When I said it I meaned it. I sh'll take care o' the littlewoman, and atween you an' I, Parson, it's about the best thing as a mancan do. Takin' care of a woman is the nateral thing for a man, an' noman ain't much as doesn't do it, and glad o' the job. "

The capacity of a country assembly for cakes, pies, and lemonade, issomething quite unique, especially at a morning festival. If the tablegroaned at the beginning, it sighed at the close. The abundance thatasserted itself in piles of dainties was left a wreck. It faded awaylike a bank of snow before a drift of southern vapor. Jim, foragingamong the solids, 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, anddistributed his burden among the boys at the gate. 

"Boys, I know ye're hungry, 'cause ye've left yer breakfast on yerfaces. Now git this in afore it rains. "

The boys did not stand on the order of the service, but helpedthemselves greedily, and left his basket empty in a twinkling. 

"It beats all nater, " said Jim, looking at them sympathetically, "howmuch boys can put down when they try. If the facks could be knowed, without cuttin' into 'em, I'd be willin' to bet somethin' that theirlegs is holler. "

While Jim was absent, the bride's health was drunk in a glass oflemonade, and when he returned, his own health was proposed, and Jimseemed to feel that something was expected of 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 president of this country. I ain'tused to yer ways, but I know when I'm treated well, an' when the littlewoman is treated well. I'm obleeged to ye on her 'count. I'm a goin' totake 'er into 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 is took sickby overloadin' with cookies 'arly in the day, or bein' thinned out withlemonade, ye can come into the woods, an' I'll send ye back happy. "

There was a clapping of hands and a flutter of handkerchiefs, and amerry chorus of laughter, and then two vehicles drove up to the door. The bride bade a tearful farewell to her multitude of friends, andpoured out her thanks to the minister's family, and in twenty minutesthereafter, two happy loads of passengers went pounding over the bridge, and off up the hill on the way to Number Nine. The horses were strong, the morning was perfect, and Jim was in possession of his bride. They, with Miss Snow, occupied one carriage, while Mr. Benedict and theBalfours filled the other. Not a member of the company started homewarduntil the bridal party was seen climbing the hill in the distance, butwaited, commenting upon the great event of the morning, and speculatingupon the future of the pair whose marriage they had witnessed. There wasnot a woman in the crowd who did not believe in Jim; and all were gladthat the little tailoress had reached so pleasant and stimulating achange in her life. 

When the voyagers had passed beyond the scattered farm-houses into thelonely country, Jim, with his wife's help, released himself from thecollar and cravat that tormented him, and once more breathed freely. Onthey sped, shouting to one another from carriage to carriage, and MikeConlin's humble house was reached in a two hours' drive. There waschaffing at the door and romping among the trees while the horses wererefreshed, and then they pushed on again with such speed as was possiblewith poorer roads and soberer horses; and two hours before sunset theywere at the river. The little woman had enjoyed the drive. When shefound that she had cut loose from her old life, and was entering uponone unknown and untried, in pleasant companionship, she was thoroughlyhappy. It was all like a fairy story; and there before her rolled thebeautiful river, and, waiting on the shore, were the trunks and remnantsof baggage that had been started for their destination before daylight, and the guides with their boats, and with wild flowers in theirhat-bands. 

The carriages were dismissed to find their way back to Mike Conlin'sthat night, while Jim, throwing off his coat, assisted in loading thethree boats. Mr. Balfour had brought along with him, not only a largeflag for the hotel, but half a dozen smaller ones for the little fleet. The flags were soon mounted upon little rods, and set up at either endof each boat, and when the luggage was all loaded, and the passengerswere all in their places--Jim taking his wife and Miss Snow in his ownfamiliar craft--they pushed out into the stream, and started for a race. Jim was the most powerful man of the three, and was aching for work. Itwas a race all the way, but the broader chest and harder muscles won. Itwas a regatta without spectators, but as full of excitement as if theshores had been fringed with a cheering crowd. 

The two women chatted together in the stern of Jim's boat, or sat insilence, as if they were enchanted, watching the changing shores, whilethe great shadows of the woods deepened upon them. They had never seenanything 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 far up among thewoods, they caught the vision of a new building. The boys in the boatsbehind yelled with delight. Ample in its dimensions and fair in itsoutlines, there stood the little woman's home. Her eyes filled withtears, and she hid 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 arm around her neck andwhispered. 

"A woman is a curi's bein', " said Jim. "She cries when she's tickled, an' she laughs when she's mad. "

"I'm not mad, " said the little woman, bursting into a laugh, and liftingher tear-burdened eyes to Jim. 

"An' then, " said Jim, "she cries and laughs all to oncet, an'a fellerdon't know whether to take off his jacket or put up his umberell. "

This quite restored the "little woman, " and her eyes were dry and merryas the boat touched the bank, and the two women were helped on shore. Before the other boats came up, they were in the house, with thedelighted Turk at their heels, and Mike Conlin's wife courtseying beforethem. 

It was a merry night at Number Nine. Jim's wife became the mistress atonce. She knew where everything was to be found, as well as if she hadbeen there for a year, and played the hostess to Mr. And Mrs. Balfour asagreeably as if her life had been devoted to the duties of herestablishment. 

Mr. Balfour could not make a long stay in the woods, but had determinedto leave his wife there with the boys. His business was pressing athome, and he had heard something while at Sevenoaks that made him uneasyon Mr. Benedict's account. The latter had kept himself very quiet whileat the wedding, but his intimacy with one of Mr. Balfour's boys had beenobserved, and there were those who detected the likeness of this boy, though much changed by growth and better conditions, to the little HarryBenedict of other days. Mr. Balfour had overheard the speculations ofthe villagers on the strange Mr. Williams who had for so long a timebeen housed with Jim Fenton, and the utterance of suspicions that he wasno other than their old friend, Paul Benedict. He knew that thissuspicion would be reported by Mr. Belcher's agent at once, and that Mr. Belcher would take desperate steps to secure himself in his possessions. What form these measures would take--whether of fraud or personalviolence--he could not tell. 

He advised Mr. Benedict to give him a power of attorney to prosecute Mr. Belcher for the sum due him on the use of his inventions, and to procurean injunction on his further use of them, unless he should enter into anagreement to pay such a royalty as should be deemed equitable by all theparties concerned. Mr. Benedict accepted the advice, and the papers wereexecuted at once. 

Armed with this document, Mr. Balfour bade good-bye to Number Nine andits pleasant company, and hastened back to the city, where he took thefirst opportunity to report to his friends the readiness of Jim toreceive them for the summer. 

It would be pleasant to follow them into their forest pastimes, but morestirring and important matters will hold us to the city. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

IN WHICH MR. BELCHER EXPRESSES HIS DETERMINATION TO BECOME A "FOUNDER, "BUT DROPS HIS NOUN IN FEAR OF A LITTLE VERB OF THE SAME NAME. 

Mrs. Dillingham had a difficult rôle to play. She could not break withMr. Belcher without exposing her motives and bringing herself underunpleasant suspicion and surveillance. She felt that the safety of herprotégé and his father would be best consulted by keeping peace withtheir enemy; yet every approach of the great scoundrel disgusted andhumiliated her. That side of her nature which had attracted andencouraged him was sleeping, and, under the new motives which were atwork within her, she hoped that it would never wake. She looked down thedevious track of her past, counted over its unworthy and most unwomanlysatisfactions, and wondered. She looked back to a great wrong which shehad once inflicted on an innocent man, with a self-condemnation so deepthat all the womanhood within her rose into the purpose of reparation. 

The boy whom she had called to her side, and fastened by an impassionedtenderness more powerful even than her wonderful art, had become to hera fountain of pure motives. She had a right to love this child. She oweda duty to him beyond any woman living. Grasping her right, andacknowledging her duty--a right and duty accorded to her by his nominalprotector--she would not have forfeited them for the world. They soonbecame all that gave significance to her existence, and to them shedetermined that her life should be devoted. To stand well with thisboy, to be loved, admired and respected by him, to be to him all that amother could be, to be guided by his pure and tender conscience towardher own reformation, to waken into something like life and nourish intosomething like strength the starved motherhood within her--these becameher dominant motives. 

Mr. Belcher saw the change in her, but was too gross in his nature, tooblind in his passion, and too vain in his imagined power, to comprehendit. She was a woman, and had her whims, he thought. Whims wereevanescent, and this particular whim would pass away. He was vexed byseeing the boy so constantly with her. He met them walking together inthe street, or straying in the park, hand in hand, or caught the ladlooking at him from her window. He could not doubt that all thisintimacy was approved by Mr. Balfour. Was she playing a deep game? Couldshe play it for anybody but himself--the man who had taken her heart bystorm? Her actions, however, even when interpreted by his self-conceit, gave him uneasiness. She had grown to be very kind and consideratetoward Mrs. Belcher. Had this friendship moved her to crush the passionfor her husband? Ah! if she could only know how true he was to her inhis untruthfulness!--how faithful he was to her in his perjury!--how hehad saved himself for the ever-vanishing opportunity!

Many a time the old self-pity came back to the successful scoundrel. Many a time he wondered why the fate which had been so kind to him inother things would not open the door to his wishes in this. With thisunrewarded passion gnawing at his heart, and with the necessity oftreating the wife of his youth with constantly increasing consideration, in order to cover it from her sight, the General was anything but asatisfied and happy man. The more he thought upon it, the more morbid hegrew, until it seemed to him that his wife must look through hishypocritical eyes into his guilty heart. He grew more and more guardedin his speech. If he mentioned Mrs. Dillingham's name, he always did itincidentally, and then only for the purpose of showing that he had noreason to avoid the mention of it. 

There was another thought that preyed upon him. He was consciously aforger. He had not used the document he had forged, but he haddetermined to do so. Law had not laid its finger upon him, but itsfinger was over him. He had not yet crossed the line that made himlegally a criminal, but the line was drawn before him, and only anotherstep would be necessary to place him beyond it. A brood of fears wasgathering around him. They stood back, glaring upon him from thedistance; but they only waited another act in his career of dishonor tocrowd in and surround him with menace. Sometimes he shrank from hispurpose, but the shame of being impoverished and beaten spurred himrenewedly to determination. He became conscious that what there was ofbravery in 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 himself that hewas no more a rascal than those around him. He reached out on every sidefor means to maintain his self-respect. What good thing could he do tocounterbalance his bad deeds? How could he shore himself up by publicpraise, by respectable associations, by the obligations of the publicfor deeds of beneficence? It is the most natural thing in the world forthe dishonest 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 Sevenoaks tavernoccurred, preceding Jim's wedding, Mr. Belcher sat in his library, looking over the document which nominally conveyed to him the right andtitle of Paul Benedict to his inventions. He had done this many timessince he had forged three of the signatures, and secured a fraudulentaddition to the number from the hand of Phipps. He had brought himselfto believe, to a certain extent, in their genuineness, and was whollysure that they were employed on behalf of justice. The inventions hadcost Benedict little or no money, and he, Mr. Belcher, had developedthem at his own risk. Without his money and his enterprise they wouldhave amounted to nothing. If Benedict had not lost his reason, thedocument would have been legally signed. The cause of Benedict's lapsefrom sanity did not occur to him. He only knew that if the inventor hadnot become insane, he should have secured his signature at some wretchedprice, and out of this conviction he reared his self-justification. 

"It's right!" said Mr. Belcher. "The State prison may be in it, but it'sright!"

And then, confirming his foul determination by an oath, he added:

"I'll stand by it. "

Then he rang his bell, and called for Phipps. 

"Phipps, " said he, as his faithful and plastic servitor appeared, "comein, and close the door. "

When Phipps, with a question in his face, walked up to where Mr. Belcherwas sitting at his desk, with the forged document before him, the lattersaid:

"Phipps, did you ever see this paper before?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Now, think hard--don't be in a hurry--and tell me when you saw itbefore. Take it in your hand, and look it all over, and be sure. "

"I can't tell, exactly, " responded Phipps, scratching his had; "but Ishould think it might have been six years ago, or more. It was a longtime before we came from Sevenoaks. "

"Very well; is that your signature?"

"It is, sir. "

"Did you see Benedict write his name? Did you see Johnson and Ramseywrite their names?"

"I did, sir. "

"Do you remember all the circumstances--what I said to you, and what yousaid to me--why you were in the room?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Phipps, do you know that if it is ever found out that you have signedthat paper within a few weeks, you are as good as a dead man?"

"I don't know what you mean, sir, " replied Phipps, in evident alarm. 

"Do you know that that signature is enough to send you to the Stateprison?"

"No, sir. "

"Well, Phipps, it is just that, provided it isn't stuck to. You willhave to swear to it, and stand by it. I know the thing is coming. I canfeel it in my bones. Why it hasn't come before, the Lord only knows. "

Phipps had great faith in the might of money, and entire faith in Mr. Belcher's power to save him from any calamity. His master, during allhis residence with and devotion to him, had shown himself able to secureevery end he had sought, and he believed in him, or believed in hispower, 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, myboy. If you swear, through thick and thin, that you saw these men signthis paper, six years ago or more, that you signed it at the same time, and stand by your own signature, you will sail through all right, and dome a devilish good turn. If you balk, or get twisted up in your ownreins, or thrown off your seat, down goes your house. If you stand byme, I shall stand by you. The thing is all right, and just as it oughtto be, but it's a little irregular. It gives me what belongs to me, butthe law happens to be against it. "

Phipps hesitated, and glanced suspiciously, and even menacingly, at thepaper. Mr. Belcher knew that he would like to tear it in pieces, and so, without unseemly haste, he picked it up, placed it in its drawer, lockedit in, and put the key in his pocket. 

"I don't want to get into trouble, " said Phipps. 

"Phipps, " said Mr. Belcher, in a conciliatory tone, "I don't intendthat you shall get into trouble. "

Then, rising, and patting his servant on the shoulder, he added:

"But it all depends on your standing by me, and standing by yourself. You know that you will lose nothing by standing by the General, Phipps;you know me. "

Phipps was not afraid of crime; he was only afraid of its possibleconsequences; and Mr. Belcher's assurance of safety, provided he shouldremember his story and adhere to it, was all that he needed to confirmhim in the determination to do what Mr. Belcher wished him to do. 

After Phipps retired, Mr. Belcher took out his document again, andlooked it over for the hundredth time. He recompared the signatureswhich he had forged with their originals. Consciously a villain, heregarded himself still as a man who was struggling for his rights. Butsomething of his old, self-reliant courage was gone. He recognized thefact that there was one thing in the world more powerful than himself. The law was against him. Single-handed, he could meet men; but the greatpower which embodied the justice and strength of the State awed him, andcompelled him into a realization of his weakness. 

The next morning Mr. Belcher received his brokers and operators in bedin accordance with his custom. He was not good-natured. His operationsin Wall street had not been prosperous for several weeks. In some way, impossible to be foreseen by himself or his agents, everything hadworked against him He knew that if he did not rally from this passage ofill-luck, he would, in addition to his loss of money, lose something ofhis prestige. He had a stormy time with his advisers and tools, swore agreat deal, and sent them off in anything but a pleasant frame of mind. 

Talbot was waiting in the drawing-room when the brokers retired, andfollowed his card upstairs, where he found his principal with an uglyfrown upon his face. 

"Toll, " he whimpered, "I'm glad to see you. You're the best of 'em all, and in the long run, you bring me the most money. "

"Thank you, " responded the factor, showing his white teeth in agratified smile. 

"Toll, I'm not exactly ill, but I'm not quite myself. How long it willlast I don't know, but just this minute the General is devilish unhappy, and would sell himself cheap. Things are not going right. I don't sleepwell. "

"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 are getting more thanyour share of it now. "

"Well, I don't ask it of you, " said Talbot, "but if you wish to get ridof it, I could manage a little more of it without trouble. "

"Toll, look here! The General wants to place a little money where itwill bring him some reputation with the highly respectable olddons, --our spiritual fathers, you know--and the brethren. Understand?"

"General, you are deep; you'll have to explain. "

"Well, all our sort of fellows patronize something or other. They cheata man out of his eye-teeth one day, and the next, you hear of themendowing something or other, or making a speech to a band of old women, or figuring on a top-lofty list of directors. That's the kind of thing Iwant. "

"You can get any amount of it, General, by paying for it. All they wantis money; they don't care where it comes from. "

"Toll, shut up. I behold a vision. Close your eyes now, and let me paintit for you. I see the General--General Robert Belcher, themillionaire--in the aspect of a great public benefactor. He is dressedin black, and sits upon a platform, in the midst of a lot of seedy menin white chokers. They hand him a programme. There is speech-makinggoing on, and every speech makes an allusion to 'our benefactor, ' andthe brethren and sisters cheer. The General bows. High old doctors ofdivinity press up to be introduced. They are all after more. Theyflatter the General; they coddle him. They give him the highest seat. They pretend to respect him. They defend him from all slanders. They areproud of the General. He is their man. I look into the religiousnewspapers, and in one column I behold a curse on the stock-jobbing ofWall street, and in the next, the praise of the beneficence of GeneralRobert Belcher. I see the General passing down Wall street the next day. I see him laughing out of the corner of his left eye, while his friendspunch him in the ribs. Oh, Toll! it's delicious! Where are yourfeelings, my boy? Why don't you cry?"

"Charming picture, General! Charming! but my handkerchief is fresh, andI must save it. I may have a cold before night. "

"Well, now, Toll, what's the thing to be done?"

"What do you say to soup-kitchens for the poor? They don't cost so verymuch, and you get your name in the papers. "

"Soup-kitchens be hanged! That's Mrs. Belcher's job. Besides, I don'twant to get up a reputation for helping the poor. They're a troublesomelot and full of bother; I don't believe in 'em. They don't associate youwith anybody but themselves. What I want is to be in the right sort of acrowd. "

"Have you thought of a hospital?"

"Yes, I've thought of a hospital, but I don't seem to hanker after it. To tell the truth, the hospitals are pretty well taken up already. Imight work into a board of directors by paying enough, I suppose, but itis too much the regular thing. What I want is ministers--somethingreligious, you know. "

"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 you what 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 anddevoted young men? Don't you see that we are going to the devil with ourthirst for filthy lucre? Don't you understand how noble a thing it wouldbe for one of fortune's favorites to found an institution with hiswealth, that would bear down its blessings to unborn millions? What ifthat institution should also bear his name? What if that name should beforever associated 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, but there is reallynothing impracticable in your plan. All these fellows want is yourmoney. They will give you everything you want for it in the way ofglory. "

"I believe you; and wouldn't it be fun for the General? I vow I mustindulge. I'm getting tired of horses; and these confounded suppers don'tagree with me. It's a theological seminary or nothing. The tides of mydestiny, Toll--you understand--the tides of my destiny tend in thatdirection, 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 was handed inwhich gave him a shock, and compelled him to ask Talbot to retire whilehe dressed. 

"Don't go away, Toll, " he said; "I want to see you again. "

The dispatch that roused the General from his dream of beneficence wasfrom his agent at Sevenoaks, and read thus: "Jim Fenton's weddingoccurred this morning. He was accompanied by a man whom several oldcitizens firmly believe to be Paul Benedict, though he passed underanother name. Balfour and Benedict's boy were here, and all are gone upto Number Nine. Will write particulars. "

The theological seminary passed at once into the realm of dimlyremembered dreams, to be recalled or forgotten as circumstances shoulddetermine. At present, there was some thing else to occupy the General'smind. 

Before he had completed his toilet, he called for Talbot. 

"Toll, " said he, "if you were in need of legal advice of the best kind, and wanted to be put through a thing straight, whether it were right ornot, to whom would you apply? Now mind, I don't want any milksops. "

"I know two or three lawyers here who have been through a theologicalseminary, " Talbot responded, with a knowing smile. 

"Oh, get out! There's no joke about this. I mean business now. "

"Well, I took pains to show you your man, at my house, once. Don't youremember 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 forged document. Thenhe went back to Talbot, and said:

"Would Cavendish come here?"

"Not he! If you want to see him, you must go where he is. He wouldn'twalk into your door to accommodate you if he knew it. "

Mr. Belcher was afraid of Cavendish, as far as he could be afraid of anyman. The lawyer had bluffed everybody at the dinner-party, and, in hisway, scoffed at everybody. He had felt in the lawyer's presence thecontact of a nature which possessed more self-assertion andself-assurance than his own. Be 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 he could hire forany service. But he went again to the drawer, and, with an excited andtrembling hand, drew forth the accursed document. With this he took theautographs on which his forgeries were based. Then he sat down byhimself, and thought the matter all over, while Talbot waited in anotherroom. It was only by a desperate determination that he started at last, called Talbot down stairs, put on his hat, and went out. 

It seemed to the proprietor, as he emerged from his house, that therewas something weird in the morning light. He looked up, and saw that thesky was clear. He looked down, and the street was veiled in a strangeshadow. The boys looked at him as if they were half startled. Inquisitive faces peered at him from a passing omnibus. A beggar laughedas he held out his greasy hat. Passengers paused to observe him. Allthis attention, which he once courted and accepted as flattery and fame, was disagreeable to him. 

"Good God! Toll, what has happened since last night?" he said, as hesank back upon the satin cushions of the coupè. 

"General, I don't think you're quite well. Don't die now. We can't spareyou yet. "

"Die? Do I look like it?" exclaimed Mr. Belcher, slapping his broadchest. "Don't talk to me about dying. I haven't thought about that yet. "

"I beg your pardon. You know I didn't mean to distress you. "

Then the conversation dropped, and the carriage wheeled on. The roll ofvehicles, the shouting of drivers, the panoramic scenes, the flagsswaying in the morning sky, the busy throngs that went up and downBroadway, were but the sights and sounds of a dimly apprehended dream. He was journeying toward guilt. What would be its end? Would he not bedetected in it at the first step? How could he sit before the hawk-eyedman whom he was about to meet without in some way betraying his secret?

When the coupè stopped, Talbot roused his companion with difficulty. 

"This can't be the place, Toll. We haven't come half a mile. "

"On the contrary, we have come three miles. "

"It can't be possible, Toll. I must look at your horse. I'd no idea youhad such an animal. "

Then Mr. Belcher got out, and looked the horse over. He was aconnoisseur, and he stood five minutes on the curb-stone, expatiatingupon those points of the animal that pleased him. 

"I believe you came to see Mr. Cavendish, " suggested Talbot with alaugh. 

"Yes, I suppose I must go up. I hate lawyers, anyway. "

They climbed the stairway. They knocked at Mr. Cavendish's door. A boyopened it, and took in their cards. Mr. Cavendish was busy, but wouldsee them in fifteen minutes. Mr. Belcher sat down in the ante-room, tooka newspaper from his pocket, and began to read. Then he took a pen andscribbled, writing his own name with three other names, across which henervously drew his pen. Then he drew forth his knife, and tremblinglydressed his finger-nails. Having completed this task, he took out alarge pocket-book, withdrew a blank check, filled and signed it, and putit 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 to make sure thatCavendish remembers you. "

What Talbot really wished to make sure of was, that Cavendish shouldknow that he had brought him his client. 

At last they heard a little bell which summoned the boy, who soonreturned to say that Mr. Cavendish would see them. Mr. Belcher lookedaround for a mirror, but discovering none, said:

"Toll, look at me! Am I all right? Do you see anything out of the way?"

Talbot having looked him over, and reported favorably they followed theboy into the penetralia of the great office, and into the presence ofthe great man. Mr. Cavendish did not rise, but leaned back in his huge, carved chair, and rubbed his hands, pale in their morning whiteness, andsaid, coldly:

"Good morning, gentlemen; sit down. "

Mr. Talbot declined. He had simply brought to him his friend, GeneralBelcher, who, he believed, had a matter of business to propose. Then, telling Mr. Belcher that he should leave the coupé at his service, heretired. 

Mr. Belcher felt that he was already in court. Mr. Cavendish sat behindhis desk in a judicial attitude, with his new client fronting him. Thelatter fell, or tried to force himself, into a jocular mood and bearing, according to his custom on serious occasions. 

"I am likely to have a little scrimmage, " said he, "and I shall wantyour help, Mr. Cavendish. "

Saying this, he drew forth a check for a thousand dollars, which he haddrawn in the ante-room, and passed it over to the lawyer. Mr. Cavendishtook it up listlessly, held it by its two ends, read its face, examinedits back, and tossed it into a drawer, as if it were a suspicioussixpence. 

"It's a thousand dollars, " said Mr. Belcher, surprised that the sum hadapparently made no impression. 

"I see--a retainer--thanks!"

All the time the hawk-eyes were looking into Mr. Belcher. All the timethe scalp was moving backward and forward, as if he had just procured anew one, that might be filled up before night, but for the moment was atrifle large. All the time there was a subtle scorn upon the lips, theflavor of which the finely curved nose apprehended with approval. 

"What's the case, General?"

The General drew from his pocket his forged assignment, and passed itinto the hand of Mr. Cavendish. 

"Is that a legally constructed document?" he inquired. 

Mr. Cavendish read it carefully, every word. He looked at thesignatures. He looked at the blank page on the back. He looked at thetape with which it was bound. He fingered the knot with which it wastied. He folded it carefully, and handed it back. 

"Yes--absolutely perfect, " he said. "Of course I know nothing about thesignatures. Is the assignor living?"

"That is precisely what I don't know, " replied Mr. Belcher. "I supposedhim to be dead for years. I have now reason to suspect that he isliving. "

"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, very likely, what hedid before his insanity. I have reason to believe that such is the case, and that he intends to contest my right to the inventions which thispaper conveys to me. "

"What reason, now?"

Mr. Belcher's broad expanse of face crimsoned into a blush, and hesimply 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 hehas a case, or thinks he has one, he will not fight this document. Whatdeviltry there is in it, I don't know, and I don't want you to tell me. I can tell you that you have a hard man to fight. Where are thesewitnesses?"

"Two of them are dead. One of them is living, and is now in the city. "

"What can he swear to?"

"He can swear to his own signature, and to all the rest. He can relateand swear to all the circumstances attending the execution of thepaper. "

"And you know that these rights were never previously conveyed. "

"Yes, I know they never were. "

"Then, mark you, General, Balfour has no case at all--provided thisisn't a dirty paper. If it is a dirty paper, and you want me to serveyou, keep your tongue to yourself. You've recorded it, of course. "

"Recorded it?" inquired Mr. Belcher in an alarm which he did not attemptto disguise. 

"You don't mean to tell me that this paper has been in existence morethan 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 with a sniff ofcontempt. 

"It isn't worth that!" said he, snapping his fingers. 

Then he drew out the check from his drawer, and handed it 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, scared out of hisfear. "Do you suppose I am going to be cheated out of my rights withouta fight? I'm no chicken, and I'll spend half a million before I'll giveup my rights. "

Mr. Cavendish laughed. 

"Well, go to Washington, " said he, "and if you don't find that Balfouror somebody else has been there before you, I shall be mistaken. Balfourisn't very much of a chicken, and he knows enough to know that the firstassignment recorded there holds. Why has he not been down upon youbefore this? Simply because he saw that you were making money for hisclient, and he preferred to take it all out of you in a single slice. Iknow Balfour, and he carries a long head. Chicken!"

Mr. Belcher was in distress. The whole game was as obvious and real tohim 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 beenperfecting his crime he had been quietly overreached. He lost hisself-command, and gave himself up to profanity and bluster, at which Mr. Cavendish laughed. 

"There's no use in that sort of thing, General, " said he. "Go toWashington. Ascertain for yourself about it, and if you find it as Ipredict, make the best of it. You can make a compromise of some sort. Dothe best you can. "

There was one thing that Mr. Cavendish had noticed. Mr. Belcher had madeno response to him when he told him that if the paper was a dirty one hedid not wish to know it. He had made up his mind that there was mischiefin it, somewhere. Either the consideration had never been paid, or thesignatures were fraudulent, or perhaps the paper had been executed whenthe assignor was demonstrably of unsound mind. Somewhere, he wasperfectly sure, there was fraud. 

"General, " said he, "I have my doubts about this paper. I'm not going totell you why. I understand that there is one witness living who willswear to all these signatures. "

"There is. "

"Is he a credible witness? Has he ever committed a crime? Can anythingwrong be proved against him?"

"The witness, " responded Mr. Belcher, "is my man Phipps; and a morefaithful fellow never lived. I've known him for years, and he was neverin 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 that check by ten. When Iundertake a thing of this kind, I like to provide myself against allcontingencies. "

Mr. Belcher groaned, and tore up the little check that seemed so largewhen he drew it, and had shrunk to such contemptible dimensions in thehands of the lawyer. 

"You lawyers put the lancet in pretty deep. "

"Our clients never do!" said Mr. Cavendish through his sneering lips. 

Then the boy knocked, and came in. There was another gentleman whowished 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, ran down thestairs, jumped into Mr. Talbot's waiting coupé, and ordered himselfdriven home. Arriving there, he hurriedly packed a satchel, and, announcing to Mrs. Belcher that he had been unexpectedly called toWashington, went out, and made the quickest passage possible to JerseyCity. As he had Government contracts on hand, his wife asked noquestions, and gave the matter no thought. 

The moment Mr. Belcher found himself on the train, and in motion, hebecame feverishly excited. He cursed himself that he had not attended tothis matter before. He had wondered why Balfour was so quiet. WithBenedict alive and in communication, or with Benedict dead, and his heirin charge, why had he made no claim upon rights which were the basis ofhis own fortune? There could be but one answer to these questions, andCavendish had given it!

He talked to himself, and attracted the attention of those around him. He walked the platforms at all the stations where the train stopped. Heasked the conductor a dozen times at what hour the train would arrive inWashington, apparently forgetting that he had already received hisinformation. He did not reach his destination until evening, and then, of course, all the public offices were closed. He met men whom he knew, but he would not be tempted by them into a debauch. He went to bedearly, and, after a weary night of sleeplessness, found himself at thePatent Office before a clerk was in his place. 

When the offices were opened, he sought his man, and revealed hisbusiness. He prepared a list of the patents in which he was interested, and secured a search of the records of assignment. It was a long timesince the patents had been issued, and the inquisition was a tediousone; but it resulted, to his unspeakable relief, in the officialstatement that no one of them had ever been assigned. Then he broughtout his paper, 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 about him. A greatburden was rolled from his shoulders, and he knew that he ought to bejolly; but somehow his spirits did not rise. As he emerged from thePatent Office, there was the same weird light in the sky that he hadnoticed the day before, on leaving his house with Talbot. The great domeof the Capitol swelled in the air like a bubble, which seemed as if itwould burst. The broad, hot streets glimmered as if a volcano werebreeding under them. Everything looked unsubstantial. He found himselfwatching for Balfour, and expecting to meet him at every corner. He wasin a new world, 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 a new man growing up withinhim, whom he wished to hide. To this man's needs his face had not yetbecome 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, and was thefirst man to greet Mr. Cavendish when that gentleman entered hischambers. Mr. Cavendish sat listlessly, and heard his story. Thelawyer's hands were as pale, his scalp as uneasy, and his lips asredolent of scorn as they were two days before, while his nose bent tosniff the scorn with more evident approval than then. He apprehendedmore thoroughly the character of the man before him, saw more clearlythe nature of his business, and wondered with contemptuous incredulitythat Balfour had not been sharper and quicker. 

After Mr. Belcher had stated the facts touching the Washington records, Mr. Cavendish said:

"Well, General, as far as appearances go, you have the lead. Nothing butthe overthrow of your assignment can damage you, and, as I told you theday before yesterday, if the paper is dirty, don't tell me of it--thatis, if you want me to do anything for you. Go about your business, saynothing to anybody, and if you are prosecuted, come to me. "

Still Mr. Belcher made no response to the lawyer's suggestion touchingthe fraudulent nature of the paper; and the latter was thoroughlyconfirmed in his original impression that there was something wrongabout it. 

Then Mr. Belcher went out upon Wall street, among his brokers, visitedthe Exchange, visited the Gold Room, jested with his friends, concoctedschemes, called upon Talbot, wrote letters, and filled up his day. Goinghome to dinner, he found a letter from his agent at Sevenoaks, giving indetail his reasons for supposing not only that Benedict had been in thevillage, but that, from the time of his disappearance from the Sevenoakspoor-house, he had been living at Number Nine with Jim Fenton. Balfourhad undoubtedly found him there, as he was in the habit of visiting thewoods. Mike Conlin must also have found him there, and worst of all, SamYates must have discovered him. The instruments that he had employed, ata considerable cost, to ascertain whether Benedict were alive or deadhad proved false to him. The discovery that Sam Yates was a traitor madehim tremble. It was from him that he had procured the autographs onwhich two of his forgeries were based. He sat down immediately, andwrote a friendly letter to Yates, putting some business into his hands, and promising more. Then he wrote to his agent, telling him of hisinterest in Yates, and of his faithful service, and directing him totake the reformed man under his wing, and, as far as possible, toattach him to the interests of the concern. 

Two days afterward, he looked out of his window and saw Mr. Balfourdescending the steps of his house with a traveling satchel in his hand. Calling Phipps, he directed him to jump into the first cab, or carriage, pay double price, and make his way to the ferry that led to theWashington cars, see if Balfour crossed at that point, and learn, ifpossible, his destination. Phipps returned in an hour and a half withthe information that the lawyer had bought a ticket for Washington. 

Then Mr. Belcher knew that trouble was brewing, and braced himself tomeet it. In less than forty-eight hours, Balfour would know, either thathe had been deceived by Benedict, or that a forgery had been committed. Balfour was cautious, and would take time to settle this question in hisown mind. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

WHEREIN THE GENERAL LEAPS THE BOUNDS OF LAW, FINDS HIMSELF IN A NEWWORLD, AND BECOMES THE VICTIM OF HIS FRIENDS WITHOUT KNOWING IT. 

For several weeks the General had been leading a huge and unscrupulouscombination for "bearing" International Mail. The stock had ruled highfor a long time--higher than was deemed legitimate by those familiarwith its affairs--and the combination began by selling large blocks ofthe stock for future delivery, at a point or two below the market. Thenstories about the corporation began to be circulated upon the street, ofthe most damaging character--stories of fraud, peculation, and rapidlydiminishing business--stories of maturing combinations against thecompany--stories of the imminent retirement of men deemed essential tothe management. The air was full of rumors. One died only to make placefor another, and men were forced to believe that where there was so muchsmoke there must be some fire. Still the combination boldly sold. Thestock broke, and went down, down, down, day after day, and still therewere strong takers for all that offered. The operation had worked like acharm to the point where it was deemed prudent to begin to re-purchase, when there occurred one of those mysterious changes in the market whichnone could have foreseen. It was believed that the market had beenoversold, and the holders held. The combination was short, and up wentthe stock by the run. The most frantic efforts were made to cover, butwithout avail, and as the contracts matured, house after house went downwith a crash that startled the country. Mr. Belcher, the heaviest manof them all, turned the cold shoulder to his confrères in the stupendousmischief, and went home to his dinner one day, conscious that half amillion dollars had slipped through his fingers. He ate but little, walked his rooms for an hour like a caged tiger, muttered and swore tohimself, and finally went off to his club. There seemed to be no way inwhich he could drown his anger, disappointment, and sense of loss, except by a debauch, and he was brought home by his faithful Phipps atthe stage of confidential silliness. 

When his brokers appeared at ten the next morning, he drove them fromthe house, and then, with such wits as he could muster, in a head stilltortured by his night's excesses, thought over his situation. A heavyslice of his ready money had been practically swept out of existence. Ifhe was not crippled, his wings were clipped. His prestige was departed. He knew that men would thereafter be wary of following him, or trustingto his sagacity. Beyond the power of his money, and his power to makemoney, he knew that he had no consideration on 'Change--that there werefive hundred men who would laugh to see the General go down--who hadless feeling for him, personally, than they entertained toward anordinary dog. He knew this because so far, at least, he understoodhimself. To redeem his position was now the grand desideratum. He woulddo it or die!

There was one direction in which the General had permitted himself to beshortened in, or, rather, one in which he had voluntarily crippledhimself for a consideration. He had felt himself obliged to hold largequantities of the stock of the Crooked Valley Railroad, in order tomaintain his seat at the head of its management. He had parted withcomparatively little of it since his first huge purchase secured theplace he sought, and though the price he gave was small, the quantityraised the aggregate to a large figure. All this was unproductive. Itsimply secured his place and his influence. 

No sooner had he thoroughly realized the great loss he had met with, inconnection with his Wall street conspiracy, than he began to revolve inhis mind a scheme which he had held in reserve from the first moment ofhis control of the Crooked Valley Road. He had nourished in everypossible way the good-will of those who lived along the line. Not onlythis, but he had endeavored to show his power to do anything he pleasedwith the stock. 

The people believed that he only needed to raise a finger to carry upthe price of the stock in the market, and that the same potent fingercould carry it down at will. He had already wrought wonders. He hadraised a dead road to life. He had invigorated business in every townthrough which it passed. He was a king, whose word was law and whosewill was destiny. The rumors of his reverses in Wall street did notreach them, and all believed that, in one way or another, their fortuneswere united with his. 

The scheme to which he reverted in the first bitter moments of his losscould have originated in no brain less unscrupulous than his own. Hewould repeat the game that had been so successful at Sevenoaks. To dothis, he only needed to call into action his tools on the street and inthe management. 

In the midst of his schemes, the bell rang at the door, and Talbot wasannounced. Mr. Belcher was always glad to see him, for he had noassociation with his speculations. Talbot had uniformly been friendlyand ready to serve him. In truth, 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 this morning to getthe facts. I shall be bored about them all day by your good friends, youknow. "

"Well, Toll, I've had a sweat. "

"You're not crippled?"

"No, but I've lost every dollar I have made since I've been in the city. Jones has gone under; Pell has gone under. Cramp & Co. Will have tomake a statement, and get a little time, but they will swim. The Generalis the only man of the lot who isn't shaken. But, Toll, it's devilishhard. It scares me. A few more such slices would spoil my cheese. "

"Well, now, General, why do you go into these things at all? You aremaking money fast enough in a regular business. "

"Ah, but it's tame, tame, tame! I must have excitement. Theatres areplayed out, horses are played out, and suppers raise the devil with me. "

"Then take it easy. Don't risk so much. You used to do this sort ofthing well--used to do it right every time. You got up a good deal ofreputation for foresight and skill. "

"I know, and every man ruined in the International Mail will curse me. Iled them into it. I shall have a sweet time in Wall street when I gothere again. But it's like brandy; a man wants a larger dose every time, and I shall clean them out yet. "

Talbot's policy was to make the General last. He wanted to advise himfor his good, because his principal's permanent prosperity was the basisof his own. He saw that he was getting beyond control, and, under anexterior of compliance and complaisance, he was genuinely alarmed. 

"Toll, " said Mr. Belcher, "you are a good fellow. "

"Thank you, General, " said the factor, a smile spreading around hisshining teeth. "My wife will be glad to know it. "

"By the way--speaking of your wife--have you seen anything of Mrs. Dillingham lately?"

"Nothing. She is commonly supposed to be absorbed by the General. "

"Common Supposition is a greater fool than I wish it were. "

"That won't do, General. There never was a more evident case of killingat first sight than that. "

"Well, Toll, I believe the woman is fond of me, but she has a queer wayof showing it. I think she has changed. It seems so to me, but she's adevilish fine creature. Ah, my heart! my heart! Toll. "

"You were complaining of it the other day. It was a theological seminarythen. Perhaps that is the name you know her by. "

"Not much theological seminary about her!" with a laugh. 

"Well, there's one thing that you can comfort yourself with, 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 under his tongue. She must be hiding her passion from him under an impression of itshopelessness! Poor woman! He would see 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 something for 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 line that theGeneral 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 acontinental copper, but they want a hand in the General's speculations, and the General wants it understood that he would like to have themshare in his profits. "

"I think I understand, " said Talbot. 

"Toll, I've got another vision. Hold on now! I behold a man in theGeneral's confidence--a reliable, business man--who whispers to hisfriend that he heard the General say that he had all his plans laid forputting up the Crooked Valley stock within a week. This friend whispersit to another friend. No names are mentioned. It goes from friend tofriend. It is whispered through every town along the line. Everybodygets crazy over it, and everybody quietly sends in an order for stock. In the meantime the General and his factor, yielding to thepressure--melted before the public demand--gently and tenderly unload!The vision still unrolls. Months later I behold the General buying backthe stock at his own price, and with it maintaining his place in themanagement. Have you followed me?"

"Yes, General, I've seen it all. I comprehend it, and I shall unloadwith all the gentleness and tenderness possible. "

Then the whimsical scoundrel and his willing lieutenant laughed a long, heartless laugh. 

"Toll, I feel better, and I believe I'll get up, " said the General. "Letthis vision sink deep into your soul. Then give it wings, and speed iton its mission. Remember that this is a vale of tears, and don't setyour affections on things below. By-by!"

Talbot went down stairs, drawing on his gloves, and laughing. Then hewent out into the warm light, buttoned up his coat instinctively, as ifto hide the plot he carried, jumped into his coupé, and went to hisbusiness. 

Mr. Belcher dressed himself with more than his usual care, went to Mrs. Belcher's room and inquired about his children, then went to hislibrary, and drew forth from a secret drawer a little book. He looked itover for a few minutes, then placed it in his packet, and went out. Theallusion that had been made to Mrs. Dillingham, and the assurance thathe was popularly understood to be her lover, and the only man who wasregarded by her with favor, intoxicated him, and his old passion cameback upon him. 

It was a strange manifestation of his brutal nature that at this momentof his trouble, and this epoch of his cruelty and crime, he longed forthe comfort of a woman's sympathy. He was too much absorbed by hisaffairs to be moved by that which was basest in his regard for hisbeautiful idol. If he could feel her hand upon his forehead; if shecould tell him that she was sorry for him; if he could know that sheloved him; ay, if he could be assured that this woman, whom he hadbelieved to be capable of guilt, had prayed for him, it would have beenbalm to his heart. He was sore with struggle, and guilt, and defeat. Helonged for love and tenderness. As if he were a great bloody dog, justcoming from the fight of an hour, in which he had been worsted, andseeking for a tender hand to pat his head, and call him "poor, good oldfellow, " the General longed for a woman's loving recognition. He was inhis old mood of self-pity. He wanted to be petted, smoothed, commiserated, reassured; and there was only one woman in all the worldfrom whom such ministry would be grateful. 

He knew that Mrs. Dillingham had heard of his loss, for she heard of andread everything. He wanted her to know that it had not shaken him. Hewould not for the world have her suppose that he was growing poor. Stillto appear to her as a person of wealth and power; still to hold herconfidence as a man of multiplied resources, was, perhaps, the deepestambition that moved him. He had found that he could not use her in themanagement of his affairs. Though from the first, up to the period ofher acquaintance with Harry Benedict, she had led him on to love her byevery charm 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 interviews withTalbot and Mrs. Belcher, it was without a definitely formed purpose tovisit the charming widow. He simply knew that his heart was hungry. Thesun-flower is gross, but it knows the sun as well as the morning-glory, and turns to it as naturally. It was with like unreasoning instinct thathe took the little book from its drawer, put on his hat, went down hissteps, and entered the street that led him toward Mrs. Dillingham'shouse. He could not keep away from her. He would not if he could, andso, in ten minutes, he was seated with her, _vis a vis_. 

"You have been unfortunate, Mr. Belcher, " she said, sympathetically. "Iam very sorry for you. It is not so bad as I heard, I am sure. You arelooking very well. "

"Oh! it is one of those things that may happen any day, to any man, operating as I do, " responded Mr. Belcher, with a careless laugh. "TheGeneral never gets in too deep. He is just as rich to-day as he was whenhe entered the city. "

"I'm so glad to hear it--gladder than I can express, " said Mrs. Dillingham, with heartiness. 

Her effusiveness of good feeling and her evident relief from anxiety, were honey to him. 

"Don't trouble yourself about me, " said he, musingly. "The General knowswhat he's about, every time. He has the advantage of the rest of them, in his regular business. "

"I can't understand how it is, " responded Mrs. Dillingham, with fineperplexity. "You men are so different from us. I should think you wouldbe crazy with your losses. "

Now, Mr. Belcher wished to impress Mrs. Dillingham permanently with asense of his wisdom, and to inspire in her an inextinguishable faith inhis sagacity and prudence. He wanted her to believe in his power toretain all the wealth he had won. He would take her into hisconfidence. He had never done this with relation to his business, andunder that treatment she had drifted away from him. Now that he foundhow thoroughly friendly she was, he would try another method, and bindher to him. The lady read him as plainly as if he had been a book, andsaid:

"Oh, General! I have ascertained something that may be of use to you. Mr. Benedict is living. I had a letter from his boy this morning--dearlittle fellow--and he tells me how well his father is, and how pleasantit is to be with him again. "

Mr. Belcher frowned. 

"Do you know I can't quite stomach your whim--about that boy? What underheaven 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 right to it. He amuses me, and agreat deal more than that. I wouldn't tell you a word about him, or whathe writes to me, if I thought it would do him any harm. He's my pet. What in the world have I to do but to pet him? How shall I fill my time?I'm tired of society, and disgusted with men--at least, with my oldacquaintances--and I'm fond of children. They do me good. Oh, youmustn't touch my whim!"

"There is no accounting for tastes!" Mr. Belcher responded, with a laughthat had a spice of scorn and vexation in it. 

"Now, General, what do you care for that boy? If you are a friend to me, you ought to be glad that he interests me. "

"I don't like the man who has him in charge. I believe Balfour is avillain. "

"I'm sure I don't know, " said the lady. "He never has the courtesy todarken my door. I once saw something of him. He is like all the rest, Isuppose; he is tired of me. "

Mrs. Dillingham had played her part perfectly, and the man before herwas a blind believer in her loyalty to him. 

"Let the boy go, and Balfour too, " said the General. "They are notpleasant topics to me, and your whim will wear out. When is the boycoming 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, slapping his knee withthe little volume. 

"And men delight to excite it, " she responded. 

"The General is a business man, and you want to know how he does it, "said he. 

"I do, upon my word, " responded the lady. 

"Very well, the General has two kinds of business, and he never mixesone with the other. "

"I don't understand. "

"Well, you know he's a manufacturer--got his start in that way. So hekeeps that business by itself, and when he operates in Wall street, heoperates outside of it. He never risks a dollar that he makes in hisregular business in any outside operation. "

"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. I suppose thatit must have been ten years ago that a man came to Sevenoaks who wasfull of all sorts of inventions. I tried some of them, and they workedwell; so I went on furnishing money to him, and, at last, I furnished somuch that he passed all his rights into my hands--sold everything to me. He got into trouble, and lost his head--went into an insane hospital, where I supported him for more than two years. Then he was sent back asincurable, and, of course, had to go to the poor house. I couldn'tsupport him always, you know. I'd paid him fairly, run all the risk, and felt that my hands were clean. "

"He had sold everything to you, hadn't he?" inquired Mrs. Dillingham, sympathetically. 

"Certainly, I have the contract, legally drawn, signed, and delivered. "

"People couldn't blame you, of course. "

"But they did. "

"How could they, if you paid him all that belonged to him?"

"That's Sevenoaks. That's the thing that drove me away. Benedictescaped, and they all supposed he was dead, and fancied that because Ihad made money out of him, I was responsible for him in some way. But Ipunished them. They'll remember me. "

And Mr. Belcher laughed a brutal laugh that rasped Mrs. Dillingham'ssensibilities almost beyond endurance. 

"And, now, " said the General, resuming, "this man Balfour means to getthese patents that I've owned and used for from seven to ten years outof me. Perhaps he will do it, but it will be after the biggest fightthat New York ever saw. "

Mrs. Dillingham eyed the little book. She was very curious about it. Shewas delightfully puzzled to know how these men who had the power ofmaking money managed their affairs. Account-books were such conundrumsto her!

She took a little hassock, placed it by Mr. Belcher's chair, and satdown, leaning by the weight of a feather against him. It was the firstapproach of the kind she had ever made, and the General appreciated it. 

"Now you shall show me all about it, " she said. 

The General opened the book. It contained the results, in the briefestspace, of his profits from the Benedict inventions. It showed just howand where all those profits had been invested and re-invested. Heradmiration of the General's business habits and methods was unbounded. She asked a thousand silly questions, with one, occasionally, whichtouched an important point. She thanked him for the confidence hereposed in her. She was delighted to know his system, which seemed toher to guard him from the accidents so common to those engaged in greatenterprises; and Mr. Belcher drank in her flatteries with supremesatisfaction. They comforted him. They were balm to his disappointments. They soothed his wounded vanity. They assured him of perfect trust wherehe most tenderly wanted it. 

In the midst of these delightful confidences, they were interrupted. Aservant appeared who told Mr. Belcher that there was a messenger at thedoor who wished to see him on urgent business. Mrs. Dillingham took thelittle book to hold while he went to the door. After a few minutes, hereturned. It seemed that Phipps, who knew his master's habits, haddirected the messenger to inquire for him at Mrs. Dillingham's house, and that his brokers were in trouble and desired his immediate presencein Wall street. The General was very much vexed with the interruption, but declared that he 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 the sweetesttreasure 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 I must have itagain, " he said. 

"Certainly. "

Then the General retired, went to his house and found his carriagewaiting, and, in less than an hour, was absorbed in raveling the snarledaffairs connected with his recent disastrous speculation. The goodnature engendered by his delightful interview with Mrs. Dillinghamlasted all day, and helped him like a cordial. 

The moment he was out of the house, and had placed himself beyond thepossibility of immediate return, the lady called her servant, and toldhim that she should be at home to nobody during the day. No one was tobe admitted but Mr. Belcher, on any errand whatsoever. 

Then she went to her room, and looked the little book over at herleisure. There was no doubt about the business skill and method of theman who had made every entry. There was no doubt in her own mind that itwas a private book, which no eye but that of its owner had ever seen, before it had been opened to her. 

She hesitated upon the point of honor as to what she would do with it. It would be treachery to copy it, but it would be treachery simplyagainst a traitor. She did not understand its legal importance, yet sheknew it contained the most valuable information. It showed, inunmistakable figures, the extent to which Benedict had been wronged. Perfectly sure that it was a record of the results of fraud against ahelpless man and a boy in whom her heart was profoundly interested, herhesitation was brief. She locked her door, gathered her writingmaterials, and, by an hour's careful and rapid work, copied every wordof it. 

After completing the copy, she went over it again and again, verifyingevery word and figure. When she had repeated the process to her entiresatisfaction, and even to weariness, she took her pen, and afterwriting: "This is a true copy of the records of a book this day lent tome by Robert Belcher, " she affixed the date and signed her name. 

Then she carefully wrapped Mr. Belcher's book in a sheet of scentedpaper, wrote his name and the number and street of his residence uponit, and placed it in her pocket. The copy was consigned to a drawer andlocked in, to be recalled and re-perused at pleasure. 

She understood the General's motives in placing these records andfigures in her hands. The leading one, of course, related to hisstanding with her. He wanted her to know how rich he was, how prudenthe was, how invincible he was. He wanted her to stand firm in her beliefin him, whatever rumors might be afloat upon the street. Beyond this, though he had made no allusion to it, she knew that he wanted the use ofher tongue among his friends and enemies alike. She was a talking woman, and it was easy for her, who had been so much at home in the General'sfamily, to strengthen his reputation wherever she might touch thepublic. He wanted somebody to know what his real resourceswere--somebody who could, from personal knowledge of his affairs, asserttheir soundness without revealing their details. He believed that Mrs. Dillingham would be so proud of the possession of his confidence, and soprudent in showing it, that his general business reputation, and hisreputation for great wealth, would be materially strengthened by her. All this she understood, because she knew the nature of the man, andappreciated the estimate which he placed upon her. 

Nothing remained for her that day but the dreaded return of Mr. Belcher. She was now more than ever at a loss to know how she should manage him. She had resumed, during her interview with him, her old arts offascination, and seen how easily she could make him the most troublesomeof slaves. She had again permitted him to kiss her hand. She had asked afavor of him and he had granted it. She had committed a breach of trust;and though she justified herself in it, she felt afraid and half ashamedto meet the man whom she had so thoroughly befooled. She was disgustedwith the new 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 he had anticipated, and after a few hours' absence from the fascinations of his idol, hebegan to feel uneasy about his book. It was the first time it had everleft his hands. He grew nervous about it at last, and was haunted by avague sense of danger. 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 apprising her of thefact, and asking her to deliver to him the little account-book he hadleft with her. 

It was with a profound sense of relief that she handed it to themessenger, and realized that, during that day and evening at least, sheshould be free, and so able to gather back her old composure andself-assurance. Mr. Belcher's note she placed with her copy of the book, as her authority for passing it into other hands than those of itsowner. 

While these little things, which were destined to have largeconsequences, were in progress in the city, an incident occurred in thecountry, of no less importance in the grand out come of events relatingto Mr. Belcher and his victim. 

It will be remembered that after Mr. Belcher had been apprised by hisagent at Sevenoaks that Mr. Benedict was undoubtedly alive, and that hehad lived, ever since his disappearance, at Number Nine, he wrote to SamYates, putting profitable business into his hands, and that he alsodirected his agent to attach him, by all possible means, to theproprietor's interests. His motive, of course, was to shut the lawyer'smouth concerning the autograph letters he had furnished. He knew thatYates would remember the hints of forgery which he had breathed into hisear during their first interview in the city, and would not be slow toconclude that those autographs were procured for some foul purpose. Hehad been careful, from the first, not to break up the friendly relationsthat existed between them, and now that he saw that the lawyer hadplayed him false, he was more anxious than ever to conciliate him. 

Yates attended faithfully to the business intrusted to him, and, onreporting results to Mr. Belcher's agent, according to his client'sdirections, was surprised to find him in a very friendly andconfidential mood, and ready with a proposition for further service. There were tangled affairs in which he needed the lawyer's assistance, and, as he did not wish to have the papers pertaining to them leave hispossession, he invited Yates to his house, where they could worktogether during the brief evenings, when he would be free from the caresof the mill. 

So, for two or three weeks, Sam Yates occupied Mr. Belcher'slibrary--the very room in which that person was first introduced to thereader. There, under the shade of the old Seven Oaks, he worked duringthe day, and there, in the evening, he held his consultations with theagent. 

One day, during his work, he mislaid a paper, and in his search for it, had occasion to examine the structure of the grand library table atwhich he wrote. The table had two sides, finished and furnished exactlyalike, with duplicate sets of drawers opposite to each other. He pulledout one of these drawers completely, to ascertain whether his lost paperhad not slipped through a crack and lodged beyond it. In reaching in, hemoved, or thought he moved, the drawer that met him from the oppositeside. On going to the opposite side, however, he found that he had notmoved the drawer at all. He then pulled that out, and, endeavoring tolook through the space thus vacated by both drawers, found that it wasblocked by some obstacle that had been placed between them. Finding acane in a corner of the room, he thrust it in, and pushed through to theopposite side a little secret drawer, unfurnished with a knob, butcovered with a lid. 

He resumed his seat, and held the little box in his hand. Before he hadtime to think of what he was doing, or to appreciate the fact that hehad no right to open a secret drawer, he had opened it. It contained butone article, and that was a letter directed to Paul Benedict. The letterwas sealed, so that he was measurably relieved from the temptation toexamine its contents. Of one thing he felt sure: that if it containedanything prejudicial to the writer's interests--and it was addressed inthe handwriting of Robert Belcher--it had been forgotten. It might be ofgreat importance to the inventor. The probabilities were, that a letterwhich was deemed of sufficient importance to secrete in so remarkable amanner was an important one. 

To Sam Yates, as to Mrs. Dillingham, with the little book in her hand, arose the question of honor at once. His heart was with Benedict. He wassure that Belcher had some foul purpose in patronizing himself, yet hewent through a hard struggle before he could bring himself to thedetermination that Benedict and not Belcher should have the firsthandling of the letter. Although the latter had tried to degrade him, and was incapable of any good motive in extending patronage to him, hefelt that he had unintentionally surrounded him with influences whichhad saved him from the most disgraceful ruin. He was at that very momentin his employ. He was eating every day the bread which his patronageprovided. 

After all, was he not earning his bread? Was he under any obligation toMr. Belcher which his honest and faithful labor did not discharge? Mr. Belcher had written and addressed the letter. He would deliver it, andMr. Benedict should decide whether, under all the circumstances, theletter was rightfully his. He put it in his pocket, placed the littlebox back in its home, replaced the drawers which hid it, and went onwith his work. 

Yates carried the letter around in his pocket for several days. He didnot believe the agent knew either of the existence of the letter or thedrawer in which it was hidden. There was, in all probability, no man buthimself in the world who knew anything of the letter. If it was a paperof no importance to anybody, of course Mr. Belcher had forgotten it. Ifit was of great importance to Mr. Benedict, Mr. Belcher believed that ithad been destroyed. 

He had great curiosity concerning its contents, and determined todeliver it into Mr. Benedict's hand; so, at the conclusion of hisengagement with Mr. Belcher's agent, he announced to his friends that hehad accepted Jim Fenton's invitation to visit the new hotel at NumberNine, and enjoy a week of sport in the woods. 

Before he returned, he became entirely familiar with the contents ofthe letter, and, if he brought it back with him on his return toSevenoaks, it was for deposit in the post-office, directed to JamesBalfour in the handwriting of Paul Benedict. 

The contents of this note were of such importance in the establishmentof justice that Yates, still doubtful of the propriety of his act, wasable to justify it to his conscience. Under the circumstances, itbelonged to the man to whom it was addressed, and not to Mr. Belcher atall. His own act might be doubtful, but it was in the interest of fairdealing, and in opposition to the schemes of a consummate rascal, towhom he owed neither respect nor good-will. He would stand by it, andtake the consequences of it. 

Were Mrs. Dillingham and Sam Yates justifiable in their treachery to Mr. Belcher? A nice question this, in casuistry! Certainly they had done asthey would have been done by, had he been in their circumstances andthey in his. He, at least, who had tried to debauch both of them, couldreasonably find no fault with them. Their act was the natural result ofhis own influence. It was fruit from seeds of his own sowing. Had heever approached them with a single noble and unselfish motive, neitherof them could have betrayed him. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

IN WHICH THE GENERAL GOES THROUGH A GREAT MANY TRIALS AND MEETS AT LASTTHE ONE HE HAS SO LONG ANTICIPATED. 

The fact that the General had deposited the proceeds of his foreignsales of arms with a European banking house, ostensibly subject to draftfor the materials of his manufactures, has already been alluded to. Thisdeposit had been augmented by subsequent sales, until it amounted to animposing sum, which Mrs. Dillingham ascertained, from the littleaccount-book, to be drawing a low rate of interest. With the proprietor, this heavy foreign deposit was partly a measure of personal safety, andpartly a measure of projected iniquity. He had the instinct to provideagainst any possible contingencies of fortune or crime. 

Two or three days after his very agreeable call upon Mrs. Dillingham, hehad so far mastered his difficulties connected with the InternationalMail that he could find time for another visit, to which he had lookedforward with eager anticipation. 

"I was very much interested in your little book, Mr. Belcher, " said thelady, boldly. 

"The General is one of the ablest of our native authors, eh?" respondedthat facetious person, with a jolly laugh. 

"Decidedly, " said Mrs. Dillingham, "and so very terse and statistical. "

"Interesting book, wasn't it?"

"Very! And it was so kind of you, General, to let me see how you menmanage such things!"

"We men!" and the General shrugged his shoulders. 

"One man, then, " said the lady, on seeing that he was disposed to claima monopoly in the wisdom of business. 

"Do you remember one little item--a modest little item--concerning myforeign deposits? Eh?"

"Little item, General! What are you doing with so much money overthere?"

"Nothing, or next to nothing. That's my anchor to windward. "

"It will hold, " responded the lady, "if weight is all that's needed. "

"I intend that it shall hold, and that it shall be larger before it issmaller. "

"I don't understand it;" and Mrs. Dillingham shook her pretty head. 

Mr. Belcher sat and thought. There was a curious flush upon his face, ashe raised his eyes to hers, and looked intensely into them, in theendeavor to read the love that hid behind them. He was desperately inlove with her. The passion, a thousand times repelled by her, and athousand times 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 notknow what to say, or how to approach the subject nearest to his heart. He had always frightened her so easily; she had been so quick to resentany approach to undue familiarity; she had so steadily ignored hisinsinuations, that he was 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 hasseen 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! Ifeel one of them coming on now. Don't disturb me. "

"Shall I fan you?"

"Do, please!"

The General closed his eyes. He had never before betrayed suchexcitement in her presence, and had never before appeared so dangerous. While she determined that this should be her last exposure to hisapproaches, she maintained her brave and unsuspecting demeanor, andplayfully waved her fan toward him. 

"I behold, " said the General, "a business man of great ability and greatwealth, who discovers too late that his wife is unequally yoked with anunbeliever. Love abides not in his home, and his heart is afloat on thefierce, rolling sea. He leaves his abode in the country, and seeks inthe tumultuous life of the metropolis to drown his disappointments. Hethere discovers a beautiful woman, cast in Nature's finest mould, andfinds himself, for the first time, matched. Gently this heavenlycreature repels him, though her heart yearns toward him withunmistakable tenderness. She is a prudent woman. She has a position tomaintain. She is alone. She is a friend to the wife of this unfortunategentleman. She is hindered in many ways from giving rein to the impulsesof her heart. This man of wealth deposits a magnificent sum in Europe. This lady goes thither for health and amusement, and draws upon this sumat will. She travels from capital to capital, or hides herself in Alpinevillages, but is found at last by him who has laid his wealth at herfeet. "

The General revealed his vision with occasional glances throughhalf-closed eyes at the face that hung bowed before him. It was adesperate step, but he had determined to take it when he entered thehouse. Humiliated, tormented, angry, Mrs. Dillingham sat before him, covering from his sight as well as she could the passion that ragedwithin her. She knew that she had invited the insult. She was consciousthat her treatment of him, from the first, though she had endeavored tochange her relations with him without breaking his friendship, hadnursed his base passion and his guilty purpose. She was undergoing ajust punishment, and acknowledged to herself the fact. Once she wouldhave delighted in tormenting him. Once she would not have hesitated todrive him from her door. Once--but she was changed. A little boy who hadlearned to regard her as a mother, was thinking of her in the distantwoods. She had fastened to that childish life the hungry instincts ofher motherly nature. She had turned away forever from all that coulddishonor the lad, or hinder her from receiving his affection without anupbraiding conscience. 

Mr. Belcher's instincts were quick enough to see that his vision had notprospered in the mind to which he had revealed it; and yet, there was ahesitation in the manner of the woman before him which he could notexplain to himself, if he admitted that his proposition had been whollyoffensive. Mrs. Dillingham's only wish was to get him out of the house. If she could accomplish this without further humiliation, it was all shedesired. 

"General, " she said, at last, "You must have been drinking. I do notthink you know what you have said to me. "

"On the contrary, I am perfectly sober, " said he, rising and approachingher. 

"You must not come near me. Give me time! give me time!" she exclaimed, rising and retreating. 

Mr. Belcher was startled by the alarmed and angry look in her eyes. "Time!" he said, fiercely; "Eternity, you mean. "

"You pretend to care for me, and yet you disobey what you know to be mywish. Prove your friendship by leaving me. 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 at the door asif hesitating what to do; then, without a word, he went down stairs andinto the street, overwhelmed with self-pity. He had done so much, riskedso much, and accomplished so little! That she was fond of him there wasno question in his own mind; but women were so different from men! Yetthe villain knew that if she had been easily won his heart would haveturned against her. The prize grew more precious, through the obstaclesthat came between him and its winning. The worst was over, at least; sheknew his project; and it would all come right in time!

As soon as he was out of the house, Mrs. Dillingham burst into a fit ofuncontrollable weeping. She had passed through the great humiliation ofher life. The tree which she had planted and nursed through many yearsof unworthy aims had borne its natural fruit. She groaned under thecrushing punishment. She almost cursed herself. Her womanly instinctswere quick to apprehend the fact that only by her own consent orinvitation, could any man reach a point so near to any woman that hecould coolly breathe in her ear a base pro position. Yet, with all herself-loathing and self-condemnation, was mingled a hatred of the vileman who had insulted her, which would have half killed him had it beenpossible for him to know and realize it. 

After her first passion had passed away, the question concerning herfuture came up for settlement. She could not possibly remain near Mr. Belcher. She must not be exposed to further visits from him. The thoughtthat in the little account-book which she had copied there was a recordthat covered a design for her own destruction, stung her to the quick. What should she do? She would consult Mr. Balfour. 

She knew that on that evening Mr. Belcher would not be at home, thatafter the excitements and disappointments of that day he would seek forsolace in any place but that which held his wife and children. So, muffled in a slight disguise, and followed by her servant, she stole outof her house during the evening, and sought the house of the lawyer. Tohim she poured out her heart. To him she revealed all that had passedbetween her and the proprietor, and to him she committed the care of theprecious document of which she had possessed herself, and the littlenote that accompanied it. 

Mr. Balfour advised her to leave the city at once, and to go to someplace where Mr. Belcher would not be able to find her. He knew of noplace so fit for her in every respect as Number Nine, with his ownfamily and those most dear to her. Her boy and his father were there; itwas health's own home; and she could remain away as long as it might benecessary. She would be wanted as a witness in a few months, atfurthest, in a suit which he believed would leave her persecutor in aposition where, forgetting others, he would be absorbed in the effort totake care of himself. 

Her determination was taken at once. Mr. Balfour accompanied her home, and gave her all the necessary directions for her journey; and thatnight she packed a single trunk in readiness for it. In the morning, leaving her house to the care of trusty servants, she rode to thestation, while Mr. Belcher was lolling feverishly in his bed, and in anhour was flying northward toward the place that was to be her summerhome, and into a region that was destined to be associated with herfuture life, through changes and revolutions of which she did not dream. 

After her thirty-six hours of patient and fatiguing travel the companyat Jim Fenton's hotel, eager for letters from the city, stood on thebank of the river, waiting the arrival of the guide who had gone downfor the mail, and such passengers as 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 curious group, Harry wasthe first to detect her, and she smothered him with kisses. Mr. Benedictstood pale and trembling. Harry impulsively led her toward him, and in amoment they were wrapped in a tender embrace. None but Mrs. Balfour, ofall who were present, understood the relation that existed between thetwo, thus strangely reunited; but it soon became known, and the littleromance added a new charm to the life in the woods. 

It would be pleasant to dwell upon the happy days and the pleasantdoings of the summer that followed--the long twilights that Mr. Benedictand Mrs. Dillingham spent upon the water, their review of the events ofthe past, the humble confessions of the proud lady, the sports anddiversions of the wilderness, and the delights of society brought bycircumstances into the closest sympathy. It would be pleasant to remainwith Jim and "the little woman, " in their new enterprise and their newhouse-keeping; but we must return to the city, to follow the fortunes ofone who, if less interesting than those we leave behind, is moreimportant in the present stage and ultimate resolution of our littledrama. 

Soon after Mrs. Dillingham's departure from the city, Mr. Belcher missedher. Not content with the position in which he had left his affairs withher, he called at her house three days after her disappearance, andlearned that the servants either did not know or would not tell whithershe had gone. In his blind self-conceit, he could not suppose that shehad run away from him. He could not conclude that she had gone toEurope, without a word of her purpose breathed to him. Still, even thatwas possible. She had hidden somewhere, and he should hear from her. Hadhe frightened her? Had he been too precipitate? Much as he endeavored toexplain her sudden disappearance to his own advantage, he was leftunsatisfied and uneasy. 

A few days passed away, and then he began to doubt. Thrown back uponhimself, deprived of the solace of her society, and released from acertain degree of restraint that she had always exercised upon him, heindulged more freely in drink, and entered with more recklessness uponthe excitements of speculation. 

The General had become conscious that he was not quite the man that hehad been. His mind was darkened and dulled by crime. He was haunted byvague fears and apprehensions. With his frequent and appalling losses ofmoney, he had lost a measure of his faith in himself. His coolness ofcalculation had been diminished; he listened with readier credulity torumors, and yielded more easily to the personal influences around him. Even the steady prosperity which attended his regular business became afactor in his growing incapacity for the affairs of the street. Hisreliance on his permanent sources of income made him more reckless inhis speculations. 

His grand scheme for "gently" and "tenderly" unloading his CrookedValley stock upon the hands of his trusting dupes along the line, worked, however, to perfection. It only required rascality, pure andsimple, under the existing conditions, to accomplish this scheme, and hefound in the results nothing left to be desired. They furnished him witha capital of ready money, but his old acquaintances discovered the foultrick he had played, and gave him a wide berth. No more giganticcombinations were possible to him, save with swindlers like himself, whowould not hesitate to sacrifice him as readily and as mercilessly as hehad sacrificed his rural victims. 

Mrs. Dillingham had been absent a month when he one day received apolite note from Mr. Balfour, as Paul Benedict's attorney, requestinghim, on behalf of his principal, to pay over to him an equitable shareof the profits upon his patented inventions, and to enter into adefinite contract for the further use of them. 

The request came in so different a form from what he had anticipated, and was so tamely courteous, that he laughed over the note in derision. "Milk for babes!" he exclaimed, and laughed again. Either Balfour was acoward, or he felt that his case was a weak one. Did he think theGeneral was a fool?

Without taking the note to Cavendish, who had told him to bring tenthousand dollars when he came again, and with' out 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's attorney. 

 "2d. That I have no evidence that Paul Benedict is living, and that I do not propose to negotiate in any way, on any business, with a fraud, or a man of straw. 

 "3d. That I am the legal assignee of all the patents originally issued to Paul Benedict, which I have used and am now using. I hold his assignment in the desk on which I write this letter, and it stands duly recorded in Washington, though, from my ignorance of the law, it has only recently been placed upon the books in the Patent Office. 

 "Permit me to say, in closing, that, as I bear you no malice, I will show you the assignment at your pleasure, and thus relieve you from the danger of entering upon a conspiracy to defraud me of rights which I propose, with all the means at my disposal, to defend. 

 "Yours, ROBERT BELCHER. "

Mr. Belcher read over this letter with great satisfaction. It seemed tohim very dignified and very wise. He had saved his ten thousand dollarsfor a while, at least, and bluffed, as he sincerely believed, hisdreaded antagonist. 

Mr. Balfour did more than to indulge in his professional smile, over thefrank showing of the General's hand, and the voluntary betrayal of hisline of defence. He filed away the note among the papers relating to thecase, took his hat, walked across the street, rang the bell, and sent uphis card to Mr. Belcher. That self-complacent gentleman had not expectedthis visit, although he had suggested it. Instead, therefore, ofinviting Mr. Balfour to his library, he went down to the drawing-room, where he found his visitor, quietly sitting with his hat in his hand. The most formal of courtesies opened the conversation, and Mr. Balfourstated his business at once. "You were kind enough to offer to show methe assignment of Mr. Benedict's patents, " he said. "I have called tosee 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 consulting mylawyer. "

"I thought so, " said Mr. Balfour. "Good-day, sir. "

"No offence, I hope, " said Mr. Belcher, with a peculiar toss of thehead, 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 in the habit ofmaking mistakes in those days. The habit was growing upon him. Indeed, he suspected that he had made a mistake in not boldly exhibiting hisassignment. How to manage a lie, and not be managed by it, was aquestion that had puzzled wiser heads than that of the General. He foundan egg in his possession that he was not ready to eat, though it was toohot to be held long in either hand, and could not be dropped withoutdisaster. 

For a week, he was haunted with the expectation of a suit, but it wasnot brought, and then he began to breathe easier, and to feel thatsomething must be done to divert his mind from the subject. He drankfreely, and was loud-mouthed and blustering on the street. Poor Talbothad a hard time, in endeavoring to shield him from his imprudences. Hesaw that his effort to make his principal "last" was not likely to besuccessful. 

Rallied by his "friends" on his ill luck, the General declared that heonly speculated for fun. He knew what he was about. He never risked anymoney that he could not afford to lose. Everybody had his amusement, and this was his. 

He was secure for some months in his seat as President of the CrookedValley Railroad, and calculated, of course, on buying back his stock inhis own time, at his own price. In the meantime, he would use hisposition for carrying on his private schemes. 

The time came at last when he wanted more ready money. A grandcombination had been made, among his own unprincipled set, for workingup a "corner" in the Muscogee Air Line, and he had been invited into it. He was flattered by the invitation, and saw in it a chance for redeeminghis position, though, at bottom, the scheme was one for working up acorner in Robert Belcher. 

Under the plea that he expected, at no distant day, to go to Europe, forrest and amusement, he mortgaged his house, in order, as he declared, that he might handle it the more easily in the market. But Wall streetknew the fact at once, and made its comments. Much to the proprietor'sdisgust, it was deemed of sufficient importance to find mention in thedaily press. 

But even the sum raised upon his house, united with that which he hadreceived from unloading his Crooked Valley stock, was not sufficient togive him the preponderance in the grand combination which he desired. 

He still held a considerable sum in Crooked Valley bonds, for these werevaluable. He had already used these as collaterals, in the borrowing ofsmall sums at short time, to meet emergencies in his operations. It wasknown by money-lenders that he held them. Now the General was themanufacturer of these bonds. The books of the corporation were under hiscontrol, and he intended that they should remain so. It was very easyfor him to make an over-issue, and hard for him to be detected in hisfraud, by any one who would be dangerous to him. The temptation to makethis issue was one which better men than he had yielded to in a weakmoment, and, to the little conscience which he possessed, the requisiteexcuses were ready. He did not intend that any one should lose money bythese bonds. He only proposed a temporary relief to himself. So hemanufactured the bonds, and raised the money he wanted. 

Meantime, the members of the very combination in which he had engaged, having learned of his rascally operation with the stock, were secretlybuying it back from the dupes along the road, at their own figures, withthe purpose of ousting him from the management, and taking the road tothemselves. Of this movement he did not learn, until it was too late tobe of use to him. 

It was known, in advance, by the combination, that the working up of thecorner in Muscogee Air Line would be a long operation. The stock had tobe manipulated with great care, to avoid exciting a suspicion of thenature of the scheme, and the General had informed the holders of hisnotes that it might be necessary for him to renew them before he shouldrealize from his operations. He had laid all his plans carefully, andlooked forward with an interest which none but he and those of his kindcould appreciate, to the excitements, intrigues, marches andcounter-marches of the mischievous campaign. 

And then came down upon him the prosecution which he had so longdreaded, and for which he had made the only preparation consistent withhis greedy designs. Ten thousand dollars of his ready money passed atonce into the hands of Mr. Cavendish, and Mr. Cavendish was satisfiedwith the fee, whatever may have been his opinion of the case. After alast examination of his forged assignment, and the putting of Phipps toan exhaustive and satisfactory trial of his memory with relation to it, he passed it into the lawyer's hands, and went about his business withuncomfortable forebodings of the trial and its results. 

It was strange, even to him, at this point of his career, that he feltwithin himself no power to change his course. No one knew better thanhe, that there was money enough in Benedict's inventions for bothinventor and manufacturer. No one knew better than he, that there was aprosperous course for himself inside the pale of equity and law, yet hefound no motive to walk there. For the steps he had taken, there seemedno retreat. He must go on, on, to the end. The doors that led back tohis old life had closed behind him. Those which opened before were notinviting, but he could not stand still. So he hardened his face, bracedhis nerves, stiffened his determination, and went on. 

Of course he passed a wretched summer. He had intended to get away forrest, or, rather, for an exhibition of himself and his equipage atNewport, or Saratoga, or Long Branch; but through all the burning daysof the season he was obliged to remain in the city, while other men wereaway and off their guard, to watch his Wall street operations, andprepare for the _coup de grace_ by which he hoped to regain his losttreasure and his forfeited position. The legal trial that loomed upbefore him, among the clouds of autumn, could not be contemplatedwithout a shiver, and a sinking of the heart. His preparations for itwere very simple, as they mainly related to the establishment of thegenuineness of his assignment. 

The months flew away more rapidly with the proprietor than with any ofthe other parties interested in the suit, and when, at last, only afortnight was wanting to the time of the expected trial, Mr. Balfourwrote to Number Nine, ordering his family home, and requiring thepresence of Mr. Benedict, Mrs. Dillingham, Harry and Jim. 

Just at this time, the General found himself in fresh difficulty. Thecorner in Muscogee Air Line, was as evasive as a huckleberry in a mouthbereft of its armament. Indeed, to use still further the homely butsuggestive figure, the General found that his tongue was in more dangerthan his huckleberry. His notes, too, secured by fraudulent collaterals, were approaching a second and third maturity. He was without readymoney for the re-purchase of his Crooked Valley stock, and had learned, in addition, that the stock had already changed hands, in the executionof a purpose which he more than suspected. Large purchases of materialfor the execution of heavy contracts in his manufactures had drained hisready resources, in the department of his regular business. He wasgetting short, and into a tight place. Still he was desperate, anddetermined to sacrifice nothing. 

Mr. Benedict and Jim, on their arrival in the city, took up theirresidence in Mrs. Dillingham's house, and the landlord of Number Ninespent several days in making the acquaintance of the city, under theguidance of his old companion, who was at home. Jim went through a greatmental convulsion. At first, what seemed to him the magnitude of thelife, enterprise and wealth of the city, depressed him. He declared thathe "had ben growin' smaller an' smaller every minute" since he leftSevenoaks. "I felt as if I'd allers ben a fly, crawlin' 'round on theedge of a pudden, " he said, when asked whether he enjoyed the city. Butbefore the trial came on, he had fully recovered his old equanimity. Thecity grew smaller the more he explored it, until, when compared with thegreat woods, the lonely rivers, and the broad solitudes in which he hadspent his life, it seemed like a toy; and the men who chaffered in themarket, and the women who thronged the avenues, or drove in the park, orfilled the places of amusement, came to look like children, engaged infrolicsome games. He felt that people who had so little room to breathein must be small; and before the trial brought him into practicalcontact with them, he was himself again, and quite ready to meet them inany encounter which required courage or address. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

IN WHICH THE CASE OF "BENEDICT _VS. _ BELCHER" FINDS ITSELF IN COURT, ANINTERESTING QUESTION OF IDENTITY IS SETTLED, AND A MYSTERIOUSDISAPPEARANCE TAKES 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 a shuttin' onit, " responded Jim, in a whisper so loud that he attracted attention. 

There within the bar sat Mr. Balfour, calmly examining his papers. Helooked up among the assembled jurors, witnesses and idlers, and beckonedBenedict to his side. There sat Robert Belcher with his counsel. Thegreat rascal was flashily dressed, with a stupendous show ofshirt-front, over which fell, down by the side of the diamond studs, aheavy gold chain. Brutality, vulgarity, self-assurance and anover-bearing will, all expressed themselves in his broad face, bold eyesand heavy chin. Mr. Cavendish, with his uneasy scalp, white hands, hisscornful lips and his thin, twitching nostrils, looked the veryimpersonation of impatience and contempt. If the whole court-room hadbeen thronged with vermin instead of human beings, among which he wasobliged to sit, he could not have appeared more disgusted. Quite retiredamong the audience, and deeply veiled, sat Mrs. Dillingham. Mr. Belcherdetected her, and, though he could not see her face, felt that he couldnot be mistaken as to her identity. Why was she there? Why, but tonotice the progress and issue of the trial, in her anxiety for him? Hewas not glad to see her there. 

He beckoned for Phipps, who sat uneasily, with a scared look upon hisface, among the crowd. 

"Is that Mrs. Dillingham?" he asked in a whisper. 

Phipps assured him that it was. Then Mr. Belcher wrote upon his card thewords: "Do not, for my sake, remain in this room. "

"Give this to her, " he said to his servant. 

The card was delivered, but the lady, quite to his surprise, did notstir. He thought of his little book, but it seemed impossible that hisidol, who had so long been hidden from his sight and his knowledge, could betray him. 

A jury was empanneled, the case of Benedict _vs. _ Belcher was called, and the counsel of both parties declared themselves ready for the trial. 

The suit was for damages, in the sum of half a million dollars, for theinfringement of patents on machines, implements and processes, of whichit was declared that the plaintiff was the first and only inventor. Theanswer to the complaint alleged the disappearance and death of Benedict, and declared the plaintiff to be an impostor, averred the assignment ofall the patents in question to the defendant, and denied the profits. 

The judge, set somewhat deep in his shirt-collar, as if his head and hisheart were near enough together to hold easy communication, watched theformal proceedings listlessly, out of a pair of pleasant eyes, and whenthey were completed, nodded to Mr. Balfour, in indication that he wasready to proceed. 

Mr. Balfour, gathering his papers before him, rose to make the openingfor the prosecution. 

"May it please the Court, " he said, "and gentlemen of the jury, I haveto present to you a case, either issue of which it is not pleasant forme to contemplate. Either my client or the defendant will go out of thiscourt, at the conclusion of this case, a blackened man; and, as I have awarm friendship for 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: "I beg the gentlemanto spare us his hypothetical sentiment. It is superfluous, so far as myclient is concerned, and offensive. "

Mr. Balfour waited calmly for the little explosion and the clearing awayof the smoke, and then resumed. "I take no pleasure in making myselfoffensive to the defendant and his counsel, " said he, "but, if I aminterrupted, I shall be compelled to call things by their right names, and to do some thing more than hint at the real status of this case. Isee other trials, in other courts, at the conclusion of thisaction, --other trials with graver issues. I could not look forward tothem with any pleasure, without acknowledging myself to be a knave. Icould not refrain from alluding to them, without convicting myself ofcarelessness and frivolity. Something more than money is involved in theissue of this action. Either the plaintiff or the defendant will go outof this court wrecked in character, blasted in reputation, utterlyruined. The terms of the bill and the answer determine this result. "

Mr. Cavendish sat through this exordium as if he sat on nettles, butwisely held his tongue, while the brazen-faced proprietor leanedcarelessly over, and whispered to his counsel. Phipps, on his distantseat, grew white around the lips, and felt that he was on the verge ofthe most serious danger of his life. 

"The plaintiff, in this case, " Mr. Balfour went on, "brings an actionfor damages for the infringement of various patent rights. I shall proveto you that these patents were issued to him, as the first and onlyinventor; that he has never assigned them to any one; that they havebeen used by the defendant for from seven to ten years, to his greatprofit; that he is using them still without a license, and withoutrendering a just consideration for them. I shall prove to you that thedefendant gained his first possession of these inventions by a series ofmisrepresentations, false promises, oppressions and wrongs, and has usedthem without license in consequence of the weakness, illness, povertyand defencelessness of their rightful owner. I shall prove to you thattheir owner was driven to insanity by these perplexities and thepersecutions of the defendant, and that even after he became insane, thedefendant tried to secure the execution of the assignment which he hadsought in vain during the sanity of the patentee. 

"I will not characterize by the name belonging to it the instrumentwhich is to be presented in answer to the bill filed in this case, further than to say that it has no legal status whatsoever. It is theconsummate fruit of a tree that was planted in fraud; and if I do notmake it so to appear, before the case is finished, I will beg pardon ofthe court, of you, gentlemen of the jury, and especially of thedefendant and his honorable counsel. First, therefore, I offer inevidence certified copies of the patents in question. "

Mr. Balfour read these documents, and they were examined both by Mr. Cavendish and the court. 

The name of Paul Benedict was then called, as the first witness. 

Mr. Benedict mounted the witness stand. He was pale and quiet, with apink tinge on either cheek. He had the bearing and dress of a gentleman, and contrasted strangely with the coarse, bold man to whom he had beenindebted for so many wrongs and indignities. He was at last in the placeto which he had looked forward with so much dread, but there came to hima calmness and a self-possession which he had not anticipated. He wassurrounded by powerful friends. He was menaced, too, by powerfulenemies, and all his manhood was 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 and processes named inthe documents from the Patent Office which have just been read in yourhearing?"

"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 historyof your life in Sevenoaks, giving with sufficient detail an account ofall your dealings with the defendant in this case, so that we mayperfectly understand how your inventions came into Mr. Belcher's hands, and why you have never derived any benefit from them. "

It was a curious illustration of the inventor's nature that, at thismoment, with his enemy and tormentor before him, he shrank from givingpain. Mr. Cavendish noticed his hesitation, and was on his feet in aninstant. "May it please the court, " said he, "there is a questionconcerning identity that comes up at this point, and I beg the privilegeof 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 isthe Paul Benedict who left the city about the time at which he testifiesthat he went away, in consequence of his connection with a band ofcounterfeiters. Did you, sir, invent their machinery, or did you not?"

"I did not, " answered the witness--his face all aflame. The idea thathe could be suspected, or covertly charged, with crime, in the presenceof friends and strangers, was so terrible that the man tottered on hisfeet. 

Mr. Cavendish gave a significant glance at his client, whose facebloomed with a brutal smile, and then sat down. 

"Is that all?" inquired Mr. Balfour. 

"All, for the present, " responded Mr. Cavendish, sneeringly, and withmock courtesy. 

"May it please the Court, " said Mr. Balfour, "I hope I may be permittedto say that the tactics of the defendant are worthy of his cause. " Thenturning to Mr. Benedict, he said, "I trust the witness will not bedisturbed by the insult that has been gratuitously offered him, and willtell the history which I have asked him to tell. "

Mr. Cavendish had made a mistake. At this insult, and the gratificationwhich it afforded Mr. Belcher, the inventor's pity died out of him, andhe hardened to his work. 

"When I went to Sevenoaks, " said he, "I was very poor, as I have alwaysbeen since. I visited Mr. Belcher's mill, and saw how great improvementscould be made in his machines and processes; and then I visited him, andtold him what I could do for him. He furnished me with money for mywork, and for securing the patents on my inventions, with the verbalpromise that I should share in such profits as might accrue from theiruse. He was the only man who had money; he was the only man who coulduse the inventions; and he kept me at work, until he had securedeverything that he wished for. In the meantime, I suffered for the lackof the necessaries of life, and was fed from day to day, and month tomonth, and year to year, on promises. He never rendered me any returns, declared that the patents were nearly useless to him, and demanded, as aconsideration for the money he had advanced to me, the assignment of allmy patents to him. My only child was born in the midst of my earlytrouble, and such were the privations to which my wife was subjectedthat she never saw a day of health after the event. She died at last, and in the midst of my deepest troubles, Mr. Belcher pursued me with hisdemands for the assignment of my patents. He still held me to him by thebestowal of small sums, which necessity compelled me to accept. Healways had a remarkable power over me, and I felt that he would lead meto destruction. I saw the hopes of years melting away, and knew that intime he would beat down my will, and, on his own terms, possess himselfof all the results of my years of study and labor. I saw nothing butstarvation before me and my child, and went down into a horror of greatdarkness. "

A cold shiver ran over the witness, and his face grew pale and pinched, at this passage of his story. The court-house was as still as midnight. Even the General lost his smile, and leaned forward, as if the narrationconcerned some monster other than himself. 

"What then?" inquired Mr. Balfour. 

"I hardly know. Everything that I remember after that was confused andterrible. For years I was insane. I went to the hospital, and was theresupported by Mr. Belcher. He even followed me there, and endeavored toget my signature to an assignment, but was positively forbidden by thesuperintendent of the asylum. Then, after being pronounced incurable, Iwas sent back to the Sevenoaks alms-house, where, for a considerabletime, my boy was also kept; and from that horrible place, by the aid ofa friend, I escaped. I remember it all as a long dream of torture. Mycure came in the woods, at Number Nine, where I have ever since lived, and where twice I have been sought and found by paid emissaries of Mr. Belcher, who did not love him well enough to betray me. And, thanks tothe ministry of the best friends that God ever raised up to a man, I amhere to-day to claim my rights. "

"These rights, " said Mr. Balfour, "these rights which you hold in yourpatented inventions, for all these years used by the defendant, you sayyou have never assigned. "

"Never. "

"If an assignment executed in due form should be presented to you, whatshould you say?"

"I object to the question, " said Mr. Cavendish, leaping to his feet. "The document has not yet been presented to him. "

"The gentleman is right, " said Mr. Balfour; "the witness has never seenit. I withdraw the question; and now tell me what you know about Mr. Belcher's profits on the use of these inventions. "

"I cannot tell much, " replied Mr. Benedict. "I know the inventions werelargely profitable to him; otherwise he would not have been so anxiousto own them. I have never had access to his books, but I know he becamerapidly rich on his manufactures, and that, by the cheapness with whichhe produced them, he was able to hold the market, and to force hiscompetitors into bankruptcy. "

"May it please the Court, " said Mr. Balfour, "I am about done with thiswitness, and I wish to say, just here, that if the defendant stands byhis pleadings, and denies his profits, I shall demand the production ofhis books in Court. We can get definite information from them, atleast. " Then bowing to Mr. Benedict, he told him that he had no furtherquestions to ask. 

The witness was about to step down, when the Judge turned to Mr. Cavendish, with the question: "Does the counsel for the defendant wishto cross-examine the witness?"

"May it please the Court, " said Mr. Cavendish rising, "the counsel forthe defense regards the examination so far simply as a farce. We do notadmit that the witness is Paul Benedict, at all--or, rather, the PaulBenedict named in the patents, certified copies of which are inevidence. The Paul Benedict therein named, has long been regarded asdead. This man has come and gone for months in Sevenoaks, among theneighbors of the real Paul Benedict, unrecognized. He says he has livedfor years within forty miles of Sevenoaks, and at this late day putsforward his claims. There is nobody in Court, sir. We believe theplaintiff to be a fraud, and this prosecution a put-up job. In sayingthis, I would by no means impugn the honor of the plaintiff's counsel. Wiser men than he have been deceived and duped, and he may be assuredthat he is the victim of the villainies or the hallucinations of animpostor. There are men in this room, ready to testify in this case, whoknew Paul Benedict during all his residence in Sevenoaks; and thewitness stands before them at this moment unrecognized and unknown. Icannot cross-examine the witness, without recognizing his identity withthe Paul Benedict named in the patents. There is nothing but a pretenderin Court, may it please your honor, and I decline to have anything to dowith him. "

Mr. Cavendish sat down, with the air of a man who believed he hadblasted the case in the bud, and that there was nothing left to do butto adjourn. 

"It seems to the Court, gentlemen, " said the judge in a quiet tone, "that this question of identity should be settled as an essentialpreliminary to further proceedings. "

"May it please your honor, " said Mr. Balfour, rising, "I did not supposeit possible, after the plaintiff had actually appeared in court, andshown himself to the defendant, that this question of identity would bemooted or mentioned. The defendant must know that I have witnesseshere--that I would not appear here without competent witnesses--who willplace his identity beyond question. It seems, however, that this case isto be fought inch by inch, on every possible ground. As the firstwitness upon this point, I shall call for James Fenton. "

"Jest call me Jim, " said the individual named, from his distant seat. 

"James Fenton" was called to the stand, and Mr. Benedict stepped down. Jim advanced through the crowd, his hair standing very straight in theair, and his face illumined by a smile that won every heart in thehouse, except those of the defendant and his counsel. A war-horse goinginto battle, 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 you God!"

"I raally wish, if ye ain't too tired, that ye'd say that over agin, "said Jim. "If I'm a goin' to make a Happy David, I want to know what itis. "

The clerk hesitated, and the judge directed him to repeat the form ofthe oath distinctly. When this was done, Jim said: "Thank ye; there'snothin' like startin' squar. "

"James Fenton, " said Mr. Balfour, beginning a question. 

"Jest call me Jim: I ain't no prouder here nor I be at Number Nine, "said the witness. 

"Very well, Jim, " said Mr. Balfour smiling, "tell us who you are. "

"I'm Jim Fenton, as keeps a hotel at Number Nine. My father was anEnglishman, my mother was a Scotchman, I was born in Ireland, an' raisedin Canady, an' I've lived in Number Nine for more nor twelve year, huntin', trappin' an' keepin' a hotel. I hain't never ben eddicated, butI can tell the truth when it's necessary, an' I love my friends an' hatemy enemies. "

"May it please the Court, " said Mr. Cavendish with a sneer, "I beg tosuggest to the plaintiff's counsel that the witness should be requiredto give his religious views. "

Mr. Belcher laughed, and Mr. Cavendish sniffed his lips, as if they hadsaid a good thing. 

"Certainly, " responded Mr. Balfour. "What are your religious views, Jim?"

"Well, " said Jim, "I hain't got many, but I sh'd be s'prised if therewasn't a brimstone mine on t'other side, with a couple o' picks in itfor old Belcher an' the man as helps 'im. "

The laugh was on Mr. Cavendish. The Court smiled, the audience roared, and order was demanded. 

"That will do, " said Mr. Cavendish. "The religious views of the witnessare definite and satisfactory. "

"Jim, do you know Paul Benedict?" inquired Mr. Balfour. 

"Well, I do, " said Jim. "I've knowed 'im ever sence he come toSevenoaks. "

"How did you make his acquaintance?"

"He used to come into the woods, fishin' an' huntin'. Him an' me waslike brothers. He was the curisest creetur I ever seen, an' I hope hetakes 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. Iwish I'd brung it along. Fond of fishin', sir?" And Jim turned blandlyand patronizingly to the Court. 

The Judge could not repress a little ripple of amusement, which, from abenevolent mouth, ran out over his face. Biting his lips, he said: "Thewitness had better be confined to the matter in hand. "

"An' Jedge--no 'fense--but I like yer looks, an' if ye'll come to NumberNine--it's a little late now--I'll"--

Mr. Cavendish jumped up and said fiercely: "I object to this trifling. "

"Jim, " said Mr. Balfour, "the defendant's counsel objects to yourtrifling. He has a right to do so, particularly as he is responsible forstarting it. Now tell me whether the Paul Benedict you knew was the onlyman of the name who has lived in Sevenoaks since you have lived inNumber Nine?"

"He was the only one I ever hearn on. He was the one as inventedBelcher's machines, any way. He's talked about 'em with me a thousandtimes. "

"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 beena stannin' where I stan' now. "

"How do you know that this is the same man who used to visit you in thewoods, and who invented Mr. Belcher's machines?"

"Well, it's a long story. I don't mind tellin' on it, if it wouldn't betoo 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 packedoff to the 'Sylum, an' I never seen 'im agin till I seen 'im in theSevenoaks' poor-house. I come acrost his little boy one night on thehill, when I was a trampin' home. He hadn't nothin' on but rags, an' hewas as blue an' hungry as a spring bar. The little feller teched me yeknow--teched my feelins--an' I jest sot down to comfort 'im. He telledme his ma was dead, and that his pa was at old Buffum's, as crazy as aloon. Well, I stayed to old Buffum's that night, an' went into thepoor-house in the mornin', with the doctor. I seen Benedict thar, an'knowed him. He was a lyin' on the straw, an' he hadn't cloes enough on'im to put in tea. An', says I, 'Mr. Benedict, give us yourbenediction;' an', says he, 'Jim!' That floored me, an' I jest cried andswar'd to myself. Well, I made a little 'rangement with him an' his boy, to take 'im to Abram's bosom. Ye see he thought he was in hell, an' itwas a reasomble thing in 'im too; an' I telled 'im that I'd got asettlement in Abram's bosom, an' I axed 'im over to spend the day. Itook 'im out of the poor-house an' carried 'im to Number Nine, an' Icured 'im. He's lived there ever sence, helped me build my hotel, an' Icome down with 'im, to 'tend this Court, an' we brung his little boyalong too, an' the little feller is here, an' knows him better nor Ido. "

"And you declare, under oath, that the Paul Benedict whom you knew inSevenoaks, and at Number Nine--before his insanity--the Paul Benedictwho was in the poor-house at Sevenoaks and notoriously escaped from thatinstitution--escaped by your help, has lived with you ever since, andhas appeared here in Court this morning, " said Mr. Balfour. 

"He's the same feller, an' no mistake, if so be he hain't slipped hisskin, " said Jim, "an' no triflin'. I make my Happy 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. They didn't want toblow any, to speak on, but Mike Conlin come in with a hundred dollars ofBelcher's money in his jacket, an' helped me nuss my man for a week; an'I got a Happy David out o' Sam Yates, an' ther's the dockyment;" and Jimdrew from his pocket the instrument with which the reader is alreadyfamiliar. 

Mr. Balfour had seen the paper, and told Jim that it was not necessaryin the case. Mr. Belcher looked very red in the face, and leaned overand 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't see 'xactly what was agoin' on. "

"Oh you couldn't! We have your confession, then, that you are a thiefand a burglar, and that you couldn't see the man you took out. "

"Well, now, Squar, that won't help ye any. Benedict is the man as gotaway, an' I saved the town the board of two paupers an' the cost of twopine coffins, an' sent old Buffum where he belonged, an' nobody criedbut his pertickler friend as sets next to ye. "

"I beg the Court's protection for my client, against the insults ofthis witness, " said Mr. Cavendish. 

"When a man calls Jim Fenton a thief an' a buggler, he must take whatcomes on't, " said Jim. "Ye may thank yer everlastin' stars that yedidn't say that to me in the street, for I should 'a licked ye. I should'a fastened that slippery old scalp o' yourn tighter nor a drum-head. "

"Witness, " said the Judge, peremptorily, "you forget where you are, sir. You must stop these remarks. "

"Jedge look 'ere! When a man is insulted by a lawyer in court, what canhe do? I'm a reasomble man, but I can't take anybody's sarse. It doesseem to me as if a lawyer as snubs a witness an calls 'im names, wantsdressin' down too. Give Jim Fenton a fair shake, an' he's all right. "

Jim's genial nature and his irrepressible tongue were too much for thecourt and the lawyers together. Mr. Cavendish writhed in his seat. Hecould do nothing with Jim. He could neither scare nor control him, andsaw that the witness was only anxious for another encounter. It was tooevident that the sympathy of the jury and the increasing throng ofspectators was with the witness, and that they took delight in thediscomfiture of the defendant's counsel. 

"May it please the Court, " said Mr. Cavendish, "after the disgracefulconfessions of the witness, and the revelation of his criminalcharacter, it will not comport with my own self-respect to question himfurther. "

"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 the Judge, and hadintended, in some private way, to explain the condition of his hair asattributable to his fright on being called into Court as a witness, buthe was obliged to relinquish his plan, and go back to his seat. Theexpression of his face must have been most agreeable to the spectators, for there was a universal giggle among them which called out thereproof of the Court. 

"Helen Dillingham" was next called for. At the pronunciation of hername, and her quiet progress through the court-room to the stand, therewas a hush in which nothing was heard but the rustle of her own drapery. Mr. Belcher gasped, and grew pale. Here was the woman whom he madlyloved. Here was the woman whom he had associated with his scheme ofEuropean life, and around whom, more and more, as his difficultiesincreased and the possibilities of disaster presented themselves, he hadgrouped his hopes and gathered his plans. Had he been the dupe of hercunning? Was he to be the object of her revenge? Was he to be betrayed?Her intimacy with Harry Benedict began to take on new significance. Hersystematic repulses of his blind passion had an explanation other thanthat which he had given them. Mr. Belcher thought rapidly while theformalities which preceded her testimony were in progress. 

Every man in the court-room leaned eagerly forward to catch her firstword. Her fine figure, graceful carriage and rich dress had made theirusual impression. 

"Mrs. Dillingham, " said the Judge, with a courteous bow and gesture, "will you have the kindness to remove your veil?"

The veil was quietly raised over her hat, and she stood revealed. Shewas not pale; she was fresh from the woods, and in the glory of renewedhealth. A murmur of admiration went around the room like the stirring ofleaves before a vagrant 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, after his marriage. "

"What is his relation to you?"

"He is my brother, sir. "

Up to this answer, she had spoken quietly, and in a voice that couldonly be heard through the room by the closest attention; but the lastanswer was given in a full, emphatic tone. 

Mr. Belcher entirely lost his self-possession. His face grew white, hiseyes were wild, and raising his clenched fist he brought it down with apowerful blow upon the table before him, and exclaimed: "My God!"

The court-room became in an instant as silent as death. The Judgeuttered no reprimand, but looked inquiringly, and with unfeignedastonishment, at the defendant. 

Mr. Cavendish rose and begged the Court to overlook his client'sexcitement, as he had evidently been taken off his guard. 

"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 a careful educationin accordance with his mechanical genius. "

"Why did he leave New York?"

"I am ashamed to say that he left in consequence of my own unkindness. "

"What was the occasion of your unkindness?"

"His marriage with one whom I did not regard as his own social equal ormine. "

"What was her name?"

"Jane Kendrick. "

"How did you learn that he was alive?"

"Through his son, whom I invited into my house, after he was brought tothis 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 your separation?"

"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 yoususpect that the man whom you recognised as your brother was animpostor?"

"Nothing. We have conversed with perfect familiarity on a thousandevents and circumstances of our early life. I know him to be my brotheras well as I know my own name, and my own identity. "

"That is all, " said Mr. Balfour. 

"Mrs. Dillingham, " said Mr. Cavendish after holding a long whisperedconversation with his client, "you were glad to find your brother atlast, were you not?"

"Very glad, sir. "

"Why?"

"Because I was sorry for the misery which I had inflicted upon him, andto 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 unfitted you todiscriminate? Were you not so anxious to find your brother, in order toquiet your conscience, that you were easily imposed upon. "

"No, sir, to both questions. "

"Well, madam, such things have happened. Have you been in the habit ofreceiving 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. "It carries acovert insult to the witness. "

Mrs. Dillingham bowed to Mr. Balfour in acknowledgment of his courtesy, but answered the question. "I have received you, sir, and Mr. Belcher. Imay have been indiscriminate in my courtesies. A lady living alonecannot always tell. "

A titter ran around the court-room, in which Mr. Belcher joined. Hisadmiration was too much at the moment for his self-interest. 

"Did you know before you went to Number Nine, that your brother wasthere?" inquired Mr. Cavendish. 

"I did, and the last time but one at which Mr. Belcher called upon me Iinformed 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 want' ed to harass thewitness, but he had been withheld by his client. Baffled on one hand andrestrained on the other--for Mr. Belcher could not give her up, andlearn to hate her in a moment--he told the witness he had no morequestions to ask. 

Mrs. Dillingham drew down her veil again, and walked to her seat. 

Harry Benedict was next called, and after giving satisfactory answers toquestions concerning his understanding of the nature of an oath, waspermitted to testify. 

"Harry, " said Mr. Balfour, "were you ever in Mr. Belcher's house?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Tell us how it happened that you were there. "

"Mr. Belcher stopped me in the street, and led me up the steps, and thenup 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, and told me it wasan 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 father some money?"

"Yes, sir. "

"And did you tell him that your father was alive?"

"No, sir, I ran away;" and Harry could not restrain a laugh at theremembrance 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 these people. Be surenot to make any mistake. Mr. Belcher has been so anxious to find him, that I presume he will be very much obliged to you for the information. Go and put your hand on him. "

Harry started at a run, and, dodging around the end of the bar, threwhimself into his father's arms. The performance seemed so comical to thelad, that he burst into a peal of boyish laughter, and the scene hadsuch a pretty touch of nature in it, that the spectators cheered, andwere only checked by the stern reprimand of the judge, who threatenedthe clearing of the room if such a demonstration should again beindulged in. 

"Does the counsel for the defence wish to cross-examine the witness?"inquired the judge. 

"I believe not, " said Mr. Cavendish, with a nod; and then Harry went tohis seat, at the side of Jim Fenton, who hugged him so that he almostscreamed. "Ye're a brick, little feller, " Jim whispered. "That was aHappy David, an' a Goliar into the bargin. You've knocked the Ph'listinethis time higher nor a kite. "

"May it please the Court, " said Mr. Cavendish, "I have witnesses herewho knew Paul Benedict during all his residence in Sevenoaks, and whoare ready to testify that they do not know the person who presentshimself here to-day, as the plaintiff in this case. I comprehend thedisadvantage at which I stand, with only negative testimony at mycommand. I know how little value it has, when opposed to such as hasbeen presented here; and while I am convinced that my client is wronged, I shall be compelled, in the end, to accept the identity of theplaintiff as established. If I believed the real Paul Benedict, named inthe patents in question, in this case, to be alive, I should becompelled to fight this question to the end, by every means in my power, but the main question at issue, as to whom the title to these patentsrests in, can be decided between my client and a man of straw, as wellas between him and the real inventor. That is the first practical issue, and to save the time of the Court, I propose to proceed to its trial;and first I wish to cross-examine the plaintiff. "

Mr. Benedict resumed the stand. 

"Witness, you pretend to be the owner of the patents in question, inthis case, and the inventor of the machines, implements and processeswhich they cover, do you?" said Mr. Cavendish. 

"I object to the form of the question, " said Mr. Balfour. "It is aninsult to the witness, and a reflection upon the gentleman's ownsincerity, in accepting the identity of the plaintiff. "

"Very well, " said Mr. Cavendish, "since the plaintiff's counsel is sodifficult to please! You are the owner of these patents, 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 nodoubt that I suffered from mental alienation. "

"What is your memory of things that occurred immediately preceding yourinsanity?"

Mr. Benedict and his counsel saw the bearings of this question, at once, but the witness would no more have lied than he would have stolen, orcommitted murder. So he answered: "It is very much confused, sir. "

"Oh, it is! I thought so! Then you cannot swear to the eventsimmediately preceding your attack?"

"I am afraid I cannot, sir, at least, not in their order or detail. "

"No! I thought so!" said Mr. Cavendish, in his contemptuous manner, andrasping voice. "I commend your prudence. Now, witness, if a number ofyour neighbors should assure you that, on the day before your attack, you did a certain thing, which you do not remember to have done, howshould you regard their testimony?"

"If they were credible people, and not unfriendly to me, I should becompelled to believe them. "

"Why, sir! you are an admirable witness! I did not anticipate suchcandor. We are getting at the matter bravely. We have your confession, then, that you do not remember distinctly the events that occurred theday before your attack, and your assertion that you are ready to believeand accept the 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 the date, sir. Mr. Belcher had determined to get my signature to an assignment, and hadbrought me to his house on another pretext entirely. I suppose he hadsummoned these men as witnesses. "

"Where are these men now?"

"Unhappily, they are both dead. "

"Yes, unhappily indeed--unhappily for my client. Was there anybody elsein the room?"

"I believe that Phipps, Mr. Belcher's man, was coming and going. "

"Why, your memory is excellent, is it not? And you remember the date ofthis event too! Suppose you tell us what it 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, " responded thewitness. "There were other occurrences that day, of which I have beeninformed, but of which I have no memory. "

"Ah, there are! Well, I shall have occasion to refresh your mind uponstill another, before I get through with you. Now, if I should show youan assignment, signed by yourself on the very day you have designated, and also signed by Johnson, Ramsey and Phipps as witnesses, what shouldyou say to it?"

"I object to the question. The counsel should show the document to thewitness, and then ask his opinion of it, " said Mr. Balfour. 

The Court coincided with Mr. Balfour's view, and ruled accordingly. 

"Very well, " said Mr. Cavendish, "we shall get at that in good time. Now, witness, will you be kind enough to tell me how you remember thatall this occurred on the 4th of May, 1860?"

"It happened to be the first anniversary of my wife's death. I wentfrom her grave to Mr. Belcher's house. The day war associated with thesaddest and most precious memories of my life. "

"What an excellent memory!" said Mr. Cavendish; rubbing his white handstogether. "Are you familiar with the signatures of Nicholas Johnson andJames Ramsey?"

"I have seen them many times. "

"Would you recognize them, if I were to show them to you?"

"I don't know sir. "

"Oh! your memory begins to fail now, does it? How is it that you cannotremember things with which you were familiar during a series of years, when you were perfectly sane, and yet can remember things so well thathappened when your mind was confused?"

Mr. Benedict's mind was getting confused again, and he began to stammer. Mr. Cavendish wondered that, in some way, Mr. Balfour did not come tothe relief of his witness, but he sat perfectly quiet, and apparentlyunconcerned. Mr. Cavendish rummaged among his papers, and withdrew twoletters. These he handed to the witness. "Now, " said he, "will thewitness examine these letters, and tell us whether he recognizes thesignatures as genuine?"

Mr. Benedict took the two letters, of which he had already heard throughSam Yates, and very carefully read them. His quick, mechanical eyemeasured the length and every peculiarity of the signatures. He spent somuch time upon them that even the court grew impatient. 

"Take all the time you need, witness, " said Mr. Balfour. 

"All day, of course, if necessary, " responded Mr. Cavendish raspingly. 

"I think these are genuine autograph letters, both of them, " said Mr. Benedict. 

"Thank you: now please hand them back to me. "

"I have special reasons for requesting the Court to impound theseletters, " said Mr. Balfour. "They will be needed again in the case. "

"The witness will hand the letters to the clerk, " said the judge. 

Mr. Cavendish was annoyed, but acquiesced gracefully. Then he took upthe assignment, and said: "Witness, I hold in my hand a document signed, sealed and witnessed on the 4th day of May, 1860, by which Paul Benedictconveys to Robert Belcher his title to the patents, certified copies ofwhich have been placed in evidence. I want you to examine carefully yourown signature, and those of Johnson and Ramsey. Happily, one of thewitnesses is still living, and is ready, not only to swear to his ownsignature, but to yours and to those of the other witnesses. "

Mr. Cavendish advanced, and handed Benedict the instrument. The inventoropened it, looked it hurriedly through, and then paused at thesignatures. After examining them long, with naked eyes, he drew a glassfrom his pocket, and scrutinized them with a curious, absorbed look, forgetful, apparently, where he was. 

"Is the witness going to sleep?" inquired Mr. Cavendish; but he did notstir. Mr. Belcher drew a large handkerchief from his pocket, and wipedhis red, perspiring face. It was an awful moment to him. Phipps, in hisseat, was as pale as a ghost, and sat watching his master. 

At last Mr. Benedict looked up. He seemed as if he had been deprived ofthe power of speech. His face was full of pain and fright. "I do notknow what to say to this, " he said. 

"Oh, you don't! I thought you wouldn't! Still, we should like to knowyour opinion of the instrument, " said Mr. 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 hisfeet. "No insinuations, sir!"

"Insinuations are very apt to breed insinuations, " said the Judge, quietly. "The witness has manifested no disinclination to answer yourdirect questions. "

"Very well, " said Mr. Cavendish. "Is your signature at the foot of thatassignment?"

"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, " responded Mr. Balfour, with an excited voice. 

Mr. Cavendish knew that it would do no good to manifest anger; so helaughed. Then he sat down by the side of Mr. Belcher, and said somethingto him, and they both laughed together. 

"That's all, " he said, nodding to the witness. 

"May it please the Court, " said Mr. Balfour, "we got along so well withthe question of identity that, with the leave of the defendant'scounsel, I propose, in order to save the time of the Court, that we pushour inquiries directly into the validity of this assignment. This is theessential question, and the defendant has only to establish the validityof the instrument to bring the case to an end at once. This done, thesuit will be abandoned. "

"Certainly, " said Mr. Cavendish, rising. "I agree to the scheme with thesingle provision on behalf of the defendant, that he shall not bedebarred from his pleading of a denial of profits, in any event. "

"Agreed, " said Mr. Balfour. 

"Very well, " said Mr. Cavendish. "I shall call Cornelius Phipps, theonly surviving witness of the assignment. "

But Cornelius Phipps did not appear when he was called. A second callproduced the same result. He was not in the house. He was sought for inevery possible retreat about the house, but could not be found. Cornelius Phipps had mysteriously disappeared. 

After consulting Mr. Belcher, Mr. Cavendish announced that the witnesswho had been called was essential at the present stage of the case. Hethought it possible that in the long confinement of the court-room, Phipps had become suddenly ill, and gone home. He hoped, for the honorof the plaintiff 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 wasapparently oblivious of the fact, and sat and stared, until touched uponthe shoulder by his counsel, when he rose and walked out upon a worldand into an atmosphere that had never before seemed so strange andunreal. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

IN WHICH PHIPPS IS NOT TO BE FOUND, AND THE GENERAL IS CALLED UPON TO DOHIS OWN LYING. 

At the appointed hour on the following morning, the Court resumed itssession. The plaintiff and defendant were both in their places, withtheir counsel, and the witnesses of the previous day were all inattendance. Among the little group of witnesses there were two or threenew faces--a professional-looking gentleman with spectacles; athin-faced, carefully-dressed, slender man, with a lordly air, and thebearing of one who carried the world upon his shoulders and did notregard it as much of a burden; and, last, our old friend Sam Yates. 

There was an appearance of perplexity and gloom on the countenances ofMr. Cavendish and his client. They were in serious conversation, and itwas evident that they were in difficulty. Those who knew the occasion ofthe abrupt adjournment of the Court on the previous day looked in vainamong the witnesses for the face of Phipps. He was not in the room, and, while few suspected the real state of the case, all understood howessential he was to the defendant, in his attempt to establish thegenuineness of the assignment. 

At the opening of the Court, Mr. Cavendish rose to speak. His bold, sharp manner had disappeared. The instrument which he had expected touse had slipped hopelessly out of his hand. He was impotent. "May itplease the Court, " he said, "the defendant in this case finds himself ina very embarrassing position this morning. It was known yesterday thatCornelius Phipps, the only surviving witness of the assignment, mysteriously disappeared at the moment when his testimony was wanted. Why and how he disappeared, I cannot tell. He has not yet been found. All due diligence has been exercised to discover him, but withoutsuccess. I make no charges of foul play, but it is impossible for me, knowing what I know about him--his irreproachable character, hisfaithfulness to my client, and his perfect memory of every eventconnected with the execution of the paper in question--to avoid thesuspicion that he is by some means, and against his will, detained fromappearing here this morning. I confess, sir, that I was not prepared forthis. It is hard to believe that the plaintiff could adopt a measure sodesperate as this for securing his ends, and I will not criminate him;but I protest that the condition in which the defendant is left by thisdefection, or this forcible detention--call it what you will--demandsthe most generous consideration, and compels me to ask the Court forsuggestions as to the best course of proceeding. There are now but twomen in Court who saw the paper executed, namely, the assignor and theassignee. The former has declared, with an effrontery which I have neverseen equalled, that he never signed the document which so unmistakablybears his signature, and that the names of two of the witnesses areforgeries. I do not expect that, in a struggle like this, the testimonyof the latter will be accepted, and I shall not stoop to ask it. "

Mr. Cavendish hesitated, looked appealingly at the Judge, and thenslowly took his seat, when Mr. Balfour, without waiting for anysuggestions from the Court, rose and said:

"I appreciate the embarrassment of the defense, and am quite willing todo all I can to relieve it. His insinuations of foul dealing toward hiswitness are absurd, of course, and, to save any further trouble, I amwilling to receive as a witness, in place of Mr. Phipps, Mr. Belcherhimself, and to pledge myself to abide by what he establishes. I can dono more than this, I am sure, and now I challenge him to take thestand. "

The Judge watched the defendant and his counsel in their whisperedconsultation for a few minutes, and then said: "It seems to the Courtthat the defense can reasonably ask for nothing more than this. "

Mr. Belcher hesitated. He had not anticipated this turn of the case. There appeared to be no alternative, however, and, at last, he rose witha very red face, and walked to the witness-stand, placing himself justwhere Mr. Balfour wanted him--in a position to be cross-examined. 

It is useless to rehearse here the story which had been prepared forPhipps, and for which Phipps had been prepared. Mr. Belcher swore to allthe signatures to the assignment, as having been executed in hispresence, on the day corresponding with the date of the paper. He waspermitted to enlarge upon all the circumstances of the occasion, and tosurround the execution of the assignment with the most ingeniousplausibilities. He told his story with a fine show of candor, and withgreat directness and clearness, and undoubtedly made a profoundimpression upon the Court and the jury. Then Mr. Cavendish passed himinto the hands of Mr. Balfour. 

"Well, Mr. Belcher, you have told us a very straight story, but thereare a few little matters which I would like to have explained, " said Mr. Balfour. "Why, for instance, was your assignment placed on record only afew months ago?"

"Because I was not a lawyer, sir, " replied Mr. Belcher, delighted thatthe first answer was so easy and so plausible. "I was not aware that itwas necessary, until so informed by Mr. Cavendish. "

"Was Mr. Benedict's insanity considered hopeless from the first?"

"No, " replied Mr. Belcher, cheerfully; "we were quite hopeful that weshould bring him out of it. "

"He had lucid intervals, then. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Was that the reason why, the next day after the alleged assignment, youwrote him a letter, urging him to make the assignment, and offering hima royalty for the use of his patents?"

"I never wrote any such letter, sir. I never sent him any such letter, sir. "

"You sent him to the asylum, did you?"

"I co-operated with others, sir, and paid the bills, " said Mr. 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 secure his signatureto a paper?"

"I do not remember that I did. It would have been an unnatural thing forme to do. If I did, it was a paper on some subordinate affair. It wassome years ago, and the details of the visit did not impress themselvesupon my memory. "

"How did you obtain the letters of Nicholas Johnson and James Ramsey? Iask this, because they are not addressed to you. "

"I procured them of Sam Yates, in anticipation of the trial now inprogress here. The witnesses were dead, and I thought they would help mein establishing the genuineness of their signatures. "

"What reason had you to anticipate this trial?"

"Well, sir, I am accustomed to providing for all contingencies. That isthe way I was made, sir. It seemed to me quite probable that Benedict, if living, would forget what he had done before his insanity, and that, if he were dead, some friend of his boy would engage in the suit on hisbehalf. I procured the autographs after I saw his boy in your hands, sir. "

"So you had not seen these particular signatures at the time when thealleged assignment was made. "

"No, sir, I had not seen them. "

"And you simply procured them to use as a defense in a suit which seemedprobable, or possible, and which now, indeed, is in progress of trial?"

"That is about as clear a statement of the fact as I can make, sir;"and Mr. Belcher bowed and smiled. 

"I suppose, Mr. Belcher, " said Mr. Balfour, "that it seems very strangeto you that the plaintiff should have forgotten his signature. "

"Not at all, sir. On the contrary, I regard it as the most natural thingin the world. I should suppose that a man who had lost his mind oncewould naturally lose his memory of many things. "

"That certainly seems reasonable, but how is it that he does notrecognize it, even if he does not remember the writing of it?"

"I don't know; a man's signature changes with changing habits, Isuppose, " responded the witness. 

"You don't suppose that any genuine signature of yours could pass underyour eye undetected, do you?" inquired Mr. 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 alwaysbeen sane, do sometimes forget their own signatures. "

Mr. Balfour withdrew from his papers a note. Mr. Belcher saw it in thedistance, and made up his mind that it was the note he had written tothe lawyer before the beginning of the suit. The latter folded over thesignature so that it might be shown to the witness, independent of thebody of the letter, and then he stepped to him holding it in his hand, and asked 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 the clerk to bemarked. "You are right, I have no doubt, and I believe this is all Iwant of you, for the present. "

"And now, may it please the Court, " said Mr. Balfour, "I have sometestimony to present in rebuttal of that of the defendant. I propose, practically, to finish up this case with it, and to show that the storyto which you have listened is false in every particular. 

"First, I wish to present the testimony of Dr. Charles Barhydt. " At thepronunciation of his name, the man in spectacles arose, and advanced tothe 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 superintendent of the StateAsylum for the insane. "

"Do you recognize the plaintiff in this case, as a former patient in theasylum?"

"I do, sir. "

"Was he ever visited by the defendant while in your care?"

"He was, sir. "

"Did the defendant endeavor to procure his signature to any documentwhile he was in the asylum?"

"He did, sir. "

"Did he apply to you for permission to get this signature, and did heimportunately 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 a number of patentrights and sundry machines, implements and processes. "

Mr. Balfour handed to the witness the assignment, and then said: "Bekind enough to look that through, and tell us whether you ever saw itbefore. "

After reading the document through, the Doctor said:

"This is the identical paper which Mr. Belcher showed me or a veryclose copy of it. Several of the patents named here I rememberdistinctly, for I read the paper carefully, with a professional purpose. I was curious to know what had been the mental habits of my patient. "

"But you did not give the defendant liberty to procure the signature ofthe patentee?"

"I did not. I refused to do so on the ground that he was not of soundmind--that he was not a responsible person. "

"When was this?"

"I have no record of the date, but it was after the 12th of May, 1860--the date of Mr. Benedict's admission to the asylum. "

"That is all, " said Mr. Balfour. Mr. Cavendish tried to cross-examine, but without any result, except to emphasize the direct testimony, thoughhe tried persistently to make the witness remember that, while Mr. Belcher might have shown him the assignment, and that he read it for thepurpose which he 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 this case?"

"Yes, sir. "

"What have you done for him?"

"I worked many months in the endeavor to ascertain whether Paul Benedictwas living or dead. "

"It isn't essential that we should go into that; and as the defendanthas testified that he procured the autograph letters which are in thepossession of the Court from you, I presume you will corroborate histestimony. "

"He did procure them of me, sir. "

"Did he inform you of the purpose to which he wished to put them?"

"He did, sir. He said that he wished to verify some signatures. "

"Were you ever employed in his library at Sevenoaks, by his agent?"

"Yes, sir, I wrote there for several weeks. "

"May it please the Court, I have a letter in my hand, the genuineness ofwhose signature has been recognized by the defendant, written by RobertBelcher to Paul Benedict, which, as it has a direct bearing upon thecase, I beg the privilege of placing in evidence. It was written thenext day after the date of the alleged assignment, and came inclosedfrom Benedict's hands to mine. "

Mr. Belcher evidently recalled the letter, for he sat limp in his chair, like a man stunned. A fierce quarrel then arose between the counselconcerning the admission of the letter. The Judge examined it, and saidthat he could see no reason why it should not be admitted. Then Mr. Balfour read the following note:

"SEVENOAKS, May 5, 1860. 

"_Dear Benedict:_--I am glad to know that you are better. Since youdistrust my pledge that I will give you a reasonable share of theprofits on the use of your patents, I will go to your house thisafternoon, with witnesses, and have an independent paper prepared, to besigned by myself, after the assignment is executed, which will give youa definite claim upon me for royalty. We will be there at four o'clock. 

"Yours, ROBERT BELCHER. "

"Mr. Yates, " said Mr. Balfour, "have you ever seen this letter before?"

Yates took the letter, looked it over, and then said: "I have, sir. Ifound the letter in a drawer of the library-table, in Mr. Belcher'shouse at Sevenoaks. I delivered it unopened to the man to whom it wasaddressed, leaving him to decide the question as to whether it belongedto him or the writer. I had no idea of its contents at the time, butbecame acquainted with 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 personally tothe man to whom it was addressed, as he apparently had the best right toit. I am quite willing to return it to the writer, if it is decided thatit belongs to him. I had no selfish end to serve in the affair. "

Here the Judge interposed. "The Court, " said he, "finds this letter inthe hands of the plaintiff, delivered by a man who at the time was inthe employ of the defendant, and had the contents of the room in hiskeeping. The paper has a direct bearing on the case, and the Court willnot go back of the facts stated. "

Mr. Cavendish sat down and consulted his client. Mr. Belcher was afraidof Yates. The witness not only knew too much concerning his originalintentions, but he was a lawyer who, if questioned too closely andsaucily, would certainly manage to bring in facts to his disadvantage. Yates had already 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 witness that he was donewith him. Then Mr. Belcher and his counsel conversed again for sometime, when Mr. Balfour rose and said, addressing the Court:

"The defendant and his counsel evidently need time for consultation, and, as there is a little preliminary work to be done before I presentanother witness, I suggest that the Court take a recess of an hour. Inthe meantime, I wish to secure photographic copies of the signatures ofthe two autograph letters, and of the four signatures of the assignment. I ask the Court to place these documents in the keeping of an officer, to be used for this purpose, in an adjoining room, where I have caused aphotographic apparatus to be placed, and where a skillful operator isnow in waiting. I ask this privilege, as it is essential to a perfectdemonstration of the character of the document on which the decision ofthis case must turn. "

The Judge acceded to Mr. Balfour's request, both in regard to the recessand the use of the paper, and the assembly broke up into little knots ofearnest talkers, most of whom manifested no desire to leave thebuilding. 

Mr. Cavendish approached Mr. Balfour, and asked for a private interview. When they had retired to a lobby, he said: "You are not to take anyadvantage of this conversation. I wish to talk in confidence. "

"Very well, " said Mr. Balfour. 

"My client, " said Cavendish, "is in a devilish bad box. His principalwitness has run away, his old friends all turn against him, andcircumstantial evidence doesn't befriend him. I have advised him to stopthis suit right here, and make a compromise. No one wants to kill theGeneral. He's a sharp man, but he is good-natured, and a useful citizen. He can handle these patents better than Benedict can, and make moneyenough for both of them. What could Benedict do if he had the patents inhis hands? He's a simpleton. He's a nobody. Any man capable of carryingon his business would 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 I can settlethis business better for these men than they can settle it forthemselves. "

"I'll be frank with you, " said Mr. Balfour. "I am not one who regardsRobert Belcher as a good-natured man and a useful citizen, and I, forone--to use your own phrase--want to kill him. He has preyed upon thepublic for ten years, and I owe a duty not only to my client but tosociety I understand how good a bargain I could make with him at thispoint, but I will make no bargain with him. He is an unmitigatedscoundrel, and he will only go out of this Court to be arrested forcrime; and I do not expect to drop him until I drop him into aPenitentiary, where he can reflect upon his forgeries at leisure. "

"Then you refuse any sort of a compromise. "

"My dear sir, " said Mr. Balfour, warmly, "do you suppose I can give aman a right to talk of terms who is in my hands? Do you suppose I cancompromise with crime? You know I can't. "

"Very well--let it go. I suppose I must go through with it. Youunderstand that this conversation is confidential. "

"I do: and you?"

"Oh, certainly!"

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

IN WHICH A HEAVENLY WITNESS APPEARS WHO CANNOT BE CROSS-EXAMINED, ANDBEFORE WHICH THE DEFENSE UTTERLY BREAKS DOWN. 

At the re-assembling of the Court, a large crowd had come in. Those whohad heard the request of Mr. Balfour had reported what was going on, and, as the promised testimony seemed to involve some curious features, the court-room presented the most crowded appearance that it had wornsince the beginning of the trial. 

Mr. Belcher had grown old during the hour. His consciousness of guilt, his fear of exposure, the threatened loss of his fortune, and theapprehension of a retribution of disgrace were sapping his vital forces, minute by minute. All the instruments that he had tried to use for hisown base purposes were turned against himself. The great world that hadglittered around the successful man was growing dark, and, what wasworse, there were none to pity him. He had lived for himself; and now, in his hour of trouble, no one was true to him, no one loved him--noteven his wife and children!

He gave a helpless, hopeless sigh, as Mr. Balfour called to the witnessstand Prof. Albert Timms. 

Prof. Timms was the man already described among the three new witnesses, as the one who seemed to be conscious of bearing the world upon hisshoulders, and to find it so inconsiderable a burden. He advanced to thestand with the air of one who had no stake in the contest. Hisimpartiality came 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 the School of Mines. Myspecialties are chemistry and microscopy. "

"You are specially acquainted with these branches of natural science, then. "

"I am, sir. "

"Have you been regarded as an expert in the detection of forgery?"

"I have been called as such in many cases of the kind, sir. "

"Then you have had a good deal of experience in such things, and in thevarious tests by which such matters are determined?"

"I have, sir. "

"Have you examined the assignment and the autograph letters which havebeen in your hands during the recess of the Court?"

"I have, sir. "

"Do you know either the plaintiff or the defendant in this case?"

"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 toprejudice your mind in regard to any of them?"

"No, sir. I have not exchanged a word with any one in regard 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 the body of theletters, by the free and natural shaping and interflowing of the lines, and by a general impression of truthfulness which it is very difficultto 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 be very sure of thetruth of a statement like this. You say you think they are counterfeits:why?"

"If the papers can be handed to me, " said the witness, "I will show whatleads me to think so. "

The papers were handed to him, and, placing the letters on the bar onwhich he had been leaning, he drew from his pocket a little rule, andlaid it lengthwise along the signature of Nicholas Johnson. Havingrecorded the measurement, he next took the corresponding name on theassignment. 

"I find the name of Nicholas Johnson of exactly the same length on theassignment that it occupies on the letter, " said he. 

"Is that a suspicious circumstance?"

"It is, and, moreover, " (going on with his measurements) "there is notthe slightest variation between the two signatures in the length of aletter. Indeed, to the naked eye, one signature is the counterpart ofthe other, in every characteristic. "

"How do you determine, then, that it is anything but a genuinesignature?"

"The imitation is too nearly perfect. "

"How can that be?"

"Well; no man writes his signature twice alike. There is not one chancein a million that he will do so, without definitely attempting to do so, and then he will be obliged to use 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 examinedthe form of every letter in detail, and compared it with its twin, anddeclared, at the close of his examination, that he found the second nameas close a counterfeit as the first. 

"Both names on the assignment, then, are exact fac-similes of the nameson the autograph letters, " said Mr. Balfour. 

"They are, indeed, sir--quite wonderful reproductions. "

"The work must have been done, then, by a very skillful man, " said Mr. Balfour. 

The professor shook his head pityingly. "Oh, no, sir, " he said. "Nonebut bunglers ever undertake a job like this. Here, sir, are two forgedsignatures. If one genuine signature, standing alone, has one chance ina million of being exactly like any previous signature of the writer, two standing together have 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 first with a pencil, directly over the signature to be counterfeited. "

"Well, this seems very reasonable, but have you any further tests?"

"Under this magnifying glass, " said the professor, pushing along hisexamination at the same time, "I see a marked difference between thesignatures on the two papers, which is not apparent to the naked eye. The letters of the genuine autograph have smooth, unhesitating lines;those of the counterfeits present certain minute irregularities that areinseparable from pains-taking and slow execution. Unless the Court andthe jury are accustomed to the use of a glass, and to examinations ofthis particular character, they will hardly be able to see just what Idescribe, but I have an experiment which will convince them that I amright. "

"Can you perform this experiment here, and now?"

"I can, sir, provided the Court will permit me to establish thenecessary conditions. I must darken the room, and as I notice that thewindows are all furnished with shutters, the matter may be very quicklyand easily accomplished. "

"Will you describe the nature of your experiment?"

"Well, sir, during the recess of the Court, I have had photographed uponglass all the signatures. These, with the aid of a solar microscope, Ican project upon the wall behind the jury, immensely enlarged, so thatthe peculiarities I have described may be detected by every eye in thehouse, with others, probably, if the sun remains bright and strong, thatI have not alluded to. "

"The experiment will be permitted, " said the judge, "and the officersand the janitor will give the Professor all the assistance he needs. "

Gradually, as the shutters were closed, the room grew dark, and thefaces of Judge, Jury and the anxious-looking parties within the bar grewweird and wan among the shadows. A strange silence and awe descendedupon the crowd. The great sun in heaven was summoned as a witness, andthe sun would not lie. A voice was to speak to them from a hundredmillions of miles away--a hundred millions of miles near the realmtoward which men looked when they dreamed of the Great White Throne. 

They felt as a man might feel, were he conscious, in the darkness of thetomb, when waiting for the trump of the resurrection and the breaking ofthe everlasting day. Men heard their own hearts beat, like the tramp oftrooping hosts; yet there was one man who was glad of the darkness. Tohim the judgment day had come; and the closing shutters were the rocksthat covered him. He could see and not be seen. He could behold his ownshame and not be conscious that five hundred eyes were upon him. 

All attention was turned to the single pair of shutters not entirelyclosed. Outside of these, the professor had established his heliostat, and then gradually, by the aid of drapery, he narrowed down the entranceof light to a little aperture where a single silver bar entered andpierced the darkness like a spear. Then this was closed by the insertionof his microscope, and, leaving his apparatus in the hands of anassistant, 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 of the Jury, "said Prof. Timms, "the genuine signature of Nicholas Johnson, as it hasbeen photographed from the autograph letter. I wish the Judge and Juryto notice two things in this signature--the cleanly-cut edges of theletters, and the two lines of indentation produced by the two prongs ofthe pen, in its down-stroke. They will also notice that, in theup-stroke of the pen, there is no evidence of indentation whatever. Atthe point where the up-stroke begins, and the down-stroke ends, thelines of indentation will come together and cease. "

As he spoke the last word, the name swept through the darkness over anunseen track, and appeared upon the wall, within a halo of amber light. All eyes saw it, and all found the characteristics that had beenpredicted. The professor said not a word. There was not a whisper in theroom. When a long minute had passed, the light was shut off. 

"Now, " said the professor, "I will show you in the same place, the nameof Nicholas Johnson, as it has been photographed from the signatures tothe assignment. What I wish you to notice particularly in this signatureis, first, the rough and irregular edges of the lines which constitutethe letters. They will be so much magnified as to present very much theappearance of a Virginia fence. Second, another peculiarity which oughtto be shown in the experiment--one which has a decided bearing upon thecharacter of the signature. If the light continues strong, you will beable to detect it. The lines of indentation made by the two prongs ofthe pen will be evident, as in the real signature. I shall bedisappointed if there do not also appear a third line, formed by thepencil which originally traced the letters, and this line will not onlyaccompany, in an irregular way, crossing from side to side, the twoindentations of the down-strokes of the pen, but it will accompanyirregularly the hair-lines. I speak of this latter peculiarity with somedoubt, as the instrument I use is not the best which science now has atits command for this purpose, though competent under perfectconditions. "

He paused, and then the forged signatures appeared upon the wall. Therewas a universal burst of admiration, and then all grew still--as ifthose who had given way to their feelings were suddenly stricken withthe consciousness that they were witnessing a drama in which divineforces were playing a part. There were the ragged, jagged edges of theletters; there was the supplementary line, traceable in every part ofthem. There was man's lie--revealed, defined, convicted by God's truth!

The letters lingered, and the room seemed almost sensibly to sink in theawful silence. Then the stillness was broken by a deep voice. What lipsit came from, no one knew, for all the borders of the room were as darkas night. It seemed, as it echoed from side to side, to come from everypart of the house: "_Mene, mene, tekel upharsin!_" Such was the effectof these words upon the eager and excited, yet thoroughly solemnizedcrowd, that when the shutters were thrown open, they would hardly havebeen surprised to see the bar covered with golden goblets and bowls ofwassail, surrounded by lordly revellers and half-nude women, with thestricken Belshazzar at the head of the feast. Certainly Belshazzar, onhis night of doom, could hardly have presented a more pitiful front thanRobert 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 likeone on whom the plague had laid its withering hand. 

There stood Prof. Timms in his triumph. His experiment had proved to bea brilliant success, and that was all he cared for. 

"You have not shown us the other signatures, " said Mr. Balfour. 

"False in one thing, false in all, " responded the professor, shrugginghis shoulders. "I can show you the others; they would be like this; youwould throw away your time. "

Mr. Cavendish did not look at the witness, but pretended to write. 

"Does the counsel for the defense wish to question the witness?"inquired Mr. Balfour, turning to him. 

"No, " very sharply. 

"You can step down, " said Mr. Balfour. As the witness passed him, hequietly grasped his hand and thanked him. A poorly suppressed cheer ranaround the court-room as he resumed his seat. Jim Fenton, who had neverbefore witnessed an experiment like that which, in the professor'shands, had been so successful, was anxious to make some personaldemonstration of his admiration. Restrained from this by hissurroundings, he leaned over and whispered: "Perfessor, you've did a bigthing, but it's the fust time I ever knowed any good to come frompeekin' through a key-hole. "

"Thank you, " and the professor nodded sidewise, evidently desirous ofshutting Jim off, but the latter wanted further conversation. 

"Was it you that said it was mean to tickle yer parson?" inquired Jim. 

"What?" said the astonished professor, looking round in spite ofhimself. 

"Didn't you say it was mean to tickle yer parson? It sounded more like afurriner, " said Jim. 

When the professor realized the meaning that had been attached by Jim tothe "original Hebrew, " he was taken with what seemed to be a nasalhemorrhage that called for his immediate retirement from the court-room. 

What was to be done next? All eyes were turned upon the counsel who werein earnest conversation. Too evidently the defense had broken downutterly. Mr. Cavendish was angry, and Mr. Belcher sat beside him like aman who expected every moment to be smitten in the face, and who wouldnot be able to resent the blow. 

"May it please the Court, " said Mr. Cavendish, "it is impossible, ofcourse, for counsel to know what impression this testimony has made uponthe Court and the jury. Dr. Barhydt, after a lapse of years, anddealings with thousands of patients, comes here and testifies to anoccurrence which my client's testimony makes impossible; a sneakdiscovers a letter 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 thisstolen letter, never legitimately delivered, --possibly never intended tobe delivered under any circumstances--is produced here in evidence; and, to crown all, we have had the spectacular drama in a single act by a manwho has appealed to the imaginations of us all, and who, by his skill inthe management of an experiment with which none of us are familiar, hasfound it easy to make a falsehood appear like the truth. The counsel forthe plaintiff has been pleased to consider the establishment or thebreaking down of the assignment as the practical question at issue. Icannot so regard it. The question is, whether my client is to bedeprived of the fruits of long years of enterprise, economy andindustry; for it is to be remembered that, by the plaintiff's ownshowing, the defendant was a rich man when he first knew him. I deny theprofits from the use of the plaintiff's patented inventions, and callupon him to prove them. I not only call upon him to prove them, but Idefy him to prove them. It will take something more than superannuateddoctors, stolen letters and the performances of a mountebank to dothis. "

This speech, delivered with a sort of frenzied bravado, had a wonderfuleffect upon Mr. Belcher. He straightened in his chair, and assumed hisold air of self-assurance. He could sympathize in any game of "bluff, "and when it came down to a square fight for money his old self came backto him. During the little speech of Mr. Cavendish, Mr. Balfour waswriting, and when the former sat down, the latter rose, and, addressingthe Court, said: "I hold in my hand a written notice, calling upon thedefendant's counsel to produce in Court a little book in the possessionof his client entitled 'Records of profits and investments of profitsfrom manufactures under the Benedict patents, ' and I hereby serve itupon him. "

Thus saying, he handed the letter to Mr. Cavendish, who received andread it. 

Mr. Cavendish consulted his client, and then rose and said: "May itplease the Court, there is no such book in existence. "

"I happen to know, " rejoined Mr. Balfour, "that there is such a book inexistence, unless it has recently been destroyed. This I stand ready toprove by the testimony of Helen Dillingham, the sister of theplaintiff. "

"The witness can be called, " said the judge. 

Mrs. Dillingham looked paler than on the day before, as she voluntarilylifted her veil, and advanced to the stand. She had dreaded therevelation of her own treachery toward the treacherous proprietor, butshe had sat and heard him perjure himself, until her own act, which hadbeen performed on behalf of justice, became one of which she couldhardly be ashamed. 

"Mrs. Dillingham, " said Mr. Balfour, "have you been on friendly termswith the defendant in this case?"

"I have, sir, " she answered. "He has been a frequent visitor at myhouse, 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 with you, sir, inthe city. "

"Did you seek his acquaintance?"

"I did, sir. "

"From what motive?"

"Mr. Belcher wished me to do it, in order to ascertain of him whetherhis 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 was alive?"

"I told him that Paul Benedict was alive, at the last interview but onethat I ever had with him. "

"Did he give you at this interview any reason for his great anxiety toascertain the facts as to Mr. Benedict's life or death?"

"He did, sir. "

"Was there any special occasion for the visit you allude to?"

"I think there was, sir. He had just lost heavily in International Mail, and evidently came in to talk about business. At any rate, he did talkabout it, as he had never done before. "

"Can you give us the drift or substance of his conversation andstatements?"

"Well, sir, he assured me that he had not been shaken by his losses, said that he kept his manufacturing business entirely separate from hisspeculations, gave me a history of the manner in which my brother'sinventions had come into his hands, and, finally, showed me a littleaccount book, in which he had recorded his profits from manufacturesunder what he called 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 counsel to producethis 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 length of 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 statement that thisbook has been in your hands?"

"I can, sir. "

"What is it?"

"A letter from Mr. Belcher, asking me to deliver the book to his manPhipps. "

"Is that the letter?" inquired Mr. Balfour, passing the note into herhands. 

"It is, sir. "

"May it please the Court, " said Mr. Balfour, turning to the Judge, "thecopy of this account-book is in my possession, and if the defendantpersists in refusing to produce the original, I shall ask the privilegeof placing it in evidence. "

During the examination of this witness, the defendant and his counselsat like men overwhelmed. Mr. Cavendish was angry with his client, whodid not even hear the curses which were whispered in his ear. The latterhad lost not only his money, but the woman whom he loved. Theperspiration stood in glistening beads upon his forehead. Once he puthis head down upon the table before him, while his frame was convulsedwith an uncontrollable passion. He held it there until Mr. Cavendishtouched him, when he rose and staggered to a pitcher of iced water uponthe bar, and drank a long draught. The exhibition of his pain was tooterrible to excite in the beholders any emotion lighter than pity. 

The Judge looked at Mr. Cavendish who was talking angrily with hisclient. After waiting for a minute or two, he said: "Unless the originalof this book be produced, the Court will be obliged to admit the copy. It was made by one who had it in custody from the owner's hands. "

"I was not aware, " said Mr. Cavendish fiercely, "that a crushingconspiracy like this against my client could be carried on in any courtof the United States, under judicial sanction. "

"The counsel must permit the Court, " said the Judge calmly, "to remindhim that it is so far generous toward his disappointment and discourtesyas to refrain from punishing him for contempt, and to warn him againstany repetition of his offense. "

Mr. Cavendish sneered in the face of the Judge, but held his tongue, while Mr. Balfour presented and read the contents of the document. Allof Mr. Belcher's property at Sevenoaks, his rifle manufactory, the goodsin Talbot's hands, and sundry stocks and bonds came into theenumeration, with the enormous foreign deposit, which constituted theGeneral's "anchor to windward. " It was a handsome showing. Judge, juryand spectators were startled by it, and were helped to understand, better than they had previously done, the magnitude of the stake forwhich the defendant had played his desperate game, and the stupendouspower of the temptation before which he had been led to sacrifice bothhis honor and his safety. 

Mr. Cavendish went over to Mr. Balfour, and they held a longconversation, _sotto voce_. Then Mrs. Dillingham was informed that shecould step down, as she would not be wanted for cross-examination. Mr. Belcher had so persistently lied to his counsel, and his case had becomeso utterly hopeless, that even Cavendish practically gave it up. 

Mr. Balfour then addressed the Court, and said that it had been agreedbetween himself and Mr. Cavendish, in order to save the time of theCourt, that the case should be given to the jury by the Judge, withoutpresentation or argument of counsel. 

The Judge occupied a few minutes in recounting the evidence, andpresenting the issue, and without leaving their seats the jury rendereda verdict for the whole amount of damages claimed. 

The bold, vain-glorious proprietor was a ruined man. The consciousnessof power had vanished. The law had grappled with him, shaken him once, and dropped him. He had had a hint from his counsel of Mr. Balfour'sintentions, and knew that the same antagonist would wait but a moment topounce upon him again, and shake the life out of him. It was curious tosee how, not only in his own consciousness, but in his appearance, hedegenerated into a very vulgar sort of scoundrel. In leaving theCourt-room, he skulked by the happy group that surrounded the inventor, not even daring to lift his eyes to Mrs. Dillingham. When he was richand powerful, with such a place in society as riches and powercommanded, he felt himself to be the equal of any woman; but he had beendegraded and despoiled in the presence of his idol, and knew that he wasmeasurelessly and hopelessly removed from her. He was glad to get awayfrom the witnesses of his disgrace, and the moment he passed the door, he ran rapidly down the stairs, and emerged upon the street. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

WHEREIN MR. BELCHER, HAVING EXHIBITED HIS DIRTY RECORD, SHOWS A CLEANPAIR OF HEELS. 

The first face that Mr. Belcher met upon leaving the Court-House wasthat of Mr. Talbot. 

"Get into my coupé, " said Talbot. "I will take you home. "

Mr. Belcher got into the coupé quickly, as if he were hiding from somepursuing 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 heavily upon Talbot, andwhispering 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 used you well? You arenot going to turn against the General? You've made a good thing out ofhim, Toll. "

"What's happened, General? Tell me. "

"Toll, you'll be shut up to-morrow. Play your cards right. Make friendswith the mammon of unrighteousness. "

Talbot sat and thought very fast. He saw that there was serious trouble, and questioned whether he were not compromising himself. Still, the factthat the General had enriched him, determined him to stand by his oldprincipal as far as he 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. You know I have fundsthere. "

"I'll do what I can, General. "

"You're a jewel, Toll. "

"By the way, " said Talbot, "the Crooked Valley corporation held itsannual meeting to-day. You are out, and they have a new deal. "

"They'll find out something to-morrow, Toll. It all comes together. "

When the coupé drove up at Palgrave's Folly, and the General alighted, he found one of his brokers on the steps, with a pale face. "What's thematter?" said Mr. Belcher. 

"The devil's to pay. "

"I'm glad of it, " said he. "I hope you'll get it all out of him. "

"It's too late for joking, " responded the man seriously. "We want to seeyou at once. You've been over-reached in this matter of the Air Line, and you've got some very ugly accounts 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. Theyascended to the library, and there, in a few minutes, arranged theirplans. Mrs. Belcher was not to be informed of them, but was to be leftto get the news of her husband's overthrow after his departure. "Sarah'sbeen a good wife, Toll, " he said, "but she was unequally yoked with anunbeliever and hasn't been happy for a good many years. I hope you'lllook after her a little, Toll. Save something for her, if you can. Ofcourse, she'll have to leave here, and it won't trouble her much. "

At this moment the merry voices of his children came through an openingdoor. 

The General gave a great gulp in the endeavor to swallow his emotion. After all, there was a tender spot in him. 

"Toll, shut the door; I can't stand that. Poor little devils! What'sgoing to become of them?"

The General was busy with his packing. In half an hour his arrangementswere completed. Then Talbot went to one of the front rooms of the house, and, looking from the window, saw a man talking with the driver of hiscoupé. It was an officer. Mr. Belcher peeped through the curtain, andknew him. What was to be done? A plan of escape was immediately made andexecuted. There was a covered passage into the stable from the rear ofthe house, and through that both the proprietor and Talbot made theirway. Now that Phipps had left him, Mr. Belcher had but a single servantwho could drive. He was told to prepare the horses at once, and to makehimself ready for service. After everything was done, but the opening ofthe doors, Talbot went back through the house, and, on appearing at thefront 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 flew open, and thehorses sprang out upon the street, and were half a mile on their way toone of the upper ferries, leading to Jersey City, before the officercould get an answer to his inquiries for Mr. Belcher. Mr. Belcher hadbeen there only five minutes before, but he had evidently gone out. Hewould certainly be back to dinner. So the officer waited until convincedthat his bird had flown, and until the proprietor was across the riverin search of a comfortable bed among the obscure hotels of the town. 

It had been arranged that Talbot should secure a state-room on theAladdin to sail on the following day, and make an arrangement with thesteward to admit Mr. Belcher to it on his arrival, and assist in keepinghim from sight. 

Mr. Belcher sent back his carriage by the uppermost ferry, ate awretched dinner, and threw himself upon his bed, where he tossed hisfeverish limbs until day-break. It was a night thronged with nervousfears. He knew that New York would resound with his name on thefollowing day. Could he reach his state-room on the Aladdin withoutbeing discovered? He resolved to try it early the next morning, thoughhe knew the steamer would not sail until noon. Accordingly, as the daybegan to break, he rose and looked out of his dingy window. The milk-menonly were stirring. At the lower end of the street he could see masts, and the pipes of the great steamers, and a ferry-boat crossing to getits first batch of passengers for an early train. Then a wretched manwalked under his window, looking for something, --hoping, after theaccidents of the evening, to find money for his breakfast. Mr. Belcherdropped him a dollar, and the man looked up and said feebly: "May Godbless you, sir!"

This little benediction was received gratefully. It would do to starton. He felt his way down stairs, called for his reckoning, and when, after an uncomfortable and vexatious delay, he had found a sleepy, half-dressed man to receive his money, he went out upon the street, satchel in hand, and walked rapidly toward the slip where the Aladdinlay asleep. 

Talbot's money had done its work well, and the fugitive had only to makehimself known to the officer in charge to secure an immediate entranceinto the state-room that had been purchased for him. He shut to the doorand locked it; then he took off his clothes and went to bed. 

Mr. Belcher's entrance upon the vessel had been observed by a policeman, but, though it was an unusual occurrence, the fact that he was receivedshowed that he had been expected. As the policeman was soon relievedfrom duty, he gave the matter no farther thought, so that Mr. Belcherhad practically made the passage from his library to his state-roomunobserved. 

After the terrible excitements of the two preceding days, and thesleeplessness of the night, Mr. Belcher with the first sense of securityfell into a heavy slumber. All through the morning there were officerson the vessel who knew that he was wanted, but his state-room had beenengaged for an invalid lady, and the steward assured the officers thatshe was in the room, and was not to be disturbed. 

The first consciousness that came to the sleeper was with the firstmotion of the vessel as she pushed out from her dock. He rose anddressed, and found himself exceedingly hungry. There was nothing to do, however, but to wait. The steamer would go down so as to pass the bar athigh tide, and lay to for the mails and the latest passengers, to bebrought down the bay by a tug. He knew that he could not step from hishiding until the last policeman had left the vessel, with the castingoff of its tender, and so sat and watched from the little port-holewhich illuminated his room the panorama of the Jersey and the StatenIsland shores. 

His hard, exciting life was retiring. He was leaving his foulreputation, his wife and children, his old pursuits and his fondlycherished idol behind him. He was leaving danger behind. He was leavingSing Sing behind! He had all Europe, with plenty of money, before him. His spirits began to rise. He even took a look into his mirror, to be awitness of his own triumph. 

At four o'clock, after the steamer had lain at anchor for two or threehours, the tug arrived, and as his was the leeward side of the vessel, she unloaded her passengers upon the steamer where he could see them. There were no faces that he knew, and he was relieved. He heard a greatdeal of tramping about the decks, and through the cabin. Once, two mencame into the little passage into which his door opened. He heard hisname spoken, and the whispered assurance that his room was occupied by asick woman; and then they went away. 

At last, the orders were given to cast off the tug. He saw the anxiouslooks of officers as they slid by his port-hole, and then he realizedthat he was free. 

The anchor was hoisted, the great engine lifted itself to its mightytask, and the voyage was begun. They had gone down a mile, perhaps, when Mr. Belcher came out of his state-room. Supper was not ready--wouldnot be ready for an hour. He took a hurried survey of the passengers, none of whom he knew. They were evidently gentle-folk, mostly frominland cities, who were going to Europe for pleasure. He was glad to seethat he attracted little attention. He sat down on deck, and took up anewspaper which a passenger had left behind him. 

The case of "Benedict _vs. _ Belcher" absorbed three or four columns, besides a column of editorial comment, in which the General's characterand his crime were painted with a free hand and in startling colors. Then, in the financial column, he found a record of the meeting of theCrooked Valley Corporation, to which was added the statement thatsuspicions were abroad that the retiring President had been guilty ofcriminal irregularities in connection with the bonds of theCompany--irregularities which would immediately become a matter ofofficial investigation. There was also an account of his operations inMuscogee Air Line, and a rumor that he had fled from the city, by someof the numerous out-going lines of steamers, and that steps had alreadybeen taken to head him off at every possible point of landing in thiscountry and Europe. 

This last rumor was not calculated to increase his appetite, or restorehis self-complacency and self-assurance. He looked all these accountsover a second time, in a cursory way, and was about to fold the paper, so as to hide or destroy it, when his eye fell upon a column of foreigndespatches. He had never been greatly interested in this department ofhis newspaper, but now that he was on his way to Europe, they assumed anew significance; and, beginning at the top, he read them through. Atthe foot of the column, he read the words: "Heavy Failure of a BankingHouse;" and his attention was absorbed at once by the item whichfollowed:

"The House of Tempin Brothers, of Berlin, has gone down. The failure issaid to be utterly disastrous, even the special deposits in the handsof the house having been used. The House was a favorite with Americans, and the failure will inevitably produce great distress among those whoare traveling for pleasure. The house is said to have no assets, and themembers are not to be found. "

Mr. Belcher's "Anchor to windward" had snapped its cable, and he waswildly afloat, with ruin behind him, and starvation or immediate arrestbefore. With curses on his white lips, and with a trembling hand, he cutout the item, walked to his state-room, and threw the record of hiscrime and shame out of the port-hole. Then, placing the little excerptin the pocket of his waistcoat, he went on deck. 

There sat the happy passengers, wrapped in shawls, watching the settingsun, thinking of the friends and scenes they had left behind them, anddreaming of the unknown world that lay before. Three or four elderlygentlemen were gathered in a group, discussing Mr. Belcher himself; butnone of them knew him. He had no part in the world of honor and ofinnocence in which all these lived. He was an outlaw. He groaned whenthe overwhelming consciousness of his disgrace came upon him--groaned tothink that not one 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 service passed nearhim. Stepping to his side, Mr. Belcher asked him to show him thecaptain. The man pointed to the bridge. "There's the Cap'n, sir--the manin the blue coat and brass buttons. " Then he went along. 

Mr. Belcher immediately made his way to the bridge. He touched his hatto the gruff old officer, and begged his pardon for obtruding himselfupon him, but he was in trouble, and wanted advice. 

"Very well, out with it: what's the matter?" said the Captain. 

Mr. Belcher drew out the little item he had saved, and said: "Captain, Ihave seen this bit of news for the first time since I started. Thisfirm held all the money I have in the world. Is there any possible wayfor me to get back to my 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 a thought of suicidein his mind, when the captain said: "There's Pilot-boat Number 10. She'scoming round to get some papers. Perhaps I can get you aboard of her, but you are rather heavy for a jump. "

The wind was blowing briskly off shore, and the beautiful pilot-boat, with her wonderful spread of canvass, was cutting the water as a birdcleaves the air. She had been beating toward land, but, as she saw thesteamer, she rounded to, gave way before the wind, worked toward thesteamer's track on the windward side, and would soon run keel to keelwith her. 

"Fetch your traps, " said the captain. "I can get you on board, if youare in time. "

Mr. Belcher ran to his state-room, seized his valise, and was soon againon deck. The pilot-boat was within ten rods of the steamer, curving ingracefully toward the monster, and running like a race-horse. TheCaptain had a bundle of papers in his hand. He held them while Mr. Belcher went over the side of the vessel, down the ladder, and turnedhimself for his jump. There was peril in the venture, but desperationhad strung his nerves. The captain shouted, and asked the bluff fellowson the little craft to do him the personal favor to take his passengeron shore, at their convenience. Then a sailor tossed them the valise, and the captain tossed them the papers. Close in came the little boat. It was almost under Mr. Belcher. "Jump!" shouted half a dozen voicestogether, and the heavy man lay sprawling upon the deck among thelaughing crew. A shout and a clapping of hands was heard from thesteamer, "Number 10" sheered off, and continued her cruise, and, stunned and bruised, the General crawled into the little cabin, where ittook only ten minutes of the new motion to make him so sick that hishunger departed, and he was glad to lie where, during the week that hetossed about in the cruise for in-coming vessels, he would have beenglad to die. 

One, two, three, four steamers were supplied with pilots, and anopportunity was given him on each occasion to go into port, but he wouldwait. He had told the story of his bankers, given a fictitious name tohimself, and managed to win the good will of the simple men around him. His bottle of brandy and his box of cigars were at their service, andhis dress was that of a gentleman. His natural drollery took on a veryamusing form during his sickness, and the men found him a source ofpleasure rather than an incumbrance. 

At length the last pilot was disposed of, and "Number 10" made for home;and on a dark midnight she ran in among the shipping above the Battery, on the North River, and was still. 

Mr. Belcher was not without ready money. He was in the habit of carryinga considerable sum, and, before leaving Talbot, he had drained thatgentleman's purse. He gave a handsome fee to the men, and, taking hissatchel in his hand, went on shore. He was weak and wretched with longseasickness and loss of sleep, and staggered as he walked along thewharf like a drunken man. He tried to get one of the men to go with him, and carry his burden, but each wanted the time with his family, anddeclined to serve him at any price. So he followed up the line ofshipping for a few blocks, went by the dens where drunken sailors andriver-thieves were carousing, and then turned up Fulton Street towardBroadway. He knew that the city cars ran all night, but he did not dareto enter one of them. Reaching the Astor, he crossed over, and, seeingan up-town car starting off without a passenger, he stepped upon thefront platform, where he deposited his satchel, and sat down upon it. People came into the car and stepped off, but they could not see him. He was oppressed with drowsiness, yet he was painfully wide awake. 

At length he reached the vicinity of his old splendors. The car wasstopped, and, resuming his burden, he crossed over to Fifth Avenue, andstood in front of the palace which had been his home. It was dark atevery window. Where were his wife and children? Who had the house inkeeping? He was tired, and sat down on the curb-stone, under the verywindow where Mr. Balfour was at that moment sleeping. He put his dizzyhead between his hands, and whimpered like a sick boy. "Played out!"said he; "played out!"

He heard a measured step in the distance. He must not be seen by thewatch; so he rose and bent his steps toward Mrs. Dillingham's. Oppositeto her house, he sat down upon the curb-stone again, and recalled hisold passion for her. The thought of her treachery and of his ownfatuitous vanity--the reflection that he had been so blind in hisself-conceit that she had led him to his ruin, stung him to the quick. He saw a stone at his feet. He picked it up, and, taking his satchel inone hand, went half across the street, and hurled the little missile ather window. He heard the crash of glass and a shrill scream, and thenwalked rapidly off. Then he heard a watchman running from a distance;for the noise was peculiar, and resounded along the street. The watchmanmet him and made an inquiry, but passed on without suspecting thefugitive's connection with the alarm. 

As soon as he was out of the street, he quickened his pace, and wentdirectly 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 thelight of a street lamp, discovered the familiar figure of his oldprincipal. "I'll come down, " he said, "and let you in. "

The conference was a long one, and it ended in both going into thestreet, and making their way to Talbot's stable, two or three blocksdistant. There the coachman was roused, and there Talbot gave Mr. Belcher the privilege of sleeping until he was wanted. 

Mr. Talbot had assured Mr. Belcher that he would not be safe in hishouse, that the whole town was alive with rumors about him, and thatwhile some believed he had escaped and was on his way to Europe, othersfelt certain that he had not left the city. 

Mr. Belcher had been a railroad man, and Mr. Talbot was sure that therailroad men would help him. He would secure a special car at his owncost, on a train that would leave on the following night. He would seethat the train should stop before crossing Harlem Bridge. At that momentthe General must be there. Mr. Talbot would send him up, to sit in hiscab until the train should stop, and then to take the last car, whichshould be locked after him; and he could go through in it withoutobservation. 

A breakfast was smuggled into the stable early, where Mr. Belcher layconcealed, of which he ate greedily. Then he was locked into the room, where he slept all day. At eight o'clock in the evening, a cab stood inthe stable, ready to issue forth on the opening of the doors. Mr. Belcher took his seat in it, in the darkness, and then the vehicle wasrapidly driven to Harlem. After ten minutes of waiting, the dazzlinghead-light of a great train, crawling out of the city, showed down theAvenue. He unlatched the door of his cab, took his satchel in his hand, and, as the last car on the train came up to him, he leaped out, mountedthe platform, and vanished in the car, closing the door behind him. "Allright!" was shouted from the rear; the conductor swung his lantern, andthe train thundered over the bridge and went roaring off into the night. 

The General had escaped. All night he traveled on, and, some time duringthe forenoon, his car was shunted from the Trunk line upon the branchthat led toward Sevenoaks. It was nearly sunset when he reached theterminus. The railroad sympathy had helped and shielded him thus far, but the railroad 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 he knew, andwith whom he had always been in sympathy, through the love ofhorse-flesh which they entertained in common. As he had no personalfriendship to rely on in his hour of need, he resorted to that which hadgrown up between 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 the stable keeper wasknown, found his way to the car where Mr. Belcher still remained hidden. The two men met as old cronies, and Mr. Belcher said: "Coates, I'm introuble, and am bound for Canada. How is Old Calamity?"

Now in all old and well regulated stables there is one horse ofexceptional renown for endurance. "Old Calamity" was a roan, with onewicked white eye, that in his best days had done a hundred miles in tenhours. A great deal of money had been won and lost on him, first andlast, but he had grown old, and had degenerated into a raw-boned, toughbeast, that was resorted to in great emergencies, and relied upon forlong stretches of travel that involved extraordinary hardship. 

"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 looking for you in thehotel that you are here, " said the old man, with a wicked leer. 

"But you won't do it, " responded the General. "You can't turn on a manwho 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-keeper went into acalculation of the value of the horse and harness, with a wagon "thatcouldn't be broke down. "

Old Man Coates had Belcher at a disadvantage, and, of course, availedhimself of it, and had no difficulty in making a bargain which reducedthe fugitive's stock of ready money in a fearful degree. 

At half-past nine, that night, "Old Calamity" was driven down to theside of the car by Coates' own hands, and in a moment the old man wasout of the wagon and the new owner was in it. The horse, the moment Mr. Belcher took the reins, had a telegraphic communication concerning thekind of man who was behind him, and the nature of the task that laybefore him, and struck off up the road toward Sevenoaks with a long, swinging trot that gave the driver a sense of being lifted at everystride. 

It was a curious incident in the history of Mr. Belcher's flight toCanada, which practically began when he leaped upon the deck ofPilot-Boat Number 10, that he desired to see every spot that had beenconnected with his previous life. A more sensitive man would haveshunned the scenes which had been associated with his prosperous andnominally respectable career, but he seemed possessed with a morbiddesire to look once more upon the localities in which he had moved asking. 

He had not once returned to Sevenoaks since he left the village for themetropolis; and although he was in bitter haste, with men near him inpursuit, he was determined to take the longer road to safety, in orderto revisit the scene of his early enterprise and his first successes. Heknew that Old Calamity would take him to Sevenoaks in two hours, andthat then the whole village would be in its first nap. The road wasfamiliar, and the night not too dark. Dogs came out from farm-houses ashe rattled by, and barked furiously. He found a cow asleep in the road, and came near being upset by her. He encountered one or two tramps, whotried to speak to him, but he flew on until the spires of the littletown, where he had once held the supreme life, defined themselvesagainst the sky, far up the river. Here he brought his horse down to awalk. The moment he was still, for he had not yet reached the roar ofthe falls, he became conscious that a wagon was following him in thedistance. Old Man Coates had not only sold him his horse, but he hadsold his secret!

Old Calamity was once more put into a trot, and in ten minutes he was bythe side of his mill. Seeing the watchman in front, he pulled up, and, in a disguised voice, inquired the way to the hotel. Having received arough answer, he inquired of the man whose mill he was watching. 

"I don't know, " responded the man. "It's stopped now. It was oldBelcher's once, but he's gone up, they say. "

Mr. Belcher started on. He crossed the bridge, and drove up the steephill toward his mansion. Arriving at the hight, he stood still by theside of the Seven Oaks, which had once been the glory of his countryhome. Looking down into the town, he saw lights at the little tavern, and, by the revelations of the lantern that came to the door, a horseand wagon. At this moment, his great Newfoundland dog came boundingtoward him, growling like a lion. He had alighted to stretch his limbs, and examine into the condition of his horse. The dog came toward himfaster and faster, and more and more menacingly, till he reached him, and heard his own name called. Then he went down into the dust, andfawned upon his old master pitifully. Mr. Belcher caressed him. Therewas still one creature living that recognized him, and acknowledged himas his lord. He looked up at his house and took a final survey of thedim outlines of the village. Then he mounted his wagon, turned his horsearound, and went slowly down the hill, calling to his dog to follow. Thehuge creature followed a few steps, then hesitated, then, almostcrawling, he turned and sneaked away, and finally broke into a run andwent back to the house, where he stopped and with a short, gruff barkscouted his retiring master. 

Mr. Belcher looked back. His last friend had left him. "Blast thebrute!" he exclaimed. "He is like the rest of 'em. "

As he came down the road to turn into the main highway, a man steppedout from the bushes and seized Old Calamity by the bridle. Mr. Belcherstruck his horse a heavy blow, and the angry beast, by a single leap, not only shook himself clear of the grasp upon his bit, but hurled theintercepting figure upon the ground. A second man stood ready to dealwith Mr. Belcher, but the latter in passing gave him a furious cut withhis whip, and Old Calamity was, in twenty seconds, as many rods awayfrom both of them, sweeping up the long hill at a trot that none butiron sinews could long sustain. 

The huge pile that constituted the Sevenoaks poor-house was left uponhis right, and in half an hour he began a long descent, which so farrelieved his laboring horse, that when he reached the level he couldhardly hold him. The old fire of the brute was burning at its hottest. Mr. Belcher pulled him in, to listen for the pursuit. Half a milebehind, he could hear wheels tearing madly down the hill, and helaughed. The race had, for the time, banished from his mind the historyof the previous week, banished the memory of his horrible losses, banished his sense of danger, banished his nervous fears. It was a sternchase, proverbially a long one, and he had the best horse, and knew thathe could not be overtaken. The sound of the pursuing wheels grew fainterand fainter, until they ceased altogether. 

Just as the day was breaking, he turned from the main road into thewoods, and as the occupants of a cabin were rising, he drove up andasked for shelter and a breakfast. 

He remained there all day, and, just before night, passed through theforest to another road, and in the early morning was driving quietlyalong a Canadian highway, surveying his "adopted country, " and assumingthe character of a loyal subject of the good Queen of England. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

WHICH GIVES THE HISTORY OF AN ANNIVERSARY, PRESENTS A TABLEAU, AND DROPSTHE CURTAIN. 

Three months after Mr. Belcher's escape, the great world hardlyremembered that such a man as he had ever lived. Other rascals took hisplace, and absorbed the public attention, having failed to learn--whateven their betters were slow to apprehend--that every strong, active, bad man is systematically engaged in creating and shaping theinstruments for his own destruction. Men continued to be dazzled bytheir own success, until they could see neither the truth and right thatlay along their way, nor the tragic end that awaited them. 

The execution in satisfaction of the judgment obtained against Mr. Belcher was promptly issued and levied; claimants and creditors ofvarious sorts took all that the execution left; Mrs. Belcher and herchildren went to their friends in the country; the Sevenoaks propertywas bought for Mr. Benedict, and a thousand lives were adjusted to thenew circumstances; but narrative palls when its details are anticipated. Let us pass them, regarding them simply as memories coming up--sometimesfaintly, sometimes freshly--from the swiftly retiring years, and closethe book, as we began it, with a picture. 

Sevenoaks looks, in its main features, as it looked when the readerfirst saw it. The river rolls through it with the old song that thedwellers upon its banks have heard through all these changing years. Theworkmen and workwomen come and go in the mill, in their daily round ofduty, as they did when Phipps, and the gray trotters, and the greatproprietor were daily visions of the streets. The little tailoressreturns twice a year with her thrifty husband, to revisit her oldfriends; and she brings at last a little one, which she shows with greatpride. Sevenoaks has become a summer thoroughfare to the woods, whereJim receives the city-folk in incredible numbers. 

We look in upon the village on a certain summer evening, at five years'remove from the first occupation of the Belcher mansion by Mr. Benedict. The mist above the falls cools the air and bathes the trees as it didwhen Robert Belcher looked upon it as the incense which rose to hislordly enterprise. The nestling cottages, the busy shops, thefresh-looking spires, the distant woods, the more distant mountain, theold Seven Oaks upon the Western plateau and the beautiful residencebehind them, are the same to-day that they were when we first lookedupon them; but a new life and a new influence inform them all. Natureholds her unvarying frame, but the life upon the canvas is what we paintfrom year to year. The river sings to vice as it sings to virtue. Thebirds carol the same, whether selfishness or love be listening. Thegreat mountains rejoice in the sun, or drape their brows in clouds, irrespective of the eyes that regard them. 

This one fact remains good in Sevenoaks, and the world over. The man whoholds the financial power and the social throne of a town, makes thattown, in a good degree, what he is. If he is virtuous, noble, unselfish, good, the elements beneath him shape themselves, consciously orunconsciously, to his character. Vice shrinks into disgrace, or flies tomore congenial haunts. The greed for gold which grasps and over-reaches, becomes ashamed, or changes to neighborly helpfulness. The discontentthat springs up in the shadow of an unprincipled and boastful worldlysuccess, dies; and men become happy in the toil that wins a comfortableshelter and daily bread, when he to whom all look up, looks down uponthem with friendly and sympathetic eyes, and holds his wealth and powerin service of their good. 

Paul Benedict is now the proprietor of Sevenoaks; and from the happy dayin which he, with his sister and child, came to the occupation of themansion which his old persecutor had built for himself, the fortunes andcharacter of the town have mended. Even the poor-house has grown morecomfortable in its apartments and administration, while year by year itspopulation has decreased. Through these first years, the quiet man hasmoved around his mill and his garden, his mind teeming with suggestions, and filling with new interest in their work the dull brains that hadbeen worn deep and dry with routine. All eyes turn upon him withaffection. He is their brother as well as their master. 

In the great house, there is a happy woman. She has found something tolove and something to do. These were all she needed to make hersupremely self-respectful, happy, and, in the best degree, womanly. Willful, ambitious, sacrificing her young affections to gold at thefirst, and wasting years in idleness and unworthy intrigue, for the lackof affection and the absence of motive to usefulness and industry, shehas found, at last, the secret of her woman's life, and has accepted itwith genuine gratitude. In ministering to her brother and her brother'schild, now a stalwart lad, in watching with untiring eyes and helpingwith ready wit the unused proprietor in his new circumstances, and inassisting the poor around her, she finds her days full of toil andsignificance, and her nights brief with grateful sleep. She is the greatlady of the village, holding high consideration from her relationship tothe proprietor, and bestowing importance upon him by her revelation ofhis origin and his city associations. 

The special summer evening to which we allude is one which has long beenlooked forward to by all the people in whom our story has made thereader sympathetically interested. It is an anniversary--the fifth sincethe new family took up their residence in the grand house. Mr. And Mrs. Balfour with their boy are there. Sam Yates is there--now the agent ofthe mill--a trusty, prosperous man; and by a process of which we havehad no opportunity to note the details, he has transformed Miss Snowinto Mrs. Yates. The matter was concluded some years ago, and they seemquite wonted to each other. The Rev. Mr. Snow, grown thinner and grayer, and a great deal happier, is there with his wife and his two unmarrieddaughters. He finds it easier to "take things as they air, " thanformerly, and, by his old bridge, holds them against all comers. And whois this, and who are these? Jim Fenton, very much smoothed exteriorly, but jolly, acute, outspoken, peculiar as ever. He walks around thegarden with a boy on his shoulder. The "little feller" that originallyappeared in Mr. Benedict's plans of the new hotel is now in hishands--veritable flesh and blood; and "the little woman, " sitting withMrs. Snow, while Mrs. Dillingham directs the arrangement of the banquetthat is being spread in the pagoda, watches the pair, and exclaims:"Look at them! now isn't it ridiculous?"

The warm sun hides himself behind the western hill, though still an hourabove his setting. The roar of the falling river rises to their ears, the sound of the factory bell echoes among the hills, and the crowd ofgrimy workmen and workwomen pours forth, darkening the one street thatleads from the mill, and dissipating itself among the waiting cottages. All is tranquillity and beauty, while the party gather to their out-doorfeast. 

It is hardly a merry company, though a very happy one. It is the latestissue of a tragedy in which all have borne more or less important parts. The most thoughtless of them cannot but feel that a more powerful handthan their own has shaped their lives and determined their destinies. 

The boys are called in, and the company gather to their banquet, amidconversation and laughter. 

Mr. Balfour turns to Jim and says: "How does this compare with NumberNine, Jim? Isn't this better than the woods?"

Jim has been surveying the preparations with a critical andprofessional eye, for professional purposes. The hotel-keeper keepshimself constantly open to suggestions, and the table before himsuggests so much, that his own establishment seems very humble andimperfect. 

"I ben thinkin' about it, " Jim responds. "When a man has got all hewants, he's brung up standin' at the end of his road. If thar ain'tcomfort then, then there ain't no comfort. When he's got more nor hewants, then he's got by comfort, and runnin' away from it. I hearn thewomen talk about churnin' by, so that the butter never comes, an' a manas has more money nor he wants churns by his comfort, an' spends hislife swashin' with his dasher, and wonderin' where his butter is. OldBelcher's butter never come, but he worked away till his churn blowedup, an' he went up with it. "

"So you think our good friend Mr. Benedict has got so much that he hasleft comfort behind, " says Mr. Balfour with a laugh. 

"I should be afeard he had, if he could reelize it was all his'n, but hecan't. He hain't got no more comfort here, no way, nor he used to havein the woods. " Then Jim leans over to Mr. Balfour's ear, and says: "It'sthe woman as does it. It's purty to look at, but it's too pertickler forcomfort. "

Mr. Balfour sees that he and Jim are observed, and so speaks louder. "There is one thing, " he says: "that I have learned in the course ofthis business. It does not lie very deep, but it is at least worthspeaking of. I have learned how infinitely more interesting andpicturesque vulgar poverty is than vulgar riches. One can find morepoetry in a log cabin than in all that wealth ever crowded intoPalgrave's Folly. If poor men and poor women, honest and patientworkers, could only apprehend the poetical aspects of their own livesand conditions, instead of imagining that wealth holds a monopoly of thepoetry of life, they would see that they have the best of it, and arereally enviable people. "

Jim knows, of course, that his old cabin in the woods is in Mr. Balfour's mind, and feels himself called upon to say something inresponse. "If so be as ye're 'ludin' at me, " says he, "I'm much obleegedto ye, but I perfer a hotel to a log cabin, pertickler with a littlewoman and a little feller in it, Paul B. , by name. "

"That's all right, Jim, " says Mr. Balfour, "but I don't call that vulgarwealth which is won slowly, by honest industry. A man who has more moneythan he has brains, and makes his surroundings the advertisement of hispossessions, rather than the expression of his culture, is a vulgar man, or a man of vulgar wealth. "

"Did ye ever think, " says Jim, "that riches rots or keeps accordin' totheir natur?--rots or keeps, " he goes on, "accordin' to what goes into'em when a man is gitten' 'em together? Blood isn't a purty thing to mixwith money, an' I perfer mine dry. A golden sweetin' grows quick an'makes a big show, but ye can't keep it through the winter. "

"That's true, Jim, " responds Mr. Balfour. "Wealth takes into itself thequalities by which it is won. Gathered by crime or fraud, and gatheredin haste, it becomes a curse to those who hold it, and falls into ruinby its own corruptions. Acquired by honest toil, manly frugality, patient endurance, and patient waiting, it is full of good, and holdstogether by a force within itself. "

"Poor Mrs. Belcher!" exclaims Mrs. Dillingham, as the reflection comesto her that that amiable lady was once the mistress of the beautifulestablishment over which she has been called upon to preside. 

"They say she is living nicely, " says Mr. Snow, "and that somebody sendsher money, though she does not know where it comes from. It is supposedthat her husband saved something, and keeps himself out of sight, whilehe looks after his family. "

Mr. Benedict and Mrs. Dillingham exchange significant glances. Jim is awitness of the act, and knows what it means. He leans over to Mr. Benedict, and says: "When I seen sheet-lightnin', I know there's ashower where it comes from. Ye can't fool me about ma'am Belcher'smoney. "

"You will not tell anybody, Jim, " says Mr. Benedict, in a low tone. 

"Nobody but the little woman, " responds Jim; and then, seeing that his"little feller, " in the distance, is draining a cup with more thanbecoming leisure, he shouts down the table: "Paul B! Paul B! Ye can'tgit that mug on to yer head with the brim in yer mouth. It isn't yersize, an' it doesn't look purty on ye. "

"I should like to know where the old rascal is, " says Mrs. Snow, goingback to the suggestion that Mr. Belcher was supplying his family withmoney. 

"Well, I can tell ye, " replies Jim. "I've been a keepin' it in for thisvery meetin'. "

"Oh Jim!" exclaim half a dozen voices, which means: "we are dying tohear all about it. "

"Well, " says Jim, "there was a feller as come to my hotel a month ago, and says he: 'Jim, did ye ever know what had become of old Belcher?''No, ' says I, 'I only knowed he cut a big stick, an' slid. ' 'Well, ' sayshe, 'I seen 'im a month ago, with whiskers enough on 'is ugly face toset up a barberry-bush. ' Says I, 'Where did ye seen 'im?' 'Where do yeguess', says he?' 'Swoppin' a blind hoss', says I, 'fur a decent one, an' gettin' boot. ' 'No, ' says he, 'guess agin. ' 'Preachin' at acamp-meetin', ' says I, 'an' passin' round a hat arter it. ' 'No, ' sayshe, 'I seen 'im jest where he belonged. He was tendin' a little bar, ona S'n' Lor'nce steamboat. He was settin' on a big stool in the middle of'is bottles, where he could reach 'em all without droppin' from hisroost, an' when his customers was out he was a peekin' into a littlelookin'-glass, as stood aside of 'im, an' a combin' out his baird. ''That settles it, ' says I, 'you've seen '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 played out, an' I'm workin' up a corner in Salt River, '--laughin', an' offerin' totreat. '

"I wonder how he came in such a place as that, " says Mrs. Snow. 

"That's the funniest part on't, " responds Jim. "He found an old friendon the boat, as was much of a gentleman, --an old friend as was dressedwithin an inch of his life, an' sold the tickets. "

"Phipps!" "Phipps!" shout half a dozen voices, and a boisterous laughgoes around the group. 

"Ye've guessed right the fust time, " Jim continues, "an' thegentlemanlest clerk, an' the poplarest man as ever writ names in a book, an' made change on a counter, with no end o' rings an' hankercher-pins, an' presents of silver mugs, an' rampin' resolootions of admirin'passingers. An' there the two fellers be, a sailin' up an' down theS'n. ' Lor'nce, as happy as two clams in high water, workin' up cornersin their wages, an' playin' into one another's hands like a pair ofpickpockets; and what do ye think old Belcher said about Phipps?"

"What did he say?" comes from every side. 

"Well, I can't tell percisely, " responds Jim. "Fust he said it wasproverdential, as Phipps run away when he did; an' then he put insomethin' that sounded as if it come from a book, --somethin' abouttunin' the wind to the sheared ram. "

Jim is very doubtful about his quotation, and actually blushes scarletunder the fire of laughter that greets him from every quarter. 

"I'm glad if it 'muses ye, " says Jim, "but it wasn't anything better northat, considerin' the man as took it to himself. "

"Jim, you'll be obliged to read up, " says "the little woman, " who stillstands by her early resolutions to take her husband for what he is, andenjoy his peculiarities with her neighbors. 

"I be as I be, " he responds. "I can keep a hotel, an' make money on it, an' pervide for my own, but when it comes to books ye can trip me with afeather. "

The little banquet draws to a close, and now two or three inquiretogether for Mr. Yates. He has mysteriously disappeared! The childrenhave already left the table, and Paul B. Is romping with a great show ofequine spirit about the garden paths, astride of a stick. Jim is lookingat him in undisguised admiration. "I do believe, " he exclaims, "that thelittle feller thinks he's a hoss, with a neck more nor three feet long. See 'im bend it over agin the check-rein he's got in his mind! Hear 'imsqueal! Now look out for his heels!"

At this moment, there rises upon the still evening air a confused murmurof many voices. All but the children pause and listen. "What is coming?""Who is coming?" "What is it?" break from the lips of the listeners. Only Mrs. Yates looks intelligent, and she holds her tongue, and keepsher seat. The sound comes nearer, and breaks into greater confusion. Itis laughter, and merry conversation, and the jar of tramping feet. Mr. Benedict suspects what it is, and goes off among his vines, in a stateof painful unconcern! The boys run out to the brow of the hill, and comeback in great excitement, to announce that the whole town is throngingup toward the house. Then all, as if apprehending the nature of thevisit, gather about their table again, that being the place where theirvisitors will expect to find them. 

At length, Sam. Yates comes in sight, around the corner of the mansion, followed closely by all the operatives of the mill, dressed in theirholiday attire. Mrs. Dillingham has found her brother, and with her handupon his arm she goes out to meet his visitors. They have come to crownthe feast, and signalize the anniversary, by bringing theircongratulations to the proprietor, and the beautiful lady who presidesover his house. There is a great deal of awkwardness among the youngmen, and tittering and blushing among the young women, with side playof jest and coquetry, as they form themselves in a line, preparatory tosomething formal, which presently appears. 

Mr. Yates, the agent of the mill, who has consented to be the spokesmanof the occasion, stands in front, and faces Mr. Benedict and Mrs. Dillingham. 

"Mr. Benedict, " says he, "this demonstration in your honor is not oneoriginated by myself, but, in some way, these good people who serve youlearned that you were to have a formal celebration of this anniversary, and they have asked me to assist them in expressing the honor in whichthey hold you, and the sympathy with which they enter into yourrejoicing. We all know your history. Many of those who now stand beforeyou, remember your wrongs and your misfortunes; and there is not one whodoes not rejoice that you have received that which your own genius wonin the hands of another. There is not one who does not rejoice that theevil influence of this house is departed, and that one now occupies itwho thoroughly respects and honors the manhood and womanhood that laborin his service. We are glad to acknowledge you as our master, because weknow that we can regard you as our friend. Your predecessor despisedpoverty--even the poverty into which he was born--and forgot, in thefirst moment of his success, that he had ever been poor, while your ownbitter experiences have made you brotherly. On behalf of all those whonow stand before you, let me thank you for your sympathy, for yourpractical efforts to give us a share in the results of your prosperity, and for the purifying influences which go out from this dwelling intoall our humble homes. We give you our congratulations on thisanniversary, and hope for happy returns of the day, until, among theinevitable changes of the future, we all yield our places to those whoare to succeed us. "

Mr. Benedict's eyes are full of tears. He does not turn, however, to Mr. Balfour, for help. The consciousness of power, and, more than this, theconsciousness of universal sympathy, give him self-possession and thepower of expression. 

"Mr. Yates, " says Mr. Benedict, "when you call me master, you give mepain. When you speak of me as your brother, and the brother of all thosewhom you represent, you pay me the most grateful compliment that I haveever received. It is impossible for me to regard myself as anything butthe creature and the instrument of a loving Providence. It is by nopower of my own, no skill of my own, no providence of my own, that Ihave been carried through the startling changes of my life. The powerthat has placed me where I am, is the power in which, during all myyears of adversity, I firmly trusted. It was that power which brought memy friends--friends to whose good will and efficient service I owe mywealth and my ability to make life profitable and pleasant to you. Fullybelieving this, I can in no way regard myself as my own, or indulge inpride and vain glory. You are all my brothers and sisters, and the dearFather of us all has placed the power in my hands to do you good. In thepatient and persistent execution of this stewardship lies the duty of mylife. I thank you all for your good will. I thank you all for thisopportunity to meet you, and to say to you the words which have for fiveyears been in my heart, waiting to be spoken. Come to me always withyour troubles. Tell me always what I can do for you, to make your wayeasier. Help me to make this village a prosperous, virtuous and happyone--a model for all its neighbors. And now I wish to take you all bythe hand, in pledge of our mutual friendship and of our devotion to eachother. "

Mr. Benedict steps forward with Mrs. Dillingham, and both shake handswith Mr. Yates. One after another--some shyly, some confidently--theoperatives come up and repeat the process, until all have pressed theproprietor's hand, and have received a pleasant greeting and a cordialword from his sister, of whom the girls are strangely afraid. There is amoment of awkward delay, as they start on their homeward way, and thenthey gather in a group upon the brow of the hill, and the evening airresounds with "three cheers" for Mr. Benedict. The hum of voices beginsagain, the tramp of a hundred feet passes down the hill, and our littleparty are left to themselves. 

They do not linger long. The Snows take their leave. Mr. And Mrs. Yatesretire, with a lingering "good-night, " but the Balfours and the Fentonsare guests of the house. They go in, and the lamps are lighted, whilethe "little feller--Paul B. By name"--is carried on his happy father'sshoulder to his bed up stairs. 

Finally, Jim comes down, having seen his pet asleep, and finds thecompany talking about Talbot. He and his pretty, worldly wife, findingthemselves somewhat too intimately associated with the bad fame ofRobert Belcher, had retired to a country seat on the Hudson--a nestwhich they feathered well with the profits of the old connection. 

And now, as they take leave of each other for the night, and shake handsin token of their good-will, and their satisfaction with the pleasuresof the evening, Jim says: "Mr. Benedict, that was a good speech o'yourn. It struck me favorble an' s'prised me some considable. I'd noidee ye could spread so afore folks. I shouldn't wonder if ye was rightabout Proverdence. It seems kind o' queer that somebody or somethin'should be takin keer o' you an' me, but I vow I don't see how it's allben did, if so be as nobody nor nothin' has took keer o' me, an' youtoo. It seems reasomble that somethin's ben to work all the time that Ihain't seed. The trouble with me is that I can't understand how a bein'as turns out worlds as if they was nothin' more nor snow-balls wouldthink o' stoppin' to pay 'tention to sech a feller as Jim Fenton. "

"You are larger than a sparrow, Jim, " says Mr. Benedict with a smile. 

"That's so. "

"Larger than a hair. "

Jim puts up his hand, brushes down the stiff crop that crowns his head, and responds with a comical smile, "I don' know 'bout that. "

Jim pauses as if about to make some further remark, thinks better of it, and then, putting his big arm around his little wife, leads her off, upstairs. 

The lights of the great house go out one after another, the cataractssing the inmates to sleep, the summer moon witches with the mist, thegreat, sweet heaven bends over the dreaming town, and there we leave ourfriends at rest, to take up the burden of their lives again upon thehappy morrow, beyond our feeble following, but still under the lovingeye and guiding hand to which we confidently and gratefully commit them.