DAVID HARUM

A Story of American Life

by

EDWARD NOYES WESTCOTT

New YorkD. Appleton and Company1899Copyright, 1898, By D. Appleton and Company. 

INTRODUCTION. 

 The's as much human nature in some folks as th' is in others, if not more. --DAVID HARUM. 

One of the most conspicuous characteristics of our contemporary nativefiction is an increasing tendency to subordinate plot or story to thebold and realistic portrayal of some of the types of American life andmanners. And the reason for this is not far to seek. The extraordinarymixing of races which has been going on here for more than a century hasproduced an enormously diversified human result; and the products ofthis "hybridization" have been still further differentiated by anenvironment that ranges from the Everglades of Florida to the glaciersof Alaska. The existence of these conditions, and the great literaryopportunities which they contain, American writers long ago perceived;and, with a generally true appreciation of artistic values, they havecreated from them a gallery of brilliant _genre_ pictures which to-daystand for the highest we have yet attained in the art of fiction. 

Thus it is that we have (to mention but a few) studies of Louisiana andher people by Mr. Cable; of Virginia and Georgia by Thomas Nelson Pageand Joel Chandler Harris; of New England by Miss Jewett and MissWilkins; of the Middle West by Miss French (Octave Thanet); of the greatNorthwest by Hamlin Garland; of Canada and the land of the _habitans_ byGilbert Parker; and finally, though really first in point of time, theForty-niners and their successors by Bret Harte. This list might beindefinitely extended, for it is growing daily, but it is long enough asit stands to show that every section of our country has, or soon willhave, its own painter and historian, whose works will live and become apermanent part of our literature in just the degree that they areartistically true. Some of these writers have already produced manybooks, while others have gained general recognition and even fame by thevividness and power of a single study, like Mr. Howe with The Story of aCountry Town. But each one, it will be noticed, has chosen for his fieldof work that part of our country wherein he passed the early andformative years of his life; a natural selection that is, perhaps, anunconscious affirmation of David Harum's aphorism: "Ev'ry hoss c'n do athing better 'n' spryer if he's ben broke to it as a colt. "

In the case of the present volume the conditions are identical withthose just mentioned. Most of the scenes are laid in central New York, where the author, Edward Noyes Westcott, was born, September 24, 1847, and where he died of consumption, March 31, 1898. Nearly all his lifewas passed in his native city of Syracuse, and although banking and notauthorship was the occupation of his active years, yet his sensitive andimpressionable temperament had become so saturated with the localatmosphere, and his retentive memory so charged with facts, that when atlength he took up the pen he was able to create in David Harum acharacter so original, so true, and so strong, yet withal sodelightfully quaint and humorous, that we are at once compelled to admitthat here is a new and permanent addition to the long list of Americanliterary portraits. 

The book is a novel, and throughout it runs a love story which ischaracterized by sympathetic treatment and a constantly increasinginterest; but the title rôle is taken by the old country banker, David Harum: dry, quaint, somewhat illiterate, no doubt, but possessingan amazing amount of knowledge not found in printed books, and holdingfast to the cheerful belief that there is nothing wholly bad or uselessin this world. Or, in his own words: "A reasonable amount of fleasis good for a dog--they keep him f'm broodin' on bein' a dog. "This horse-trading country banker and reputed Shylock, but realphilanthropist, is an accurate portrayal of a type that exists in therural districts of central New York to-day. Variations of him may beseen daily, driving about in their road wagons or seated in their "bankparlors, " shrewd, sharp-tongued, honest as the sunlight from most pointsof view, but in a horse trade much inclined to follow the rule laid downby Mr. Harum himself for such transactions: "Do unto the other fellerthe way he'd like to do unto you--an' do it fust. "

The genial humor and sunny atmosphere which pervade these pages are indramatic contrast with the circumstances under which they were written. The book was finished while the author lay upon his deathbed, but, happily for the reader, no trace of his sufferings appears here. It wasnot granted that he should live to see his work in its present completedform, a consummation he most earnestly desired; but it seems notunreasonable to hope that the result of his labors will be appreciated, and that David Harum will endure. 

FORBES HEERMANS. 

SYRACUSE, N. Y. , _August 20, 1898. _

DAVID HARUM. 

CHAPTER I. 

David poured half of his second cup of tea into his saucer to lower itstemperature to the drinking point, and helped himself to a second cut ofham and a third egg. Whatever was on his mind to have kept him unusuallysilent during the evening meal, and to cause certain wrinkles in hisforehead suggestive of perplexity or misgiving, had not impaired hisappetite. David was what he called "a good feeder. "

Mrs. Bixbee, known to most of those who enjoyed the privilege of heracquaintance as "Aunt Polly, " though nieces and nephews of her bloodthere were none in Homeville, Freeland County, looked curiously at herbrother, as, in fact, she had done at intervals during the repast; andconcluding at last that further forbearance was uncalled for, relievedthe pressure of her curiosity thus:

"Guess ye got somethin' on your mind, hain't ye? You hain't hardly saidaye, yes, ner no sence you set down. Anythin' gone 'skew?"

David lifted his saucer, gave the contents a precautionary blow, andemptied it with sundry windy suspirations. 

"No, " he said, "nothin' hain't gone exac'ly wrong, 's ye might say--notyet; but I done that thing I was tellin' ye of to-day. "

"Done what thing?" she asked perplexedly. 

"I telegraphed to New York, " he replied, "fer that young feller to comeon--the young man General Wolsey wrote me about. I got a letter from himto-day, an' I made up my mind 'the sooner the quicker, ' an' Itelegraphed him to come 's soon 's he could. "

"I forgit what you said his name was, " said Aunt Polly. 

"There's his letter, " said David, handing it across the table. "Read itout 'loud. "

"You read it, " she said, passing it back after a search in her pocket;"I must 'a' left my specs in the settin'-room. "

The letter was as follows:

 "DEAR SIR: I take the liberty of addressing you at the instance of General Wolsey, who spoke to me of the matter of your communication to him, and was kind enough to say that he would write you in my behalf. My acquaintance with him has been in the nature of a social rather than a business one, and I fancy that he can only recommend me on general grounds. I will say, therefore, that I have had some experience with accounts, but not much practice in them for nearly three years. Nevertheless, unless the work you wish done is of an intricate nature, I think I shall be able to accomplish it with such posting at the outset as most strangers would require. General Wolsey told me that you wanted some one as soon as possible. I have nothing to prevent me from starting at once if you desire to have me. A telegram addressed to me at the office of the Trust Company will reach me promptly. 

 "Yours very truly, "JOHN K. LENOX. "

"Wa'al, " said David, looking over his glasses at his sister, "what doyou think on't?"

"The' ain't much brag in't, " she replied thoughtfully. 

"No, " said David, putting his eyeglasses back in their case, "th' ain'tno brag ner no promises; he don't even say he'll do his best, like mostfellers would. He seems to have took it fer granted that I'll take itfer granted, an' that's what I like about it. Wa'al, " he added, "thething's done, an' I'll be lookin' fer him to-morrow mornin' or evenin'at latest. "

Mrs. Bixbee sat for a moment with her large, light blue, and ratherprominent eyes fixed on her brother's face, and then she said, with aslight undertone of anxiety, "Was you cal'latin' to have that young manfrom New York come here?"

"I hadn't no such idee, " he replied, with a slight smile, aware of whatwas passing in her mind. "What put that in your head?"

"Wa'al, " she answered, "you know the' ain't scarcely anybody in thevillage that takes boarders in the winter, an' I was wonderin' what hewould do. "

"I s'pose he'll go to the Eagle, " said David. "I dunno where else, 'nless it's to the Lake House. "

"The Eagil!" she exclaimed contemptuously. "Land sakes! Comin' here fromNew York! He won't stan' it there a week. "

"Wa'al, " replied David, "mebbe he will an' mebbe he won't, but I don'tsee what else the' is for it, an' I guess 'twon't kill him for a spellThe fact is--" he was proceeding when Mrs. Bixbee interrupted him. 

"I guess we'd better adjourn t' the settin'-room an' let Sairy clear offthe tea-things, " she said, rising and going into the kitchen. 

"What was you sayin'?" she asked, as she presently found her brother inthe apartment designated, and seated herself with her mending-basket inher lap. 

"The fact is, I was sayin', " he resumed, sitting with hand and forearmresting on a round table, in the centre of which was a large kerosenelamp, "that my notion was, fust off, to have him come here, but when Icome to think on't I changed my mind. In the fust place, except thathe's well recommended, I don't know nothin' about him; an' in thesecond, you'n I are pretty well set in our ways, an' git along all rightjust as we be. I may want the young feller to stay, an' then agin I maynot--we'll see. It's a good sight easier to git a fishhook in 'n 'tis togit it out. I expect he'll find it putty tough at first, but if he's afeller that c'n be drove out of bus'nis by a spell of the Eagle Tavern, he ain't the feller I'm lookin' fer--though I will allow, " he added witha grimace, "that it'll be a putty hard test. But if I want to say tohim, after tryin' him a spell, that I guess me an' him don't seem likelyto hitch, we'll both take it easier if we ain't livin' in the samehouse. I guess I'll take a look at the Trybune, " said David, unfoldingthat paper. 

Mrs. Bixbee went on with her needlework, with an occasional side glanceat her brother, who was immersed in the gospel of his politics. Twiceor thrice she opened her lips as if to address him, but apparently somerestraining thought interposed. Finally, the impulse to utter her mindculminated. "Dave, " she said, "d' you know what Deakin Perkins is sayin'about ye?"

David opened his paper so as to hide his face, and the corners of hismouth twitched as he asked in return, "Wa'al, what's the deakin sayin'now?"

"He's sayin', " she replied, in a voice mixed of indignation andapprehension, "thet you sold him a balky horse, an' he's goin' to hevthe law on ye. " David's shoulders shook behind the sheltering page, andhis mouth expanded in a grin. 

"Wa'al, " he replied after a moment, lowering the paper and lookinggravely at his companion over his glasses, "next to the deakin'sreligious experience, them of lawin' an' horse-tradin' air his strongestp'ints, an' he works the hull on 'em to once sometimes. "

The evasiveness of this generality was not lost on Mrs. Bixbee, and shepressed the point with, "Did ye? an' will he?"

"Yes, an' no, an' mebbe, an' mebbe not, " was the categorical reply. 

"Wa'al, " she answered with a snap, "mebbe you call that an answer. Is'pose if you don't want to let on you won't, but I do believe you'veben playin' some trick on the deakin, an' won't own up. I do wish, " sheadded, "that if you hed to git rid of a balky horse onto somebody you'dhev picked out somebody else. "

"When you got a balker to dispose of, " said David gravely, "you can'talwus pick an' choose. Fust come, fust served. " Then he went on moreseriously: "Now I'll tell ye. Quite a while ago--in fact, not longafter I come to enjoy the priv'lidge of the deakin's acquaintance--wehed a deal. I wasn't jest on my guard, knowin' him to be a deakin an'all that, an' he lied to me so splendid that I was took in, clean overmy head, he done me so brown I was burnt in places, an' you c'd smellsmoke 'round me fer some time. "

"Was it a horse?" asked Mrs. Bixbee gratuitously. 

"Wa'al, " David replied, "mebbe it _had_ ben some time, but at thatpartic'lar time the only thing to determine that fact was that it wa'n'tnothin' else. "

"Wa'al, I declare!" exclaimed Mrs. Bixbee, wondering not more at thedeacon's turpitude than at the lapse in David's acuteness, of which shehad an immense opinion, but commenting only on the former. "I'm 'mazedat the deakin. "

"Yes'm, " said David with a grin, "I'm quite a liar myself when it comesright down to the hoss bus'nis, but the deakin c'n give me both bowersev'ry hand. He done it so slick that I had to laugh when I come to thinkit over--an' I had witnesses to the hull confab, too, that he didn'tknow of, an' I c'd 've showed him up in great shape if I'd had a mindto. "

"Why didn't ye?" said Aunt Polly, whose feelings about the deacon wereundergoing a revulsion. 

"Wa'al, to tell ye the truth, I was so completely skunked that I hadn'ta word to say. I got rid o' the thing fer what it was wuth fer hide an'taller, an' stid of squealin' 'round the way you say he's doin', like astuck pig, I kep' my tongue between my teeth an' laid to git even sometime. "

"You ort to 've hed the law on him, " declared Mrs. Bixbee, now fullyconverted. "The old scamp!"

"Wa'al, " was the reply, "I gen'all prefer to settle out of court, an' inthis partic'lar case, while I might 'a' ben willin' t' admit that I hedben did up, I didn't feel much like swearin' to it. I reckoned the time'd come when mebbe I'd git the laugh on the deakin, an' it did, an'we're putty well settled now in full. "

"You mean this last pufformance?" asked Mrs. Bixbee. "I wish you'd quitbeatin' about the bush, an' tell me the hull story. "

"Wa'al, it's like this, then, if you _will_ hev it. I was over toWhiteboro a while ago on a little matter of worldly bus'nis, an' I seena couple of fellers halter-exercisin' a hoss in the tavern yard. I stood'round a spell watchin' 'em, an' when he come to a standstill I went an'looked him over, an' I liked his looks fust rate. 

"'Fer sale?' I says. 

"'Wa'al, ' says the chap that was leadin' him, 'I never see the hoss thatwa'n't if the price was right. '

"'Your'n?' I says. 

"'Mine an' his'n, ' he says, noddin' his head at the other feller. 

"'What ye askin' fer him?' I says. 

"'One-fifty, ' he says. 

"I looked him all over agin putty careful, an' once or twice I kind o'shook my head 's if I didn't quite like what I seen, an' when I gotthrough I sort o' half turned away without sayin' anythin', 's if I'dseen enough. 

"'The' ain't a scratch ner a pimple on him, ' says the feller, kind o'resentin' my looks. 'He's sound an' kind, an' 'll stand withouthitchin', an' a lady c'n drive him 's well 's a man. "'

"'I ain't got anythin' agin him, ' I says, 'an' prob'ly that's all true, ev'ry word on't; but one-fifty's a consid'able price fer a hoss thesedays. I hain't no pressin' use fer another hoss, an', in fact, ' I says, 'I've got one or two fer sale myself. '

"'He's wuth two hunderd jest as he stands, ' the feller says. 'He hain'thad no trainin', an' he c'n draw two men in a road-wagin better'nfifty. '

"Wa'al, the more I looked at him the better I liked him, but I onlysays, 'Jes' so, jes' so, he may be wuth the money, but jest as I'm fixednow he ain't wuth it to _me_, an' I hain't got that much money with meif he was, ' I says. The other feller hadn't said nothin' up to thattime, an' he broke in now. 'I s'pose you'd take him fer a gift, wouldn'tye?' he says, kind o' sneerin'. 

"'Wa'al, yes, ' I says, 'I dunno but I would if you'd throw in a pound oftea an' a halter. '

"He kind o' laughed an' says, 'Wa'al, this ain't no gift enterprise, an'I guess we ain't goin' to trade, but I'd like to know, ' he says, 'jestas a matter of curios'ty, what you'd say he _was_ wuth to ye?'

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'I come over this mornin' to see a feller that owed mea trifle o' money. Exceptin' of some loose change, what he paid me 'sall I got with me, ' I says, takin' out my wallet. 'That wad's got ahunderd an' twenty-five into it, an' if you'd sooner have your hoss an'halter than the wad, ' I says, 'why, I'll bid ye good-day. '

"'You're offerin' one-twenty-five fer the hoss an' halter?' he says. 

"'That's what I'm doin', ' I says. 

"'You've made a trade, ' he says, puttin' out his hand fer the money an'handin' the halter over to me. "

"An' didn't ye suspicion nuthin' when he took ye up like that?" askedMrs. Bixbee. 

"I did smell woolen some, " said David, "but I had the _hoss_ an' theyhad the _money_, an', as fur 's I c'd see, the critter was all right. Howsomever, I says to 'em: 'This here's all right, fur 's it's gone, butyou've talked putty strong 'bout this hoss. I don't know who you fellersbe, but I c'n find out, ' I says. Then the fust feller that done thetalkin' 'bout the hoss put in an' says, 'The' hain't ben one word saidto you about this hoss that wa'n't gospel truth, not one word. ' An' whenI come to think on't afterward, " said David with a half laugh, "it mebbewa'n't _gospel_ truth, but it was good enough _jury_ truth. I guess thisain't over 'n' above interestin' to ye, is it?" he asked after a pause, looking doubtfully at his sister. 

"Yes, 'tis, " she asserted. "I'm lookin' forrered to where the deakincomes in, but you jest tell it your own way. "

"I'll git there all in good time, " said David, "but some of the point ofthe story'll be lost if I don't tell ye what come fust. "

"I allow to stan' it 's long 's you can, " she said encouragingly, "seein' what work I had gettin' ye started. Did ye find out anythin''bout them fellers?"

"I ast the barn man if he knowed who they was, an' he said he never seen'em till the yestiddy before, an' didn't know 'em f'm Adam. They comealong with a couple of hosses, one drivin' an' t'other leadin'--the oneI bought. I ast him if they knowed who I was, an' he said one on 'emast him, an' he told him. The feller said to him, seein' me drive up:'That's a putty likely-lookin' hoss. Who's drivin' him?' An' he says tothe feller: 'That's Dave Harum, f'm over to Homeville. He's a greatfeller fer hosses, ' he says. "

"Dave, " said Mrs. Bixbee, "them chaps jest laid fer ye, didn't they?"

"I reckon they did, " he admitted; "an' they was as slick a pair as wasever drawed to, " which expression was lost upon his sister. David rubbedthe fringe of yellowish-gray hair which encircled his bald pate for amoment. 

"Wa'al, " he resumed, "after the talk with the barn man, I smelt woolenstronger'n ever, but I didn't say nothin', an' had the mare hitched an'started back. Old Jinny drives with one hand, an' I c'd watch the newone all right, an' as we come along I begun to think I wa'n't stuckafter all. I never see a hoss travel evener an' nicer, an' when we cometo a good level place I sent the old mare along the best she knew, an'the new one never broke his gait, an' kep' right up 'ithout 'par'ntlyhalf tryin'; an' Jinny don't take most folks' dust neither. I swan!'fore I got home I reckoned I'd jest as good as made seventy-fiveanyway. "

CHAPTER II. 

"Then the' wa'n't nothin' the matter with him, after all, " commentedMrs. Bixbee in rather a disappointed tone. 

"The meanest thing top of the earth was the matter with him, " declaredDavid, "but I didn't find it out till the next afternoon, an' then Ifound it out good. I hitched him to the open buggy an' went 'round bythe East road, 'cause that ain't so much travelled. He went along allright till we got a mile or so out of the village, an' then I slowed himdown to a walk. Wa'al, sir, scat my ----! He hadn't walked more'n a rod'fore he come to a dead stan'still. I clucked an' git-app'd, an' finelytook the gad to him a little; but he only jest kind o' humped up alittle, an' stood like he'd took root. "

"Wa'al, now!" exclaimed Mrs. Bixbee. 

"Yes'm, " said David; "I was stuck in ev'ry sense of the word. "

"What d'ye do?"

"Wa'al, I tried all the tricks I knowed--an' I could lead him--but whenI was in the buggy he wouldn't stir till he got good an' ready; 'n' thenhe'd start of his own accord an' go on a spell, an'--"

"Did he keep it up?" Mrs. Bixbee interrupted. 

"Wa'al, I s'd say he did. I finely got home with the critter, but Ithought one time I'd either hev to lead him or spend the night on theEast road. He balked five sep'rate times, varyin' in length, an' it wasdark when we struck the barn. "

"I should hev thought you'd a wanted to kill him, " said Mrs. Bixbee;"an' the fellers that sold him to ye, too. "

"The' _was_ times, " David replied, with a nod of his head, "when if he'da fell down dead I wouldn't hev figgered on puttin' a band on my hat, but it don't never pay to git mad with a hoss; an' as fur 's the fellerI bought him of, when I remembered how he told me he'd stand withouthitchin', I swan! I had to laugh. I did, fer a fact. 'Stand withouthitchin'!' He, he, he!"

"I guess you wouldn't think it was so awful funny if you hadn't gone an'stuck that horse onto Deakin Perkins--an' I don't see how you done it. "

"Mebbe that _is_ part of the joke, " David allowed, "an' I'll tell ye th'rest on't. Th' next day I hitched the new one to th' dem'crat wagin an'put in a lot of straps an' rope, an' started off fer the East road agin. He went fust rate till we come to about the place where we had the fusttrouble, an', sure enough, he balked agin. I leaned over an' hit him asmart cut on the off shoulder, but he only humped a little, an' neverlifted a foot. I hit him another lick, with the selfsame result. Then Igot down an' I strapped that animal so't he couldn't move nothin' buthis head an' tail, an' got back into the buggy. Wa'al, bom-by, it may'a' ben ten minutes, or it may 'a' ben more or less--it's slow worksettin' still behind a balkin' hoss--he was ready to go on his ownaccount, but he couldn't budge. He kind o' looked around, much as tosay, 'What on earth's the matter?' an' then he tried another move, an'then another, but no go. Then I got down an' took the hopples off an'then climbed back into the buggy, an' says 'Cluck, to him, an' off hestepped as chipper as could be, an' we went joggin' along all rightmebbe two mile, an' when I slowed up, up he come agin. I gin him anotherclip in the same place on the shoulder, an' I got down an' tied him upagin, an' the same thing happened as before, on'y it didn't take himquite so long to make up his mind about startin', an' we went somefurther without a hitch. But I had to go through the pufformance thethird time before he got it into his head that if he didn't go when _I_wanted he couldn't go when _he_ wanted, an' that didn't suit him; an'when he felt the whip on his shoulder it meant bus'nis. "

"Was that the end of his balkin'?" asked Mrs. Bixbee. 

"I had to give him one more go-round, " said David, "an' after that Ididn't have no more trouble with him. He showed symptoms at times, but atouch of the whip on the shoulder alwus fetched him. I alwus carriedthem straps, though, till the last two or three times. "

"Wa'al, what's the deakin kickin' about, then?" asked Aunt Polly. "You're jest sayin' you broke him of balkin'. "

"Wa'al, " said David slowly, "some hosses will balk with some folks an'not with others. You can't most alwus gen'ally tell. "

"Didn't the deakin have a chance to try him?"

"He had all the chance he ast fer, " replied David. "Fact is, he donemost of the sellin', as well 's the buyin', himself. "

"How's that?"

"Wa'al, " said David, "it come about like this: After I'd got the hosswhere I c'd handle him I begun to think I'd had some int'restin' an'valu'ble experience, an' it wa'n't scurcely fair to keep it all tomyself. I didn't want no patent on't, an' I was willin' to let someother feller git a piece. So one mornin', week before last--let's see, week ago Tuesday it was, an' a mighty nice mornin' it was, too--one o'them days that kind o' lib'ral up your mind--I allowed to hitch an'drive up past the deakin's an' back, an' mebbe git somethin' tostrengthen my faith, et cetery, in case I run acrost him. Wa'al, 's Icome along I seen the deakin putterin' 'round, an' I waved my hand tohim an' went by a-kitin'. I went up the road a ways an' killed a littletime, an' when I come back there was the deakin, as I expected. He wasleanin' over the fence, an' as I jogged up he hailed me, an' I pulledup. 

"'Mornin', Mr. Harum, ' he says. 

"'Mornin', deakin, ' I says. 'How are ye? an' how's Mis' Perkins thesedays?'

"'I'm fair, ' he says; 'fair to middlin', but Mis' Perkins is ailin'some--as _usyul_' he says. "

"They do say, " put in Mrs. Bixbee, "thet Mis' Perkins don't hev much ofa time herself. "

"Guess she hez all the time the' is, " answered David. "Wa'al, " he wenton, "we passed the time o' day, an' talked a spell about the weather an'all that, an' finely I straightened up the lines as if I was goin' on, an' then I says: 'Oh, by the way, ' I says, 'I jest thought on't. I heardDominie White was lookin' fer a hoss that 'd suit him. ' 'I hain'theard, ' he says; but I see in a minute he had--an' it really was afact--an' I says: 'I've got a roan colt risin' five, that I took on adebt a spell ago, that I'll sell reasonable, that's as likely an' niceev'ry way a young hoss as ever I owned. I don't need him, ' I says, 'an'didn't want to take him, but it was that or nothin' at the time an' gladto git it, an' I'll sell him a barg'in. Now what I want to say to you, deakin, is this: That hoss 'd suit the dominie to a tee in my opinion, but the dominie won't come to me. Now if _you_ was to say to him--bein'in his church an' all thet, ' I says, 'that you c'd get him the rightkind of a hoss, he'd believe you, an' you an' me 'd be doin' a littlestroke of bus'nis, an' a favor to the dominie into the bargain. Thedominie's well off, ' I says, 'an' c'n afford to drive a good hoss. '"

"What did the deakin say?" asked Aunt Polly as David stopped for breath. 

"I didn't expect him to jump down my throat, " he answered; "but I seenhim prick up his ears, an' all the time I was talkin' I noticed himlookin' my hoss over, head an' foot. 'Now I 'member, ' he says, 'hearin'sunthin' 'bout Mr. White's lookin' fer a hoss, though when you fustspoke on't it had slipped my mind. Of course, ' he says, 'the' ain't anyreal reason why Mr. White shouldn't deal with you direct, an' yit mebbeI _could_ do more with him 'n you could. But, ' he says, 'I wa'n'tcal'latin' to go t' the village this mornin', an' I sent my hired manoff with my drivin' hoss. Mebbe I'll drop 'round in a day or two, ' hesays, 'an' look at the roan. '

"'You mightn't ketch me, ' I says, 'an' I want to show him myself; an'more'n that, ' I says, 'Dug Robinson's after the dominie. I'll tell ye, 'I says, 'you jest git in 'ith me an' go down an' look at him, an' I'llsend ye back or drive ye back, an' if you've got anythin' special onhand you needn't be gone three quarters of an hour, ' I says. "

"He come, did he?" inquired Mrs. Bixbee. 

"He done _so_, " said David sententiously. "Jest as I knowed he would, after he'd hem'd an' haw'd about so much, an' he rode a mile an' a halflivelier 'n he done in a good while, I reckon. He had to pull that oldbroad-brim of his'n down to his ears, an' don't you fergit it. He, he, he, he! The road was jest _full_ o' hosses. Wa'al, we drove into theyard, an' I told the hired man to unhitch the bay hoss an' fetch out theroan, an' while he was bein' unhitched the deakin stood 'round an' nevertook his eyes off'n him, an' I knowed I wouldn't sell the deakin no roanhoss _that_ day, even if I wanted to. But when he come out I begun tocrack him up, an' I talked hoss fer all I was wuth. The deakin lookedhim over in a don't-care kind of a way, an' didn't 'parently give muchheed to what I was sayin'. Finely I says, 'Wa'al, what do you think ofhim?' 'Wa'al, ' he says, 'he seems to be a likely enough critter, but Idon't believe he'd suit Mr. White--'fraid not, ' he says. 'What youaskin' fer him?' he says. 'One-fifty, ' I says, 'an' he's a cheap hoss atthe money'; but, " added the speaker with a laugh, "I knowed I might 'swell of said a thousan'. The deakin wa'n't buyin' no roan colts thatmornin'. "

"What did he say?" asked Mrs. Bixbee. 

"'Wa'al, ' he says, 'wa'al, I guess you ought to git that much fer him, but I'm 'fraid he ain't what Mr. White wants. ' An' then, 'That's quitea hoss we come down with, ' he says. 'Had him long?' 'Jest long 'nough togit 'quainted with him, ' I says. 'Don't you want the roan fer your ownuse?' I says. 'Mebbe we c'd shade the price a little. ' 'No, ' he says, 'Iguess not. I don't need another hoss jest now. ' An' then, after a minutehe says: 'Say, mebbe the bay hoss we drove 'd come nearer the mark ferWhite, if he's all right. Jest as soon I'd look at him?' he says. 'Wa'al, I hain't no objections, but I guess he's more of a hoss than thedominie 'd care for, but I'll go an' fetch him out, ' I says. So Ibrought him out, an' the deakin looked him all over. I see it was a caseof love at fust sight, as the story-books says. 'Looks all right, ' hesays. 'I'll tell ye, ' I says, 'what the feller I bought him of told me. ''What's that?' says the deakin. 'He said to me, ' I says, '"that hosshain't got a scratch ner a pimple on him. He's sound an' kind, an' 'llstand without hitchin', an' a lady c'd drive him as well 's a man. "'

"'That's what he said to me, ' I says, 'an' it's every word on't true. You've seen whether or not he c'n travel, ' I says, 'an', so fur 's I'veseen, he ain't 'fraid of nothin'. ' 'D'ye want to sell him?' the deakinsays. 'Wa'al, ' I says, 'I ain't offerin' him fer sale. You'll go a goodways, ' I says, ''fore you'll strike such another; but, of course, heain't the only hoss in the world, an' I never had anythin' in the hossline I wouldn't sell at _some_ price. ' 'Wa'al, ' he says, 'what d' ye askfer him?' 'Wa'al, ' I says, 'if my own brother was to ask me thatquestion I'd say to him two hunderd dollars, cash down, an' I wouldn'thold the offer open an hour, ' I says. "

"My!" ejaculated Aunt Polly. "Did he take you up?"

"'That's more'n I give fer a hoss 'n a good while, ' he says, shakin' hishead, 'an' more'n I c'n afford, I'm 'fraid. ' 'All right, ' I says; 'I c'nafford to keep him'; but I knew I had the deakin same as the woodchuckhad Skip. 'Hitch up the roan, ' I says to Mike; 'the deakin wants to betook up to his house. ' 'Is that your last word?' he says. 'That's whatit is, ' I says. 'Two hunderd, cash down. '"

"Didn't ye dast to trust the deakin?" asked Mrs. Bixbee. 

"Polly, " said David, "the's a number of holes in a ten-foot ladder. "Mrs. Bixbee seemed to understand this rather ambiguous rejoinder. 

"He must 'a' squirmed some, " she remarked. David laughed. 

"The deakin ain't much used to payin' the other feller's price, " hesaid, "an' it was like pullin' teeth; but he wanted that hoss more'n acow wants a calf, an' after a little more squimmidgin' he hauled out hiswallet an' forked over. Mike come out with the roan, an' off the deakinwent, leadin' the bay hoss. "

"I don't see, " said Mrs. Bixbee, looking up at her brother, "thet afterall the' was anythin' you said to the deakin thet he could ketch holton. "

"The' wa'n't nothin', " he replied. "The only thing he c'n complainabout's what I _didn't_ say to him. "

"Hain't he said anythin' to ye?" Mrs. Bixbee inquired. 

"He, he, he, he! He hain't but once, an' the' wa'n't but little of itthen. "

"How?"

"Wa'al, the day but one after the deakin sold himself Mr. Stickin'-Plaster I had an arrant three four mile or so up past hisplace, an' when I was comin' back, along 'bout four or half past, itcome on to rain like all possessed. I had my old umbrel'--though itdidn't hender me f'm gettin' more or less wet--an' I sent the old marealong fer all she knew. As I come along to within a mile f'm thedeakin's house I seen somebody in the road, an' when I come up closter Isee it was the deakin himself, in trouble, an' I kind o' slowed up tosee what was goin' on. There he was, settin' all humped up with his olebroad-brim hat slopin' down his back, a-sheddin' water like a roof. ThenI seen him lean over an' larrup the hoss with the ends of the lines ferall he was wuth. It appeared he hadn't no whip, an' it wouldn't done himno good if he'd had. Wa'al, sir, rain or no rain, I jest pulled up towatch him. He'd larrup a spell, an' then he'd set back; an' then he'dlean over an' try it agin, harder'n ever. Scat my ----! I thought I'ddie a-laughin'. I couldn't hardly cluck to the mare when I got ready tomove on. I drove alongside an' pulled up. 'Hullo, deakin, ' I says, 'what's the matter?' He looked up at me, an' I won't say he was themaddest man I ever see, but he was long ways the maddest-lookin' man, an' he shook his fist at me jest like one o' the unregen'rit. 'Consarnye, Dave Harum!' he says, 'I'll hev the law on ye fer this. ' 'What fer?'I says. 'I didn't make it come on to rain, did I?' I says. 'You knowmighty well what fer, ' he says. 'You sold me this _damned beast_, ' hesays, 'an' he's balked with me _nine_ times this afternoon, an' I'll fixye for 't, ' he says. 'Wa'al, deakin, ' I says, 'I'm 'fraid the squire'soffice 'll be shut up 'fore you _git_ there, but I'll take any wordyou'd like to send. You know I told ye, ' I says, 'that he'd stand'ithout hitchin'. ' An' at that he only jest kind o' choked an'sputtered. He was so mad he couldn't say nothin', an' on I drove, an'when I got about forty rod or so I looked back, an' there was the deakina-comin' along the road with as much of his shoulders as he could gitunder his hat an' _leadin'_ his new hoss. He, he, he, he! Oh, my starsan' garters! Say, Polly, it paid me fer bein' born into this vale o'tears. It did, I declare for't!" Aunt Polly wiped her eyes on her apron. 

"But, Dave, " she said, "did the deakin really say--_that word_?"

"Wa'al, " he replied, "if 'twa'n't that it was the puttiest imitationon't that ever I heard. "

"David, " she continued, "don't you think it putty mean to badger thedeakin so't he swore, an' then laugh 'bout it? An' I s'pose you've toldthe story all over. "

"Mis' Bixbee, " said David emphatically, "if I'd paid good money to see afunny show I'd be a blamed fool if I didn't laugh, wouldn't I? Thatspecticle of the deakin cost me consid'able, but it was more'n wuth it. But, " he added, "I guess, the way the thing stands now, I ain't so muchout on the hull. "

Mrs. Bixbee looked at him inquiringly. 

"Of course, you know Dick Larrabee?" he asked. 

She nodded. 

"Wa'al, three four days after the shower, an' the story 'd got aroun'some--as _you_ say, the deakin _is_ consid'able of a talker--I got holtof Dick--I've done him some favors an' he natur'ly expects more--an' Isays to him: 'Dick, ' I says, 'I hear 't Deakin Perkins has got a hossthat don't jest suit him--hain't got knee-action enough at times, ' Isays, 'an' mebbe he'll sell him reasonable. ' 'I've heerd somethin' aboutit, ' says Dick, laughin'. 'One of them kind o' hosses 't you don't liketo git ketched out in the rain with, ' he says. 'Jes' so, ' I says. 'Now, 'I says, 'I've got a notion 't I'd like to own that hoss at a price, an'that mebbe _I_ c'd git him home even if it did rain. Here's a hunderdan' ten, ' I says, 'an' I want you to see how fur it'll go to buyin' him. If you git me the hoss you needn't bring none on't back. Want to try?' Isays. 'All right, ' he says, an' took the money. 'But, ' he says, 'won'tthe deakin suspicion that it comes from you?' 'Wa'al, ' I says, 'myportrit ain't on none o' the bills, an' I reckon _you_ won't tell himso, out an' out, ' an' off he went. Yistidy he come in, an' I says, 'Wa'al, done anythin'?' 'The hoss is in your barn, ' he says. 'Good feryou!' I says. 'Did you make anythin'?' 'I'm satisfied, ' he says. 'I madea ten-dollar note. ' An' that's the net results on't, " concluded David, "that I've got the hoss, an' he's cost me jest thirty-five dollars. "

CHAPTER III. 

Master Jacky Carling was a very nice boy, but not at that time in hiscareer the safest person to whom to intrust a missive in case its sureand speedy delivery were a matter of importance. But he protested withso much earnestness and good will that it should be put into the veryfirst post-box he came to on his way to school, and that nothing couldinduce him to forget it, that Mary Blake, his aunt, confidante and notunfrequently counsel and advocate, gave it him to post, and dismissedthe matter from her mind. Unfortunately the weather, which had been veryfrosty, had changed in the night to a summer-like mildness. As Jackyopened the door, three or four of his school-fellows were passing. Hefelt the softness of the spring morning, and to their injunction to"Hurry up and come along!" replied with an entreaty to "Wait a minutetill he left his overcoat" (all boys hate an overcoat), and plunged backinto the house. 

If John Lenox (John Knox Lenox) had received Miss Blake's note ofcondolence and sympathy, written in reply to his own, wherein, besidesspeaking of his bereavement, he had made allusion to some changes in hisprospects and some necessary alterations in his ways for a time, hemight perhaps have read between the lines something more than merely akind expression of her sorrow for the trouble which had come upon him, and the reminder that he had friends who, if they could not do more tolessen his grief, would give him their truest sympathy. And if some dayslater he had received a second note, saying that she and her people wereabout to go away for some months, and asking him to come and see thembefore their departure, it is possible that very many things set forthin this narrative would not have happened. 

 * * * * *

Life had always been made easy for John Lenox, and his was not thetemperament to interpose obstacles to the process. A course at Andoverhad been followed by two years at Princeton; but at the end of thesecond year it had occurred to him that practical life ought to beginfor him, and he had thought it rather fine of himself to undertake aclerkship in the office of Rush & Co. , where in the ensuing year and ahalf or so, though he took his work in moderation, he got a fairknowledge of accounts and the ways and methods of "the Street. " But thatperiod of it was enough. He found himself not only regretting theabandonment of his college career, but feeling that the thing for whichhe had given it up had been rather a waste of time. He came to theconclusion that, though he had entered college later than most, even nowa further acquaintance with text-books and professors was more to bedesired than with ledgers and brokers. His father (somewhat to hiswonderment, and possibly a little to his chagrin) seemed rather towelcome the suggestion that he spend a couple of years in Europe, takingsome lectures at Heidelberg or elsewhere, and traveling; and in thecourse of that time he acquired a pretty fair working acquaintance withGerman, brought his knowledge of French up to about the same point, andcame back at the end of two years with a fine and discriminating tastein beer, and a scar over his left eyebrow which could be seen ifattention were called to it. 

He started upon his return without any definite intentions or for anyspecial reason, except that he had gone away for two years and that thetwo years were up. He had carried on a desultory correspondence with hisfather, who had replied occasionally, rather briefly, but on the wholeaffectionately. He had noticed that during the latter part of his stayabroad the replies had been more than usually irregular, but hadattributed no special significance to the fact. It was not untilafterward that it occurred to him that in all their correspondence hisfather had never alluded in any way to his return. 

On the passenger list of the Altruria John came upon the names of Mr. And Mrs. Julius Carling and Miss Blake. 

"Blake, Blake, " he said to himself. "Carling--I seem to remember to haveknown that name at some time. It must be little Mary Blake whom I knewas a small girl years ago, and, yes, Carling was the name of the man hersister married. Well, well, I wonder what she is like. Of course, Ishouldn't know her from Eve now, or she me from Adam. All I can rememberseems to be a pair of very slim and active legs, a lot of flying hair, apair of brownish-gray or grayish-brown eyes, and that I thought her avery nice girl, as girls went. But it doesn't in the least follow thatI might think so now, and shipboard is pretty close quarters for sevenor eight days. "

Dinner is by all odds the chief event of the day on board ship to thosewho are able to dine, and they will leave all other attractions, eventhe surpassingly interesting things which go on in the smoking-room, atonce on the sound of the gong of promise. On this first night of thevoyage the ship was still in smooth water at dinner time, and many aplace was occupied which would know its occupant for the first, and verypossibly for the last, time. The passenger list was fairly large, butnot full. John had assigned to him a seat at a side table. He washungry, having had no luncheon but a couple of biscuits and a glass of"bitter, " and was taking his first mouthful of Perrier-Jouet, after thesoup, and scanning the dinner card when the people at his table came in. The man of the trio was obviously an invalid of the nervous variety, andthe most decided type. The small, dark woman who took the corner seat athis left was undoubtedly, from the solicitous way in which she adjusteda small shawl about his shoulders--to his querulous uneasiness--hiswife. There was a good deal of white in the dark hair, brushed smoothlyback from her face. 

A tall girl, with a mass of brown hair under a felt traveling hat, tookthe corner seat at the man's right. That was all the detail of herappearance which the brief glance that John allowed himself revealed tohim at the moment, notwithstanding the justifiable curiosity which hehad with regard to the people with whom he was likely to come more orless in contact for a number of days. But though their faces, so far ashe had seen them, were unfamiliar to him, their identity was made plainto him by the first words which caught his ear. There were two soups onthe _menu_, and the man's mind instantly poised itself between them. 

"Which soup shall I take?" he asked, turning with a frown of uncertaintyto his wife. 

"I should say the _consommé_, Julius, " was the reply. 

"I thought I should like the broth better, " he objected. 

"I don't think it will disagree with you, " she said. 

"Perhaps I had better have the _consommé_, " he argued, looking withappeal to his wife and then to the girl at his right. "Which would youtake, Mary?"

"I?" said the young woman; "I should take both in my present state ofappetite. --Steward, bring both soups. --What wine shall I order for you, Julius? I want some champagne, and I prescribe it for you. After yourmental struggle over the soup question you need a quick stimulant. "

"Don't you think a red wine would be better for me?" he asked; "orperhaps some sauterne? I'm afraid that I sha'n't go to sleep if I drinkchampagne. In fact, I don't think I had better take any wine at all. Perhaps some ginger ale or Apollinaris water. "

"No, " she said decisively, "whatever you decide upon, you know thatyou'll think whatever I have better for you, and I shall want more thanone glass, and Alice wants some, too. Oh, yes, you do, and I shall ordera quart of champagne. --Steward"--giving her order--"please be as quickas you can. "

John had by this fully identified his neighbors, and the talk whichensued between them, consisting mostly of controversies between theinvalid and his family over the items of the bill of fare, every coursebeing discussed as to its probable effect upon his stomach or hisnerves--the question being usually settled with a whimsicalhigh-handedness by the young woman--gave him a pretty good notion oftheir relations and the state of affairs in general. NotwithstandingMiss Blake's benevolent despotism, the invalid was still wranglingfeebly over some last dish when John rose and went to the smoking roomfor his coffee and cigarette. 

When he stumbled out in search of his bath the next morning the steamerwas well out, and rolling and pitching in a way calculated to disturbthe gastric functions of the hardiest. But, after a shower of sea waterand a rub down, he found himself with a feeling for bacon and eggs thatmade him proud of himself, and he went in to breakfast to find, ratherto his, surprise, that Miss Blake was before him, looking asfresh--well, as fresh as a handsome girl of nineteen or twenty and inperfect health could look. She acknowledged his perfunctory bow as hetook his seat with a stiff little bend of the head; but later on, whenthe steward was absent on some order, he elicited a "Thank you!" byhanding her something which he saw she wanted, and, one thing leading toanother, as things have a way of doing where young and attractive peopleare concerned, they were presently engaged in an interchange of smalltalk, but before John was moved to the point of disclosing himself onthe warrant of a former acquaintance she had finished her breakfast. 

The weather continued very stormy for two days, and during that timeMiss Blake did not appear at table. At any rate, if she breakfastedthere it was either before or after his appearance, and he learnedafterward that she had taken luncheon and dinner in her sister's room. 

The morning of the third day broke bright and clear. There was a longswell upon the sea, but the motion of the boat was even and endurable toall but the most susceptible. As the morning advanced the deck began tofill with promenaders, and to be lined with chairs, holding wrapped-upfigures, showing faces of all shades of green and gray. 

John, walking for exercise, and at a wholly unnecessary pace, turning ata sharp angle around the deck house, fairly ran into the girl about whomhe had been wondering for the last two days. She received his somewhatincoherent apologies, regrets, and self-accusations in such a spirit offorgiveness that before long they were supplementing their firstconversation with something more personal and satisfactory; and when hecame to the point of saying that half by accident he had found out hername, and begged to be allowed to tell her his own, she looked at himwith a smile of frank amusement and said: "It is quite unnecessary, Mr. Lenox. I knew you instantly when I saw you at table the first night;but, " she added mischievously, "I am afraid your memory for people youhave known is not so good as mine. "

"Well, " said John, "you will admit, I think, that the change from alittle girl in short frocks to a tall young woman in a tailor-made gownmight be more disguising than what might happen with a boy of fifteen orso. I saw your name in the passenger list with Mr. And Mrs. Carling, andwondered if it could be the Mary Blake whom I really did remember, andthe first night at dinner, when I heard your sister call Mr. Carling'Julius, ' and heard him call you 'Mary, ' I was sure of you. But I hardlygot a fair look at your face, and, indeed, I confess that if I had hadno clew at all I might not have recognized you. "

"I think you would have been quite excusable, " she replied, "and whetheryou would or would not have known me is 'one of those things that nofellow can find out, ' and isn't of supreme importance anyway. We eachknow who the other is now, at all events. "

"Yes, " said John, "I am happy to think that we have come to a conclusionon that point. But how does it happen that I have heard nothing of youall these years, or you of me, as I suppose?"

"For the reason, I fancy, " she replied, "that during that period ofshort frocks with me my sister married Mr. Carling and took me with herto Chicago, where Mr. Carling was in business. We have been back in NewYork only for the last two or three years. "

"It might have been on the cards that I should come across you inEurope, " said John. "The beaten track is not very broad. How long haveyou been over?"

"Only about six months, " she replied. "We have been at one or another ofthe German Spas most of the time, as we went abroad for Mr. Carling'shealth, and we are on our way home on about such an impulse as thatwhich started us off--he thinks now that he will be better off there. "

"I am afraid you have not derived much pleasure from your Europeanexperiences, " said John. 

"Pleasure!" she exclaimed. "If ever you saw a young woman who was gladand thankful to turn her face toward home, _I_ am that person. I thinkthat one of the heaviest crosses humanity has to bear is to haveconstantly to decide between two or more absolutely trivial conclusionsin one's own affairs; but when one is called upon to multiply one'suseless perplexities by, say, ten, life is really a burden. 

"I suppose, " she added after a pause, "you couldn't help hearing ourdiscussions at dinner the other night, and I have wondered a little whatyou must have thought. "

"Yes, " he said, "I did hear it. Is it the regular thing, if I may ask?"

"Oh, yes, " she replied, with a tone of sadness; "it has grown to be. "

"It must be very trying at times, " John remarked. 

"It is, indeed, " she said, "and would often be unendurable to me if itwere not for my sense of humor, as it would be to my sister if it werenot for her love, for Julius is really a very lovable man, and I, too, am very fond of him. But I must laugh sometimes, though my better natureshould rather, I suppose, impel me to sighs. '"

"'A little laughter is much more worth, '" he quoted. 

CHAPTER IV. 

They were leaning upon the rail at the stern of the ship, which wasgoing with what little wind there was, and a following sea, with which, as it plunged down the long slopes of the waves, the vessel seemed to berunning a victorious race. The sea was a deep sapphire, and in the wakethe sunlight turned the broken water to vivid emerald. The air was of acaressing softness, and altogether it was a day and scene ofindescribable beauty and inspiration. For a while there was silencebetween them, which John broke at last. 

"I suppose, " he said, "that one would best show his appreciation of allthis by refraining from the comment which must needs be comparativelycommonplace, but really this is so superb that I must express some of myemotion even at the risk of lowering your opinion of my good taste, provided, of course, that you have one. "

"Well, " she said, laughing, "it may relieve your mind, if you care, toknow that had you kept silent an instant longer I should have taken therisk of lowering your opinion of my good taste, provided, of course, that you have one, by remarking that this was perfectly magnificent. "

"I should think that this would be the sort of day to get Mr. Carlingon deck. This air and sun would brace him up, " said John. 

She turned to him with a laugh, and said: "That is the general opinion, or was two hours ago; but I'm afraid it's out of the question now, unless we can manage it after luncheon. "

"What do you mean?" he asked with a puzzled smile at the mixture ofannoyance and amusement visible in her face. "Same old story?"

"Yes, " she replied, "same old story. When I went to my breakfast Icalled at my sister's room and said, '"Come, boys and girls, come out toplay, the sun doth shine as bright as day, " and when I've had mybreakfast I'm coming to lug you both on deck. It's a perfectly gloriousmorning, and it will do you both no end of good after being shut up solong. ' 'All right, ' my sister answered, 'Julius has quite made up hismind to go up as soon as he is dressed. You call for us in half an hour, and we will be ready. '"

"And wouldn't he come?" John asked; "and why not?"

"Oh, " she exclaimed with a laugh and a shrug of her shoulders, "shoes. "

"Shoes!" said John. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I say, " was the rejoinder. "When I went back to the room Ifound my brother-in-law sitting on the edge of the lounge, or what youcall it, all dressed but his coat, rubbing his chin between his fingerand thumb, and gazing with despairing perplexity at his feet. It seemsthat my sister had got past all the other dilemmas, but in a moment ofinadvertence had left the shoe question to him, with the result that hehad put on one russet shoe and one black one, and had laced them upbefore discovering the discrepancy. "

"I don't see anything very difficult in that situation, " remarked John. 

"Don't you?" she said scornfully. "No, I suppose not, but it was quiteenough for Julius, and more than enough for my sister and me. His firstnotion was to take off _both_ shoes and begin all over again, andperhaps if he had been allowed to carry it out he would have been allright; but Alice was silly enough to suggest the obvious thing tohim--to take off one, and put on the mate to the other--and then thetrouble began. First he was in favor of the black shoes as being thickerin the sole, and then he reflected that they hadn't been blackened sincecoming on board. It seemed to him that the russets were more appropriateanyway, but the blacks were easier to lace. Had I noticed whether themen on board were wearing russet or black as a rule, and did Aliceremember whether it was one of the russets or one of the blacks that hewas saying the other day pinched his toe? He didn't quite like the looksof a russet shoe with dark trousers, and called us to witness that thosehe had on were dark; but he thought he remembered that it was the blackshoe which pinched him. He supposed he could change his trousers--and soon, and so on, _al fine_, _de capo_, _ad lib. _, sticking out first onefoot and then the other, lifting them alternately to his knee forscrutiny, appealing now to Alice and now to me, and getting morehopelessly bewildered all the time. It went on that way for, it seemedto me, at least half an hour, and at last I said, 'Oh, come now, Julius, take off the brown shoe--it's too thin, and doesn't go with your darktrousers, and pinches your toe, and none of the men are wearingthem--and just put on the other black one, and come along. We're allsuffocating for some fresh air, and if you don't get started pretty soonwe sha'n't get on deck to-day. ' 'Get on deck!' he said, looking up at mewith a puzzled expression, and holding fast to the brown shoe on hisknee with both hands, as if he were afraid I would take it away from himby main strength--'get on deck! Why--why--I believe I'd better not goout this morning, don't you?'"

"And then?" said John after a pause. 

"Oh, " she replied, "I looked at Alice, and she shook her head as much tosay, 'It's no use for the present, ' and I fled the place. "

"M'm!" muttered John. "He must have been a nice traveling companion. Hasit been like that all the time?"

"Most of it, " she said, "but not quite all, and this morning was ratheran exaggeration of the regular thing. But getting started on a journeywas usually pretty awful. Once we quite missed our train because hecouldn't make up his mind whether to put on a light overcoat or a heavyone. I finally settled the question for him, but we were just too late. "

"You must be a very amiable person, " remarked John. 

"Indeed, I am not, " she declared, "but Julius is, and it's almostimpossible to be really put out with him, particularly in his condition. I have come to believe that he can not help it, and he submits to mybullying with such sweetness that even my impatience gives way. "

"Have you three people been alone together all the time?" John asked. 

"Yes, " she replied, "except for four or five weeks. We visited someAmerican friends in Berlin, the Nollises, for a fortnight, and after ourvisit to them they traveled with us for three weeks through SouthGermany and Switzerland. We parted with them at Metz only about threeweeks since. "

"How did Mr. Carling seem while you were all together?" asked John, looking keenly at her. 

"Oh, " she replied, "he was more like himself than I have seen him for along time--since he began to break down, in fact. "

He turned his eyes from her face as she looked up at him, and as he didnot speak she said suggestively, "You are thinking something you don'tquite like to say, but I think I know pretty nearly what it is. "

"Yes?" said John, with a query. 

"You think he has had too much feminine companionship, or had it tooexclusively. Is that it? You need not be afraid to say so. "

"Well, " said John, "if you put it 'too exclusively, ' I will admit thatthere was something of the sort in my mind, and, " he added, "if you willlet me say so, it must at times have been rather hard for him to beinterested or amused--that it must have--that is to say--"

"Oh, _say_ it!" she exclaimed. "It must have been very _dull_ for him. Is that it?"

"'Father, '" said John with a grimace, "'I can not tell a lie!'"

"Oh, " she said, laughing, "your hatchet isn't very sharp. I forgive you. But really, " she added, "I know it has been. You will laugh when I tellyou the one particular resource we fell back upon. "

"Bid me to laugh, and I will laugh, " said John. 

"Euchre!" she said, looking at him defiantly. "Two-handed euchre! Wehave played, as nearly as I can estimate, fifteen hundred games, inwhich he has held both bowers and the ace of trumps--or somethingequally victorious--I should say fourteen hundred times. Oh!" shecried, with an expression of loathing, "may I never, never, never see acard again as long as I live!" John laughed without restraint, and aftera petulant little _moue_ she joined him. 

"May I light up my pipe?" he said. "I will get to leeward. "

"I shall not mind in the least, " she assented. 

"By the way, " he asked, "does Mr. Carling smoke?"

"He used to, " she replied, "and while we were with the Nollises hesmoked every day, but after we left them he fell back into the notionthat it was bad for him. "

John filled and lighted his pipe in silence, and after a satisfactorypuff or two said: "Will Mr. Carling go in to dinner to-night?"

"Yes, " she replied, "I think he will if it is no rougher than atpresent. "

"It will probably be smoother, " said John. "You must introduce me tohim--"

"Oh, " she interrupted, "of course, but it will hardly be necessary, asAlice and I have spoken so often to him of you--"

"I was going to say, " John resumed, "that he may possibly let me takehim off your hands a little, and after dinner will be the best time. Ithink if I can get him into the smoking room that a cigarand--and--something hot with a bit of lemon peel and so forth later onmay induce him to visit with me for a while, and pass the evening, orpart of it. "

"You want to be an angel!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I--we--shall be soobliged. I know it's just what he wants--some _man_ to take him inhand. "

"I'm in no hurry to be an angel, " said John, laughing, and, with a bow, "It's better sometimes to be _near_ the rose than to _be_ the rose, andyou are proposing to overpay me quite. I shall enjoy doing what Iproposed, if it be possible. "

Their talk then drifted off into various channels as topics suggestedthemselves until the ship's bell sounded the luncheon hour. Miss Blakewent to join her sister and brother-in-law, but John had some bread andcheese and beer in the smoking room. It appeared that the ladies hadbetter success than in the morning, for he saw them later on in theirsteamer chairs with Mr. Carling, who was huddled in many wraps, with theflaps of his cap down over his ears. All the chairs were full--his ownincluded (as happens to easy-tempered men)--and he had only a briefcolloquy with the party. He noticed, however, that Mr. Carling had onthe russet shoes, and wondered if they pinched him. In fact, though hecouldn't have said exactly why, he rather hoped that they did. He hadjust that sympathy for the nerves of two-and-fifty which is to beexpected from those of five-and-twenty--that is, very little. 

When he went in to dinner the Carlings and Miss Blake had been at tablesome minutes. There had been the usual controversy about what Mr. Carling would drink with his dinner, and he had decided uponApollinaris water. But Miss Blake, with an idea of her own, had given anorder for champagne, and was exhibiting some consternation, real orassumed, at the fact of having a whole bottle brought in with the corkextracted--a customary trick at sea. 

"I hope you will help me out, " she said to John as he bowed and seatedhimself. "'Some one has blundered, ' and here is a whole bottle ofchampagne which must be drunk to save it. Are you prepared to help turnmy, or somebody's, blunder into hospitality?"

"I am prepared to make any sacrifice, " said John, laughing, "in thesacred cause. "

"No less than I expected of you, " she said. "_Noblesse oblige!_ Pleasefill your glass. "

"Thanks, " said John. "Permit me, " and he filled her own as well. 

As the meal proceeded there was some desultory talk about the weather, the ship's run, and so on; but Mrs. Carling was almost silent, and herhusband said but little more. Even Miss Blake seemed to have somethingon her mind, and contributed but little to the conversation. PresentlyMr. Carling said, "Mary, do you think a mouthful of wine would hurt me?"

"Certainly not, " was the reply. "It will do you good, " reaching over forhis glass and pouring the wine. 

"That's enough, that's enough!" he protested as the foam came up to therim of the glass. She proceeded to fill it up to the brim and put itbeside him, and later, as she had opportunity, kept it replenished. 

As the dinner concluded, John said to Mr. Carling: "Won't you go up tothe smoking room with me for coffee? I like a bit of tobacco with mine, and I have some really good cigars and some cigarettes--if you preferthem--that I can vouch for. "

As usual, when the unexpected was presented to his mind, Mr. Carlingpassed the perplexity on to his women-folk. At this time, however, hisdinner and the two glasses of wine which Miss Blake had contrived thathe should swallow had braced him up, and John's suggestion was so warmlyseconded by the ladies that, after some feeble protests and misgivings, he yielded, and John carried him off. 

"I hope it won't upset Julius, " said Mrs. Carling doubtfully. 

"It won't do anything of the sort, " her sister replied. "He will getthrough the evening without worrying himself and you into fits, and, ifMr. Lenox succeeds, you won't see anything of him till ten o'clock orafter, and not then, I hope. Mind, you're to be sound asleep when hecomes in--snore a little if necessary--and let him get to bed withoutany talk at all. "

"Why do you say 'if Mr. Lenox succeeds'?" asked Mrs. Carling. 

"It was his suggestion, " Miss Blake answered. "We had been talking aboutJulius, and he finally told me he thought he would be the better of anoccasional interval of masculine society, and I quite agreed with him. You know how much he enjoyed being with George Nollis, and how much likehimself he appeared. "

"That is true, " said Mrs. Carling. 

"And you know that just as soon as he got alone again with us two womenhe began backing and filling as badly as ever. I believe Mr. Lenox isright, and that Julius is just petticoated to death between us. "

"Did Mr. Lenox say that?" asked Mrs. Carling incredulously. 

"No, " said her sister, laughing, "he didn't make use of precisely thatfigure, but that was what he thought plainly enough. "

"What do you think of Mr. Lenox?" said Mrs. Carling irrelevantly. "Doyou like him? I thought that he looked at you very admiringly once ortwice to-night, " she added, with her eyes on her sister's face. 

"Well, " said Mary, with a petulant toss of the head, "except that I'vehad about an hour's talk with him, and that I knew him when we werechildren--at least when I was a child--he is a perfect stranger to me, and I do wish, " she added in a tone of annoyance, "that you would giveup that fad of yours, that every man who comes along is going to--to--bea nuisance. "

"He seems very pleasant, " said Mrs. Carling, meekly ignoring hersister's reproach. 

"Oh, yes, " she replied indifferently, "he's pleasant enough. Let us goup and have a walk on deck. I want you to be sound asleep when Juliuscomes in. "

CHAPTER V. 

John found his humane experiment pleasanter than he expected. Mr. Carling, as was to be anticipated, demurred a little at the coffee, andstill more at the cigarette; but having his appetite for tobaccoaroused, and finding that no alarming symptoms ensued, he followed itwith a cigar and later on was induced to go the length of "Scotch andsoda, " under the pleasant effect of which--and John's sympatheticefforts--he was for the time transformed, the younger man beingsurprised to find him a man of interesting experience, considerablereading, and, what was most surprising, a jolly sense of humor and afund of anecdotes which he related extremely well. The evening was adecided success, perhaps the best evidence of it coming at the last, when, at John's suggestion that they supplement their modest potationswith a "night-cap, " Mr. Carling cheerfully assented upon the conditionthat they should "have it with him"; and as he went along the deck aftersaying "Good night, " John was positive that he heard a whistled tune. 

The next day was equally fine, but during the night the ship had runinto the swell of a storm, and in the morning there was more motion thanthe weaker ones could relish. The sea grew quieter as the day advanced. John was early, and finished his breakfast before Miss Blake came in. He found her on deck about ten o'clock. She gave him her hand as theysaid good morning, and he turned and walked by her side. 

"How is your brother-in-law this morning?" he inquired. 

"Oh, " she said, laughing, "he's in a mixture of feeling very well andfeeling that he ought not to feel so, but, as they are coming up prettysoon, it would appear that the misgivings are not overwhelming. He camein last night, and retired without saying a word. My sister pretended tobe asleep. She says he went to sleep at once, and that she was awake atintervals and knows that he slept like a top. He won't make any verysweeping admissions, however, but has gone so far as to concede that hehad a very pleasant evening--which is going a long way for him--and tosay that you are a very agreeable young man. There! I didn't intend totell you that, but you have been so good that perhaps so much as asecond-hand compliment is no more than your due. "

"Thank you very much, " said John. "Mr. Carling is evidently a verydiscriminating person. Really it wasn't good of me at all. I was quitethe gainer, for he entertained me more than I did him. We had a verypleasant evening, and I hope we shall have more of them, I do, indeed. Igot an entirely different impression of him, " he added. 

"Yes, " she said, "I can imagine that you did. He can be very agreeable, and he is really a man of a great deal of character when he is himself. He has been goodness itself to me, and has managed my affairs for years. Even to-day his judgment in business matters is wonderfully sound. Ifit had not been for him, " she continued, "I don't know but I should havebeen a pauper. My father left a large estate, but he died very suddenly, and his affairs were very much spread out and involved and had to becarried along. Julius put himself into the breach, and not only savedour fortunes, but has considerably increased them. Of course, Alice ishis wife, but I feel very grateful to him on my own account. I did notaltogether appreciate it at the time, but now I shudder to think that Imight have had either to 'fend for myself' or be dependent. "

"I don't think that dependence would have suited your book, " was John'scomment as he took in the lines of her clear-cut face. 

"No, " she replied, "and I thank heaven that I have not had to endure it. I am not, " she added, "so impressed with what money procures for peopleas what it saves them from. "

"Yes, " said John, "I think your distinction is just. To possess it is tobe free from some of the most disagreeable apprehensions certainly, butI confess, whether to my credit or my shame I don't know, I have neverthought much about it. I certainly am not rich positively, and I haven'tthe faintest notion whether I may or not be prospectively. I have alwayshad as much as I really needed, and perhaps more, but I know absolutelynothing about the future. " They were leaning over the rail on the portside. 

"I should think, " she said after a moment, looking at him thoughtfully, "that it was, if you will not think me presuming, a matter about whichyou might have some justifiable curiosity. "

"Oh, not at all, " he assured her, stepping to leeward and producing acigar. "I have had some stirrings of late. And please don't think me anincorrigible idler. I spent nearly two years in a down-town office andearned--well, say half my salary. In fact, my business instincts were sostrong that I left college after my second year for that purpose, butseeing no special chance of advancement in the race for wealth, and asmy father seemed rather to welcome the idea, I broke off and went overto Germany. I haven't been quite idle, though I should be puzzled, Iadmit, to find a market for what I have to offer to the world. Would yoube interested in a schedule of my accomplishments. "

"Oh, " she said, "I should be charmed, but as I am every moment expectingthe advent of my family, and as I am relied upon to locate them and tuckthem up, I'm afraid I shall not have time to hear it. "

"No, " he said, laughing, "it's quite too long. "

She was silent for some moments, gazing down into the water, apparentlydebating something in her mind, and quite unconscious of John'sscrutiny. Finally she turned to him with a little laugh. "You mightbegin on your list, and if I am called away you can finish it at anothertime. "

"I hope you didn't think I was speaking in earnest, " he said. 

"No, " she replied, "I did not think you really intended to unpack yourwares, but, speaking seriously--and at the risk, I fear, that you maythink me rather 'cheeky, ' if I may be allowed that expression--I know agood many men in America, and I think that without an exception they areprofessional men or business men, or, being neither--and I know but fewsuch--have a competence or more; and I was wondering just now after whatyou told me what a man like you would or could do if he were thrown uponhis own resources. I'm afraid that is rather frank for the acquaintanceof a day, isn't it?" she asked with a slight flush, "but it really isnot so personal as it may sound to you. "

"My dear Miss Blake, " he replied, "our acquaintance goes back at leastten years. Please let that fact count for something in your mind. Thetruth is, I have done some wondering along that same line myself withoutcoming to any satisfactory conclusion. I devoutly hope I may not be sothrown absolutely, for the truth is I haven't a marketable commodity. 'Alittle Latin, and less Greek, ' German and French enough to read andunderstand and talk--on the surface of things--and what mathematics, history, et cetera, I have not forgotten. I know the piano well enoughto read and play an accompaniment after a fashion, and I have had somegood teaching for the voice, and some experience in singing, at home andabroad. In fact, I come nearer to a market there, I think, than in anyother direction perhaps. I have given some time to fencing in variousschools, and before I left home Billy Williams would sometimes speakencouragingly of my progress with the gloves. There! That is my list, and not a dollar in it from beginning to end, I'm afraid. "

"Who is Billy Williams?" she asked. 

"Billy, " said John, "is the very mild-mannered and gentlemanlike'bouncer' at the Altman House, an ex-prize-fighter, and about the mostaccomplished member of his profession of his day and weight, who isemployed to keep order and, if necessary, to thrust out the riotous whowould disturb the contemplations of the lovers of art that frequent thebar of that hotel. " It was to be seen that Miss Blake was notparticularly impressed by this description of Billy and his functions, upon which she made no comment. 

"You have not included in your list, " she remarked, "what you acquiredin the down-town office you told me of. "

"No, upon my word I had forgotten that, and it's about the only thing ofuse in the whole category, " he answered. "If I were put to it, and couldfind a place, I think I might earn fifty dollars a month as a clerk ormessenger, or something. Hullo! here are your people. "

He went forward with his companion and greeted Mrs. Carling and herhusband, who returned his "Good morning" with a feeble smile, andsubmitted to his ministrations in the matter of chair and rugs with anair of unresisting invalidism, which was almost too obvious, he thought. But after luncheon John managed to induce him to walk for a while, tosmoke a cigarette, and finally to brave the perils of a sherry andbitters before dinner. The ladies had the afternoon to themselves. Johnhad no chance of a further visit with Mary during the day, a loss onlypartially made good to him by a very approving smile and a remark whichshe made to him at dinner, that he must be a lineal descendant of theSamaritan. Mr. Carling submitted himself to him for the evening. Indeed, it came about that for the rest of the voyage he had rather more of thecompany of that gentleman, who fairly attached himself to him, than, under all the circumstances, he cared for; but the gratitude of theladies was so cordial that he felt paid for some sacrifices of hisinclinations. And there was an hour or so every morning--for the fineweather lasted through--which he spent with Mary Blake, with increasinginterest and pleasure, and he found himself inwardly rejoicing over amishap to the engine which, though of no very great magnitude, wouldretard the passage by a couple of days. 

There can hardly be any conditions more favorable to the forming ofacquaintanceships, friendships, and even more tender relations than areafforded by the life on board ship. There is opportunity, propinquity, and the community of interest which breaks down the barriers of ordinaryreserve. These relations, to be sure, are not always of the most lastingcharacter, and not infrequently are practically ended before the partiesthereto are out of the custom-house officer's hands and fade intonameless oblivion, unless one happens to run across the passenger listamong one's souvenirs. But there are exceptions. If at this time thequestion had been asked our friend, even by himself, whether, to put itplainly, he were in love with Mary Blake, he would, no doubt, havestrenuously denied it; but it is certain that if any one had said orintimated that any feature or characteristic of hers was faulty orsusceptible of any change for the better, he would have secretlydisliked that person, and entertained the meanest opinion of thatperson's mental and moral attributes. He would have liked the voyageprolonged indefinitely, or, at any rate, as long as the provisions heldout. 

It has been remarked by some one that all mundane things come to an endsooner or later, and, so far as my experience goes, it bears out thatstatement. The engines were successfully repaired, and the shipeventually came to anchor outside the harbor about eleven o'clock on thenight of the last day. Mary and John were standing together at theforward rail. There had been but little talk between them, and only of adesultory and impersonal character. As the anchor chains rattled in thehawse-pipes, John said, "Well, that ends it. "

"What ends what?" she asked. 

"The voyage, and the holiday, and the episode, and lots of things, " hereplied. "We have come to anchor. "

"Yes, " she said, "the voyage is over, that is true; but, for my part, ifthe last six months can be called a holiday, its end is welcome, and Ishould think you might be glad that your holiday is over, too. But Idon't quite understand what you mean by 'the episode and lots ofthings. '"

There was an undertone in her utterance which her companion did notquite comprehend, though it was obvious to him. 

"The episode of--of--our friendship, if I may call it so, " he replied. 

"I call it so, " she said decisively. "You have certainly been a friendto _all_ of us. This episode is over to be sure, but is there any morethan that?"

"Somebody says that 'friendship is largely a matter of streets, '" saidJohn gloomily. "To-morrow you will go your way and I shall go mine. "

"Yes, " she replied, rather sharply, "that is true enough; but if thatcynical quotation of yours has anything in it, it's equally true, isn'tit, that friendship is a matter of cabs, and street cars, and theelevated road? Of course, we can hardly be expected to look you up, butSixty-ninth Street isn't exactly in California, and the whole questionlies with yourself. I don't know if you care to be told so, but Juliusand my sister like you very much, and will welcome you heartily always. "

"Thanks, very much!" said John, staring straight out in front of him, and forming a determination that Sixty-ninth Street would see butprecious little of _him_. She gave a side glance at him as he did notspeak further. There was light enough to see the expression of hismouth, and she read his thought almost in words. She had thought thatshe had detected a suggestion of sentimentality on his part which sheintended to keep strictly in abeyance, but in her intention not to seemto respond to it she had taken an attitude of coolness and a tone whichwas almost sarcastic, and now perceived that, so far as results wereapparent, she had carried matters somewhat further than she intended. Her heart smote her a little, too, to think that he was hurt. She reallyliked him very much, and contritely recalled how kind and thoughtful andunselfish he had been, and how helpful, and she knew that it had beenalmost wholly for her. Yes, she was willing--and glad--to think so. Butwhile she wished that she had taken a different line at the outset, shehated desperately to make any concession, and the seconds of theirsilence grew into minutes. She stole another glance at his face. It wasplain that negotiations for harmony would have to begin with her. Finally she said in a quiet voice:

"'Thanks, very much, ' is an entirely polite expression, but it isn'tvery responsive. "

"I thought it met your cordiality quite half way, " was the rejoinder. "Of course, I am glad to be assured of Mr. And Mrs. Carling's regard, and that they would be glad to see me, but I think I might have beenjustified in hoping that you would go a little further, don't youthink?"

He looked at her as he asked the question, but she did not turn herhead. Presently she said in a low voice, and slowly, as if weighing herwords:

"Will it be enough if I say that I shall be very sorry if you do notcome?" He put his left hand upon her right, which was resting on therail, and for two seconds she let it stay. 

"Yes, " he said, "thanks--very--much!"

"I must go now, " she said, turning toward him, and for a moment shelooked searchingly in his face. "Good night, " she said, giving him herhand, and John looked after her as she walked down the deck, and he knewhow it was with him. 

CHAPTER VI. 

John saw Miss Blake the next morning in the saloon among the passengersin line for the customs official. It was an easy conjecture that Mr. Carling's nerves were not up to committing himself to a "declaration" ofany sort, and that Miss Blake was undertaking the duty for the party. Hedid not see her again until he had had his luggage passed and turned itover to an expressman. As he was on his way to leave the wharf he cameacross the group, and stopped to greet them and ask if he could be ofservice, and was told that their houseman had everything in charge, andthat they were just going to their carriage, which was waiting. "And, "said Miss Blake, "if you are going up town, we can offer you a seat. "

"Sha'n't I discommode you?" he asked. "If you are sure I shall not, Ishall be glad to be taken as far as Madison Avenue and Thirty-thirdStreet, for I suppose that will be your route. "

"Quite sure, " she replied, seconded by the Carlings, and so it happenedthat John went directly home instead of going first to his father'soffice. The weather was a chilly drizzle, and he was glad to be sparedthe discomfort of going about in it with hand-bag, overcoat, andumbrella, and felt a certain justification in concluding that, aftertwo years, a few hours more or less under the circumstances would makebut little difference. And then, too, the prospect of half orthree-quarters of an hour in Miss Blake's company, the Carlingsnotwithstanding, was a temptation to be welcomed. But if he had hoped orexpected, as perhaps would have been not unnatural, to discover in thatyoung woman's air any hint or trace of the feeling she had exhibited, or, perhaps it should be said, to a degree permitted to show itself, disappointment was his portion. Her manner was as much in contrast withthat of the last days of their voyage together as the handsome streetdress and hat in which she was attired bore to the dress and headgear ofher steamer costume, and it almost seemed to him as if the contrastsbore some relation to each other. After the question of the carriagewindows--whether they should be up or down, either or both, and howmuch--had been settled, and, as usual in such dilemmas, by Miss Blake, the drive up town was comparatively a silent one. John's mind wasoccupied with sundry reflections and speculations, of many of which hiscompanion was the subject, and to some extent in noting the changes inthe streets and buildings which an absence of two years made noticeableto him. 

Mary looked steadily out of window, lost in her own thoughts save for anoccasional brief response to some casual comment or remark of John's. Mr. Carling had muffled himself past all talking, and his wife preservedthe silence which was characteristic of her when unurged. 

John was set down at Thirty-third Street, and, as he made his adieus, Mrs. Carling said, "Do come and see us as soon as you can, Mr. Lenox";but Miss Blake simply said "Good-by" as she gave him her hand for aninstant, and he went on to his father's house. 

He let himself in with the latch-key which he had carried through allhis absence, but was at once encountered by Jeffrey, who, with his wife, had for years constituted the domestic staff of the Lenox household. 

"Well, Jeff, " said John, as he shook hands heartily with the oldservant, "how are you? and how is Ann? You don't look a day older, andthe climate seems to agree with you, eh?"

"You're welcome home, Mr. John, " replied Jeffrey, "and thank you, sir. Me and Ann is very well, sir. It's a pleasure to see you again and home. It is, indeed. "

"Thank you, Jeff, " said John. "It's rather nice to be back. Is my roomready?"

"Yes, sir, " said Jeffrey, "I think it's all right, though we thoughtthat maybe it 'd be later in the day when you got here, sir. We thoughtmaybe you'd go to Mr. Lenox's office first. "

"I did intend to, " said John, mounting the stairs, followed by Jeffreywith his bag, "but I had a chance to drive up with some friends, and theday is so beastly that I took advantage of it. How is my father?" heasked after entering the chamber, which struck him as being so strangelyfamiliar and so familiarly strange. 

"Well, sir, " said Jeffrey, "he's much about the same most ways, and thenagain he's different, too. Seeing him every day, perhaps I wouldn'tnotice so much; but if I was to say that he's kind of quieter, perhapsthat'd be what I mean, sir. "

"Well, " said John, smiling, "my father was about the quietest person Iever knew, and if he's grown more so--what do you mean?"

"Well, sir, " replied the man, "I notice at table, sir, for one thing. We've been alone here off and on a good bit, sir, and he used always tohave a pleasant word or two to say to me, and may be to ask me questionsand that, sir; but for a long time lately he hardly seems to notice me. Of course, there ain't any need of his saying anything, because I knowall he wants, seeing I've waited on him so long, but it's different in away, sir. "

"Does he go out in the evening to his club?" asked John. 

"Very rarely, sir, " said Jeffrey. "He mostly goes to his room afterdinner, an' oftentimes I hear him walking up an' down, up an' down, and, sir, " he added, "you know he often used to have some of his friends todine with him, and that ain't happened in, I should guess, for a year. "

"Have things gone wrong with him in any way?" said John, a suddenanxiety overcoming some reluctance to question a servant on such asubject. 

"You mean about business, and such like?" replied Jeffrey. "No, sir, notso far as I know. You know, Mr. John, sir, that I pay all the houseaccounts, and there hasn't never been no--no shortness, as I might say, but we're living a bit simpler than we used to--in the matter of wineand such like--and, as I told you, we don't have comp'ny no more. "

"Is that all?" asked John, with some relief. 

"Well, sir, " was the reply, "perhaps it's because Mr. Lenox is gettingolder and don't care so much about such things, but I have noticed thathe hasn't had anything new from the tailor in a long time, and really, sir, though perhaps I oughtn't to say it, his things is getting a bitshabby, sir, and he used to be always so partic'lar. "

John got up and walked over to the window which looked out at the rearof the house. The words of the old servant disquieted him, notwithstanding that there was nothing so far that could not beaccounted for without alarm. Jeffrey waited for a moment and then asked:

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. John? Will you be havingluncheon here, sir?"

"No, thank you, Jeff, " said John; "nothing more now, and I will lunchhere. I'll come down and see Ann presently. "

"Thank you, sir, " said Jeffrey, and withdrew. 

The view from the back windows of most city houses is not calculated toarouse enthusiasm at the best of times, and the day was singularlydispiriting: a sky of lead and a drizzling rain, which emphasized thesqualor of the back yards in view. It was all very depressing. Jeffrey'stalk, though inconclusive, had stirred in John's mind an uneasinesswhich was near to apprehension. He turned and walked about the familiarroom, recognizing the well-known furniture, his mother's picture overthe mantel, the bookshelves filled with his boyhood's accumulations, thewell-remembered pattern of the carpet, and the wall-paper--nothing waschanged. It was all as he had left it two years ago, and for the time itseemed as if he had merely dreamed the life and experiences of thoseyears. Indeed, it was with difficulty that he recalled any of them forthe moment. And then suddenly there came into his mind the thought thathe was at the beginning of a new epoch--that on this day his boyhoodended, for up to then he had been but a boy. The thought was very vivid. It had come, the time when he must take upon himself theresponsibilities of his own life, and make it for himself; the timewhich he had looked forward to as to come some day, but not hitherto atany particular moment, and so not to be very seriously considered. 

It has been said that life had always been made easy for him, and thathe had accepted the situation without protest. To easy-going natures thethought of any radical change in the current of affairs is usuallyunwelcome, but he was too young to find it really repugnant; and then, too, as he walked about the room with his hands in his pockets, it wasfurther revealed to him that he had recently found a motive and impulsesuch as he had never had before. He recalled the talk that he had hadwith the companion of his voyage. He thought of her as one who could betender to misfortune and charitable to incapacity, but who would havenothing but scorn for shiftlessness and malingering; and he realizedthat he had never cared for anything as for the good opinion of thatyoung woman. No, there should be for him no more sauntering in the valesand groves, no more of loitering or dallying. He would take his place inthe working world, and perhaps--some day--

A thought came to him with the impact of a blow: What could he do? Whatwork was there for him? How could he pull his weight in the boat? Allhis life he had depended upon some one else, with easy-goingthoughtlessness. Hardly had it ever really occurred to him that hemight have to make a career for himself. Of business he had thought assomething which he should undertake some time, but it was always abusiness ready made to his hand, with plenty of capital not of his ownacquiring--something for occupation, not of necessity. It came home tohim that his father was his only resource, and that of his father'saffairs he knew next to nothing. 

In addition to his affection for him, he had always had an unquestioningconfidence in his father. It was his earliest recollection, and he stillretained it to almost a childish extent. There had always been plenty. His own allowance, from time to time increased, though neverextravagant, had always been ample, and on the one occasion when he hadgrievously exceeded it the excess had been paid with no more protestthan a gentle "I think you ought not to have done this. " The two hadlived together when John was at home without ostentation or anyappearance of style, but with every essential of luxury. The house andits furnishings were old-fashioned, but everything was of the best, andwhen three or four of the elder man's friends would come to dine, ashappened occasionally, the contents of the cellar made them look at eachother over their glasses. Mr. Lenox was very reticent in all mattersrelating to himself, and in his talks with his son, which were mostly atthe table, rarely spoke of business matters in general, and almost neverof his own. He had read well, and was fond of talking of his readingwhen he felt in the vein of talking, which was not always; but John hadinvariably found him ready with comment and sympathy upon the topics inwhich he himself had interest, and there was a strong if undemonstrativeaffection between the father and son. 

It was not strange, perhaps, all things considered, that John had comeeven to nearly six-and-twenty with no more settled intentions; that hisboyhood should have been so long. He was not at all of a recklessdisposition, and, notwithstanding the desultory way in which he hadspent time, he had strong mental and moral fiber, and was capable offeeling deeply and enduringly. He had been desultory, but never beforehad he had much reason or warning against it. But now, he reflected, atime had come. Work he must, if only for work's sake, and work he would;and there was a touch of self-reproach in the thought of his father'sincreasing years and of his lonely life. He might have been a help and acompanion during those two years of his not very fruitful Europeansojourn, and he would lose no time in finding out what there was for himto do, and in setting about it. 

CHAPTER VII. 

The day seemed very long. He ate his luncheon, having first paid a visitto Ann, who gave him an effusive welcome. Jeffrey waited, and during themeal they had some further talk, and among other things John said tohim, "Does my father dress for dinner nowadays?"

"No, sir, " was the reply, "I don't know when I've seen your father inhis evenin' clothes, sir. Not for a long time, and then maybe two orthree times the past year when he was going out to dinner, but not here, sir. Maybe it'll be different now you're back again, sir. "

After luncheon John's luggage arrived, and he superintended theunpacking, but that employment was comparatively brief. The day draggedwith him. Truly his home-coming was rather a dreary affair. Howdifferent had been yesterday, and the day before, and all those daysbefore when he had so enjoyed the ship life, and most of all the dailyhour or more of the companionship which had grown to be of suchsurpassing interest to him, and now seemed so utterly a thing of thepast. 

Of course, he should see her again. (He put aside a wonder if it wouldbe within the proprieties on that evening or, at latest, the next. ) But, in any case, "the episode, " as he had said to her, was done, and it hadbeen very pleasant--oh, yes, very dear to him. He wondered if she wasfinding the day as interminable as it seemed to him, and if the intervalbefore they saw each other again would seem as long as his impatiencewould make it for him. Finally, the restless dullness becameintolerable. He sallied forth into the weather and went to his club, having been on non-resident footing during his absence, and, findingsome men whom he knew, spent there the rest of the afternoon. 

His father was at home and in his room when John got back. 

"Well, father, " he said, "the prodigal has returned. "

"He is very welcome, " was the reply, as the elder man took both hisson's hands and looked at him affectionately. "You seem very well. "

"Yes, " said John; "and how are you, sir?"

"About as usual, I think, " said Mr. Lenox. 

They looked at each other for a moment in silence. John thought that hisfather seemed thinner than formerly, and he had instantly observed thata white beard covered the always hitherto smooth-shaven chin, but hemade no comment. 

"The old place appears very familiar, " he remarked. "Nothing is changedor even moved, as I can see, and Ann and Jeff are just the same oldsixpences as ever. "

"Yes, " said his father, "two years make less difference with old peopleand their old habits than with young ones. You will have changed morethan we have, I fancy. "

"Do we dress for dinner?" asked John, after some little more unimportanttalk. 

"Yes, " said his father, "in honor of the occasion, if you like. Ihaven't done it lately, " he added, a little wearily. 

 * * * * *

"I haven't had such a glass of wine since I left home, " John remarked asthey sat together after dinner. 

"No, " said his father, looking thoughtfully at his glass, "it's the old'Mouton, ' and pretty nearly the last of it; it's very old and wantsdrinking, " he observed as he held his glass up to get the color. "It hasgone off a bit even in two years. "

"All right, " said John cheerfully, "we'll drink it to save it, if needsbe. " The elder man smiled and filled both glasses. 

There had been more or less talk during the meal, but nothing of specialmoment. John sat back in his chair, absently twirling the stem of hisglass between thumb and fingers. Presently he said, looking straightbefore him at the table: "I have been thinking a good deal of late--morethan ever before, positively, in fact--that whatever my prospects maybe, " (he did not see the momentary contraction of his father's brow) "Iought to begin some sort of a career in earnest. I'm afraid, " hecontinued, "that I have been rather unmindful, and that I might havebeen of some use to you as well as myself if I had stayed at homeinstead of spending the last two years in Europe. "

"I trust, " said his father, "that they have not been entirely withoutprofit. "

"No, " said John, "perhaps not wholly, but their cash value would not belarge, I'm afraid. "

"All value is not to be measured in dollars and cents, " remarked Mr. Lenox. "If I could have acquired as much German and French as I presumeyou have, to say nothing of other things, I should look back upon thetime as well spent at almost any cost. At your age a year or two more orless--you don't realize it now, but you will if you come to myage--doesn't count for so very much, and you are not too old, " hesmiled, "to begin at a beginning. "

"I want to begin, " said John. 

"Yes, " said his father, "I want to have you, and I have had the matter agood deal in my mind. Have you any idea as to what you wish to do?"

"I thought, " said John, "that the most obvious thing would be to go intoyour office. " Mr. Lenox reached over for the cigar-lamp. His cigar hadgone out, and his hand shook as he applied the flame to it. He did notreply for a moment. 

"I understand, " he said at last. "It would seem the obvious thing to do, as you say, but, " he clicked his teeth together doubtfully, "I don't seehow it can be managed at present, and I don't think it is what I shoulddesire for you in any case. The fact is, " he went on, "my business hasalways been a sort of specialty, and, though it is still worth doingperhaps, it is not what it used to be. Conditions and methods havechanged--and, " he added, "I am too old to change with them. "

"I am not, " said John. 

"In fact, " resumed his father, ignoring John's assertion, "as things aregoing now, I couldn't make a place for you in my office unless Idisplaced Melig and made you my manager, and for many reasons I couldn'tdo that. I am too dependent on Melig. Of course, if you came with me itwould be as a partner, but--"

"No, " said John, "I should be a poor substitute for old Melig for a goodwhile, I fancy. "

"My idea would be, " said Mr. Lenox, "that you should undertake aprofession--say the law. It is a fact that the great majority of menfail in business, and then most of them, for lack of training or specialaptitude, fall into the ranks of clerks and subordinates. On the otherhand, a man who has a profession--law, medicine, what not--even if hedoes not attain high rank, has something on which he can generally getalong, at least after a fashion, and he has the standing. That is myview of the matter, and though I confess I often wonder at it inindividual cases, it is my advice to you. "

"It would take three or four years to put me where I could earn anythingto speak of, " said John, "even providing that I could get any businessat the end of the time. "

"Yes, " said his father, "but the time of itself isn't of so muchconsequence. You would be living at home, and would have yourallowance--perhaps, " he suggested, "somewhat diminished, seeing that youwould be here--"

"I can get on with half of it, " said John confidently. 

"We will settle that matter afterward, " said Mr. Lenox. 

They sat in silence for some minutes, John staring thoughtfully at thetable, unconscious of the occasional scrutiny of his father's glance. Atlast he said, "Well, sir, I will do anything that you advise. "

"Have you anything to urge against it?" asked Mr. Lenox. 

"Not exactly on my own account, " replied John, "though I admit that thethree years or more seems a long time to me, but I have been drawing onyou exclusively all my life, except for the little money I earned inRush & Company's office, and--"

"You have done so, my dear boy, " said his father gently, "with myacquiescence. I may have been wrong, but that is a fact. If in myjudgment the arrangement may be continued for a while longer, and in themean time you are making progress toward a definite end, I think youneed have no misgivings. It gratifies me to have you feel as you do, though it is no more than I should have expected of you, for you havenever caused me any serious anxiety or disappointment, my son. "

Often in the after time did John thank God for that assurance. 

"Thank you, sir, " he said, putting down his hand, palm upward, on thetable, and his eyes filled as the elder man laid his hand in his, andthey gave each other a lingering pressure. 

Mr. Lenox divided the last of the wine in the bottle between the twoglasses, and they drank it in silence, as if in pledge. 

"I will go in to see Carey & Carey in the morning, and if they areagreeable you can see them afterward, " said Mr. Lenox. "They are not oneof the great firms, but they have a large and good practice, and theyare friends of mine. Shall I do so?" he asked, looking at his son. 

"If you will be so kind, " John replied, returning his look. And so thematter was concluded. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

This history will not concern itself to any extent with our friend'scareer as a law clerk, though, as he promised himself, he took itseriously and laboriously while it lasted, notwithstanding that aftertwo years of being his own master, and the rather desultory andaltogether congenial life he had led, he found it at first even moreirksome than he had fancied. The novice penetrates but slowly themysteries of the law, and, unless he be of unusual aptitude andimagination, the interesting and remunerative part seems for a long timevery far off. But John stuck manfully to the reading, and was diligentin all that was put upon him to do; and after a while the days spent inthe office and in the work appointed to him began to pass more quickly. 

He restrained his impulse to call at Sixty-ninth Street until whatseemed to him a fitting interval had elapsed; one which was longer thanit would otherwise have been, from an instinct of shyness not habitualto him, and a distrustful apprehension that perhaps his advent was notof so much moment to the people there as to him. But their greeting wasso cordial on every hand that Mrs. Carling's remark that they had beenalmost afraid he had forgotten them embarrassed while it pleased him, and his explanations were somewhat lame. Miss Blake, as usual, came tothe rescue, though John's disconcert was not lessened by the suspicionthat she saw through his inventions. He had conceived a great opinion ofthat young person's penetration. 

His talk for a while was mostly with Mr. Carling, who was in a pleasantmood, being, like most nervous people, at his best in the evening. Marymade an occasional contributory remark, and Mrs. Carling, as was herwont, was silent except when appealed to. Finally, Mr. Carling rose and, putting out his hand, said: "I think I will excuse myself, if you willpermit me. I have had to be down town to-day, and am rather tired. " Mrs. Carling followed him, saying to John as she bade him good night: "Docome, Mr. Lenox, whenever you feel like it. We are very quiet people, and are almost always at home. "

"Thank you, Mrs. Carling, " responded John, with much sincerity. "I shallbe most glad to. I am so quiet myself as to be practically noiseless. "

The hall of the Carlings' house was their favorite sitting place in theevening. It ran nearly the whole depth of the house, and had a widefireplace at the end. The further right hand portion was recessed by thestairway, which rose from about the middle of its length. 

Miss Blake sat in a low chair, and John took its fellow at the otherangle of the fireplace, which contained the smoldering remnant of a woodfire. She had a bit of embroidery stretched over a circular frame like adrum-head. Needlework was not a passion with her, but it was understoodin the Carling household that in course of time a set of table doiliesof elaborate devices in colored silks would be forthcoming. It has beendeplored by some philosopher that custom does not sanction such littleoccupations for masculine hands. It would be interesting to speculatehow many embarrassing or disastrous consequences might have been avertedif at a critical point in a negotiation or controversy a needle had hadto be threaded or a dropped stitch taken up before a reply was made, tosay nothing of an excuse for averting features at times withoutconfession of confusion. 

The great and wise Charles Reade tells how his hero, who had an island, a treasure ship, and a few other trifles of the sort to dispose of, insisted upon Captain Fullalove's throwing away the stick he waswhittling, as giving the captain an unfair advantage. The value of theembroidered doily as an article of table napery may be open to question, but its value, in an unfinished state, as an adjunct to discreetconversation, is beyond all dispute. 

"Ought I to say good night?" asked John with a smile, as he seatedhimself on the disappearance of Mr. And Mrs. Carling. 

"I don't see any reason, " she replied. "It isn't late. Julius is in oneof his periods of retiring early just now. By and by he will be sure totake up the idea again that his best sleep is after midnight. At presenthe is on the theory that it is before twelve o'clock. "

"How has he been since your return?" John asked. 

"Better in some ways, I think, " she replied. "He seems to enjoy the homelife in contrast with the traveling about and living in hotels; andthen, in a moderate way, he is obliged to give some attention tobusiness matters, and to come in contact with men and affairsgenerally. "

"And you?" said John. "You find it pleasant to be back?"

"Yes, " she said, "I do. As my sister said, we are quiet people. She goesout so little that it is almost not at all, and when I go it has nearlyalways to be with some one else. And then, you know that while Alice andI are originally New Yorkers, we have only been back here for two orthree years. Most of the people, really, to whose houses we go are thosewho knew my father. But, " she added, "it is a comfort not to be carryingabout a traveling bag in one hand and a weight of responsibility in theother. "

"I should think, " said John, laughing, "that your maid might have takenthe bag, even if she couldn't carry your responsibilities. "

"No, " she said, joining in his laugh, "that particular bag was tooprecious, and Eliza was one of my most serious responsibilities. She hadto be looked after like the luggage, and I used to wish at times thatshe could be labeled and go in the van. How has it been with you sinceyour return? and, " as she separated a needleful of silk from what seemedan inextricable tangle, "if I may ask, what have you been doing? I wasrecalling, " she added, putting the silk into the needle, "some thingsyou said to me on the Altruria. Do you remember?"

"Perfectly, " said John. "I think I remember every word said on bothsides, and I have thought very often of some things you said to me. Infact, they had more influence upon my mind than you imagined. "

She turned her work so that the light would fall a little more directlyupon it. 

"Really?" she asked. "In what way?"

"You put in a drop or two that crystallized the whole solution, " heanswered. She looked up at him inquiringly. 

"Yes, " he said, "I always knew that I should have to stop drifting sometime, but there never seemed to be any particular time. Some things yousaid to me set the time. I am under 'full steam a-head' at present. Behold in me, " he exclaimed, touching his breast, "the future chief ofthe Supreme Court of the United States, of whom you shall say some timein the next brief interval of forty years or so, 'I knew him as a youngman, and one for whom no one would have predicted such eminence!' andperhaps you will add, 'It was largely owing to me. '"

She looked at him with an expression in which amusement and curiositywere blended. 

"I congratulate you, " she said, laughing, "upon the career in which itappears I had the honor to start you. Am I being told that you havetaken up the law?"

"Not quite the whole of it as yet, " he said; "but when I am not doingerrands for the office I am to some extent taken up with it, " and thenhe told her of his talk with his father and what had followed. Sheovercame a refractory kink in her silk before speaking. 

"It takes a long time, doesn't it, and do you like it?" she asked. 

"Well, " said John, laughing a little, "a weaker word than 'fascinating'would describe the pursuit, but I hope with diligence to reach some ofthe interesting features in the course of ten or twelve years. "

"It is delightful, " she remarked, scrutinizing the pattern of her work, "to encounter such enthusiasm. "

"Isn't it?" said John, not in the least wounded by her sarcasm. 

"Very much so, " she replied, "but I have always understood that it is amistake to be too sanguine. "

"Perhaps I'd better make it fifteen years, then, " he said, laughing. "Ishould have a choice of professions by that time at any rate. You knowthe proverb that 'At forty every man is either a fool or a physician. '"She looked at him with a smile. "Yes, " he said, "I realize thealternative. " She laughed a little, but did not reply. 

"Seriously, " he continued, "I know that in everything worthaccomplishing there is a lot of drudgery to be gone through with at thefirst, and perhaps it seems the more irksome to me because I have beenso long idly my own master. However, " he added, "I shall get down to it, or up to it, after a while, I dare say. That is my intention, at anyrate. "

"I don't think I have ever wished that I were a man, " she said after amoment, "but I often find myself envying a man's opportunities. "

"Do not women have opportunities, too?" he said. "Certainly they havegreatly to do with the determination of affairs. "

"Oh, yes, " she replied, "it is the usual answer that woman's part is toinfluence somebody. As for her own life, it is largely made for her. She has, for the most part, to take what comes to her by the will ofothers. "

"And yet, " said John, "I fancy that there has seldom been a great careerin which some woman's help or influence was not a factor. "

"Even granting that, " she replied, "the career was the man's, after all, and the fame and visible reward. A man will sometimes say, 'I owe all mysuccess to my wife, or my mother, or sister, ' but he never reallybelieves it, nor, in fact, does any one else. It is _his_ success, afterall, and the influence of the woman is but a circumstance, real andpowerful though it may be. I am not sure, " she added, "that woman'sinfluence, so called, isn't rather an overrated thing. Women like tofeel that they have it, and men, in matters which they hold lightly, flatter them by yielding, but I am doubtful if a man ever arrives at orabandons a settled course or conviction through the influence of awoman, however exerted. "

"I think you are wrong, " said John, "and I feel sure of so much as this:that a man might often be or do for a woman's sake that which he wouldnot for its sake or his own. "

"That is quite another thing, " she said. "There is in it no question ofinfluence; it is one of impulse and motive. "

"I have told you to-night, " said John, "that what you said to me hadinfluenced me greatly. "

"Pardon me, " she replied, "you employed a figure which exactly definedyour condition. You said I supplied the drop which caused the solutionto crystallize--that is, to elaborate your illustration, that it wasalready at the point of saturation with your own convictions andintentions. "

"I said also, " he urged, "that you had set the time for me. Is the ideaunpleasant to you?" he asked after a moment, while he watched her face. She did not at once reply, but presently she turned to him with slightlyheightened color and said, ignoring his question:

"Would you rather think that you had done what you thought right becauseyou so thought, or because some one else wished to have you? Or, Ishould say, would you rather think that the right suggestion wasanother's than your own?"

He laughed a little, and said evasively: "You ought to be a lawyer, MissBlake. I should hate to have you cross-examine me unless I were verysure of my evidence. "

She gave a little shrug of her shoulders in reply as she turned andresumed her embroidery. They talked for a while longer, but of otherthings, the discussion of woman's influence having been dropped bymutual consent. 

After John's departure she suspended operations on the doily, and satfor a while gazing reflectively into the fire. She was a person as frankwith herself as with others, and with as little vanity as was compatiblewith being human, which is to say that, though she was not without it, it was of the sort which could be gratified but not flattered--in fact, the sort which flattery wounds rather than pleases. But despite herapparent skepticism she had not been displeased by John's assertion thatshe had influenced him in his course. She had expressed herself truly, believing that he would have done as he had without her intervention;but she thought that he was sincere, and it was pleasant to her to havehim think as he did. 

Considering the surroundings and conditions under which she had lived, she had had her share of the acquaintance and attentions of agreeablemen, but none of them had ever got with her beyond the stage of merefriendliness. There had never been one whose coming she had particularlylooked forward to, or whose going she had deplored. She had thought ofmarriage as something she might come to, but she had promised herselfthat it should be on such conditions as were, she was aware, quiteimprobable of ever being fulfilled. She would not care for a man becausehe was clever and distinguished, but she felt that he must be thosethings, and to have, besides, those qualities of character and personwhich should attract her. She had known a good many men who were cleverand to some extent distinguished, but none who had attracted herpersonally. John Lenox did not strike her as being particularly clever, and he certainly was not distinguished, nor, she thought, ever verylikely to be; but she had had a pleasure in being with him which she hadnever experienced in the society of any other man, and underneath someboyish ways she divined a strength and steadfastness which could berelied upon at need. And she admitted to herself that during the tendays since her return, though she had unsparingly snubbed her sister'swonderings why he did not call, she had speculated a good deal upon thesubject herself, with a sort of resentful feeling against both herselfand him that she should care--

Her face flushed as she recalled the momentary pressure of his hand uponhers on that last night on deck. She rang for the servant, and went upto her room. 

CHAPTER IX. 

It is not the purpose of this narrative to dwell minutely upon theevents of the next few months. Truth to say, they were devoid ofincidents of sufficient moment in themselves to warrant chronicle. Whatthey led up to was memorable enough. 

As time went on John found himself on terms of growing intimacy with theCarling household, and eventually it came about that if there passed aday when their door did not open to him it was _dies non_. 

Mr. Carling was ostensibly more responsible than the ladies for thefrequency of our friend's visits, and grew to look forward to them. Infact, he seemed to regard them as paid primarily to himself, and ignoredan occasional suggestion on his wife's part that it might not be whollythe pleasure of a chat and a game at cards with him that brought theyoung man so often to the house. And when once she ventured to concernhim with some stirrings of her mind on the subject, he rather testily(for him) pooh-poohed her misgivings, remarking that Mary was her ownmistress, and, so far as he had ever seen, remarkably well qualified toregulate her own affairs. Had she ever seen anything to lead her tosuppose that there was any particular sentiment existing between Lenoxand her sister?

"No, " said Mrs. Carling, "perhaps not exactly, but you know how thosethings go, and he always stays after we come up when she is at home. " Towhich her husband vouchsafed no reply, but began a protracted waveringas to the advisability of leaving the steam on or turning it off for thenight, which was a cold one--a dilemma which, involving his personalwelfare or comfort at the moment, permitted no consideration of othermatters to share his mind. 

 * * * * *

Mrs. Carling had not spoken to her sister upon the subject. She thoughtthat that young woman, if she were not, as Mr. Carling said, "remarkablywell qualified to regulate her own affairs, " at least held the opinionthat she was, very strongly. 

The two were devotedly fond of each other, but Mrs. Carling was theelder by twenty years, and in her love was an element of maternalsolicitude to which her sister, while giving love for love in fullestmeasure, did not fully respond. The elder would have liked to shareevery thought, but she was neither so strong nor so clever as the girlto whom she had been almost as a mother, and who, though perfectlytruthful and frank when she was minded to express herself, gave, as arule, little satisfaction to attempts to explore her mind, and on somesubjects was capable of meeting such attempts with impatience, not tosay resentment--a fact of which her sister was quite aware. But as timewent on, and the frequency of John's visits and attentions grew into asettled habit, Mrs. Carling's uneasiness, with which perhaps was mingleda bit of curiosity, got the better of her reserve, and she determinedto get what satisfaction could be obtained for it. 

They were sitting in Mrs. Carling's room, which was over thedrawing-room in the front of the house. A fire of cannel blazed in thegrate. 

A furious storm was whirling outside. Mrs. Carling was occupied withsome sort of needlework, and her sister, with a writing pad on her lap, was composing a letter to a friend with whom she carried on a desultoryand rather one-sided correspondence. Presently she yawned slightly, and, putting down her pad, went over to the window and looked out. 

"What a day!" she exclaimed. "It seems to get worse and worse. Positively you can't see across the street. It's like a westernblizzard. "

"It is, really, " said Mrs. Carling; and then, moved by the current ofthought which had been passing in her mind of late, "I fancy we shallspend the evening by ourselves to-night. "

"That would not be so unusual as to be extraordinary, would it?" saidMary. 

"Wouldn't it?" suggested Mrs. Carling in a tone that was meant to beslightly quizzical. 

"We are by ourselves most evenings, are we not?" responded her sister, without turning around. "Why do you particularize to-night?"

"I was thinking, " answered Mrs. Carling, bending a little closer overher work, "that even Mr. Lenox would hardly venture out in such a stormunless it were absolutely necessary. "

"Oh, yes, to be sure, Mr. Lenox; very likely not, " was Miss Blake'scomment, in a tone of indifferent recollection. 

"He comes here very often, almost every night, in fact, " remarked Mrs. Carling, looking up sideways at her sister's back. 

"Now that you mention it, " said Mary dryly, "I have noticed something ofthe sort myself. "

"Do you think he ought to?" asked her sister, after a moment of silence. 

"Why not?" said the girl, turning to her questioner for the first time. "And why should I think he should or should not? Doesn't he come to seeJulius, and on Julius's invitation? I have never asked him--but once, "she said, flushing a little as she recalled the occasion and the wordingof the invitation. 

"Do you think, " returned Mrs. Carling, "that his visits are wholly onJulius's account, and that he would come so often if there were no otherinducement? You know, " she continued, pressing her point timidly butpersistently, "he always stays after we go upstairs if you are at home, and I have noticed that when you are out he always goes before our timefor retiring. "

"I should say, " was the rejoinder, "that that was very much the properthing. Whether or not he comes here too often is not for me to say--Ihave no opinion on the subject. But, to do him justice, he is about thelast man to wait for a tacit dismissal, or to cause you and Julius todepart from what he knows to be your regular habit out of politeness tohim. He is a person of too much delicacy and good breeding to staywhen--if--that is to say--" She turned again to the window withoutcompleting her sentence, and, though Mrs. Carling thought she couldcomplete it for her, she wisely forbore. After a moment of silence, Marysaid in a voice devoid of any traces of confusion:

"You asked me if I thought Mr. Lenox would come so often if there wereno object in his coming except to see Julius. I can only say that ifJulius were out of the question I think he would come here but seldom;but, " she added, as she left the window and resumed her seat, "I do notquite see the object of this discussion, and, indeed, I am not quitesure of what we are discussing. Do you object, " she asked, lookingcuriously at her sister and smiling slightly, "to Mr. Lenox's cominghere as he does, and if so, why?" This was apparently more direct thanMrs. Carling was quite prepared for. "And if you do, " Mary proceeded, "what is to be done about it? Am I to make him understand that it is notconsidered the proper thing? or will you? or shall we leave it toJulius?"

Mrs. Carling looked up into her sister's face, in which was a smile ofamused penetration, and looked down again in visible embarrassment. 

The young woman laughed as she shook her finger at her. 

"Oh, you transparent goose!" she cried. "What did he say?"

"What did who say?" was the evasive response. 

"Julius, " said Mary, putting her finger under her sister's chin andraising her face. "Tell me now. You've been talking with him, and Iinsist upon knowing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but thetruth. So there!"

"Well, " she admitted hesitatingly, "I said to him something like what Ihave to you, that it seemed to me that Mr. Lenox came very often, andthat I did not believe it was all on his account, and that he" (won'tsomebody please invent another pronoun?) "always stayed when you wereat home--"

"--and, " broke in her sister, "that you were afraid my young affectionswere being engaged, and that, after all, we didn't know much if anythingabout the young man, or, perhaps, that he was forming a hopelessattachment, and so on. "

"No, " said Mrs. Carling, "I didn't say that exactly. I--"

"Didn't you, really?" said Mary teasingly. "One ought to be explicit insuch cases, don't you think? Well, what did Julius say? Was he very muchconcerned?" Mrs. Carling's face colored faintly under her sister'sraillery, and she gave a little embarrassed laugh. 

"Come, now, " said the girl relentlessly, "what did he say?"

"Well, " answered Mrs. Carling, "I must admit that he said 'Pooh!' forone thing, and that you were your own mistress, and, so far as he hadseen, you were very well qualified to manage your own affairs. "

Her sister clapped her hands. "Such discrimination have I not seen, " sheexclaimed, "no, not in Israel! What else did he say?" she demanded, witha dramatic gesture. "Let us know the worst. "

Mrs. Carling laughed a little. "I don't remember, " she admitted, "thathe said anything more on the subject. He got into some perplexity aboutwhether the steam should be off or on, and after that question wassettled we went to bed. " Mary laughed outright. 

"So Julius doesn't think I need watching, " she said. 

"Mary, " protested her sister in a hurt tone, "you don't think I everdid or could watch you? I don't want to pry into your secrets, dear, "and she looked up with tears in her eyes. The girl dropped on her kneesbeside her sister and put her arms about her neck. 

"You precious old lamb!" she cried, "I know you don't. You couldn't pryinto anybody's secrets if you tried. You couldn't even try. But Ihaven't any, dear, and I'll tell you every one of them, and, rather thansee a tear in your dear eyes, I would tell John Lenox that I neverwanted to see him again; and I don't know what you have been thinking, but I haven't thought so at all" (which last assertion made even Mrs. Carling laugh), "and I know that I have been teasing and horrid, and ifyou won't put me in the closet I will be good and answer every questionlike a nice little girl. " Whereupon she gave her sister a kiss andresumed her seat with an air of abject penitence which lasted for aminute. Then she laughed again, though there was a watery gleam in herown eyes. Mrs. Carling gave her a look of great love and admiration. 

"I ought not to have brought up the subject, " she said, "knowing as I dohow you feel about such discussions, but I love you so much thatsometimes I can't help--"

"Alice, " exclaimed the girl, "please have the kindness to call me aselfish P--I--G. It will relieve my feelings. "

"But I do not think you are, " said Mrs. Carling literally. 

"But I am at times, " declared Mary, "and you deserve not only to have, but to be shown, all the love and confidence that I can give you. It'sonly this, that sometimes your solicitude makes you imagine things thatdo not exist, and you think I am withholding my confidence; and then, again, I am enough like other people that I don't always know exactlywhat I do think. Now, about this matter--"

"Don't say a word about it, dear, " her sister interrupted, "unless youwould rather than not. "

"I wish to, " said Mary. "Of course I am not oblivious of the fact thatMr. Lenox comes here very often, nor that he seems to like to stay andtalk with me, because, don't you know, if he didn't he could go when youdo, and I don't mind admitting that, as a general thing, I like to havehim stay; but, as I said to you, if it weren't for Julius he would notcome here very often. "

"Don't you think, " said Mrs. Carling, now on an assured footing, "thatif it were not for you he would not come so often?"

Perhaps Mary overestimated the attraction which her brother-in-law hadfor Mr. Lenox, and she smiled slightly as she thought that it was quitepossible. "I suppose, " she went on, with a little shrug of theshoulders, "that the proceeding is not strictly conventional, and thatthe absolutely correct thing would be for him to say good night when youand Julius do, and that there are those who would regard my permitting ayoung man in no way related to me to see me very often in the eveningwithout the protection of a duenna as a very unbecoming thing. "

"I never have had such a thought about it, " declared Mrs. Carling. 

"I never for a moment supposed you had, dear, " said Mary, "nor have I. We are rather unconventional people, making very few claims uponsociety, and upon whom 'society' makes very few. "

"I am rather sorry for that on your account, " said her sister. 

"You needn't be, " was the rejoinder. "I have no yearnings in thatdirection which are not satisfied with what I have. " She sat for aminute or two with her hands clasped upon her knee, gazing reflectivelyinto the fire, which, in the growing darkness of the winter afternoon, afforded almost the only light in the room. Presently she becameconscious that her sister was regarding her with an air of expectation, and resumed: "Leaving the question of the conventions out of thediscussion as settled, " she said, "there is nothing, Alice, that youneed have any concern about, either on Mr. Lenox's account or mine. "

"You like him, don't you?" asked Mrs. Carling. 

"Yes, " said Mary frankly, "I like him very much. We have enough incommon to be rather sympathetic, and we differ enough not to be dull, and so we get on very well. I never had a brother, " she continued, aftera momentary pause, "but I feel toward him as I fancy I should feeltoward a brother of about my own age, though he is five or six yearsolder than I am. "

"You don't think, then, " said Mrs. Carling timidly, "that you aregetting to care for him at all?"

"In the sense that you use the word, " was the reply, "not the least inthe world. If there were to come a time when I really believed I shouldnever see him again, I should be sorry; but if at any time it were aquestion of six months or a year, I do not think my equanimity would beparticularly disturbed. "

"And how about him?" suggested Mrs. Carling. There was no reply. 

"Don't you think he may care for you, or be getting to?"

Mary frowned slightly, half closing her eyes and stirring a littleuneasily in her chair. 

"He hasn't said anything to me on the subject, " she replied evasively. 

"Would that be necessary?" asked her sister. 

"Perhaps not, " was the reply, "if the fact were very obvious. "

"Isn't it?" persisted Mrs. Carling, with unusual tenacity. 

"Well, " said the girl, "to be quite frank with you, I have thought onceor twice that he entertained some such idea--that is--no, I don't meanto put it just that way. I mean that once or twice something hasoccurred to give me that idea. That isn't very coherent, is it? But evenif it be so, " she went on after a moment, with a wave of her hands, "what of it? What does it signify? And if it does signify, what can I doabout it?"

"You have thought about it, then?" said her sister. 

"As much as I have told you, " she answered. "I am not a very sentimentalperson, I think, and not very much on the lookout for such things, but Iknow there is such a thing as a man's taking a fancy to a young womanunder circumstances which bring them often together, and I have been ledto believe that it isn't necessarily fatal to the man even if nothingcomes of it. But be that as it may, " she said with a shrug of hershoulders, "what can I do about it? I can't say to Mr. Lenox, 'I thinkyou ought not to come here so much, ' unless I give a reason for it, andI think we have come to the conclusion that there is no reason exceptthe danger--to put it in so many words--of his falling in love with me. I couldn't quite say that to him, could I?"

"No, I suppose not, " acquiesced Mrs. Carling faintly. 

"No, I should say not, " remarked the girl. "If he were to say anythingto me in the way of--declaration is the word, isn't it?--it would beanother matter. But there is no danger of that. "

"Why not, if he is fond of you?" asked her sister. 

"Because, " said Mary, with an emphatic nod, "I won't let him, " whichassertion was rather weakened by her adding, "and he wouldn't, if Iwould. "

"I don't understand, " said her sister. 

"Well, " said Mary, "I don't pretend to know all that goes on in hismind; but allowing, or rather conjecturing, that he does care for me inthe way you mean, I haven't the least fear of his telling me so, and oneof the reasons is this, that he is wholly dependent upon his father, with no other prospect for years to come. "

"I had the idea somehow, " said Mrs. Carling, "that his father was verywell-to-do. The young man gives one the impression of a person who hasalways had everything that he wanted. "

"I think that is so, " said Mary, "but he told me one day, coming over onthe steamer, that he knew nothing whatever of his own prospects or hisfather's affairs. I don't remember--at least, it doesn't matter--how hecame to say as much, but he did, and afterward gave me a whimsicalcatalogue of his acquirements and accomplishments, remarking, Iremember, that 'there was not a dollar in the whole list'; and lately, though you must not fancy that he discusses his own affairs with me, hehas now and then said something to make me guess that he was somewhattroubled about them. "

"Is he doing anything?" asked Mrs. Carling. 

"He told me the first evening he called here, " said Mary, "that he wasstudying law, at his father's suggestion; but I don't remember the nameof the firm in whose office he is. "

"Why doesn't he ask his father about his prospects?" said Mrs. Carling. 

Mary laughed. "You seem to be so much more interested in the matter thanI am, " she said, "why don't you ask him yourself?" To whichunjustifiable rejoinder her sister made no reply. 

"I don't see why he shouldn't, " she remarked. 

"I think I understand, " said Mary. "I fancy from what he has told methat his father is a singularly reticent man, but one in whom his sonhas always had the most implicit confidence. I imagine, too, that untilrecently, at any rate, he has taken it for granted that his father waswealthy. He has not confided any misgivings to me, but if he has any heis just the sort of person not to ask, and certainly not to press aquestion with his father. "

"It would seem like carrying delicacy almost too far, " remarked Mrs. Carling. 

"Perhaps it would, " said her sister, "but I think I can understand andsympathize with it. "

Mrs. Carling broke the silence which followed for a moment or two as ifshe were thinking aloud. "You have plenty of money, " she said, andcolored at her inadvertence. Her sister looked at her for an instantwith a humorous smile, and then, as she rose and touched the bellbutton, said, "That's another reason. "

CHAPTER X. 

I think it should hardly be imputed to John as a fault or a shortcomingthat he did not for a long time realize his father's failing powers. True, as has been stated, he had noted some changes in appearance on hisreturn, but they were not great enough to be startling, and, though hethought at times that his father's manner was more subdued than he hadever known it to be, nothing really occurred to arouse his suspicion oranxiety. After a few days the two men appeared to drop into theiraccustomed relation and routine, meeting in the morning and at dinner;but as John picked up the threads of his acquaintance he usually wentout after dinner, and even when he did not his father went early to hisown apartment. 

From John's childhood he had been much of the time away from home, andthere had never, partly from that circumstance and partly from the olderman's natural and habitual reserve, been very much intimacy betweenthem. The father did not give his own confidence, and, while always kindand sympathetic when appealed to, did not ask his son's; and, loving hisfather well and loyally, and trusting him implicitly, it did not occurto John to feel that there was anything wanting in the relation. It wasas it had always been. He was accustomed to accept what his father didor said without question, and, as is very often the case, had alwaysregarded him as an old man. He had never felt that they could be in thesame equation. In truth, save for their mutual affection, they hadlittle in common; and if, as may have been the case, his father had anycravings for a closer and more intimate relation, he made no sign, acquiescing in his son's actions as the son did in his, without questionor suggestion. They did not know each other, and such cases are notrare, more is the pity. 

But as time went on even John's unwatchful eye could not fail to noticethat all was not well with his father. Haggard lines were multiplying inthe quiet face, and the silence at the dinner table was often unbrokenexcept by John's unfruitful efforts to keep some sort of a conversationin motion. More and more frequently it occurred that his father wouldretire to his own room immediately after dinner was over, and the foodon his plate would be almost untouched, while he took more wine than hadever been his habit. John, retiring late, would often hear him stirringuneasily in his room, and it would be plain in the morning that he hadspent a wakeful, if not a sleepless, night. Once or twice on such amorning John had suggested to his father that he should not go down tothe office, and the suggestion had been met with so irritable a negativeas to excite his wonder. 

 * * * * *

It was a day in the latter part of March. The winter had been unusuallysevere, and lingered into spring with a heart-sickening tenacity, occasional hints of clemency and promise being followed by recurrenceswhich were as irritating as a personal affront. 

John had held to his work in the office, if not with positiveenthusiasm, at least with industry, and thought that he had made someprogress. On the day in question the managing clerk commented brieflybut favorably on something of his which was satisfactory, and, suchexperiences being rare, he was conscious of a feeling of mild elation. He was also cherishing the anticipation of a call at Sixty-ninth Street, where, for reasons unnecessary to recount, he had not been for a week. At dinner that night his father seemed more inclined than for a longtime to keep up a conversation which, though of no special import, wascheerful in comparison with the silence which had grown to be almost therule, and the two men sat for a while over the coffee and cigars. Presently, however, the elder rose from the table, saying pleasantly, "Isuppose you are going out to-night. "

"Not if you'd like me to stay in, " was the reply. "I have no definiteengagement. "

"Oh, no, " said Mr. Lenox, "not at all, not at all, " and as he passed hisson on the way out of the room he put out his hand and taking John's, said, "Good night. "

As John stood for a moment rather taken aback, he heard his father mountthe stairs to his room. He was puzzled by the unexpected and unusualoccurrence, but finally concluded that his father, realizing howtaciturn they had become of late, wished to resume their former status, and this view was confirmed to his mind by the fact that they had beenmore companionable than usual that evening, albeit that nothing of anyspecial significance had been said. 

As has been stated, a longer interval than usual had elapsed sinceJohn's last visit to Sixty-ninth Street, a fact which had been commentedon by Mr. Carling, but not mentioned between the ladies. When he foundhimself at that hospitable house on that evening, he was greeted by MissBlake alone. 

"Julius did not come down to-night, and my sister is with him, " shesaid, "so you will have to put up with my society--unless you'd like meto send up for Alice. Julius is strictly _en retraite_, I should say. "

"Don't disturb her, I beg, " protested John, laughing, and wondering abit at the touch of coquetry in her speech, something unprecedented inhis experience of her, "if you are willing to put up with my society. Ihope Mr. Carling is not ill?"

They seated themselves as she replied: "No, nothing serious, I shouldsay. A bit of a cold, I fancy; and for a fortnight he has been morenervous than usual. The changes in the weather have been so great and soabrupt that they have worn upon his nerves. He is getting very uneasyagain. Now, after spending the winter, and when spring is almost athand, I believe that if he could make up his mind where to go he wouldbe for setting off to-morrow. "

"Really?" said John, in a tone of dismay. 

"Quite so, " she replied with a nod. 

"But, " he objected, "it seems too late or too early. Spring may drop inupon us any day. Isn't this something very recent?"

"It has been developing for a week or ten days, " she answered, "andsymptoms have indicated a crisis for some time. In fact, " she added, with a little vexed laugh, "we have talked of nothing for a week but theadvantages and disadvantages of Florida, California, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Virginia at large; besides St. Augustine, Monterey, Santa Barbara, Aiken, Asheville, Hot Springs, Old Point Comfort, Bermuda, and I don't know how many other places, not forgetting AtlanticCity and Lakewood, and only not Barbadoes and the Sandwich Islandsbecause nobody happened to think of them. Julius, " remarked Miss Blake, "would have given a forenoon to the discussion of the two latter placesas readily as to any of the others. "

"Can't you talk him along into warm weather?" suggested John, withrather a mirthless laugh. "Don't you think that if the weather were tochange for good, as it's likely to do almost any time now, he might putoff going till the usual summer flitting?"

"The change in his mind will have to come pretty soon if I am to retainmy mental faculties, " she declared. "He might possibly, but I am afraidnot, " she said, shaking her head. "He has the idea fixed in his mind, and considerations of the weather here, while they got him started, arenot now so much the question. He has the moving fever, and I am afraidit will have to run its course. I think, " she said, after a moment, "that if I were to formulate a special anathema, it would be, 'Maytraveling seize you!'"

"Or restlessness, " suggested John. 

"Yes, " she said, "that's more accurate, perhaps, but it doesn't soundquite so smart. Julius is in that state of mind when the only place thatseems desirable is somewhere else. "

"Of course you will have to go, " said John mournfully. 

"Oh, yes, " she replied, with an air of compulsory resignation. "I shallnot only have to go, of course, but I shall probably have to decidewhere in order to save my mind. But it will certainly be somewhere, so Imight as well be packing my trunks. "

"And you will be away indefinitely, I suppose?"

"Yes, I imagine so. "

"Dear me!" John ejaculated in a dismal tone. 

They were sitting as described on a former occasion, and the young womanwas engaged upon the second (perhaps the third, or even the fourth) ofthe set of doilies to which she had committed herself. She took somestitches with a composed air, without responding to her companion'sexclamation. 

"I'm awfully sorry, " he said presently, leaning forward with his elbowson his knees, his hands hanging in an attitude of unmistakabledejection, and staring fixedly into the fire. 

"I am very sorry myself, " she said, bending her head a little closerover her work. "I think I like being in New York in the spring betterthan at any other time; and I don't at all fancy the idea of living inmy trunks again for an indefinite period. "

"I shall miss you horribly, " he said, turning his face toward her. 

Her eyes opened with a lift of the brows, but whether the surprise soindicated was quite genuine is a matter for conjecture. 

"Yes, " he declared desperately, "I shall, indeed. "

"I should fancy you must have plenty of other friends, " she said, flushing a little, "and I have wondered sometimes whether Julius'sdemands upon you were not more confident than warrantable, and whetheryou wouldn't often rather have gone elsewhere than to come here to playcards with him. " She actually said this as if she meant it. 

"Do you suppose--" he exclaimed, and checked himself. "No, " he said, "Ihave come because--well, I've been only too glad to come, and--I supposeit has got to be a habit, " he added, rather lamely. "You see, I've neverknown any people in the way I have known you. It has seemed to me morelike home life than anything I've ever known. There has never been anyone but my father and I, and you can have no idea what it has been to meto be allowed to come here as I have, and--oh, you must know--" Hehesitated, and instantly she advanced her point. 

Her face was rather white, and the hand which lay upon the work in herlap trembled a little, while she clasped the arm of the chair with theother; but she broke in upon his hesitation with an even voice:

"It has been very pleasant for us all, I'm sure, " she said, "and, frankly, I'm sorry that it must be interrupted for a while, but that isabout all there is of it, isn't it? We shall probably be back not laterthan October, I should say, and then you can renew your contests withJulius and your controversies with me. "

Her tone and what she said recalled to him their last night on board theship, but there was no relenting on this occasion. He realized that fora moment he had been on the verge of telling the girl that he loved her, and he realized, too, that she had divined his impulse and prevented thedisclosure; but he registered a vow that he would know before he saw heragain whether he might consistently tell her his love, and win or loseupon the touch. 

Miss Blake made several inaccurate efforts to introduce her needle atthe exact point desired, and when that endeavor was accomplished brokethe silence by saying, "Speaking of 'October, ' have you read the novel?I think it is charming. "

"Yes, " said John, with his vow in his mind, but not sorry for thediversion, "and I enjoyed it very much. I thought it was immenselyclever, but I confess that I didn't quite sympathize with the loveaffairs of a hero who was past forty, and I must also confess that Ithought the girl was, well--to put it in plain English--a fool. "

Mary laughed, with a little quaver in her voice. "Do you know, " shesaid, "that sometimes it seems to me that I am older than you are?"

"I know you're awfully wise, " said John with a laugh, and from thattheir talk drifted off into the safer channels of their usualintercourse until he rose to say good night. 

"Of course, we shall see you again before we go, " she said as she gavehim her hand. 

"Oh, " he declared, "I intend regularly to haunt the place. "

CHAPTER XI. 

When John came down the next morning his father, who was, as a rule, themost punctual of men, had not appeared. He opened the paper and sat downto wait. Ten minutes passed, fifteen, twenty. He rang the bell. "Haveyou heard my father this morning?" he said to Jeffrey, remembering forthe first time that he himself had not. 

"No, sir, " said the man. "He most generally coughs a little in themorning, but I don't think I heard him this morning, sir. "

"Go up and see why he doesn't come down, " said John, and a moment laterhe followed the servant upstairs, to find him standing at the chamberdoor with a frightened face. 

"He must be very sound asleep, sir, " said Jeffrey. "He hasn't answeredto my knockin' or callin', sir. " John tried the door. He found the chainbolt on, and it opened but a few inches. "Father!" he called, and thenagain, louder. He turned almost unconsciously to Jeffrey, and found hisown apprehensions reflected in the man's face. "We must break in thedoor, " he said. "Now, together!" and the bolt gave way. 

His father lay as if asleep. "Go for the doctor at once! Bring him backwith you. Run!" he cried to the servant. Custom and instinct said, "Send for the doctor, " but he knew in his heart that no ministrationswould ever reach the still figure on the bed, upon which, for themoment, he could not look. It was but a few minutes (how long suchminutes are!) before the doctor came--Doctor Willis, who had broughtJohn into the world, and had been a lifelong friend of both father andson. He went swiftly to the bed without speaking, and made a briefexamination, while John watched him with fascinated eyes; and as thedoctor finished, the son dropped on his knees by the bed, and buried hisface in it. The doctor crossed the room to Jeffrey, who was standing inthe door with an awe-stricken face, and in a low voice gave him somedirections. Then, as the man departed, he first glanced at the kneelingfigure and then looked searchingly about the room. Presently he wentover to the grate in which were the ashes of an extinct fire, and, taking the poker, pressed down among them and covered over a three orfour ounce vial. He had found what he was looking for. 

 * * * * *

There is no need to speak of the happenings of the next few days, nor isit necessary to touch at any length upon the history of some of theweeks and months which ensued upon this crisis in John Lenox's life, atime when it seemed to him that everything he had ever cared for hadbeen taken. And yet, with that unreason which may perhaps be more easilyunderstood than accounted for, the one thing upon which his mind mostoften dwelt was that he had had no answer to his note to Mary Blake. Weknow what happened to her missive. It turned up long afterward in thepocket of Master Jacky Carling's overcoat; so long afterward that John, so far as Mary was concerned, had disappeared altogether. The discoveryof Jacky's dereliction explained to her, in part at least, why she hadnever seen him or heard from him after that last evening at Sixty-ninthStreet. The Carlings went away some ten days later, and she did, infact, send another note to his house address, asking him to see thembefore their departure; but John had considered himself fortunate ingetting the house off his hands to a tenant who would assume the leaseif given possession at once, and had gone into the modest apartmentwhich he occupied during the rest of his life in the city, and so thesecond communication failed to reach him. Perhaps it was as well. Someweeks later he walked up to the Carlings' house one Sunday afternoon, and saw that it was closed, as he had expected. By an impulse which wasnot part of his original intention--which was, indeed, pretty nearlyaimless--he was moved to ring the doorbell; but the maid, a stranger tohim, who opened the door could tell him nothing of the family'swhereabouts, and Mr. Betts (the house man in charge) was "hout. " So Johnretraced his steps with a feeling of disappointment whollydisproportionate to his hopes or expectations so far as he had definedthem to himself, and never went back again. 

 * * * * *

He has never had much to say of the months that followed. 

It came to be the last of October. An errand from the office had senthim to General Wolsey, of the Mutual Trust Company, of whom mention hasbeen made by David Harum. The general was an old friend of the elderLenox, and knew John well and kindly. When the latter had discharged hiserrand and was about to go, the general said: "Wait a minute. Are you ina hurry? If not, I want to have a little talk with you. "

"Not specially, " said John. 

"Sit down, " said the general, pointing to a chair. "What are your plans?I see you are still in the Careys' office, but from what you told melast summer I conclude that you are there because you have not foundanything more satisfactory. "

"That is the case, sir, " John replied. "I can't be idle, but I don't seehow I can keep on as I am going now, and I have been trying for monthsto find something by which I can earn a living. I am afraid, " he added, "that it will be a longer time than I can afford to wait before I shallbe able to do that out of the law. "

"If you don't mind my asking, " said the general, "what are yourresources? I don't think you told me more than to give me to understandthat your father's affairs were at a pretty low ebb. Of course, I do notwish to pry into your affairs--"

"Not at all, " John interposed; "I am glad to tell you, and thank you foryour interest. I have about two thousand dollars, and there is somesilver and odds and ends of things stored. I don't know what their valuemight be--not very much, I fancy--and there were a lot of mining stocksand that sort of thing which have no value so far as I can find out--noavailable value, at any rate. There is also a tract of half-wild landsomewhere in Pennsylvania. There is coal on it, I believe, and sometimber; but Melig, my father's manager, told me that all the largetimber had been cut. So far as available value is concerned, theproperty is about as much of an asset as the mining stock, with thedisadvantage that I have to pay taxes on it. "

"H'm, " said the general, tapping the desk with his eyeglasses. "H'm--well, I should think if you lived very economically you would haveabout enough to carry you through till you can be admitted, provided youfeel that the law is your vocation, " he added, looking up. 

"It was my father's idea, " said John, "and if I were so situated that Icould go on with it, I would. But I am so doubtful with regard to myaptitude that I don't feel as if I ought to use up what little capital Ihave, and some years of time, on a doubtful experiment, and so I havebeen looking for something else to do. "

"Well, " said the general, "if you were very much interested--that is, ifyou were anxious to proceed with your studies--I should advise you to goon, and at a pinch I should be willing to help you out; but, feeling asyou do, I hardly know what to advise. I was thinking of you, " he wenton, "before you came in, and was intending to send for you to come in tosee me. " He took a letter from his desk. 

"I got this yesterday, " he said. "It is from an old acquaintance of mineby the name of Harum, who lives in Homeville, Freeland County. He is asort of a banker there, and has written me to recommend some one to takethe place of his manager or cashier whom he is sending away. It's rathera queer move, I think, but then, " said the general with a smile, "Harumis a queer customer in some ways of his own. There is his letter. Readit for yourself. "

The letter stated that Mr. Harum had had some trouble with his cashierand wished to replace him, and that he would prefer some one from out ofthe village who wouldn't know every man, woman, and child in the wholeregion, and "blab everything right and left. " "I should want, " wrote Mr. Harum, "to have the young man know something about bookkeeping and soon, but I should not insist upon his having been through a trainer'shands. In fact, I would rather break him in myself, and if he's willingand sound and no vice, I can get him into shape. I will pay a thousandto start on, and if he draws and travels all right, may be better in thelong run, " etc. John handed back the letter with a slight smile, whichwas reflected in the face of the general. "What do you think of it?"asked the latter. 

"I should think it might be very characteristic, " remarked John. 

"Yes, " said the general, "it is, to an extent. You see he writes prettyfair English, and he can, on occasion, talk as he writes, but usually, either from habit or choice, he uses the most unmitigated dialect. Butwhat I meant to ask you was, what do you think of the proposal?"

"You mean as an opportunity for _me_?" asked John. 

"Yes, " said General Wolsey, "I thought of you at once. "

"Thank you very much, " said John. "What would be your idea?"

"Well, " was the reply, "I am inclined to think I should write to him ifI were you, and I will write to him about you if you so decide. You havehad some office experience, you told me--enough, I should say, for afoundation, and I don't believe that Harum's books and accounts are verycomplicated. "

John did not speak, and the general went on: "Of course, it will be agreat change from almost everything you have been used to, and I daresay that you may find the life, at first at least, pretty dull andirksome. The stipend is not very large, but it is large for the country, where your expenses will be light. In fact, I'm rather surprised at hisoffering so much. At any rate, it is a living for the present, and maylead to something better. The place is a growing one, and, more thanthat, Harum is well off, and keeps more irons in the fire than one, andif you get on with him you may do well. "

"I don't think I should mind the change so much, " said John, rathersadly. "My present life is so different in almost every way from what itused to be, and I think I feel it in New York more even than I might ina country village; but the venture seems a little like burning mybridges. "

"Well, " replied the general, "if the experiment should turn out afailure for any reason, you won't be very much more at a loss than atpresent, it seems to me, and, of course, I will do anything I can shouldyou wish me to be still on the lookout for you here. "

"You are exceedingly kind, sir, " said John earnestly, and then wassilent for a moment or two. "I will make the venture, " he said atlength, "and thank you very much. "

"You are under no special obligations to the Careys, are you?" asked thegeneral. 

"No, I think not, " said John with a laugh. "I fancy that their businesswill go on without me, after a fashion, " and he took his leave. 

CHAPTER XII. 

And so it came about that certain letters were written as mentioned in aprevious chapter, and in the evening of a dripping day early in NovemberJohn Lenox found himself, after a nine hours' journey, the only travelerwho alighted upon the platform of the Homeville station, which was nearthe end of a small lake and about a mile from the village. As he stoodwith his bag and umbrella, at a loss what to do, he was accosted by ashort and stubby individual with very black eyes and hair and a roundface, which would have been smooth except that it had not been shavedfor a day or two. "Goin' t' the village?" he said. 

"Yes, " said John, "that is my intention, but I don't see any way ofgetting there. "

"Carry ye over fer ten cents, " said the man. "Carryall's right back thedeepo. Got 'ny baggidge?"

"Two trunks, " said John. 

"That'll make it thirty cents, " said the native. "Where's your checks?All right; you c'n jest step 'round an' git in. Mine's the only rig thatdrew over to-night. "

It was a long clumsy affair, with windows at each end and a door in therear, but open at the sides except for enamel cloth curtains, whichwere buttoned to the supports that carried a railed roof extending asfar forward as the dashboard. The driver's seat was on a level withthose inside. John took a seat by one of the front windows, which wasopen but protected by the roof. 

His luggage having been put on board, they began the journey at a walk, the first part of the road being rough and swampy in places, andundergoing at intervals the sort of repairs which often prevails inrural regions--namely, the deposit of a quantity of broken stone, whichis left to be worn smooth by passing vehicles, and is for the most partcarefully avoided by such whenever the roadway is broad enough to driveround the improvement. But the worst of the way having beenaccomplished, the driver took opportunity, speaking sideways over hisshoulder, to allay the curiosity which burned within him, "Guess I neverseen you before. " John was tired and hungry, and generally low in hismind. 

"Very likely not, " was his answer. Mr. Robinson instantly arrived at thedetermination that the stranger was "stuck up, " but was in no degreecast down thereby. 

"I heard Chet Timson tellin' that the' was a feller comin' f'm N'York towork in Dave Harum's bank. Guess you're him, ain't ye?"

No answer this time: theory confirmed. 

"My name's Robinson, " imparted that individual. "I run the prince'pleliv'ry to Homeville. "

"Ah!" responded the passenger. 

"What d'you say your name was?" asked Mr. Robinson, after he had steeredhis team around one of the monuments to public spirit. 

"It's Lenox, " said John, thinking he might concede something to suchdeserving perseverance, "but I don't remember mentioning it. "

"Now I think on't, I guess you didn't, " admitted Mr. Robinson. "Don'tthink I ever knowed anybody of the name, " he remarked. "Used to knowsome folks name o' Lynch, but they couldn't 'a' ben no relations o'your'n, I guess. " This conjecture elicited no reply. 

"Git up, goll darn ye!" he exclaimed, as one of the horses stumbled, andhe gave it a jerk and a cut of the whip. "Bought that hoss of DaveHarum, " he confided to his passenger. "Fact, I bought both on 'em ofhim, an' dum well stuck I was, too, " he added. 

"You know Mr. Harum, then, " said John, with a glimmer of interest. "Doeshe deal in horses?"

"Wa'al, I guess I make eout to know him, " asserted the "prince'pleliv'ryman, " "an' he'll git up 'n the middle o' the night any time to gitthe best of a hoss trade. Be you goin' to work fer him?" he asked, encouraged to press the question. "Goin' to take Timson's place?"

"Really, " said John, in a tone which advanced Mr. Robinson's opinion toa rooted conviction, "I have never heard of Mr. Timson. "

"He's the feller that Dave's lettin' go, " explained Mr. Robinson. "He'sben in the bank a matter o' five or six year, but Dave got down on himfer some little thing or other, an' he's got his walkin' papers. He saysto me, says he, 'If any feller thinks he c'n come up here f'm N'York oranywheres else, he says, 'an' do Dave Harum's work to suit him, he'llfind he's bit off a dum sight more'n he c'n chaw. He'd better keep hisgripsack packed the hull time, ' Chet says. "

"I thought I'd sock it to the cuss a little, " remarked Mr. Robinson inrecounting the conversation subsequently; and, in truth, it was notelevating to the spirits of our friend, who found himself speculatingwhether or no Timson might not be right. 

"Where you goin' to put up?" asked Mr. Robinson after an interval, having failed to draw out any response to his last effort. 

"Is there more than one hotel?" inquired the passenger. 

"The's the Eagle, an' the Lake House, an' Smith's Hotel, " replied Jehu. 

"Which would you recommend?" asked John. 

"Wa'al, " said Robinson, "I don't gen'ally praise up one more'n another. You see, I have more or less dealin' with all on 'em. "

"That's very diplomatic of you, I'm sure, " remarked John, not at alldiplomatically. "I think I will try the Eagle. "

Mr. Robinson, in his account of the conversation, said inconfidence--not wishing to be openly invidious--that "he was dum'd if hewa'n't almost sorry he hadn't recommended the Lake House. "

It may be inferred from the foregoing that the first impression whichour friend made on his arrival was not wholly in his favor, and Mr. Robinson's conviction that he was "stuck up, " and a person bound to gethimself "gen'ally disliked, " was elevated to an article of faith by hisretiring to the rear of the vehicle, and quite out of ordinary range. But they were nearly at their journey's end, and presently the carryalldrew up at the Eagle Hotel. 

It was a frame building of three stories, with a covered veranda runningthe length of the front, from which two doors gave entrance--one to themain hall, the other to the office and bar combined. This was rather alarge room, and was also to be entered from the main hall. 

John's luggage was deposited, Mr. Robinson was settled with, and tookhis departure without the amenities which might have prevailed underdifferent conditions, and the new arrival made his way into the office. 

Behind the bar counter, which faced the street, at one end of which wasa small high desk and at the other a glazed case containing three orfour partly full boxes of forlorn-looking cigars, but with mostambitious labels, stood the proprietor, manager, clerk, and what not ofthe hostelry, embodied in the single person of Mr. Amos Elright, who wasleaning over the counter in conversation with three or four loungers whosat about the room with their chairs tipped back against the wall. 

A sketch of Mr. Elright would have depicted a dull "complected" personof a tousled baldness, whose dispirited expression of countenance wasenhanced by a chin whisker. His shirt and collar gave unmistakableevidence that pajamas or other night-gear were regarded assuperfluities, and his most conspicuous garment as he appeared behindthe counter was a cardigan jacket of a frowsiness beyond compare. Agreasy neck scarf was embellished with a gem whose truthfulness waswithout pretence. The atmosphere of the room was accounted for by aremark which was made by one of the loungers as John came in. "Say, Ame, " the fellow drawled, "I guess the' was more skunk cabbidge 'n pieplant 'n usual 'n that last lot o' cigars o' your'n, wa'n't the'?" towhich insinuation "Ame" was spared the necessity of a rejoinder by ourfriend's advent. 

"Wa'al, guess we c'n give ye a room. Oh, yes, you c'n register if youwant to. Where is the dum thing? I seen it last week somewhere. Oh, yes, " producing a thin book ruled for accounts from under the counter, "we don't alwus use it, " he remarked--which was obvious, seeing that thelast entry was a month old. 

John concluded that it was a useless formality. "I should like somethingto eat, " he said, "and desire to go to my room while it is beingprepared; and can you send my luggage up now?"

"Wa'al, " said Mr. Elright, looking at the clock, which showed the hourof half-past nine, and rubbing his chin perplexedly, "supper's bencleared off some time ago. "

"I don't want very much, " said John; "just a bit of steak, and somestewed potatoes, and a couple of boiled eggs, and some coffee. " He mighthave heard the sound of a slap in the direction of one of the sitters. 

"I'm 'fraid I can't 'commodate ye fur's the steak an' things goes, "confessed the landlord. "We don't do much cookin' after dinner, an' Ireckon the fire's out anyway. P'r'aps, " he added doubtfully, "I c'd huntye up a piece o' pie 'n some doughnuts, or somethin' like that. "

He took a key, to which was attached a huge brass tag with serratededges, from a hook on a board behind the bar--on which were suspended anumber of the like--lighted a small kerosene lamp, carrying a singlewick, and, shuffling out from behind the counter, said, "Say, Bill, can't you an' Dick carry the gentleman's trunks up to 'thirteen?'" and, as they assented, he gave the lamp and key to one of them and left theroom. The two men took a trunk at either end and mounted the stairs, John following, and when the second one came up he put his fingers intohis waistcoat pocket suggestively. 

"No, " said the one addressed as Dick, "that's all right. We done it tooblige Ame. "

"I'm very much obliged to you, though, " said John. 

"Oh, that's all right, " remarked Dick as they turned away. 

John surveyed the apartment. There were two small-paned windowsoverlooking the street, curtained with bright "Turkey-red" cotton; nearto one of them a small wood stove and a wood box, containing some oddsand ends of sticks and bits of bark; a small chest of drawers, servingas a washstand; a malicious little looking-glass; a basin and ewer, holding about two quarts; an earthenware mug and soap-dish, the lattercontaining a thin bit of red translucent soap scented with sassafras; anordinary wooden chair and a rocking-chair with rockers of divergentaims; a yellow wooden bedstead furnished with a mattress of "excelsior"(calculated to induce early rising), a dingy white spread, a grayblanket of coarse wool, a pair of cotton sheets which had too obviouslydone duty since passing through the hands of the laundress, and a pairof flabby little pillows in the same state, in respect to their cases, as the sheets. On the floor was a much used and faded ingrain carpet, inone place worn through by the edge of a loose board. A narrow strip ofunpainted pine nailed to the wall carried six or seven wooden pegs toserve as wardrobe. Two diminutive towels with red borders hung on therail of the washstand, and a battered tin slop jar, minus a cover, completed the inventory. 

"Heavens, what a hole!" exclaimed John, and as he performed hisablutions (not with the sassafras soap) he promised himself a speedyflitting. There came a knock at the door, and his host appeared toannounce that his "tea" was ready, and to conduct him to thedining-room--a good-sized apartment, but narrow, with a long tablerunning near the center lengthwise, covered with a cloth which bore themarks of many a fray. Another table of like dimensions, but bare, wasshoved up against the wall. Mr. Elright's ravagement of the larder hadresulted in a triangle of cadaverous apple pie, three doughnuts, somechunks of soft white cheese, and a plate of what are known as oystercrackers. 

"I couldn't git ye no tea, " he said. "The hired girls both gone out, an'my wife's gone to bed, an' the' wa'n't no fire anyway. "

"I suppose I could have some beer, " suggested John, looking dubiously atthe banquet. 

"We don't keep no ale, " said the proprietor of the Eagle, "an' I guesswe're out o' lawger. I ben intendin' to git some more, " he added. 

"A glass of milk?" proposed the guest, but without confidence. 

"Milkman didn't come to-night, " said Mr. Elright, shuffling off in hiscarpet slippers, worn out in spirit with the importunities of thestranger. There was water on the table, for it had been left there fromsupper time. John managed to consume a doughnut and some crackers andcheese, and then went to his room, carrying the water pitcher with him, and, after a cigarette or two and a small potation from his flask, tobed. Before retiring, however, he stripped the bed with the intention ofturning the sheets, but upon inspection thought better of it, andconcluded to leave them as they were. So passed his first night inHomeville, and, as he fondly promised himself, his last at the EagleHotel. 

When Bill and Dick returned to the office after "obligin' Ame, " theystepped with one accord to the counter and looked at the register. "Why, darn it, " exclaimed Bill, "he didn't sign his name, after all. "

"No, " said Dick, "but I c'n give a putty near guess who he is, all thesame. "

"Some drummer?" suggested Bill. 

"Naw, " said Richard scornfully. "What 'd a drummer be doin' here thistime o' year? That's the feller that's ousted Chet Timson, an' I'll betye the drinks on't. Name's Linx or Lenx, or somethin' like that. Davetold me. "

"So that's the feller, is it?" said Bill. "I guess he won't stay 'roundhere long. I guess you'll find he's a little too toney fer these parts, an' in pertic'ler fer Dave Harum. Dave'll make him feel 'bout ascomf'table as a rooster in a pond. Lord, " he exclaimed, slapping his legwith a guffaw, "'d you notice Ame's face when he said he didn't wantmuch fer supper, only beefsteak, an' eggs, an' tea, an' coffee, an' afew little things like that? I thought I'd split. "

"Yes, " said Dick, laughing, "I guess the' ain't nothin' the matter withAme's heart, or he'd 'a' fell down dead. --Hullo, Ame!" he said when thegentleman in question came back after ministering to his guest, "got thePrince o' Wales fixed up all right? Did ye cut that pickled el'phantthat come last week?"

"Huh!" grunted Amos, whose sensibilities had been wounded by the eventsof the evening, "I didn't cut no el'phant ner no cow, ner rob no henroost neither, but I guess he won't starve 'fore mornin', " and with thathe proceeded to fill up the stove and shut the dampers. 

"That means 'git, ' I reckon, " remarked Bill as he watched the operation. 

"Wa'al, " said Mr. Elright, "if you fellers think you've spent enoughtime droolin' 'round here swapping lies, I think _I'll_ go to bed, "which inhospitable and injurious remark was by no means taken in badpart, for Dick said, with a laugh:

"Well, Ame, if you'll let me run my face for 'em, Bill 'n I'll take alittle somethin' for the good o' the house before we shed the partin'tear. " This proposition was not declined by Mr. Elright, but he feltbound on business principles not to yield with too great a show ofreadiness. 

"Wa'al, I don't mind for this once, " he said, going behind the bar andsetting out a bottle and glasses, "but I've gen'ally noticed that it's adamn sight easier to git somethin' _into_ you fellers 'n 't is to gitanythin' _out_ of ye. "

CHAPTER XIII. 

The next morning at nine o'clock John presented himself at Mr. Harum'sbanking office, which occupied the first floor of a brick building sometwenty or twenty-five feet in width. Besides the entrance to the bank, there was a door at the south corner opening upon a stairway leading toa suite of two rooms on the second floor. 

The banking office consisted of two rooms--one in front, containing thedesks and counters, and what may be designated as the "parlor" (as usedto be the case in the provincial towns) in the rear, in which were Mr. Harum's private desk, a safe of medium size, the necessary assortment ofchairs, and a lounge. There was also a large Franklin stove. 

The parlor was separated from the front room by a partition, in whichwere two doors, one leading into the inclosed space behind the desks andcounters, and the other into the passageway formed by the north wall anda length of high desk, topped by a railing. The teller's or cashier'scounter faced the street opposite the entrance door. At the left of thiscounter (viewed from the front) was a high-standing desk, with a rail. At the right was a glass-inclosed space of counter of the same height asthat portion which was open, across which latter the business of payingand receiving was conducted. 

As John entered he saw standing behind this open counter, framed, as itwere, between the desk on the one hand, and the glass inclosure on theother, a person whom he conjectured to be the "Chet" (short for Chester)Timson of whom he had heard. This person nodded in response to ourfriend's "Good morning, " and anticipated his inquiry by saying:

"You lookin' for Dave?"

"I am looking for Mr. Harum, " said John. "Is he in the office?"

"He hain't come in yet, " was the reply. "Up to the barn, I reckon, buthe's liable to come in any minute, an' you c'n step into the back rooman' wait fer him, " indicating the direction with a wave of his hand. 

Business had not begun to be engrossing, though the bank was open, andJohn had hardly seated himself when Timson came into the back room and, taking a chair where he could see the counter in the front office, proceeded to investigate the stranger, of whose identity he had not thesmallest doubt. But it was not Mr. Timson's way to take things forgranted in silence, and it must be admitted that his curiosity in thisparticular case was not without warrant. After a scrutiny of John's faceand person, which was not brief enough to be unnoticeable, he said, witha directness which left nothing in that line to be desired, "I reckonyou're the new man Dave's ben gettin' up from the city. "

"I came up yesterday, " admitted John. 

"My name's Timson, " said Chet. 

"Happy to meet you, " said John, rising and putting out his hand. "Myname is Lenox, " and they shook hands--that is, John grasped the ends offour limp fingers. After they had subsided into their seats, Chet'sopaquely bluish eyes made another tour of inspection, in curiosity andwonder. 

"You alwus lived in the city?" he said at last. 

"It has always been my home, " was the reply. 

"What put it in your head to come up here?" with another stare. 

"It was at Mr. Harum's suggestion, " replied John, not with perfectcandor; but he was not minded to be drawn out too far. 

"D'ye know Dave?"

"I have never met him. " Mr. Timson looked more puzzled than ever. 

"Ever ben in the bankin' bus'nis?"

"I have had some experience of such accounts in a general way. "

"Ever keep books?"

"Only as I have told you, " said John, smiling at the little man. 

"Got any idee what you'll have to do up here?" asked Chet. 

"Only in a general way. "

"Wa'al, " said Mr. Timson, "I c'n tell ye; an', what's _more_, I c'n tellye, young man, 't you hain't no idee of what you're undertakin', an' efyou don't wish you was back in New York 'fore you git through I ain't noguesser. "

"That is possible, " said John readily, recalling his night and hisbreakfast that morning. 

"Yes, sir, " said the other. "Yes, _sir_; if you do what I've had to do, you'll do the hull darned thing, an' nobody to help you but PeleHopkins, who don't count fer a row o' crooked pins. As fer's Dave'sconcerned, " asserted the speaker with a wave of his hands, "he don'tknow no more about bankin' 'n a cat. He couldn't count a thousan'dollars in an hour, an', as for addin' up a row o' figures, he couldn'tgit it twice alike, I don't believe, if he was to be hung for't. "

"He must understand the meaning of his own books and accounts, I shouldthink, " remarked John. 

"Oh, " said Chet scornfully, "anybody c'd do that. That's easy 'nough;but as fur 's the real bus'nis is concerned, he don't have nothin' to dowith it. It's all ben left to me: chargin' an' creditin', postin', individule ledger, gen'ral ledger, bill-book, discount register, tickler, for'n register, checkin' off the N'York accounts, drawin' offstatemunts f'm the ledgers an' bill-book, writin' letters--why, the'ain't an hour 'n the day in bus'nis hours some days that the's an hour't I ain't busy 'bout somethin'. No, sir, " continued Chet, "Dave don'tgive himself no trouble about the bus'nis. All he does is to look afterlendin' the money, an' seein' that it gits paid when the time comes, an'keep track of how much money the' is here an' in N'York, an' what notesis comin' due--an' a few things like that, that don't put pen to paper, ner take an hour of his time. Why, a man'll come in an' want to git anote done, an' it'll be 'All right, ' or, 'Can't spare the money to-day, 'all in a minute. He don't give it no thought at all, an' he ain't 'roundhere half the time. Now, " said Chet, "when I work fer a man I like tohave him 'round so 't I c'n say to him: 'Shall I do it so? or shall I doit _so_? shall I? or sha'n't I?' an' then when I make a mistake--'sanybody's liable to--he's as much to blame 's I be. "

"I suppose, then, " said John, "that you must have to keep Mr. Harum'sprivate accounts also, seeing that he knows so little of details. I havebeen told that he is interested in a good many matters besides thisbusiness. "

"Wa'al, " replied Timson, somewhat disconcerted, "I suppose he must keep'em himself in _some_ kind of a fashion, an' I don't know a thing aboutany outside matters of his'n, though I suspicion he has got quite a few. He's got some books in that safe" (pointing with his finger) "an' he'sgot a safe in the vault, but if you'll believe _me_"--and the speakerlooked as if he hardly expected it--"I hain't never so much as seen theinside of either one on 'em. No, sir, " he declared, "I hain't no moreidee of what's in them safes 'n you have. He's close, Dave Harum is, "said Chet with a convincing motion of the head; "on the hull, theclostest man I ever see. I believe, " he averred, "that if he was to layout to keep it shut that lightnin' might strike him square in the mouthan' it wouldn't go in an eighth of an inch. An' yet, " he added, "he c'ntalk by the rod when he takes a notion. "

"Must be a difficult person to get on with, " commented John dryly. 

"I couldn't stan' it no longer, " declared Mr. Timson with the air of onewho had endured to the end of virtue, "an' I says to him the other day, 'Wa'al, ' I says, 'if I can't suit ye, mebbe you'd better suityourself. '"

"Ah!" said John politely, seeing that some response was expected of him;"and what did he say to that?"

"He ast me, " replied Chet, "if I meant by that to throw up thesituation. 'Wa'al, ' I says 'I'm sick enough to throw up most anythin', 'I says, 'along with bein' found fault with fer nothin'. '"

"And then?" queried John, who had received the impression that themotion to adjourn had come from the other side of the house. 

"Wa'al, " replied Chet, not quite so confidently, "he said somethin'about my requirin' a larger spear of action, an' that he thought I'd dobetter on a mile track--some o' his hoss talk. That's another thing, "said Timson, changing the subject. "He's all fer hosses. He'd soonermake a ten-dollar note on a hoss trade than a hunderd right here 'n thisoffice. Many's the time right in bus'nis hours, when I've wanted to askhim how he wanted somethin' done, he'd be busy talkin' hoss, an'wouldn't pay no attention to me more'n 's if I wa'n't there. "

"I am glad to feel, " said John, "that you can not possibly have anyunpleasant feeling toward me, seeing that you resigned as you did. "

"Cert'nly not, cert'nly not, " declared Timson, a little uneasily. "If ithadn't 'a' ben you, it would 'a' had to ben somebody else, an' now Iseen you an' had a talk with you--Wa'al, I guess I better git back intothe other room. Dave's liable to come in any minute. But, " he said inparting, "I will give ye piece of advice: You keep enough laid by to payyour gettin' back to N'York. You may want it in a hurry, " and with thisparting shot the rejected one took his leave. 

 * * * * *

The bank parlor was lighted by a window and a glazed door in the rearwall, and another window on the south side. Mr. Harum's desk was by therear, or west, window, which gave view of his house, standing somehundred feet back from the street. The south, or side, window afforded aview of his front yard and that of an adjoining dwelling, beyond whichrose the wall of a mercantile block. Business was encroaching uponDavid's domain. Our friend stood looking out of the south window. To theleft a bit of Main Street was visible, and the naked branches of theelms and maples with which it was bordered were waving defiantly attheir rivals over the way, incited thereto by a northwest wind. 

We invariably form a mental picture of every unknown person of whom wethink at all. It may be so faint that we are unconscious of it at thetime, or so vivid that it is always recalled until dissipated by seeingthe person himself, or his likeness. But that we do so make a picture isproved by the fact that upon being confronted by the real features ofthe person in question we always experience a certain amount ofsurprise, even when we have not been conscious of a different conceptionof him. 

Be that as it may, however, there was no question in John Lenox's mindas to the identity of the person who at last came briskly into the backoffice and interrupted his meditations. Rather under the middle height, he was broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with a clean-shaven, red face, with--not a mole--but a slight protuberance the size of half a large peaon the line from the nostril to the corner of the mouth; bald over thecrown and to a line a couple of inches above the ear, below that thickand somewhat bushy hair of yellowish red, showing a mingling of gray;small but very blue eyes; a thick nose, of no classifiable shape, and alarge mouth with the lips so pressed together as to produce a slightlydownward and yet rather humorous curve at the corners. He was dressed ina sack coat of dark "pepper-and-salt, " with waistcoat and trousers tomatch. A somewhat old-fashioned standing collar, flaring away from thethroat, was encircled by a red cravat, tied in a bow under his chin. Adiamond stud of perhaps two carats showed in the triangle of spotlessshirt front, and on his head was a cloth cap with ear lappets. Heaccosted our friend with, "I reckon you must be Mr. Lenox. How are you?I'm glad to see you, " tugging off a thick buckskin glove, and puttingout a plump but muscular hand. 

John thanked him as they shook hands, and "hoped he was well. "

"Wa'al, " said Mr. Harum, "I'm improvin' slowly. I've got so 'st I c'nset up long enough to have my bed made. Come last night, I s'pose?Anybody to the deepo to bring ye over? This time o' year once 'n a whilethe' don't nobody go over for passengers. "

John said that he had had no trouble. A man by the name of Robinson hadbrought him and his luggage. 

"E-up!" said David with a nod, backing up to the fire which was burningin the grate of the Franklin stove, "'Dug' Robinson. 'D he do the p'litething in the matter of questions an' gen'ral conversation?" he askedwith a grin. John laughed in reply to this question. 

"Where'd you put up?" asked David, John said that he passed the nightat the Eagle Hotel. Mr. Harum had seen Dick Larrabee that morning andheard what he had to say of our friend's reception, but he liked to gethis information from original sources. 

"Make ye putty comf'table?" he asked, turning to eject a mouthful intothe fire. 

"I got along pretty well under the circumstances, " said John. 

Mr. Harum did not press the inquiry. "How'd you leave the gen'ral?" heinquired. 

"He seemed to be well, " replied John, "and he wished to be kindlyremembered to you. "

"Fine man, the gen'ral, " declared David, well pleased. "Fine man all'round. Word's as good as his bond. Yes, sir, when the gen'ral gives hiswarrant, I don't care whether I see the critter or not. Know him much?"

"He and my father were old friends, and I have known him a good manyyears, " replied John, adding, "he has been very kind and friendly tome. "

"Set down, set down, " said Mr. Harum, pointing to a chair. Seatinghimself, he took off his cap and dropped it with his gloves on thefloor. "How long you ben here in the office?" he asked. 

"Perhaps half an hour, " was the reply. 

"I meant to have ben here when you come, " said the banker, "but I gothendered about a matter of a hoss I'm looking at. I guess I'll shut thatdoor, " making a move toward the one into the front office. 

"Allow me, " said John, getting up and closing it. 

"May's well shut the other one while you're about it. Thank you, " asJohn resumed his seat. "I hain't got nothin' very private, but I'm'fraid of distractin' Timson's mind. Did he int'duce himself?"

"Yes, " said John, "we introduced ourselves and had a few minutesconversation. "

"Gin ye his hull hist'ry an' a few relations throwed in?"

"There was hardly time for that, " said John, smiling. 

"Rubbed a little furn'ture polish into my char'cter an' repitation?"insinuated Mr. Harum. 

"Most of our talk was on the subject of his duties andresponsibilities, " was John's reply. ("Don't cal'late to let on anymore'n he cal'lates to, " thought David to himself. )

"Allowed he run the hull shebang, didn't he?"

"He seemed to have a pretty large idea of what was required of one inhis place, " admitted the witness. 

"Kind o' friendly, was he?" asked David. 

"Well, " said John, "after we had talked for a while I said to him that Iwas glad to think that he could have no unpleasant feeling toward me, seeing that he had given up the place of his own preference, and heassured me that he had none. "

David turned and looked at John for an instant, with a twinkle in hiseye. The younger man returned the look and smiled slightly. Davidlaughed outright. 

"I guess you've seen folks before, " he remarked. 

"I have never met any one exactly like Mr. Timson, I think, " said ourfriend with a slight laugh. 

"Fortunitly them kind is rare, " observed Mr. Harum dryly, rising andgoing to his desk, from a drawer of which he produced a couple ofcigars, one of which he proffered to John, who, for the first time inhis life, during the next half hour regretted that he was a smoker. David sat for two or three minutes puffing diligently, and then took theweed out of his mouth and looked contemplatively at it. 

"How do you like that cigar?" he inquired. 

"It burns very nicely, " said the victim. Mr. Harum emitted a cough whichwas like a chuckle, or a chuckle which was like a cough, and relapsedinto silence again. Presently he turned his head, looked curiously atthe young man for a moment, and then turned his glance again to thefire. 

"I've ben wonderin' some, " he said, "pertic'lerly since I see you, how't was 't you wanted to come up here to Homeville. Gen'l Wolsey gin hiswarrant, an' so I reckon you hadn't ben gettin' into no scrape nornothin', " and again he looked sharply at the young man at his side. 

"Did the general say nothing of my affairs?" the latter asked. 

"No, " replied David, "all 't he said was in a gen'ral way that he'dknowed you an' your folks a good while, an' he thought you'd be jest thefeller I was lookin' fer. Mebbe he reckoned that if you wanted yourstory told, you'd ruther tell it yourself. "

CHAPTER XIV. 

Whatever might have been John's repugnance to making a confidant of theman whom he had known but for half an hour, he acknowledged to himselfthat the other's curiosity was not only natural but proper. He could notbut know that in appearance and manner he was in marked contrast withthose whom the man had so far seen. He divined the fact that his comingfrom a great city to settle down in a village town would furnish matterfor surprise and conjecture, and felt that it would be to his advantagewith the man who was to be his employer that he should be perfectly andobviously frank upon all matters of his own which might be properlymentioned. He had an instinctive feeling that Harum combined acutenessand suspiciousness to a very large degree, and he had also a feelingthat the old man's confidence, once gained, would not be easily shaken. So he told his hearer so much of his history as he thought pertinent, and David listened without interruption or comment, save an occasional"E-um'm. "

"And here I am, " John remarked in conclusion. 

"Here you _be_, fer a fact, " said David. "Wa'al, the's worse places 'nHomeville--after you git used to it, " he added in qualification. "I benback here a matter o' thirteen or fourteen year now, an' am gettin' tofeel my way 'round putty well; but not havin' ben in these parts ferputty nigh thirty year, I found it ruther lonesome to start with, an' Iguess if it hadn't 'a' ben fer Polly I wouldn't 'a' stood it. But up tothe time I come back she hadn't never ben ten mile away f'm here in herhull life, an' I couldn't budge her. But then, " he remarked, "whileHomeville aint a metrop'lis, it's some a diff'rent place f'm what itused to be--in some _ways_. Polly's my sister, " he added by way ofexplanation. 

"Well, " said John, with rather a rueful laugh, "if it has taken you allthat time to get used to it the outlook for me is not very encouraging, I'm afraid. "

"Wa'al, " remarked Mr. Harum, "I'm apt to speak in par'bles sometimes. Iguess you'll git along after a spell, though it mayn't set fust rate onyour stomech till you git used to the diet. Say, " he said after amoment, "if you'd had a couple o' thousan' more, do you think you'd 'a'stuck to the law bus'nis?"

"I'm sure I don't know, " replied John, "but I am inclined to think not. General Wolsey told me that if I were very anxious to go on with it hewould help me, but after what I told him he advised me to write to you. "

"He did, did he?"

"Yes, " said John, "and after what I had gone through I was notaltogether sorry to come away. "

"Wa'al, " said Mr. Harum thoughtfully, "if I was to lose what little I'vegot, an' had to give up livin' in the way I was used to, an' couldn'teven keep a hoss, I c'n allow 't I might be willin' fer a change ofscene to make a fresh start in. Yes, sir, I guess I would. Wa'al, "looking at his watch, "I've got to go now, an' I'll see ye later, mebbe. You feel like takin' holt to-day?"

"Oh, yes, " said John with alacrity. 

"All right, " said Mr. Harum. "You tell Timson what you want, an' makehim show you everythin'. He understands, an' I've paid him for't. He'sagreed to stay any time in reason 't you want him, but I guess, " headded with a laugh, "'t you c'n pump him dry 'n a day or two. It haintrained wisdom an' knowlidge in his part o' the country fer a consid'ablespell. "

David stood for a moment drawing on his gloves, and then, looking atJohn with his characteristic chuckle, continued:

"Allowed he'd ben drawin' the hull load, did he? Wa'al, sir, the truthon't is 't he never come to a hill yet, 'f 't wa'n't more 'n a foothigh, but what I had to git out an' push; nor never struck a turn in theroad but what I had to take him by the head an' lead him into it. " Withwhich Mr. Harum put on his overcoat and cap and departed. 

 * * * * *

Mr. Timson was leaning over the counter in animated controversy with aman on the outside who had evidently asserted or quoted (the quotationis the usual weapon: it has a double barb and can be wielded withcomparative safety) something of a wounding effect. 

"No, sir, " exclaimed Chet, with a sounding slap on the counter, "no, sir! The' ain't one word o' truth in't. I said myself, 'I won't stan'it, ' I says, 'not f'm you ner nobody else, ' I says, 'an' what's more, 'says I--" The expression in the face of Mr. Timson's tormentor causedthat gentleman to break off and look around. The man on the outsidegrinned, stared at John a moment, and went out, and Timson turned andsaid, as John came forward, "Hello! The old man picked ye to pieces allhe wanted to?"

"We are through for the day, I fancy, " said our friend, smiling, "and ifyou are ready to begin my lessons I am ready to take them. Mr. Harumtold me that you would be good enough to show me what was necessary. "

"All right, " said Mr. Timson readily enough, and so John began his firstday's work in David's office. He was surprised and encouraged to findhow much his experience in Rush & Company's office stood him in hand, and managed to acquire in a comparatively short time a pretty faircomprehension of the system which prevailed in "Harum's bank, "notwithstanding the incessant divagations of his instructor. 

It was decided between Timson and our friend that on the following daythe latter should undertake the office work under supervision, and thenext morning John was engaged upon the preliminaries of the day'sbusiness when his employer came in and seated himself at his desk in theback room. After a few minutes, in which he was busy with his letters, he appeared in the doorway of the front room. He did not speak, for Johnsaw him, and, responding to a backward toss of the head, followed himinto the "parlor, " and at an intimation of the same silent charactershut the doors. Mr. Harum sat down at his desk, and John stood awaitinghis pleasure. 

"How 'd ye make out yestidy?" he asked. "Git anythin' out of oldtongue-tied?" pointing with his thumb toward the front room. 

"Oh, yes, " said John, smiling, as he recalled the unceasing flow ofwords which had enveloped Timson's explanations. 

"How much longer do you think you'll have to have him 'round?" asked Mr. Harum. 

"Well, " said John, "of course your customers are strangers to me, but sofar as the routine of the office is concerned I think I can manage afterto-day. But I shall have to appeal to you rather often for a while untilI get thoroughly acquainted with my work. "

"Good fer you, " said David. "You've took holt a good sight quicker 'n Ithought ye would, an' I'll spend more or less time 'round here fer awhile, or be where you c'n reach me. It's like this, " he continued;"Chet's a helpless kind of critter, fer all his braggin' an' talk, an' Iben feelin' kind o' wambly about turnin' him loose--though the Lordknows, " he said with feeling, "'t I've had bother enough with him tokill a tree. But anyway I wrote to some folks I know up to Syrchester togit something fer him to do, an' I got a letter to send him along, an'mebbe they'd give him a show. See?"

"Yes, sir, " said John, "and if you are willing to take the chances of mymistakes I will undertake to get on without him. "

"All right, " said the banker, "we'll call it a heat--and, say, don't leton what I've told you. I want to see how long it'll take to git all overthe village that he didn't ask no odds o' nobody. Hadn't ben out o' ajob three days 'fore the' was a lot o' chances, an' all 't he had to dowas to take his pick out o' the lot on 'em. "

"Really?" said John. 

"Yes, sir, " said David. "Some folks is gaited that way. Amusin', ain'tit?--Hullo, Dick! Wa'al?"

"Willis'll give two hunderd fer the sorr'l colt, " said the incomer, whomJohn recognized as one of the loungers in the Eagle bar the night of hisarrival. 

"E-um'm!" said David. "Was he speakin' of any pertic'ler colt, or sorrilcolts in gen'ral? I hain't got the only one the' is, I s'pose. "

Dick merely laughed. "Because, " continued the owner of the "sorrilcolt, " "if Steve Willis wants to lay in sorril colts at two hunderd apiece, I ain't goin' to gainsay him, but you tell him thattwo-forty-nine ninety-nine won't buy the one in my barn. " Dick laughedagain. 

John made a move in the direction of the front room. 

"Hold on a minute, " said David. "Shake hands with Mr. Larrabee. "

"Seen ye before, " said Dick, as they shook hands. "I was in the barroomwhen you come in the other night, " and then he laughed as at therecollection of something very amusing. 

John flushed a little and said, a bit stiffly, "I remember you were kindenough to help about my luggage. "

"Excuse me, " said Dick, conscious of the other's manner. "I wa'n'tlaughin' at you, that is, not in pertic'ler. I couldn't see your facewhen Ame offered ye pie an' doughnuts instid of beefsteak an' fixins. Ic'd only guess at that; but Ame's face was enough fer me, " and Dickwent off into another cachinnation. 

David's face indicated some annoyance. "Oh, shet up, " he exclaimed. "You'd keep that yawp o' your'n goin', I believe, if it was the judgmentday. "

"Wa'al, " said Dick with a grin, "I expect the' might be some fun to begot out o' _that_, if a feller wa'n't worryin' too much about his ownskin; an' as fur's I'm concerned----" Dick's further views on thesubject of that momentous occasion were left unexplained. A significantlook in David's face caused the speaker to break off and turn toward thedoor, through which came two men, the foremost a hulking, shamblingfellow, with an expression of repellent sullenness. He came forward towithin about ten feet of David's desk, while his companion halted nearthe door. David eyed him in silence. 

"I got this here notice this mornin', " said the man, "sayin' 't my note'd be due to-morrer, an' 'd have to be paid. "

"Wa'al, " said David, with his arm over the back of his chair and hisleft hand resting on his desk, "that's so, ain't it?"

"Mebbe so, " was the fellow's reply, "fur 's the comin' due 's concerned, but the payin' part 's another matter. "

"Was you cal'latin' to have it renewed?" asked David, leaning a littleforward. 

"No, " said the man coolly, "I don't know 's I want to renew it fer anypertic'ler time, an' I guess it c'n run along fer a while jest as 'tis. " John looked at Dick Larrabee. He was watching David's face with anexpression of the utmost enjoyment. David twisted his chair a littlemore to the right and out from the desk. 

"You think it c'n run along, do ye?" he asked suavely. "I'm glad to haveyour views on the subject. Wa'al, I guess it kin, too, until _to-morro'_at four o'clock, an' after that you c'n settle with lawyer Johnson orthe sheriff. " The man uttered a disdainful laugh. 

"I guess it'll puzzle ye some to c'lect it, " he said. Mr. Harum's bushyred eyebrows met above his nose. 

"Look here, Bill Montaig, " he said, "I know more 'bout this matter 'nyou think for. I know 't you ben makin' your brags that you'd fix me inthis deal. You allowed that you'd set up usury in the fust place, an' ifthat didn't work I'd find you was execution proof anyways. That's so, ain't it?"

"That's about the size on't, " said Montaig, putting his feet a littlefarther apart. David had risen from his chair. 

"You didn't talk that way, " proceeded the latter, "when you come whinin''round here to git that money in the fust place, an' as I reckon some o'the facts in the case has slipped out o' your mind since that time, Iguess I'd better jog your mem'ry a little. "

It was plain from the expression of Mr. Montaig's countenance that hisconfidence in the strength of his position was not quite so assured asat first, but he maintained his attitude as well as in him lay. 

"In the fust place, " David began his assault, "_I_ didn't _lend_ ye themoney. I borr'ed it for ye on my indorsement, an' charged ye fer doin'it, as I told ye at the time; an' another thing that you appear toforgit is that you signed a paper statin' that you was wuth, in good andavailable pusson'ls, free an' clear, over five hunderd dollars, an' thatthe statement was made to me with the view of havin' me indorse yournote fer one-fifty. Rec'lect that?" David smiled grimly at the look ofdisconcert which, in spite of himself, appeared in Bill's face. 

"I don't remember signin' no paper, " he said doggedly. 

"Jest as like as not, " remarked Mr. Harum. "What _you_ was thinkin' ofabout that time was gittin' that _money_. "

"I'd like to see that paper, " said Bill, with a pretence of incredulity. 

"You'll see it when the time comes, " asserted David, with an emphaticnod. He squared himself, planting his feet apart, and, thrusting hishands deep in his coat pockets, faced the discomfited yokel. 

"Do you think, Bill Montaig, " he said, with measureless contempt, "thatI didn't know who I was dealin' with? that I didn't know what alow-lived, roost-robbin' skunk you was? an' didn't know how to protectmyself agin such an'muls as you be? Wa'al, I did, an' don't you stopthinkin' 'bout it--an', " he added, shaking his finger at the object ofhis scorn, "_you'll pay that note_ or I'll put ye where the dogs won'tbite ye, " and with that he turned on his heel and resumed his seat. Billstood for a minute with a scowl of rage and defeat in his lowering face. 

"Got any further bus'nis with me?" inquired Mr. Harum. "Anythin' more 'tI c'n oblige ye about?" There was no answer. 

"I asked you, " said David, raising his voice and rising to his feet, "if you had any further bus'nis with me. "

"I dunno's I have, " was the sullen response. 

"All right, " said David. "That bein' the case, an' as I've got somethin'to do beside wastin' my time on such wuthless pups as you be, I'll thankyou to git out. There's the door, " he added, pointing to it. 

"He, he, he, he, ho, ho, ha, h-o-o-o-o-o!" came from the throat of DickLarrabee. This was too much for the exasperated Bill, and he erred (toput it mildly) in raising his arm and advancing a step toward hiscreditor. He was not swift enough to take the second, however, forDavid, with amazing quickness, sprang upon him, and twisting him around, rushed him out of the door, down the passage, and out of the front door, which was obligingly held open by an outgoing client, who took in thesituation and gave precedence to Mr. Montaig. His companion, who so farhad taken no part, made a motion to interfere, but John, who stoodnearest to him, caught him by the collar and jerked him back, with thesuggestion that it would be better to let the two have it out bythemselves. David came back rather breathless and very red in the face, but evidently in exceeding good humor. 

"Scat my ----!" he exclaimed. "Hain't had such a good tussle I dunnowhen. "

"Bill's considered ruther an awk'ard customer, " remarked Dick. "I guesshe hain't had no such handlin' fer quite a while. "

"Sho!" exclaimed Mr. Harum. "The' ain't nothin' to him but wind an'meanness. Who was that feller with him?"

"Name 's Smith, I believe, " replied Dick. "Guess Bill brought him alongfer a witness, an' I reckon he seen all he wanted to. I'll bet _his_neck's achin' some, " added Mr. Larrabee with a laugh. 

"How's that?" asked David. 

"Well, he made a move to tackle you as you was escortin' Bill out, an'Mr. Lenox there caught him in the collar an' gin him a jerk that'd 'a'landed him on his back, " said Dick, "if, " turning to John, "you hadn'thelt holt of him. You putty nigh broke his neck. He went off--he, he, he, he, ho!--wrigglin' it to make sure. "

"I used more force than was necessary, I'm afraid, " said BillyWilliams's pupil, "but there wasn't much time to calculate. "

"Much obliged, " said David with a nod. 

"Not at all, " protested John, laughing. "I have enjoyed a great dealthis morning. "

"It _has_ ben ruther pleasant, " remarked David with a chuckle, "but youmustn't cal'late on havin' such fun ev'ry mornin'. "

John went into the business office, leaving the banker and Dick. 

"Say, " said the latter when they were alone, "that young man o' your'n's quite a feller. He took care o' that big Smith chap with one hand;an' say, _you_ c'n git round on your pins 'bout 's lively 's they make'em, I guess. I swan!" he exclaimed, slapping his thigh and shaking withlaughter, "the hull thing head-an'-shouldered any show I seen lately. "And then for a while they fell to talking of the "sorril colt" and otherthings. 

CHAPTER XV. 

When John went back to the office after the noonday intermission it wasmanifest that something had happened to Mr. Timson, and that thesomething was of a nature extremely gratifying to that worthy gentleman. He was beaming with satisfaction and rustling with importance. Severaltimes during the afternoon he appeared to be on the point of confidinghis news, but in the face of the interruptions which occurred, or whichhe feared might check the flow of his communication, he managed torestrain himself till after the closing of the office. But scarcely werethe shutters up (at the willing hands of Peleg Hopkins) when he turnedto John and, looking at him sharply, said, "Has Dave said anythin' 'boutmy leavin'?"

"He told me he expected you would stay as long as might be necessary toget me well started, " said John non-committally, mindful of Mr. Harum'sinjunction. 

"Jest like him, " declared Chet. "Jest like him for all the world; butthe fact o' the matter is 't I'm goin' to-morro'. I s'pose he thought, "reflected Mr. Timson, "thet he'd ruther you'd find it out yourself thanto have to break it to ye, 'cause then, don't ye see, after I was gonehe c'd lay the hull thing at my door. "

"Really, " said John, "I should have said that he ought to have told me. "

"Wa'al, " said Chet encouragingly, "mebbe you'll git along somehow, though I'm 'fraid you'll have more or less trouble; but I told Dave thatas fur 's I c'd see, mebbe you'd do 's well 's most anybody he c'd gitthat didn't know any o' the customers, an' hadn't never done any o' thiskind o' work before. "

"Thank you very much, " said John. "And so you are off to-morrow, areyou?"

"Got to be, " declared Mr. Timson. "I'd 'a' liked to stay with you aspell longer, but the's a big concern f'm out of town that as soon asthey heard I was at libe'ty wrote for me to come right along up, an' Is'pose I hadn't ought to keep 'em waitin'. "

"No, I should think not, " said John, "and I congratulate you upon havinglocated yourself so quickly. "

"Oh!" said Mr. Timson, with ineffable complacency, "I hain't give myselfno worry; I hain't lost no sleep. I've allowed all along that DaveHarum'd find out that he wa'n't the unly man that needed my kind o'work, an' I ain't meanin' any disrispect to you when I say 't--"

"Just so, " said John. "I quite understand. Nobody could expect to takejust the place with him that you have filled. And, by the way, " headded, "as you are going in the morning, and I may not see you again, would you kindly give me the last balance sheets of the two ledgers andthe bill-book. I suppose, of course, that they are brought down to thefirst of the month, and I shall want to have them. "

"Oh, yes, cert'nly, of course--wa'al I guess Dave's got 'em, " repliedChet, looking considerably disconcerted, "but I'll look 'em up in themornin'. My train don't go till ten o'clock, an' I'll see you 'bout anylittle last thing in the mornin'--but I guess I've got to go now onaccount of a lot of things. You c'n shut up, can't ye?"

Whereupon Mr. Timson made his exit, and not long afterward David camein. By that time everything had been put away, the safe and vaultclosed, and Peleg had departed with the mail and his freedom for therest of the day. 

"Wa'al, " said Mr. Harum, lifting himself to a seat on the counter, "how've you made out? All O. K. ?"

"Yes, " replied John, "I think so. "

"Where's Chet?"

"He went away some few minutes ago. He said he had a good many things toattend to as he was leaving in the morning. "

"E-um'm!" said David incredulously. "I guess 't won't take him long toclose up his matters. Did he leave ev'rything in good shape? Cash allright, an' so on?"

"I think so, " said John. "The cash is right I am sure. "

"How 'bout the books?"

"I asked him to let me have the balance sheets, and he said that youmust have them, but that he would come in in the morning and--well, whathe said was that he would see me in the morning, and, as he put it, lookafter any little last thing. "

"E-um'm!" David grunted. "He won't do no such a thing. We've seen thelast of him, you bet, an' a good riddance. He'll take the nine o'clockto-night, that's what he'll do. Drawed his pay, I guess, didn't he?"

"He said he was to be paid for this month, " answered John, "and tooksixty dollars. Was that right?"

"Yes, " said David, nodding his head absently. "What was it he said aboutthem statements?" he inquired after a moment. 

"He said he guessed you must have them. "

"E-um'm!" was David's comment. "What'd he say about leavin'?"

John laughed and related the conversation as exactly as he could. 

"What'd I tell ye, " said Mr. Harum, with a short laugh. "Mebbe he won'tgo till to-morro', after all, " he remarked. "He'll want to put in aleetle more time tellin' how he was sent for in a hurry by that bigconcern f'm out of town 't he's goin' to. "

"Upon my word, I can't understand it, " said John, "knowing that you cancontradict him. "

"Wa'al, " said David, "he'll allow that if he gits in the fust word, he'll take the pole. It don't matter anyway, long 's he's gone. I guessyou an' me c'n pull the load, can't we?" and he dropped down off thecounter and started to go out. "By the way, " he said, halting a moment, "can't you come in to tea at six o'clock? I want to make ye acquaintedwith Polly, an' she's itchin' to see ye. "

"I shall be delighted, " said John. 

 * * * * *

"Polly, " said David, "I've ast the young feller to come to tea, butdon't you say the word 'Eagle, ' to him. You c'n show your ign'rance'bout all the other kinds of birds an' animals you ain't familiarwith, " said the unfeeling brother, "but leave eagles alone. "

"What you up to now?" she asked, but she got no answer but a laugh. 

From a social point of view the entertainment could not be described asa very brilliant success. Our friend was tired and hungry. Mr. Harum wasunusually taciturn, and Mrs. Bixbee, being under her brother's interdictas regarded the subject which, had it been allowed discussion, mighthave opened the way, was at a loss for generalities. But John afterwardgot upon terms of the friendliest nature with that kindly soul. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Some weeks after John's assumption of his duties in the office of DavidHarum, Banker, that gentleman sat reading his New York paper in the"wing settin'-room, " after tea, and Aunt Polly was occupied with thehemming of a towel. The able editorial which David was perusing wasstrengthening his conviction that all the intelligence and virtue of thecountry were monopolized by the Republican party, when his meditationswere broken in upon by Mrs. Bixbee, who knew nothing and cared lessabout the Force Bill or the doctrine of protection to Americanindustries. 

"You hain't said nothin' fer quite a while about the bank, " sheremarked. "Is Mr. Lenox gittin' along all right?"

"Guess he's gittin' into condition as fast as c'd be expected, " saidDavid, between two lines of his editorial. 

"It must be awful lonesome fer him, " she observed, to which there was noreply. 

"Ain't it?" she asked, after an interval. 

"Ain't what?" said David, looking up at her. 

"Awful lonesome, " she reiterated. 

"Guess nobody ain't ever very lonesome when you're 'round an' got yourbreath, " was the reply. "What you talkin' about?"

"I ain't talkin' about you, 't any rate, " said Mrs. Bixbee. "I wassayin' it must be awful lonesome fer Mr. Lenox up here where he don'tknow a soul hardly, an' livin' at that hole of a tavern. "

"I don't see 't you've any cause to complain long's he don't, " saidDavid, hoping that it would not come to his sister's ears that he had, for reasons of his own, discouraged any attempt on John's part to betterhis quarters, "an' he hain't ben very lonesome daytimes, I guess, sofur, 'thout he's ben makin' work fer himself to kill time. "

"What do you mean?"

"Wa'al, " said David, "we found that Chet hadn't done more 'n to givematters a lick an' a promise in most a year. He done just enough to keepup the day's work an' no more an' the upshot on't is that John's had toput in consid'able time to git things straightened out. "

"What a shame!" exclaimed Aunt Polly. 

"Keeps him f'm bein' lonesome, " remarked her brother with a grin. 

"An' he hain't had no time to himself!" she protested. "I don't believeyou've made up your mind yet whether you're goin' to like him, an' Idon't believe he'll _stay_ anyway. "

"I've told more 'n forty-leven times, " said Mr. Harum, looking up overhis paper, "that I thought we was goin' to make a hitch of it, an' hecert'nly hain't said nuthin' 'bout leavin', an' I guess he won't fer awhile, tavern or no tavern. He's got a putty stiff upper lip of his own, I reckon, " David further remarked, with a short laugh, causing Mrs. Bixbee to look up at him inquiringly, which look the speaker answeredwith a nod, saying, "Me an' him had a little go-round to-day. "

"You hain't had no _words_, hev ye?" she asked anxiously. 

"Wa'al, we didn't have what ye might call _words_. I was jest tryin' alittle experiment with him. "

"Humph, " she remarked, "you're alwus tryin' exper'ments on somebody, an'you'll be liable to git ketched at it some day. "

"Exceptin' on you, " said David. "You don't think I'd try any experimentson you, do ye?"

"Me!" she cried. "You're at me the hull endurin' time, an' you know it. "

"Wa'al, but Polly, " said David insinuatingly, "you don't know howint'restin' you _be_. "

"Glad you think so, " she declared, with a sniff and a toss of the head. "What you ben up to with Mr. Lenox?"

"Oh, nuthin' much, " replied Mr. Harum, making a feint of resuming hisreading. 

"Be ye goin' to tell me, or--air ye too _'shamed_ on't?" she added witha little laugh, which somewhat turned the tables on her teasing brother. 

"Wa'al, I laid out to try an' read this paper, " he said, spreading itout on his lap, "but, " resignedly, "I guess 't ain't no use. Do you knowwhat a count'fit bill is?" he asked. 

"I dunno 's I ever see one, " she said, "but I s'pose I do. They're aginthe law, ain't they?"

"The's a number o' things that's agin the law, " remarked David dryly. 

"Wa'al?" ejaculated Mrs. Bixbee after a moment of waiting. 

"Wa'al, " said David, "the' ain't much to tell, but it's plain I don'tgit no peace till you git it out of me. It was like this: The youngfeller's took holt everywhere else right off, but handlin' the moneybothered him consid'able at fust. It was slow work, an' I c'd see itmyself; but he's gettin' the hang on't now. Another thing I expectedhe'd run up agin was count'fits. The' ain't so very many on 'em roundnow-a-days, but the' is now an' then one. He allowed to me that he wasliable to get stuck at fust, an' I reckoned he would. But I never saidnuthin' about it, nor ast no questions until to-day; an' this afternoonI come in to look 'round, an' I says to him, 'What luck have you hadwith your money? Git any bad?' I says. 'Wa'al, ' he says, colorin' up alittle, 'I don't know how many I may have took in an' paid out aginwithout knowin' it, ' he says, 'but the' was a couple sent back from NewYork out o' that package that went down last Friday. '"

"'What was they?' I says. 

"'A five an' a ten, ' he says. 

"'Where be they?' I says. 

"'They're in the draw there--they're ruther int'restin' objects ofstudy, ' he says, kind o' laughin' on the wrong side of his mouth. 

"'Countin' 'em in the cash?' I says, an' with that he kind o' reddenedup agin. 'No, sir, ' he says, 'I charged 'em up to my own account, an'I've kept 'em to compare with. '

"'You hadn't ought to done that, ' I says. 

"'You think I ought to 'a' put 'em in the fire at once?' says he. 

"'No, ' I says, 'that wa'n't what I meant. Why didn't you mix 'em up withthe other money, an' let 'em go when you was payin' out? Anyways, ' Isays, 'you charge 'em up to profit an' loss if you're goin' to charge'em to anythin', an' let me have 'em, ' I says. 

"'What'll you do with 'em?' he says to me, kind o' shuttin' his jawstogether. 

"'I'll take care on 'em, ' I says. 'They mayn't be good enough to senddown to New York, ' I says, 'but they'll go around here all right--jestas good as any other, ' I says, 'long 's you keep 'em movin'. '"

"David Harum!" cried Polly, who, though not quite comprehending some ofthe technicalities of detail, was fully alive to the turpitude of thesuggestion. "I hope to gracious he didn't think you was in earnest. Why, s'pose they was passed around, wouldn't somebody git stuck with 'em inthe long run? You know they would. " Mrs. Bixbee occasionally surprisedher brother with unexpected penetration, but she seldom got muchrecognition of it. 

"I see by the paper, " he remarked, "that the' was a man died inPheladelphy one day last week, " which piece of barefaced irrelevancyelicited no notice from Mrs. Bixbee. 

"What more did he say?" she demanded. 

"Wa'al, " responded Mr. Harum with a laugh, "he said that he didn't seewhy I should be a loser by his mistakes, an' that as fur as the billswas concerned they belonged to him, an' with that, " said the narrator, "Mister Man gits 'em out of the draw an' jest marches into the back rooman' puts the dum things int' the fire. "

"He done jest right, " declared Aunt Polly, "an' you know it, don't yenow?"

"Wa'al, " said David, "f'm his standpoint--f'm his standpoint, I guess hedid, an', " rubbing his chin with two fingers of his left hand, "it's aputty dum good standpoint too. I've ben lookin', " he added reflectively, "fer an honest man fer quite a number o' years, an' I guess I've foundhim; yes'm, I guess I've found him. "

"An' be you goin' to let him lose that fifteen dollars?" asked thepractical Polly, fixing her brother with her eyes. 

"Wa'al, " said David, with a short laugh, "what c'n I do with such anobst'nit critter 's he is? He jest backed into the britchin', an' Icouldn't do nothin' with him. " Aunt Polly sat over her sewing for aminute or two without taking a stitch. 

"I'm sorry you done it, " she said at last. 

"I dunno but I did make ruther a mess of it, " admitted Mr. Harum. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

It was the 23d of December, and shortly after the closing hour. Peleghad departed and our friend had just locked the vault when David cameinto the office and around behind the counter. 

"Be you in any hurry?" he asked. 

John said he was not, whereupon Mr. Harum hitched himself up onto a highoffice stool, with his heels on the spindle, and leaned sideways uponthe desk, while John stood facing him with his left arm upon the desk. 

"John, " said David, "do ye know the Widdo' Cullom?"

"No" said John, "but I know who she is--a tall, thin woman, who walkswith a slight stoop and limp. I noticed her and asked her name becausethere was something about her looks that attracted my attention--asthough at some time she might have seen better days. "

"That's the party, " said David. "She has seen better days, but she's eatan' drunk sorro' mostly fer goin' on thirty year, an' darned little elsegood share o' the time, I reckon. "

"She has that appearance certainly, " said John. 

"Yes sir, " said David, "she's had a putty tough time, the widdo' has, an' yet, " he proceeded after a momentary pause, "the' was a time whenthe Culloms was some o' the king-pins o' this hull region. They used toown quarter o' the county, an' they lived in the big house up on thehill where Doc Hays lives now. That was considered to be the finestplace anywheres 'round here in them days. I used to think the Capitol toWashington must be somethin' like the Cullom house, an' that Billy P. (folks used to call him Billy P. 'cause his father's name was Williaman' his was William Parker), an' that Billy P. 'd jest 's like 's not bepresident. I've changed my mind some on the subject of presidents sinceI was a boy. "

Here Mr. Harum turned on his stool, put his right hand into hissack-coat pocket, extracted therefrom part of a paper of "Maple Dew, "and replenished his left cheek with an ample wad of "fine-cut. " Johntook advantage of the break to head off what he had reason to fear mightturn into a lengthy digression from the matter in hand by saying, "I begpardon, but how does it happen that Mrs. Cullom is in suchcircumstances? Has the family all died out?"

"Wa'al, " said David, "they're most on 'em dead, all on 'em, in fact, except the widdo's son Charley, but as fur 's the family 's concerned, it more 'n _died_ out--it _gin_ out! 'D ye ever hear of Jim Wheton'scalf? Wa'al, Jim brought three or four veals into town one spring tosell. Dick Larrabee used to peddle meat them days. Dick looked 'em overan' says, 'Look here, Jim, ' he says, 'I guess you got a "deakin" in thatlot, ' he says. 'I dunno what you mean, ' says Jim. 'Yes, ye do, goll darnye!' says Dick, 'yes, ye do. You didn't never kill that calf, an' youknow it. That calf died, that's what that calf done. Come, now, ownup, ' he says. 'Wa'al, ' says Jim, 'I didn't _kill_ it, an' it didn't_die_ nuther--it jest kind o' _gin out_. '"

John joined in the laugh with which the narrator rewarded his owneffort, and David went on: "Yes, sir, they jest petered out. Old Billy, Billy P. 's father, inheritid all the prop'ty--never done a stroke ofwork in his life. He had a collidge education, went to Europe, an' allthat', an' before he was fifty year old he hardly ever come near the oldplace after he was growed up. The land was all farmed out on shares, an'his farmers mostly bamboozled him the hull time. He got consid'ableincome, of course, but as things went along and they found out how slackhe was they kept bitin' off bigger chunks all the time, an' sometimes hedidn't git even the core. But all the time when he wanted money--an' hewanted it putty often I tell ye--the easiest way was to stick on amorgidge; an' after a spell it got so 't he'd have to give a morgidge topay the int'rist on the other morgidges. "

"But, " said John, "was there nothing to the estate but land?"

"Oh, yes, " said David, "old Billy's father left him some consid'ablepers'nal, but after that was gone he went into the morgidge bus'nis as Itell ye. He lived mostly up to Syrchester and around, an' when he gotmarried he bought a place in Syrchester and lived there till Billy P. Was about twelve or thirteen year old, an' he was about fifty. By thattime he'd got 'bout to the end of his rope, an' the' wa'n't nothin' forit but to come back here to Homeville an' make the most o' what the' wasleft--an' that's what he done, let alone that he didn't make the moston't to any pertic'ler extent. Mis' Cullom, his wife, wa'n't no help tohim. She was a city woman an' didn't take to the country no way, butwhen she died it broke old Billy up wus 'n ever. She peaked an' pined, an' died when Billy P. Was about fifteen or so. Wa'al, Billy P. An' theold man wrastled along somehow, an' the boy went to collidge fer a yearor so. How they ever got along 's they did I dunno. The' was a storythat some far-off relation left old Billy some money, an' I guess thatan' what they got off'm what farms was left carried 'em along till BillyP. Was twenty-five or so, an' then he up an' got married. That was thecrownin' stroke, " remarked David. "She was one o' the villagegirls--respectable folks, more 'n ordinary good lookin' an' highsteppin', an' had had some schoolin'. But the old man was prouder 'n acock-turkey, an' thought nobody wa'n't quite good enough fer Billy P. , an' all along kind o' reckoned that he'd marry some money an' git a newstart. But when he got married--on the quiet, you know, cause he knowedthe old man would kick--wa'al, that killed the trick, an' the old maninto the bargain. It took the gumption all out of him, an' he didn'tlive a year. Wa'al, sir, it was curious, but, 's I was told, putty muchthe hull village sided with the old man. The Culloms was kind o' kingsin them days, an' folks wa'n't so one-man's-good's-anotherish as they benow. They thought Billy P. Done wrong, though they didn't have nothin'to say 'gainst the girl neither--an' she's very much respected, Mis'Cullom is, an' as fur's I'm concerned, I've alwus guessed she kept BillyP. Goin' full as long 's any one could. But 't wa'n't no use--that isto say, the sure thing come to pass. He had a nom'nal title to a gooddeal o' prop'ty, but the equity in most on't if it had ben to be put upwa'n't enough to pay fer the papers. You see, the' ain't never ben noreal cash value in farm prop'ty in these parts. The' ain't ben hardly adozen changes in farm titles, 'cept by inher'tance or foreclosure, inthirty years. So Billy P. Didn't make no effort. Int'rist's one o' themthings that keeps right on nights an' Sundays. He jest had the deedsmade out and handed 'em over when the time came to settle. The' was somevillage lots though that was clear, that fetched him in some money fromtime to time until they was all gone but one, an' that's the one Mis'Cullom lives on now. It was consid'able more'n a lot--in fact, a puttysizable place. She thought the sun rose an' set where Billy P. Was, butshe took a crotchit in her head, and wouldn't ever sign no papers ferthat, an' lucky fer him too. The' was a house on to it, an' he had aroof over his head anyway when he died six or seven years after hemarried, an' left her with a boy to raise. How she got along all themyears till Charley got big enough to help, I swan! I don't know. Shetook in sewin' an' washin', an' went out to cook an' nurse, an' allthat, but I reckon the' was now an' then times when they didn't overloadtheir stomechs much, nor have to open the winders to cool off. But sheheld onto that prop'ty of her'n like a pup to a root. It was putty wellout when Billy P. Died, but the village has growed up to it. The's somegood lots could be cut out on't, an' it backs up to the river where thecurrent's enough to make a mighty good power fer a 'lectric light. Iknow some fellers that are talkin' of startin' a plant here, an' itain't out o' sight that they'd pay a good price fer the river front, an'enough land to build on. Fact on't is, it's got to be a putty valu'blepiece o' prop'ty, more 'n she cal'lates on, I reckon. "

Here Mr. Harum paused, pinching his chin with thumb and index finger, and mumbling his tobacco. John, who had listened with more attentionthan interest--wondering the while as to what the narrative was leadingup to--thought something might properly be expected of him to show thathe had followed it, and said, "So Mrs. Cullom has kept this last piececlear, has she?"

"No, " said David, bringing down his right hand upon the desk withemphasis, "that's jest what she hain't done, an' that's how I come totell ye somethin' of the story, an' more on't 'n you've cared abouthearin', mebbe. "

"Not at all, " John protested. "I have been very much interested. "

"You have, have you?" said Mr. Harum. "Wa'al, I got somethin' I want yeto do. Day after to-morro' 's Chris'mus, an' I want ye to drop Mis'Cullom a line, somethin' like this, 'That Mr. Harum told ye to say thatthat morgidge he holds, havin' ben past due fer some time, an' noint'rist havin' ben paid fer, let me see, more'n a year, he wants toclose the matter up, an' he'll see her Chris'mus mornin' at the bank atnine o'clock, he havin' more time on that day; but that, as fur as hecan see, the bus'nis won't take very long'--somethin' like that, youunderstand?"

"Very well, sir, " said John, hoping that his employer would not see inhis face the disgust and repugnance he felt as he surmised what ascheme was on foot, and recalled what he had heard of Harum's hard andunscrupulous ways, though he had to admit that this, excepting perhapsthe episode of the counterfeit money, was the first revelation to himpersonally. But this seemed very bad to him. 

"All right, " said David cheerfully, "I s'pose it won't take you long tofind out what's in your stockin', an' if you hain't nothin' else to doChris'mus mornin' I'd like to have you open the office and stay 'round aspell till I git through with Mis' Cullom. Mebbe the' 'll be some papersto fill out or witniss or somethin'; an' have that skeezicks of a boymake up the fires so'st the place'll be warm. "

"Very good, sir, " said John, hoping that the interview was at an end. 

But the elder man sat for some minutes apparently in a brown study, andoccasionally a smile of sardonic cunning wrinkled his face. At last hesaid: "I've told ye so much that I may as well tell ye how I come bythat morgidge. 'Twont take but a minute, an' then you can run an' play, "he added with a chuckle. 

"I trust I have not betrayed any impatience, " said John, and instantlyconscious of his infelicitous expression, added hastily, "I have reallybeen very much interested. "

"Oh, no, " was the reply, "you hain't _betrayed_ none, but I know oldfellers like me gen'rally tell a thing twice over while they're at it. Wa'al, " he went on, "it was like this. After Charley Cullom got to besome grown he helped to keep the pot a-bilin', 'n they got on somebetter. 'Bout seven year ago, though, he up an' got married, an' thenthe fat ketched fire. Finally he allowed that if he had some money he'dgo West 'n take up some land, 'n git along like pussly 'n a flowergard'n. He ambitioned that if his mother 'd raise a thousan' dollars onher place he'd be sure to take care of the int'rist, an' prob'ly pay offthe princ'ple in almost no time. Wa'al, she done it, an' off he went. She didn't come to me fer the money, because--I dunno--at any rate shedidn't, but got it of 'Zeke Swinney. 

"Wa'al, it turned out jest 's any fool might 've predilictid, fer afterthe first year, when I reckon he paid it out of the thousan', Charleynever paid no int'rist. The second year he was jest gettin' goin', an'the next year he lost a hoss jest as he was cal'latin' to pay, an' thenext year the grasshoppers smote him, 'n so on; an' the outcome was thatat the end of five years, when the morgidge had one year to run, Charley'd paid one year, an' she'd paid one, an' she stood to owe threeyears' int'rist. How old Swinney come to hold off so was that she usedto pay the cuss ten dollars or so ev'ry six months 'n git no credit ferit, an' no receipt an' no witniss, 'n he knowed the prop'ty wasimproving all the time. He may have had another reason, but at any ratehe let her run, and got the shave reg'lar. But at the time I'm tellin'you about he'd begun to cut up, an' allowed that if she didn't settle upthe int'rist he'd foreclose, an' I got wind on't an' I run across herone day an' got to talkin' with her, an' she gin me the hull narration. 'How much do you owe the old critter?' I says. 'A hunderd an' eightydollars, ' she says, 'an' where I'm goin' to git it, ' she says, 'the Lordonly knows. ' 'An' He won't tell ye, I reckon, ' I says. Wa'al, of courseI'd known that Swinney had a morgidge because it was a matter of record, an' I knowed him well enough to give a guess what his game was goin' tobe, an' more'n that I'd had my eye on that piece an' parcel an' Ifigured that he wa'n't any likelier a citizen 'n I was. " ("Yes, " saidJohn to himself, "where the carcase is the vultures are gatheredtogether. ")

"'Wa'al, ' I says to her, after we'd had a little more talk, 's'posen youcome 'round to my place to-morro' 'bout 'leven o'clock, an' mebbe we c'ncipher this thing out. I don't say positive that we kin, ' I says, 'butmebbe, mebbe. ' So that afternoon I sent over to the county seat an' gota description an' had a second morgidge drawed up fer two hundreddollars, an' Mis' Cullom signed it mighty quick. I had the morgidge madeone day after date, 'cause, as I said to her, it was in the nature of atemp'rary loan, but she was so tickled she'd have signed most anythin'at that pertic'ler time. 'Now, ' I says to her, 'you go an' settle withold Step-an'-fetch-it, but don't you say a word where you got themoney, ' I says. 'Don't ye let on nothin'--stretch that conscience o'your'n if nes'sary, ' I says, 'an' be pertic'ler if he asks you if DaveHarum give ye the money you jest say, "No, he didn't. " That wont be nolie, ' I says, 'because I aint _givin'_ it to ye, ' I says. Wa'al, shedone as I told her. Of course Swinney suspicioned fust off that I wasmixed up in it, but she stood him off so fair an' square that he didn'tknow jest what _to_ think, but his claws was cut fer a spell, anyway. 

"Wa'al, things went on fer a while, till I made up my mind that I oughtto relieve Swinney of some of his anxieties about worldly bus'nis, an'I dropped in on him one mornin' an' passed the time o' day, an' afterwe'd eased up our minds on the subjects of each other's health an' suchlike I says, 'You hold a morgidge on the Widder Cullom's place, don'tye?' Of course he couldn't say nothin' but 'yes. ' 'Does she keep up theint'rist all right?' I says. 'I don't want to be pokin' my nose intoyour bus'nis, ' I says, 'an' don't tell me nothin' you don't want to. 'Wa'al, he knowed Dave Harum was Dave Harum, an' that he might 's wellspit it out, an' he says, 'Wa'al, she didn't pay nothin' fer a goodwhile, but last time she forked over the hull amount. 'But I hain't nonotion, ' he says, 'that she'll come to time agin. ' 'An' s'posin' shedon't, ' I says, 'you'll take the prop'ty, won't ye?' 'Don't see no otherway, ' he says, an' lookin' up quick, 'unless you over-bid me, ' he says. 'No, ' I says, 'I ain't buyin' no real estate jest now, but the thing Icome in fer, ' I says, 'leavin' out the pleasure of havin' a talk withyou, was to say that I'd take that morgidge off'm your hands. '

"Wa'al, sir, he, he, he, he! Scat my ----! At that he looked at me fer aminute with his jaw on his neck, an' then he hunched himself, 'n drawedin his neck like a mud turtle. 'No, ' he says, 'I ain't sufferin' fer themoney, an' I guess I'll keep the morgidge. It's putty near due now, butmebbe I'll let it run a spell. I guess the secur'ty's good fer it. ''Yes, ' I says, 'I reckon you'll let it run long enough fer the widder topay the taxes on't once more anyhow; I guess the secur'ty's good enoughto take that resk; but how 'bout _my_ secur'ty?' I says. 'What d'youmean?' he says. 'I mean, ' says I, 'that I've got a second morgidge onthat prop'ty, an' I begin to tremble fer my secur'ty. You've jest toldme, ' I says, 'that you're goin' to foreclose an' I cal'late to protectmyself, an' I _don't_ cal'late, ' I says, 'to have to go an' bid on thatprop'ty, an' put in a lot more money to save my investment, unless I'm'bleeged to--not _much_! an' you can jest sign that morgidge over to me, an' the sooner the quicker, ' I says. "

David brought his hand down on his thigh with a vigorous slap, thefellow of the one which, John could imagine, had emphasized his demandupon Swinney. The story, to which he had at first listened with politepatience merely, he had found more interesting as it went on, and, excusing himself, he brought up a stool, and mounting it, said, "Andwhat did Swinney say to that?" Mr. Harum emitted a gurgling chuckle, yawned his quid out of his mouth, tossing it over his shoulder in thegeneral direction of the waste basket, and bit off the end of a cigarwhich he found by slapping his waistcoat pockets. John got down andfetched him a match, which he scratched in the vicinity of his hippocket, lighted his cigar (John declining to join him on some plausiblepretext, having on a previous occasion accepted one of the brand), andafter rolling it around with his lips and tongue to the effect that thelighted end described sundry eccentric curves, located it firmly with anupward angle in the left-hand corner of his mouth, gave it a couple ofvigorous puffs, and replied to John's question. 

"Wa'al, 'Zeke Swinney was a perfesser of religion some years ago, an'mebbe he is now, but what he said to me on this pertic'ler occasion wasthat he'd see me in hell fust, an' _then_ he wouldn't. 

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'mebbe you won't, mebbe you will, it's alwus apleasure to meet ye, ' I says, 'but in that case this morgidge bus'nis'll be a question fer our executors, ' I says, 'fer _you_ don't neverforeclose that morgidge, an' don't you fergit it, ' I says. 

"'Oh, you'd like to git holt o' that prop'ty yourself. I see what you'reup to, ' he says. 

"'Look a-here, 'Zeke Swinney, ' I says, 'I've got an int'rist in thatprop'ty, an' I propose to p'tect it. You're goin' to sign that morgidgeover to me, or I'll foreclose and surrygate ye, ' I says, 'unless youallow to bid in the prop'ty, in which case we'll see whose weasel-skin'sthe longest. But I guess it won't come to that, ' I says. 'You kin takeyour choice, ' I says. 'Whether I want to git holt o' that prop'ty myselfain't neither here nor there. Mebbe I do, an' mebbe I don't, butanyways, ' I says, '_you_ don't git it, nor wouldn't ever, for if I can'tmake you sign over, I'll either do what I said or I'll back the widderin a defence fer usury. Put that in your pipe an' smoke it, ' I says. 

"'What do you mean?' he says, gittin' half out his chair. 

"'I mean this, ' I says, 'that the fust six months the widder couldn'tpay she gin you ten dollars to hold off, an' the next time she gin youfifteen, an' that you've bled her fer shaves to the tune of sixty odddollars in three years, an' then got your int'rist in full. '

"That riz him clean out of his chair, " said David. "'She can't proveit, ' he says, shakin' his fist in the air. 

"'Oh, ho! ho!' I says, tippin' my chair back agin the wall. 'If Mis'Cullom was to swear how an' where she paid you the money, givin'chapter an' verse, and showin' her own mem'randums even, an' I was toswear that when I twitted you with gittin' it you didn't deny it, butonly said that she couldn't _prove_ it, how long do you think it 'ouldtake a Freeland County jury to find agin ye? I allow, 'Zeke Swinney, ' Isays, 'that you wa'n't born yestyd'y, but you ain't so old as you look, not by a dum sight!' an' then how I did laugh!

"Wa'al, " said David, as he got down off the stool and stretched himself, yawning, "I guess I've yarned it enough fer one day. Don't fergit tosend Mis' Cullom that notice, an' make it up an' up. I'm goin' to gitthe thing off my mind this trip. "

"Very well, sir, " said John, "but let me ask, did Swinney assign themortgage without any trouble?"

"O Lord! yes, " was the reply. "The' wa'n't nothin' else fer him to do. Ihad another twist on him that I hain't mentioned. But he put up a greatshow of doin' it to obleege me. Wa'al, I thanked him an' so on, an' whenwe'd got through I ast him if he wouldn't step over to the 'Eagil' an'take somethin', an' he looked kind o' shocked an' said he never drinkednothin'. It was 'gin his princ'ples, he said. Ho, ho, ho, ho! Scat my----! Princ'ples!" and John heard him chuckling to himself all the wayout of the office. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Considering John's relations with David Harum, it was natural that heshould wish to think as well of him as possible, and he had not (orthought he had not) allowed his mind to be influenced by the disparagingremarks and insinuations which had been made to him, or in his presence, concerning his employer. He had made up his mind to form his opinionupon his own experience with the man, and so far it had not only beenpleasant but favorable, and far from justifying the half-jeering, half-malicious talk that had come to his ears. It had been made manifestto him, it was true, that David was capable of a sharp bargain incertain lines, but it seemed to him that it was more for the pleasure ofmatching his wits against another's than for any gain involved. Mr. Harum was an experienced and expert horseman, who delighted above allthings in dealing in and trading horses, and John soon discovered that, in that community at least, to get the best of a "hoss-trade" by almostany means was considered a venial sin, if a sin at all, and thestandards of ordinary business probity were not expected to govern thosetransactions. 

David had said to him once when he suspected that John's ideas mighthave sustained something of a shock, "A hoss-trade ain't like anythin'else. A feller may be straighter 'n a string in ev'rythin' else, an'never tell the truth--that is, the hull truth--about a hoss. I tradehosses with hoss-traders. They all think they know as much as I do, an'I dunno but what they do. They hain't learnt no diff'rent anyway, an'they've had chances enough. If a feller come to me that didn't think heknowed anythin' about a hoss, an' wanted to buy on the square, he'd git, fur's I knew, square treatment. At any rate I'd tell him all 't I knew. But when one o' them smart Alecks comes along and cal'lates to do up oldDave, why he's got to take his chances, that's all. An' mind ye, "asserted David, shaking his forefinger impressively, "it ain't only themfellers. I've ben wuss stuck two three time by church members in goodstandin' than anybody I ever dealed with. Take old Deakin Perkins. He'sa terrible feller fer church bus'nis; c'n pray an' psalm-sing to beatthe Jews, an' in spiritual matters c'n read his title clear the hulltime, but when it comes to hoss-tradin' you got to git up very early inthe mornin' or he'll skin the eyeteeth out of ye. Yes, sir! Scat my----! I believe the old critter _makes_ hosses! But the deakin, " addedDavid, "he, he, he, he! the deakin hain't hardly spoke to me fer someconsid'able time, the deakin hain't. He, he, he!

"Another thing, " he went on, "the' ain't no gamble like a hoss. You maythink you know him through an' through, an' fust thing you know he'll becuttin' up a lot o' didos right out o' nothin'. It stands to reason thatsometimes you let a hoss go all on the square--as you know him--an' thefeller that gits him don't know how to hitch him or treat him, an' heacts like a diff'rent hoss, an' the feller allows you swindled him. Yousee, hosses gits used to places an' ways to a certain extent, an' whenthey're changed, why they're apt to act diff'rent. Hosses don't know butdreadful little, really. Talk about hoss sense--wa'al, the' ain't nosuch thing. "

Thus spoke David on the subject of his favorite pursuit and pastime, andJohn thought then that he could understand and condone some things hehad seen and heard, at which at first he was inclined to look askance. But this matter of the Widow Cullom's was a different thing, and as herealized that he was expected to play a part, though a small one, in it, his heart sank within him that he had so far cast his fortunes upon thegood will of a man who could plan and carry out so heartless and cruelan undertaking as that which had been revealed to him that afternoon. Hespent the evening in his room trying to read, but the widow's affairspersistently thrust themselves upon his thoughts. All the unpleasantstories he had heard of David came to his mind, and he remembered withmisgiving some things which at the time had seemed regular and rightenough, but which took on a different color in the light in which hefound himself recalling them. He debated with himself whether he shouldnot decline to send Mrs. Cullom the notice as he had been instructed, and left it an open question when he went to bed. 

He wakened somewhat earlier than usual to find that the thermometer hadgone up, and the barometer down. The air was full of a steady downpour, half snow, half rain, about the most disheartening combination which theworst climate in the world--that of central New York--can furnish. Hepassed rather a busy day in the office in an atmosphere redolent of theunsavory odors raised by the proximity of wet boots and garments to thebig cylinder stove outside the counter, a compound of stale smells fromkitchen and stable. 

After the bank closed he dispatched Peleg Hopkins, the office boy, withthe note for Mrs. Cullom. He had abandoned his half-formed intention torevolt, but had made the note not only as little peremptory as wascompatible with a clear intimation of its purport as he understood it, but had yielded to a natural impulse in beginning it with an expressionof personal regret--a blunder which cost him no little chagrin in theoutcome. 

Peleg Hopkins grumbled audibly when he was requested to build the fireson Christmas day, and expressed his opinion that "if there warn't Bibleagin workin' on Chris'mus, the' 'd ort ter be"; but when John opened thedoor of the bank that morning he found the temperature in comfortablecontrast to the outside air. The weather had changed again, and ablinding snowstorm, accompanied by a buffeting gale from the northwest, made it almost impossible to see a path and to keep it. In the centralpart of the town some tentative efforts had been made to open walks, butthese were apparent only as slight and tortuous depressions in thedepths of snow. In the outskirts, the unfortunate pedestrian had to wadeto the knees. 

As John went behind the counter his eye was at once caught by a smallparcel lying on his desk, of white note paper, tied with a cottonstring, which he found to be addressed, "Mr. John Lenox, Esq. , Present, "and as he took it up it seemed heavy for its size. 

Opening it, he found a tiny stocking, knit of white wool, to which waspinned a piece of paper with the legend, "A Merry Christmas from AuntPolly. " Out of the stocking fell a packet fastened with a rubber strap. Inside were five ten-dollar gold pieces and a slip of paper on which waswritten, "A Merry Christmas from Your Friend David Harum. " For a momentJohn's face burned, and there was a curious smarting of the eyelids ashe held the little stocking and its contents in his hand. Surely thehand that had written "Your Friend" on that scrap of paper could not bethe hand of an oppressor of widows and orphans. "This, " said John tohimself, "is what he meant when 'he supposed it wouldn't take me long tofind out what was in my stocking. '"

 * * * * *

The door opened and a blast and whirl of wind and snow rushed in, ushering the tall, bent form of the Widow Cullom. The drive of the windwas so strong that John vaulted over the low cash counter to push thedoor shut again. The poor woman was white with snow from the front ofher old worsted hood to the bottom of her ragged skirt. 

"You are Mrs. Cullom?" said John. "Wait a moment till I brush off thesnow, and then come to the fire in the back room. Mr. Harum will be indirectly, I expect. "

"Be I much late?" she asked. "I made 's much haste 's I could. It don'tappear to me 's if I ever see a blusteriner day, 'n I ain't as strongas I used to be. Seemed as if I never would git here. "

"Oh, no, " said John, as he established her before the glowing grate ofthe Franklin stove in the bank parlor, "not at all. Mr. Harum has notcome in himself yet. Shall you mind if I excuse myself a moment whileyou make yourself as comfortable as possible?" She did not apparentlyhear him. She was trembling from head to foot with cold and fatigue andnervous excitement. Her dress was soaked to the knees, and as she satdown and put up her feet to the fire John saw a bit of a thin cottonstocking and her deplorable shoes, almost in a state of pulp. Asnow-obliterated path led from the back door of the office to David'shouse, and John snatched his hat and started for it on a run. As hestamped off some of the snow on the veranda the door was opened for himby Mrs. Bixbee. "Lord sakes!" she exclaimed. "What on earth be youcavortin' 'round for such a mornin' 's this without no overcoat, an' ona dead run? What's the matter?"

"Nothing serious, " he answered, "but I'm in a great hurry. Old Mrs. Cullom has walked up from her house to the office, and she is wetthrough and almost perished. I thought you'd send her some dry shoes andstockings, and an old shawl or blanket to keep her wet skirt off herknees, and a drop of whisky or something. She's all of a tremble, andI'm afraid she will have a chill. "

"Certain! certain!" said the kind creature, and she bustled out of theroom, returning in a minute or two with an armful of comforts. "There'sa pair of bedroom slips lined with lamb's wool, an' a pair of woolenstockin's, an' a blanket shawl. This here petticut, 't ain't what ye'dcall bran' new, but it's warm and comf'table, an' I don't believe she'sgot much of anythin' on 'ceptin' her dress, an' I'll git ye the whisky, but"--here she looked deprecatingly at John--"it ain't gen'ally known 'twe keep the stuff in the house. I don't know as it's right, but thoughDavid don't hardly ever touch it he will have it in the house. "

"Oh, " said John, laughing, "you may trust my discretion, and we'll swearMrs. Cullom to secrecy. "

"Wa'al, all right, " said Mrs. Bixbee, joining in the laugh as shebrought the bottle; "jest a minute till I make a passel of the things tokeep the snow out. There, now, I guess you're fixed, an' you kin hurryback 'fore she ketches a chill. "

"Thanks very much, " said John as he started away. "I have something tosay to you besides 'Merry Christmas, ' but I must wait till anothertime. "

When John got back to the office David had just preceded him. 

"Wa'al, wa'al, " he was saying, "but you be in a putty consid'able state. Hullo, John! what you got there? Wa'al, you air the stuff! Slips, blanket-shawl, petticut, stockin's--wa'al, you an' Polly ben puttin'your heads together, I guess. What's that? Whisky! Wa'al, scat my ----!I didn't s'pose wild hosses would have drawed it out o' Polly to let onthe' was any in the house, much less to fetch it out. Jest the thing!Oh, yes ye are, Mis' Cullom--jest a mouthful with water, " taking theglass from John, "jest a spoonful to git your blood a-goin', an' thenMr. Lenox an' me 'll go into the front room while you make yourselfcomf'table. "

"Consarn it all!" exclaimed Mr. Harum as they stood leaning against theteller's counter, facing the street, "I didn't cal'late to have Mis'Cullom hoof it up here the way she done. When I see what kind of a dayit was I went out to the barn to have the cutter hitched an' send forher, an' I found ev'rythin' topsy-turvy. That dum'd uneasy sorril colthad got cast in the stall, an' I ben fussin' with him ever since. Iclean forgot all 'bout Mis' Cullom till jest now. "

"Is the colt much injured?" John asked. 

"Wa'al, he won't trot a twenty gait in some time, I reckon, " repliedDavid. "He's wrenched his shoulder some, an' mebbe strained his inside. Don't seem to take no int'rist in his feed, an' that's a bad sign. Consarn a hoss, anyhow! If they're wuth anythin' they're more bother 'na teethin' baby. Alwus some dum thing ailin' 'em, an' I took consid'ablestock in that colt too, " he added regretfully, "an' I could 'a' gotputty near what I was askin' fer him last week, an' putty near what hewas wuth, an' I've noticed that most gen'ally alwus when I let a goodoffer go like that, some cussed thing happens to the hoss. It ain't abad idee, in the hoss bus'nis anyway, to be willin' to let the otherfeller make a dollar once 'n a while. "

After that aphorism they waited in silence for a few minutes, and thenDavid called out over his shoulder, "How be you gettin' along, Mis'Cullom?"

"I guess I'm fixed, " she answered, and David walked slowly back into theparlor, leaving John in the front office. He was annoyed to realizethat in the bustle over Mrs. Cullom and what followed, he had forgottento acknowledge the Christmas gift; but, hoping that Mr. Harum had beenequally oblivious, promised himself to repair the omission later on. Hewould have preferred to go out and leave the two to settle their affairwithout witness or hearer, but his employer, who, as he had found, usually had a reason for his actions, had explicitly requested him toremain, and he had no choice. He perched himself upon one of the officestools and composed himself to await the conclusion of the affair. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Mrs. Cullom was sitting at one corner of the fire, and David drew achair opposite to her. 

"Feelin' all right now? whisky hain't made ye liable to no disorderlyconduct, has it?" he asked with a laugh. 

"Yes, thank you, " was the reply, "the warm things are real comfortin', 'n' I guess I hain't had licker enough to make me want to throw things. You got a kind streak in ye, Dave Harum, if you did send me this herenote--but I s'pose ye know your own bus'nis, " she added with a sigh ofresignation. "I ben fearin' fer a good while 't I couldn't hold on t'that prop'ty, an' I don't know but what you might's well git it as 'ZekeSwinney, though I ben hopin' 'gainst hope that Charley 'd be able to domore 'n he has. "

"Let's see the note, " said David curtly. "H'm, humph, 'regret to saythat I have been instructed by Mr. Harum'--wa'al, h'm'm, cal'lated toclear his own skirts anyway--h'm'm--'must be closed up without furtherdelay' (John's eye caught the little white stocking which still lay onhis desk)--wa'al, yes, that's about what I told Mr. Lenox to say fur'sthe bus'nis part's concerned--I might 'a' done my own regrettin' if I'dwrote the note myself. " (John said something to himself. ) "'T ain't thepleasantest thing in the world fer ye, I allow, but then you see, bus'nis is bus'nis. "

John heard David clear his throat, and there was a hiss in the openfire. Mrs. Cullom was silent, and David resumed:

"You see, Mis' Cullom, it's like this. I ben thinkin' of this matter fera good while. That place ain't ben no real good to ye sence the firstyear you signed that morgidge. You hain't scurcely more'n made endsmeet, let alone the int'rist, an' it's ben simply a question o' time, an' who'd git the prop'ty in the long run fer some years. I reckoned, same as you did, that Charley 'd mebbe come to the front--but he hain'tdone it, an' 't ain't likely he ever will. Charley's a likely 'nough boysome ways, but he hain't got much 'git there' in his make-up, not more'nenough fer one anyhow, I reckon. That's about the size on't, ain't it?"

Mrs. Cullom murmured a feeble admission that she was "'fraid it was. "

"Wa'al, " resumed Mr. Harum, "I see how things was goin', an' I see thatunless I played euchre, 'Zeke Swinney 'd git that prop'ty, an' whether Iwanted it myself or not, I didn't cal'late he sh'd git it anyway. He puta spoke in my wheel once, an' I hain't forgot it. But that hain'tneither here nor there. Wa'al, " after a short pause, "you know I helpedye pull the thing along on the chance, as ye may say, that you an' yourson 'd somehow make a go on't. "

"You ben very kind, so fur, " said the widow faintly. 

"Don't ye say that, don't ye say that, " protested David. "'T wa'n't nokindness. It was jest bus'nis: I wa'n't takin' no chances, an' I s'poseI might let the thing run a spell longer if I c'd see any use in't. Butthe' ain't, an' so I ast ye to come up this mornin' so 't we c'd settlethe thing up without no fuss, nor trouble, nor lawyer's fees, nornothin'. I've got the papers all drawed, an' John--Mr. Lenox--here totake the acknowlidgments. You hain't no objection to windin' the thingup this mornin', have ye?"

"I s'pose I'll have to do whatever you say, " replied the poor woman in atone of hopeless discouragement, "an' I might as well be killed to once, as to die by inch pieces. "

"All right then, " said David cheerfully, ignoring her lethal suggestion, "but before we git down to bus'nis an' signin' papers, an' in order toset myself in as fair a light 's I can in the matter, I want to tell yea little story. "

"I hain't no objection 's I know of, " acquiesced the widow graciously. 

"All right, " said David, "I won't preach more 'n about up to thesixthly--How'd you feel if I was to light up a cigar? I hain't much of ahand at a yarn, an' if I git stuck, I c'n puff a spell. Thank ye. Wa'al, Mis' Cullom, you used to know somethin' about my folks. I was raised onBuxton Hill. The' was nine on us, an' I was the youngest o' the lot. Myfather farmed a piece of about forty to fifty acres, an' had a smallshop where he done odd times small jobs of tinkerin' fer the neighborswhen the' was anythin' to do. My mother was his second, an' I was theonly child of that marriage. He married agin when I was about two yearold, an' how I ever got raised 's more 'n I c'n tell ye. My sister Pollywas 'sponsible more 'n any one, I guess, an' the only one o' the wholelot that ever gin me a decent word. Small farmin' ain't cal'lated tofetch out the best traits of human nature--an' keep 'em out--an' itseems to me sometimes that when the old man wa'n't cuffin' my ears hewas lickin' me with a rawhide or a strap. Fur 's that was concerned, allhis boys used to ketch it putty reg'lar till they got too big. One on'em up an' licked him one night, an' lit out next day. I s'pose the oldman's disposition was sp'iled by what some feller said farmin' was, 'workin' all day, an' doin' chores all night, ' an' larrupin' me an' allthe rest on us was about all the enjoyment he got. My brothers an'sisters--'ceptin' of Polly--was putty nigh as bad in respect of cuffsan' such like; an' my step-marm was, on the hull, the wust of all. Shehadn't no childern o' her own, an' it appeared 's if I was jest pizen toher. 'T wa'n't so much slappin' an' cuffin' with her as 't was tongue. She c'd say things that 'd jest raise a blister like pizen ivy. I s'poseI _was_ about as ord'nary, no-account-lookin', red-headed, freckledlittle cuss as you ever see, an' slinkin' in my manners. The air of ourhome circle wa'n't cal'lated to raise heroes in. 

"I got three four years' schoolin', an' made out to read an' write an'cipher up to long division 'fore I got through, but after I got to besix year old, school or no school, I had to work reg'lar at anything Ihad strength fer, an' more too. Chores before school an' after school, an' a two-mile walk to git there. As fur 's clo'es was concerned, anyold thing that 'd hang together was good enough fer me; but by the timethe older boys had outgrowed their duds, an' they was passed on to me, the' wa'n't much left on 'em. A pair of old cowhide boots that leakedin more snow an' water 'n they kept out, an' a couple pairs of woolensocks that was putty much all darns, was expected to see me through thewinter, an' I went barefoot f'm the time the snow was off the groundtill it flew agin in the fall. The' wa'n't but two seasons o' the yearwith me--them of chilblains an' stun-bruises. "

The speaker paused and stared for a moment into the comfortable glow ofthe fire, and then discovering to his apparent surprise that his cigarhad gone out, lighted it from a coal picked out with the tongs. 

"Farmin' 's a hard life, " remarked Mrs. Cullom with an air of beingexpected to make some contribution to the conversation. 

"An' yit, as it seems to me as I look back on't, " David resumedpensively, "the wust on't was that nobody ever gin me a kind word, 'ceptPolly. I s'pose I got kind o' used to bein' cold an' tired; dressin' ina snowdrift where it blowed into the attic, an' goin' out to foddercattle 'fore sun-up; pickin' up stun in the blazin' sun, an' doin' allthe odd jobs my father set me to, an' the older ones shirked onto me. That was the reg'lar order o' things; but I remember I never _did_ gitused to never pleasin' nobody. 'Course I didn't expect nothin' f'm mystep-marm, an' the only way I ever knowed I'd done my stent fur 'sfather was concerned, was that he didn't say nothin'. But sometimes theolder ones 'd git settin' 'round, talkin' an' laughin', havin' pop cornan' apples, an' that, an' I'd kind o' sidle up, wantin' to join 'em, an'some on 'em 'd say, 'What _you_ doin' here? time you was in bed, ' an'give me a shove or a cuff. Yes, ma'am, " looking up at Mrs. Cullom, "thewust on't was that I was kind o' scairt the hull time. Once in a whilePolly 'd give me a mossel o' comfort, but Polly wa'n't but little older'n me, an' bein' the youngest girl, was chored most to death herself. "

It had stopped snowing, and though the wind still came in gusty blasts, whirling the drift against the windows, a wintry gleam of sunshine camein and touched the widow's wrinkled face. 

"It's amazin' how much trouble an' sorrer the' is in the world, an' howsoon it begins, " she remarked, moving a little to avoid the sunlight. "Ihain't never ben able to reconcile how many good things the' be, an' howlittle most on us gits o' them. I hain't ben to meetin' fer a long spell'cause I hain't had no fit clo'es, but I remember most of the preachin'I've set under either dwelt on the wrath to come, or else on the Lord'sdoin' all things well, an' providin'. I hope I ain't no wickeder 'n thanthe gen'ral run, but it's putty hard to hev faith in the Lord'sprovidin' when you hain't got nothin' in the house but corn meal, an'none too much o' that. "

"That's so, Mis' Cullom, that's so, " affirmed David. "I don't blame ye amite. 'Doubts assail, an' oft prevail, ' as the hymn-book says, an' Ireckon it's a sight easier to have faith on meat an' potatoes 'n it ison corn meal mush. Wa'al, as I was sayin'--I hope I ain't tirin' ye withmy goin's on?"

"No, " said Mrs. Cullom, "I'm engaged to hear ye, but nobody 'd supposeto see ye now that ye was such a f'lorn little critter as you make out. "

"It's jest as I'm tellin' ye, an' more also, as the Bible says, "returned David, and then, rather more impressively, as if he wereleading up to his conclusion, "it come along to a time when I was 'twixtthirteen an' fourteen. The' was a cirkis billed to show down here inHomeville, an' ev'ry barn an' shed fer miles around had pictures stuckonto 'em of el'phants, an' rhinoceroses, an' ev'ry animul that went intothe ark; an' girls ridin' bareback an' jumpin' through hoops, an'fellers ridin' bareback an' turnin' summersets, an' doin' turnovers onswings; an' clowns gettin' hoss-whipped, an' ev'ry kind of a thing thatcould be pictered out; an' how the' was to be a grand percession at teno'clock, 'ith golden chariots, an' scripteral allegories, an' the hullbus'nis; an' the gran' performance at two o'clock; admission twenty-fivecents, children under twelve, at cetery, an' so forth. Wa'al, I hadn'tno more idee o' goin' to that cirkis 'n I had o' flyin' to the moon, butthe night before the show somethin' waked me 'bout twelve o'clock. Idon't know how 't was. I'd ben helpin' mend fence all day, an' gen'allyI never knowed nothin' after my head struck the bed till mornin'. Butthat night, anyhow, somethin' waked me, an' I went an' looked out thewindo', an' there was the hull thing goin' by the house. The' was moreor less moon, an' I see the el'phant, an' the big wagins--the driverskind o' noddin' over the dashboards--an' the chariots with canvascovers--I don't know how many of 'em--an' the cages of the tigers an'lions, an' all. Wa'al, I got up the next mornin' at sun-up an' done mychores; an' after breakfust I set off fer the ten-acre lot where I wasmendin' fence. The ten-acre was the farthest off of any, Homeville way, an' I had my dinner in a tin pail so't I needn't lose no time goin'home at noon, an', as luck would have it, the' wa'n't nobody with methat mornin'. Wa'al, I got down to the lot an' set to work; but somehowI couldn't git that show out o' my head nohow. As I said, I hadn't nomore notion of goin' to that cirkis 'n I had of kingdom come. I'd neverhad two shillin' of my own in my hull life. But the more I thought on'tthe uneasier I got. Somethin' seemed pullin' an' haulin' at me, an'fin'ly I gin in. I allowed I'd see that percession anyway if it took aleg, an' mebbe I c'd git back 'ithout nobody missin' me. 'T any rate, I'd take the chances of a lickin' jest once--fer that's what itmeant--an' I up an' put fer the village lickity-cut. I done them fourmile lively, I c'n tell ye, an' the stun-bruises never hurt me once. 

"When I got down to the village it seemed to me as if the hullpopulation of Freeland County was there. I'd never seen so many folkstogether in my life, an' fer a spell it seemed to me as if ev'rybody wasa-lookin' at me an' sayin', 'That's old Harum's boy Dave, playin'hookey, ' an' I sneaked 'round dreadin' somebody 'd give me away; but Ifin'ly found that nobody wa'n't payin' any attention to me--they wasthere to see the show, an' one red-headed boy more or less wa'n't nopertic'ler account. Wa'al, putty soon the percession hove in sight, an'the' was a reg'lar stampede among the boys, an' when it got by, I runan' ketched up with it agin, an' walked alongside the el'phant, tin pailan' all, till they fetched up inside the tent. Then I went off to oneside--it must 'a' ben about 'leven or half-past, an' eat my dinner--Ihad a devourin' appetite--an' thought I'd jest walk round a spell, an'then light out fer home. But the' was so many things to see an'hear--all the side-show pictures of Fat Women, an' Livin' Skelitons; an'Wild Women of Madygasker, an' Wild Men of Borneo; an' snakes windin'round women's necks; hand-orgins; fellers that played the 'cordion, an'mouth-pipes, an' drum an' cymbals all to once, an' such like--that Ifergot all about the time an' the ten-acre lot, an' the stun fence, an'fust I knowed the folks was makin' fer the ticket wagin, an' the bandbegun to play inside the tent. Be I taxin' your patience over thelimit?" said David, breaking off in his story and addressing Mrs. Cullommore directly. 

"No, I guess not, " she replied; "I was jest thinkin' of a circus I wentto once, " she added with an audible sigh. 

"Wa'al, " said David, taking a last farewell of the end of his cigar, which he threw into the grate, "mebbe what's comin' 'll int'rest ye more'n the rest on't has. I was standin' gawpin' 'round, list'nin' to theband an' watchin' the folks git their tickets, when all of a suddin Ifelt a twitch at my hair--it had a way of workin' out of the holes in myold chip straw hat--an' somebody says to me, 'Wa'al, sonny, what youthinkin' of?' he says. I looked up, an' who do you s'pose it was? It wasBilly P. Cullom! I knowed who he was, fer I'd seen him before, but ofcourse he didn't know me. Yes, ma'am, it was Billy P. , an' wa'n't herigged out to kill!"

The speaker paused and looked into the fire, smiling. The woman startedforward facing him, and clasping her hands, cried, "My husband! What'dhe have on?"

"Wa'al, " said David slowly and reminiscently, "near's I c'n remember, hehad on a blue broad-cloth claw-hammer coat with flat gilt buttons, an'a double-breasted plaid velvet vest, an' pearl-gray pants, strapped downover his boots, which was of shiny leather, an' a high pointed collaran' blue stock with a pin in it (I remember wonderin' if it c'd be realgold), an' a yeller-white plug beaver hat. "

At the description of each article of attire Mrs. Cullom nodded herhead, with her eyes fixed on David's face, and as he concluded she brokeout breathlessly, "Oh, yes! Oh, yes! David, he wore them very sameclo'es, an' he took me to that very same show that very same night!"There was in her face a look almost of awe, as if a sight of herlong-buried past youth had been shown to her from a coffin. 

Neither spoke for a moment or two, and it was the widow who broke thesilence. As David had conjectured, she was interested at last, and satleaning forward with her hands clasped in her lap. 

"Well, " she exclaimed, "ain't ye goin' on? What did he say to ye?"

"Cert'nly, cert'nly, " responded David, "I'll tell ye near 's I c'nremember, an' I c'n remember putty near. As I told ye, I felt a twitchat my hair, an' he said, 'What be you thinkin' about, sonny?' I lookedup at him, an' looked away quick. 'I dunno, ' I says, diggin' my big toeinto the dust; an' then, I dunno how I got the spunk to, for I was shyer'n a rat, 'Guess I was thinkin' 'bout mendin' that fence up in theten-acre lot's much's anythin', ' I says. 

"'Ain't you goin' to the cirkis?' he says. 

"'I hain't got no money to go to cirkises, ' I says, rubbin' the dustytoes o' one foot over t' other, 'nor nothin' else, ' I says. 

"'Wa'al, ' he says, 'why don't you crawl under the canvas?'

"That kind o' riled me, shy 's I was. 'I don't crawl under no canvases, 'I says. 'If I can't go in same 's other folks, I'll stay out, ' I says, lookin' square at him fer the fust time. He wa'n't exac'ly smilin', butthe' was a look in his eyes that was the next thing to it. "

"Lordy me!" sighed Mrs. Cullom, as if to herself. "How well I canremember that look; jest as if he was laughin' at ye, an' wa'n'tlaughin' at ye, an' his arm around your neck!"

David nodded in reminiscent sympathy, and rubbed his bald poll with theback of his hand. 

"Wa'al, " interjected the widow. 

"Wa'al, " said David, resuming, "he says to me, 'Would you like to go tothe cirkis?' an' with that it occurred to me that I did want to go tothat cirkis more'n anythin' I ever wanted to before--nor since, it seemsto me. But I tell ye the truth, I was so far f'm expectin' to go't Ireally hadn't knowed I wanted to. I looked at him, an' then down agin, an' began tenderin' up a stun-bruise on one heel agin the other instep, an' all I says was, bein' so dum'd shy, 'I dunno, ' I says. But I guesshe seen in my face what my feelin's was, fer he kind o' laughed an'pulled out half-a-dollar an' says: 'D' you think you could git a coupleo' tickits in that crowd? If you kin, I think I'll go myself, but Idon't want to git my boots all dust, ' he says. I allowed I c'd try; an'I guess them bare feet o' mine tore up the dust some gettin' over to thewagin. Wa'al, I had another scare gettin' the tickits, fer fear some onethat knowed me 'd see me with a half-a-dollar, an' think I must 'a'stole the money. But I got 'em an' carried 'em back to him, an' he took'em an' put 'em in his vest pocket, an' handed me a ten-cent piece, an'says, 'Mebbe you'll want somethin' in the way of refreshments feryourself an' mebbe the el'phant, ' he says, an' walked off toward thetent; an' I stood stun still, lookin' after him. He got off about a rodor so an' stopped an' looked back. 'Ain't you comin'?' he says. 

"'Be I goin' with _you_?" I says. 

"'Why not?' he says, ''nless you'd ruther go alone, ' an' he put hisfinger an' thumb into his vest pocket. Wa'al, ma'am, I looked at him aminute, with his shiny hat an' boots, an' fine clo'es, an' gold pin, an'thought of my ragged ole shirt, an' cotton pants, an' ole chip hat withthe brim most gone, an' my tin pail an' all. 'I ain't fit to, ' I says, ready to cry--an'--wa'al, he jest laughed, an' says, 'Nonsense, ' hesays, 'come along. A man needn't be ashamed of his workin' clo'es, ' hesays, an' I'm dum'd if he didn't take holt of my hand, an' in we wentthat way together. "

"How like him that was!" said the widow softly. 

"Yes, ma'am, yes, ma'am, I reckon it was, " said David, nodding. 

"Wa'al, " he went on after a little pause, "I was ready to sink into theground with shyniss at fust, but that wore off some after a little, an'we two seen the hull show, I _tell_ ye. We walked 'round the cages, an'we fed the el'phant--that is, he bought the stuff an' I fed him. I'member--he, he, he!--'t he says, 'mind you git the right end, ' he says, an' then we got a couple o' seats, an' the doin's begun. "

CHAPTER XX. 

The widow was looking at David with shining eyes and devouring hiswords. All the years of trouble and sorrow and privation were wiped out, and she was back in the days of her girlhood. Ah, yes! how well sheremembered him as he looked that very day--so handsome, so splendidlydressed, so debonair; and how proud she had been to sit by his side thatnight, observed and envied of all the village girls. 

"I ain't goin' to go over the hull show, " proceeded David, "well 's Iremember it. The' didn't nothin' git away from me that afternoon, an'once I come near to stickin' a piece o' gingerbread into my ear 'stid o'my mouth. I had my ten-cent piece that Billy P. Give me, but he wouldn'tlet me buy nothin'; an' when the gingerbread man come along he says, 'Air ye hungry, Dave? (I'd told him my name), air ye hungry?' Wa'al, Iwas a growin' boy, an' I was hungry putty much all the time. He boughttwo big squares an' gin me one, an' when I'd swallered it, he says, 'Guess you better tackle this one too, ' he says, 'I've dined. ' I didn'texac'ly know what 'dined' meant, but--he, he, he, he!--I tackled it, "and David smacked his lips in memory. 

"Wa'al, " he went on, "we done the hull programmy--gingerbread, lemonade--_pink_ lemonade, an' he took some o' that--pop corn, peanuts, pep'mint candy, cin'mun candy--scat my ----! an' he payin' ferev'rythin'--I thought he was jest made o' money! An' I remember how wetalked about all the doin's; the ridin', an' jumpin', an' summersettin', an' all--fer he'd got all the shyniss out of me for the time--an' once Ilooked up at him, an' he looked down at me with that curious look in hiseyes an' put his hand on my shoulder. Wa'al, now, I tell ye, I had aqueer, crinkly feelin' go up an' down my back, an' I like to up an'cried. "

"Dave, " said the widow, "I kin see you two as if you was settin' therefront of me. He was alwus like that. Oh, my! Oh, my! David, " she addedsolemnly, while two tears rolled slowly down her wrinkled face, "welived together, husban' an' wife, fer seven year, an' he never give me across word. "

"I don't doubt it a mossel, " said David simply, leaning over and pokingthe fire, which operation kept his face out of her sight and wasprolonged rather unduly. Finally he straightened up and, blowing hisnose as it were a trumpet, said:

"Wa'al, the cirkis fin'ly come to an end, an' the crowd hustled to gitout 's if they was afraid the tent 'd come down on 'em. I got kind o'mixed up in 'em, an' somebody tried to git my tin pail, or I thought hedid, an' the upshot was that I lost sight o' Billy P. , an' couldn't makeout to ketch a glimpse of him nowhere. An' _then_ I kind o' come down toearth, kerchug! It was five o'clock, an' I had better 'n four mile towalk--mostly up hill--an' if I knowed anything 'bout the old man, an' Ithought I _did_, I had the all-firedist lickin' ahead of me 't I'd evergot, an' that was sayin' a good deal. But, boy 's I was, I had gritenough to allow 't was wuth it, an' off I put. "

"Did he lick ye much?" inqured Mrs. Cullom anxiously. 

"Wa'al, " replied David, "he done his best. He was layin' fer me when Istruck the front gate--I knowed it wa'n't no use to try the back door, an' he took me by the ear--most pulled it off--an' marched me off to thebarn shed without a word. I never see him so mad. Seemed like hecouldn't speak fer a while, but fin'ly he says, 'Where you ben all day?'

"'Down t' the village, ' I says. 

"'What you ben up to down there?' he says. 

"'Went to the cirkis, ' I says, thinkin' I might 's well make a cleanbreast on't. 

"'Where 'd you git the money?' he says. 

"'Mr. Cullom took me, ' I says. 

"'You lie, ' he says. 'You stole the money somewheres, an' I'll trounceit out of ye, if I kill ye, ' he says. 

"Wa'al, " said David, twisting his shoulders in recollection, "I won'tharrer up your feelin's. 'S I told you, he done his best. I was willin'to quit long 'fore he was. Fact was, he overdone it a little, an' he hadto throw water in my face 'fore he got through; an' he done that asthorough as the other thing. I was somethin' like a chickin jest out o'the cistern. I crawled off to bed the best I could, but I didn't lay onmy back fer a good spell, I c'n tell ye. "

"You poor little critter, " exclaimed Mrs. Cullom sympathetically. "Youpoor little critter!"

"'T was more'n wuth it, Mis' Cullom, " said David emphatically. "I'd hadthe most enjoy'ble day, I might say the only enjoy'ble day, 't I'd everhad in my hull life, an' I hain't never fergot it. I got over thelickin' in course of time, but I've ben enjoyin' that cirkis fer fortyyear. The' wa'n't but one thing to hender, an' that's this, that Ihain't never ben able to remember--an' to this day I lay awake nightstryin' to--that I said 'Thank ye' to Billy P. , an' I never seen himafter that day. "

"How's that?" asked Mrs. Cullom. 

"Wa'al, " was the reply, "that day was the turnin' point with me. Thenext night I lit out with what duds I c'd git together, an' as much grub's I could pack in that tin pail; an' the next time I see the old houseon Buxton Hill the' hadn't ben no Harums in it fer years. "

Here David rose from his chair, yawned and stretched himself, and stoodwith his back to the fire. The widow looked up anxiously into his face. "Is that all?" she asked after a while. 

"Wa'al, it is an' it ain't. I've got through yarnin' about Dave Harum atany rate, an' mebbe we'd better have a little confab on your matters, seein' 't I've got you 'way up here such a mornin' 's this. I gen'allydo bus'nis fust an' talkin' afterward, " he added, "but I kind o' got togoin' an' kept on this time. "

He put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and took out threepapers, which he shuffled in review as if to verify their identity, andthen held them in one hand, tapping them softly upon the palm of theother, as if at a loss how to begin. The widow sat with her eyesfastened upon the papers, trembling with nervous apprehension. Presently he broke the silence. 

"About this here morgidge o' your'n, " he said, "I sent ye word that Iwanted to close the matter up, an' seein' 't you're here an' come ferthat purpose, I guess we'd better make a job on't. The' ain't no timelike the present, as the sayin' is. "

"I s'pose it'll hev to be as you say, " said the widow in a shakingvoice. 

"Mis' Cullom, " said David solemnly, "_you_ know, an' I know, that I'vegot the repitation of bein' a hard, graspin', schemin' man. Mebbe I be. Mebbe I've ben hard done by all my hull life, an' have had to be; an'mebbe, now 't I've got ahead some, it's got to be second nature, an' Ican't seem to help it. 'Bus'nis is bus'nis' ain't part of the goldenrule, I allow, but the way it gen'ally runs, fur 's I've found out, is, 'Do unto the other feller the way he'd like to do unto you, an' do itfust. ' But, if you want to keep this thing a-runnin' as it's goin' onnow fer a spell longer, say one year, or two, or even three, you may, only I've got somethin' to say to ye 'fore ye elect. "

"Wa'al, " said the poor woman, "I expect it 'd only be pilin' up wrathagin' the day o' wrath. I can't pay the int'rist now without starvin', an' I hain't got no one to bid in the prop'ty fer me if it was to besold. "

"Mis' Cullom, " said David, "I said I'd got somethin' more to tell ye, an' if, when I git through, you don't think I've treated you right, includin' this mornin's confab, I hope you'll fergive me. It's this, an'I'm the only person livin' that 's knowin' to it, an' in fact I may saythat I'm the only person that ever was really knowin' to it. It wasbefore you was married, an' I'm sure he never told ye, fer I don't doubthe fergot all about it, but your husband, Billy P. Cullom, that was, made a small investment once on a time, yes, ma'am, he did, an' in hiskind of careless way it jest slipped his mind. The amount of cap'tal heput in wa'n't large, but the rate of int'rist was uncommon high. Now, henever drawed no dividends on't, an' they've ben 'cumulatin' fer fortyyear, more or less, at compound int'rist. "

The widow started forward, as if to rise from her seat. David put hishand out gently and said, "Jest a minute, Mis' Cullom, jest a minute, till I git through. Part o' that cap'tal, " he resumed, "consistin' of aquarter an' some odd cents, was invested in the cirkis bus'nis, an' therest on't--the cap'tal, an' all the cash cap'tal that I started inbus'nis with--was the ten cents your husband give me that day, an'here, " said David, striking the papers in his left hand with the back ofhis right, "_here_ is the _dividends_! This here second morgidge, notbein' on record, may jest as well go onto the fire--it's gettin'low--an' here's a satisfaction piece which I'm goin' to execute now, that'll clear the thousan' dollar one. Come in here, John, " he calledout. 

The widow stared at David for a moment speechless, but as thesignificance of his words dawned upon her, the blood flushed darkly inher face. She sprang to her feet and, throwing up her arms, cried out:"My Lord! My Lord! Dave! Dave Harum! Is it true?--tell me it's true! Youain't foolin' me, air ye, Dave? You wouldn't fool a poor old woman thatnever done ye no harm, nor said a mean word agin ye, would ye? Is ittrue? an' is my place clear? an' I don't owe nobody anythin'--I mean, nomoney? Tell it agin. Oh, tell it agin! Oh, Dave! it's too good to betrue! Oh! Oh! Oh, _my_! an' here I be cryin' like a great baby, an', an'"--fumbling in her pocket--"I do believe I hain't got nohank'chif--Oh, thank ye, " to John; "I'll do it up an' send it backto-morrer. Oh, what made ye do it, Dave?"

"Set right down an' take it easy, Mis' Cullom, " said David soothingly, putting his hands on her shoulders and gently pushing her back into herchair. "Set right down an' take it easy. --Yes, " to John, "I acknowledgethat I signed that. "

He turned to the widow, who sat wiping her eyes with John'shandkerchief. 

"Yes, ma'am, " he said, "It's as true as anythin' kin be. I wouldn't nomore fool ye, ye know I wouldn't, don't ye? than I'd--jerk a hoss, " heasseverated. "Your place is clear now, an' by this time to-morro' the'won't be the scratch of a pen agin it. I'll send the satisfaction overfer record fust thing in the mornin'. "

"But, Dave, " protested the widow, "I s'pose ye know what you'redoin'--?"

"Yes, " he interposed, "I cal'late I do, putty near. You ast me why Idone it, an' I'll tell ye if ye want to know. I'm payin' off an oldscore, an' gettin' off cheap, too. That's what I'm doin'! I thought I'dhinted up to it putty plain, seein' 't I've talked till my jaws ache;but I'll sum it up to ye if you like. "

He stood with his feet aggressively wide apart, one hand in histrousers pocket, and holding in the other the "morgidge, " which he wavedfrom time to time in emphasis. 

"You c'n estimate, I reckon, " he began, "what kind of a bringin'-up Ihad, an' what a poor, mis'able, God-fersaken, scairt-to-death littleforlorn critter I was; put upon, an' snubbed, an' jawed at till I'd cometo believe myself--what was rubbed into me the hull time--that I was themost all-'round no-account animul that was ever made out o' dust, an'wa'n't ever likely to be no diff'rent. Lookin' back, it seems to methat--exceptin' of Polly--I never had a kind word said to me, nor aday's fun. Your husband, Billy P. Cullom, was the fust man that evertreated me human up to that time. He give me the only enjoy'ble time 'tI'd ever had, an' I don't know 't anythin' 's ever equaled it since. Hespent money on me, an' he give me money to spend--that had never had acent to call my own--_an'_, Mis' Cullom, he took me by the hand, an' hetalked to me, an' he gin me the fust notion 't I'd ever had that mebbe Iwa'n't only the scum o' the earth, as I'd ben teached to believe. I toldye that that day was the turnin' point of my life. Wa'al, it wa'n't thelickin' I got, though that had somethin' to do with it, but I'd neverhave had the spunk to run away's I did if it hadn't ben for theheartenin' Billy P. Gin me, an' never knowed it, an' never knowed it, "he repeated mournfully. "I alwus allowed to pay some o' that debt backto him, but seein' 's I can't do that, Mis' Cullom, I'm glad an'thankful to pay it to his widdo'. "

"Mebbe he knows, Dave, " said Mrs. Cullom softly. 

"Mebbe he does, " assented David in a low voice. 

Neither spoke for a time, and then the widow said: "David, I can't thankye 's I ought ter--I don't know how--but I'll pray for ye night an'mornin' 's long 's I got breath. An', Dave, " she added humbly, "I wantto take back what I said about the Lord's providin'. "

She sat a moment, lost in her thoughts, and then exclaimed, "Oh, itdon't seem 's if I c'd wait to write to Charley!"

"I've wrote to Charley, " said David, "an' told him to sell out there an'come home, an' to draw on me fer any balance he needed to move him. I'vegot somethin' in my eye that'll be easier an' better payin' thanfightin' grasshoppers an' drought in Kansas. "

"Dave Harum!" cried the widow, rising to her feet, "you ought to 'a' bena king!"

"Wa'al, " said David with a grin, "I don't know much about the kingin'bus'nis, but I guess a cloth cap 'n' a hoss whip 's more 'n my line thana crown an' scepter. An' now, " he added, "'s we've got through 'th ourbus'nis, s'pose you step over to the house an' see Polly. She'sexpectin' on ye to dinner. Oh, yes, " replying to the look of deprecationin her face as she viewed her shabby frock, "you an' Polly c'n prink upsome if you want to, but we can't take 'No' fer an answer Chris'mus day, clo'es or no clo'es. "

"I'd really like ter, " said Mrs. Cullom. 

"All right then, " said David cheerfully. "The path is swep' by thistime, I guess, an' I'll see ye later. Oh, by the way, " he exclaimed, "the's somethin' I fergot. I want to make you a proposition, ruther anonusual one, but seein' ev'rythin' is as 't is, perhaps you'll considerit. "

"Dave, " declared the widow, "if I could, an' you ast for it, I'd give yeanythin' on the face o' this mortal globe!"

"Wa'al, " said David, nodding and smiling, "I thought that mebbe, long 'syou got the int'rist of that investment we ben talkin' about, you'd letme keep what's left of the princ'pal. Would ye like to see it?"

Mrs. Cullom looked at him with a puzzled expression without replying. 

David took from his pocket a large wallet, secured by a strap, and, opening it, extracted something enveloped in much faded brown paper. Unfolding this, he displayed upon his broad fat palm an old silver dimeblack with age. 

"There's the cap'tal, " he said. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

John walked to the front door with Mrs. Cullom, but she declined withsuch evident sincerity his offer to carry her bundle to the house thathe let her out of the office and returned to the back room. David wassitting before the fire, leaning back in his chair with his hands thrustdeep in his trousers pockets. He looked up as John entered and said, "Draw up a chair. "

John brought a chair and stood by the side of it while he said, "I wantto thank you for the Christmas remembrance, which pleased and touched mevery deeply; and, " he added diffidently, "I want to say how mortified Iam--in fact, I want to apologize for--"

"Regrettin'?" interrupted David with a motion of his hand toward thechair and a smile of great amusement. "Sho, sho! Se' down, se' down. I'm glad you found somethin' in your stockin' if it pleased ye, an' asfur's that regret o' your'n was concerned--wa'al--wa'al, I liked ye allthe better for't, I did fer a fact. He, he, he! Appearances was rutheragin me, wasn't they, the way I told it. "

"Nevertheless, " said John, seating himself, "I ought not to have--thatis to say, I ought to have known--"

"How could ye, " David broke in, "When I as good as told ye I wascal'latin' to rob the old lady? He, he, he, he! Scat my ----! Your facewas a picture when I told ye to write that note, though I reckon youdidn't know I noticed it. "

John laughed and said, "You have been very generous all through, Mr. Harum. "

"Nothin' to brag on, " he replied, "nothin' to brag on. Fur 's Mis'Cullom's matter was concerned, 't was as I said, jest payin' off an oldscore; an' as fur 's your stockin', it's really putty much the same. I'll allow you've earned it, if it'll set any easier on your stomach. "

"I can't say that I have been overworked, " said John with a slightlaugh. 

"Mebbe not, " rejoined David, "but you hain't ben overpaid neither, an' Iwant ye to be satisfied. Fact is, " he continued, "my gettin' you up herewas putty consid'able of an experiment, but I ben watchin' ye puttyclose, an' I'm more'n satisfied. Mebbe Timson c'd beat ye at figurin'an' countin' money when you fust come, an' knowed more about thepertic'ler points of the office, but outside of that he was the biggistdumb-head I ever see, an' you know how he left things. He hadn't notack, fer one thing. Outside of summin' up figures an' countin' money hehad a faculty fer gettin' things t'other-end to that beat all. I'd tellhim a thing, an' explain it to him two three times over, an' he'd say'Yes, yes, ' an', scat my ----! when it came to carryin' on't out, hehadn't sensed it a mite--jest got it which-end-t'other. An talk! Wa'al, I think it must 'a' ben a kind of disease with him. He really didn'tmean no harm, mebbe, but he couldn't no more help lettin' out anythin'he knowed, or thought he knowed, than a settin' hen c'n help settin'. He kep' me on tenter-hooks the hull endurin' time. "

"I should say he was honest enough, was he not?" said John. 

"Oh, yes, " replied David with a touch of scorn, "he was honest enoughfur 's money matters was concerned; but he hadn't no tack, nor no sense, an' many a time he done more mischief with his gibble-gabble than ifhe'd took fifty dollars out an' out. Fact is, " said David, "the kind ofhonesty that won't actually steal 's a kind of fool honesty that'scommon enough; but the kind that keeps a feller's mouth shut when hehadn't ought to talk 's about the scurcest thing goin'. I'll jest tellye, fer example, the last mess he made. You know Purse, that keeps thegen'ral store? Wa'al, he come to me some months ago, on the quiet, an'said that he wanted to borro' five hunderd. He didn't want to git noindorser, but he'd show me his books an' give me a statement an' achattel morgidge fer six months. He didn't want nobody to know 't he wasanyway pushed fer money because he wanted to git some extensions, an' soon. I made up my mind it was all right, an' I done it. Wa'al, about amonth or so after he come to me with tears in his eyes, as ye might say, an' says, 'I got somethin' I want to show ye, ' an' handed out a letterfrom the house in New York he had some of his biggist dealin's with, tellin' him that they regretted"--here David gave John a nudge--"thatthey couldn't give him the extensions he ast for, an' that his papermust be paid as it fell due--some twelve hunderd dollars. 'Somebody 'sleaked, ' he says, 'an' they've heard of that morgidge, an' I'm in aputty scrape, ' he says. 

"'H'm'm, ' I says, 'what makes ye think so?'

"'Can't be nothin' else, ' he says; 'I've dealt with them people feryears an' never ast fer nothin' but what I got it, an' now to have 'emround up on me like this, it can't be nothin' but what they've got windo' that chattel morgidge, ' he says. 

"'H'm'm, ' I says. 'Any o' their people ben up here lately?' I says. 

"'That's jest it, ' he says. 'One o' their travellin' men was up herelast week, an' he come in in the afternoon as chipper as you please, wantin' to sell me a bill o' goods, an' I put him off, sayin' that I hada putty big stock, an' so on, an' he said he'd see me agin in themornin'--you know that sort of talk, ' he says. 

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'did he come in?'

"'No, ' says Purse, 'he didn't. I never set eyes on him agin, an' more'nthat, ' he says, 'he took the first train in the mornin', an' now, ' hesays, 'I expect I'll have ev'ry last man I owe anythin' to buzzin''round my ears. '

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'I guess I see about how the land lays, an' I reckonyou ain't fur out about the morgidge bein' at the bottom on't, an' the'ain't no way it c'd 'a' leaked out 'ceptin' through that dum'dchuckle-head of a Timson. But this is the way it looks to me--you hain'theard nothin' in the village, have ye?' I says. 

"'No, ' he says. 'Not _yit_, ' he says. 

"'Wa'al, ye won't, I don't believe, ' I says, 'an' as fur as that drummeris concerned, you c'n bet, ' I says, 'that he didn't nor won't let on tonobody but his own folks--not till _his_ bus'nis is squared up, an'more 'n that, ' I says, 'seein' that your trouble 's ben made ye by oneo' my help, I don't see but what I'll have to see ye through, ' I says. 'You jest give me the address of the New York parties, an' tell me whatyou want done, an' I reckon I c'n fix the thing so 't they won't botherye. I don't believe, ' I says, 'that anybody else knows anythin' yet, an'I'll shut up Timson's yawp so 's it'll stay shut. '"

"How did the matter come out?" asked John, "and what did Purse say?"

"Oh, " replied David, "Purse went off head up an' tail up. He said he waseverlastin'ly obliged to me, an'--he, he, he!--he said 't was more 'n heexpected. You see I charged him what I thought was right on the 'rig'naldeal, an' he squimmidged some, an' I reckon he allowed to be putty wellbled if I took holt agin; but I done as I agreed on the extensionbus'nis, an' I'm on his paper for twelve hunderd fer nothin', jestbecause that nikum-noddy of a Timson let that drummer bamboozle him intotalkin'. I found out the hull thing, an' the very day I wrote to the NewYork fellers fer Purse, I wrote to Gen'ral Wolsey to find me somebody totake Timson's place. I allowed I'd ruther have somebody that didn't knownobody, than such a clackin' ole he-hen as Chet. "

"I should have said that it was rather a hazardous thing to do, " saidJohn, "to put a total stranger like me into what is rather aconfidential position, as well as a responsible one. "

"Wa'al, " said David, "in the fust place I knew that the Gen'ral wouldn'trecommend no dead-beat nor no skin, an' I allowed that if the rawmaterial was O. K. , I could break it in; an' if it wa'n't I should findit out putty quick. Like a young hoss, " he remarked, "if he's sound an'kind, an' got gumption, I'd sooner break him in myself 'n not--fur's myuse goes--an' if I can't, nobody can, an' I get rid on him. Youunderstand?"

"Yes, " said John with a smile. 

"Wa'al, " continued David, "I liked your letter, an' when you come Iliked your looks. Of course I couldn't tell jest how you'd take holt, nor if you an' me 'd hitch. An' then agin, I didn't know whether youcould stan' it here after livin' in a city all your life. I watched yeputty close--closter 'n you knowed of, I guess. I seen right off thatyou was goin' to fill your collar, fur's the work was concerned, an'though you didn't know nobody much, an' couldn't have no amusement tospeak on, you didn't mope nor sulk, an' what's more--though I know Iadvised ye to stay there fer a spell longer when you spoke aboutboardin' somewhere else--I know what the Eagle tavern is in winter;summer, too, fer that matter, though it's a little better then, an' Iallowed that air test 'd be final. He, he, he! Putty rough, ain't it?"

"It is, rather, " said John, laughing. "I'm afraid my endurance is prettywell at an end. Elright's wife is ill, and the fact is, that since daybefore yesterday I have been living on what I could buy at thegrocery--crackers, cheese, salt fish, canned goods, _et cetera_. "

"Scat my ----!" cried David. "Wa'al! Wa'al! That's too dum'd bad! Why onearth--why, you must be _hungry_! Wa'al, you won't have to eat no saltherrin' to-day, because Polly 'n I are expectin' ye to dinner. "

Two or three times during the conversation David had gone to the windowoverlooking his lawn and looked out with a general air of observing theweather, and at this point he did so again, coming back to his seat witha look of satisfaction, for which there was, to John, no obvious reason. He sat for a moment without speaking, and then, looking at his watch, said: "Wa'al, dinner 's at one o'clock, an' Polly's a great one ferbein' on time. Guess I'll go out an' have another look at that peskycolt. You better go over to the house 'bout quarter to one, an' you c'nmake your t'ilet over there. I'm 'fraid if you go over to the Eagleit'll spoil your appetite. She'd think it might, anyway. "

So David departed to see the colt, and John got out some of the booksand busied himself with them until the time to present himself atDavid's house. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

"Why, Mis' Cullom, I'm real glad to see ye. Come right in, " said Mrs. Bixbee as she drew the widow into the "wing settin' room, " and proceededto relieve her of her wraps and her bundle. "Set right here by the firewhile I take these things of your'n into the kitchen to dry 'em out. I'll be right back"; and she bustled out of the room. When she came backMrs. Cullom was sitting with her hands in her lap, and there was in hereyes an expression of smiling peace that was good to see. 

Mrs. Bixbee drew up a chair, and seating herself, said: "Wa'al, I don'tknow when I've seen ye to git a chance to speak to ye, an' I was realpleased when David said you was goin' to be here to dinner. An' my! howwell, you're lookin'--more like Cynthy Sweetland than I've seen ye fer Idon't know when; an' yet, " she added, looking curiously at her guest, "you 'pear somehow as if you'd ben cryin'. "

"You're real kind, I'm sure, " responded Mrs. Cullom, replying to theother's welcome and remarks _seriatim_; "I guess, though, I don't lookmuch like Cynthy Sweetland, if I do feel twenty years younger 'n I did awhile ago; an' I have ben cryin', I allow, but not fer sorro', PollyHarum, " she exclaimed, giving the other her maiden name. "Your brotherDave comes putty nigh to bein' an angel!"

"Wa'al, " replied Mrs. Bixbee with a twinkle, "I reckon Dave might hev tobe fixed up some afore he come out in that pertic'ler shape, but, " sheadded impressively, "es fur as bein' a _man_ goes, he's 'bout 's good 'sthey make 'em. I know folks thinks he's a hard bargainer, an'close-fisted, an' some on 'em that ain't fit to lick up his tracks saysmore'n that. He's got his own ways, I'll allow, but down at bottom, an'all through, I know the' ain't no better man livin'. No, ma'am, the'ain't, an' what he's ben to me, Cynthy Cullom, nobody knows butme--an'--an'--mebbe the Lord--though I hev seen the time, " she saidtentatively, "when it seemed to me 't I knowed more about my affairs 'nHe did, " and she looked doubtfully at her companion, who had beenfollowing her with affirmative and sympathetic nods, and now drew herchair a little closer, and said softly: "Yes, yes, I know. I ben puttydoubtful an' rebellious myself a good many times, but seems now as if Hehad had me in His mercy all the time. " Here Aunt Polly's sense of humorasserted itself. "What's Dave ben up to now?" she asked. 

And then the widow told her story, with tears and smiles, and the keenenjoyment which we all have in talking about ourselves to a sympatheticlistener like Aunt Polly, whose interjections pointed and illuminatedthe narrative. When it was finished she leaned forward and kissed Mrs. Cullom on the cheek. 

"I can't tell ye how glad I be for ye, " she said; "but if I'd known thatDavid held that morgidge, I could hev told ye ye needn't hev worriedyourself a mite. He wouldn't never have taken your prop'ty, more'n he'drob a hen-roost. But he done the thing his own way--kind o' fetched itround fer a Merry Chris'mus, didn't he? Curious, " she said reflectively, after a momentary pause, "how he lays up things about his childhood, "and then, with a searching look at the Widow Cullom, "you didn't let on, an' I didn't ask ye, but of course you've heard the things that somefolks says of him, an' natchally they got some holt on your mind. There's that story about 'Lish, over to Whitcom--you heard somethin'about that, didn't ye?"

"Yes, " admitted the widow, "I heard somethin' of it, I s'pose. "

"Wa'al, " said Mrs. Bixbee, "you never heard the hull story, ner anybodyelse really, but I'm goin' to tell it to ye--"

"Yes, " said Mrs. Cullom assentingly. 

Mrs. Bixbee sat up straight in her chair with her hands on her knees andan air of one who would see justice done. 

"'Lish Harum, " she began, "wa'n't only half-brother to Dave. He washull-brother to me, though, but notwithstandin' that, I will say that ameaner boy, a meaner growin' man, an' a meaner man never walked theearth. He wa'n't satisfied to git the best piece an' the biggistpiece--he hated to hev any one else git anythin' at all. I don't believehe ever laughed in his life, except over some kind o' suff'rin'--man orbeast--an' what'd tickle him the most was to be the means on't. He tookpertic'ler delight in abusin' an' tormentin' Dave, an' the poor littlecritter was jest as 'fraid as death of him, an' good reason. Father wasawful hard, but he didn't go out of his way; but 'Lish never let nochance slip. Wa'al, I ain't goin' to give you the hull fam'ly hist'ry, an' I've got to go into the kitchen fer a while 'fore dinner, but what Istarted out fer 's this: 'Lish fin'ly settled over to Whitcom. "

"Did he ever git married?" interrupted Mrs. Cullom. 

"Oh, yes, " replied Mrs. Bixbee, "he got married when he was past forty. It's curious, " she remarked, in passing, "but it don't seem as if the'was ever yit a man so mean but he c'd find some woman was fool enough tomarry him, an' she was a putty decent sort of a woman too, f'm allaccounts, an' good lookin'. Wa'al, she stood him six or seven year, an'then she run off. "

"With another man?" queried the widow in an awed voice. Aunt Pollynodded assent with compressed lips. 

"Yes'm, " she went on, "she left him an' went out West somewhere, an'that was the last of _her_; an' when her two boys got old enough to lookafter themselves a little, they quit him too, an' they wa'n't no waygrowed up neither. Wa'al, the long an' the short on't was that 'Lish gotgoin' down hill ev'ry way, health an' all, till he hadn't nothin' leftbut his disposition, an' fairly got onter the town. The' wa'n't nothin'for it but to send him to the county house, onless somebody 'd s'porthim. Wa'al, the committee knew Dave was his brother, an' one on 'em cometo see him to see if he'd come forwud an' help out, an' he seen Daveright here in this room, an' Dave made me stay an' hear the hull thing. Man's name was Smith, I remember, a peaked little man with long chinwhiskers that he kep' clawin' at with his fingers. Dave let him tellhis story, an' he didn't say nothin' fer a minute or two, an' then hesays, 'What made ye come to me?' he says. 'Did he send ye?'

"'Wa'al, ' says Smith, 'when it was clear that he couldn't do nuthin', weast him if the' wa'n't nobody could put up fer him, an' he said you washis brother, an' well off, an' hadn't ought to let him go t' thepoorhouse. '

"'He said that, did he?' says Dave. 

"'Amountin' to that, ' says Smith. 

"'Wa'al, ' says Dave, 'it's a good many years sence I see 'Lish, an'mebbe you know him better 'n I do. You known him some time, eh?'

"'Quite a number o' years, ' says Smith. 

"'What sort of a feller was he, ' says Dave, 'when he was somebody? Puttygood feller? good citizen? good neighber? lib'ral? kind to his fam'ly?ev'rybody like him? gen'ally pop'lar, an' all that?'

"'Wa'al, ' says Smith, wigglin' in his chair an' pullin' out his whiskersthree four hairs to a time, 'I guess he come some short of all that. '

"'E'umph!' says Dave, 'I guess he did! Now, honest, ' he says, '_is_ the'man, woman, or child in Whitcom that knows 'Lish Harum that's got a goodword fer him? or ever knowed of his doin' or sayin' anythin' that hadn'tgot a mean side to it some way? Didn't he drive his wife off, out an'out? an' didn't his two boys hev to quit him soon 's they could travel?_An'_, ' says Dave, 'if any one was to ask you to figure out a pattern ofthe meanist human skunk you was capable of thinkin' of, wouldn'tit--honest, now!' Dave says, 'honest, now--wouldn't it be 's near like'Lish Harum as one buckshot 's like another?'"

"My!" exclaimed Mrs. Cullom. "What did Mr. Smith say to that?"

"Wa'al, " replied Mrs. Bixbee, "he didn't say nuthin' at fust, not in somany words. He sot fer a minute clawin' away at his whiskers--an' he'dgot both hands into 'em by that time--an' then he made a move as if hegin the hull thing up an' was goin'. Dave set lookin' at him, an' thenhe says, 'You ain't goin', air ye?'

"'Wa'al, ' says Smith, 'feelin' 's you do, I guess my arrant here ain'tgoin' t' amount to nothin', an' I may 's well. '

"'No, you set still a minute, ' says Dave. 'If you'll answer my questionhonest an' square, I've got sunthin' more to say to ye. Come, now, ' hesays. 

"'Wa'al, ' says Smith, with a kind of give-it-up sort of a grin, 'I guessyou sized him up about right. I didn't come to see you on 'Lish Harum'saccount. I come fer the town of Whitcom. ' An' then he spunked up somean' says, 'I don't give a darn, ' he says, 'what comes of 'Lish, an' Idon't know nobody as does, fur's he's person'ly concerned; but he's gotto be a town charge less 'n you take 'm off our hands. '

"Dave turned to me an' says, jest as if he meant it, 'How 'd you like tohave him here, Polly?'

"'Dave Harum!' I says, 'what be you thinkin' of, seein' what he is, an'alwus was, an' how he alwus treated you? Lord sakes!' I says, 'you ain'tthinkin' of it!'

"'Not much, ' he says, with an ugly kind of a smile, such as I never seein his face before, 'not much! Not under this roof, or any roof ofmine, if it wa'n't more'n my cow stable--an', ' he says, turnin' toSmith, 'this is what I want to say to you: You've done all right. Ihain't no fault to find with you. But I want you to go back an' say to'Lish Harum that you've seen me, an' that I told you that not one centof my money nor one mossel o' my food would ever go to keep him aliveone minute of time; that if I had an empty hogpen I wouldn't let himsleep in't overnight, much less to bunk in with a decent hog. You tellhim that I said the poorhouse was his proper dwellin', barrin' the jail, an' that it 'd have to be a dum'd sight poorer house 'n I ever heard ofnot to be a thousan' times too good fer him. '"

"My!" exclaimed Mrs. Cullom again. "I can't really 'magine it of Dave. "

"Wa'al, " replied Mrs. Bixbee, "I told ye how set he is on his youngdays, an' nobody knows how cruel mean 'Lish used to be to him; but Inever see it come out of him so ugly before, though I didn't blame him amite. But I hain't told ye the upshot: 'Now, ' he says to Smith, who setwith his mouth gappin' open, 'you understand how I feel about thefeller, an' I've got good reason for it. I want you to promise me thatyou'll say to him, word fer word, jest what I've said to you about him, an' I'll do this: You folks send him to the poorhouse, an' let him gitjest what the rest on 'em gits--no more an' no less--as long 's helives. When he dies you git him the tightest coffin you kin buy, to keephim f'm spilin' the earth as long as may be, an' then you send me thehull bill. But this has got to be between you an' me only. You c'n tellthe rest of the committee what you like, _but_ if you ever tell alivin' soul about this here understandin', an' I find it out, I'll neverpay one cent, an' you'll be to blame. I'm willin', on them terms, tostan' between the town of Whitcom an' harm; but fer 'Lish Harum, not onesumarkee! Is it a barg'in?' Dave says. 

"'Yes, sir, ' says Smith, puttin' out his hand. 'An' I guess, ' he says, 'f'm all 't I c'n gather, thet you're doin' all 't we could expect, an'more too, ' an' off he put. "

"How 'd it come out?" asked Mrs. Cullom. 

"'Lish lived about two year, " replied Aunt Polly, "an' Dave done as heagreed, but even then when he come to settle up, he told Smith he didn'twant no more said about it 'n could be helped. "

"Wa'al, " said Mrs. Cullom, "it seems to me as if David did take care onhim after all, fur 's spendin' money was concerned. "

"That's the way it looks to me, " said Mrs. Bixbee, "but David likes tothink t'other. He meant to be awful mean, an' he was--as mean as hecould--but the fact is, he didn't reelly know how. My sakes! Cynthy(looking at the clock), I'll hev to excuse myself fer a spell. Ef youwant to do any fixin' up 'fore dinner, jest step into my bedroom. I'velaid some things out on the bed, if you should happen to want any of'em, " and she hurried out of the room. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

David's house stood about a hundred feet back from the street, facingthe east. The main body of the house was of two stories (through whichran a deep bay in front), with mansard roof. On the south of the mainbody of the house were two stories of the "wing, " in which were the"settin' room, " Aunt Polly's room, and, above, David's quarters. Tenminutes or so before one o'clock John rang the bell at the front door. 

"Sairy's busy, " said Mrs. Bixbee apologetically as she let him in, "an'so I come to the door myself. "

"Thank you very much, " said John. "Mr. Harum told me to come over alittle before one, but perhaps I ought to have waited a few minuteslonger. "

"No, it's all right, " she replied, "for mebbe you'd like to wash an' fixup 'fore dinner, so I'll jest show ye where to, " and she led the wayupstairs and into the "front parlor bedroom. "

"There, " she said, "make yourself comf'table, an' dinner 'll be ready inabout ten minutes. "

For a moment John mentally rubbed his eyes. Then he turned and caughtboth of Mrs. Bixbee's hands and looked at her, speechless. When hefound words he said: "I don't know what to say, nor how to thank youproperly. I don't believe you know how kind this is. "

"Don't say nothin' about it, " she protested, but with a look of greatsatisfaction. "I done it jest t' relieve my mind, because ever sence youfust come, I ben worryin' over your bein' at that nasty tavern, " and shemade a motion to go. 

"You and your brother, " said John earnestly, still holding her hands, "have made me a gladder and happier man this Christmas day than I havebeen for a very long time. "

"I'm glad on't, " she said heartily, "an' I hope you'll be comf'table an'contented here. I must go now an' help Sairy dish up. Come down to thesettin' room when you're ready, " and she gave his hands a littlesqueeze. 

"Aunt Po----, I beg pardon, Mrs. Bixbee, " said John, moved by a suddenimpulse, "do you think you could find it in your heart to complete myhappiness by giving me a kiss? It's Christmas, you know, " he addedsmilingly. 

Aunt Polly colored to the roots of her hair. "Wa'al, " she said, with alittle laugh, "seein' 't I'm old enough to be your mother, I guess 'twon't hurt me none, " and as she went down the stairs she softly rubbedher lips with the side of her forefinger. 

John understood now why David had looked out of the bank window so oftenthat morning. All his belongings were in Aunt Polly's best bedroom, having been moved over from the Eagle while he and David had been in theoffice. A delightful room it was, in immeasurable contrast to hissqualid surroundings at that hostelry. The spacious bed, with its snowycounterpane and silk patchwork "comf'table" folded on the foot, thebright fire in the open stove, the big bureau and glass, the softcarpet, the table for writing and reading standing in the bay, his bookson the broad mantel, and his dressing things laid out ready to his hand, not to mention an ample supply of _dry_ towels on the rack. 

The poor fellow's life during the weeks which he had lived in Homevillehad been utterly in contrast with any previous experience. Neverthelesshe had tried to make the best of it, and to endure the monotony, thedullness, the entire lack of companionship and entertainment with whatphilosophy he could muster. The hours spent in the office were the bestpart of the day. He could manage to find occupation for all of them, though a village bank is not usually a scene of active bustle. Many ofthe people who did business there diverted him somewhat, and most ofthem seemed never too much in a hurry to stand around and talk the sortof thing that interested them. After John had got acquainted with hisduties and the people he came in contact with, David gave less personalattention to the affairs of the bank; but he was in and out frequentlyduring the day, and rarely failed to interest his cashier with hisobservations and remarks. 

But the long winter evenings had been very bad. After supper, a mealwhich revolted every sense, there had been as many hours to be gotthrough with as he found wakeful, an empty stomach often adding to thenumber of them, and the only resource for passing the time had beenreading, which had often been well-nigh impossible for sheer physicaldiscomfort. As has been remarked, the winter climate of the middleportion of New York State is as bad as can be imagined. His light was akerosene lamp of half-candle power, and his appliance for warmthconsisted of a small wood stove, which (as David would have expressedit) "took two men an' a boy" to keep in action, and was either red hotor exhausted. 

As from the depths of a spacious lounging chair he surveyed his newsurroundings, and contrasted them with those from which he had beenrescued out of pure kindness, his heart was full, and it can hardly beimputed to him as a weakness that for a moment his eyes filled withtears of gratitude and happiness--no less. 

Indeed, there were four happy people at David's table that Christmasday. Aunt Polly had "smartened up" Mrs. Cullom with collar and cuffs, and in various ways which the mind of man comprehendeth not in detail;and there had been some arranging of her hair as well, which altogetherhad so transformed and transfigured her that John thought that he shouldhardly have known her for the forlorn creature whom he had encounteredin the morning. And as he looked at the still fine eyes, large andbrown, and shining for the first time in many a year with a soft lightof happiness, he felt that he could understand how it was that Billy P. Had married the village girl. 

Mrs. Bixbee was grand in black silk and lace collar fastened with ashell-cameo pin not quite as large as a saucer, and John caught thesparkle of a diamond on her plump left hand--David's Christmasgift--with regard to which she had spoken apologetically to Mrs. Cullom:

"I told David that I was ever so much obliged to him, but I didn't wanta dimun' more'n a cat wanted a flag, an' I thought it was jest throwin'away money. But he would have it--said I c'd sell it an' keep out thepoorhouse some day, mebbe. "

David had not made much change in his usual raiment, but he was shavedto the blood, and his round red face shone with soap and satisfaction. As he tucked his napkin into his shirt collar, Sairy brought in thetureen of oyster soup, and he remarked, as he took his first spoonful ofthe stew, that he was "hungry 'nough t' eat a graven imidge, " acondition that John was able to sympathize with after his two days offasting on crackers and such provisions as he could buy at Purse's. Itwas, on the whole, he reflected, the most enjoyable dinner that he everate. Never was such a turkey; and to see it give way under David'sskillful knife--wings, drumsticks, second joints, side bones, breast--was an elevating and memorable experience. And such potatoes, mashed in cream; such boiled onions, turnips, Hubbard squash, succotash, stewed tomatoes, celery, cranberries, "currant jell!" Oh! and to "topoff" with, a mince pie to die for and a pudding (new to John, but justyou try it some time) of steamed Indian meal and fruit, with a sauce ofcream sweetened with shaved maple sugar. 

"What'll you have?" said David to Mrs. Cullom, "dark meat? white meat?"

"Anything, " she replied meekly, "I'm not partic'ler. Most any part of aturkey 'll taste good, I guess. "

"All right, " said David. "Don't care means a little o' both. I alwusknow what to give Polly--piece o' the second jint an' thelast-thing-over-the-fence. Nice 'n rich fer scraggly folks, " heremarked. "How fer you, John?--little o' both, eh?" and he heaped theplate till our friend begged him to keep something for himself. 

"Little too much is jest right, " he asserted. 

When David had filled the plates and handed them along--Sairy was forbringing in and taking out; they did their own helping to vegetables and"passin'"--he hesitated a moment, and then got out of his chair andstarted in the direction of the kitchen door. 

"What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Bixbee in surprise. "Where you goin'?"

"Woodshed, " said David. 

"Woodshed!" she exclaimed, making as if to rise and follow. 

"You set still, " said David. "Somethin' I fergot. "

"What on earth!" she exclaimed, with an air of annoyance andbewilderment. "What do you want in the woodshed? Can't you set down an'let Sairy git it for ye?"

"No, " he asserted with a grin. "Sairy might sqush it. It must be puttymeller by this time, " And out he went. 

"Manners!" ejaculated Mrs. Bixbee. "You'll think (to John) we're reg'lerheathin. "

"I guess not, " said John, smiling and much amused. 

Presently Sairy appeared with four tumblers which she distributed, andwas followed by David bearing a bottle. He seated himself and began astruggle to unwire the same with an ice-pick. Aunt Polly leaned forwardwith a look of perplexed curiosity. 

"What you got there?" she asked. 

"Vewve Clikot's universal an' suv'rin remedy, " said David, reading thelabel and bringing the corners of his eye and mouth almost together in awink to John, "fer toothache, earache, burns, scalds, warts, dispepsy, fallin' o' the hair, windgall, ringbone, spavin, disapp'intedaffections, an' pips in hens, " and out came the cork with a "_wop_, " atwhich both the ladies, even Mrs. Cullom, jumped and cried out. 

"David Harum, " declared his sister with conviction, "I believe thetthat's a bottle of champagne. "

"If it ain't, " said David, pouring into his tumbler, "I ben swindled outo' four shillin', " and he passed the bottle to John, who held it uptentatively, looking at Mrs. Bixbee. 

"No, thank ye, " she said with a little toss of the head, "I'm a son o'temp'rence. I don't believe, " she remarked to Mrs. Cullom, "thet thatbottle ever cost _less_ 'n a dollar. " At which remarks David apparently"swallered somethin' the wrong way, " and for a moment or two was unableto proceed with his dinner. Aunt Polly looked at him suspiciously. Itwas her experience that, in her intercourse with her brother, he oftenlaughed utterly without reason--so far as she could see. 

"I've always heard it was dreadful expensive, " remarked Mrs. Cullom. 

"Let me give you some, " said John, reaching toward her with the bottle. Mrs. Cullom looked first at Mrs. Bixbee and then at David. 

"I don't know, " she said. "I never tasted any. "

"Take a little, " said David, nodding approvingly. 

"Just a swallow, " said the widow, whose curiosity had got the better ofscruples. She took a swallow of the wine. 

"How do ye like it?" asked David. 

"Well, " she said as she wiped her eyes, into which the gas had driventhe tears, "I guess I could get along if I couldn't have it regular. "

"Don't taste good?" suggested David with a grin. 

"Well, " she replied, "I never did care any great for cider, and thistastes to me about as if I was drinkin' cider an' snuffin' horseradishat one and the same time. "

"How's that, John?" said David, laughing. 

"I suppose it's an acquired taste, " said John, returning the laugh andtaking a mouthful of the wine with infinite relish. "I don't think Iever enjoyed a glass of wine so much, or, " turning to Aunt Polly, "everenjoyed a dinner so much, " which statement completely mollified herfeelings, which had been the least bit in the world "set edgeways. "

"Mebbe your app'tite's got somethin' to do with it, " said David, shoveling a knife-load of good things into his mouth. "Polly, this youngman's ben livin' on crackers an' salt herrin' fer a week. "

"My land!" cried Mrs. Bixbee with an expression of horror. "Is thatreelly so? 'T ain't now, reelly?"

"Not quite so bad as that, " John answered, smiling; "but Mrs. Elrighthas been ill for a couple of days and--well, I have been foragingaround Purse's store a little. "

"Wa'al, of all the mean shames!" exclaimed Aunt Polly indignantly. "David Harum, you'd ought to be ridic'lous t' allow such a thing. "

"Wa'al, I never!" said David, holding his knife and fork straight up ineither fist as they rested on the table, and staring at his sister. "Ibelieve if the meetin'-house roof was to blow off you'd lay it onto mesomehow. I hain't ben runnin' the Eagle tavern fer quite a consid'ablewhile. You got the wrong pig by the ear as usual. Jest you pitch intohim, " pointing with his fork to John. "It's his funeral, if anybody's. "

"Wa'al, " said Aunt Polly, addressing John in a tone of injury, "I dothink you might have let somebody know; I think you'd ortter 'veknown--"

"Yes, Mrs. Bixbee, " he interrupted, "I did know how kind you are andwould have been, and if matters had gone on so much longer I should haveappealed to you, I should have indeed; but really, " he added, smiling ather, "a dinner like this is worth fasting a week for. "

"Wa'al, " she said, mollified again, "you won't git no more herrin''nless you ask fer 'em. "

"That is just what your brother said this morning, " replied John, looking at David with a laugh. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

The meal proceeded in silence for a few minutes. Mrs. Cullom had saidbut little, but John noticed that her diction was more conventional thanin her talk with David and himself in the morning, and that her mannerat the table was distinctly refined, although she ate with apparentappetite, not to say hunger. Presently she said, with an air of makingconversation, "I suppose you've always lived in the city, Mr. Lenox?"

"It has always been my home, " he replied, "but I have been away a gooddeal. "

"I suppose folks in the city go to theaters a good deal, " she remarked. 

"They have a great many opportunities, " said John, wondering what shewas leading up to. But he was not to discover, for David broke in with achuckle. 

"Ask Polly, Mis' Cullom, " he said. "She c'n tell ye all about thetheater, Polly kin. " Mrs. Cullom looked from David to Mrs. Bixbee, whoseface was suffused. 

"Tell her, " said David, with a grin. 

"I wish you'd shet up, " she exclaimed. "I sha'n't do nothin' of thesort. "

"Ne' mind, " said David cheerfully, "_I'll_ tell ye, Mis' Cullom. "

"Dave Harum!" expostulated Mrs. Bixbee, but he proceeded without heed ofher protest. 

"Polly an' I, " he said, "went down to New York one spring some yearsago. Her nerves was some wore out 'long of diff'rences with Sairy aboutclearin' up the woodshed, an' bread risin's, an' not bein' able to suitherself up to Purse's in the qual'ty of silk velvit she wanted fer aSunday-go-to-meetin' gown, an' I thought a spell off 'd do her good. Wa'al, the day after we got there I says to her while we was havin'breakfust--it was picked-up el'phant on toast, near 's I c'n remember, wa'n't it, Polly?"

"That's as near the truth as most o' the rest on't so fur, " said Pollywith a sniff. 

"Wa'al, I says to her, " he proceeded, untouched by her scorn, "'How'dyou like to go t' the theater? You hain't never ben, ' I says, 'an' nowyou're down here you may jest as well see somethin' while you got achanst, ' I says. Up to that _time_" he remarked, as it were in passing, "she'd ben somewhat pre_juced_ 'ginst theaters, an'----"

"Wa'al, " Mrs. Bixbee broke in, "I guess what we see that night wascal'lated----"

"You hold on, " he interposed. "I'm tellin' this story. You had a chanstto an' wouldn't. Anyway, " he resumed, "she allowed she'd try it once, an' we agreed we'd go somewheres that night. But somethin' happened toput it out o' my mind, an' I didn't think on't agin till I got back tothe hotel fer supper. So I went to the feller at the news-stand an'says, 'Got any show-tickits fer to-night?'

"'Theater?' he says. 

"'I reckon so, ' I says. 

"'Wa'al, ' he says, 'I hain't got nothin' now but two seats fer'Clyanthy. '

"'Is it a good show?' I says--'moral, an' so on? I'm goin' to take mysister, an' she's a little pertic'ler about some things, ' I says. Hekind o' grinned, the feller did. 'I've took my wife twice, an' she'sputty pertic'ler herself, ' he says, laughin. '"

"She must 'a' ben, " remarked Mrs. Bixbee with a sniff that spoke volumesof her opinion of "the feller's wife. " David emitted a chuckle. 

"Wa'al, " he continued, "I took the tickits on the feller's recommend, an' the fact of his wife's bein' so pertic'ler, an' after supper wewent. It was a mighty handsome place inside, gilded an' carved all overlike the outside of a cirkis wagin, an' when we went in the orchestrywas playin' an' the people was comin' in, an' after we'd set a fewminutes I says to Polly, 'What do you think on't?' I says. 

"'I don't see anythin' very unbecomin' so fur, an' the people looksrespectable enough, ' she says. 

"'No jail birds in sight fur 's ye c'n see so fur, be they?' I says. He, he, he, he!"

"You needn't make me out more of a gump 'n I was, " protested Mrs. Bixbee. "An' you was jest as----" David held up his finger at her. 

"Don't you sp'ile the story by discountin' the sequil. Wa'al, putty soonthe band struck up some kind of a dancin' tune, an' the curt'in went up, an' a girl come prancin' down to the footlights an' begun singin' an'dancin', an', scat my ----! to all human appearances you c'd 'a' coveredev'ry dum thing she had on with a postage stamp. " John stole a glance atMrs. Cullom. She was staring at the speaker with wide-open eyes ofhorror and amazement. 

"I guess I wouldn't go very _fur_ into pertic'lers, " said Mrs. Bixbee ina warning tone. 

David bent his head down over his plate and shook from head to foot, andit was nearly a minute before he was able to go on. "Wa'al, " he said, "Iheard Polly give a kind of a gasp an' a snort, 's if some one 'd throwedwater 'n her face. But she didn't say nothin', an', I swan! I didn'tdast to look at her fer a spell; an' putty soon in come a hull crowdmore girls that had left their clo'es in their trunks or somewhere, singin', an' dancin', an' weavin' 'round on the stage, an' after a fewminutes I turned an' looked at Polly. He, he, he, he!"

"David Harum!" cried Mrs. Bixbee, "ef you're goin' to discribe any moreo' them scand'lous goin's on I sh'll take my victuals into the kitchin. _I_ didn't see no more of 'em, " she added to Mrs. Cullom and John, "after that fust trollop appeared. "

"I don't believe she did, " said David, "fer when I turned she set therewith her eys shut tighter 'n a drum, an' her mouth shut too so's hernose an' chin most come together, an' her face was red enough so 't astreak o' red paint 'd 'a' made a white mark on it. 'Polly, ' I says, 'I'm afraid you ain't gettin' the wuth o' your money. '

"'David Harum, ' she says, with her mouth shut all but a little place inthe corner toward me, 'if you don't take me out o' this place, I'll gowithout ye, ' she says. 

"'Don't you think you c'd stan' it a little longer?' I says. 'Mebbethey've sent home fer their clo'es, ' I says. He, he, he, he! But withthat she jest give a hump to start, an' I see she meant bus'nis. WhenPolly Bixbee, " said David impressively, "puts that foot o' her'n _down_somethin's got to sqush, an' don't you fergit it. " Mrs. Bixbee made noacknowledgment of this tribute to her strength of character. John lookedat David. 

"Yes, " he said, with a solemn bend of the head, as if in answer to aquestion, "I squshed. I says to her, 'All right. Don't make nodisturbance more'n you c'n help, an' jest put your hank'chif up to yournose 's if you had the nosebleed, ' an' we squeezed out of the seats, an'sneaked up the aisle, an' by the time we got out into the entry I guessmy face was as red as Polly's. It couldn't 'a' ben no redder, " he added. 

"You got a putty fair color as a gen'ral thing, " remarked Mrs. Bixbeedryly. 

"Yes, ma'am; yes, ma'am, I expect that's so, " he assented, "but I got anextry coat o' tan follerin' you out o' that theater. When we got outinto the entry one o' them fellers that stands 'round steps up to me an'says, 'Ain't your ma feelin' well?' he says. 'Her feelin's has ben atrifle rumpled up, ' I says, 'an' that gen'ally brings on the nosebleed, 'an' then, " said David, looking over Mrs. Bixbee's head, "the feller wentan' leaned up agin the wall. "

"David Harum!" exclaimed Mrs. Bixbee, "that's a downright _lie_. Younever spoke to a soul, an'--an'--ev'rybody knows 't I ain't more 'n fouryears older 'n you be. "

"Wa'al, you see, Polly, " her brother replied in a smooth tone ofmeasureless aggravation, "the feller wa'n't acquainted with us, an' heonly went by appearances. "

Aunt Polly appealed to John: "Ain't he enough to--to--I d' know what?"

"I really don't see how you live with him, " said John, laughing. 

Mrs. Cullom's face wore a faint smile, as if she were conscious thatsomething amusing was going on, but was not quite sure what. The widowtook things seriously for the most part, poor soul. 

"I reckon you haven't followed theater-goin' much after that, " she saidto her hostess. 

"No, ma'am, " Mrs. Bixbee replied with emphasis, "you better believe Ihain't. I hain't never thought of it sence without tinglin' all over. Ibelieve, " she asserted, "that David 'd 'a' stayed the thing out if ithadn't ben fer me; but as true 's you live, Cynthy Cullom, I was so'shamed at the little 't I did see that when I come to go to bed I tookmy clo'es off in the dark. "

David threw back his head and roared with laughter. Mrs. Bixbee lookedat him with unmixed scorn. "If I couldn't help makin' a----" she began, "I'd----"

"Oh, Lord! Polly, " David broke in, "be sure 'n wrap up when you go out. If you sh'd ketch cold an' your sense o' the ridic'lous sh'd strike inyou'd be a dead-'n'-goner sure. " This was treated with the silentcontempt which it deserved, and David fell upon his dinner with theremark that "he guessed he'd better make up fer lost time, " though as amatter of fact while he had done most of the talking he had by no meanssuspended another function of his mouth while so engaged. 

For a time nothing more was said which did not relate to thereplenishment of plates, glasses, and cups. Finally David cleaned uphis plate with his knife blade and a piece of bread, and pushed it awaywith a sigh of fullness, mentally echoed by John. 

"I feel 's if a child could play with me, " he remarked. "What's comin'now, Polly?"

"The's a mince pie, an' Injun puddin' with maple sugar an' cream, an'ice cream, " she replied. 

"Mercy on us!" he exclaimed. "I guess I'll have to go an' jump up an'down on the verandy. How do you feel, John? I s'pose you got so used tothem things at the Eagle 't you won't have no stomach fer 'em, eh?Wa'al, fetch 'em along. May 's well die fer the ole sheep 's the lamb, but, Polly Bixbee, if you've got designs on my life, I may 's well tellye right now 't I've left all my prop'ty to the Institution ferDisappinted Hoss Swappers. "

"That's putty near next o' kin, ain't it?" was the unexpected rejoinderof the injured Polly. 

"Wa'al, scat my ----!" exclaimed David, hugely amused, "if Polly Bixbeehain't made a joke! You'll git yourself into the almanic, Polly, fustthing you know. " Sairy brought in the pie and then the pudding. 

"John, " said David, "if you've got a pencil an' a piece o' paper handyI'd like to have ye take down a few of my last words 'fore we proceed tothe pie an' puddin' bus'nis. Any more 'hoss-redish' in that bottle?"holding out his glass. "Hi! hi! that's enough. You take the rest on't, "which John did, nothing loath. 

David ate his pie in silence, but before he made up his mind to attackthe pudding, which was his favorite confection, he gave an audiblechuckle, which elicited Mrs. Bixbee's notice. 

"What you gigglin' 'bout now?" she asked. 

David laughed. "I was thinkin' of somethin' I heard up to Purse's lastnight, " he said as he covered his pudding with the thick cream sauce. "Amri Shapless has ben gittin' married. "

"Wa'al, I declare!" she exclaimed. "That ole shack! Who in creationcould he git to take him?"

"Lize Annis is the lucky woman, " replied David with a grin. 

"Wa'al, if that don't beat all!" said Mrs. Bixbee, throwing up herhands, and even from Mrs. Cullom was drawn a "Well, I never!"

"Fact, " said David, "they was married yestidy forenoon. Squire Parkerdone the job. Dominie White wouldn't have nothin' to do with it!"

"Squire Parker 'd ortter be 'shamed of himself, " said Mrs. Bixbeeindignantly. 

"Don't you think that trew love had ought to be allowed to take itscourse?" asked David with an air of sentiment. 

"I think the squire'd ortter be 'shamed of himself, " she reiterated. "S'pose them two old skinamulinks was to go an' have children?"

"Polly, you make me blush, " protested her brother. "Hain't you got norespect fer the holy institution of matrimuny?--and--at cet'ry?" headded, wiping his whole face with his napkin. 

"Much as you hev, I reckon, " she retorted. "Of all the amazin' things inthis world, the amazinist to me is the kind of people that gits marriedto each other in gen'ral; but this here performence beats ev'rythingholler. "

"Amri give a very good reason for't, " said David with an air ofconviction, and then he broke into a laugh. 

"Ef you got anythin' to tell, tell it, " said Mrs. Bixbee impatiently. 

"Wa'al, " said David, taking the last of his pudding into his mouth, "ifyou insist on't, painful as 't is. I heard Dick Larrabee tellin' 'boutit. Amri told Dick day before yestiday that he was thinkin' of gettin'married, an' ast him to go along with him to Parson White's an' be awitniss, an' I reckon a kind of moral support. When it comes to moralsupportin', " remarked David in passing, "Dick's as good 's aprofessional, an' he'd go an' see his gran'mother hung sooner 'n missanythin', an' never let his cigar go out durin' the performence. Dicksaid he congratilated Am on his choice, an' said he reckoned they'd beputty ekally yoked together, if nothin' else. "

Here David leaned over toward Aunt Polly and said, protestingly, "Don'tgi' me but jest a teasp'nful o' that ice cream. I'm so full now 't Ican't hardly reach the table. " He took a taste of the cream and resumed:"I can't give it jest as Dick did, " he went on, "but this is about thegist on't. Him, an' Lize, an' Am went to Parson White's about half afterseven o'clock an' was showed into the parler, an' in a minute he comein, an' after sayin' 'Good evenin'' all 'round, he says, 'Well, what c'nI do for ye?' lookin' at Am an' Lize, an' then at Dick. 

"'Wa'al, ' says Am, 'me an' Mis' Annis here has ben thinkin' fer sometime as how we'd ought to git married. '

"'_Ought_ to git married?' says Parson White, scowlin' fust at one an'then at t'other. 

"'Wa'al, ' says Am, givin' a kind o' shuffle with his feet, 'I didn'tmean _ortter_ exac'ly, but jest as _well_--kinder comp'ny, ' he says. 'Wehain't neither on us got nobody, an' we thought we might 's well. '

"'What have you got to git married on?' says the dominie after a minute. 'Anythin'?' he says. 

"'Wa'al, ' says Am, droppin' his head sideways an' borin' into his ear'ith his middle finger, 'I got the promise mebbe of a job o' work fer acouple o' days next week. ' 'H'm'm'm, ' says the dominie, lookin' at him. 'Have _you_ got anythin' to git married on?' the dominie says, turnin'to Lize. 'I've got ninety cents comin' to me fer some work I done lastweek, ' she says, wiltin' down onto the sofy an' beginnin' to snivvle. Dick says that at that the dominie turned round an' walked to the otherend of the room, an' he c'd see he was dyin' to laugh, but he come backwith a straight face. 

"'How old air you, Shapless?" he says to Am. 'I'll be fifty-eight ormebbe fifty-nine come next spring, ' says Am. 

"'How old air _you_?' the dominie says, turnin' to Lize. She wriggled aminute an' says, 'Wa'al, I reckon I'm all o' thirty, ' she says. "

"All o' thirty!" exclaimed Aunt Polly. "The woman 's most 's old 's Ibe. "

David laughed and went on with, "Wa'al, Dick said at that the dominiegive a kind of a choke, an' Dick he bust right out, an' Lize looked athim as if she c'd eat him. Dick said the dominie didn't say anythin' fera minute or two, an' then he says to Am, 'I suppose you c'n findsomebody that'll marry you, but I cert'inly won't, an' what possessesyou to commit such a piece o' folly, ' he says, 'passes myunderstandin'. What earthly reason have you fer wantin' to marry? Onyour own showin', ' he says, 'neither one on you 's got a cent o' moneyor any settled way o' gettin' any. '

"'That's jest the very reason, ' says Am, 'that's jest the _very reason_. I hain't got nothin', an' Mis' Annis hain't got nothin', an' we figuredthat we'd jest better git married an' settle down, an' make a good homefer us both, ' an' if that ain't good reasonin', " David concluded, "Idon't know what is. "

"An' be they actially married?" asked Mrs. Bixbee, still incredulous ofanything so preposterous. 

"So Dick says, " was the reply. "He says Am an' Lize come away f'm thedominie's putty down in the mouth, but 'fore long Amri braced up an'allowed that if he had half a dollar he'd try the squire in the mornin', an' Dick let him have it. I says to Dick, 'You're out fifty cents onthat deal, ' an' he says, slappin' his leg, 'I don't give a dum, ' hesays; 'I wouldn't 'a' missed it fer double the money. '"

Here David folded his napkin and put it in the ring, and John finishedthe cup of clear coffee which Aunt Polly, rather under protest, hadgiven him. Coffee without cream and sugar was incomprehensible to Mrs. Bixbee. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Two or three days after Christmas John was sitting in his room in theevening when there came a knock at the door, and to his "Come in" thereentered Mr. Harum, who was warmly welcomed and entreated to take the bigchair, which, after a cursory survey of the apartment and itsfurnishings, he did, saying, "Wa'al, I thought I'd come in an' see howPolly'd got you fixed; whether the baskit [casket?] was worthy of thejew'l, as I heard a feller say in a theater once. "

"I was never more comfortable in my life, " said John. "Mrs. Bixbee hasbeen kindness itself, and even permits me to smoke in the room. Let megive you a cigar. "

"Heh! You got putty well 'round Polly, I reckon, " said David, lookingaround the room as he lighted the cigar, "an' I'm glad you'recomf'table--I reckon 't is a shade better 'n the Eagle, " he remarked, with his characteristic chuckle. 

"I should say so, " said John emphatically, "and I am more obliged than Ican tell you. "

"All Polly's doin's, " asserted David, holding the end of his cigarcritically under his nose. "That's a trifle better article 'n I'm in thehabit of smokin', " he remarked. 

"I think it's my one extravagance, " said John semi-apologetically, "butI don't smoke them exclusively. I am very fond of good tobacco, and--"

"I understand, " said David, "an' if I had my life to live over agin, knowin' what I do now, I'd do diff'rent in a number o' ways. I oftenthink, " he proceeded, as he took a pull at the cigar and emitted thesmoke with a chewing movement of his mouth, "of what Andy Brown used tosay. Andy was a curious kind of a customer 't I used to know up toSyrchester. He liked good things, Andy did, an' didn't scrimp himselfwhen they was to be had--that is, when he had the go-an'-fetch-it to git'em with. He used to say, 'Boys, whenever you git holt of a ten-dollarnote you want to git it _into_ ye or _onto_ ye jest 's quick 's you kin. We're here to-day an' gone to-morrer, ' he'd say, 'an' the' ain't nopocket in a shroud, ' an' I'm dum'd if I don't think sometimes, " declaredMr. Harum, "that he wa'n't very fur off neither. 'T any rate, " he addedwith a philosophy unexpected by his hearer, "'s I look back, it ain'tthe money 't I've spent fer the good times 't I've had 't I regret; it'sthe good times 't I might 's well 've had an' didn't. I'm inclined tothink, " he remarked with an air of having given the matterconsideration, "that after Adam an' Eve got bounced out of the gard'nthey kicked themselves as much as anythin' fer not havin' cleaned up thehull tree while they was about it. "

John laughed and said that that was very likely among their regrets. 

"Trouble with me was, " said David, "that till I was consid'able older 'nyou be I had to scratch grav'l like all possessed, an' it's hard worknow sometimes to git the idee out of my head but what the money's wuthmore 'n the things. I guess, " he remarked, looking at the ivory-backedbrushes and the various toilet knick-knacks of cut-glass and silverwhich adorned John's bureau, and indicating them with a motion of hishand, "that up to about now you ben in the habit of figurin' the otherway mostly. "

"Too much so, perhaps, " said John; "but yet, after all, I don't think Iam sorry. I wouldn't spend the money for those things now, but I am gladI bought them when I did. "

"Jess so, jess so, " said David appreciatively. He reached over to thetable and laid his cigar on the edge of a book, and, reaching for hiship pocket, produced a silver tobacco box, at which he lookedcontemplatively for a moment, opening and shutting the lid with a snap. 

"There, " he said, holding it out on his palm, "I was twenty years makin'up my mind to buy that box, an' to this day I can't bring myself tocarry it all the time. Yes, sir, I wanted that box fer twenty years. Idon't mean to say that I didn't spend the wuth of it foolishly timesover an' agin, but I couldn't never make up my mind to put that amounto' money into that pertic'ler thing. I was alwus figurin' that some dayI'd have a silver tobacco box, an' I sometimes think the reason itseemed so extrav'gant, an' I put it off so long, was because I wanted itso much. Now I s'pose you couldn't understand that, could ye?"

"Yes, " said John, nodding his head thoughtfully, "I think I canunderstand it perfectly, " and indeed it spoke pages of David'sbiography. 

"Yes, sir, " said David, "I never spent a small amount o' money but oneother time an' got so much value, only I alwus ben kickin' myself tothink I didn't do it sooner. "

"Perhaps, " suggested John, "you enjoyed it all the more for waiting solong. "

"No, " said David, "it wa'n't that--I dunno--'t was the feelin' 't I'dgot there at last, I guess. Fur's waitin' fer things is concerned, the'is such a thing as waitin' too long. Your appetite 'll change mebbe. Iused to think when I was a youngster that if ever I got where I c'd haveall the custard pie I c'd eat that'd be all 't I'd ask fer. I used toimagine bein' baked into one an' eatin' my way out. Nowdays the's a goodmany things I'd sooner have than custard pie, though, " he said with awink, "I gen'ally do eat two pieces jest to please Polly. "

John laughed. "What was the other thing?" he asked. 

"Other thing I once bought?" queried David. "Oh, yes, it was the fusthoss I ever owned. I give fifteen dollars fer him, an' if he wa'n't adandy you needn't pay me a cent. Crowbait wa'n't no name fer him. He wasstun blind on the off side, an' couldn't see anythin' in pertic'ler onthe nigh side--couldn't get nigh 'nough, I reckon--an' had mostev'rythin' wrong with him that c'd ail a hoss; but I thought he was athoroughbred. I was 'bout seventeen year old then, an' was helpin'lock-tender on the Erie Canal, an' when the' wa'n't no boat goin'through I put in most o' my time cleanin' that hoss. If he got through'th less 'n six times a day he got off cheap, an' once I got up an' givehim a little attention at night. Yes, sir, if I got big money's wuth outo' that box it was mostly a matter of feelin'; but as fur 's that oldplugamore of a hoss was concerned, I got it both ways, for I got myfust real start out of his old carkiss. "

"Yes?" said John encouragingly. 

"Yes, sir, " affirmed David, "I cleaned him up, an' fed him up, an'almost got 'im so'st he c'd see enough out of his left eye to shy at aload of hay close by; an' fin'ly traded him off fer anotherrecord-breaker an' fifteen dollars to boot. "

"Were you as enthusiastic over the next one as the first?" asked John, laughing. 

"Wa'al, " replied David, relighting his temporarily abandoned cigaragainst a protest and proffer of a fresh one--"wa'al, he didn't lay holton my affections to quite the same extent. I done my duty by him, but Ididn't set up with him nights. You see, " he added with a grin, "I'd gotsome used to bein' a hoss owner, an' the edge had wore off some. " Hesmoked for a minute or two in silence, with as much apparent relish asif the cigar had not been stale. 

"Aren't you going on?" asked John at last

"Wa'al, " he replied, pleased with his audience, "I c'd go on, I s'pose, fast enough an' fur enough, but I don't want to tire ye out. I reckonyou never had much to do with canals?"

"No, " said John, smiling, "I can't say that I have, but I know somethingabout the subject in a general way, and there is no fear of your tiringme out. "

"All right, " proceeded David. "As I was sayin', I got another equinewonder an' fifteen dollars to boot fer my old plug, an' it wa'n't agreat while before I was in the hoss bus'nis to stay. After between twoan' three years I had fifty or sixty hosses an' mules, an' took allsorts of towin' jobs. Then a big towin' concern quit bus'nis, an' Ibought their hull stock an' got my money back three four times over, an'by the time I was about twenty-one I had got ahead enough to quit thecanal an' all its works fer good, an' go into other things. But therewas where I got my livin' after I run away f'm Buxton Hill. Before I gotthe job of lock-tendin' I had made the trip to Albany an' backtwice--'walkin' my passage, ' as they used to call it, an' I made onetrip helpin' steer, so 't my canal experience was putty thorough, takeit all 'round. "

"It must have been a pretty hard life, " remarked John. 

David took out his penknife and proceeded to impale his cigar upon theblade thereof. "No, " he said, to John's proffer of the box, "this 'lllast quite a spell yet. Wa'al, " he resumed after a moment, in reply toJohn's remark, "viewin' it all by itself, it _was_ a hard life. A thingis hard though, I reckon, because it's harder 'n somethin' else, or youthink so. Most things go by comparin'. I s'pose if the gen'ral run oftrotters never got better 'n three 'n a half that a hoss that c'd do itin three 'd be fast, but we don't call 'em so nowdays. I s'pose if atthat same age you'd had to tackle the life you'd 'a' found it hard, an'the' was hard things about it--trampin' all night in the rain, ferinstance; sleepin' in barns at times, an' all that; an' once the cap'no' the boat got mad at somethin' an' pitched me head over heels into thecanal. It was about the close of navigation an' the' was a scum of ice. I scrambled out somehow, but he wouldn't 'a' cared if I'd ben drownded. He was an exception, though. The canalers was a rough set in gen'ral, but they averaged fer disposition 'bout like the ord'nary run o' folks;the' was mean ones an' clever ones; them that would put upon ye, an'them that would treat ye decent. The work was hard an' the grub wasn'talwus much better 'n what you--he, he, he!--what you ben gettin' at theEagle" (John was now by the way of rather relishing jokes on thatsubject); "but I hadn't ben raised in the lap o' luxury--not to anyconsid'able extent--not enough to stick my nose up much. The men Iworked fer was rough, an' I got my share of cusses an' cuffs, an' oncein a while a kick to keep up my spirit of perseverance; but, on thehull, I think I got more kindness 'n I did at home (leavin' Polly out), an' as fer gen'ral treatment, none on 'em c'd come up to my father, an'wuss yet, my oldest brother 'Lish. The cap'n that throwed me overboardwas the wust, but alongside o' 'Lish he was a forty hosspower angil witha hull music store o' harps; an' even my father c'd 'a' given him cardsan' spades; an' as fer the victuals" (here David dropped his cigar endand pulled from his pocket the silver tobacco box)--"as fer thevictuals, " he repeated, "they mostly averaged up putty high after whatI'd ben used to. Why, I don't believe I ever tasted a piece of beefsteakor roast beef in my life till after I left home. When we had meat at allit was pork--boiled pork, fried pork, pigs' liver, an' all that, enoughto make you 'shamed to look a pig in the face--an' fer the rest, potatoes, an' duff, an' johnny-cake, an' meal mush, an' milk emptinsbread that you c'd smell a mile after it got cold. With 'leven folks ona small farm nuthin' c'd afford to be eat that c'd be sold, an'ev'rythin' that couldn't be sold had to be eat. Once in a while the' 'dbe pie of some kind, or gingerbread; but with 'leven to eat 'em I didn'tever git more 'n enough to set me hankerin'. "

"I must say that I think I should have liked the canal better, " remarkedJohn as David paused. "You were, at any rate, more or less free--thatis, comparatively, I should say. "

"Yes, sir, I did, " said David, "an' I never see the time, no matter howrough things was, that I wished I was back on Buxton Hill. I used towant to see Polly putty bad once in a while, an' used to figure that ifI ever growed up to be a man, an' had money enough, I'd buy her a newpair o' shoes an' the stuff fer a dress, an' sometimes my cal'lationswent as fur 's a gold breastpin; but I never wanted to see none o' therest on 'em, an' fer that matter, I never did. Yes, sir, the old ditchwas better to me than the place I was borned in, an', as you say, Iwa'n't nobody's slave, an' I wa'n't scairt to death the hull time. Someo' the men was rough, but they wa'n't cruel, as a rule, an' as I growedup a little I was putty well able to look out fer myself--wa'al, wa'al(looking at his watch), I guess you must 'a' had enough o' my meemoresfer one sittin'. "

"No, really, " John protested, "don't go yet. I have a little proposal tomake to you, " and he got up and brought a bottle from the bottom of thewashstand. 

"Wa'al, " said David, "fire it out. "

"That you take another cigar and a little of this, " holding up thebottle. 

"Got any glasses?" asked David with practical mind. 

"One and a tooth mug, " replied John, laughing. "Glass for you, toothmug for me. Tastes just as good out of a tooth mug. "

"Wa'al, " said David, with a comical air of yielding as he took the glassand held it out to John, "under protest, stric'ly under protest--soonerthan have my clo'es torn. I shall tell Polly--if I should happen tomention it--that you threatened me with vi'lence. Wa'al, here's lookin'at ye, " which toast was drunk with the solemnity which befitted it. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

The two men sat for a while smoking in silence, John taking anoccasional sip of his grog. Mr. Harum had swallowed his own liquor"raw, " as was the custom in Homeville and vicinity, following thepotation with a mouthful of water. Presently he settled a little fartherdown in his chair and his face took on a look of amused recollection. 

He looked up and gave a short laugh. "Speakin' of canals, " he said, asif the subject had only been casually mentioned, "I was thinkin' ofsomethin'. "

"Yes?" said John. 

"E-up, " said David. "That old ditch f'm Albany to Buffalo was analmighty big enterprise in them days, an' a great thing fer theprosperity of the State, an' a good many better men 'n I be walked theole towpath when they was young. Yes, sir, that's a fact. Wa'al, someyears ago I had somethin' of a deal on with a New York man by the nameof Price. He had a place in Newport where his fam'ly spent the summer, an' where he went as much as he could git away. I was down to New Yorkto see him, an' we hadn't got things quite straightened out, an' he saysto me, 'I'm goin' over to Newport, where my wife an' fam'ly is, ferSunday, an' why can't you come with me, ' he says, 'an' stay over tillMonday? an' we c'n have the day to ourselves over this matter?' 'Wa'al, 'I says, 'I'm only down here on this bus'nis, an' as I left a hen on, uphome, I'm willin' to save the time 'stid of waitin' here fer you to gitback, if you don't think, ' I says, 'that it'll put Mis' Price out any tobring home a stranger without no notice. '

"'Wa'al, ' he says, laughin', 'I guess she c'n manage fer once, ' an' so Iwent along. When we got there the' was a carriage to meet us, an' twomen in uniform, one to drive an' one to open the door, an' we got in an'rode up to the house--cottige, he called it, but it was built of stone, an' wa'n't only about two sizes smaller 'n the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Somekind o' doin's was goin' on, fer the house was blazin' with light, an'music was playin'. 

"'What's on?' says Price to the feller that let us in. 

"'Sir and Lady somebody 's dinin' here to-night, sir, ' says the man. 

"'Damn!' says Price, 'I fergot all about the cussed thing. Have Mr. Harum showed to a room, ' he says, 'an' serve dinner in my office in aquarter of an hour, an' have somebody show Mr. Harum there when it'sready. '

"Wa'al, " pursued David, "I was showed up to a room. The' was lacecoverin's on the bed pillers, an' a silk an' lace spread, an' more dumtrinkits an' bottles an' lookin'-glasses 'n you c'd shake a stick at, an' a bathroom, an' Lord knows what; an' I washed up, an' putty soon oneo' them fellers come an' showed me down to where Price was waitin'. Wa'al, we had all manner o' things fer supper, an' champagne, an' so on, an' after we got done, Price says, 'I've got to ask you to excuse me, Harum, ' he says. 'I've got to go an' dress an' show up in thedrawin'-room, ' he says. 'You smoke your cigar in here, an' when you wantto go to your room jest ring the bell. '

"'All right, ' I says. 'I'm 'bout ready to turn in anyway. '"

The narrator paused for a moment. John was rather wondering what it allhad to do with the Erie Canal, but he said nothing. 

"Wa'al, next mornin', " David resumed, "I got up an' shaved an' dressed, an' set 'round waitin' fer the breakfust bell to ring till nigh on tohalf-past nine o'clock. Bom-by the' came a knock at the door, an' Isays, 'Come in, ' an' in come one o' them fellers. 'Beg pah'din, sir, ' hesays. 'Did you ring, sir?'

"'No, ' I says, 'I didn't ring. I was waitin' to hear the bell. '

"'Thank you, sir, ' he says. 'An' will you have your breakfust now, sir?'

"'Where?' I says. 

"'Oh, ' he says, kind o' grinnin', 'I'll bring it up here, sir, d'rec'ly, ' he says, an' went off. Putty soon come another knock, an' income the feller with a silver tray covered with a big napkin, an' on itwas a couple of rolls wrapped up in a napkin, a b'iled egg done up inanother napkin, a cup an' saucer, a little chiney coffee-pot, a littlepitcher of cream, some loaf sugar in a silver dish, a little pancake ofbutter, a silver knife, two little spoons like what the childern playwith, a silver pepper duster an' salt dish, an' an orange. Oh, yes, the'was another contraption--a sort of a chiney wineglass. The feller setdown the tray an' says, 'Anythin' else you'd like to have, sir?'

"'No, ' I says, lookin' it over, 'I guess there's enough to last me a dayor two, ' an' with that he kind o' turned his face away fer a second ortwo. 'Thank you, sir, ' he says. 'The second breakfust is at half-pasttwelve, sir, ' an' out he put. Wa'al, " David continued, "the bread an'butter was all right enough, exceptin' they'd fergot the salt in thebutter, an' the coffee was all right; but when it come to the egg, dum'dif I wa'n't putty nigh out of the race; but I made up my mind it must behard-b'iled, an' tackled it on that idee. Seems t' amuse ye, " he saidwith a grin, getting up and helping himself. After swallowing therefreshment, and the palliating mouthful of water, he resumed his seatand his narrative. 

"Wa'al, sir, " he said, "that dum'd egg was about 's near raw as it waswhen i' was laid, an' the' was a crack in the shell, an' fust thing Iknowed it kind o' c'lapsed, an' I give it a grab, an' it squirtid allover my pants, an' the floor, an' on my coat an' vest, an' up my sleeve, an' all over the tray. Scat my ----! I looked gen'ally like an ab'litionorator before the war. You never see such a mess, " he added, with anexpression of rueful recollection. "I believe that dum'd egg held more'n a pint. "

John fairly succumbed to a paroxysm of laughter. 

"Funny, wa'n't it?" said David dryly. 

"Forgive me, " pleaded John, when he got his breath. 

"Oh, that's all right, " said David, "but it wa'n't the kind of emotionit kicked up in my breast at the time. I cleaned myself up with a towelwell 's I could, an' thought I'd step out an' take the air before thefeller 'd come back to git that tray, an' mebbe rub my nose in't. "

"Oh, Lord!" cried John. 

"Yes, sir, " said David, unheeding, "I allowed 't I'd walk 'round with mymouth open a spell, an' git a little air on my stomech to last me tillthat second breakfust; an' as I was pokin' 'round the grounds I come toa sort of arbor, an' there was Price, smokin' a cigar. 

"'Mornin', Harum; how you feelin'?' he says, gettin' up an' shakin'hands; an' as we passed the time o' day, I noticed him noticin' my coat. You see as they dried out, the egg spots got to showin' agin. 

"'Got somethin' on your coat there, ' he says. 

"'Yes, ' I says, tryin' to scratch it out with my finger nail. 

"'Have a cigar?' he says, handin' one out. 

"'Never smoke on an empty stomach, ' I says. 

"'What?' he says. 

"'Bad fer the ap'tite, ' I says, 'an' I'm savin' mine fer that secondbreakfust o' your'n. '

"'What!' he says, 'haven't you had anythin' to eat?' An' then I told himwhat I ben tellin' you. Wa'al, sir, fust he looked kind o' mad an'disgusted, an' then he laughed till I thought he'd bust, an' when hequit he says, 'Excuse me, Harum, it's too damned bad; but I couldn'thelp laughin' to save my soul. An' it's all my fault too, ' he says. 'Iintended to have you take your breakfust with me, but somethin' happenedlast night to upset me, an' I woke with it on my mind, an' I fergot. Nowyou jest come right into the house, an' I'll have somethin' got fer youthat'll stay your stomach better 'n air, ' he says. 

"'No, ' I says, 'I've made trouble enough fer one day, I guess, ' an' Iwouldn't go, though he urged me agin an' agin. 'You don't fall in withthe customs of this region?' I says to him. 

"'Not in that pertic'ler, at any rate, ' he says. 'It's one o' the foolnotions that my wife an' the girls brought home f'm Eurup. I have a goodsolid meal in the mornin', same as I alwus did, ' he says. "

Mr. Harum stopped talking to relight his cigar, and after a puff or two, "When I started out, " he said, "I hadn't no notion of goin' into all thehighways an' byways, but when I git begun one thing's apt to lead toanother, an' you never c'n tell jest where I _will_ fetch up. Now Istarted off to tell somethin' in about two words, an' I'm putty near asfur off as when I begun. "

"Well, " said John, "it's Saturday night, and the longer your story isthe better I shall like it. I hope the second breakfast was more of asuccess than the first one, " he added with a laugh. 

"I managed to average up on the two meals, I guess, " David remarked. "Wa'al, " he resumed, "Price an' I set 'round talkin' bus'nis an' thingstill about twelve or a little after, mebbe, an' then he turned to me an'kind o' looked me over an' says, 'You an' me is about of a build, an' ifyou say so I'll send one of my coats an' vests up to your room an' havethe man take yours an' clean 'em. '

"'I guess the' is ruther more egg showin' than the law allows, ' I says, 'an' mebbe that 'd be a good idee; but the pants caught it the wust, ' Isays. 

"'Mine'll fit ye, ' he says. 

"'What'll your wife say to seein' me airifyin' 'round in your git-up?'I says. He gin me a funny kind of look. 'My wife?' he says. 'Lord, shedon't know more about my clo'es 'n you do. ' That struck me as bein'ruther curious, " remarked David. "Wouldn't it you?"

"Very, " replied John gravely. 

"Yes, sir, " said David. "Wa'al, when we went into the eatin' room thetable was full, mostly young folks, chatterin' an' laughin'. Priceint'duced me to his wife, an' I set down by him at the other end of thetable. The' wa'n't nothin' wuth mentionin'; nobody paid any attention tome 'cept now an' then a word from Price, an' I wa'n't fer talkin'anyway--I c'd have eat a raw dog. After breakfust, as they called it, Price an' I went out onto the verandy an' had some coffee, an' smokedan' talked fer an hour or so, an' then he got up an' excused himself towrite a letter. 'You may like to look at the papers awhile, ' he says. 'I've ordered the hosses at five, an' if you like I'll show you 'round alittle. '

"'Won't your wife be wantin' 'em?' I says. 

"'No, I guess she'll git along, ' he says, kind o' smilin'. 

"'All right, ' I says, 'don't mind me. ' An' so at five up come the hossesan' the two fellers in uniform an' all. I was lookin' the hosses overwhen Price come out. 'Wa'al, what do you think of 'em?' he says. 

"'Likely pair, ' I says, goin' over an' examinin' the nigh one's feet an'legs. 'Sore forr'ed?' I says, lookin' up at the driver. 

"'A trifle, sir, ' he says, touchin' his hat. 

"'What's that?' says Price, comin' up an' examinin' the critter's facean' head. 'I don't see anythin' the matter with his forehead, ' he says. I looked up an' give the driver a wink, " said David with a chuckle, "an'he give kind of a chokin' gasp, but in a second was lookin' as solemn asever. 

"I can't tell ye jest where we went, " the narrator proceeded, "butanyway it was where all the nabobs turned out, an' I seen more style an'git-up in them two hours 'n I ever see in my life, I reckon. The' didn'tappear to be no one we run across that, accordin' to Price's tell, waswuth under five million, though we may 'a' passed one without hisnoticin'; an' the' was a good many that run to fifteen an' twenty an'over, an' most on 'em, it appeared, was f'm New York. Wa'al, fin'ly wegot back to the house a little 'fore seven. On the way back Price says, 'The' are goin' to be three four people to dinner to-night in a quietway, an' the' ain't no reason why you shouldn't stay dressed jest as youare, but if you would feel like puttin' on evenin' clo'es (that's whathe called 'em), why I've got an extry suit that'll fit ye to a "tee, "'he says. 

"'No, ' I says, 'I guess I better not. I reckon I'd better git my gripan' go to the hotel. I sh'd be ruther bashful to wear your swallertail, an' all them folks'll be strangers, ' I says. But he insisted on't that Ish'd come to dinner anyway, an' fin'ly I gin in, an' thinkin' I might 'swell go the hull hog, I allowed I'd wear his clo'es; 'but if I doanythin' or say anythin' 't you don't like, ' says I, 'don't say I didn'twarn ye. ' What would you 'a' done?" Mr. Harum asked. 

"Worn the clothes without the slightest hesitation, " replied John. "Nobody gave your costume a thought. "

"They didn't appear to, fer a fact, " said David, "an' I didn't either, after I'd slipped up once or twice on the matter of pockets. The samefeller brought 'em up to me that fetched the stuff in the mornin'; an'the rig was complete--coat, vest, pants, shirt, white necktie, an', bygum! shoes an' silk socks, an', sir, scat my ----! the hull outfitfitted me as if it was made fer me. 'Shell I wait on you, sir?' says theman. 'No, ' I says, 'I guess I c'n git into the things; but mebbe youmight come up in 'bout quarter of an hour an' put on the finishin'touches, an' here, ' I says, 'I guess that brand of eggs you give me thismornin' 's wuth about two dollars apiece. '

"'Thank you, sir, ' he says, grinnin', 'I'd like to furnish 'em rightalong at that rate, sir, an' I'll be up as you say, sir. '"

"You found the way to _his_ heart, " said John, smiling. 

"My experience is, " said David dryly, "that most men's hearts is locatedruther closter to their britchis pockets than they are to their breastpockets. "

"I'm afraid that's so, " said John. 

"But this feller, " Mr. Harum continued, "was a putty decent kind of achap. He come up after I'd got into my togs an' pulled me here, an'pulled me there, an' fixed my necktie, an' hitched me in gen'ral so'st Iwa'n't neither too tight nor too free, an' when he got through, 'You'lldo now, sir, ' he says. 

"'Think I will?' says I. 

"'Couldn't nobody look more fit, sir, ' he says, an' I'm dum'd, " saidDavid, with an assertive nod, "when I looked at myself in thelookin'-glass. I scurcely knowed myself, an' (with a confidentiallowering of the voice) when I got back to New York the very fust hardwork I done was to go an' buy the hull rig-out--an', " he added with agrin, "strange as it may appear, it ain't wore out _yit_. "

CHAPTER XXVII. 

"People don't dress for dinner in Homeville, as a rule, then, " Johnsaid, smiling. 

"No, " said Mr. Harum, "when they dress fer breakfust that does 'em ferall three meals. I've wore them things two three times when I've bendown to the city, but I never had 'em on but once up here. "

"No?" said John. 

"No, " said David, "I put 'em on _once_ to show to Polly how city folksdressed--he, he, he, he!--an' when I come into the room she set forwudon her chair an' stared at me over her specs. 'What on airth!' she says. 

"'I bought these clo'es, ' I says, 'to wear when bein' ent'tained by thefust fam'lies. How do I look?' I says. 

"'Turn 'round, ' she says. 'You look f'm behind, ' she says, 'like ared-headed snappin' bug, an' in front, ' she says, as I turned agin, 'like a reg'lar slinkum. I'll bet, ' she says, 'that you hain't throwedaway less 'n twenty dollars on that foolishniss. ' Polly's a veryconserv'tive person, " remarked her brother, "and don't never imagine avain thing, as the Bible says, not when she _knows_ it, an' I thought itwa'n't wuth while to argue the point with her. "

John laughed and said, "Do you recall that memorable interview betweenthe governors of the two Carolinas?"

"Nothin' in the historical lit'riture of our great an' gloriouscountry, " replied Mr. Harum reverently, "sticks closter to my mind--likea burr to a cow's tail, " he added, by way of illustration. "Thank you, jest a mouthful. "

"How about the dinner?" John asked after a little interlude. "Was itpleasant?"

"Fust rate, " declared David. "The young folks was out somewhere else, all but one o' Price's girls. The' was twelve at the table all told. Iwas int'duced to all of 'em in the parlor, an' putty soon in come one ofthe fellers an' said somethin' to Mis' Price that meant dinner wasready, an' the girl come up to me an' took holt of my arm. 'You're goin'to take me out, ' she says, an' we formed a procession an' marched out tothe dinin' room. 'You're to sit by mammer, ' she says, showin' me, an'there was my name on a card, sure enough. Wa'al, sir, that table was ashow! I couldn't begin to describe it to ye. The' was a hull flowergarden in the middle, an' a worked tablecloth; four five glasses of allcolors an' sizes at ev'ry plate, an' a nosegay, an' five six diff'rentforks an' a lot o' knives, though fer that matter, " remarked thespeaker, "the' wa'n't but one knife in the lot that amounted toanythin', the rest on 'em wouldn't hold nothin'; an' the' was three foursort of chiney slates with what they call--the--you 'n me----"

"Menu, " suggested John. 

"I guess that's it, " said David, "but that wa'n't the way it was spelt. Wa'al, I set down an' tucked my napkin into my neck, an' though Inoticed none o' the rest on 'em seemed to care, I allowed that 'twa'n't _my_ shirt, an' mebbe Price might want to wear it agin 'fore 'twas washed. "

John put his handkerchief over his face and coughed violently. Davidlooked at him sharply. "Subject to them spells?" he asked. 

"Sometimes, " said John when he recovered his voice, and then, with asclear an expression of innocence as he could command, but somewhatirrelevantly, asked, "How did you get on with Mrs. Price?"

"Oh, " said David, "nicer 'n a cotton hat. She appeared to be a quietsort of woman that might 'a' lived anywhere, but she was dressed tokill--an' so was the rest on 'em, fer that matter, " he remarked with alaugh. "I tried to tell Polly about 'em afterwuds, an'--he, he, he!--sheshut me up mighty quick, an' I thought myself at the time, thinks I, it's a good thing it's warm weather, I says to myself. Oh, yes, Mis'Price made me feel quite to home, but I didn't talk much the fust partof dinner, an' I s'pose she was more or less took up with havin' so manyfolks at table; but fin'ly she says to me, 'Mr. Price was so annoyedabout your breakfust, Mr. Harum. '

"'Was he?' I says. 'I was afraid you'd be the one that 'd be vexed atme. '

"'Vexed with you? I don't understand, ' she says. 

"''Bout the napkin I sp'iled, ' I says. 'Mebbe not actially sp'iled, ' Isays, 'but it'll have to go into the wash 'fore it c'n be used agin. 'She kind o' smiled, an' says, 'Really, Mr. Harum, I don't know what youare talkin' about. '

"'Hain't nobody told ye?' I says. 'Well, if they hain't they will, an' Imay 's well make a clean breast on't. I'm awful sorry, ' I says, 'butthis mornin' when I come to the egg I didn't see no way to eat it 'ceptto peel it, an' fust I knew it kind of exploded and daubed ev'rythin'all over creation. Yes'm, ' I says, 'it went _off_, 's ye might say, likeold Elder Maybee's powder, ' I guess, " said David, "that I must 'a' bentalkin' ruther louder 'n I thought, fer I looked up an' noticed thatputty much ev'ry one on 'em was lookin' our way, an' kind o' laughin', an' Price in pertic'ler was grinnin' straight at me. 

"'What's that, ' he says, 'about Elder Maybee's powder?'

"'Oh, nuthin' much, ' I says, 'jest a little supprise party the elder hadup to his house. '

"'Tell us about it, ' says Price. 'Oh, yes, do tell us about it, ' saysMis' Price. 

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'the' ain't much to it in the way of a story, butseein' dinner must be most through, ' I says, 'I'll tell ye all the' wasof it. The elder had a small farm 'bout two miles out of the village, ' Isays, 'an' he was great on raisin' chickins an' turkeys. He was a slow, putterin' kind of an ole foozle, but on the hull a putty decent citizen. Wa'al, ' I says, 'one year when the poultry was comin' along, a family o'skunks moved onto the premises an' done so well that putty soon, as theelder said, it seemed to him that it was comin' to be a ch'ice betweenthe chickin bus'nis an' the skunk bus'nis, an' though he said he'd heardthe' was money in it, if it was done on a big enough scale, he hadn'tben edicated to it, he said, and didn't take to it _any_ ways. So, ' Isays, 'he scratched 'round an' got a lot o' traps an' set 'em, an' thevery next mornin' he went out an' found he'd ketched an olehe-one--president of the comp'ny. So he went to git his gun to shootthe critter, an' found he hadn't got no powder. The boys had used it allup on woodchucks, an' the' wa'n't nothin' fer it but to git some moredown to the village, an', as he had some more things to git, he hitchedup 'long in the forenoon an' drove down. ' At this, " said David, "one ofthe ladies, wife to the judge, name o' Pomfort, spoke up an' says, 'Didhe leave that poor creature to suffer all that time? Couldn't it havebeen put out of it's misery some other way?'

"'Wa'al marm, ' I says, 'I never happened to know but one feller that setout to kill one o' them things with a club, an' _he_ put in most o'_his_ time fer a week or two up in the woods _hatin'_ himself, ' I says. 'He didn't mingle in gen'ral soci'ty, an' in fact, ' I says, 'he had thehull road to himself, as ye might say, fer a putty consid'able spell. '"

John threw back his head and laughed. "Did she say any more?" he asked. 

"No, " said David with a chuckle. "All the men set up a great laugh, an'she colored up in a kind of huff at fust, an' then she begun to laughtoo, an' then one o' the waiter fellers put somethin' down in front ofme an' I went eatin' agin. But putty soon Price, he says, 'Come, ' hesays, 'Harum, ain't you goin' on? How about that powder?'

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'mebbe we had ought to put that critter out of hismisery. The elder went down an' bought a pound o' powder an' had it doneup in a brown paper bundle, an' put it with his other stuff in thebottom of his dem'crat wagin; but it come on to rain some while he wasridin' back, an' the stuff got more or less wet, an' so when he got homehe spread it out in a dishpan an' put it under the kitchen stove to dry, an' thinkin' that it wa'n't dryin' fast enough, I s'pose, made out toassist Nature, as the sayin' is, by stirrin' on't up with the kitchinpoker. Wa'al, ' I says, 'I don't jest know how it happened, an' the eldercert'inly didn't, fer after they'd got him untangled f'm under what wasleft of the woodshed an' the kitchin stove, an' tied him up in cottonbattin', an' set his leg, an' put out the house, an' a few things likethat, bom-by he come round a little, an' the fust thing he says was, "Wa'al, wa'al, wa'al!" "What is it, pa?" says Mis' Maybee, bendin' downover him. "That peowder, " he says, in almost no voice, "that peowder! Iwas jest stirrin' on't a little, an' it went _o-f-f_, it went _o-f-f_, "he says, "_seemin'ly--in--a--minute_!" an' that, ' I says to Mis' Price, 'was what that egg done. '

"'We'll have to forgive you that egg, ' she says, laughin' likeev'rything, 'for Elder Maybee's sake'; an' in fact, " said David, "theyall laughed except one feller. He was an Englishman--I fergit his name. When I got through he looked kind o' puzzled an' says" (Mr. Harumimitated his style as well as he could), "'But ra'ally, Mr. Harum, youkneow that's the way powdah always geoes off, don't you kneow, ' an'then, " said David, "they laughed harder 'n ever, an' the Englishman gotredder 'n a beet. "

"What did you say?" asked John. 

"Nuthin', " said David. "They was all laughin' so't I couldn't git in aword, an' then the waiter brought me another plateful of somethin'. Scatmy ----!" he exclaimed, "I thought that dinner 'd go on till kingdomcome. An' wine! Wa'al! I begun to feel somethin' like the old feller didthat swallered a full tumbler of white whisky, thinkin' it was water. The old feller was temp'rence, an' the boys put up a job on him one hotday at gen'ral trainin'. Somebody ast him afterwuds how it made himfeel, an' he said he felt as if he was sittin' straddle the meetin'house, an' ev'ry shingle was a Jew's-harp. So I kep' mum fer a while. But jest before we fin'ly got through, an' I hadn't said nothin' fer aspell, Mis' Price turned to me an' says, 'Did you have a pleasant drivethis afternoon?'

"'Yes'm, ' I says, 'I seen the hull show, putty much. I guess poor folksmust be 't a premium 'round here. I reckon, ' I says, 'that if they'dclub together, the folks your husband p'inted out to me to-day could_almost_ satisfy the requirements of the 'Merican Soci'ty fer For'nMissions. ' Mis' Price laughed, an' looked over at her husband. 'Yes, 'says Price, 'I told Mr. Harum about some of the people we saw thisafternoon, an' I must say he didn't appear to be as much impressed as Ithought he would. How's that, Harum?' he says to me. 

"'Wa'al, ' says I, 'I was thinkin' 't I'd like to bet you two dollars toa last year's bird's nest, ' I says, 'that if all them fellers we seenthis afternoon, that air over fifty, c'd be got together, an' some onewas suddinly to holler "LOW BRIDGE!" that nineteen out o' twenty 'd_duck their heads_. '"

"And then?" queried John. 

"Wa'al, " said David, "all on 'em laughed some, but Price--he jest layback an' roared, and I found out afterwuds, " added David, "that ev'ryman at the table, except the Englis'man, know'd what 'low bridge' meantfrom actial experience. Wa'al, scat my ----!" he exclaimed, as he lookedat his watch, "it ain't hardly wuth while undressin', " and started forthe door. As he was halfway through it, he turned and said, "Say, Is'pose _you'd_ 'a' known what to do with that egg, " but he did not waitfor a reply. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

It must not be understood that the Harums, Larrabees, Robinsons, Elrights, and sundry who have thus far been mentioned, represented theonly types in the prosperous and enterprising village of Homeville, andDavid perhaps somewhat magnified the one-time importance of the Cullomfamily, although he was speaking of a period some forty years earlier. Be that as it may, there were now a good many families, most of themdescendants of early settlers, who lived in good and even fine houses, and were people of refinement and considerable wealth. These constituteda coterie of their own, though they were on terms of acquaintance andcomity with the "village people, " as they designated the rank and fileof the Homeville population. To these houses came in the summer sons anddaughters, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren, and at the period ofwhich I am writing there had been built on the shore of the lake, or inits vicinity, a number of handsome and stately residences by people whohad been attracted by the beauty of the situation and the salubrity ofthe summer climate. And so, for some months in the pleasant season, thevillage was enlivened by a concourse of visitors who brought with themurban customs, costumes, and equipages, and gave a good deal of lifeand color to the village streets. Then did Homeville put its best footforward and money in its pouch. 

"I ain't what ye might call an old residenter, " said David, "though Iwas part raised on Buxton Hill, an' I ain't so well 'quainted with thenabobs; but Polly's lived in the village ever sence she got married, an'knows their fam'ly hist'ry, dam, an' sire, an' pedigree gen'ally. Ofcourse, " he remarked, "I know all the men folks, an' they know me, but Inever ben into none o' their houses except now an' then on a matter ofbus'nis, an' I guess, " he said with a laugh, "that Polly 'd allow 't shedon't spend all her time in that circle. Still, " he added, "they allknow her, an' ev'ry little while some o' the women folks 'll come in an'see her. She's putty popular, Polly is, " he concluded. 

"I should think so, indeed, " remarked John. 

"Yes, sir, " said David, "the's worse folks 'n Polly Bixbee, if she don'tput on no style; an' the fact is, that some of the folks that lives herethe year 'round, an' always have, an' call the rest on us 'villagepeople, ' 'r' jest as countryfied in their way 's me an' Polly is inour'n--only they don't know it. 'Bout the only diff'rence is the waythey talk an' live. " John looked at Mr. Harum in some doubt as to theseriousness of the last remark. 

"Go to the 'Piscopal church, an' have what they call dinner at sixo'clock, " said David. "Now, there's the The'dore Verjooses, " hecontinued; "the 'rig'nal Verjoos come an' settled here some time in thethirties, I reckon. He was some kind of a Dutchman, I guess"["Dutchman" was Mr. Harum's generic name for all people native to theContinent of Europe]; "but he had some money, an' bought land an'morgidges, an' so on, an' havin' money--money was awful scurce in themearly days--made more; never spent anythin' to speak of, an' diedpinchin' the 'rig'nal cent he started in with. "

"He was the father of Mr. Verjoos the other banker here, I suppose?"said John. 

"Yes, " said David, "the' was two boys an' a sister. The oldest son, Alferd, went into the law an' done bus'nis in Albany, an' afterw'dsmoved to New York; but he's always kept up the old place here. The oldman left what was a good deal o' propity fer them days, an' Alf he kepthis share an' made more. He was in the Assembly two three terms, an'afterw'ds member of Congress, an' they do say, " remarked Mr. Harum witha wink, "that he never lost no money by his politics. On the other hand, The'dore made more or less of a muddle on't, an' 'mongst 'em they sethim up in the bankin' bus'nis. I say 'them' because the Verjooses, an'the Rogerses, an' the Swaynes, an' a lot of 'em, is all more or lessrelated to each other, but Alf's reely the one at the bottom on't, an'after The 'd lost most of his money it was the easiest way to kind o'keep him on his legs. "

"He seems a good-natured, easy-going sort of person, " said John by wayof comment, and, truth to say, not very much interested. 

"Oh, yes, " said David rather contemptuously, "you could drive him with atow string. He don't _know_ enough to run away. But what I was gettin'at was this: He an' his wife--he married one of the Tenakers--has livedright here fer the Lord knows how long; born an' brought up here bothon 'em, an' somehow we're 'village people' an' they ain't, that's all. "

"Rather a fine distinction, " remarked his hearer, smiling. 

"Yes, sir, " said David. "Now, there's old maid Allis, relative of theRogerses, lives all alone down on Clark Street in an old house thathain't had a coat o' paint or a new shingle sence the three Thayers washung, an' she talks about the folks next door, both sides, that she'sknowed alwus, as 'village people, ' and I don't believe, " asserted thespeaker, "she was ever away f'm Homeville two weeks in the hull courseof her life. She's a putty decent sort of a woman too, " Mr. Harumadmitted. "If the' was a death in the house she'd go in an' help, butshe wouldn't never think of askin' one on 'em to tea. "

"I suppose you have heard it said, " remarked John, laughing, "that ittakes all sorts of people to make a world. "

"I think I hev heard a rumor to that effect, " said David, "an' I guessthe' 's about as much human nature in some folks as the' is in others, if not more. "

"And I don't fancy that it makes very much difference to you, " saidJohn, "whether the Verjooses or Miss Allis call you 'village people' ornot. "

"Don't cut no figger at all, " declared Mr. Harum. "Polly 'n I are tooold to set up fer shapes even if we wanted to. A good fair road-gait 'sgood enough fer me; three square meals, a small portion of the 'filthyweed, ' as it's called in po'try, a hoss 'r two, a ten-dollar note whereyou c'n lay your hand on't, an' once in a while, when your consciuncepricks ye, a little somethin' to permote the cause o' temp'rence, an'make the inwurd moniter quit jerkin' the reins--wa'al, I guess I c'n gitalong, heh?"

"Yes, " said John, by way of making some rejoinder, "if one has all oneneeds it is enough. "

"Wa'al, yes, " observed the philosopher, "that's so, as you might say, upto a certain _point_, an' in some _ways_. I s'pose a feller could gitalong, but at the same time I've noticed that, gen'ally speakin', aleetle too big 's about the right size. "

"I am told, " said John, after a pause in which the conversation seemedto be dying out for lack of fuel, and apropos of nothing in particular, "that Homeville is quite a summer resort. "

"Quite a consid'able, " responded Mr. Harum. "It has ben to some extentfer a good many years, an' it's gettin' more an' more so all the time, only diff'rent. I mean, " he said, "that the folks that come now makemore show an' most on 'em who ain't visitin' their relations either hasplaces of their own or hires 'em fer the summer. One time some folksused to come an' stay at the hotel. The' was quite a fair one then, " heexplained; "but it burned up, an' wa'n't never built up agin because ithad got not to be thought the fash'nable thing to put up there. Mis'Robinson (Dug's wife), an' Mis' Truman, 'round on Laylock Street, hassome fam'lies that come an' board with them ev'ry year, but that's aboutall the boardin' the' is nowdays. " Mr. Harum stopped and looked at hiscompanion thoughtfully for a moment, as if something had just occurredto him. 

"The' 'll be more o' your kind o' folk 'round, come summer, " he said;and then, on a second thought, "you're 'Piscopal, ain't ye?"

"I have always attended that service, " replied John, smiling, "and Ihave gone to St. James's here nearly every Sunday. "

"Hain't they taken any notice of ye?" asked David. 

"Mr. Euston, the rector, called upon me, " said John, "but I have made nofurther acquaintances. "

"E-um'm!" said David, and, after a moment, in a sort of confidentialtone, "Do you like goin' to church?" he asked. 

"Well, " said John, "that depends--yes, I think I do. I think it is theproper thing, " he concluded weakly. 

"Depends some on how a feller's ben brought up, don't ye think so?" saidDavid. 

"I should think it very likely, " John assented, struggling manfully witha yawn. 

"I guess that's about my case, " remarked Mr. Harum, "an' I sh'd have toadmit that I ain't much of a hand fer church-goin'. Polly has theprinc'pal charge of that branch of the bus'nis, an' the one I stay awayfrom, when I _don't_ go, " he said with a grin, "'s the Prespyteriun. "John laughed. 

"No, sir, " said David, "I ain't much of a hand for't. Polly used toworry at me about it till I fin'ly says to her, 'Polly, ' I says, 'I'lltell ye what I'll do. I'll compermise with ye, ' I says. 'I won'tundertake to foller right along in your track--I hain't got the req'sitspeed, ' I says, 'but f'm now on I'll go to church reg'lar onThanksgivin'. ' It was putty near Thanksgivin' time, " he remarked, "an' Idunno but she thought if she c'd git me started I'd finish the heat, an' so we fixed it at that. "

"Of course, " said John with a laugh, "you kept your promise?"

"Wa'al, sir, " declared David with the utmost gravity, "fer the next fiveyears I never missed attendin' church on Thanksgivin' day but _four_times; but after that, " he added, "I had to beg off. It was too much ofa strain, " he declared with a chuckle, "an' it took more time 'n Pollyc'd really afford to git me ready. " And so he rambled on upon suchtopics as suggested themselves to his mind, or in reply to his auditor'scomments and questions, which were, indeed, more perfunctory thanotherwise. For the Verjooses, the Rogerses, the Swaynes, and the rest, were people whom John not only did not know, but whom he neitherexpected nor cared to know; and so his present interest in them wasextremely small. 

Outside of his regular occupations, and despite the improvement in hisdomestic environment, life was so dull for him that he could not imagineits ever being otherwise in Homeville. It was a year since theworld--his world--had come to an end, and though his sensations of lossand defeat had passed the acute stage, his mind was far from healthy. Hehad evaded David's question, or only half answered it, when he merelyreplied that the rector had called upon him. The truth was that sometentative advances had been made to him, and Mr. Euston had presentedhim to a few of the people in his flock; but beyond the point of merepoliteness he had made no response, mainly from indifference, but to adegree because of a suspicion that his connection with Mr. Harum wouldnot, to say the least, enhance his position in the minds of certain ofthe people of Homeville. As has been intimated, it seemed at the outsetof his career in the village as if there had been a combination ofcircumstance and effort to put him on his guard, and, indeed, rather toprejudice him against his employer; and Mr. Harum, as it now appeared toour friend, had on one or two occasions laid himself open tomisjudgment, if no more. No allusion had ever been made to the episodeof the counterfeit money by either his employer or himself, and it wasnot till months afterward that the subject was brought up by Mr. RichardLarrabee, who sauntered into the bank one morning. Finding no one therebut John, he leaned over the counter on his elbows, and, twisting oneleg about the other in a restful attitude, proceeded to open up aconversation upon various topics of interest to his mind. Dick was Mr. Harum's confidential henchman and factotum, although not regularly soemployed. His chief object in life was apparently to get as muchamusement as possible out of that experience, and he was quiteunhampered by over-nice notions of delicacy or bashfulness. But, withal, Mr. Larrabee was a very honest and loyal person, strong in his likes anddislikes, devoted to David, for whom he had the greatest admiration, andhe had taken a fancy to our friend, stoutly maintaining that he "wa'n'tno more stuck-up 'n you be, " only, as he remarked to Bill Perkins, "hehain't had the advantigis of your bringin' up. "

After some preliminary talk--"Say, " he said to John, "got stuck with anymore countyfit money lately?"

John's face reddened a little and Dick laughed. 

"The old man told me about it, " he said. "Say, you'd ought to done as hetold ye to. You'd 'a' saved fifteen dollars, " Dick declared, looking atour friend with an expression of the utmost amusement. 

"I don't quite understand, " said John rather stiffly. 

"Didn't he tell ye to charge 'em up to the bank, an' let him take 'em?"asked Dick. 

"Well?" said John shortly. 

"Oh, yes, I know, " said Mr. Larrabee. "He said sumpthin' to make youthink he was goin' to pass 'em out, an' you didn't give him no show toexplain, but jest marched into the back room an' stuck 'em onto thefire. Ho, ho, ho, ho! He told me all about it, " cried Dick. "Say, " hedeclared, "I dunno 's I ever see the old man more kind o' womble-croppedover anythin'. Why, he wouldn't no more 'a' passed them bills 'n he'd'a' cut his hand off. He, he, he, he! He was jest ticklin' your heels alittle, " said Mr. Larrabee, "to see if you'd kick, an', " chuckled thespeaker, "you _surely_ did. "

"Perhaps I acted rather hastily, " said John, laughing a little fromcontagion. 

"Wa'al, " said Dick, "Dave's got ways of his own. I've summered an'wintered with him now for a good many years, an' _I_ ain't got to thebottom of him yet, an', " he added, "I don't know nobody that has. "

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Although, as time went on and John had come to a better insight of thecharacter of the eccentric person whom Dick had failed to fathom, hishalf-formed prejudices had fallen away, it must be admitted that heofttimes found him a good deal of a puzzle. The domains of the seriousand the facetious in David's mind seemed to have no very well definedboundaries. 

The talk had drifted back to the people and gossip of Homeville, but, sooth to say, it had not on this occasion got far away from thosetopics. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Harum, "Alf Verjoos is on the hull the best off of anyof the lot. As I told ye, he made money on top of what the old man lefthim, an' he married money. The fam'ly--some on 'em--comes here in thesummer, an' he's here part o' the time gen'ally, but the women folkswon't stay here winters, an' the house is left in care of Alf's sisterwho never got married. He don't care a hill o' white beans fer anythingin Homeville but the old place, and he don't cal'late to have nobody onhis grass, not if he knows it. Him an' me are on putty friendly terms, but the fact is, " said David, in a semi-confidential tone, "he's aboutan even combine of pykery an' viniger, an' about as pop'lar in gen'ral'round here as a skunk in a hen-house; but Mis' Verjoos is putty wellliked; an' one o' the girls, Claricy is her name, is a good deal of afav'rit. Juliet, the other one, don't mix with the village folks much, an' sometimes don't come with the fam'ly at all. She favors her father, "remarked the historian. 

"Inherits his popularity, I conclude, " remarked John, smiling. 

"She does favor him to some extent in that respect, " was the reply; "an'she's dark complected like him, but she's a mighty han'some girl, notwithstandin'. Both on 'em is han'some girls, " observed Mr. Harum, "an' great fer hosses, an' that's the way I got 'quainted with 'em. They're all fer ridin' hossback when they're up here. Did you ever ridea hoss?" he asked. 

"Oh, yes, " said John, "I have ridden a good deal one time and another. "

"Never c'd see the sense on't, " declared David. "I c'n imagine gettin'on to a hoss's back when 't was either that or walkin', but to do it ferthe fun o' the thing 's more 'n I c'n understand. There you be, " hecontinued, "stuck up four five feet up in the air like a clo'espin, havin' your backbone chucked up into your skull, an' takin' the skin offin spots an' places, expectin' ev'ry next minute the critter'll git outf'm under ye--no, sir, " he protested, "if it come to be that it waseither to ride a hossback fer the fun o' the thing or have somebody kickme, an' kick me hard, I'd say, 'Kick away. ' It comes to the same thingfur 's enjoyment goes, and it's a dum sight safer. "

John laughed outright, while David leaned forward with his hands on hisknees, looking at him with a broad though somewhat doubtful smile. 

"That being your feeling, " remarked John, "I should think saddle horseswould be rather out of your line. Was it a saddle horse that the MissesVerjoos were interested in?"

"Wa'al, I didn't buy him fer that, " replied David, "an' in fact when thefeller that sold him to me told me he'd ben rode, I allowed that oughtto knock twenty dollars off 'n the price, but I did have such a hoss, an', outside o' that, he was a nice piece of hoss flesh. I was up to thebarn one mornin', mebbe four years ago, " he continued, "when in drovethe Verjoos carriage with one of the girls, the oldest one, inside, an'the yeller-haired one on a hossback. 'Good mornin'. You're Mr. Harum, ain't you?' she says. 'Good mornin', ' I says, 'Harum's the name 't I usewhen I appear in public. You're Miss Verjoos, I reckon, ' I says. 

"She laughed a little, an' says, motionin' with her head to'ds thecarriage, 'My sister is Miss Verjoos. I'm Miss Claricy. ' I took off mycap, an' the other girl jest bowed her head a little. 

"'I heard you had a hoss 't I could ride, ' says the one on hossback. 

"'Wa'al, ' I says, lookin' at her hoss, an' he was a good one, " remarkedDavid, "'fer a saddle hoss, I shouldn't think you was entirely out o'hosses long's you got that one. ' 'Oh, ' she says, this is my sister'shoss. Mine has hurt his leg so badly that I am 'fraid I sha'n't be ableto ride him this summer. ' 'Wa'al, ' I says, 'I've got a hoss that's benrode, so I was told, but I don't know of my own knowin'. '

"'Don't you ride?' she says. 'Hossback?' I says. 'Why, of course, ' shesays. '_No_, ma'am, ' I says, 'not when I c'n raise the money to pay my_fine_' She looked kind o' puzzled at that, " remarked David, "but I seethe other girl look at her an' give a kind of quiet laugh. "

"'Can I see him?' says Miss Claricy. 'Cert'nly, ' I says, an' went an'brought him out. 'Oh!' she says to her sister, 'ain't he a beauty? C'n Itry him?' she says to me. 'Wa'al, ' I says, 'I guess I c'n resk it if youcan, but I didn't buy him fer a saddle hoss, an' if I'm to own him ferany len'th of time I'd ruther he'd fergit the saddle bus'nis, an' in anycase, ' I says, 'I wouldn't like him to git a sore back, an' then agin, 'I says, 'I hain't got no saddle. '

"'Wa'al, ' she says, givin' her head a toss, 'if I couldn't sit straightI'd never ride agin. I never made a hoss's back sore in my life, ' shesays. 'We c'n change the saddle, ' she says, an' off she jumps, an', scatmy ----!" exclaimed David, "the way she knowed about gettin' that saddlefixed, pads, straps, girt's, an' the hull bus'nis, an' put up her footfer me to give her a lift, an' wheeled that hoss an' went out o' theyard a-kitin', was as slick a piece o' hoss bus'nis as ever I see. Ittook fust money, that did, " said Mr. Harum with a confirmatory shake ofthe head. "Wa'al, " he resumed, "in about a few minutes back she come, lickity-cut, an' pulled up in front of me. 'C'n you send my sister'shoss home?' she says, 'an' then I sha'n't have to change agin. I'll stayon _my_ hoss, ' she says, laughin', an' then agin laughin' fit to kill, fer I stood there with my mouth open clear to my back teeth, not bein'used to doin' bus'nis 'ith quite so much neatniss an' dispatch, as thesayin' is. 

"'Oh, it's all right, ' she says. 'Poppa came home last night an' I'llhave him see you this afternoon or to-morro'. ' 'But mebbe he 'n I won'tagree about the price, ' I says. 'Yes, you will, ' she says, 'an' if youdon't I won't make his back sore'--an' off they went, an' left mestandin' there like a stick in the mud. I've bought an' sold hosses tosome extent fer a consid'able number o' years, " said Mr. Harumreflectively, "but that partic'ler transaction's got a peg all toitself. "

John laughed and asked, "How did it come out? I mean, what sort of aninterview did you have with the young woman's father, the popular Mr. Verjoos?"

"Oh, " said David, "he druv up to the office the next mornin', 'bout teno'clock, an' come into the back room here, an' after we'd passed thetime o' day, he says, clearin' his throat in a way he's got, 'He-uh, he-uh!' he says, 'my daughter tells me that she run off with a hoss ofyours yestidy in rather a summery manner, an--he-uh-uh--I have come tosee you about payin' fer him. What is the price?' he says. 

"'Wa'al, ' I says, more 'n anythin' to see what he'd say, 'what would yousay he was wuth?' An' with that he kind o' stiffened a little stiffer 'nhe was before, if it could be. 

"'Really, ' he says, 'he-uh-uh, I haven't any idea. I haven't seen theanimal, an' I should not consider myself qual'fied to give an opinionupon his value if I had, but, ' he says, 'I don't know that that makesany material diff'rence, however, because I am quite--he-uh, he-uh--inyour hands--he-uh!--within limits--he-uh-uh!--within limits, ' he says. That kind o' riled me, " remarked David. "I see in a minute what waspassin' in his mind. 'Wa'al, ' I says, 'Mr. Verjoos, I guess the fact o'the matter is 't I'm about as much in the mud as you be in themire--your daughter's got my hoss, ' I says. 'Now you ain't dealin' witha hoss jockey, ' I says, 'though I don't deny that I buy an' sell hosses, an' once in a while make money at it. You're dealin' with David Harum, Banker, an' I consider 't I'm dealin' with a lady, or the father of oneon her account, ' I says. 

"'He-uh, he-uh! I meant no offense, sir, ' he says. 

"'None bein' meant, none will be took, ' I says. 'Now, ' I says, ' I wasoffered one-seventy-five fer that hoss day before yestidy, an' wouldn'ttake it. I can't sell him fer that, ' I says. 

"'He-uh, uh! cert'nly not, ' he says. 

"'Wait a minit, ' I says. 'I can't sell him fer that because I_said_ I wouldn't; but if you feel like drawin' your check ferone-seventy-_six_, ' I says, 'we'll call it a deal, '" The speakerpaused with a chuckle. 

"Well?" said John. 

"Wa'al, " said David, "he, he, he, he! That clean took the wind out ofhim, an' he got redder 'n a beet. 'He-uh-uh-uh-huh! really, ' he says, 'Icouldn't think of offerin' you less than two hunderd. '

"'All right, ' I says, 'I'll send up fer the hoss. One-seventy-six is myprice, no more an' no less, ' an' I got up out o' my chair. "

"And what did he say then?" asked John. 

"Wa'al, " replied Mr. Harum, "he settled his neck down into his collaran' necktie an' cleared his throat a few times, an' says, 'You put me inruther an embarrassin' position, Mr. Harum. My daughter has set herheart on the hoss, an'--he-uh-uh-uh!'--with a kind of a smile like awrinkle in a boot, 'I can't very well tell her that I wouldn't buy himbecause you wouldn't accept a higher offer than your own price. I--Ithink I must accede to your proposition, an'--he-uh-uh--accept thefavor, ' he says, draggin' the words out by the roots. 

"'No favor at all, ' I says, 'not a bit on't, not a bit on't. It was thecleanest an' slickist deal I ever had, ' I says, 'an' I've had a goodmany. That girl o' your'n, ' I says, 'if you don't mind my sayin' it, comes as near bein' a full team an' a cross dog under the wagin as youc'n git; an' you c'n tell her if you think fit, ' I says, 'that if sheever wants anythin' more out o' _my_ barn I'll throw off twenty-fourdollars ev'ry time, if she'll only do her own buyin'. '

"Wa'al, " said Mr. Harum, "I didn't know but what he'd gag a little atthat, but he didn't seem to, an' when he went off after givin' me hischeck, he put out his hand an' shook hands, a thing he never donebefore. "

"That was really very amusing, " was John's comment. 

"'T wa'n't a bad day's work either, " observed Mr. Harum. "I've sold thecrowd a good many hosses since then, an' I've laughed a thousan' timesover that pertic'ler trade. Me 'n Miss Claricy, " he added, "has alwusben good friends sence that time--an' she 'n Polly are reg'lar neetups. She never sees me in the street but what it's 'How dee do, Mr. H-a-rum?'An' I'll say, 'Ain't that ole hoss wore out yet?' or, 'When you comin''round to run off with another hoss?' I'll say. "

At this point David got out of his chair, yawned, and walked over to thewindow. 

"Did you ever in all your born days, " he said, "see such dum'd weather?Jest look out there--no sleighin', no wheelin', an' a barn full wantin'exercise. Wa'al, I guess I'll be moseyin' along. " And out he went. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

If John Lenox had kept a diary for the first year of his life inHomeville most of its pages would have been blank. 

The daily routine of the office (he had no assistant but the callowHopkins) was more exacting than laborious, but it kept him confinedseven hours in the twenty-four. Still, there was time in the lengtheneddays as the year advanced for walking, rowing, and riding or drivingabout the picturesque country which surrounds Homeville. He and Mr. Harum often drove together after the bank closed, or after "tea, " and itwas a pleasure in itself to observe David's dexterous handling of hishorses, and his content and satisfaction in the enjoyment of hisfavorite pastime. In pursuit of business he "jogged 'round, " as he said, behind the faithful Jinny, but when on pleasure bent, a pair ofsatin-coated trotters drew him in the latest and "slickest" model oftop-buggies. 

"Of course, " he said, "I'd ruther ride all alone than not to ride atall, but the's twice as much fun in't when you've got somebody along. Iain't much of a talker, unless I happen to git started" (at whichassertion John repressed a smile), "but once in a while I like to havesomebody to say somethin' to. You like to come along, don't ye?"

"Very much indeed. "

"I used to git Polly to come once in a while, " said David, "but itwa'n't no pleasure to her. She hadn't never ben used to hosses an' alwusset on the edge of the seat ready to jump, an' if one o' the critterscapered a little she'd want to git right out then an' there. I reckonshe never went out but what she thanked mercy when she struck the hossblock to git back with hull bones. "

"I shouldn't have thought that she would have been nervous with thereins in your hands, " said John. 

"Wa'al, " replied David, "the last time she come along somethin' give theteam a little scare an' she reached over an' made a grab at the lines. That, " he remarked with a grin, "was quite a good while ago. I says toher when we got home, 'I guess after this you'd better take your airin'son a stun-boat. You won't be so liable to git run away with an' throwedout, ' I says. "

John laughed a little, but made no comment. 

"After all, " said David, "I dunno 's I blamed her fer bein' skittish, but I couldn't have her grabbin' the lines. It's curi's, " he reflected, "I didn't used to mind what I rode behind, nor who done the drivin', butI'd have to admit that as I git older I prefer to do it myself, I rideev'ry once in a while with fellers that c'n drive as well, an' mebbebetter, 'n I can, an' I know it, but if anythin' turns up, or looks likeit, I can't help wishin' 't I had holt o' the lines myself. "

The two passed a good many hours together thus beguiling the time. Whatever David's other merits as a companion, he was not exacting ofresponse when engaged in conversation, and rarely made any demands uponhis auditor. 

 * * * * *

During that first year John made few additions to his socialacquaintance, and if in the summer the sight of a gay party of youngpeople caused some stirrings in his breast, they were not strong enoughto induce him to make any attempts toward the acquaintance which hemight have formed. He was often conscious of glances of curiositydirected toward himself, and Mr. Euston was asked a good many questionsabout the latest addition to his congregation. 

Yes, he had called upon Mr. Lenox and his call had been returned. Infact, they had had several visits together--had met out walking once andhad gone on in company. Was Mr. Lenox "nice"? Yes, he had made apleasant impression upon Mr. Euston, and seemed to be a person ofintelligence and good breeding--very gentlemanlike. Why did not peopleknow him? Well, Mr. Euston had made some proffers to that end, but Mr. Lenox had merely expressed his thanks. No, Mr. Euston did not know howhe happened to be in Homeville and employed by that queer old Mr. Harum, and living with him and his funny old sister; Mr. Lenox had not confidedin him at all, and though very civil and pleasant, did not appear towish to be communicative. 

So our friend did not make his entrance that season into the drawing ordining rooms of any of what David called the "nabobs'" houses. By themiddle or latter part of October Homeville was deserted of its visitorsand as many of that class of its regular population as had the means togo with and a place to go to. 

It was under somewhat different auspices that John entered upon thesecond winter of his sojourn. It has been made plain that his relationswith his employer and the kind and lovable Polly were on a satisfactoryand permanent footing. 

"I'm dum'd, " said David to Dick Larrabee, "if it hain't got putty nearto the p'int when if I want to git anythin' out o' the common run out o'Polly, I'll have to ask John to fix it fer me. She's like a cow with acalf, " he declared. 

"David sets all the store in the world by him, " stated Mrs. Bixbee to afriend, "though he don't jest let on to--not in so many words. He's gota kind of a notion that his little boy, if he'd lived, would 'a' benlike him some ways. I never seen the child, " she added, with anexpression which made her visitor smile, "but as near 's I c'n make outf'm Dave's tell, he must 'a' ben red-headed. Didn't you know 't he'dever ben married? Wa'al, he was fer a few years, though it's the onething--wa'al, I don't mean exac'ly that--it's _one_ o' the things hedon't have much to say about. But once in a while he'll talk about theboy, what he'd be now if he'd lived, an' so on; an' he's the greatesthand fer childern--everlastin'ly pickin' on 'em up when he's ridin' andsuch as that--an' I seen him once when we was travelin' on the cars goan' take a squawlin' baby away f'm it's mother, who looked ready todrop, an' lay it across that big chest of his, an' the little thingnever gave a whimper after he got it into his arms--jest went right offto sleep. No, " said Mrs. Bixbee, "I never had no childern, an' I don'tknow but what I was glad of it at the time; Jim Bixbee was about asmuch baby as I thought I could manage, but now--"

There was some reason for not concluding the sentence, and so we do notknow what was in her mind. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

The year that had passed had seemed a very long one to John, but as themonths came and went he had in a measure adjusted himself to the changein his fortunes and environment; and so as time went on the poignancy ofhis sorrow and regret diminished, as it does with all of us. Yet thesight of a gray-haired man still brought a pang to his heart, and therewere times of yearning longing to recall every line of the face, everydetail of the dress, the voice, the words, of the girl who had been sodear to him, and who had gone out of his life as irrevocably, it seemedto him, as if by death itself. It may be strange, but it is true thatfor a very long time it never occurred to him that he might communicatewith her by mailing a letter to her New York address to be forwarded, and when the thought came to him the impulse to act upon it was verystrong, but he did not do so. Perhaps he would have written had he beenless in love with her, but also there was mingled with that sentimentsomething of bitterness which, though he could not quite explain orjustify it, did exist. Then, too, he said to himself, "Of what availwould it be? Only to keep alive a longing for the impossible. " No, hewould forget it all. Men had died and worms had eaten them, but not forlove. Many men lived all their lives without it and got on very welltoo, he was aware. Perhaps some day, when he had become thoroughlyaffiliated and localized, he would wed a village maiden, and rear aFreeland County brood. Our friend, as may be seen, had a pretty healthymind, and we need not sympathize with him to the disturbance of our ownpeace. 

Books accumulated in the best bedroom. John's expenses were small, andthere was very little temptation, or indeed opportunity, for spending. At the time of his taking possession of his quarters in David's house hehad raised the question of his contribution to the household expenses, but Mr. Harum had declined to discuss the matter at all and referred himto Mrs. Bixbee, with whom he compromised on a weekly sum which appearedto him absurdly small, but which she protested she was ashamed toaccept. After a while a small upright piano made its appearance, withAunt Polly's approval. 

"Why, of course, " she said. "You needn't to hev ast me. I'd like to hevyou anyway. I like music ever so much, an' so does David, though I guessit would floor him to try an' raise a tune. I used to sing quite alittle when I was younger, an' I gen'ally help at church an' prayermeetin' now. Why, cert'nly. Why not? When would you play if it wa'n't inthe evenin'? David sleeps over the wing. Do you hear him snore?"

"Hardly ever, " replied John, smiling. "That is to say, not verymuch--just enough sometimes to know that he is asleep. "

"Wa'al, " she said decidedly, "if he's fur enough off so 't you can'thear _him_, I guess he won't hear _you_ much, an' he sure won't hearyou after he gits to sleep. "

So the piano came, and was a great comfort and resource. Indeed, beforelong it became the regular order of things for David and his sister tospend an hour or so on Sunday evenings listening to his music and theirown as well--that is, the music of their choice--which latter was mostlyto be found in "Carmina Sacra" and "Moody and Sankey"; and Aunt Polly'sheart was glad indeed when she and John together made concord of sweetsounds in some familiar hymn tune, to the great edification of Mr. Harum, whose admiration was unbounded. 

 * * * * *

"Did I tell you, " said David to Dick Larrabee, "what happened the lasttime me an' John went ridin' together?"

"Not's I remember on, " replied Dick. 

"Wa'al, we've rode together quite a consid'able, " said Mr. Harum, "but Ihadn't never said anythin' to him about takin' a turn at the lines. Thisday we'd got a piece out into the country an' I had the brown colts. Isays to him, 'Ever do any drivin'?"

"'More or less, ' he says. 

"'Like to take the lines fer a spell?' I says. 

"'Yes, ' he says, lookin' kind o' pleased, 'if you ain't afraid to trustme with 'em, ' he says. 

"'Wa'al, I'll be here, ' I says, an' handed 'em over. Wa'al, sir, I seejest by the way he took holt on 'em it wa'n't the fust time, an' we wentalong to where the road turns in through a piece of woods, an' the trackis narrer, an' we run slap onto one o' them dum'd road-engines that hadgot wee-wawed putty near square across the track. Now I tell ye, " saidMr. Harum, "them hosses didn't like it fer a cent, an' tell the truth Ididn't like it no better. We couldn't go ahead fer we couldn't git bythe cussed thing, an' the hosses was 'par'ntly tryin' to git back underthe buggy, an', scat my ----! if he didn't straighten 'em out an' back'em 'round in that narrer road, an' hardly scraped a wheel. Yes, sir, "declared Mr. Harum, "I couldn't 'a' done it slicker myself, an' I don'tknow nobody that could. "

"Guess you must 'a' felt a little ticklish yourself, " said Dicksympathetically, laughing as usual. 

"Wa'al, you better believe, " declared the other. "The' was 'bout half aminute when I'd have sold out mighty cheap, an' took a promise fer themoney. He's welcome to drive any team in _my_ barn, " said David, feeling--in which view Mr. Larrabee shared--that encomium was prettywell exhausted in that assertion. 

"I don't believe, " said Mr. Harum after a moment, in which he and hiscompanion reflected upon the gravity of his last declaration, "thatthe's any dum thing that feller can't do. The last thing 's a piany. He's got a little one that stands up on it's hind legs in his room, an'he c'n play it with both hands 'thout lookin' on. Yes, sir, we havereg'lar concerts at my house ev'ry Sunday night, admission free, an'childern half price, an', " said David, "you'd ought to hear him an'Polly sing, an'--he, he, he! you'd ought to _see_ her singin'--tickleder'n a little dog with a nosegay tied to his tail. "

CHAPTER XXXII. 

Our friend's acquaintance with the rector of St. James's church hadgrown into something like friendship, and the two men were quite oftentogether in the evening. John went sometimes to Mr. Euston's house, andnot unfrequently the latter would spend an hour in John's room over acigar and a chat. On one of the latter occasions, late in the autumn, Mr. Euston went to the piano after sitting a few minutes and looked oversome of the music, among which were two or three hymnals. "You aremusical, " he said. 

"In a modest way, " was the reply. 

"I am very fond of it, " said the clergyman, "but have little knowledgeof it. I wish I had more, " he added in a tone of so much regret asto cause his hearer to look curiously at him. "Yes, " he said, "I wish Iknew more--or less. It's the bane of my existence, " declared the rectorwith a half laugh. John looked inquiringly at him, but did not respond. 

"I mean the music--so called--at St. James's, " said Mr. Euston. "I don'twonder you smile, " he remarked; "but it's not a matter for smiling withme. "

"I beg pardon, " said John. 

"No, you need not, " returned the other, "but really--Well, there are agood many unpleasant and disheartening experiences in a clergyman'slife, and I can, I hope, face and endure most of them with patience, butthe musical part of my service is a never-ending source of anxiety, perplexity, and annoyance. I think, " said Mr. Euston, "that I expendmore nerve tissue upon that branch of my responsibilities than upon allthe rest of my work. You see we can not afford to pay any of thesingers, and indeed my people--some of them, at least--think fiftydollars is a great sum for poor little Miss Knapp, the organist. Therest are volunteers, or rather, I should say, have been pressed into theservice. We are supposed to have two sopranos and two altos; but ineffect it happens sometimes that neither of a pair will appear, eachexpecting the other to be on duty. The tenor, Mr. Hubber, who is anelderly man without any voice to speak of, but a very devout andfaithful churchman, is to be depended upon to the extent of hisabilities; but Mr. Little, the bass--well, " observed Mr. Euston, "theless said about him the better. "

"How about the organist?" said John. "I think she does very well, doesn't she?"

"Miss Knapp is the one redeeming feature, " replied the rector, "but shehas not much courage to interfere. Hubber is nominally the leader, buthe knows little of music. " Mr. Euston gave a sorry little laugh. "It'strying enough, " he said, "one Sunday with another, but on Christmas andEaster, when my people make an unusual effort, and attempt theimpossible, it is something deplorable. "

John could not forbear a little laugh. "I should think it must be prettytrying, " he said. 

"It is simply corroding, " declared Mr. Euston. 

They sat for a while smoking in silence, the contemplation of his woeshaving apparently driven other topics from the mind of the harassedclergyman. At last he said, turning to our friend:

"I have heard your voice in church. "

"Yes?"

"And I noticed that you sang not only the hymns but the chants, and in away to suggest the idea that you have had experience and training. I didnot come here for the purpose, " said Mr. Euston, after waiting a momentfor John to speak, "though I confess the idea has occurred to me before, but it was suggested again by the sight of your piano and music. I knowthat it is asking a great deal, " he continued, "but do you think youcould undertake, for a while at least, to help such a lame dog as I amover the stile? You have no idea, " said the rector earnestly, "what aservice you would be doing not only to me, but to my people and thechurch. "

John pulled thoughtfully at his mustache for a moment, while Mr. Eustonwatched his face. "I don't know, " he said at last in a doubtful tone. "Iam afraid you are taking too much for granted--I don't mean as to mygood will, but as to my ability to be of service, for I suppose you meanthat I should help in drilling your choir. "

"Yes, " replied Mr. Euston. "I suppose it would be too much to ask you tosing as well. "

"I have had no experience in the way of leading or directing, " repliedJohn, ignoring the suggestion, "though I have sung in church more orless, and am familiar with the service, but even admitting my ability tobe of use, shouldn't you be afraid that my interposing might make moretrouble than it would help? Wouldn't your choir resent it? Such peopleare sometimes jealous, you know. "

"Oh, dear, yes, " sighed the rector. "But, " he added, "I think I canguarantee that there will be no unpleasant feeling either toward you orabout you. Your being from New York will give you a certain prestige, and their curiosity and the element of novelty will make the beginningeasy. "

There came a knock at the door and Mr. Harum appeared, but, seeing avisitor, was for withdrawing. 

"Don't go, " said John. "Come in. Of course you know Mr. Euston. "

"Glad to see ye, " said David, advancing and shaking hands. "You folkstalkin' bus'nis?" he asked before sitting down. 

"I am trying to persuade Mr. Lenox to do me a great favor, " said Mr. Euston. 

"Well, I guess he won't want such an awful sight o' persuadin', " saidDavid, taking a chair, "if he's able to do it. What does he want of ye?"he asked, turning to John. Mr. Euston explained, and our friend gave hisreasons for hesitating--all but the chief one, which was that he wasreluctant to commit himself to an undertaking which he apprehended wouldbe not only laborious but disagreeable. 

"Wa'al, " said David, "as fur 's the bus'nis itself 's concerned, thehull thing's all nix-cum-rouse to me; but as fur 's gettin' folks tocome an' sing, you c'n git a barn full, an' take your pick; an' afeller that c'n git a pair of hosses an' a buggy out of a tight fix theway you done a while ago ought to be able to break in a little team ofhalf a dozen women or so. "

"Well, " said John, laughing, "_you_ could have done what I was luckyenough to do with the horses, but--"

"Yes, yes, " David broke in, scratching his cheek, "I guess you got methat time. "

Mr. Euston perceived that for some reason he had an ally and advocate inMr. Harum. He rose and said good-night, and John escorted him downstairsto the door. "Pray think of it as favorably as you can, " he said, asthey shook hands at parting. 

"Putty nice kind of a man, " remarked David when John came back; "puttynice kind of a man. 'Bout the only 'quaintance you've made of his kind, ain't he? Wa'al, he's all right fur 's he goes. Comes of good stock, I'mtold, an' looks it. Runs a good deal to emptins in his preachin' though, they say. How do you find him?"

"I think I enjoy his conversation more than his sermons, " admitted Johnwith a smile. 

"Less of it at times, ain't the'?" suggested David. "I may have toldye, " he continued, "that I wa'n't a very reg'lar churchgoer, but I'veben more or less in my time, an' when I did listen to the sermon allthrough, it gen'ally seemed to me that if the preacher 'd put all the'really was in it together he wouldn't need to have took only 'boutquarter the time; but what with scorin' fer a start, an' laggin' on theback stretch, an' ev'ry now an' then breakin' to a stan'still, Igen'ally wanted to come down out o' the stand before the race was over. The's a good many fast quarter hosses, " remarked Mr. Harum, "but themthat c'n keep it up fer a full mile is scurce. What you goin' to doabout the music bus'nis, or hain't ye made up your mind yet?" he asked, changing the subject. 

"I like Mr. Euston, " said John, "and he seems very much in earnest aboutthis matter; but I am not sure, " he added thoughtfully, "that I can dowhat he wants, and I must say that I am very reluctant to undertake it;still, I don't know but that I ought to make the trial, " and he lookedup at David. 

"I guess I would if I was you, " said the latter. "It can't do ye noharm, an' it may do ye some good. The fact is, " he continued, "that youain't out o' danger of runnin' in a rut. It would do you good mebbe togit more acquainted, an' mebbe this'll be the start on't. "

"With a little team of half a dozen women, as you called them, " saidJohn. "Mr. Euston has offered to introduce me to any one I cared toknow. "

"I didn't mean the singin' folks, " responded Mr. Harum, "I meant thechurch folks in gen'ral, an' it'll come 'round in a natur'l sort ofway--not like bein' took 'round by Mr. Euston as if you'd _ast_ him to. You can't git along--you may, an' have fer a spell, but not alwus--withnobody to visit with but me an' Polly an' Dick, an' so on, an' once in awhile with the parson; you ben used to somethin' diff'rent, an' while Iain't sayin' that Homeville soci'ty, pertic'lerly in the winter, 's thefinest in the land, or that me an' Polly ain't all right in our way, youwant a change o' feed once in a while, or you _may_ git the colic. Now, " proceeded the speaker, "if this singin' bus'nis don't do more'nto give ye somethin' new to think about, an' take up an evenin' now an'then, even if it bothers ye some, I think mebbe it'll be a good thingfer ye. They say a reasonable amount o' fleas is good fer a dog--keepshim from broodin' over _bein'_ a dog, mebbe, " suggested David. 

"Perhaps you are right, " said John. "Indeed, I don't doubt that you areright, and I will take your advice. "

"Thank you, " said David a minute or two later on, holding out the glasswhile John poured, "jest a wisdom toothful. I don't set up to be noSol'mon, an' if you ever find out how I'm bettin' on a race jest'copper' me an' you c'n wear di'monds, but I know when a hoss has stoodtoo long in the barn as soon as the next man. "

It is possible that even Mr. Euston did not fully appreciate thedifficulties of the task which he persuaded our friend John toundertake; and it is certain that had the latter known all that theywere to be he would have hardened his heart against both the pleadingsof the rector and the advice of David. His efforts were welcomed andseconded by Mr. Hubber the tenor, and Miss Knapp the organist, and therewas some earnestness displayed at first by the ladies of the choir; butMr. Little, the bass, proved a hopeless case, and John, wholly againsthis intentions, and his inclinations as well, had eventually to takeover the basso's duty altogether, as being the easiest way--in fact, theonly way--to save his efforts from downright failure. 

Without going in detail into the trials and tribulations incident to thebringing of the musical part of the service at Mr. Euston's church upto a respectable if not a high standard, it may be said that withunremitting pains this end was accomplished, to the boundless relief andgratitude of that worthy gentleman, and to a good degree of the membersof his congregation. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

On a fine Sunday in summer after the close of the service the exit ofthe congregation of St. James's church presents an animated andinspiring spectacle. A good many well-dressed ladies of various ages, and not quite so many well-dressed men, mostly (as David would have putit) "runnin' a little younger, " come from out the sacred edifice with anexpression of relief easily changeable to something gayer. A few driveaway in handsome equipages, but most prefer to walk, and there isusually a good deal of smiling talk in groups before parting, in whichMr. Euston likes to join. He leaves matters in the vestry to the care ofold Barlow, the sexton, and makes, if one may be permitted theexpression, "a quick change. "

Things had come about very much as David had desired and anticipated, and our friend had met quite a number of the "summer people, " havingbeen waylaid at times by the rector--in whose good graces he stood sohigh that he might have sung anything short of a comic song during theoffertory--and presented willy-nilly. On this particular Sunday he hadlingered a while in the gallery after service over some matter connectedwith the music, and when he came out of the church most of the peoplehad made their way down the front steps and up the street; but standingnear the gate was a group of three--the rector and two young women whomJohn had seen the previous summer, and now recognized as the MissesVerjoos. He raised his hat as he was passing the group, when Mr. Eustondetained him: "I want to present you to the Misses Verjoos. " A tallgirl, dressed in some black material which gave John the impression oflace, recognized his salutation with a slight bow and a ratherindifferent survey from a pair of very somber dark eyes, while hersister, in light colors, gave him a smiling glance from a pair of veryblue ones, and, rather to his surprise, put out her hand with the usualdeclaration of pleasure, happiness, or what not. 

"We were just speaking of the singing, " said the rector, "and I wassaying that it was all your doing. "

"You really have done wonders, " condescended she of the somber eyes. "Wehave only been here a day or two and this is the first time we have beenat church. "

The party moved out of the gate and up the street, the rector leadingwith Miss Verjoos, followed by our friend and the younger sister. 

"Indeed you have, " said the latter, seconding her sister's remark. "Idon't believe even yourself can quite realize what the difference is. My! it is very nice for the rest of us, but it must be a perfect killingbore for you. "

"I have found it rather trying at times, " said John; "but now--you areso kind--it is beginning to appear to me as the most delightful ofpursuits. "

"Very pretty, " remarked Miss Clara. "Do you say a good deal of that sortof thing?"

"I am rather out of practice, " replied John. "I haven't had muchopportunity for some time. "

"I don't think you need feel discouraged, " she returned. "A good methodis everything, and I have no doubt you might soon be in form again. "

"Thanks for your encouragement, " said John, smiling. "I was beginning tofeel quite low in my mind about it. " She laughed a little. 

"I heard quite a good deal about you last year from a very good friendof yours, " said Miss Clara after a pause. 

John looked at her inquiringly. 

"Mrs. Bixbee, " she said. "Isn't she an old dear?"

"I have reason to think so, with all my heart, " said John stoutly. 

"She talked a lot about you to me, " said Miss Clara. 

"Yes?"

"Yes, and if your ears did not burn you have no sense of gratitude. Isn't Mr. Harum funny?"

"I have sometimes suspected it, " said John, laughing. "He once told merather an amusing thing about a young woman's running off with one ofhis horses. "

"Did he tell you that? Really? I wonder what you must have thought ofme?"

"Something of what Mr. Harum did, I fancy, " said John. 

"What was that?"

"Pardon me, " was the reply, "but I have been snubbed once this morning. "She gave a little laugh. 

"Mr. Harum and I are great 'neetups, ' as he says. Is 'neetups' a niceword?" she asked, looking at her companion. 

"I should think so if I were in Mr. Harum's place, " said John. "It means'cronies, ' I believe, in his dictionary. "

They had come to where Freeland Street terminates in the Lake Road, which follows the border of the lake to the north and winds around thefoot of it to the south and west. 

"Why!" exclaimed Miss Clara, "there comes David. I haven't seen him thissummer. "

They halted and David drew up, winding the reins about the whipstock andpulling off his buckskin glove. 

"How do you do, Mr. Harum?" said the girl, putting her hand in his. 

"How air ye, Miss Claricy? Glad to see ye agin, " he said. "I'm settin'up a little ev'ry day now, an' you don't look as if you was off yourfeed much, eh?"

"No, " she replied, laughing, "I'm in what you call pretty faircondition, I think. "

"Wa'al, I reckon, " he said, looking at her smiling face with thefrankest admiration. "Guess you come out a little finer ev'ry season, don't ye? Hard work to keep ye out o' the 'free-fer-all' class, I guess. How's all the folks?"

"Nicely, thanks, " she replied. 

"That's right, " said David. 

"How is Mrs. Bixbee?" she inquired. 

"Wa'al, " said David with a grin, "I ben a little down in the mouthlately 'bout Polly--seems to be fallin' away some--don't weigh much more'n I do, I guess;" but Miss Clara only laughed at this gloomy report. 

"How is my horse Kirby?" she asked. 

"Wa'al, the ole bag-o'-bones is breathin' yet, " said David, chuckling, "but he's putty well wore out--has to lean up agin the shed to whicker. Guess I'll have to sell ye another putty soon now. Still, what the' isleft of him 's 's good 's ever 't will be, an' I'll send him up in themornin'. " He looked from Miss Clara to John, whose salutation he hadacknowledged with the briefest of nods. 

"How'd you ketch _him_?" he asked, indicating our friend with a motionof his head. "Had to go after him with a four-quart measure, didn't ye?or did he let ye corner him?"

"Mr. Euston caught him for me, " she said, laughing, but coloringperceptibly, while John's face grew very red. "I think I will run on andjoin my sister, and Mr. Lenox can drive home with you. Good bye, Mr. Harum. I shall be glad to have Kirby whenever it is convenient. We shallbe glad to see you at Lakelawn, " she said to John cordially, "wheneveryou can come;" and taking her prayer book and hymnal from him, she spedaway. 

"Look at her git over the ground, " said David, turning to watch herwhile John got into the buggy. "Ain't that a gait?"

"She is a charming girl, " said John as old Jinny started off. 

"She's the one I told you about that run off with my hoss, " remarkedDavid, "an' I alwus look after him fer her in the winter. "

"Yes, I know, " said John. "She was laughing about it to-day, and sayingthat you and she were great friends. "

"She was, was she?" said David, highly pleased. "Yes, sir, that's thegirl, an', scat my ----! if I was thirty years younger she c'd run offwith me jest as easy--an' I dunno but what she could anyway, " he added. 

"Charming girl, " repeated John rather thoughtfully. 

"Wa'al, " said David, "I don't know as much about girls as I do aboutsome things; my experience hain't laid much in that line, but I wouldn'tlike to take a contract to match _her_ on any _limit_. I guess, " headded softly, "that the consideration in that deal 'd have to be 'lovean' affection. ' Git up, old lady, " he exclaimed, and drew the whip alongold Jinny's back like a caress. The mare quickened her pace, and in afew minutes they drove into the barn. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

"Where you ben?" asked Mrs. Bixbee of her brother as the three sat atthe one o'clock dinner. "I see you drivin' off somewheres. "

"Ben up the Lake Road to 'Lizer Howe's, " replied David. "He's got a hoss't I've some notion o' buyin'. "

"Ain't the' week-days enough, " she asked, "to do your horse-tradin' in'ithout breakin' the Sabbath?"

David threw back his head and lowered a stalk of the last asparagus ofthe year into his mouth. 

"Some o' the best deals I ever made, " he said, "was made on a Sunday. Hain't you never heard the sayin', 'The better the day, the better thedeal'?"

"Wa'al, " declared Mrs. Bixbee, "the' can't be no blessin' on moneythat's made in that way, an' you'd be better off without it. "

"I dunno, " remarked her brother, "but Deakin Perkins might ask ablessin' on a hoss trade, but I never heard of it's bein' done, an' Idon't know jest how the deakin 'd put it; it'd be two fer the deakin an'one fer the other feller, though, somehow, you c'n bet. "

"Humph!" she ejaculated. "I guess nobody ever did; an' I sh'd think youhad money enough an' horses enough an' time enough to keep out o' thatbus'nis on Sunday, anyhow. "

"Wa'al, wa'al, " said David, "mebbe I'll swear off before long, an'anyway the' wa'n't no blessin' needed on this trade, fer if you'll ask'Lizer he'll tell ye the' wa'n't none made. 'Lizer 's o' your way o'thinkin' on the subjict. "

"That's to his credit, anyway, " she asserted. 

"Jes' so, " observed her brother; "I've gen'ally noticed that folks whowas of your way o' thinkin' never made no mistakes, an' 'Lizer 's a veryconsistent believer;" whereupon he laughed in a way to arouse both Mrs. Bixbee's curiosity and suspicion. 

"I don't see anythin' in that to laugh at, " she declared. 

"He, he, he, he!" chuckled David. 

"Wa'al, you may 's well tell it one time 's another. That's the way, "she said, turning to John with a smile trembling on her lips, "'t hepicks at me the hull time. "

"I've noticed it, " said John. "It's shameful. "

"I do it hully fer her good, " asserted David with a grin. "If it wa'n'tfer me she'd git in time as narrer as them seven-day Babtists over toPeeble--they call 'em the 'narrer Babtists. ' You've heard on 'em, hain'tyou, Polly?"

"No, " she said, without looking up from her plate, "I never heard on'em, an' I don't much believe you ever did neither. "

"What!" exclaimed David, "You lived here goin' on seventy year an' neverheard on 'em?"

"David Harum!" she cried, "I ain't within ten year----"

"Hold on, " he protested, "don't throw that teacup. I didn't say you_was_, I only said you was _goin' on_--an' about them people over toPeeble, they've got the name of the 'narrer Babtists' because they're sonarrer in their views that fourteen on 'em c'n sit, side an' side, in abuggy. " This astonishing statement elicited a laugh even from AuntPolly, but presently she said:

"Wa'al, I'm glad you found one man that would stan' you off on Sunday. "

"Yes'm, " said her brother, "'Lizer 's jest your kind. I knew 't he'dhurt his foot, an' prob'ly couldn't go to meetin', an' sure enough, hewas settin' on the stoop, an' I drove in an' pulled up in the lanealongside. We said good mornin' an' all that, an' I ast after the folksan' how his foot was gettin' 'long, an' so on, an' fin'ly I says, 'I seeyour boy drivin' a hoss the other day that looked a little--f'm themiddle o' the road--as if he might match one I've got, an' I thought I'ddrive up this mornin' an' see if we couldn't git up a dicker. ' Wa'al, hegive a kind of a hitch in his chair as if his foot hurt him, an' then hesays, 'I guess I can't deal with ye to-day. I don't never do no bus'nison Sunday, ' he says. 

"'I've heard you was putty pertic'ler, ' I says, 'but I'm putty busy jestabout now, an' I thought that mebbe once in a way, an' seein' that youcouldn't go to meetin' anyway, an' that I've come quite a ways an' don'tknow when I c'n see you agin, an' so on, that mebbe you'd think, underall the circumstances, the' wouldn't be no great harm in't--long 's Idon't pay over no money, at cetery, ' I says. 

"'No, ' he says, shakin' his head in a sort o' mournful way, 'I'm glad tosee ye, an' I'm sorry you've took all that trouble fer nuthin', but myconscience won't allow me, ' he says, 'to do no bus'nis on Sunday. '

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'I don't ask no man to go agin his conscience, but itwouldn't be no very glarin' transgression on your part, would it, if Iwas to go up to the barn all alone by myself an' look at the hoss?' Ic'd see, " continued Mr. Harum, "that his face kind o' brightened up atthat, but he took his time to answer. 'Wa'al, ' he says fin'ly, 'I don'twant to lay down no law fer _you_, an' if _you_ don't see no harm in't, I guess the' ain't nuthin' to prevent ye. ' So I got down an' started ferthe barn, an'--he, he, he!--when I'd got about a rod he hollered afterme, 'He's in the end stall, ' he says. 

"Wa'al, " the narrator proceeded, "I looked the critter over an' made upmy mind about what he was wuth to me, an' went back an' got in, an'drove into the yard, an' turned 'round, an' drew up agin 'longside thestoop. 'Lizer looked up at me in an askin' kind of a way, but he didn'tsay anythin'. 

"'I s'pose, ' I says, 'that you wouldn't want me to say anythin' more toye, an' I may 's well jog along back. '

"'Wa'al, ' he says, 'I can't very well help hearin' ye, kin I, if you gotanythin' to say?'

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'the hoss ain't exac'ly what I expected to find, norjest what I'm lookin' fer; but I don't say I wouldn't 'a' made a dealwith ye if the price had ben right, an' it hadn't ben Sunday. ' Ireckon, " said David with a wink at John, "that that there foot o' his'nmust 'a' give him an extry twinge the way he wriggled in his chair; butI couldn't break his lockjaw yit. So I gathered up the lines an' tookout the whip, an' made all the motions to go, an' then I kind o' stoppedan' says, 'I don't want you to go agin your princ'ples nor the law an'gosp'l on my account, but the' can't be no harm in s'posin' a case, canthe'?' No, he allowed that s'posin' wa'n't jest the same as doin'. 'Wa'al, ' says I, 'now s'posin' I'd come up here yestidy as I haveto-day, an' looked your hoss over, an' said to you, "What price do youput on him?" what do you s'pose you'd 'a' said?'

"'Wa'al, ' he said, 'puttin' it that way, I s'pose I'd 'a' saidone-seventy. '

"'Yes, ' I says, 'an' then agin, if I'd said that he wa'n't wuth thatmoney to me, not bein' jest what I wanted--an' so he ain't--but that I'dgive one-forty, _cash_, what do you s'pose you'd 'a' said?'

"'Wa'al, ' he says, givin' a hitch, 'of course I don't know jest what Iwould have said, but I _guess_, ' he says, ''t I'd 'a' said if you'llmake it one-fifty you c'n have the hoss. '

"'Wa'al, now, ' I says, 's'posin' I was to send Dick Larrabee up here inthe mornin' with the money, what do you s'pose you'd do?'

"'I _s'pose_ I'd let him go, ' says 'Lizer. 

"'All right, ' I says, an' off I put. That conscience o' 'Lizer's, "remarked Mr. Harum in conclusion, "is wuth its weight in gold, _jestabout_. "

"David Harum, " declared Aunt Polly, "you'd ort to be 'shamed o'yourself. "

"Wa'al, " said David with an air of meekness, "if I've done anythin' I'msorry for, I'm willin' to be forgi'n. Now, s'posin'----"

"I've heard enough 'bout s'posin' fer one day, " said Mrs. Bixbeedecisively, "unless it's s'posin' you finish your dinner so's't Sairyc'n git through her work sometime. "

CHAPTER XXXV. 

After dinner John went to his room and David and his sister seatedthemselves on the "verandy. " Mr. Harum lighted a cigar and enjoyed histobacco for a time in silence, while Mrs. Bixbee perused, with ratherperfunctory diligence, the columns of her weekly church paper. 

"I seen a sight fer sore eyes this mornin', " quoth David presently. 

"What was that?" asked Aunt Polly, looking up over her glasses. 

"Claricy Verjoos fer one part on't, " said David. 

"The Verjooses hev come, hev they? Wa'al, that's good. I hope she'llcome up an' see me. "

David nodded. "An' the other part on't was, " he said, "she an' thatyoung feller of our'n was walkin' together, an' a putty slick pair theymade too. "

"Ain't she purty?" said Mrs. Bixbee. 

"They don't make 'em no puttier, " affirmed David; "an' they was a nicepair. I couldn't help thinkin', " he remarked, "what a nice hitch upthey'd make. "

"Guess the' ain't much chance o' that, " she observed. 

"No, I guess not either, " said David. 

"He hain't got anythin' to speak of, I s'pose, an' though I reckonshe'll hev prop'ty some day, all that set o' folks seems to marry money, an' some one's alwus dyin' an' leavin' some on 'em some more. The' ain'tnothin' truer in the Bible, " declared Mrs. Bixbee with conviction, "'nthat sayin' thet them that has gits. "

"That's seemin'ly about the way it runs in gen'ral, " said David. 

"It don't seem right, " said Mrs. Bixbee, with her eyes on her brother'sface. "Now there was all that money one o' Mis' Elbert Swayne'srelations left her last year, an' Lucy Scramm, that's poorer 'npoverty's back kitchin, an' the same relation to him that Mis' Swaynewas, only got a thousan' dollars, an' the Swaynes rich already. Not butwhat the thousan' was a godsend to the Scramms, but he might jest aswell 'a' left 'em comf'tibly off as not, 'stid of pilin' more onto theSwaynes that didn't need it. "

"Does seem kind o' tough, " David observed, leaning forward to drop hiscigar ash clear of the veranda floor, "but that's the way things goes, an' I've often had to notice that a man'll sometimes do the foolishistthing or the meanest thing in his hull life after he's dead. "

"You never told me, " said Mrs. Bixbee, after a minute or two, in whichshe appeared to be following up a train of reflection, "much of anythin'about John's matters. Hain't he ever told you anythin' more 'n whatyou've told me? or don't ye want me to know? Didn't his father leaveanythin'?"

"The' was a little money, " replied her brother, blowing out a cloud ofsmoke, "an' a lot of unlikely chances, but nothin' to live on. "

"An' the' wa'n't nothin' for 't but he had to come up here?" shequeried. 

"He'd 'a' had to work on a salary somewhere, I reckon, " was the reply. "The' was one thing, " added David thoughtfully after a moment, "that'llmebbe come to somethin' some time, but it may be a good while fust, an'don't you ever let on to him nor nobody else 't I ever said anythin'about it. "

"I won't open my head to a livin' soul, " she declared. "What was it?"

"Wa'al, I don't know 's I ever told ye, " he said, "but a good many yearsago I took some little hand in the oil bus'nis, but though I didn't gitin as deep as I wish now 't I had, I've alwus kept up a kind of int'ristin what goes on in that line. "

"No, I guess you never told me, " she said. "Where you goin'?" as he gotout of his chair. 

"Goin' to git my cap, " he answered. "Dum the dum things! I don't believethe's a fly in Freeland County that hain't danced the wild kachuky on myhead sence we set here. Be I much specked?" he asked, as he bent hisbald poll for her inspection. 

"Oh, go 'long!" she cried, as she gave him a laughing push. 

"'Mongst other-things, " he resumed, when he had returned to his chairand relighted his cigar, "the' was a piece of about ten or twelvehunderd acres of land down in Pennsylvany havin' some coal on it, hetold me he understood, but all the timber, ten inch an' over, 'd bensold off. He told me that his father's head clerk told him that the oldgentleman had tried fer a long time to dispose of it; but it called fertoo much to develop it, I guess; 't any rate he couldn't, an' John'sgot it to pay taxes on. "

"I shouldn't think it was wuth anythin' to him but jest a bill ofexpense, " observed Mrs. Bixbee. 

"Tain't now, " said David, "an' mebbe won't be fer a good while; still, it's wuth somethin', an' I advised him to hold onto it on gen'ralprinc'ples. I don't know the pertic'ler prop'ty, of course, " hecontinued, "but I do know somethin' of that section of country, fer Idone a little prospectin' 'round there myself once on a time. But itwa'n't in the oil territory them days, or wa'n't known to be, anyway. "

"But it's eatin' itself up with taxes, ain't it?" objected Mrs. Bixbee. 

"Wa'al, " he replied, "it's free an' clear, an' the taxes ain't so verymuch--though they do stick it to an outside owner down there--an' thep'int is here: I've alwus thought they didn't drill deep enough in thatsection. The' was some little traces of oil the time I told ye of, an'I've heard lately that the's some talk of a move to test the territoryagin, an', if anythin' was to be found, the young feller's prop'ty mightbe wuth somethin', but, " he added, "of course the' ain't no tellin'. "

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

"Well, " said Miss Verjoos, when her sister overtook her, Mr. Eustonhaving stopped at his own gate, "you and your latest discovery seemed tobe getting on pretty well from the occasional sounds which came to myears. What is he like?"

"He's charming, " declared Miss Clara. 

"Indeed, " remarked her sister, lifting her eyebrows. "You seem to havecome to a pretty broad conclusion in a very short period of time. 'Charming' doesn't leave very much to be added on longer acquaintance, does it?"

"Oh, yes it does, " said Miss Clara, laughing. "There are all degrees:Charming, very charming, most charming, and _perfectly_ charming. "

"To be sure, " replied the other. "And there is the descending scale:Perfectly charming, most charming, very charming, charming, verypleasant, quite nice, and, oh, yes, well enough. Of course you haveasked him to call. "

"Yes, I have, " said Miss Clara. 

"Don't you think that mamma----"

"No, I don't, " declared the girl with decision. "I know from what Mr. Euston said, and I know from the little talk I had with him thismorning, from his manner and--_je ne sais quoi_--that he will be awelcome addition to a set of people in which every single one knowsjust what every other one will say on any given subject and on anyoccasion. You know how it is. "

"Well, " said the elder sister, smiling and half shutting her eyes with amusing look, "I think myself that we all know each other a little toowell to make our affairs very exciting. Let us hope the new man will beall you anticipate, and, " she added with a little laugh, and a sideglance at her sister, "that there will be enough of him to go 'round. "

It hardly needs to be said that the aristocracy of Homeville and all thesummer visitors and residents devoted their time to getting as muchpleasure and amusement out of their life as was to be afforded by theopportunities at hand: Boating, tennis, riding, driving; an occasionalpicnic, by invitation, at one or the other of two very prettywaterfalls, far enough away to make the drive there and back a feature;as much dancing in an informal way as could be managed by the youngerpeople; and a certain amount of flirtation, of course (but of a veryharmless sort), to supply zest to all the rest. But it is not intendedto give a minute account of the life, nor to describe in detail all thepursuits and festivities which prevailed during the season. Enough tosay that our friend soon had opportunity to partake in them as much andoften as was compatible with his duties. His first call at Lakelawnhappened to be on an evening when the ladies were not at home, and it isquite certain that upon this, the occasion of his first essay of thesort, he experienced a strong feeling of relief to be able to leavecards instead of meeting a number of strange people, as he had thoughtwould be likely. 

One morning, some days later, Peleg Hopkins came in with a grin andsaid, "The's some folks eout in front wants you to come eout an' see'em. "

"Who are they?" asked John, who for the moment was in the back room andhad not seen the carriage drive up. 

"The two Verjoos gals, " said Peleg with another distortion of hisfreckled countenance. "One on 'em hailed me as I was comin' in and astme to ast you to come eout. " John laughed a little as he wondered whattheir feeling would be were they aware that they were denominated as the"Verjoos gals" by people of Peleg's standing in the community. 

"We were so sorry to miss your visit the other evening, " said MissClara, after the usual salutations. 

John said something about the loss having been his own, and after a fewremarks of no special moment the young woman proceeded to set forth hererrand. 

"Do you know the Bensons from Syrchester?" she asked. 

John replied that he knew who they were but had not the pleasure oftheir acquaintance. 

"Well, " said Miss Clara, "they are extremely nice people, and Mrs. Benson is very musical; in fact, Mr. Benson does something in that linehimself. They have with them for a few days a violinist, Fairman I thinkhis name is, from Boston, and a pianist--what was it, Juliet?"

"Schlitz, I think, " said Miss Verjoos. 

"Oh, yes, that is it, and they are coming to the house to-night, and weare going to have some music in an informal sort of way. We shall beglad to have you come if you can. "

"I shall be delighted, " said John sincerely. "At what time?"

"Any time you like, " she said; "but the Bensons will probably get thereabout half-past eight or nine o'clock. "

"Thank you very much, and I shall be delighted, " he repeated. 

Miss Clara looked at him for a moment with a hesitating air. 

"There is another thing, " she said. 

"Yes?"

"Yes, " she replied, "I may as well tell you that you will surely beasked to sing. Quite a good many people who have heard you in thequartette in church are anxious to hear you sing alone, Mrs. Bensonamong them. "

John's face fell a little. 

"You do sing other than church music, do you not?" she asked. 

"Yes, " he admitted, "I know some other music. "

"Do you think it would be a bore to you. "

"No, " said John, who indeed saw no way out of it; "I will bring somemusic, with pleasure, if you wish. "

"That's very nice of you, " said Miss Clara, "and you will give us all agreat deal of pleasure. "

He looked at her with a smile. 

"That will depend, " he said, and after a moment, "Who will play for me?"

"I had not thought of that, " was the reply. "I think I rather took itfor granted that you could play for yourself. Can't you?"

"After a fashion, and simple things, " he said, "but on an occasion Iwould rather not attempt it. "

The girl looked at her sister in some perplexity. 

"I should think, " suggested Miss Verjoos, speaking for the second time, "that Mr. Or Herr Schlitz would play your accompaniments, particularlyif Mrs. Benson were to ask him, and if he can play for the violin Ishould fancy he can for the voice. "

"Very well, " said John, "we will let it go at that. " As he spoke Davidcame round the corner of the bank and up to the carriage. 

"How d'y' do, Miss Verjoos? How air ye, Miss Claricy?" he asked, takingoff his straw hat and mopping his face and head with his handkerchief. "Guess we're goin' to lose our sleighin', ain't we?"

"It seems to be going pretty fast, " replied Miss Clara, laughing. 

"Yes'm, " he remarked, "we sh'll be scrapin' bare ground putty soon nowif this weather holds on. How's the old hoss now you got him agin?" heasked. "Seem to 've wintered putty well? Putty chipper, is he?"

"Better than ever, " she affirmed. "He seems to grow younger every year. "

"Come, now, " said David, "that ain't a-goin' to do. I cal'lated to sellye another hoss _this_ summer anyway. Ben dependin' on't in fact, to paya dividend. The bankin' bus'nis has been so neglected since this fellercome that it don't amount to much any more, " and he laid his hand onJohn's shoulder, who colored a little as he caught a look of demureamusement in the somber eyes of the elder sister. 

"After that, " he said, "I think I had better get back to my neglectedduties, " and he bowed his adieus. 

"No, sir, " said Miss Clara to David, "you must get your dividend out ofsome one else this summer. "

"Wa'al, " said he, "I see I made a mistake takin' such good care on him. Guess I'll have to turn him over to Dug Robinson to winter next year. Ben havin' a little visit with John?" he asked. Miss Clara colored alittle, with something of the same look which John had seen in hersister's face. 

"We are going to have some music at the house to-night, and Mr. Lenoxhas kindly promised to sing for us, " she replied. 

"He has, has he?" said David, full of interest. "Wa'al, he's the fellerc'n do it if anybody can. We have singin' an' music up t' the houseev'ry Sunday night--me an' Polly an' him--an' it's fine. Yes, ma'am, Idon't know much about music myself, but I c'n beat time, an' he's got astack o' music more'n a mile high, an' one o' the songs he sings 'lljest make the windows rattle. That's my fav'rit, " averred Mr. Harum. 

"Do you remember the name of it?" asked Miss Clara. 

"No, " he said; "John told me, an' I guess I'd know it if I heard it; butit's about a feller sittin' one day by the org'n an' not feelin' exac'lyright--kind o' tired an' out o' sorts an' not knowin' jest where he wasdrivin' at--jest joggin' 'long with a loose rein fer quite a piece, an'so on; an' then, by an' by, strikin' right into his gait an' goin' onstronger 'n stronger, an' fin'ly finishin' up with an A--men thatcarries him quarter way round the track 'fore he c'n pull up. That's myfav'rit, " Mr. Harum repeated, "'cept when him an' Polly sings together, an' if that ain't a show--pertic'lerly Polly--I don't want a cent. No, ma'am, when him an' Polly gits good an' goin' you can't see 'em ferdust. "

"I should like to hear them, " said Miss Clara, laughing, "and I shouldparticularly like to hear your favorite, the one which ends with theAmen--the very _large_ A--men. "

"Seventeen hands, " declared Mr. Harum. "Must you be goin'? Wa'al, gladto have seen ye. Polly's hopin' you'll come an' see her putty soon. "

"I will, " she promised. "Give her my love, and tell her so, please. "

They drove away and David sauntered in, went behind the desks, andperched himself up on a stool near the teller's counter as he often didwhen in the office, and John was not particularly engaged. 

"Got you roped in, have they?" he said, using his hat as a fan. "Scat my----! but ain't this a ring-tail squealer?"

"It is very hot, " responded John. 

"Miss Claricy says you're goin' to sing fer 'em up to their houseto-night. "

"Yes, " said John, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, as he pinned apaper strap around a pile of bills and began to count out another. 

"Don't feel very fierce for it, I guess, do ye?" said David, lookingshrewdly at him. 

"Not very, " said John, with a short laugh. 

"Feel a little skittish 'bout it, eh?" suggested Mr. Harum. "Don't seewhy ye should--anybody that c'n put up a tune the way you kin. "

"It's rather different, " observed the younger man, "singing for you andMrs. Bixbee and standing up before a lot of strange people. "

"H-m, h-m, " said David with a nod; "diff'rence 'tween joggin' along onthe road an' drivin' a fust heat on the track; in one case the' ain'tnothin' up, an' ye don't care whether you git there a little morepreviously or a little less; an' in the other the's the crowd, an' thejudges, an' the stake, an' your record, an' mebbe the pool box into thebarg'in, that's all got to be considered. Feller don't mind it so muchafter he gits fairly off, but thinkin' on't beforehand 's fidgitybus'nis. "

"You have illustrated it exactly, " said John, laughing, and much amusedat David's very characteristic, as well as accurate, illustration. 

 * * * * *

"My!" exclaimed Aunt Polly, when John came into the sitting room afterdinner dressed to go out. "My, don't he look nice? I never see you inthem clo'es. Come here a minute, " and she picked a thread off his sleeveand took the opportunity to turn him round for the purpose of giving hima thorough inspection. 

"That wa'n't what you said when you see me in _my_ gold-plated harniss, "remarked David, with a grin. "You didn't say nothin' putty to me. "

"Humph! I guess the's some diff'rence, " observed Mrs. Bixbee with scorn, and her brother laughed. 

"How was you cal'latin' to git there?" he asked, looking at our friend'sevening shoes. 

"I thought at first I would walk, " was the reply, "but I rather think Iwill stop at Robinson's and get him to send me over. "

"I guess you won't do nothin' o' the sort, " declared David. "Tom's allhitched to take you over, an' when you're ready jest ring the bell. "

"You're awfully kind, " said John gratefully, "but I don't know when Ishall be coming home. "

"Come back when you git a good ready, " said Mr. Harum. "If you keep himan' the hoss waitin' a spell, I guess they won't take cold thisweather. "

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

The Verjoos house, of old red brick, stands about a hundred feet backfrom the north side of the Lake Road, on the south shore of the lake. Since its original construction a _porte cochère_ has been built uponthe front. A very broad hall, from which rises the stairway with adouble turn and landing, divides the main body of the house through themiddle. On the left, as one enters, is the great drawing room; on theright a parlor opening into a library; and beyond, the dining room, which looks out over the lake. The hall opens in the rear upon a broad, covered veranda, facing the lake, with a flight of steps to a lawn whichslopes down to the lake shore, a distance of some hundred and fiftyyards. 

John had to pass through a little flock of young people who stood nearand about the entrance to the drawing room, and having given his packageof music to the maid in waiting, with a request that it be put upon thepiano, he mounted the stairs to deposit his hat and coat, and then wentdown. 

In the south end of the drawing room were some twenty people sitting andstanding about, most of them the elders of the families who constitutedsociety in Homeville, many of whom John had met, and nearly all of whomhe knew by sight and name. On the edge of the group, and halfway downthe room, were Mrs. Verjoos and her younger daughter, who gave him acordial greeting; and the elder lady was kind enough to repeat herdaughter's morning assurances of regret that they were out on theoccasion of his call. 

"I trust you have been as good as your word, " said Miss Clara, "andbrought some music. "

"Yes, it is on the piano, " he replied, looking across the room to wherethe instrument stood. 

The girl laughed. "I wish, " she said, "you could have heard what Mr. Harum said this morning about your singing, particularly his descriptionof The Lost Chord, and I wish that I could repeat it just as he gaveit. "

"It's about a feller sittin' one day by the org'n, " came a voice frombehind John's shoulder, so like David's as fairly to startle him, "an'not feelin' exac'ly right--kind o' tired an' out o' sorts, an' notknowin' jest where he was drivin' at--jest joggin' along with a looserein fer quite a piece, an' so on; an' then, by an' by, strikin' rightinto his gait an' goin' on stronger an' stronger, an' fin'ly finishin'up with an A--men that carries him quarter way 'round the track 'fore hec'n pull up. " They all laughed except Miss Verjoos, whose gravity wasunbroken, save that behind the dusky windows of her eyes, as she lookedat John, there was for an instant a gleam of mischievous drollery. 

"Good evening, Mr. Lenox, " she said. "I am very glad to see you, " andhardly waiting for his response, she turned and walked away. 

"That is Juliet all over, " said her sister. "You would not think to seeher ordinarily that she was given to that sort of thing, but once in awhile, when she feels like it--well--pranks! She is the funniestcreature that ever lived, I believe, and can mimic and imitate anymortal creature. She sat in the carriage this morning, and one mighthave fancied from her expression that she hardly heard a word, but Ihaven't a doubt that she could repeat every syllable that was uttered. Oh, here come the Bensons and their musicians. "

John stepped back a pace or two toward the end of the room, but waspresently recalled and presented to the newcomers. After a little talkthe Bensons settled themselves in the corner at the lower end of theroom, where seats were placed for the two musicians, and our friend tooka seat near where he had been standing. The violinist adjusted hisfolding music rest. Miss Clara stepped over to the entrance door and putup her finger at the young people in the hall. "After the music begins, "she said, with a shake of the head, "if I hear one sound of giggling orchattering, I will send every one of you young heathen home. Remembernow! This isn't your party at all. "

"But, Clara, dear, " said Sue Tenaker (aged fifteen), "if we are verygood and quiet do you think they would play for us to dance a little byand by?"

"Impudence!" exclaimed Miss Clara, giving the girl's cheek a playfulslap and going back to her place. Miss Verjoos came in and took a chairby her sister. Mrs. Benson leaned forward and raised her eyebrows atMiss Clara, who took a quick survey of the room and nodded in return. Herr Schlitz seated himself on the piano chair, pushed it a little back, drew it a little forward to the original place, looked under the pianoat the pedals, took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and hands, and after arpeggioing up and down the key-board, swung into a waltz ofChopin's (Opus 34, Number 1), a favorite of our friend's, and which hewould have thoroughly enjoyed--for it was splendidly played--if he hadnot been uneasily apprehensive that he might be asked to sing after it. And while on some accounts he would have been glad of the opportunity to"have it over, " he felt a cowardly sense of relief when the violinistcame forward for the next number. There had been enthusiastic applauseat the north end of the room, and more or less clapping of hands at thesouth end, but not enough to impel the pianist to supplement hisperformance at the time. The violin number was so well received that Mr. Fairman added a little minuet of Boccherini's without accompaniment, andthen John felt that his time had surely come. But he had to sit, drawinglong breaths, through a Liszt fantasie on themes from Faust before hissuspense was ended by Miss Clara, who was apparently mistress ofceremonies and who said to him, "Will you sing now, Mr. Lenox?"

He rose and went to the end of the room where the pianist was sitting. "I have been asked to sing, " he said to that gentleman. "Can I induceyou to be so kind as to play for me?"

"I am sure he will, " said Mrs. Benson, looking at Herr Schlitz. 

"Oh, yes, I blay for you if you vant, " he said. "Vhere is your moosic?"They went over to the piano. "Oh, ho! Jensen, Lassen, Helmund, Grieg--you zing dem?"

"Some of them, " said John. The pianist opened the Jensen album. 

"You want to zing one of dese?" he asked. 

"As well as anything, " replied John, who had changed his mind a dozentimes in the last ten minutes and was ready to accept any suggestion. 

"Ver' goot, " said the other. "Ve dry dis: Lehn deine wang' an meineWang'. " His face brightened as John began to sing the German words. In ameasure or two the singer and player were in perfect accord, and as theformer found his voice the ends of his fingers grew warm again. At theend of the song the applause was distributed about as after the Chopinwaltz. 

"Sehr schön!" exclaimed Herr Schlitz, looking up and nodding; "you mustzing zome more, " and he played the first bars of Marie, am Fenstersitzest du, humming the words under his breath, and quite oblivious ofany one but himself and the singer. 

"Zierlich, " he said when the song was done, reaching for the collectionof Lassen. "Mit deinen blauen Augen, " he hummed, keeping time with hishands, but at this point Miss Clara came across the room, followed byher sister. 

"Mrs. Tenaker, " she said, laughing, "asked me to ask you, Mr. Lenox, ifyou wouldn't please sing something they could understand. "

"I have a song I should like to hear you sing, " said Miss Verjoos. "There is an obligato for violin and we have a violinist here. It is abeautiful song--Tosti's Beauty's Eyes. Do you know it?"

"Yes, " he replied. 

"Will you sing it for me?" she asked. 

"With the greatest pleasure, " he answered. 

Once, as he sang the lines of the song, he looked up. Miss Verjoos wassitting with her elbows on the arm of her chair, her cheek resting uponher clasped hands and her dusky eyes were fastened upon his face. As thesong concluded she rose and walked away. Mrs. Tenaker came over to thepiano and put out her hand. 

"Thank you so much for your singing, Mr. Lenox, " she said. "Would youlike to do an old woman a favor?"

"Very much so, " said John, smiling and looking first at Mrs. Tenaker andthen about the room, "but there are no old women here as far as I cansee. "

"Very pretty, sir, very pretty, " she said, looking very graciously athim. "Will you sing Annie Laurie for me?"

"With all my heart, " he said, bowing. He looked at Herr Schlitz, whoshook his head. 

"Let me play it for you, " said Mrs. Benson, coming over to the piano. 

"Where do you want it?" she asked, modulating softly from one key toanother. 

"I think D flat will be about right, " he replied. "Kindly play a littlebit of it. "

The sound of the symphony brought most of even the young people into thedrawing room. At the end of the first verse there was a subdued rustleof applause, a little more after the second, and at the end of the songso much of a burst of approval as could be produced by the audience. Mrs. Benson looked up into John's face and smiled. 

"We appear to have scored the success of the evening, " she said with atouch of sarcasm. Miss Clara joined them. 

"What a dear old song that is!" she said. "Did you see Aunt Charlie(Mrs. Tenaker) wiping her eyes?--and that lovely thing of Tosti's! Weare ever so much obliged to you, Mr. Lenox. "

John bowed his acknowledgments. 

"Will you take Mrs. Benson out to supper? There is a special table foryou musical people at the east end of the veranda. "

"Is this merely a segregation or a distinction?" said John as they satdown. 

"We shall have to wait developments to decide that point, I should say, "replied Mrs. Benson. "I suppose that fifth place was put on the offchance that Mr. Benson might be of our party, but, " she said, with ashort laugh, "he is probably nine fathoms deep in a flirtation with SueTenaker. He shares Artemas Ward's tastes, who said, you may remember, that he liked little girls--big ones too. "

A maid appeared with a tray of eatables, and presently another with atray on which were glasses and a bottle of Pommery _sec. _ "Miss Clara'scompliments, " she said. 

"What do you think now?" asked Mrs. Benson, laughing. 

"Distinctly a distinction, I should say, " he replied. 

"Das ist nicht so schlecht, " grunted Herr Schlitz as he put half a_pâté_ into his mouth, "bot I vould brefer beer. "

"The music has been a great treat to me, " remarked John. "I have heardnothing of the sort for two years. "

"You have quite contributed your share of the entertainment, " said Mrs. Benson. 

"You and I together, " he responded, smiling. 

"You have got a be-oodifool woice, " said Herr Schlitz, speaking with amouthful of salad, "und you zing ligh a moosician, und you bronounceyour vorts very goot. "

"Thank you, " said John. 

After supper there was more singing in the drawing room, but it was notof a very classical order. Something short and taking for violin andpiano was followed by an announcement from Herr Schlitz. 

"I zing you a zong, " he said. The worthy man "breferred beer, " but had, perhaps, found the wine quicker in effect, and in a tremendous bassvoice he roared out, Im tiefen Keller sitz' ich hier, auf einem Fassvoll Reben, which, if not wholly understood by the audience, had some ofits purport conveyed by the threefold repetition of "trinke" at the endof each verse. Then a deputation waited upon John, to ask in behalf ofthe girls and boys if he knew and could sing Solomon Levi. 

"Yes, " he said, sitting down at the piano, "if you'll all sing with me, "and it came to pass that that classic, followed by Bring Back my Bonnieto Me, Paddy Duffy's Cart, There's Music in the Air, and sundry otherditties dear to all hearts, was given by "the full strength of thecompany" with such enthusiasm that even Mr. Fairman was moved to join inwith his violin; and when the Soldier's Farewell was given, Herr Schlitzwould have sung the windows out of their frames had they not been open. Altogether, the evening's programme was brought to an end with a grandclimax. 

"Thank you very much, " said John as he said good night to Mrs. Verjoos. "I don't know when I have enjoyed an evening so much. "

"Thank _you_ very much, " she returned graciously. "You have given us alla great deal of pleasure. "

"Yes, " said Miss Verjoos, giving her hand with a mischievous gleam inher half-shut eyes, "I was enchanted with Solomon Levi. "

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

David and John had been driving for some time in silence. The elder manwas apparently musing upon something which had been suggested to hismind. The horses slackened their gait to a walk as they began the ascentof a long hill. Presently the silence was broken by a sound which causedJohn to turn his head with a look of surprised amusement--Mr. Harum wassinging. The tune, if it could be so called, was scaleless, and thesewere the words:

 "_Mon_day _mor_nin' I _mar_ried me a _wife_, _Think_in' to _lead_ a _more_ contented _life_; _Fid_dlin' an' _danc_in' _the_' was _played_, To _see_ how un_happy_ poor _I_ was _made_. 

 "_Tues_day _morn_in', _'bout_ break o' _day_, _While_ my _head_ on the _pil_ler did _lay_, She _tuned_ up her _clack_, an' _scold_ed _more_ _Than_ I _ever_ heard be_fore_. "

"Never heard me sing before, did ye?" he said, looking with a grin athis companion, who laughed and said that he had never had that pleasure. "Wa'al, that's all 't I remember on't, " said David, "an' I dunno 's I'vethought about it in thirty year. The' was a number o' verses whichcarried 'em through the rest o' the week, an' ended up in a case of'sault an' battery, I rec'lect, but I don't remember jest how. Somethin' we ben sayin' put the thing into my head, I guess. "

"I should like to hear the rest of it, " said John, smiling. 

David made no reply to this, and seemed to be turning something over inhis mind. At last he said:

"Mebbe Polly's told ye that I'm a wid'wer. "

John admitted that Mrs. Bixbee had said as much as that. 

"Yes, sir, " said David, "I'm a wid'wer of long standin'. "

No appropriate comment suggesting itself to his listener, none was made. 

"I hain't never cared to say much about it to Polly, " he remarked, "though fer that matter Jim Bixbee, f'm all accounts, was about as poora shack as ever was turned out, I guess, an'--"

John took advantage of the slight hesitation to interpose against whathe apprehended might be a lengthy digression on the subject of thedeceased Bixbee by saying:

"You were quite a young fellow when you were married, I infer. "

"Two or three years younger 'n you be, I guess, " said David, looking athim, "an' a putty green colt too in some ways, " he added, handing overthe reins and whip while he got out his silver tobacco box and helpedhimself to a liberal portion of its contents. It was plain that he wasin the mood for personal reminiscences. 

"As I look back on't now, " he began, "it kind o' seems as if it must 'a'ben some other feller, an' yet I remember it all putty dum'd welltoo--all but one thing, an' that the biggist part on't, an' that is howI ever come to git married at all. She was a widdo' at the time, an'kep' the boardin' house where I was livin'. It was up to Syrchester. Iwas better lookin' them days 'n I be now--had more hair at anyrate--though, " he remarked with a grin, "I was alwus a better goer thanI was a looker. I was doin' fairly well, " he continued, "but mebbe notso well as was thought by some. 

"Wa'al, she was a good-lookin' woman, some older 'n I was. She seemed totake some shine to me. I'd roughed it putty much alwus, an' she wasputty clever to me. She was a good talker, liked a joke an' a laugh, an'had some education, an' it come about that I got to beauin' her 'roundquite a consid'able, and used to go an' set in her room or the parlorwith her sometimes evenin's an' all that, an' I wouldn't deny that Iliked it putty well. "

It was some minutes before Mr. Harum resumed his narrative. The reinswere sagging over the dashboard, held loosely between the first twofingers and thumb of his left hand, while with his right he had beenmaking abstracted cuts at the thistles and other eligible marks alongthe roadside. 

"Wa'al, " he said at last, "we was married, an' our wheels tracked puttywell fer quite a consid'able spell. I got to thinkin' more of her allthe time, an' she me, seemin'ly. We took a few days off together twothree times that summer, to Niag'ry, an' Saratogy, an' 'round, an' hadreal good times. I got to thinkin' that the state of matrimony was aputty good institution. When it come along fall, I was doin' well enoughso 't she could give up bus'nis, an' I hired a house an' we set uphousekeepin'. It was really more on my account than her'n, fer I got tokind o' feelin' that when the meat was tough or the pie wa'n't done onthe bottom that I was 'sociated with it, an' gen'ally I wanted a placeof my own. But, " he added, "I guess it was a mistake, fur 's she wasconcerned. "

"Why?" said John, feeling that some show of interest was incumbent. 

"I reckon, " said David, "'t she kind o' missed the comp'ny an' the talkat table, an' the goin's on gen'ally, an' mebbe the work of runnin' theplace--she was a great worker--an' it got to be some diff'rent, Is'pose, after a spell, settin' down to three meals a day with jest onlyme 'stid of a tableful, to say nothin' of the evenin's. I was gladenough to have a place of my own, but at the same time I hadn't ben usedto settin' 'round with nothin' pertic'ler to do or say, with somebodyelse that hadn't neither, an' I wa'n't then nor ain't now, fer thatmatter, any great hand fer readin'. Then, too, we'd moved into adiff'rent part o' the town where my wife wa'n't acquainted. Wa'al, anyway, fust things begun to drag some--she begun to have spells of notspeakin', an' then she begun to git notions about me. Once in a whileI'd have to go down town on some bus'nis in the evenin'. She didn't seemto mind it at fust, but bom-by she got it into her head that the' wa'n'tso much bus'nis goin' on as I made out, an' though along that time she'dset sometimes mebbe the hull evenin' without sayin' anythin' more 'n yesor no, an' putty often not that, yet if I went out there'd be aflare-up; an' as things went on the'd be spells fer a fortni't togetherwhen I couldn't any time of day git a word out of her hardly, unless itwas to go fer me 'bout somethin' that mebbe I'd done an' mebbe Ihadn't--it didn't make no diff'rence. An' when them spells was on, whatshe didn't take out o' me she did out o' the house--diggin' an'scrubbin', takin' up carpits, layin' down carpits, shiftin' thefurniture, eatin' one day in the kitchin an' another in the settin'room, an' sleepin' most anywhere. She wa'n't real well after a while, an' the wuss she seemed to feel, the fiercer she was fer scrubbin' an'diggin' an' upsettin' things in gen'ral, an' bom-by she got so shecouldn't keep a hired girl in the house more 'n a day or two at a time. She either wouldn't have 'em, or they wouldn't stay, an' more 'n halfthe time we was without one. This can't int'rist you much, can it?" saidMr. Harum, turning to his companion. 

"On the contrary, " replied John, "it interests me very much. I wasthinking, " he added, "that probably the state of your wife's health hada good deal to do with her actions and views of things, but it must havebeen pretty hard on you all the same. "

"Wa'al, yes, " said David, "I guess that's so. Her health wa'n't jestright, an' she showed it in her looks. I noticed that she'd pined an'pindled some, but I thought the' was some natural criss-crossednissmixed up into it too. But I tried to make allow'nces an' the best o'things, an' git along 's well 's I could; but things kind o' got wussan' wuss. I told ye that she begun to have notions about me, an' 'tain't hardly nec'sary to say what shape they took, an' after a while, mebbe a year 'n a half, she got so 't she wa'n't satisfied to know whereI was _nights_--she wanted to know where I was _daytimes_. Kind o'makes me laugh now, " he observed, "it seems so redic'lous; but it wa'n'tno laughin' matter then. If I looked out o' winder she'd hint it up tome that I was watchin' some woman. She grudged me even to look at apicture paper; an' one day when we happened to be walkin' together sheshowed feelin' about one o' them wooden Injun women outside a cigarstore. "

"Oh, come now, Mr. Harum, " said John, laughing. 

"Wa'al, " said David with a short laugh, "mebbe I did stretch that alittle; but 's I told ye, she wanted to know where I was daytimes well's nights, an' ev'ry once 'n a while she'd turn up at my bus'nis place, an' if I wa'n't there she'd set an' wait fer me, an' I'd either have togo home with her or have it out in the office. I don't mean to say thatall the sort of thing I'm tellin' ye of kep' up all the time. It kind o'run in streaks; but the streaks kep' comin' oftener an' oftener, an' youcouldn't never tell when the' was goin' to appear. Matters 'd go alongputty well fer a while, an' then, all of a sudden, an' fer nothin' 't Icould see, the' 'd come on a thunder shower 'fore you c'd git in out o'the wet. "

"Singular, " said John thoughtfully. 

"Yes, sir, " said David. "Wa'al, it come along to the second spring, 'bout the first of May. She'd ben more like folks fer about a week mebbe'n she had fer a long spell, an' I begun to chirk up some. I don'tremember jest how I got the idee, but f'm somethin' she let drop Igathered that she was thinkin' of havin' a new bunnit. I will say thisfor her, " remarked David, "that she was an economical woman, an' neverspent no money jest fer the sake o' spendin' it. Wa'al, we'd got alongso nice fer a while that I felt more 'n usual like pleasin' her, an' Iallowed to myself that if she wanted a new bunnit, money shouldn't standin the way, an' I set out to give her a supprise. "

They had reached the level at the top of the long hill and the horseshad broken into a trot, when Mr. Harum's narrative was interrupted andhis equanimity upset by the onslaught of an excessively shrill, active, and conscientious dog of the "yellow" variety, which barked and sprangabout in front of the mares with such frantic assiduity as at last tocommunicate enough of its excitement to them to cause them to boltforward on a run, passing the yellow nuisance, which, with the facilityof long practice, dodged the cut which David made at it in passing. Itwas with some little trouble that the horses were brought back to asober pace. 

"Dum that dum'd dog!" exclaimed David with fervor, looking back to wherethe object of his execrations was still discharging convulsive yelps atthe retreating vehicle, "I'd give a five-dollar note to git one goodlick at him. I'd make him holler 'pen-an'-ink' _once_! Why anybody'swillin' to have such a dum'd, wuthless, pestiferous varmint as that'round 's more 'n I c'n understand. I'll bet that the days they churn, that critter, unless they ketch him an' tie him up the night before, 'llbe under the barn all day, an' he's jest blowed off steam enough to runa dog churn a hull forenoon. "

Whether or not the episode of the dog had diverted Mr. Harum's mind fromhis previous topic, he did not resume it until John ventured to remindhim of it, with "You were saying something about the surprise for yourwife. "

"That's so, " said David. "Yes, wa'al, when I went home that night Istopped into a mil'nery store, an' after I'd stood 'round a minute, agirl come up an' ast me if she c'd show me anythin'. 

"'I want to buy a bunnit, ' I says, an' she kind o' laughed. 'No, ' Isays, 'it ain't fer me, it's fer a lady, ' I says; an' then we bothlaughed. 

"'What sort of a bunnit do you want?' she says. 

"'Wa'al, I dunno, ' I says, 'this is the fust time I ever done anythin'in the bunnit line. ' So she went over to a glass case an' took one outan' held it up, turnin' it 'round on her hand. 

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'I guess it's putty enough fur 's it goes, but the'don't seem to be much of anythin' _to_ it. Hain't you got somethin' alittle bit bigger an'--'

"'Showier?' she says. 'How is this?' she says, doin' the same trick withanother. 

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'that looks more like it, but I had an idee that theA 1, trible-extry fine article had more traps on't, an' most any onemight have on either one o' them you've showed me an' not attrac' noattention at all. You needn't mind expense, ' I says. 

"'Oh, very well, ' she says, 'I guess I know what you want, ' an' goesover to another case an' fetches out another bunnit twice as big aseither the others, an' with more notions on't than you c'd shake a stickat--flowers, an' gard'n stuff, an' fruit, an' glass beads, an' feathers, an' all that, till you couldn't see what they was fixed on to. She tookholt on't with both hands, the girl did, an' put it onto her head, an'kind o' smiled an' turned 'round slow so 't I c'd git a gen'ral viewon't. 

"'Style all right?' I says. 

"'The very best of its kind, ' she says. 

"'How 'bout the _kind_?' I says. 

"'The very best of its style, ' she says. "

John laughed outright. David looked at him for a moment with a doubtfulgrin. 

"She _was_ a slick one, wa'n't she?" he said. "What a hoss trader shewould 'a' made. I didn't ketch on at the time, but I rec'lectedafterward. Wa'al, " he resumed, after this brief digression, "'how muchis it?' I says. 

"'Fifteen dollars, ' she says. 

"'What?' I says. 'Scat my ----! I c'd buy head rigging enough to last meten years fer that. '

"'We couldn't sell it for less, ' she says. 

"'S'posin' the lady 't I'm buyin' it fer don't jest like it, ' I says, 'can you alter it or swap somethin' else for it?'

"'Cert'nly, within a reasonable time, ' she says. 

"'Wa'al, all right, ' I says, 'do her up. ' An' so she wrapped the thing'round with soft paper an' put it in a box, an' I paid for't an' moseyedalong up home, feelin' that ev'ry man, woman, an' child had their eyeson my parcel, but thinkin' how tickled my wife would be. "

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

The road they were on was a favorite drive with the two men, and at thepoint where they had now arrived David always halted for a look back anddown upon the scene below them--to the south, beyond the interveningfields, bright with maturing crops, lay the village; to the west theblue lake, winding its length like a broad river, and the river itself asilver ribbon, till it was lost beneath the southern hills. 

Neither spoke. For a few minutes John took in the scene with thepleasure it always afforded him, and then glanced at his companion, whousually had some comment to make upon anything which stirred hisadmiration or interest. He was gazing, not at the landscape, butapparently at the top of the dashboard. "Ho, hum, " he said, straightening the reins, with a "clk" to the horses, and they drovealong for a while in silence--so long, in fact, that our friend, whileaware that the elder man did not usually abandon a topic until he had"had his say out, " was moved to suggest a continuance of the narrativewhich had been rather abruptly broken off, and in which he had becomeconsiderably interested. 

"Was your wife pleased?" he asked at last. 

"Where was I?" asked the other in return. 

"You were on your way home with your purchase, " was the reply. 

"Oh, yes, " Mr. Harum resumed. "It was a little after tea time when I gotto the house, an' I thought prob'ly I'd find her in the settin' roomwaitin' fer me; but she wa'n't, an' I went up to the bedroom to findher, feelin' a little less sure o' things. She was settin' lookin' outo' winder when I come in, an' when I spoke to her she didn't give me noanswer except to say, lookin' up at the clock, 'What's kept ye likethis?'

"'Little matter o' bus'nis, ' I says, lookin' as smilin' 's I knew how, an' holdin' the box behind me. 

"'What you got there?' she says, slewin' her head 'round to git a sightat it. 

"'Little matter o' bus'nis, ' I says agin, bringin' the box to the frontan' feelin' my face straighten out 's if you'd run a flat iron over it. She seen the name on the paper. 

"'You ben spendin' your time there, have ye?' she says, settin' up inher chair an' pointin' with her finger at the box. '_That's_ where youben the last half hour, hangin' 'round with them minxes in Mis'Shoolbred's. What's in that box?' she says, with her face a-blazin'. 

"'Now, Lizy, ' I says, 'I wa'n't there ten minutes if I was that, an' Iben buyin' you a bunnit. '

"'_You--ben--buyin'--me--a--bunnit_?' she says, stifnin' up stiffer 'n astake. 

"'Yes, ' I says, 'I heard you say somethin' 'bout a spring bunnit, an' Ithought, seein' how economicle you was, that I'd buy you a nicer one 'nmebbe you'd feel like yourself. I thought it would please ye, ' I says, tryin' to rub her the right way. 

"'Let me see it, ' she says, in a voice dryer 'n a lime-burner's hat, pressin' her lips together an' reachin' out fer the box. Wa'al, sir, shesnapped the string with a jerk an' sent the cover skimmin' across theroom, an' then, as she hauled the parcel out of the box, she got up ontoher feet. Then she tore the paper off on't an' looked at it a minute, an' then took it 'tween her thumb an' finger, like you hold up a deadrat by the tail, an' held it off at the end of her reach, an' looked itall over, with her face gettin' even redder if it could. Fin'ly shesays, in a voice 'tween a whisper 'n a choke:

"'What'd you pay fer the thing?'

"'Fifteen dollars, ' I says. 

"'Fifteen _dollars_?' she says. 

"'Yes, ' I says, 'don't ye like it?' Wa'al, " said David, "she never saida word. She drawed in her arm an' took holt of the bunnit with her lefthand, an' fust she pulled off one thing an' dropped it on the floor, furoff as she c'd reach, an' then another, an' then another, an' then, bygum! she went at it with both hands jest as fast as she could work 'em, an' in less time 'n I'm tellin' it to ye she picked the thing cleaner 'nany chicken you ever see, an' when she got down to the carkis shesqueezed it up between her two hands, give it a wring an' a twist likeit was a wet dish towel, an' flung it slap in my face. Then she made ahalf turn, throwin' back her head an' grabbin' into her hair, an' givethe awfullest screechin' laugh--one screech after another that you c'd'a' heard a mile--an' then throwed herself face down on the bed, screamin' an' kickin'. Wa'al, sir, if I wa'n't at my wits' end, you c'nhave my watch an' chain. 

"She wouldn't let me touch her no way, but, as luck had it, it was oneo' the times when we had a hired girl, an' hearin' the noise she comegallopin' up the stairs. She wa'n't a young girl, an' she had a facehumbly 'nough to keep her awake nights, but she had some sense, an'--'You'd bether run fer the docther, ' she says, when she see thestate my wife was in. You better believe I done the heat of my life, "said David, "an' more luck, the doctor was home an' jest finishin' histea. His house an' office wa'n't but two three blocks off, an' in abouta few minutes me an' him an' his bag was leggin' it fer my house, thoughI noticed he didn't seem to be 'n as much of a twitter 's I was. He astme more or less questions, an' jest as we got to the house he says:

"'Has your wife had any thin' to 'larm or shock her this evenin'?'

"'Nothin' 't I know on, ' I says, ''cept I bought her a new bunnit thatdidn't seem to come quite up to her idees. ' At that, " remarked Mr. Harum, "he give me a funny look, an' we went in an' upstairs. 

"The hired girl, " he proceeded, "had got her quieted down some, but whenwe went in she looked up, an' seein' me, set up another screech, an' hetold me to go downstairs an' he'd come down putty soon, an' after awhile he did. 

"'Wa'al?' I says. 

"'She's quiet fer the present, ' he says, takin' a pad o' paper out o'his pocket, an' writin' on it. 

"'Do you know Mis' Jones, your next-door neighbor?' he says. I allowed't I had a speakin' acquaintance with her. 

"'Wa'al, ' he says, 'fust, you step in an' tell her I'm here an' want tosee her, and ast her if she won't come right along; an' then you go downto my office an' have these things sent up; an' then, ' he says, 'you godown town an' send this'--handin' me a note that he'd wrote an' put inan envelope--'up to the hospital--better send it up with a hack, or, better yet, go yourself, ' he says, 'an' hurry. You can't be no usehere, ' he says. 'I'll stay, but I want a nurse here in an hour, an' lessif possible. ' I was putty well scared, " said David, "by all that, an' Isays, 'Lord, ' I says, 'is she as bad off as that? What is it ails her?'

"'Don't you know?' says the doc, givin' me a queer look. 

"'No, ' I says, 'she hain't ben fust rate fer a spell back, but Icouldn't git nothin' out of her what was the matter, an' don't know whatpertic'ler thing ails her now, unless it's that dum'd bunnit, ' I says. 

"At that the doctor laughed a little, kind as if he couldn't help it. 

"'I don't think that was hully to blame, ' he says; 'may have hurriedmatters up a little--somethin' that was liable to happen any time in thenext two months. '

"'You don't mean it?' I says. 

"'Yes, ' he says. 'Now you git out as fast as you can. Wait a minute, ' hesays. 'How old is your wife?'

"'F'm what she told me 'fore we was married, ' I says, 'she'sthirty-one. '

"'Oh!' he says, raisin' his eyebrows. 'All right; hurry up, now, '

"I dusted around putty lively, an' inside of an hour was back with thenurse, an 'jest after we got inside the door--" David pausedthoughtfully for a moment and then, lowering his tone a little, "jest aswe got inside the front door, a door upstairs opened an' I heard alittle 'Waa! waa!' like it was the leetlist kind of a new lamb--an' Itell you, " said David, with a little quaver in his voice, and lookingstraight over the off horse's ears, "nothin' 't I ever heard before norsince ever fetched me, right where I _lived_, as that did. The nurse, she made a dive fer the stairs, wavin' me back with her hand, an'I--wa'al--I went into the settin' room, an--wa'al--ne' mind. 

"I dunno how long I set there list'nin' to 'em movin' 'round overhead, an' wonderin' what was goin' on; but fin'ly I heard a step on the stairan' I went out into the entry, an' it was Mis' Jones. 'How be they?' Isays. 

"'We don't quite know yet, ' she says. 'The little boy is a nice formedlittle feller, ' she says, 'an' them childern very often grow up, but heis _very little_, ' she says. 

"'An' how 'bout my wife?' I says. 

"'Wa'al, ' she says, 'we don't know jest yet, but she is quiet now, an'we'll hope fer the best. If you want me, ' she says, 'I'll come any time, night or day, but I must go now. The doctor will stay all night, an' thenurse will stay till you c'n git some one to take her place, ' an' shewent home, an', " declared David, "you've hearn tell of the 'salt of theearth, ' an' if that woman wa'n't more on't than a hoss c'n draw downhill, the' ain't no such thing. "

"Did they live?" asked John after a brief silence, conscious of thebluntness of his question, but curious as to the sequel. 

"The child did, " replied David; "not to grow up, but till he was 'twixtsix an' seven; but my wife never left her bed, though she lived threefour weeks. She never seemed to take no int'rist in the little feller, nor nothin' else much; but one day--it was Sunday, long to the last--sheseemed a little more chipper 'n usual. I was settin' with her, an' Isaid to her how much better she seemed to be, tryin' to chirk her up. 

"'No, ' she says, 'I ain't goin' to live. '

"'Don't ye say that, ' I says. 

"'No, ' she says, 'I ain't, an' I don't care. '

"I didn't know jest what to say, an' she spoke agin:

"'I want to tell you, Dave, ' she says, 'that you've ben good an' kind tome. '

"'I've tried to, ' I says, 'an' Lizy, ' I says, 'I'll never fergive myselfabout that bunnit, long 's I live. '

"'That hadn't really nothin' to do with it, ' she says, 'an' you meantall right, though, ' she says, almost in a whisper, an' the' came acrossher face, not a smile exac'ly, but somethin' like a little riffle on apiece o' still water, 'that bunnit _was_ enough to kill most_any_body. '"

CHAPTER XL. 

John leaned out of the buggy and looked back along the road, as ifdeeply interested in observing something which had attracted hisattention, and David's face worked oddly for a moment. 

Turning south in the direction of the village, they began the descent ofa steep hill, and Mr. Harum, careful of loose stones, gave all hisattention to his driving. Our friend, respecting his vigilance, foreboreto say anything which might distract his attention until they reachedlevel ground, and then, "You never married again?" he queried. 

"No, " was, the reply. "My matrymonial experience was 'brief an' to thep'int, ' as the sayin' is. "

"And yet, " urged John, "you were a young man, and I should havesupposed----"

"Wa'al, " said David, breaking in and emitting his chuckling laugh, "Iallow 't mebbe I sometimes thought on't, an' once, about ten year afterwhat I ben tellin' ye, I putty much made up my mind to try anotherhitch-up. The' was a woman that I seen quite a good deal of, an' likedputty well, an' I had some grounds fer thinkin' 't she wouldn't show methe door if I was to ask her. In fact, I made up my mind I would takethe chances, an' one night I put on my best bib an' tucker an' startedfer her house. I had to go 'cross the town to where she lived, an' thefarther I walked the fiercer I got--havin' made up my mind--so 't puttysoon I was travelin' 's if I was 'fraid some other feller'd git there'head o' me. Wa'al, it was Sat'day night, an' the stores was all open, an' the streets was full o' people, an' I had to pull up in the crowd alittle, an' I don't know how it happened in pertic'ler, but fust thing Iknew I run slap into a woman with a ban'box, an' when I looked 'round, there was a mil'nery store in full blast an' winders full o' bunnits. Wa'al, sir, do you know what I done? Ye don't. Wa'al, the' was a hosscar passin' that run three mile out in the country in a diff'rentdirection f'm where I started fer, an' I up an' got onto that car, an'rode the length o' that road, an' got off an' _walked back_--an' I neverwent near her house f'm that day to this, an' that, " said David, "wasthe nearest I ever come to havin' another pardner to my joys an'sorro's. "

"That was pretty near, though, " said John, laughing. 

"Wa'al, " said David, "mebbe Prov'dence might 'a' had some other plan ferstoppin' me 'fore I smashed the hull rig, if I hadn't run into themil'nery shop, but as it was, that fetched me to a stan'still, an' Inever started to run agin. "

They drove on for a few minutes in silence, which John broke at last bysaying, "I have been wondering how you got on after your wife died andleft you with a little child. "

"That was where Mis' Jones come in, " said David. "Of course I got thebest nurse I could, an' Mis' Jones 'd run in two three times ev'ry dayan' see 't things was goin' on as right 's they could; but it come onthat I had to be away f'm home a good deal, an' fin'ly, come fall, I gotthe Joneses to move into a bigger house, where I could have a room, an'fixed it up with Mis' Jones to take charge o' the little feller rightalong. She hadn't but one child, a girl of about thirteen, an' had losttwo little ones, an' so between havin' took to my little mite of a thingf'm the fust, an' my makin' it wuth her while, she was willin', an' wewent on that way till--the' wa'n't no further occasion fur 's he wasconcerned, though I lived with them a spell longer when I was at home, which wa'n't very often, an' after he died I was gone fer a good while. But before that time, when I was at home, I had him with me all the timeI could manage. With good care he'd growed up nice an' bright, an' asbig as the average, an' smarter 'n a steel trap. He liked bein' with mebetter 'n anybody else, and when I c'd manage to have him I couldn'tbear to have him out o' my sight. Wa'al, as I told you, he got to bemost seven year old. I'd had to go out to Chicago, an' one day I got atelegraph sayin' he was putty sick--an' I took the fust train East. Itwas 'long in March, an' we had a breakdown, an' run into an awfulsnowstorm, an' one thing another, an' I lost twelve or fifteen hours. Itseemed to me that them two days was longer 'n my hull life, but I fin'lydid git home about nine o'clock in the mornin'. When I got to the houseMis' Jones was on the lookout fer me, an' the door opened as I run upthe stoop, an' I see by her face that I was too late. 'Oh, David, David!' she says (she'd never called me David before), puttin' her handson my shoulders. 

"'When?' I says. 

"''Bout midnight, ' she says. 

"'Did he suffer much?' I says. 

"'No, ' she says, 'I don't think so; but he was out of his head most ofthe time after the fust day, an' I guess all the time the lasttwenty-four hours. '

"'Do you think he'd 'a' knowed me?' I says. 'Did he say anythin'?' an'at that, " said David, "she looked at me. She wa'n't cryin' when I comein, though she had ben; but at that her face all broke up. 'I don'tknow, ' she says. 'He kept sayin' things, an' 'bout all we couldunderstand was "Daddy, daddy, "' an' then she throwed her apern over herface, an'----"

David tipped his hat a little farther over his eyes, though, like manyif not most "horsey" men, he usually wore it rather far down, andleaning over, twirled the whip in the socket between his two fingers andthumb. John studied the stitched ornamentation of the dashboard untilthe reins were pushed into his hands. But it was not for long. Davidstraightened himself, and, without turning his head, resumed them as ifthat were a matter of course. 

"Day after the fun'ral, " he went on, "I says to Mis' Jones, 'I'm goin'back out West, ' I says, 'an' I can't say how long I shall be gone--longenough, anyway, ' I says, 'to git it into my head that when I come backthe' won't be no little feller to jump up an' 'round my neck when I comeinto the house; but, long or short, I'll come back some time, an'meanwhile, as fur 's things between you an' me air, they're to go onjest the same, an' more 'n that, do you think you'll remember him some?'I says. 

"'As long as I live, ' she says, 'jest like my own. '

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'long 's you remember him, he'll be, in a way, livin'to ye, an' as long 's that I allow to pay fer his keep an' tendin' jestthe same as I have, _an'_, ' I says, 'if you don't let me you ain't nofriend o' mine, an' you _ben_ a _good_ one. ' Wa'al, she squimmidgedsome, but I wouldn't let her say 'No. ' 'I've 'ranged it all with mypardner an' other ways, ' I says, 'an' more 'n that, if you git into anykind of a scrape an' I don't happen to be got at, you go to him an' gitwhat you want. '"

"I hope she lived and prospered, " said John fervently. 

"She lived twenty year, " said David, "an' I wish she was livin' now. Inever drawed a check on her account without feelin' 't I was doin'somethin' for my little boy. 

"The's a good many diff'rent sorts an' kinds o' sorro', " he said, aftera moment, "that's in some ways kind o' kin to each other, but I guesslosin' a child 's a specie by itself. Of course I passed the achin', smartin' point years ago, but it's somethin' you can't fergit--that is, you can't help feelin' about it, because it ain't only what the child_was_ to you, but what you keep thinkin' he'd 'a' ben growin' more an'more to _be_ to you. When I lost my little boy I didn't only lose him ashe was, but I ben losin' him over an' agin all these years. What he'd'a' ben when he was _so_ old; an' what when he'd got to be a big boy;an' what he'd 'a' ben when he went mebbe to collidge; an' what he'd 'a'ben afterward, an' up to _now_. Of course the times when a man stuffshis face down into the pillers nights, passes, after a while; but whilethe's some sorro's that the happenin' o' things helps ye to fergit, Iguess the's some that the happenin' o' things keeps ye rememberin', an'losin' a child 's one on 'em. "

CHAPTER XLI. 

It was the latter part of John's fifth winter in Homeville. The businessof the office had largely increased. The new manufactories which hadbeen established did their banking with Mr. Harum, and the olderconcerns, including nearly all the merchants in the village, hadtransferred their accounts from Syrchester banks to David's. The callowHopkins had fledged and developed into a competent all-'round man, ableto do anything in the office, and there was a new "skeezicks"discharging Peleg's former functions. Considerable impetus had beengiven to the business of the town by the new road whose rails had beenlaid the previous summer. There had been a strong and acrimoniouscontroversy over the route which the road should take into and throughthe village. There was the party of the "nabobs" (as they werecharacterized by Mr. Harum) and their following, and the party of the"village people, " and the former had carried their point; but now theroad was an accomplished fact, and most of the bitterness which had beenengendered had died away. Yet the struggle was still matter for talk. 

"Did I ever tell you, " said David, as he and his cashier were sitting inthe rear room of the bank, "how Lawyer Staples come to switch round inthat there railroad jangle last spring?"

"I remember, " said John, "that you told me he had deserted his party, and you laughed a little at the time, but you did not tell me how itcame about. "

"I kind o' thought I told ye, " said David. 

"No, " said John, "I am quite sure you did not. "

"Wa'al, " said Mr. Harum, "the' was, as you know, the Tenaker-Rogerscrowd wantin' one thing, an' the Purse-Babbit lot bound to have theother, an' run the road under the other fellers' noses. Staples wasworkin' tooth an' nail fer the Purse crowd, an' bein' a good deal of apolitician, he was helpin' 'em a good deal. In fact, he was about theirbest card. I wa'n't takin' much hand in the matter either way, though myfeelin's was with the Tenaker party. I know 't would come to a pointwhere some money 'd prob'ly have to be used, an' I made up my mind Iwouldn't do much drivin' myself unless I had to, an' not then till thelast quarter of the heat. Wa'al, it got to lookin' like a putty eventhing. What little show I had made was if anythin' on the Purse side. One day Tenaker come in to see me an' wanted to know flat-footed whichside the fence I was on. 'Wa'al, ' I says, 'I've ben settin' up fershapes to be kind o' on the fence, but I don't mind sayin', betwixt youan' me, that the bulk o' my heft is a-saggin' your way; but I hain'ttook no active part, an' Purse an' them thinks I'm goin' to be on theirside when it comes to a pinch. '

"'Wa'al, ' he says, 'it's goin' to be a putty close thing, an' we'regoin' to need all the help we c'n git. '

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'I guess that's so, but fer the present I reckon Ic'n do ye more good by keepin' in the shade. Are you folks prepared tospend a little money?' I says. 

"'Yes, ' he says, 'if it comes to that. '

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'it putty most gen'ally does come to that, don't it?Now, the's one feller that's doin' ye more harm than some others. '

"'You mean Staples?' he says. 

"'Yes, ' I says, 'I mean Staples. He don't really care a hill o' whitebeans which way the road comes in, but he thinks he's on the pop'larside. Now, ' I says, 'I don't know as it'll be nec'sary to use money withhim, an' I don't say 't you could, anyway, but mebbe his yawp c'n bestopped. I'll have a quiet word with him, ' I says, 'an' see you agin. 'So, " continued Mr. Harum, "the next night the' was quite a lot of 'em inthe bar of the new hotel, an' Staples was haranguin' away the best heknowed how, an' bime by I nodded him off to one side, an' we went acrossthe hall into the settin' room. 

"'I see you feel putty strong 'bout this bus'nis, ' I says. 

"'Yes, sir, it's a matter of princ'ple with me, ' he says, knockin' hisfist down onto the table. 

"'How does the outcome on't look to ye?' I says. 'Goin' to be a puttyclose race, ain't it?'

"'Wa'al, ' he says, ''tween you an' me, I reckon it is. '

"'That's the way it looks to me, ' I says, 'an' more'n that, the otherfellers are ready to spend some money at a pinch. '

"'They be, be they?' he says. 

"'Yes, sir, ' I says, 'an' we've got to meet 'em halfway. Now, ' I says, takin' a paper out o' my pocket, 'what I wanted to say to you is this:You ben ruther more prom'nent in this matter than most anybody--fur'stalkin' goes--but I'm consid'ably int'risted. The's got to be some moneyraised, an' I'm ready, ' I says, 'to put down as much as you be up to acouple o' hunderd, an' I'll take the paper 'round to the rest; but, ' Isays, unfoldin' it, 'I think you'd ought to head the list, an' I'll comenext. ' Wa'al, " said David with a chuckle and a shake of the head, "you'dought to have seen his jaw go down. He wriggled 'round in his chair, an'looked ten diff'rent ways fer Sunday. 

"'What do you say?' I says, lookin' square at him, ''ll you make it acouple a hunderd?'

"'Wa'al, ' he says, 'I guess I couldn't go 's fur 's that, an' I wouldn'tlike to head the list anyway. '

"'All right, ' I says, 'I'll head it. Will you say one-fifty?'

"'No, ' he says, pullin' his whiskers, 'I guess not. '

"'A hunderd?' I says, an' he shook his head. 

"'Fifty, ' I says, 'an' I'll go a hunderd, ' an at that he got out hishank'chif an' blowed his nose, an' took his time to it. 'Wa'al, ' I says, 'what _do_ ye say?'

"'Wa'al, ' he says, 'I ain't quite prepared to give ye 'n answerto-night. Fact on't is, ' he says, 'it don't make a cent's wuth o'diff'rence to me person'ly which way the dum'd road comes in, an' Idon't jest this minute see why I should spend any money in it. '

"'There's the _princ'ple_ o' the thing, ' I says. 

"'Yes, ' he says, gettin' out of his chair, 'of course, there's theprinc'ple of the thing, an'--wa'al, I'll think it over an' see youagin, ' he says, lookin' at his watch. 'I got to go now. '

"Wa'al, the next night, " proceeded Mr. Harum, "I went down to the hotelagin, an' the' was about the same crowd, but no Staples. The' wa'n'tmuch goin' on, an' Purse, in pertic'ler, was lookin' putty down in themouth. 'Where's Staples?' I says. 

"'Wa'al, ' says Purse, 'he said mebbe he'd come to-night, an' mebbe hecouldn't. Said it wouldn't make much diff'rence; an' anyhow he was goin'out o' town up to Syrchester fer a few days. I don't know what's comeover the feller, ' says Purse. 'I told him the time was gittin' short an'we'd have to git in our best licks, an' he said he guessed he'd doneabout all 't he could, an' in fact, ' says Purse, 'he seemed to 'a' lostint'rist in the hull thing. '"

"What did you say?" John asked. 

"Wa'al, " said David with a grin, "Purse went on to allow 't he guessedsomebody's pocketbook had ben talkin', but I didn't say much ofanythin', an' putty soon come away. Two three days after, " he continued, "I see Tenaker agin. 'I hear Staples has gone out o' town, ' he says, 'an' I hear, too, ' he says, 'that he's kind o' soured on the hullthing--didn't care much how it did come out. '

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'when he comes back you c'n use your own judgmentabout havin' a little interview with him. Mebbe somethin' 's made himthink the's two sides to this thing. But anyway, ' I says, 'I guess hewon't do no more hollerin'. '

"'How's that?' says Tenaker. 

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'I guess I'll have to tell ye a little story. Mebbeyou've heard it before, but it seems to be to the point. Once on atime, ' I says, 'the' was a big church meetin' that had lasted threedays, an' the last evenin' the' was consid'able excitement. The prayin'an' singin' had warmed most on 'em up putty well, an' one o' the mostmovin' of the speakers was tellin' 'em what was what. The' was a bigcrowd, an' while most on 'em come to be edified, the' was quite a lot inthe back part of the place that was ready fer anythin'. Wa'al, ithappened that standin' mixed up in that lot was a feller named--we'llcall him Smith, to be sure of him--an' Smith was jest runnin' over withpower, an' ev'ry little while when somethin' the speaker said touchedhim on the funny bone he'd out with an "A--men! _Yes_, Lord!" in a voicelike a fact'ry whistle. Wa'al, after a little the' was some snickerin'an' gigglin' an' scroughin' an' hustlin' in the back part, an' even someof the serioustest up in front would kind o' smile, an' the moderatorleaned over an' says to one of the bretherin on the platform, "BrotherJones, " he says, "can't you git down to the back of the hall an' saysomethin' to quiet Brother Smith? Smith's a good man, an' a pious man, "the moderator says, "but he's very excitable, an' I'm 'fraid he'll gitthe boys to goin' back there an' disturb the meetin'. " So Jones heworked his way back to where Smith was, an' the moderator watched him goup to Smith and jest speak to him 'bout ten seconds; an' after thatSmith never peeped once. After the meetin' was over, the moderator saysto Jones, "Brother Jones, " he says, "what did you say to Brother Smithto-night that shut him up so quick?" "I ast him fer a dollar for For'nMissions, " says Brother Jones, 'an', wa'al, ' I says to Tenaker, 'that'swhat I done to Staples. '"

"Did Mr. Tenaker see the point?" asked John, laughing. 

"He laughed a little, " said David, "but didn't quite ketch on till Itold him about the subscription paper, an' then he like to split. "

"Suppose Staples had taken you up, " suggested John. 

"Wa'al, " said David, "I didn't think I was takin' many chances. If, inthe fust place, I hadn't knowed Staples as well 's I did, the Smithfam'ly, so fur 's my experience goes, has got more members 'n any otherfam'ly on top of the earth. " At this point a boy brought in a telegram. David opened it, gave a side glance at his companion, and, taking outhis pocketbook, put the dispatch therein. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

The next morning David called John into the rear room. "Busy?" he asked. 

"No, " said John. "Nothing that can't wait. "

"Set down, " said Mr. Harum, drawing a chair to the fire. He looked upwith his characteristic grin. "Ever own a hog?" he said. 

"No, " said John, smiling. 

"Ever feel like ownin' one?"

"I don't remember ever having any cravings in that direction. "

"Like pork?" asked Mr. Harum. 

"In moderation, " was the reply. David produced from his pocketbook thedispatch received the day before and handed it to the young man at hisside. "Read that, " he said. 

John looked at it and handed it back. 

"It doesn't convey any idea to my mind, " he said. 

"What?" said David, "you don't know what 'Bangs Galilee' means? nor who'Raisin' is?"

"You'll have to ask me an easier one, " said John, smiling. 

David sat for a moment in silence, and then, "How much money have yougot?" he asked. 

"Well, " was the reply, "with what I had and what I have saved since Icame I could get together about five thousand dollars, I think. "

"Is it where you c'n put your hands on't?"

John took some slips of paper from his pocketbook and handed them toDavid. 

"H'm, h'm, " said the latter. "Wa'al, I owe ye quite a little bunch o'money, don't I? Forty-five hunderd! Wa'al! Couldn't you 'a' done better'n to keep this here at four per cent?"

"Well, " said John, "perhaps so, and perhaps not. I preferred to do thisat all events. "

"Thought the old man was _safe_ anyway, didn't ye?" said David in a tonewhich showed that he was highly pleased. 

"Yes, " said John. 

"Is this all?" asked David. 

"There is some interest on those certificates, and I have some balancein my account, " was the reply; "and then, you know, I have some veryvaluable securities--a beautiful line of mining stocks, and thatpromising Pennsylvania property. "

At the mention of the last-named asset David looked at him for aninstant as if about to speak, but if so he changed his mind. He sat fora moment fingering the yellow paper which carried the mystic words. Presently he said, opening the message out, "That's from an old friendof mine out to Chicago. He come from this part of the country, an' wewas young fellers together thirty years ago. I've had a good many dealswith him and through him, an' he never give me a wrong steer, fur 's Iknow. That is, I never done as he told me without comin' out all right, though he's give me a good many pointers I never did nothin' about. 'Tain't nec'sary to name no names, but 'Bangs Galilee' means 'buy pork, 'an' as I've ben watchin' the market fer quite a spell myself, an'standard pork 's a good deal lower 'n it costs to pack it, I've made upmy mind to buy a few thousan' barrels fer fam'ly use. It's a handy thingto have in the house, " declared Mr. Harum, "an' I thought mebbe itwouldn't be a bad thing fer you to have a little. It looks cheap to me, "he added, "an' mebbe bime-by what you don't eat you c'n sell. "

"Well, " said John, laughing, "you see me at table every day and knowwhat my appetite is like. How much pork do you think I could take careof?"

"Wa'al, at the present price, " said David, "I think about four thousan'barrels would give ye enough to eat fer a spell, an' mebbe leave ye afew barrels to dispose of if you should happen to strike a feller lateron that wanted it wuss 'n you did. "

John opened his eyes a little. "I should only have a margin of a dollarand a quarter, " he said. 

"Wa'al, I've got a notion that that'll carry ye, " said David. "It may golower 'n what it is now. I never bought anythin' yet that didn't dropsome, an' I guess nobody but a fool ever did buy at the bottom more'nonce; but I've had an idee for some time that it was about bottom, an'this here telegraph wouldn't 'a' ben sent if the feller that sent itdidn't think so too, an' I've had some other cor'spondence with him. "Mr. Harum paused and laughed a little. 

"I was jest thinkin', " he continued, "of what the Irishman said aboutStofford. Never ben there, have ye? Wa'al, it's a place eight nine milef'm here, an' the hills 'round are so steep that when you're goin' upyou c'n look right back under the buggy by jest leanin' over the edgeof the dash. I was drivin' 'round there once, an' I met an Irishman witha big drove o' hogs. 

"'Hello, Pat!' I says, 'where 'd all them hogs come from?'

"'Stofford, ' he says. 

"'Wa'al, ' I says, 'I wouldn't 'a' thought the' was so many hogs _in_Stofford. '

"'Oh, be gobs!' he says, 'sure they're _all_ hogs in Stofford;' an', "declared David, "the bears ben sellin' that pork up in Chicago as if thehull everlastin' West was _all_ hogs. "

"It's very tempting, " said John thoughtfully. 

"Wa'al, " said David, "I don't want to tempt ye exac'ly, an' certain Idon't want to urge ye. The' ain't no sure things but death an' taxes, asthe sayin' is, but buyin' pork at these prices is buyin' somethin'that's got value, an' you can't wipe it out. In other words, it's buyin'a warranted article at a price consid'ably lower 'n it c'n be producedfor, an' though it may go lower, if a man c'n _stick_, it's bound tolevel up in the long run. "

Our friend sat for some minutes apparently looking into the fire, but hewas not conscious of seeing anything at all. Finally he rose, went overto Mr. Harum's desk, figured the interest on the certificates up to thefirst of January, indorsed them, and filling up a check for the balanceof the amount in question, handed the check and certificate to David. 

"Think you'll go it, eh?" said the latter. 

"Yes, " said John; "but if I take the quantity you suggest, I shall havenothing to remargin the trade in case the market goes below a certainpoint. "

"I've thought of that, " replied David, "an' was goin' to say to you thatI'd carry the trade down as fur as your money would go, in case moremargins had to be called. "

"Very well, " said John. "And will you look after the whole matter forme?"

"All right, " said David. 

John thanked him and returned to the front room. 

 * * * * *

There were times in the months which followed when our friend had reasonto wish that all swine had perished with those whom Shylock said "yourprophet the Nazarite conjured the devil into;" and the news of the worldin general was of secondary importance compared with the market reports. After the purchase pork dropped off a little, and hung about the lowerfigure for some time. Then it began to advance by degrees until thequotation was a dollar above the purchase price. 

John's impulse was to sell, but David made no sign. The market held firmfor a while, even going a little higher. Then it began to drop rathermore rapidly than it had advanced, to about what the pork had cost, andfor a long period fluctuated only a few cents one way or the other. Thiswas followed by a steady decline to the extent of half-a-dollar, and, asthe reports came, it "looked like going lower, " which it did. In fact, there came a day when it was so "low, " and so much more "looked likegoing lower" than ever (as such things usually do when the "bottom" ispretty nearly reached), that our friend had not the courage to examinethe market reports for the next two days, and simply tried to keep thesubject out of his mind. On the morning of the third day the Syrchesterpaper was brought in about ten o'clock, as usual, and laid on Mr. Harum's desk. John shivered a little, and for some time refrained fromlooking at it. At last, more by impulse than intention, he went into theback room and glanced at the first page without taking the paper in hishands. One of the press dispatches was headed: "Great Excitement onChicago Board of Trade: Pork Market reported Cornered: Bears on theRun, " and more of the same sort, which struck our friend as being themost profitable, instructive, and delightful literature that he had evercome across. David had been in Syrchester the two days previous, returning the evening before. Just then he came into the office, andJohn handed him the paper. 

"Wa'al, " he said, holding it off at arm's length, and then putting onhis glasses, "them fellers that thought they was _all_ hogs up West, arehavin' a change of heart, are they? I reckoned they would 'fore they gotthrough with it. It's ben ruther a long pull, though, eh?" he said, looking at John with a grin. 

"Yes, " said our friend, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. 

"Things looked ruther colicky the last two three days, eh?" suggestedDavid. "Did you think 'the jig was up an' the monkey was in the box?'"

"Rather, " said John. "The fact is, " he admitted, "I am ashamed to saythat for a few days back I haven't looked at a quotation. I suppose youmust have carried me to some extent. How much was it?"

"Wa'al, " said David, "I kept the trade margined, of course, an' if we'dsold out at the bottom you'd have owed me somewhere along a thousan' orfifteen hunderd; but, " he added, "it was only in the slump, an' didn'tlast long, an' anyway I cal'lated to carry that pork to where it would'a' ketched fire. I wa'n't worried none, an' you didn't let on to be, an' so I didn't say anythin'. "

"What do you think about it now?" asked John. 

"My opinion is now, " replied Mr. Harum, "that it's goin' to putty nearwhere it belongs, an' mebbe higher, an' them 's my advices. We can sellnow at some profit, an' of course the bears 'll jump on agin as it goesup, an' the other fellers 'll take the profits f'm time to time. If Iwas where I could watch the market, I'd mebbe try to make a turn in 't'casionally, but I guess as 't is we'd better set down an' let her takeher own gait. I don't mean to try an' git the top price--I'm alwuswillin' to let the other feller make a little--but we've waited ferquite a spell, an' as it's goin' our way, we might 's well wait a littlelonger. "

"All right, " said John, "and I'm very much obliged to you. "

"Sho, sho!" said David. 

It was not until August, however, that the deal was finally closed out. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

The summer was drawing to a close. The season, so far as the social partof it was concerned, had been what John had grown accustomed to inprevious years, and there were few changes in or among the people whomhe had come to know very well, save those which a few years make inyoung people: some increase of importance in demeanor on the part of theyoung men whose razors were coming into requisition; and the changesfrom short to long skirts, from braids, pig-tails, and flowing-manes tomore elaborate coiffures on the part of the young women. The mostnotable event had been the reopening of the Verjoos house, which hadbeen closed for two summers, and the return of the family, followed bythe appearance of a young man whom Miss Clara had met abroad, and whorepresented himself as the acknowledged _fiancé_ of that young woman. Itneed hardly be said that discussions of the event, and upon theappearance, manners, prospects, etc. , of that fortunate gentleman hadformed a very considerable part of the talk of the season among thesummer people; and, indeed, interest in the affair had permeated allgrades and classes of society. 

 * * * * *

It was some six weeks after the settlement of the transaction in "pork"that David and John were driving together in the afternoon as they hadso often done in the last five years. They had got to that point ofunderstanding where neither felt constrained to talk for the purpose ofkeeping up conversation, and often in their long drives there was littlesaid by either of them. The young man was never what is called "a greattalker, " and Mr. Harum did not always "git goin'. " On this occasion theyhad gone along for some time, smoking in silence, each man absorbed inhis thoughts. Finally David turned to his companion. 

"Do you know that Dutchman Claricy Verjoos is goin' to marry?" he asked. 

"Yes, " replied John, laughing; "I have met him a number of times. But heisn't a Dutchman. What gave you that idea?"

"I heard it was over in Germany she run across him, " said David. 

"I believe that is so, but he isn't a German. He is from Philadelphia, and is a friend of the Bradways. "

"What kind of a feller is he? Good enough for her?"

"Well, " said John, smiling, "in the sense in which that question isusually taken, I should say yes. He has good looks, good manners, a gooddeal of money, I am told, and it is said that Miss Clara--which is themain point, after all--is very much in love with him. "

"H'm, " said David after a moment. "How do you git along with the Verjoosgirls? Was Claricy's ears pointed all right when you seen her fust aftershe come home?"

"Oh, yes!" replied John, smiling, "she and her sister were perfectlypleasant and cordial, and Miss Verjoos and I are on very friendlyterms. "

"I was thinkin', " said David, "that you an' Claricy might be got tolikin' each other, an' mebbe--"

"I don't think there could ever have been the smallest chance of it, "declared John hastily. 

"Take the lines a minute, " said David, handing them to his companionafter stopping the horses. "The nigh one's picked up a stone, I guess, "and he got out to investigate. "The river road, " he remarked as heclimbed back into the buggy after removing the stone from the horse'sfoot, "is about the puttiest road 'round here, but I don't drive itoftener jest on account of them dum'd loose stuns. " He sucked the airthrough his pursed-up lips, producing a little squeaking sound, and thehorses started forward. Presently he turned to John:

"Did you ever think of gettin' married?" he asked. 

"Well, " said our friend with a little hesitation, "I don't remember thatI ever did, very definitely. "

"Somebody 't you knew 'fore you come up here?" said David, jumping at aconclusion. 

"Yes, " said John, smiling a little at the question. 

"Wouldn't she have ye?" queried David, who stuck at no trifles when inpursuit of information. 

John laughed. "I never asked her, " he replied, in truth a littlesurprised at his own willingness to be questioned. 

"Did ye cal'late to when the time come right?" pursued Mr. Harum. 

Of this part of his history John had, of course, never spoken to David. There had been a time when, if not resenting the attempt upon hisconfidence, he would have made it plain that he did not wish to discussthe matter, and the old wound still gave him twinges. But he had notonly come to know his questioner very well, but to be much attached tohim. He knew, too, that the elder man would ask him nothing save in theway of kindness, for he had had a hundred proofs of that; and now, sofar from feeling reluctant to take his companion into his confidence, herather welcomed the idea. He was, withal, a bit curious to ascertain thedrift of the inquiry, knowing that David, though sometimes working indevious ways, rarely started without an intention. And so he answeredthe question and what followed as he might have told his story to awoman. 

"An' didn't you never git no note, nor message, nor word of any kind?"asked David. 

"No. "

"Nor hain't ever heard a word about her f'm that day to this?"

"No. "

"Nor hain't ever tried to?"

"No, " said John. "What would have been the use?"

"Prov'dence seemed to 've made a putty clean sweep in your matters thatspring, didn't it?"

"It seemed so to me, " said John. 

Nothing more was said for a minute or two. Mr. Harum appeared to haveabandoned the pursuit of the subject of his questions. At last he said:

"You ben here most five years. "

"Very nearly, " John replied. 

"Ben putty contented, on the hull?"

"I have grown to be, " said John. "Indeed, it's hard to realize at timesthat I haven't always lived in Homeville. I remember my former life asif it were something I have read in a book. There was a John Lenox init, but he seems to me sometimes more like a character in a story thanmyself. "

"An' yet, " said David, turning toward him, "if you was to go back to it, this last five years 'd git to be that way to ye a good deal quicker. Don't ye think so?"

"Perhaps so, " replied John. "Yes, " he added thoughtfully, "it ispossible. "

"I guess on the hull, though, " remarked Mr. Harum, "you done better uphere in the country 'n you might some 'ers else--"

"Oh, yes, " said John sincerely, "thanks to you, I have indeed, and--"

"--an'--ne' mind about me--you got quite a little bunch o' moneytogether now. I was thinkin' 't mebbe you might feel 't you needn't tostay here no longer if you didn't want to. "

The young man turned to the speaker inquiringly, but Mr. Harum's facewas straight to the front, and betrayed nothing. 

"It wouldn't be no more 'n natural, " he went on, "an' mebbe it would bebest for ye. You're too good a man to spend all your days workin' ferDave Harum, an' I've had it in my mind fer some time--somethin' likethat pork deal--to make you a little independent in case anythin' shouldhappen, an'--gen'ally. I couldn't give ye no money 'cause you wouldn't'a' took it even if I'd wanted to, but now you got it, why----"

"I feel very much as if you had given it to me, " protested the youngman. 

David put up his hand. "No, no, " he said, "all 't I did was to proposethe thing to ye, an' to put up a little money fer two three days. Ididn't take no chances, an' it's all right, an' it's your'n, an' itmakes ye to a certain extent independent of Homeville. "

"I don't quite see it so, " said John. 

"Wa'al, " said David, turning to him, "if you'd had as much five yearsago you wouldn't 'a' come here, would ye?"

John was silent. 

"What I was leadin' up to, " resumed Mr. Harum after a moment, "is this:I ben thinkin' about it fer some time, but I haven't wanted to speak toye about it before. In fact, I might 'a' put it off some longer ifthings wa'n't as they are, but the fact o' the matter is that I'm goin'to take down my sign. "

John looked at him in undisguised amazement, not unmixed withconsternation. 

"Yes, " said David, obviously avoiding the other's eye, "'David Harum, Banker, ' is goin' to come down. I'm gettin' to be an' old man, " he wenton, "an' what with some investments I've got, an' a hoss-trade once in awhile, I guess I c'n manage to keep the fire goin' in the kitchin stovefer Polly an' me, an' the' ain't no reason why I sh'd keep my sign upmuch of any longer. Of course, " he said, "if I was to go on as I be nowI'd want ye to stay jest as you are; but, as I was sayin', you're to aconsid'able extent independent. You hain't no speciul ties to keep ye, an' you ought anyway, as I said before, to be doin' better for yourselfthan jest drawin' pay in a country bank. "

One of the most impressive morals drawn from the fairy tales of ourchildhood, and indeed from the literature and experience of our laterperiods of life, is that the fulfilment of wishes is often attended bythe most unwelcome results. There had been a great many times when toour friend the possibility of being able to bid farewell to Homevillehad seemed the most desirable of things, but confronted with the idea asa reality--for what other construction could he put upon David's wordsexcept that they amounted practically to a dismissal, though a most kindone?--he found himself simply in dismay. 

"I suppose, " he said after a few moments, "that by 'taking down yoursign' you mean going out of business--"

"Figger o' speech, " explained David. 

"--and your determination is not only a great surprise to me, butgrieves me very much. I am very sorry to hear it--more sorry than I cantell you. As you remind me, if I leave Homeville I shall not go almostpenniless as I came, but I shall leave with great regret, and, indeed--Ah, well--" he broke off with a wave of his hands. 

"What was you goin' to say?" asked David, after a moment, his eyes onthe horizon. 

"I can't say very much more, " replied the young man, "than that I amvery sorry. There have been times, " he added, "as you may understand, when I have been restless and discouraged for a while, particularly atfirst; but I can see now that, on the whole, I have been far fromunhappy here. Your house has grown to be more a real home than any Ihave ever known, and you and your sister are like my own people. Whatyou say, that I ought not to look forward to spending my life behindthe counter of a village bank on a salary, may be true; but I am not, atpresent at least, a very ambitious person, nor, I am afraid, a veryclever one in the way of getting on in the world; and the idea ofbreaking out for myself, even if that were all to be considered, is nota cheerful one. I am afraid all this sounds rather selfish to you, when, as I can see, you have deferred your plans for my sake, and after allelse that you have done for me. "

"I guess I sha'n't lay it up agin ye, " said David quietly. 

They drove along in silence for a while. 

"May I ask, " said John, at length, "when you intend to 'take down yoursign, ' as you put it?"

"Whenever you say the word, " declared David, with a chuckle and a sideglance at his companion. John turned in bewilderment. 

"What do you mean?" he asked. 

"Wa'al, " said David with another short laugh, "fur 's the sign 'sconcerned, I s'pose we _could_ stick a new one over it, but I guess itmight 's well come down; but we'll settle that matter later on. "

John still looked at the speaker in utter perplexity, until the latterbroke out into a laugh. 

"Got any idee what's goin' onto the new sign?" he asked. 

"You don't mean----"

"Yes, I do, " declared Mr. Harum, "an' my notion 's this, an' don't yousay aye, yes, nor no till I git through, " and he laid his left handrestrainingly on John's knee. 

"The new sign 'll read 'Harum & Comp'ny, ' or 'Harum & Lenox, ' jest asyou elect. You c'n put in what money you got an' I'll put in as muchmore, which 'll make cap'tal enough in gen'ral, an' any extry moneythat's needed--wa'al, up to a certain point, I guess I c'n manage. Nowputty much all the new bus'nis has come in through you, an' practicallyyou got the hull thing in your hands. You'll do the work about 's you'redoin' now, an' you'll draw the same sal'ry; an' after that's paid we'llgo snucks on anythin' that's left--that _is_, " added David with achuckle, "if you feel that you c'n _stan'_ it in Homeville. "

 * * * * *

"I wish you was married to one of our Homeville girls, though, " declaredMr. Harum later on as they drove homeward. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

Since the whooping-cough and measles of childhood the junior partner ofHarum & Company had never to his recollection had a day's illness in hislife, and he fought the attack which came upon him about the first weekin December with a sort of incredulous disgust, until one morning whenhe did not appear at breakfast. He spent the next week in bed, and atthe end of that time, while he was able to be about, it was in a languidand spiritless fashion, and he was shaken and exasperated by apersistent cough. The season was and had been unusually inclement evenfor that region, where the thermometer sometimes changes fifty degreesin thirty-six hours; and at the time of his release from his room therewas a period of successive changes of temperature from thawing to zeroand below, a characteristic of the winter climate of Homeville and itsvicinity. Dr. Hayes exhibited the inevitable quinine, iron, and all thetonics in his pharmacopoeia, with cough mixtures and sundry, but invain. Aunt Polly pressed bottles of sovereign decoctions and infusionsupon him--which were received with thanks and neglected with theblackest ingratitude--and exhausted not only the markets of Homeville, but her own and Sairy's culinary resources (no mean ones, by the way)to tempt the appetite which would not respond. One week followed anotherwithout any improvement in his condition; and indeed as time went on hefell into a condition of irritable listlessness which filled his partnerwith concern. 

"What's the matter with him, Doc?" said David to the physician. "Hedon't seem to take no more int'rist than a foundered hoss. Can't ye donothin' for him?"

"Not much use dosin' him, " replied the doctor. "Pull out all right, maybe, come warm weather. Big strong fellow, but this cussed influenzy, orgrip, as they call it, sometimes hits them hardest. "

"Wa'al, warm weather 's some way off, " remarked Mr. Harum, "an' hecoughs enough to tear his head off sometimes. "

The doctor nodded. "Ought to clear out somewhere, " he said. "Don't likethat cough myself. "

"What do you mean?" asked David. 

"Ought to go 'way for a spell, " said the doctor; "quit working, and geta change of climate. "

"Have you told him so?" asked Mr. Harum. 

"Yes, " replied the doctor; "said he couldn't get away. "

"H'm'm!" said David thoughtfully, pinching his lower lip between histhumb and finger. 

A day or two after the foregoing interview, John came in and laid anopen letter in front of David, who was at his desk, and droppedlanguidly into a chair without speaking. Mr. Harum read the letter, smiled a little, and turning in his chair, took off his glasses andlooked at the young man, who was staring abstractedly at the floor. 

"I ben rather expectin' you'd git somethin' like this. What be you goin'to do about it?"

"I don't know, " replied John. "I don't like the idea of leasing theproperty in any case, and certainly not on the terms they offer; but itis lying idle, and I'm paying taxes on it----"

"Wa'al, as I said, I ben expectin' fer some time they'd be after ye insome shape. You got this this mornin'?"

"Yes. "

"I expect you'd sell the prop'ty if you got a good chance, wouldn't ye?"

"With the utmost pleasure, " said John emphatically. 

"Wa'al, I've got a notion they'll buy it of ye, " said David, "if it'shandled right. I wouldn't lease it if it was mine an' I wanted to sellit, an' yet, in the long run, you might git more out of it--an' thenagin you mightn't, " he added. 

"I don't know anything about it, " said John, putting his handkerchief tohis mouth in a fit of coughing. David looked at him with a frown. 

"I ben aware fer some time that the' was a movement on foot in yourdirection, " he said. "You know I told ye that I'd ben int'ristid in theoil bus'nis once on a time; an' I hain't never quite lost my int'rist, though it hain't ben a very active one lately, an' some fellers downthere have kep' me posted some. The' 's ben oil found near where you'relocated, an' the prospectin' points your way. The hull thing has benkep' as close as possible, an' the holes has ben plugged, but the oil isthere somewhere. Now it's like this: If you lease on shares an' theystrike the oil on your prop'ty, mebbe it'll bring you more money; butthey might strike, an' agin they mightn't. Sometimes you git a payin'well an' a dry hole only a few hunderd feet apart. Nevertheless theywant to drill your prop'ty. I know who the parties is. These fellersthat wrote this letter are simply actin' for 'em. "

The speaker was interrupted by another fit of coughing, which left thesufferer very red in the face, and elicited from him the word which isalways greeted with laughter in a theater. 

"Say, " said David, after a moment, in which he looked anxiously at hiscompanion, "I don't like that cough o' your'n. "

"I don't thoroughly enjoy it myself, " was the rejoinder. 

"Seems to be kind o' growin' on ye, don't it?"

"I don't know, " said John. 

"I was talkin' with Doc Hayes about ye, " said David, "an' he allowedyou'd ought to have your shoes off an' run loose a spell. "

John smiled a little, but did not reply. 

"Spoke to you about it, didn't he?" continued David. 

"Yes. "

"An' you told him you couldn't git away?"

"Yes. "

"Didn't tell him you wouldn't go if you could, did ye?"

"I only told him I couldn't go, " said John. 

David sat for a moment thoughtfully tapping the desk with hiseyeglasses, and then said with his characteristic chuckle:

"I had a letter f'm Chet Timson yestidy. "

John looked up at him, failing to see the connection. 

"Yes, " said David, "he's out fer a job, an' the way he writes I guessthe dander's putty well out of him. I reckon the' hain't ben nothin'much but hay in _his_ manger fer quite a spell, " remarked Mr. Harum. 

"H'm!" said John, raising his brows, conscious of a humane but veryfaint interest in Mr. Timson's affairs. Mr. Harum got out a cigar, and, lighting it, gave a puff or two, and continued with what struck theyounger man as a perfectly irrelevant question. It really seemed to himas if his senior were making conversation. 

"How's Peleg doin' these days?" was the query. 

"Very well, " was the reply. 

"C'n do most anythin' 't's nec'sary, can't he?"

A brief interruption followed upon the entrance of a man, who, aftersaying good-morning, laid a note on David's desk, asking for the moneyon it. Mr. Harum handed it back, indicating John with a motion of histhumb. 

The latter took it, looked at the face and back, marked his initials onit with a pencil, and the man went out to the counter. 

"If you was fixed so 't you could git away fer a spell, " said David amoment or two after the customer's departure, "where would you like togo?"

"I have not thought about it, " said John rather listlessly. 

"Wa'al, s'pose you think about it a little now, if you hain't got nopressin' engagement. Bus'nis don't seem to be very rushin' thismornin'. "

"Why?" said John. 

"Because, " said David impressively, "you're goin' somewhere right off, quick 's you c'n git ready, an' you may 's well be makin' up your mindwhere. "

John looked up in surprise. "I don't want to go away, " he said, "and ifI did, how could I leave the office?"

"No, " responded Mr. Harum, "you don't want to make a move of any kindthat you don't actually have to, an' that's the reason fer makin' one. F'm what the doc said, an' f'm what I c'n see, you got to git out o'this dum'd climate, " waving his hand toward the window, against whichthe sleet was beating, "fer a spell; an' as fur 's the office goes, ChetTimson 'd be tickled to death to come on an' help out while you're away, an' I guess 'mongst us we c'n mosey along some gait. I ain't _quite_ tothe bone-yard yet myself, " he added with a grin. 

The younger man sat for a moment or two with brows contracted, andpulling thoughtfully at his moustache. 

"There is that matter, " he said, pointing to the letter on the desk. 

"Wa'al, " said David, "the' ain't no tearin' hurry 'bout that; an' anyway, I was goin' to make you a suggestion to put the matter into myhands to some extent. "

"Will you take it?" said John quickly. "That is exactly what I shouldwish in any case. "

"If you want I should, " replied Mr. Harum. "Would you want to give fullpower attorney, or jest have me say 't I was instructed to act for ye?"

"I think a better way would be to put the property in your namealtogether, " said John. "Don't you think so?"

"Wa'al, " said David, thoughtfully, after a moment, "I hadn't thought ofthat, but mebbe I _could_ handle the matter better if you was to dothat. I know the parties, an' if the' was any bluffin' to be done eitherside, mebbe it would be better if they thought I was playin' my ownhand. "

At that point Peleg appeared and asked Mr. Lenox a question which tookthe latter to the teller's counter. David sat for some time drumming onhis desk with the fingers of both hands. A succession of violent coughscame from the front room. His mouth and brows contracted in a wince, andrising, he put on his coat and hat and went slowly out of the bank. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

The Vaterland was advertised to sail at one o'clock, and it wanted butfifteen or twenty minutes of the hour. After assuring himself that hisbelongings were all together in his state-room, John made his way to theupper deck and leaning against the rail, watched the bustle ofembarkation, somewhat interested in the people standing about, amongwhom it was difficult in instances to distinguish the passengers fromthose who were present to say farewell. Near him at the moment were twopeople, apparently man and wife, of middle age and rather distinguishedappearance, to whom presently approached, with some evidence of hurryand with outstretched hand, a very well dressed and pleasant lookingman. 

"Ah, here you are, Mrs. Ruggles, " John heard him say as he shook hands. 

Then followed some commonplaces of good wishes and farewells, and inreply to a question which John did not catch, he heard the ladyaddressed as Mrs. Ruggles say, "Oh, didn't you see her? We left her onthe lower deck a few minutes ago. Ah, here she comes. "

The man turned and advanced a step to meet the person in question. John's eyes involuntarily followed the movement, and as he saw herapproach his heart contracted sharply: it was Mary Blake. He turnedaway quickly, and as the collar of his ulster was about his face, forthe air of the January day was very keen, he thought that she had notrecognized him. A moment later he went aft around the deck-house, andgoing forward to the smoking-room, seated himself therein, and took thepassenger list out of his pocket. He had already scanned it rathercursorily, having but the smallest expectation of coming upon a familiarname, yet feeling sure that, had hers been there, it could not haveescaped him. Nevertheless, he now ran his eye over the columns witheager scrutiny, and the hands which held the paper shook a little. 

There was no name in the least like Blake. It occurred to him that bysome chance or error hers might have been omitted, when his eye caughtthe following:

 William Ruggles New York. Mrs. Ruggles " " Mrs. Edward Ruggles " "

It was plain to him then. She was obviously traveling with the peoplewhom she had just joined on deck, and it was equally plain that she wasMrs. Edward Ruggles. When he looked up the ship was out in the river. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

John had been late in applying for his passage, and in consequence, theship being very full, had had to take what berth he could get, whichhappened to be in the second cabin. The occupants of these quarters, however, were not rated as second-class passengers. The Vaterland tooknone such on her outward voyages, and all were on the same footing as tothe fare and the freedom of the ship. The captain and the orchestraappeared at dinner in the second saloon on alternate nights, and theonly disadvantage in the location was that it was very far aft; unlessit could be considered a drawback that the furnishings were of plainwood and plush instead of carving, gilding, and stamped leather. Infact, as the voyage proceeded, our friend decided that the after-deckwas pleasanter than the one amidships, and the cozy second-classsmoking-room more agreeable than the large and gorgeous one forward. 

Consequently, for a while he rarely went across the bridge which spannedthe opening between the two decks. It may be that he had a certainamount of reluctance to encounter Mrs. Edward Ruggles. 

The roof of the second cabin deck-house was, when there was not too muchwind, a favorite place with him. It was not much frequented, as most ofthose who spent their time on deck apparently preferred a place neareramidships. He was sitting there on the morning of the fifth day out, looking idly over the sea, with an occasional glance at the people whowere walking on the promenade-deck below, or leaning on the rail whichbounded it. He turned at a slight sound behind him, and rose with hishat in his hand. The flush in his face, as he took the hand which wasoffered him, reflected the color in the face of the owner, but thegrayish brown eyes, which he remembered so well, looked into his, alittle curiously, perhaps, but frankly and kindly. She was the first tospeak. 

"How do you do, Mr. Lenox?" she said. 

"How do you do, Mrs. Ruggles?" said John, throwing up his hand as, atthe moment of his reply, a puff of wind blew the cape of his mackintoshover his head. They both laughed a little (this was their greeting afternearly six years), and sat down. 

"What a nice place!" she said, looking about her. 

"Yes, " said John; "I sit here a good deal when it isn't too windy. "

"I have been wondering why I did not get a sight of you, " she said. "Isaw your name in the passenger list. Have you been ill?"

"I'm in the second cabin, " he said, smiling. 

She looked at him a little incredulously, and he explained. 

"Ah, yes, " she said, "I saw your name, but as you did not appear in thedining saloon, I thought you must either be ill or that you did notsail. Did you know that I was on board?" she asked. 

It was rather an embarrassing question. 

"I have been intending, " he replied rather lamely, "to make myself knownto you--that is, to--well, make my presence on board known to you. I gotjust a glimpse of you before we sailed, when you came up to speak to aman who had been saying good-bye to Mr. And Mrs. Ruggles. I heard himspeak their name, and looking over the passenger list I identified youas Mrs. Edward Ruggles. "

"Ah, " she said, looking away for an instant, "I did not know that youhad seen me, and I wondered how you came to address me as Mrs. Rugglesjust now. "

"That was how, " said John; and then, after a moment, "it seems ratherodd, doesn't it, that we should be renewing an acquaintance on an oceansteamer as we did once before, so many years ago? and that the first bitof intelligence that I have had of you in all the years since I saw youlast should come to me through the passenger list?"

"Did you ever try to get any?" she asked. "I have always thought it verystrange that we should never have heard anything about you. "

"I went to the house once, some weeks after you had gone, " said John, "but the man in charge was out, and the maid could tell me nothing. "

"A note I wrote you at the time of your father's death, " she said, "wefound in my small nephew's overcoat pocket after we had been some timein California; but I wrote a second one before we left New York, tellingyou of our intended departure, and where we were going. "

"I never received it, " he said. Neither spoke for a while, and then:

"Tell me of your sister and brother-in-law, " he said. 

"My sister is at present living in Cambridge, where Jack is at college, "was the reply; "but poor Julius died two years ago. "

"Ah, " said John, "I am grieved to hear of Mr. Carling's death. I likedhim very much. "

"He liked you very much, " she said, "and often spoke of you. "

There was another period of silence, so long, indeed, as to be somewhatembarrassing. None of the thoughts which followed each other in John'smind was of the sort which he felt like broaching. He realized that thesituation was getting awkward, and that consciousness added to theconfusion of his ideas. But if his companion shared his embarrassment, neither her face nor her manner betrayed it as at last she said, turning, and looking frankly at him:

"You seem very little changed. Tell me about yourself. Tell me somethingof your life in the last six years. "

During the rest of the voyage they were together for a part of everyday, sometimes with the company of Mrs. William Ruggles, but more oftenwithout it, as her husband claimed much of her attention and rarely cameon deck; and John, from time to time, gave his companion pretty much thewhole history of his later career. But with regard to her own life, and, as he noticed, especially the two years since the death of herbrother-in-law, she was distinctly reticent. She never spoke of hermarriage or her husband, and after one or two faintly tentativeallusions, John forebore to touch upon those subjects, and was driven toconclude that her experience had not been a happy one. Indeed, in theirintercourse there were times when she appeared distrait and even moody;but on the whole she seemed to him to be just as he had known and lovedher years ago; and all the feeling that he had had for her then brokeforth afresh in spite of himself--in spite of the fact that, as he toldhimself, it was more hopeless than ever: absolutely so, indeed. 

It was the last night of their voyage together. The Ruggleses were toleave the ship the next morning at Algiers, where they intended toremain for some time. 

"Would you mind going to the after-deck?" he asked. "These peoplewalking about fidget me, " he added rather irritably. 

She rose, and they made their way aft. John drew a couple of chairs nearto the rail. "I don't care to sit down for the present, " she said, andthey stood looking out at sea for a while in silence. 

"Do you remember, " said John at last, "a night six years ago when westood together, at the end of the voyage, leaning over the rail likethis?"

"Yes, " she said. 

"Does this remind you of it?" he asked. 

"I was thinking of it, " she said. 

"Do you remember the last night I was at your house?" he asked, lookingstraight out over the moonlit water. 

"Yes, " she said again. 

"Did you know that night what was in my heart to say to you?"

There was no answer. 

"May I tell you now?" he asked, giving a side glance at her profile, which in the moonlight showed very white. 

"Do you think you ought?" she answered in a low voice, "or that I oughtto listen to you?"

"I know, " he exclaimed. "You think that as a married woman you shouldnot listen, and that knowing you to be one I should not speak. If itwere to ask anything of you I would not. It is for the first and lasttime. To-morrow we part again, and for all time, I suppose. I havecarried the words that were on my lips that night all these years in myheart. I know I can have no response--I expect none; but it can not harmyou if I tell you that I loved you then, and have----"

She put up her hand in protest. 

"You must not go on, Mr. Lenox, " she said, turning to him, "and I mustleave you. "

"Are you very angry with me?" he asked humbly. 

She turned her face to the sea again and gave a sad little laugh. 

"Not so much as I ought to be, " she answered; "but you yourself havegiven the reason why you should not say such things, and why I shouldnot listen, and why I ought to say good-night. "

"Ah, yes, " he said bitterly; "of course you are right, and this is to bethe end. "

She turned and looked at him for a moment. "You will never again speakto me as you have to-night, will you?" she asked. 

"I should not have said what I did had I not thought I should never seeyou again after to-morrow, " said John, "and I am not likely to do that, am I?"

"If I could be sure, " she said hesitatingly, and as if to herself. 

"Well, " said John eagerly. She stood with her eyes downcast for amoment, one hand resting on the rail, and then she looked up. 

"We expect to stay in Algiers about two months, " she said, "and then weare going to Naples to visit some friends for a few days, about the timeyou told me you thought you might be there. Perhaps it would be betterif we said good-bye to-night; but if after we get home you are to spendyour days in Homeville and I mine in New York, we shall not be likely tomeet, and, except on this side of the ocean, we may, as you say, neversee each other again. So, if you wish, you may come to see me in Naplesif you happen to be there when we are. I am sure after to-night that Imay trust you, may I not? But, " she added, "perhaps you would not care. I am treating you very frankly; but from your standpoint you wouldexpect or excuse more frankness than if I were a young girl. "

"I care very much, " he declared, "and it will be a happiness to me tosee you on any footing, and you may trust me never to break boundsagain. " She made a motion as if to depart. 

"Don't go just yet, " he said pleadingly; "there is now no reason why youshould for a while, is there? Let us sit here in this gorgeous night alittle longer, and let me smoke a cigar. "

At the moment he was undergoing a revulsion of feeling. His state ofmind was like that of an improvident debtor who, while knowing that thenote must be paid some time, does not quite realize it for a while afteran extension. At last the cigar was finished. There had been but littlesaid between them. 

"I really must go, " she said, and he walked with her across the hangingbridge and down the deck to the gangway door. 

"Where shall I address you to let you know when we shall be in Naples?"she asked as they were about to separate. 

"Care of Cook & Son, " he said. "You will find the address in Baedeker. "

He saw her the next morning long enough for a touch of the hand and agood-bye before the bobbing, tubby little boat with its Arab crew tookthe Ruggleses on board. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

How John Lenox tried to kill time during the following two months, andhow time retaliated during the process, it is needless to set forth. Itmay not, however, be wholly irrelevant to note that his cough hadgradually disappeared, and that his appetite had become good enough tocarry him through the average table d'hôte dinner. On the morning afterhis arrival at Naples he found a cable dispatch at the office of Cook &Son, as follows: "Sixty cash, forty stock. Stock good. Harum. "

"God bless the dear old boy!" said John fervently. The Pennsylvaniaproperty was sold at last; and if "stock good" was true, the dispatchinformed him that he was, if not a rich man for modern days, still, asDavid would have put it, "wuth consid'able. " No man, I take it, is verylikely to receive such a piece of news without satisfaction; but if ourfriend's first sensation was one of gratification, the thought whichfollowed had a drop of bitterness in it. "If I could only have had itbefore!" he said to himself; and indeed many of the disappointments oflife, if not the greater part, come because events are unpunctual. Theyhave a way of arriving sometimes too early, or worse, too late. 

Another circumstance detracted from his satisfaction: a note heexpected did not appear among the other communications waiting him atthe bankers, and his mind was occupied for the while with variousconjectures as to the reason, none of which was satisfactory. Perhapsshe had changed her mind. Perhaps--a score of things! Well, there wasnothing for it but to be as patient as possible and await events. Heremembered that she had said she was to visit some friends by the nameof Hartleigh, and she had told him the name of their villa, but for themoment he did not remember it. In any case he did not know theHartleighs, and if she had changed her mind--as was possibly indicatedby the omission to send him word--well----! He shrugged his shoulders, mechanically lighted a cigarette, and strolled down and out of thePiazza Martiri and across to the Largo della Vittoria. He had ahalf-formed idea of walking back through the Villa Nazionale, spendingan hour at the Aquarium, and then to his hotel for luncheon. It occurredto him at the moment that there was a steamer from Genoa on the Mondayfollowing, that he was tired of wandering about aimlessly and alone, andthat there was really no reason why he should not take the said steamerand go home. Occupied with these reflections, he absently observed, justopposite to him across the way, a pair of large bay horses in front of ahandsome landau. A coachman in livery was on the box, and a smallfootman, very much coated and silk-hatted, was standing about; and, ashe looked, two ladies came out of the arched entrance to the court ofthe building before which the equipage was halted, and the small footmansprang to the carriage door. 

One of the ladies was a stranger to him, but the other was Mrs. WilliamRuggles; and John, seeing that he had been recognized, at once crossedover to the carriage; and presently, having accepted an invitation tobreakfast, found himself sitting opposite them on his way to the VillaViolante. The conversation during the drive up to the Vomero need not bedetailed. Mrs. Hartleigh arrived at the opinion that our friend wasrather a dull person. Mrs. Ruggles, as he had found out, was usuallyrather taciturn. Neither is it necessary to say very much of thebreakfast, nor of the people assembled. 

It appeared that several guests had departed the previous day, and thepeople at table consisted only of Mr. And Mrs. Ruggles, Mary, Mr. AndMrs. Hartleigh and their two daughters, and John, whose conversation wasmostly with his host, and was rather desultory. In fact, there wasduring the meal a perceptible air of something like disquietude. Mr. Ruggles in particular said almost nothing, and wore an appearance ofwhat seemed like anxiety. Once he turned to his host: "When ought I toget an answer to that cable, Hartleigh? to-day, do you think?"

"Yes, I should say so without doubt, " was the reply, "if it's answeredpromptly, and in fact there's plenty of time. Remember that we are aboutsix hours earlier than New York by the clock, and it's only about sevenin the morning over there. "

 * * * * *

Coffee was served on the balustraded platform of the flight of marblesteps leading down to the grounds below. 

"Mary, " said Mrs. Hartleigh, when cigarettes had been offered, "don'tyou want to show Mr. Lenox something of La Violante?"

"I shall take you to my favorite place, " she said, as they descended thesteps together. 

The southern front of the grounds of the Villa Violante is bounded andupheld by a wall of tufa fifty feet in height and some four hundred feetlong. About midway of its length a semicircular bench of marble, with arail, is built out over one of the buttresses. From this point isvisible the whole bay and harbor of Naples, and about one third of thecity lies in sight, five hundred feet below. To the left one seesVesuvius and the Sant' Angelo chain, which the eye follows to Sorrento. Straight out in front stands Capri, and to the right the curve of thebay, ending at Posilipo. The two, John and his companion, halted nearthe bench, and leaned upon the parapet of the wall for a while insilence. From the streets below rose no rumble of traffic, no sound ofhoof or wheel; but up through three thousand feet of distance came fromhere and there the voices of street-venders, the clang of a bell, andever and anon the pathetic supplication of a donkey. Absolute quietprevailed where they stood, save for these upcoming sounds. The Aprilsun, deliciously warm, drew a smoky odor from the hedge of box withwhich the parapet walk was bordered, in and out of which darted smallgreen lizards with the quickness of little fishes. 

John drew a long breath. 

"I don't believe there is another such view in the world, " he said. "Ido not wonder that this is your favorite spot. "

"Yes, " she said, "you should see the grounds--the whole place issuperb--but this is the glory of it all, and I have brought youstraight here because I wanted to see it with you, and this may be theonly opportunity. "

"What do you mean?" he asked apprehensively. 

"You heard Mr. Ruggles's question about the cable dispatch?" she said. 

"Yes. "

"Well, " she said, "our plans have been very much upset by some things hehas heard from home. We came on from Algiers ten days earlier than wehad intended, and if the reply to Mr. Ruggles's cable is unfavorable, weare likely to depart for Genoa to-morrow and take the steamer for homeon Monday. The reason why I did not send a note to your bankers, " sheadded, "was that we came on the same boat that I intended to write by;and Mr. Hartleigh's man has inquired for you every day at Cook's so thatMr. Hartleigh might know of your coming and call upon you. "

John gave a little exclamation of dismay. Her face was very still as shegazed out over the sea with half-closed eyes. He caught the scent of theviolets in the bosom of her white dress. 

"Let us sit down, " she said at last. "I have something I wish to say toyou. "

He made no rejoinder as they seated themselves, and during the moment ortwo of silence in which she seemed to be meditating how to begin, he satbending forward, holding his stick with both hands between his knees, absently prodding holes in the gravel. 

"I think, " she began, "that if I did not believe the chances were forour going to-morrow, I would not say it to-day. " John bit his lip andgave the gravel a more vigorous punch. "But I have felt that I must sayit to you some time before we saw the last of each other, whenever thattime should be. "

"Is it anything about what happened on board ship?" he asked in a lowvoice. 

"Yes, " she replied, "it concerns all that took place on board ship, ornearly all, and I have had many misgivings about it. I am afraid that Idid wrong, and I am afraid, too, that in your secret heart you wouldadmit it. "

"No, never!" he exclaimed. "If there was any wrong done, it was whollyof my own doing. I was alone to blame. I ought to have remembered thatyou were married, and perhaps--yes, I did remember it in a way, but Icould not realize it. I had never seen or heard of your husband, orheard of your marriage. He was a perfectly unreal person to me, andyou--you seemed only the Mary Blake that I had known, and as I had knownyou. I said what I did that night upon an impulse which was asunpremeditated as it was sudden. I don't see how you were wrong. Youcouldn't have foreseen what took place--and----"

"Have you not been sorry for what took place?" she asked, with her eyeson the ground. "Have you not thought the less of me since?"

He turned and looked at her. There was a little smile upon her lips andon her downcast eyes. 

"No, by Heaven!" he exclaimed desperately, "I have not, and I am notsorry. Whether I ought to have said what I did or not, it was true, andI wanted you to know----"

He broke off as she turned to him with a smile and a blush. The smilewas almost a laugh. 

"But, John, " she said, "I am not Mrs. Edward Ruggles. I am Mary Blake. "

 * * * * *

The parapet was fifty feet above the terrace. The hedge of box was animpervious screen. 

 * * * * *

Well, and then, after a little of that sort of thing, they both beganhurriedly to admire the view again, for some one was coming. Butit was only one of the gardeners, who did not understandEnglish; and confidence being once more restored, they fell todiscussing--everything. 

"Do you think you could live in Homeville, dear?" asked John after awhile. 

"I suppose I shall have to, shall I not?" said Mary. "And are you, too, really happy, John?"

John instantly proved to her that he was. "But it almost makes meunhappy, " he added, "to think how nearly we have missed each other. If Ihad only known in the beginning that you were not Mrs. Edward Ruggles!"

Mary laughed joyously. The mistake which a moment before had seemedalmost tragic now appeared delightfully funny. 

"The explanation is painfully simple, " she answered. "Mrs. EdwardRuggles--the real one--did expect to come on the Vaterland, whereas Idid not. But the day before the steamer sailed she was summoned toAndover by the serious illness of her only son, who is at school there. I took her ticket, got ready overnight--I like to start on theseunpremeditated journeys--and here I am. " John put his arm about her tomake sure of this, and kept it there--lest he should forget. "When wemet on the steamer and I saw the error you had made I was tempted--andyielded--to let you go on uncorrected. But, " she added, looking lovinglyup into John's eyes, "I'm glad you found out your mistake at last. "

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

A fortnight later Mr. Harum sat at his desk in the office of Harum & Co. There were a number of letters for him, but the one he opened first borea foreign stamp, and was postmarked "Napoli. " That he was deeplyinterested in the contents of this epistle was manifest from thebeginning, not only from the expression of his face, but from thefrequent "wa'al, wa'als" which were elicited as he went on; but interestgrew into excitement as he neared the close, and culminated as he readthe last few lines. 

"Scat my CATS!" he cried, and, grabbing his hat and the letter, hebolted out of the back door in the direction of the house, leaving therest of his correspondence to be digested--any time. 

EPILOGUE. 

I might, in conclusion, tell how John's further life in Homeville was ofcomparatively short duration; how David died of injuries received in arunaway accident; how John found himself the sole executor of his latepartner's estate, and, save for a life provision for Mrs. Bixbee, theonly legatee, and rich enough (if indeed with his own and his wife'smoney he had not been so before) to live wherever he pleased. But asheretofore I have confined myself strictly to facts, I am, to beconsistent, constrained to abide by them now. Indeed, I am tooconscientious to do otherwise, notwithstanding the temptation to makewhat might be a more artistic ending to my story. David is not onlyliving, but appears almost no older than when we first knew him, and isstill just as likely to "git goin'" on occasion. Even "old Jinny" isstill with us, though her master does most of his "joggin' 'round"behind a younger horse. Whatever Mr. Harum's testamentary intentions maybe, or even whether he has made a will or not, nobody knows but himselfand his attorney. Aunt Polly--well, there is a little more of her thanwhen we first made her acquaintance, say twenty pounds. 

John and his wife live in a house which they built on the shore of thelake. It is a settled thing that David and his sister dine with themevery Sunday. Mrs. Bixbee at first looked a little askance at the wineon the table, but she does not object to it now. Being a "son o'temp'rence, " she has never been induced to taste any champagne, but onone occasion she was persuaded to take the smallest sip of claret. "Wa'al, " she remarked with a wry face, "I guess the' can't be much sinor danger 'n drinkin' anythin' 't tastes the way _that_ does. "

She and Mrs. Lenox took to each other from the first, and the latter hasquite supplanted (and more) Miss Claricy (Mrs. Elton) with David. Infact, he said to our friend one day during the first year of themarriage, "Say, John, I ain't sure but what we'll have to hitch thatwife o' your'n on the off side. "

I had nearly forgotten one person whose conversation has yet to berecorded in print, but which is considered very interesting by at leastfour people. His name is David Lenox. 

I think that's all.