Note: Images of the original pages are available through the Making of America Collection of the University of Michigan. See http://www. Hti. Umich. Edu/cgi/b/bib/bibperm?q1=abw7901

TRUMPS

A Novel

by

GEO. WM. CURTIS

Author of _Nile Notes of a Howadji_, _The Howadji in Syria_, _The Potiphar Papers_, _Prue and I_, etc. 

1861

CONTENTS

Chapter

 I. SCHOOL BEGINS II. HOPE WAYNE III. AVE MARIA! IV. NIGHT V. PEEWEE PREACHING VI. EXPERIMENTUM CRUCIS VII. CASTLE DANGEROUS VIII. AFTER THE BATTLE IX. NEWS FROM HOME X. BEGINNING TO SKETCH XI. A VERDICT AND A SENTENCE XII. HELP, HO! XIII. SOCIETY XIV. A NEW YORK MERCHANT XV. A SCHOOL-BOY NO LONGER XVI. PHILOSOPHY XVII. OF GIRLS AND FLOWERS XVIII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW XIX. DOG-DAYS XX. AUNT MARTHA XXI. THE CAMPAIGN XXII. THE FINE ARTS XXIII. BONIFACE NEWT, SON, & CO. , DRY GOODS ON COMMISSION XXXIV. "QUEEN AND HUNTRESS" XXV. A STATESMAN--AND STATESWOMAN XXVI. THE PORTRAIT AND THE MINIATURE XXVII. GABRIEL AT HOME XXVIII. BORN TO BE A BACHELOR XXIX. MR. ABEL NEWT, GRAND STREET XXX. CHECK XXXI. AT DELMONICO'S XXXII. MRS. THEODORE KINGFISHER AT HOME. _On dansera_ XXXIII. ANOTHER TURN IN THE WALTZ XXXIV. HEAVEN'S LAST BEST GIFT XXXV. MOTHER-IN-LAW AND DAUGHTER-IN-LAW XXXVI. THE BACK WINDOW XXXVII. ABEL NEWT _Vice_ SLIGO MOULTRIE REMOVED XXXVIII. THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING XXXIX. A FIELD-DAY XL. AT THE ROUND TABLE XLI. A LITTLE DINNER XLII. CLEARING AND CLOUDY XLIII. WALKING HOME XLIV. CHURCH GOING XLV. IN CHURCH XLVI. IN ANOTHER CHURCH XLVII. DEATH XLVIII. THE HEIRESS XLIX. A SELECT PARTY L. WINE AND TRUTH LI. A WARNING LII. BREAKFAST LIII. SLIGO MOULTRIE _vice_ ABEL NEWT LIV. CLOUDS AND DARKNESS LV. ARTHUR MERLIN'S GREAT PICTURE LVI. REDIVIVUS LVII. DINING WITH LAWRENCE NEWT LVIII. THE HEALTH OF THE JUNIOR PARTNER LIX. MRS. ALFRED DINKS LX. POLITICS LXI. GONE TO PROTEST LXII. THE CRASH, UP TOWN LXIII. ENDYMION LXIV. DIANA LXV. THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE LXVI. MENTOR AND TELEMACHUS LXVII. WIRES LXVIII. THE INDUSTRIOUS APPRENTICE LXIX. IN AND OUT LXX. THE REPRESENTATIVE OF THE PEOPLE LXXI. RICHES HAVE WINGS LXXII. GOOD-BY LXXIII. THE BELCH PLATFORM LXXIV. MIDNIGHT LXXV. REMINISCENCE LXXVI. A SOCIAL GLASS LXXVII. FACE TO FACE LXXVIII. FINISHING PICTURES LXXIX. THE LAST THROW LXXX. CLOUDS BREAKING LXXXI. MRS. ALFRED DINKS AT HOME LXXXII. THE LOST IS FOUND LXXXIII. MRS. DELILAH JONES LXXXIV. PROSPECTS OF HAPPINESS LXXXV. GETTING READY LXXXVI. IN THE CITY LXXXVII. A LONG JOURNEY LXXXVIII. WAITING LXXXIX. DUST TO DUST XC. UNDER THE MISLETOE

CHAPTER I. 

SCHOOL BEGINS. 

Forty years ago Mr. Savory Gray was a prosperous merchant. No gentlemanon 'Change wore more spotless linen or blacker broadcloth. His amplewhite cravat had an air of absolute wisdom and honesty. It was so verywhite that his fellow-merchants could not avoid a vague impression thathe had taken the church on his way down town, and had so purified himselffor business. Indeed a white cravat is strongly to be recommended as acorrective and sedative of the public mind. Its advantages have long beenfamiliar to the clergy; and even, in some desperate cases, politicianshave found a resort to it of signal benefit. There are instructiveinstances, also, in banks and insurance offices of the comfort andvalue of spotless linen. Combined with highly-polished shoes, it isof inestimable mercantile advantage. 

Mr. Gray prospered in business, and nobody was sorry. He enjoyed hispractical joke and his glass of Madeira, which had made at least threevoyages round the Cape. His temperament, like his person, was justunctuous enough to enable him to slip comfortably through life. 

Happily for his own comfort, he had but a speaking acquaintance withpolitics. He was not a blue Federalist, and he never d'd the Democrats. With unconscious skill he shot the angry rapids of discussion, and swept, by a sure instinct, toward the quiet water on which he liked to ride. Inthe counting-room or the meeting of directors, when his neighbors waxedfurious upon raking over some outrage of that old French infidel, TomJefferson, as they called him, sending him and his gun-boats where noman or boat wants to go, Mr. Gray rolled his neck in his white cravat, crossed his legs, and shook his black-gaitered shoe, and beamed, andsmiled, and blew his nose, and hum'd, and ha'd, and said, "Ah, yes!""Ah, indeed?" "Quite so!" and held his tongue. 

Mr. Savory Gray minded his own business; but his business did notmind him. There came a sudden crash--one of the commercial earthquakesthat shake fortunes to their foundations and scatter failure on everyside. One day he sat in his office consoling his friend Jowlson, whohad been ruined. Mr. Jowlson was terribly agitated--credit gone--fortunewrecked--no prospects--"O wife and children!" he cried, rocking to andfro as he sat. 

"My dear Jowlson, you must not give way in this manner. You mustcontrol your feelings. Have we not always been taught, " said Mr. Gray, as a clerk brought in a letter, the seal of which the merchant brokeleisurely, and then skimmed the contents as he continued, "that richeshave wings and--my God!" he ejaculated, springing up, "I am a ruinedman!"

So he was. Every thing was gone. Those pretty riches that chirped andsang to him as he fed them; they had all spread their bright plumage, like a troop of singing birds--have we not always been taught that theymight, Mr. Jowlson?--and had flown away. 

To undertake business anew was out of the question. His friends said, "Poor Gray! what shall be done?"

The friendly merchants pondered and pondered. The worthy Jowlson, whohad meanwhile engaged as book-keeper upon a salary of seven hundreddollars a year--one of the rare prizes--was busy enough for his friend, consulting, wondering, planning. Mr. Gray could not preach, nor practicemedicine, nor surgery, nor law, because men must be instructed in thoseprofessions; and people will not trust a suit of a thousand dollars, ora sore throat, or a broken thumb, in the hands of a man who has notfitted himself carefully for the responsibility. He could not make boots, nor build houses, nor shoe horses, nor lay stone wall, nor bake bread, nor bind books. Men must be educated to be shoemakers, carpenters, blacksmiths, bakers, masons, or book-binders. What _could_ be done?Nobody suggested an insurance office, or an agency for diamond mineson Newport beach; for, although it was the era of good feeling, thoseingenious infirmaries for commercial invalids were not yet invented. 

"I have it!" cried Jowlson, one day, rushing in, out of breath, amongseveral gentlemen who were holding a council about their friendGray--that is, who had met in a bank parlor, and were talking abouthis prospects--"I have it! and how dull we all are! What shall he do?Why, keep a school, to be sure!--a school!--a school! Take children, and be a parent to them!"

"How dull we all were!" cried the gentlemen in chorus. "A school is thevery thing! A school it shall be!" And a school it was. 

Upon the main street of the pleasant village of Delafield Savory Gray, Esq. , hired a large house, with an avenue of young lindens in front, agarden on one side, and a spacious play-ground in the rear. The prettypond was not far away, with its sloping shores and neat villas, and adistant spire upon the opposite bank--the whole like the vignette of anEnglish pastoral poem. Here the merchant turned from importing pongees toinculcating principles. His old friends sent some of their children tothe new school, and persuaded their friends to send others. Some of hisformer correspondents in other parts of the world, not entirely satisfiedwith the Asian and East Indian systems of education, shipped their sonsto Mr. Gray. The good man was glad to see them. He was not very learned, and therefore could not communicate knowledge. But he did his best, andtried very hard to be respected. The boys did not learn any thing; butthey had plenty of good beef, and Mr. Gray played practical jokes uponthem; and on Sundays they all went to hear Dr. Peewee preach. 

CHAPTER II. 

HOPE WAYNE. 

When there was a report that Mr. Savory Gray was coming to Delafield toestablish a school for boys, Dr. Peewee, the minister of the village, called to communicate the news to Mr. Christopher Burt, his oldest andrichest parishioner, at Pine wood, his country seat. When Mr. Burt heardthe news, he foresaw trouble without end; for his orphan grand-daughter, Hope Wayne, who lived with him, was nearly eighteen years old; and it hadbeen his fixed resolution that she should be protected from the wickedworld of youth that is always going up and down in the earth seeking whomit may marry. If incessant care, and invention, and management couldsecure it, she should arrive safely where Grandpa Burt was determinedshe should arrive ultimately, at the head of her husband's dinner-table, Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am. 

Mrs. Simcoe was Mr. Burt's housekeeper. So far as any body could say, Mrs. Burt died at a period of which the memory of man runneth not tothe contrary. There were traditions of other housekeepers. But sincethe death of Hope's mother Mrs. Simcoe was the only incumbent. She hadbeen Mrs. Wayne's nurse in her last moments, and had rocked the littleHope to sleep the night after her mother's burial. She was always tidy, erect, imperturbable. She pervaded the house; and her eye was upon atable-cloth, a pane of glass, or a carpet, almost as soon as the spotwhich arrested it. Housekeeper _nascitur non fit_. She was so silent andshadowy that the whole house sympathized with her, until it becameextremely uncomfortable to the servants, who constantly went away; and astory that the house was haunted became immensely popular and crediblethe moment it was told. 

There had been no visiting at Pinewood for a long time, because of thewant of a mistress and of the unsocial habits of Mr. Burt. But theneighboring ladies were just beginning to call upon Miss Wayne. When shereturned the visits Mrs. Simcoe accompanied her in the carriage, and satthere while Miss Wayne performed the parlor ceremony. Then they drovehome. Mr. Burt dined at two, and Miss Hope sat opposite her grandfatherat table; Hiram waited. Mrs. Simcoe dined alone in her room. 

There, too, she sat alone in the long summer afternoons, when the work ofthe house was over for the day. She held a book by the open window, orgazed for a very long time out upon the landscape. There were pine-treesnear her window; but beyond she could see green meadows, and blue hills, and a glittering river, and rounded reaches of woods. She watched theclouds, or, at least, looked at the sky. She heard the birds in springdays, and the dry hot locusts on sultry afternoons; and she looked withthe same unchanging eyes upon the opening buds and blooming flowers, asupon the worms that swung themselves on filaments and ate the leaves andruined the trees, or the autumnal hectic which Death painted upon theleaves that escaped the worms. 

Sometimes on these still, warm afternoons her lips parted, as if she weresinging. But it was a very grave, quiet performance. There was none ofthe gush and warmth of song, although the words she uttered were alwaysthose of the hymns of Charles Wesley--those passionate, religious songsof the New Jerusalem. For Mrs. Simcoe was a Methodist, and with Methodisthymns she had sung Hope to sleep in the days when she was a baby; so thatthe young woman often listened to the music in church with a heart fullof vague feelings, and dim, inexplicable memories, not knowing that shewas hearing, though with different words, the strains that her nurse hadwhispered over her crib in the hymns of Wesley. 

It is to be presumed that at some period Mrs. Simcoe, whom Mr. Burtalways addressed in the same manner as "Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am, " had receiveda general system of instruction to the effect that "My grand-daughter, Miss Wayne--Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am--will marry a gentleman of wealth andposition; and I expect her to be fitted to preside over his household. Yes, Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am. "

What on earth is a girl sent into this world for but to make a propermatch, and not disgrace her husband--to keep his house, either directlyor by a deputy--to take care of his children, to see that his slippersare warm and his Madeira cold, and his beef not burned to a cinder, Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am? Christopher Burt believed that a man's wife was a moresacred piece of private property than his sheep-pasture, and when hedelivered the deed of any such property he meant that it should be inperfect order. 

"Hope may marry a foreign minister, Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am. Who knows? Shemay marry a large merchant in town or a large planter at the South, whowill be obliged to entertain a great deal, and from all parts of theworld. I intend that she shall be fit for the situation, that she shallpreside at her husband's table in a superior manner. "

So Hope, as a child, had played with little girls, who were invited toPinewood--select little girls, who came in the prettiest frocks andbehaved in the prettiest way, superintended by nurses and ladies' maids. They tended their dolls peaceably in the nursery; they played cleanlittle games upon the lawn. Not too noisy, Ellen! Mary, gently, gently, dear! Julia, carefully! you are tumbling your frock. They were notchattery French nurses who presided over these solemnities; they weregrave, housekeeping, Mrs. Simcoe-kind of people. Julia and Mary wereexhorted to behave themselves like little ladies, and the frolic endedby their all taking books from the library shelves and sitting properlyin a large chair, or on the sofa, or even upon the piazza, if it had beennicely dusted and inspected, until the setting sun sent them away withthe calmest kisses at parting. 

As Hope grew older she had teachers at home--recluse old scholars, decayed clergymen in shiny black coats, who taught her Latin, and lookedat her through round spectacles, and, as they looked, remembered thatthey were once young. She had teachers of history, of grammar, ofarithmetic--of all English studies. Some of these Mentors were weak-eyedfathers of ten children, who spoke so softly that their wives must havehad loud voices. Others were young college graduates, with low collarsand long hair, who read with Miss Wayne in English literature, while Mrs. Simcoe sat knitting in the next chair. Then there had been the Italianmusic-masters, and the French teachers, very devoted, never missing alesson, but also never missing Mrs. Simcoe, who presided over allinstruction which was imparted by any Mentor under sixty. 

But when Hope grew older still and found Byron upon the shelves of theLibrary, his romantic sadness responded to the vague longing of herheart. Instinctively she avoided all that repels a woman in his verses, as she would have avoided the unsound parts of a fruit. But the solitary, secluded girl lived unconsciously and inevitably in a dream world, forshe had no knowledge of any other, nor contact with it. Proud and shy, her heart was restless, her imagination morbid, and she believed inheroes. 

When Dr. Peewee had told Mr. Burt all that he knew about the project ofthe school, Mr. Burt rang the bell violently. 

"Send Miss Hope to me. "

The servant disappeared, and in a few moments Hope Wayne entered theroom. To Dr. Peewee's eyes she seemed wrapped only in a cloud of delicatemuslin, and the wind had evidently been playing with her golden hair, forshe had been lying upon the lawn reading Byron. 

"Did you want me, grandfather?"

"Yes, my dear. Mr. Gray, a respectable person, is coming here to set up aschool. There will be a great many young men and boys. I shall never askthem to the house. I hate boys. I expect you to hate them too. "

"Yes--yes, my dear, " said Dr. Peewee; "hate the boys? Yes; we must hatethe boys. "

Hope Wayne looked at the two old gentlemen, and answered, "I don't think you need have warned me, grandfather; I'm not so apt tofall in love with boys. "

"No, no, Hope; I know. Ever since you have lived with me--how long is it, my dear, since your mother died?"

"I don't know, grandfather; I never saw her, " replied Hope, gravely. 

"Yes, yes; well, ever since then you have been a good, quiet little girlwith grandpapa. Here, Cossy, come and give grandpa a kiss. And mind theboys! No speaking, no looking--we are never to know them. You understand?Now go, dear. "

As she closed the door, Dr. Peewee also rose to take leave. 

"Doctor, " said Mr. Burt, as the other pushed back his chair, "it is avery warm day. Let me advise you to guard against any sudden debilityor effect of the heat by a little cordial. "

As he spoke he led the way into the dining-room, and fumbled slowlyover a bunch of keys which he drew from his pocket. Finding the properkey, he put it into the door of the side-board. "In this side-board, Dr. Peewee, I keep a bottle of old Jamaica, which was sent me by a formercorrespondent in the West Indies. " As Dr. Peewee had heard the sameremark at least fifty times before, the kindly glistening of his nosemust be attributed to some other cause than excitement at thisintelligence. 

"I like to preserve my friendly relations with my old commercialfriends, " continued Mr. Burt, speaking very pompously, and slowlypouring from a half-empty decanter into a tumbler. "I rarely drinkany thing myself--"

"H'm, ha!" grunted the Doctor. 

"--except a glass of port at dinner. Yet, not to be impolite, Doctor, not to be impolite, I could not refuse to drink to your very good healthand safe return to the bosom of your family. "

And Mr. Burt drained the glass, quite unobservant of the fact that theRev. Dr. Peewee was standing beside him without glass or old Jamaica. Intruth Mr. Burt had previously been alarmed about the effect of the bottleof port--which he metaphorically called a glass--that he had drunk atdinner, and to guard against evil results he had already, that veryafternoon, as he was accustomed to say with an excellent humor, beento the West Indies for his health. 

"Bless my soul, Doctor, you haven't filled your glass! Permit me. "

And the old gentleman poured into the one glass and then into the other. 

"And now, Sir, " he added, "now, Sir, let us drink to the health of Mr. Gray, but not of the boys--ha! ha!"

"No, no, not of the boys? No, not of the boys. Thank you, Sir--thank you. That is a pleasant liquor, Mr. Burt. H'm, ha! a very pleasant liquor. Good-afternoon, Mr. Burt; a very good day, Sir. H'm, ha!"

As Hope left her grandfather, Mrs. Simcoe was sitting at her window, which looked over the lawn in front of the house upon which Hopepresently appeared. It was already toward sunset, and the tender goldenlight streamed upon the landscape like a visible benediction. A few rosyclouds lay in long, tranquil lines across the west, and the great treesbathed in the sweet air with conscious pleasure. 

As Hope stood with folded hands looking toward the sunset, she beganunconsciously to repeat some of the lines that always lay in her mindlike invisible writing, waiting only for the warmth of a strong emotionto bring them legibly out:

"Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, And its fragments are sunk in the wave;Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain, it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me; They may crush, but they shall not contemn;They may torture, but shall not subdue me; 'Tis of thee that I think, not of them. "

At the same moment Mrs. Simcoe was closing her window high over Hope'shead. Her face was turned toward the sunset with the usual calm impassivelook, and as she gazed at the darkening landscape she was singing, in hermurmuring way, "I rest upon thy word; Thy promise is for me:My succor and salvation, Lord, Shall surely come from thee. But let me still abide, Nor from my hope remove, Till thou my patient spirit guide Into thy perfect love. "

CHAPTER III. 

AVE MARIA!

Mr. Gray's boys sat in several pews, which he could command with hiseye from his own seat in the broad aisle. Every Sunday morning at thefirst stroke of the bell the boys began to stroll toward the church. But after they were seated, and the congregation had assembled, and Dr. Peewee had gone up into the pulpit, the wheels of a carriage were heardoutside--steps were let down--there was an opening of doors, a slightscuffing and treading, and old Christopher Burt entered. His head waspowdered, and he wore a queue. His coat collar was slightly whitenedwith-powder, and he carried a gold-headed cane. 

The boys looked in admiration upon so much respectability, powder, age, and gold cane united in one person. 

But all the boys were in love with the golden-haired grand-daughter. They went home to talk about her. They went to bed to dream of her. They read Mary Lamb's stories from Shakespeare, and Hope Wayne wasOphelia, and Desdemona, and Imogen--above all others, she was Juliet. They read the "Arabian Nights, " and she was all the Arabian Princesseswith unpronounceable names. They read Miss Edgeworth--"Helen, ""Belinda. "--"Oh, thunder!" they cried, and dropped the book to thinkof Hope. 

Hope Wayne was not unconscious of the adoration she excited. If a swarmof school-boys can not enter a country church without turning all theireyes toward one pew, is it not possible that, when a girl comes in andseats herself in that pew, the very focus of those burning glances, evenDr. Peewee may not entirely distract her mind, however he may rivet hereyes? As she takes her last glance at the Sunday toilet in her sunnydressing-room at home, and half turns to be sure that the collar issmooth, and that the golden curl nestles precisely as it should under themoss rose-bud that blushes modestly by the side of a lovelier bloom--isit not just supposable that she thinks, for a wayward instant, of othereyes that will presently scan that figure and face, and feels, with ahalf-flush, that they will not be shocked nor disappointed?

There was not a boy in Mr. Gray's school who would have dared to dreamthat Hope Wayne ever had such a thought. When she appeared behindGrandfather Burt and the gold-headed cane she had no more antecedentsin their imaginations than a rose or a rainbow. They no more thoughtof little human weaknesses and mundane influences in regard to herthan they thought of cold vapor when they looked at sunset clouds. 

During the service Hope sat stately in the pew, with her eyes fixed uponDr. Peewee. She knew the boys were there. From time to time she observedthat new boys had arrived, and that older ones had left. But how shediscovered it, who could say? There was never one of Mr. Gray's boys whocould honestly declare that he had seen Hope Wayne looking at either ofthe pews in which they sat. Perhaps she did not hear what Dr. Peeweesaid, although she looked at him so steadily. Perhaps her heart did notlook out of her eyes, but was busy with a hundred sweet fancies in whichsome one of those fascinated boys had a larger share than he knew. Perhaps, when she covered her eyes in an attitude of devotion, she didnot thereby exclude all thoughts of the outer and lower world. Perhapsthe Being for whose worship they were assembled was no more displeasedwith the innocent reveries and fancies which floated through that youngheart than with the soft air and sweet song of birds that played throughthe open windows of the church on some warm June Sunday morning. 

But when the shrill-voiced leader of the choir sounded the key-note ofthe hymn-tune through his nose, and the growling bass-viol joined inunison, while the congregation rose, and Dr. Peewee surveyed his peopleto mark who had staid away from service, then Hope Wayne looked at thechoir as if her whole soul were singing; and young Gabriel Bennet, younger than Hope, had a choking feeling as he gazed at her--aninvoluntary sense of unworthiness and shame before such purity and grace. He counted every line of the hymn grudgingly, and loved the tunes thatwent back and repeated and prolonged--the tunes endlessly _da capo_--andthe hymns that he heard as he looked at her he never forgot. 

But there were other eyes than Gabriel Bennet's that watched Hope Wayne, and for many months had watched her--the flashing black eyes of AbelNewt. Handsome, strong, graceful, he was one of the oldest boys, and aleader at Mr. Gray's school. Like every handsome, bold boy or young man, for he was fully eighteen, and seemed much older, Abel Newt had plenty ofallies at school--they could hardly be called friends. There was many aboy who thought with the one nicknamed Little Malacca, although, moreprudently than he, he might not say it: "Abe gives me gingerbread; but Iguess I don't like him!" If a boy interfered with Abe he was alwayspunished. The laugh was turned on him; there was ceaseless ridicule andtaunting. Then if it grew insupportable, and came to fighting, Abel Newtwas strong in muscle and furious in wrath, and the recusant was generallypommeled. 

Reposing upon his easy, conscious superiority, Abel had long worshipedHope Wayne. They were nearly of the same age--she a few months theyounger. But as the regulations of the school confined every boy, withoutespecial permission of absence, to the school grounds, and as Abel had noacquaintance with Mr. Burt and no excuse for calling, his worship hadbeen silent and distant. He was the more satisfied that it should be so, because it had never occurred to him that any of the other boys could bea serious rival for her regard. He was also obliged to be the moresatisfied with his silent devotion, because never, by a glance, did shebetray any consciousness of his particular observation, or afford himthe least opportunity for saying or doing any thing that would betrayit. If he hastened to the front door of the church he could only standupon the steps, and as she passed out she nodded to her few friends, and immediately followed her grandfather into the carriage. 

When Gabriel Bennet came to Mr. Gray's, Abel did not like him. He laughedat him. He made the other boys laugh at him whenever he could. He bulliedhim in the play-ground. He proposed to introduce fagging at Mr. Gray's. He praised it as a splendid institution of the British schools, simplybecause he wanted Gabriel as his fag. He wanted to fling his boots atGabriel's head that he might black them. He wanted to send him downstairs in his shirt on winter nights. He wanted to have Gabriel get up inthe cold mornings and bring him his breakfast in bed. He wanted to chainGabriel to the car of his triumphal progress through school-life. Hewanted to debase and degrade him altogether. 

"What is it, " Abel exclaimed one day to the large boys assembled insolemn conclave in the school-room, "that takes all the boorishness andbrutishness out of the English character? What is it that prevents theBritishers from being servile and obsequious--traits, I tell you, boys, unknown in England--but this splendid system of fagging? Did you everhear of an insolent Englishman, a despotic Englishman, a surlyEnglishman, a selfish Englishman, an obstinate Englishman, a domineeringEnglishman, a dogmatic Englishman? Never, boys, never. These things areall taken out of them by fagging. It stands to reason they should be. IfI shy my boots at a fellow's head, is he likely to domineer? If I kick asmall boy who contradicts me, is he likely to be opinionated anddogmatic? If I eat up my fag's plum-cake just sent by his mamma, hot, as it were, from the maternal heart, and moist with a mother's tears, isthat fag likely to be selfish? Not at all. The boots, and the kicking, and the general walloping make him manly. It teaches him to govern histemper and hold his tongue. I swear I should like to have a fag!"perorated Abel, meaning that he should like to be the holy office, andto have Gabriel Bennet immediately delivered up to him for discipline. 

Once Gabriel overheard this kind of conversation in the play-ground, asAbel Newt and some of the other boys were resting after a game at ball. There were no personal allusions in what Abel had said, but Gabriel tookhim up a little curtly:

"Pooh! Abel, how would you like to have Gyles Blanding shy his boots atyour head?"

Abel looked at him a moment, sarcastically. Then he replied:

"My young friend, I should like to see him try it. But fagging concernssmall boys, not large ones. "

"Yes!" retorted Gabriel, his eyes flashing, as he kept tossing the ballnervously, and catching it; "yes, that's the meanness of it: the littleboy can't help himself. "

"By golly, I'd kick!" put in Little Malacca. 

"Then you'd be licked till you dropped, my small Sir, " said Abel, sneeringly. 

"Yes, Abel, " replied Gabriel, "but it's a mean thing for an American boyto want fagging. "

"Not at all, " he answered; "there are some young American gentlemen Iknow who would be greatly benefited by being well fagged; yes, made tolie down in the dirt and lick a little of it, and fetch and carry. And tobe kicked out of bed every morning and into bed every night would be thevery best thing that could happen to 'em. By George, I should like tohave the kicking and licking begin now!"

Gabriel had the same dislike of Abel which the latter felt for him, but they had never had any open quarrel. Even thus far in the presentconversation there had been nothing personal said. It was only a warmgeneral discussion. Gabriel merely asked, when the other stopped, "What good does the fagging do the fellow that flings the boots andbullies the little one?"

"Good?" answered Abel--"what good does it do? Why, he has been through it all himself, and he's just paying itoff. "

Abel smiled grimly as he looked round upon the boys, who did not seem atall enthusiastic for his suggestion. 

"Well, " said he, "I'm afraid I shall have to postpone my millennium offagging. But I don't know what else will make men of you. And mark you, my merry men, there's more than one kind of fagging;" and he looked in adroll way--a droll way that was not in the least funny, but made the boysall wonder what Abel Newt was up to now. 

CHAPTER IV. 

NIGHT. 

It was already dusk, but the summer evening is the best time for play. The sport in the play-ground at Mr. Gray's was at its height, and thehot, eager, panting boys were shouting and scampering in every direction, when a man ran in from the road and cried out, breathless, "Where's Mr. Gray?"

"In his study, " answered twenty voices at once. The man darted toward thehouse and went in; the next moment he reappeared with Mr. Gray, both ofthem running. 

"Get out the boat!" cried Mr. Gray, "and call the big boys. There's a mandrowning in the pond!"

The game was over at once, and each young heart thrilled with vaguehorror. Abel Newt, Muddock, Blanding, Tom Gait, Jim Greenidge, and therest of the older boys, came rushing out of the school-room, and rantoward the barn, in which the boat was kept upon a truck. In a moment thedoor was open, the truck run out, and all the boys took hold of the rope. Mr. Gray and the stranger led the way. The throng swept out of the gate, and as they hastened silently along, the axles of the truck kindled withthe friction and began to smoke. 

"Carefully! steadily!" cried the boys all together. 

They slackened speed a little, but, happily, the pond was but a shortdistance from the school. It was a circular sheet of water, perhaps amile in width. 

"Boys, he is nearly on the other side, " said Mr. Gray, as the crowdreached the shore. 

In an instant the boat was afloat. Mr. Gray, the stranger, and the sixstoutest boys in the school, stepped into it. The boys lifted their oars. "Let fall! give way!" cried Mr. Gray, and the boat moved off, glimmeringaway into the darkness. 

The younger boys remained hushed and awe-stricken upon the shore. Thestars were just coming out, the wind had fallen, and the smooth, blackpond lay silent at their feet. They could see the vague, dark outline ofthe opposite shore, but none of the pretty villas that stood in gracefulgroves upon the banks--none of the little lawns that sloped, with afeeling of human sympathy, to the water. The treachery of that glassysurface was all they thought of. They shuddered to remember that they hadso often bathed in the pond, and recoiled as if they had been friends ofa murderer. None of them spoke. They clustered closely together, listening intently. Nothing was audible but the hum of the eveninginsects and the regular muffled beat of the oars over the water. Theboys strained their ears and held their breath as the sound suddenlystopped. But they listened in vain. The lazy tree-toads sang, themonotonous hum of the night went on. 

Gabriel Bennet held the hand of Little Malacca--a dark-eyed boy, who wassupposed in the school to have had no father or mother, and who hadinstinctively attached himself to Gabriel from the moment they met. 

"Isn't it dreadful?" whispered the latter. 

"Yes, " said Gabriel, "it's dreadful to be young when a man's drowning, for you can't do any thing. Hist!"

There was not a movement, as they heard a dull, distant sound. 

"I guess that's Jim Greenidge, " whispered Little Malacca, under hisbreath; "he's the best diver. "

Nobody answered. The slow minutes passed. Some of the boys peered timidlyinto the dark, and clung closer to their neighbors. 

"There they come!" said Gabriel suddenly, in a low voice, and in a fewmoments the beat of the oars was heard again. Still nobody spoke. Most ofthe boys were afraid that when the boat appeared they should see a deadbody, and they dreaded it. Some felt homesick, and began to cry. Thethrob of oars came nearer and nearer. The boat glimmered out of thedarkness, and almost at the same moment slid up the shore. The solemnundertone in which the rowers spoke told all. Death was in the boat. 

Gabriel Bennet could see the rowers step quickly out, and with great carerun the boat upon the truck. He said, "Come, boys!" and they all movedtogether and grasped the rope. 

"Forward!" said Mr. Gray. 

Something lay across the seats covered with a large cloak. The boys didnot look behind, but they all knew what they were dragging. The homelyfuneral-car rolled slowly along under the stars. The crickets chirped;the multitudinous voice of the summer night murmured on every side, mingling with the hollow rumble of the truck. In a few moments theprocession turned into the grounds, and the boat was drawn to theplatform. 

"The little boys may go, " said Mr. Gray. 

They dropped the rope and turned away. They did not even try to seewhat was done with the body; but when Blanding came out of the houseafterward, they asked him who found the drowned man. 

"Jim Greenidge, " said he. "He stripped as soon as we were well out on thepond, and asked the stranger gentleman to show him about where his friendsank. The moment the place was pointed out he dove. The first time hefound nothing. The second time he touched him"--the boys shuddered--"andhe actually brought him up to the surface. But he was quite dead. Thenwe took him into the boat and covered him over. That's all. "

There were no more games, there was no other talk, that evening. When theboys were going to bed, Gabriel asked Little Malacca in which room JimGreenidge slept. 

"He sleeps in Number Seven. Why?"

"Oh! I only wanted to know. "

Gabriel Bennet could not sleep. His mind was too busy with the events ofthe day. All night long he could think of nothing but the strong figureof Jim Greenidge erect in the summer night, then plunging silently intothe black water. When it was fairly light he hurried on his clothes, andpassing quietly along the hall, knocked at the door of Number Seven. 

"Who's there?" cried a voice within. 

"It's only me. "

"Who's me?"

"Gabriel Bennet. "

"Come in, then. "

It was Abel Newt who spoke; and as Gabriel stepped in, Newt asked, abruptly, "What do you want?"

"I want to speak to Jim Greenidge. "

"Well, there he is, " replied Newt, pointing to another bed. "Jim! Jim!"

Greenidge roused himself. 

"What's the matter?" said his cheery voice, as he rose upon his elbow andlooked at Gabriel with his kind eyes. "Come here, Gabriel. What is it?"

Gabriel hesitated, for Abel Newt was looking sharply at him. But in amoment he went to Greenidge's bedside, and said, shyly, in a low voice, "Shall I black your boots for you?"

"Black my boots! Why, Gabriel, what on earth do you mean? No, of courseyou shall not. "

And the strong youth looked pleasantly on the boy who stood by hisbedside, and then put out his hand to him. 

"Can't I brush your clothes then, or do any thing for you?" persistedGabriel, softly. 

"Certainly not. Why do you want to?" replied Greenidge. 

"Oh! I only thought it would be pleasant if I could do something--that'sall, " said Gabriel, as he moved slowly away. "I'm sorry to have wakedyou. "

He closed the door gently as he went out. Jim Greenidge lay for some timeresting upon his elbow, wondering why a boy who had scarcely ever spokena word to him before should suddenly want to be his servant. He couldmake nothing of it, and, tired with the excitement of the previousevening, he lay down again for a morning nap. 

CHAPTER V. 

PEEWEE PREACHING. 

Upon the following Sunday the Rev. Amos Peewee, D. D. , made a suitableimprovement of the melancholy event of the week. He enlarged upon theuncertainty of life. He said that in the midst of life we are in death. He said that we are shadows and pursue shades. He added that we are hereto-day and gone to-morrow. 

During the long prayer before the sermon a violent thunder-gust sweptfrom the west and dashed against the old wooden church. As the Doctorpoured forth his petitions he made the most extraordinary movements withhis right hand. He waved it up and down rapidly. He opened his eyes foran instant as if to find somebody. He seemed to be closing imaginarywindows--and so he was. It leaked out the next day at Mr. Gray's that Dr. Peewee was telegraphing the sexton at random--for he did not know whereto look for him--to close the windows. Nobody better understood thedanger of draughts from windows, during thunder-storms, than the Doctor;nobody knew better than he that the lightning-rod upon the spire was noprotection at all, but that the iron staples with which it was clampedto the building would serve, in case of a bolt's striking the church, todrive its whole force into the building. As a loud crash burst over thevillage in the midst of his sermon, and showed how frightfully near thestorm was, his voice broke into a shrill quaver, as he faltered out, "Yes, my brethren, let us be calm under all circumstances, and Deathwill have no terrors. "

The Rev. Amos Peewee had been settled in the village of Delafield since along period before the Revolution, according to the boys. But the parishregister carried the date only to the beginning of this century. He worea silken gown in summer, and a woolen gown in winter, and black worstedgloves, always with the middle finger of the right-hand glove slit, that he might more conveniently turn the leaves of the Bible, and thehymn-book, and his own sermons. 

The pews of the old meeting-house were high, and many of them square. Theheads of the people of consideration in the congregation were mostlybald, as beseems respectable age, and as the smooth, shiny line of patesappeared above the wooden line of the pews they somehow sympatheticallyblended into one gleaming surface of worn wood and skull, until it seemedas if the Doctor's theological battles were all fought upon the heads ofhis people. 

But the Doctor was by no means altogether polemical. After defeating andutterly confounding the fathers who fired their last shot a thousandyears ago, and who had not a word to say against his remaining master ofthe field, he was wont to unbend his mind and recreate his fancy bypractical discourses. His sermons upon lying were celebrated all throughthe village. He gave the insidious vice no quarter. He charged upon itfrom all sides at once. Lying couldn't stand for a moment. White lies, black lies, blue lies, and green lies, lies of ceremony, of charity, andof good intention disappeared before the lightning of his wrath. They areall children of the Devil, with different complexions, said Dr. Peewee. 

But if lying be a vice, surely, said he, discretion is a virtue. "Mydear Mr. Gray, " said Dr. Peewee to that gentleman when he was aboutestablishing his school in the village, and was consulting with theDoctor about bringing his boys to church--"my dear Mr. Gray, " said theDoctor, putting down his cigar and stirring his toddy (he was of anearlier day), "above all things a clergyman should be discreet. Infact, Christianity is discretion. A man must preach at sins, not sinners. Where would society be if the sins of individuals were to be rudelyassaulted?--one more lump, if you please. A man's sins are like hiscorns. Neither the shoe nor the sermon must fit too snugly. I am aclergyman, but I hope I am also a man of common sense--a practical man, Mr. Gray. The general moral law and the means of grace, those are theproper themes of the preacher. And the pastor ought to understand theindividual characters and pursuits of his parishioners, that he mayavoid all personality in applying the truth. "

"Clearly, " said Mr. Gray. 

"For instance, " reasoned the Doctor, as he slowly stirred his toddy, andgesticulated with one skinny forefinger, occasionally sipping as he wenton, "if I have a deacon in my church who is a notorious miser, is it notplain that, if I preach a strong sermon upon covetousness, every body inthe church will think of my deacon--will, in fact, apply the sermon tohim? The deacon, of course, will be the first to do it. And then, why, good gracious! he might even take his hat and cane and stalk heavily downthe broad aisle, under my very nose, before my very eyes, and slam thechurch door after him in my very face! Here at once is difficulty in thechurch; hard feeling; perhaps even swearing. Am I, as a Christianclergyman, to give occasion to uncharitable emotions, even to actualprofanity? Is not a Christian congregation, was not every early Christiancommunity, a society of brothers? Of course they were; of course we mustbe. Little children, love one another. Let us dwell together, mybrethren, in amity, " said the Doctor, putting down his glass, andforgetting that he was in Mr. Gray's study; "and please give me yourears while I show you this morning the enormity of burning widows uponthe funeral pyres of their husbands. "

This was the Peewee Christianity; and after such a sermon the deacon hasbeen known to say to his wife--thin she was in the face, which had asettled shade, like the sober twilight of valleys from which the sun haslong been gone, though it has not yet set--

"What shocking people the Hindoos are! They actually burn widows! Mydear, how grateful we ought to be that we live in a Christian countrywhere wives are not burned!--Abraham! if you put another stick of woodinto that stove I'll skin you alive, Sir. Go to bed this instant, youwicked boy!--It must be bad enough to be a widow, my dear, let alonethe burning. Shall we have evening prayers, Mrs. Deacon?"

In the evening of the day on which the Doctor improved the drowning, andexhorted his hearers to be brave, Mr. Gray asked Gabriel Bennet, "Wherewas the text?"

"I don't know, Sir, " replied Gabriel. As he spoke there was the sound ofwarm discussion on the other side of the dining-room, in which the boyssat during the evening. 

"What is it, Gyles?" asked Mr. Gray. 

"Why, Sir, " replied he, "it's nothing. We were talking about a ribbon, Sir. "

"What ribbon?"

"A ribbon we saw at church, Sir. "

"Well, whose was it?" asked Mr. Gray. 

"I believe it was Miss Hope Wayne's. "

"You believe, Gyles? Why don't you speak out?"

"Well, Sir, the fact is that Abel Newt says she had a purple ribbon onher bonnet--"

"She hadn't, " said Gabriel, breaking in, impetuously. "She had abeautiful blue ribbon, and lilies of the valley inside, and a whitelace vail, and--"

Gabriel stopped and turned very red, for he caught Abel Newt's eyes fixedsharply upon him. 

"Oh ho! the text was there, was it?" asked Mr. Gray, smiling. 

But Abel Newt only said, quietly:

"Oh well! I guess it _was_ a blue ribbon after all. "

CHAPTER VI. 

EXPERIMENTUM CRUCIS. 

"The truth is, Gyles;" said Abel to Blanding, his chum, "Gabriel Bennet'smother ought to come and take him home for the summer to play with theother calves in the country. People shouldn't leave their spoons about. "

The two boys went in to tea. 

In the evening, as the pupils were sitting in the dining-room, as usual, some chatting, some reading, others quite ready to go to bed, "Mr. Gray, " said Abel to Uncle Savory, who was sitting talking with Mrs. Gray, whose hands, which were never idle, were now busily knitting. 

"Well, Abel. "

"Suppose we have some game. "

"Certainly. Boys, what shall we do? Let us see. There's the Grand Mufti, and the Elements, and My ship's come loaded with--and--well, what shallit be?"

"Mr. Gray, it's a good while since we've tried all calling out together. We haven't done it since Gabriel Bennet came. "

"No, we haven't, " answered Mr. Gray, as his small eyes twinkled at theprospect of a little fun; "no, we haven't. Now, boys, of course a goodmany of you have played the game before. But you, new boys, attend! thething is this. When I say three--_one, two, three_!--every body is toshout out the name of his sweet-heart. The fun is that nobody hears anything, because every body bawls so loud. You see?" asked he, apparentlyfeeling for his handkerchief. "Gabriel, before we begin, just run intothe study and get my handkerchief. "

Gabriel, full of expectation of the fun, ran out of the room. The momenthe closed the door Mr. Gray lifted his finger and said, "Now, boys! every body remain perfectly quiet when I say three. "

It was needless to explain why, for every body saw the intended joke, andGabriel returned instantly from the study saying that the handkerchiefwas not there. 

"No matter, " said Mr. Gray. "Are you all ready, boys. Now, then--_one, two, three_!"

As the word left Mr. Gray's lips, Gabriel, candid, full of spirit, jumpedup from his seat with the energy of his effort, and shouted out at thetop of his voice, "Hope Wayne!"

--It was cruel. That name alone broke the silence, ringing out inenthusiastic music. 

Gabriel's face instantly changed. Still standing erect and dismayed, helooked rapidly around the room from boy to boy, and at Mr. Gray. Therewas just a moment of utter silence, and then a loud peal of laughter. 

Gabriel's color came and went. His heart winced, but not his eye. Younghearts are tender, and a joke like this cuts deeply. But just as he wasabout to yield, and drop the tell-tale tear of a sensitive, mortified boy, he caught the eye of Abel Newt. It was calmly studying him as a Romansurgeon may have watched the gladiator in the arena, while his life-bloodebbed away. Gabriel remembered Abel's words in the play-ground--"There'smore than one kind of fagging. "

When the laugh was over, Gabriel's had been loudest of all. 

CHAPTER VII. 

CASTLE DANGEROUS. 

The next day when school was dismissed, Abel asked leave to stroll outof bounds. He pushed along the road, whistling cheerily, whipping theroad-side grass and weeds with his little ratan, and all the whileapproaching the foot of the hill up which the road wound through theestate of Pinewood. As he turned up the hill he walked more slowly, and presently stopped and leaned upon a pair of bars which guarded theentrance of one of Mr. Burt's pastures. He gazed for some time down intothe rich green field that sloped away from the road toward a littlebowery stream, but still whistled, as if he were looking into his mindrather than at the landscape. 

After leaning and musing and vaguely whistling, he turned up the hillagain and continued his walk. 

At length he reached the entrance of Pinewood--a high iron gate, betweenhuge stone posts, on the tops of which were urns overflowing with vines, that hung down and partly tapestried the columns. Immediately uponentering the grounds the carriage avenue wound away from the gate, sothat the passer-by could see nothing as he looked through but the hedgewhich skirted and concealed the lawn. The fence upon the road was a high, solid stone wall, along whose top clustered a dense shrubbery, so that, although the land rose from the road toward the house, the lawn wasentirely sequestered; and you might sit upon it and enjoy the pleasantrural prospect of fields, woods, and hills, without being seen from theroad. The house itself was a stately, formal mansion. Its light colorcontrasted well with the lofty pine-trees around it. But they, in turn, invested it with an air of secrecy and gloom, unrelieved by flowers orblossoming shrubs, of which there were no traces near the house, althoughin the rear there was a garden so formally regular that it looked like apenitentiary for flowers. 

These were the pine-trees that Hope Wayne had heard sing all herlife--but sing like the ocean, not like birds or human voices. In theblack autumn midnights they struggled with the north winds that smotethem fiercely and filled the night with uproar, while the child coweringin her bed thought of wrecks on pitiless shores--of drowning mothers andhapless children. Through the summer nights they sighed. But it was nota lullaby--it was not a serenade. It was the croning of a Norlandenchantress, and young Hope sat at her open window, looking out intothe moonlight, and listening. 

Abel Newt opened the gate and passed in. He walked along the avenue, fromwhich the lawn was still hidden by the skirting hedge, went up the steps, and rang the bell. 

"Is Mr. Burt at home?" he asked, quietly. 

"This way, Sir, " said the nimble Hiram, going before, but half turningand studying the visitor as he spoke, and quite unable to comprehend himat a glance. "I will speak to him. "

Abel Newt was shown into a large drawing-room. The furniture was drapedfor the season in cool-colored chintz. There was a straw matting uponthe floor. The chandeliers and candelabras were covered with muslin, and heavy muslin curtains hung over the windows. The tables and chairswere of a clumsy old-fashioned pattern, with feet in the form of clawsclasping balls, and a generally stiff, stately, and uncomfortable air. The fire-place was covered by a heavy painted fire-board. The polishedbrass andirons, which seemed to feel the whole weight of responsibilityin supporting the family dignity, stood across the hearth, belligerentlybright, and there were sprays of asparagus in a china vase in front ofthem. A few pictures hung upon the wall--family portraits, Abel thought;at least old Christopher was there, painted at the age of ten, standing, in very clean attire, holding a book in one hand and a hoop in the other. The picture was amusing, and looked to Abel symbolical, representing themodel boy, equally devoted to study and play. That singular sneeringsmile flitted over his face as he muttered, "The Reverend GabrielBennet!"

There were a few books upon the centre-table, carefully placed andbalanced as if they had been porcelain ornaments. The bindings and theedges of the leaves had a fresh, unworn look. The outer window-blindswere closed, and the whole room had a chilly formality and dimness whichwas not hospitable nor by any means inspiring. 

Abel seated himself in an easy-chair, and was still smiling at theportrait of Master Christopher Burt at the age of ten, when thatgentleman, at the age of seventy-three, was heard in the hall. Hiramhad left the door open, so that Abel had full notice of his approach, and rose just before the old gentleman entered, and stood with his capin his hand and his head slightly bent. 

Old Burt came into the room, and said, a little fiercely, as he saw thevisitor, "Well, Sir!"

Abel bowed. 

"Well, Sir!" he repeated, more blandly, apparently mollified by somethingin the appearance of the youth. 

"Mr. Burt, " said Abel, "I am sure you will excuse me when you understandthe object of my call; although I am fully aware of the liberty I amtaking in intruding upon your valuable time and the many important careswhich must occupy the attention of a gentleman so universally known, honored, and loved in the community as you are, Sir. "

"Did you come here to compliment me, Sir?" asked Mr. Burt. "You've gotsome kind of subscription paper, I suppose. " The old gentleman began towarm up as he thought of it. "But I can't give any thing. I never do--Inever will. It's an infernal swindle. Some deuced Missionary Society, or Tract Society, or Bible Society, some damnable doing-good society, that bleeds the entire community, has sent you up here, Sir, to suckmoney out of me with your smooth face. They're always at it. They'realways sending boys, and ministers in the milk, by Jove! and women thattalk in a way to turn the milk sour in the cellar, Sir, and who havealready turned themselves sour in the face, Sir, and whom a man can'tturn out of doors, Sir, to swindle money out of innocent people! I tellyou, young man, 'twon't work! I'll, be whipped if I give you a solitaryred cent!" And Christopher Burt, in a fine wrath, seated himself by thetable, and wiped his forehead. 

Abel stood patiently and meekly under this gust of fury, and when itwas ended, and Mr. Burt was a little composed, he began quietly, as ifthe indignation were the most natural thing in the world:

"No, Sir; it is not a subscription paper--"

"Not a subscription paper!" interrupted the old gentleman, lifting hishead and staring at him. "Why, what the deuce is it, then?"

"Why, Sir, as I was just saying, " calmly returned Abel, "it is a personalmatter altogether. "

"Eh! eh! what?" cried Mr. Burt, on the edge of another paroxysm, "whatthe deuce does that mean? Who are you. Sir?"

"I am one of Mr. Gray's boys, Sir, " replied Abel. 

"What! what!" thundered Grandpa Burt, springing up suddenly, his mindopening upon a fresh scent. "One of Mr. Gray's boys? How dare you, Sir, come into my house? Who sent you here, Sir? What right have you tointrude into this place, Sir? Hiram! Hiram!"

"Yes, Sir, " answered the man, as he came across the hall. 

"Show this young man out. "

"He may have some message, Sir, " said Hiram, who had heard the precedingconversation. 

"Have you got any message?" asked Mr. Burt. 

"No, Sir; but I--"

"Then why, in Heaven's name, don't you go?"

"Mr. Burt, " said Abel, with placid persistence, "being one of Mr. Gray'sboys, I go of course to Dr. Peewee's Church, and there I have so oftenseen--"

"Come, come, Sir, this is a little too much. Hiram, put this boy out, "said the old gentleman, quite beside himself as he thought of hisgrand-daughter. "Seen, indeed! What business have you to see, Sir?"

"So often seen your venerable figure, " resumed Abel in the same tone asbefore, while Mr. Burt turned suddenly and looked at him closely, "that Inaturally asked who you were. I was told, Sir; and hearing of your wealthand old family, and so on, Sir, I was interested--it was only natural, Sir--in all that belongs to you. "

"Eh! eh! what?" said Mr. Burt, quickly. 

"Particularly, Mr. Burt, in your--"

"By Jove! young man, you'd better go if you don't want to have yourhead broken. D'ye come here to beard me in my own house? By George!your impudence stupefies me, Sir. I tell you go this minute!"

But Abel continued:

"In your beautiful--"

"Don't dare to say it, Sir!" cried the old man, shaking his finger. 

"Place, " said Abel, quietly. 

The old gentleman glared at him with a look of mixed surprise andsuspicion. But the boy wore the same look of candor. He held his cap inhis hand. His black hair fell around his handsome face. He was entirelycalm, and behaved in the most respectful manner. 

"What do you mean, Sir?" said Christopher Burt, in great perplexity, ashe seated himself again, and drew a long breath. 

"Simply, Sir, that I am very fond of sketching. My teacher says I drawvery well, and I have had a great desire to draw your place, but I didnot dare to ask permission. It is said in school, Sir, that you don'tlike Mr. Gray's boys, and I knew nobody who could introduce me. Butto-day, as I came by, every thing looked so beautifully, and I was sosure that I could make a pretty picture if I could only get leave tocome inside the grounds, that almost unconsciously I found myself comingup the avenue and ringing the bell. That's all, Sir; and I'm sure I begyour pardon for troubling you so much. "

Mr. Burt listened to this speech with a pacified air. He was perhaps alittle ashamed of his furious onslaughts and interruptions, and thereforethe more graciously inclined toward the request of the young man. 

So the old man said, with tolerable grace, "Well, Sir, I am willing you should draw my house. Will you do it thisafternoon?"

"Really, Sir, " replied Abel, "I had no intention of asking you to-day;and as I strolled out merely for a walk, I did not bring my drawingmaterials with me. But if you would allow me to come at any time, Sir, I should be very deeply obliged. I am devoted to my art, Sir. "

"Oh! you mean to be an artist?"

"Perhaps, Sir. "

"Phit! phit! Don't do any such silly thing, Sir. An artist! Why how muchdoes an artist make in a year?"

"Well, Sir, the money I don't know about, but the fame!"

"Oh! the fame! The fiddle, Sir! You are capable of better things. "

"For instance, Mr. Burt--"

"Trade, Sir, trade--trade. That is the way to fortune in this country. Enterprise, activity, shrewdness, industry, that's what a young manwants. Get rid of your fol-de-rol notions about art. Benjamin West was agreat man, Sir; but he was an exception, and besides he lived in England. I respect Benjamin West, Sir, of course. We all do. He made a goodthing of it. Take the word of an old man who has seen life and knowsthe world, and remember that, with all your fine fiddling, it ismoney makes the mare go. Old men like me don't mince matters, Sir. It's money--money!"

Abel thought old men sometimes minced grammar a little, but he did notsay so. He only looked respectful, and said, "Yes, Sir. "

"About drawing the house, come when you choose, " said Mr. Burt, rising. 

"It may take more than one, or even three or four afternoons, Sir, to doit properly. "

"Well, well. If I'm not at home ask for Mrs. Simcoe, d'ye hear? Mrs. Simcoe. She will attend to you. "

Abel bowed very respectfully and as if he were controlling a strongdesire to kneel and kiss the foot of his Holiness, Christopher Burt;but he mastered himself, and Hiram opened the front door. 

"Good-by, Hiram, " said. Abel, putting a piece of money into his hand. 

"Oh no, Sir, " said Hiram, pocketing the coin. 

Abel walked sedately down the steps, and looked carefully around him. Hescanned the windows; he glanced under the trees; but he saw nothing. Hedid every thing, in fact, but study the house which he had been askingpermission to draw. He looked as if for something or somebody who did notappear. But as Hiram still stood watching him, he moved away. 

He walked faster as he approached the gate. He opened it; flung it tobehind him, broke into a little trot, and almost tumbled over GabrielBennet and Little Malacca as he did so. 

The collision was rude, and the three boys stopped. 

"You'd better look where you're going, " said Gabriel, sharply, his cheeksreddening and swelling. 

Abel's first impulse was to strike; but he restrained himself, and in themost contemptuous way said merely, "Ah, the Reverend Gabriel Bennet!"

He had scarcely spoken when Gabriel fell upon him like a young lion. So sudden and impetuous was his attack that for a moment Abel wasconfounded. He gave way a little, and was well battered almost beforehe could strike in return. Then his strong arms began to tell. He wasconfident of victory, and calmer than his antagonist; but it was likefighting a flame, so fierce and rapid were Gabriel's strokes. 

Little Malacca looked on in amazement and terror. "Don't! don't!" criedhe, as he saw the faces of the fighters. "Oh, don't! Abel, you'll killhim!" For Abel was now fully aroused. He was seriously hurt by Gabriel'sblows. 

"Don't! there's somebody coming!" cried Little Malacca, with the tears inhis eyes, as the sound of a carriage was heard driving down the hill. 

The combatants said nothing. The faces of both of them were bruised, andthe blood was flowing. Gabriel was clearly flagging; and Abel's face wasfurious as he struck his heavy blows, under which the smaller boystaggered, but did not yet succumb. 

"Oh, please! please!" cried Little Malacca, imploringly, the tearsstreaming down his face. 

At that moment Abel Newt drew back, aimed a tremendous blow at Gabriel, and delivered it with fearful force upon his head. The smaller boystaggered, reeled, threw up his arms, and fell heavily forward intothe road, senseless. 

"You've killed him! You've killed him!" sobbed Little Malacca, piteously, kneeling down and bending over Gabriel. 

Abel Newt stood bareheaded, frowning under his heavy hair, his handsclenched, his face bruised and bleeding, his mouth sternly set as helooked down upon his opponent. Suddenly he heard a sound close byhim--a half-smothered cry. He looked up. It was the Burt carriage, andHope Wayne was gazing in terror from the window. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

AFTER THE BATTLE. 

Hiram was summoned to the door by a violent ringing of the bell. Visionsof apoplexy--of--in fact, of any thing that might befall a testygentleman of seventy-three, inclined to make incessant trips to theWest Indies--rushed to his mind as he rushed to the door. He openedit in hot haste. 

There stood Hope Wayne, pale, her eyes flashing, her hand ungloved. Atthe foot of the steps was the carriage, and in the carriage sat Mrs. Simcoe, with a bleeding boy's head resting upon her shoulder. Thecoachman stood at the carriage door. 

"Here, Hiram, help James to bring in this poor boy. "

"Yes, miss, " replied the man, as he ran down the steps. 

The door was opened, and the coachman and Hiram lifted out Gabriel. 

They carried him, still unconscious, up stairs and laid him on a couch. Old Burt could not refuse an act of mere humanity, but he said in a loudvoice, "It's all a conspiracy to get into the house, Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am. I'llhave bull-dogs--I'll have blunderbusses and spring-guns, Mrs. Simcoe, ma'am! And what do you mean by fighting at my gate, Sir?" he said, turning upon Little Malacca, who quivered under his wrath. "What are youdoing at my gate? Can't Mr. Gray keep his boys at home? Hope, go upstairs!" said the old gentleman, as he reached the foot of the staircase. 

But Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe remained with the patient. Hope rubbedthe boy's hands, and put her own hand upon his forehead from time totime, until he sighed heavily and opened his eyes. But before he couldrecognize her she went out to send Hiram to him, while Mrs. Simcoe satquietly by him. 

"We must put you to bed, " she said, gently, "and to-morrow you may go. But why do you fight?"

Gabriel turned toward her with a piteous look. 

"No matter, " replied Mrs. Simcoe. "Don't talk. You shall tell all aboutit some other time. Come in, Hiram, " she added, as she heard a knock. 

The man entered, and Mrs. Simcoe left the room after having told himto undress the boy carefully and bathe his face and hands. Gabriel wasperfectly passive, Hiram was silent, quick, and careful, and in a fewmoments he closed the door softly behind him, and left Gabriel alone. 

He was now entirely conscious, but very weak. His face was turned towardthe window, which was open, and he watched the pine-trees that rustledgently in the afternoon breeze. It was profoundly still out of doors andin the house; and as he lay exhausted, the events of the last few daysand months swam through his mind in misty confusion. Half-dozing, half-sleeping, every thing glimmered before him, and the still hoursstole by. 

When he opened his eyes again it was twilight, and he was lying on hisback looking up at the heavy tester of the great bedstead from which hungthe curtains, so that he had only glimpses into the chamber. It was largeand lofty, and the paper on the wall told the story of Telemachus. Hiseyes wandered over it dreamily. 

He could dimly see the beautiful Calypso--the sage Mentor--the eagerpupil--pallid phantoms floating around him. He seemed to hear the beatingof the sea upon the shore. The tears came to his eyes. The ghostlyCalypso put aside the curtain of the bed. Gabriel stretched out hishands. 

"I must go, " he murmured, as if he too were a phantom. 

The lips of Calypso moved. 

"Are you better?"

Gabriel was awake in a moment. It was Hope Wayne who spoke to him. 

About ten o'clock in the evening she knocked again gently at Gabriel'sdoor. There was no reply. She opened the door softly and went in. Anight-lamp was burning, and threw a pleasant light through the room. The windows were open, and the night-air sighed among the pine-treesnear them. 

Gabriel's face was turned toward the door, so that Hope saw it as sheentered. He was sleeping peacefully. At that very moment he was dreamingof her. In dreams Hope Wayne was walking with him by the sea, her hand inhis: her heart his own. 

She stood motionless lest she might wake him. He did not stir, and sheheard his low, regular breathing, and knew that all was well. Then sheturned as noiselessly as she had entered, and went out, leaving him topeaceful sleep--to dreams--to the sighing of the pines. 

Hope Wayne went quietly to her room, which was next to the one in whichGabriel lay. Her kind heart had sent her to see that he wanted nothing. She thought of him only as a boy who had had the worst of a quarrel, andshe pitied him. Was it then, indeed, only pity for the victim thatknocked gently at his door? Was she really thinking of the conquerorwhen she went to comfort the conquered? Was she not trying somehow tohelp Abel by doing all she could to alleviate the harm he had done?

Hope Wayne asked herself no questions. She was conscious of a curiousexcitement, and the sighing of the pines lulled her to sleep. But allnight long she dreamed of Abel Newt, with bare head and clustering blackhair, gracefully bowing, and murmuring excuses; and oh! so manly, oh! soheroic he looked as he carefully helped to lay Gabriel in the carriage. 

CHAPTER IX. 

NEWS FROM HOME. 

Abel found a letter waiting for him when he returned to the school. Hetore it open and read it:

"MY DEAR ABEL, --You have now nearly reached the age at which, by yourgrandfather's direction, you were to leave school and enter upon activelife. Your grandfather, who had known and respected Mr. Gray in formeryears, left you, as you know, a sum sufficient for your education, uponcondition of your being placed at Mr. Gray's until your nineteenthbirthday. That time is approaching. Upon your nineteenth birthday youwill leave school. Mr. Gray gives me the best accounts of you. My plansfor you are not quite settled. What are your own wishes? It is late foryou to think of college; and as you will undoubtedly be a business man, I see no need of your learning Greek or writing Latin poetry. At your ageI was earning my own living. Your mother and the family are well. Youraffectionate father, "BONIFACE NEWT. 

"P. S. --Your mother wishes to add a line. "

"DEAR ABEL, --I am very glad to hear from Mr. Gray of your fine progressin study, and your general good character and deportment. I trust yougive some of your leisure to solid reading. It is very necessary toimprove the mind. I hope you attend to religion. It will help you ifyou keep a record of Dr. Peewee's texts, and write abstracts of hissermons. Grammar, too, and general manners. I hear that you are veryself-possessed, which is really good news. My friend Mrs. Beacon washere last week, and she says you _bow beautifully_! That is a greatdeal for her to admit, for her son Bowdoin is one of the most elegantand presentable young men I have ever seen. He is very gentlemanlyindeed. He and Alfred Dinks have been here for some time. My dear son, could you not learn to waltz before you come home? It is considered verybad by some people, because you have to put your arm round the lady'swaist. But I think it is very foolish for any body to set themselves upagainst the customs of society. I think if it is permitted in Paris andLondon, we needn't be so very particular about it in New York. Mr. Dinksand Mr. Beacon both waltz, and I assure you it is very _distingué_indeed. But be careful in learning. Your sister Fanny says the Bostonyoung men stick out their elbows dreadfully when they waltz, and looklike owls spinning on invisible teetotums. She declares, too, that allthe Boston girls are dowdy. But she is obliged to confess that Mr. Beaconand Mr. Dinks are as well dressed and gentlemanly and dance as well asour young men here. And as for the Boston ladies, Mr. Dinks tells Fannythat he has a cousin, a Miss Wayne, who lives in Delafield, who mightalter her opinion of the dowdiness of Boston girls. It seems she is agreat heiress, and very beautiful; and it is said here (but you know howidle such gossip is) that she is going to marry her cousin, AlfredDinks. He does not deny it. He merely laughs and shakes his head--thetruth is, he hasn't much to say for himself. Bless me! I've got to takeanother sheet. 

"Now, Abel, my dear, do you know Miss Wayne? I have never heard you speakof her, and yet, if she lives in Delafield, you must know something abouther. Your father is working hard at his business, but it is shocking howmuch money we have to spend to keep up our place in society properly. Iknow that he spends all his income every year; and if any thing shouldhappen--I cry my eyes out to think of it. Miss Wayne, I hear, is verybeautiful, and about your age. Is it true about her being an heiress?

"What is the news--let me see. Oh! your cousin, Laura Magot, is engaged, and she has made a capital match. She will be eighteen on her nextbirthday; and the happy man is Mellish Whitloe. It is the fine oldKnickerbocker family. Fanny says she knows all about them--that she hasthe Whitloes all at her fingers' ends. You see she is as bright asever. It is a capital match. Mr. Whitloe has at least five thousanddollars a year from his business now; and his aunt, Patience Doolittle, widow of the old merchant, who has no children, is understood to preferhim to all her relations. Laura will have a little something; so therecould be nothing better. We are naturally delighted. But what a pityLaura is not a little taller--about Fanny's height; and as I was lookingat Fanny the other day, I thought how sorry I was for Mr. Whitloe thatLaura was not just a little prettier. She has _such_ a nose; and then hercomplexion! However, my dear Abel of course cares nothing about suchthings, and, I have no doubt, is wickedly laughing at his mamma at thisvery moment for scribbling him such a long, rambling letter. What is MissWayne's first name? Is she fair or brunette? Don't forget to write me allyou know. I am going to Saratoga in a few days--I think Fanny ought todrink the waters. I told Dr. Lush I was perfectly sure of it; so he toldyour father, and he has consented. 

"Do you remember Mrs. Plumer, the large, handsome woman from New Orleans, whom you saw when we dined at your Uncle Magot's last summer? She hascome on, and will be at the Spring this year. I am told Mr. Plumer is avery large planter--the largest, some people say, in the country. Theiroldest daughter, Grace is as school in town. She is only fourteen, Ibelieve. What an heiress she will be! The Moultries, from South Carolina, will be there too, I suppose. By-the-by, now old is Sligo Moultrie? Thenthere are some of those rich Havana people coming. What diamonds theywear! It will be very pleasant at the Springs; and I hope the littlevisit will do Fanny good. Dr. Maundy is giving us a series of sermonsupon the different kinds of wood used in building Solomon's Temple. Theyare very interesting; and he has such a flow of beautiful words and suchwavy gestures, and he looks so gentlemanly in the pulpit, that I have nodoubt he does a great deal of good. The church is always full. Your UncleLawrence has been to hear a preacher from Boston, by the name ofChanning, and is very much pleased. Have you ever heard him? It seems heis very famous in his own sect, who are infidels, or deists, orpollywogs, or atheists--I don't know which it is. I believe they preachmere morality, and read essays instead of sermons. I hope you goregularly to church; and from what I have heard of Dr. Peewee, I respecthim very highly. Perhaps you had better make abstracts of his sermons, and I can look over them some time when you come home. 

"Speaking of religion, I must tell you a little story which Fanny told methe other day. She was coming home from church with Mr. Dinks, and hesaid to her, 'Miss Newt, what do you do when you go into church and putyour head down?' Fanny did not understand him, and asked him what hemeant. 'Why, ' said he, 'when we go into church, you know, we all put ourheads down in front of the pew, or in our hands, for a little while, andDr. Maundy spreads his handkerchief on the desk and puts his face into itfor quite a long time. What do _you_ do?' he asked, in a really perplexedway, Fanny says. 'Why, ' said she, gravely, 'Mr. Dinks, it is to say ashort prayer. ' 'Bless my soul!' said he; 'I never thought of that. ''Why, what do you do, then?' asked Fanny, curiously. 'Well, ' answeredDinks, 'you know I think it's a capital thing to do; it's proper, and soforth; but I never knew what people were really at when they did it; so Ialways put my head into my hat and count ten. I find it comes to aboutthe same thing--I get through at the same time with other people. ' Heisn't very bright, but he is a good-hearted fellow, and very gentlemanly, and I am told he is very rich. Fanny laughs at him; but I think she likeshim very well. I wish you would find out whether Miss Wayne really isengaged to him. Here I am at the very end of my paper. Take care ofyourself, my dear Abel, and remember the religion and the solid reading. 

"Your affectionate mother, "NANCY NEWT. "

Abel read the letters, and stood looking at the floor, musingly. Hisschool days, then, were numbered; the stage was to be deepened andwidened--the scenery and the figures so wonderfully changed! He was tostep in a moment from school into the world. He was to lie down one nighta boy, and wake up a man the next morning. 

The cloud of thoughts and fancies that filled his mind all drifted towardone point--all floated below a summit upon which stood the only thing hecould discern clearly, and that was the figure of Hope Wayne. Just as hethought he could reach her, was he to be torn away?

And who was Mr. Alfred Dinks?

CHAPTER X. 

BEGINNING TO SKETCH. 

The next morning when Gabriel declared that he was perfectly well and hadbetter return, nobody opposed his departure. Hope Wayne, indeed, orderedthe carriage so readily that the poor boy's heart sank. Yet Hope pitiedGabriel sincerely. She wished he had not been injured, because then therewould have been nobody guilty of injuring him; and she was quite willinghe should go, because his presence reminded her too forcibly of what shewanted to forget. 

The poor boy drove dismally away, thinking what a dreadful thing it is tobe young. 

After he had gone Hope Wayne sat upon the lawn reading. Suddenly a shadowfell across the page, and looking up she saw Abel Newt standing besideher. He had his cap in one hand and a port-folio in the other. The bloodrushed from Hope's cheek to her heart; then rushed back again. Abel sawit. 

Rising from the lawn and bowing gravely, she turned toward the house. 

"Miss Wayne, " said Abel, in a voice which was very musical and verylow--she stopped--"I hope you have not already convicted and sentencedme. "

He smiled a little as he spoke, not familiarly, not presumptuously, but with an air which indicated his entire ability to justify himself. Hope said:

"I have no wish to be unjust. "

"May I then plead my own cause?"

"I must go into the house--I will call my grandfather, whom I suppose youwish to see. "

"I am here by his permission, and I hope you will not regard me as anintruder. "

"Certainly not, if he knows you are here;" and Hope lingered to hear ifhe had any thing more to say. 

"It was a very sudden affair. We were both hot and angry; but he issmaller than I, and I should have done nothing had he not struck me, and fallen upon me so that I was obliged to defend myself. "

"Yes--to be sure--in that case, " said Hope, still lingering, andremarking the music of his voice. Abel continued--while the girl's eyessaw how well he looked upon that lawn--the clustering black hair--therich eyes--the dark complexion--the light of intelligence playing uponhis face--his dress careful but graceful--and the port-folio which showedthis interview to be no design or expectation, but a mere chance--

"I am very sorry you should have had the pain of seeing such a spectacle, and I am ashamed my first introduction to you should have been at such atime. "

Hope Wayne lingered, looking on the ground. 

"I think, indeed, " continued Abel, "that you owe me an opportunity ofmaking a better impression. "

"Hope! Hope!" came floating the sound of a distant voice calling in thegarden. 

Hope Wayne turned her head toward the voice, but her eyes looked upon theground, and her feet still lingered. 

"I have known you so long, and yet have never spoken to you, " said themusical voice at her side; "I have seen you so constantly in church, andI have even tried sometimes--I confess it--to catch a glance from you asyou came out. But I am not sorry, for now--"

"Hope! Hope!" called the voice from the garden. 

Hope looked dreamily in that direction, not as if she heard it, but as ifshe were listening to something in her mind. 

"Now I meet you here on this lovely lawn in your own beautiful home. Doyou know that your grandfather permits me to sketch the place?"

"Do you draw, Mr. Newt?" asked Hope Wayne, in a tone which seemed to Abelto trickle along his nerves, so exquisite and prolonged was the pleasureit gave him to hear her call him by name. How did she know it? thoughthe. 

"Yes, I draw, and am very fond of it, " he answered, as he untied hisport-folio. "I do not dare to say that I am proud of my drawing--andyet you may perhaps recognize this, if you will look a moment. "

"Hope! Hope!" came the voice again from the garden. Abel heardit--perhaps Hope did not. He was busily opening his port-folio andturning over the drawings, and stepped closer to her, as he said:

"There! now, what is that?" and he handed her a sketch. 

Hope looked at it and smiled. 

"That is the farther shore of the pond with the spire; how very pretty itis!"

"And this?"

"Oh! that is the old church, and there is Mr. Gray's face at the window. How good they are! You draw very well, Mr. Newt. "

"Do you draw, Miss Wayne?"

"I've had plenty of lessons, " replied Hope, smiling; "but I can't drawfrom nature very well. "

"What do you sketch, then?"

"Well, scenes and figures out of books. "

"How very pleasant that must be! That's a better style than mine. "

"Why so?"

"Because we can never draw any thing as handsome as it seems to us. Youcan go and see the pond with your own eyes, and then no picture will seemworth having. " He paused. "There is another reason, too, I suppose. "

"What is that?" asked Hope, looking at her companion. 

"Well, " he answered, smiling, "because life in books is always so muchbetter than real life!"

"Is it so?" said Hope, musingly. 

"Yes, certainly. People are always brave, and beautiful, and good, inbooks. An author may make them do and say just what he and all the worldwant them to, and it all seems right. And then they do such splendidlyimpossible things!"

"How do they?"

"Why, now, if you and I were in a book at this moment, instead ofstanding on this lawn, I might be a knight slaying a great dragon thatwas just coming to destroy you, and you--"

"Hope, Hope!" rang the voice from the garden, nearer and moreimperiously. 

"And I--might be saved by another knight dashing in upon you, like thatvoice upon your sentence, " said Hope, smiling. 

"No, no, " answered Abel, laughing, "that shouldn't be in the book. Ishould slay the great dragon who would desolate all Delafield with theswishing of his scaly tail; then you would place a wreath upon my head, and all the people would come out and salute me for saving the Princesswhom they loved, and I"--said Abel, after a momentary pause, a shade moregravely, and in a tone a little lower--"and I, as I rode away, should notwonder that they loved her. "

He looked across the lawn under the pine-trees as if he were thinking ofsome story that he had been actually reading. Hope smiled no longer, butsaid, quietly, "Mr. Newt, I am wanted. I must go in. Good-morning!" And she moved away. 

"Perhaps your cousin Alfred Dinks has arrived, " said Abel, carelessly, ashe closed his port-folio. 

Hope Wayne stopped, and, standing very erect, turned and looked at him. 

"Do you know my cousin, Mr. Dinks?"

"Not at all. "

"How did you know that I had such a cousin?"

"I heard it somewhere, " answered Abel, gently and respectfully, butlooking at Hope with a curious glance which seemed to her to penetrateevery pore in her body. That glance said as plainly as words could havesaid, "And I heard you were engaged to him. "

Hope Wayne looked serious for a moment; then she said, with a half smile, "I suppose it is no secret that Alfred Dinks is my cousin;" and, bowingto Abel, she went swiftly over the lawn toward the house. 

CHAPTER XI. 

A VERDICT AND A SENTENCE. 

Hope Wayne did not agree with Abel Newt that life was so much better inbooks. There was nothing better in any book she had ever read than thelittle conversation with the handsome youth which she had had thatmorning upon the lawn. When she went into the house she found no oneuntil she knocked at Mrs. Simcoe's door. 

"Aunty, did you call me?"

"Yes, Hope. "

"I was on the lawn, Aunty. "

"I know it, Hope. "

The young lady did not ask her why she had not sought her there, but sheasked, "What do you want, Aunty?"

The older woman looked quietly out of the window. Neither spoke for along time. 

"I saw you talking with Abel Newt on the lawn. Why did he strike thatboy?" asked Mrs. Simcoe at length, still gazing at the distant hills. 

"He had to defend himself, " said Hope, rapidly. 

"Couldn't a young man protect himself against a boy without stunning him?He might easily have killed him, " said Mrs. Simcoe, in the same dry tone. 

"It was very unfortunate, and Mr. Newt says so; but I don't think he isto bear every thing. "

"What did the other do?"

"He insulted him. "

"Indeed!"

The tone in which the elderly woman spoke was trying. Hope was flushed, and warm, and disconcerted. There was so much skepticism and contempt inthe single word "indeed!" as Mrs. Simcoe pronounced it, that Hope wasreally angry with her. 

"I don't see why you should treat Mr. Newt in that manner, " said she, haughtily. 

"In what manner, Hope?" asked the other, calmly, fixing her eyes upon hercompanion. 

"In that sneering, contemptuous manner, " replied Hope, loftily. "Here isa young man who falls into an unfortunate quarrel, in which he happens toget the better of his opponent, who chances to be younger. He helps himcarefully into the carriage. He explains upon the spot as well as he can, and to-day he comes to explain further; and you will not believe him; youmisunderstand and misrepresent him. It is unkind, Aunty--unkind. "

Hope was almost sobbing. 

"Has he once said he was sorry?" asked Mrs. Simcoe. "Has he told you sothis morning?"

"Of course he is sorry, Aunty. How could he help it? Do you suppose heis a brute? Do you suppose he hasn't ordinary human feeling? Why do youtreat him so?"

Hope asked the question almost fiercely. 

Mrs. Simcoe sat profoundly still, and said nothing. Her face seemed togrow even more rigid as she sat. But suddenly turning to the proud younggirl who stood at her side, her bosom heaving with passion, she drew hertoward her by both hands, pulled her face down close to hers, and kissedher. 

Hope sank on her knees by the side of Mrs. Simcoe's chair. All the pridein her heart was melted, and poured out of her eyes. She buried her faceupon Mrs. Simcoe's shoulder, and her passion wept and sobbed itself away. She did not understand what it was, nor why. A little while before, uponthe lawn, she had been so happy. Now it seemed as if her heart werebreaking. When she grew calmer, Mrs. Simcoe, holding the fair facebetween her hands, and tenderly kissing it once more, said, slowly, "Hope, my child, we must all walk the path alone. But you, too, willlearn that our human affections are but tents of a night. "

"Aunty, Aunty, what do you mean?" asked Hope, who had risen as the otherwas speaking, and now stood beside her, pale and proud. 

"I mean, Hope, that you are in love with Abel Newt. "

Hope's hands dropped by her side. She stepped back a little. A feeling ofinexpressible solitude fell upon her--of alienation from her grandfather, and of an inexplicable separation from her old nurse--a feeling as if shesuddenly stood alone in the world--as if she had ceased to be a girl. 

"Aunty, is it wrong to love him?"

Before Mrs. Simcoe could answer there was a knock at the door. It wasHiram, who announced the victim of yesterday's battle, waiting in theparlor to say a word to Miss Wayne. 

"Yes, Hiram. " He bowed and withdrew. Hope Wayne stood at the windowsilent for a little while, then, with the calm, lofty air--calmer andloftier than ever--she went down and found Gabriel Bennet. He had come tothank her--to say how much better he was--how sorry that he should havebeen so disgraced as to have been fighting almost before her very eyes. 

"I suppose I was very foolish and furious, " said he. "Abel ran againstme, and I got very angry and struck him. It was wrong; I know it was, andI am very sorry. But, ma'am, I hope you won't--ch--ch--I mean, won't--"

That unlucky "ma'am" had choked all his other words. Hope was so loftyand splendid in his eyes as she stood before him that he was impressedwith a kind of awe. But the moment he had spoken to her as if he wereonly a little boy and she a woman, he was utterly confused. He staggeredand stumbled in his sentence until Hope graciously said, "I blame nobody. "

But poor Gabriel's speech was gone. His mouth was parched and his minddry. He could not think of a word to say; and, twisting and fumbling hiscap, did not know how to go. 

"There, Miss Wayne!" suddenly said a voice at the door. 

Hope and Gabriel turned at the same moment, and beheld Abel Newt enteringthe room gayly, with a sketch in his hand. He nodded to Gabriel withoutspeaking, but went directly to Hope and showed her the drawing. 

"There, that will do for a beginning, will it not?"

It was a bold, dashing sketch. The pine-trees, the windows, thepiazzas--yes, she saw them all. They had a new charm in her eyes. 

"That tree comes a little nearer that window, " said she. 

"How do you know it does?" he replied. "You, who only draw from books?"

"I think I ought to know the tree that I see every day at my own window!"

"Oh! that is your window!"

Gabriel was confounded at this sudden incursion and apparent resumptionof a previous conversation. As he ran up the avenue he had not remarkedAbel sketching on the lawn. But Abel, sketching on the lawn, had observedGabriel running up the avenue, and therefore happened in to ask MissWayne's opinion of his drawing. He chatted merrily on:

"Why, there's your grandpapa when he was a little grand-baby and had anold grandpapa in his turn, " said he, pointing at the portrait he hadremarked upon his previous visit in that parlor. "What a funny little oldfellow! Let me see. Gracious! 'twas before the Revolution. Ah! now, if hecould only speak and tell us just what he saw in the room where they werepainting him--what he had for breakfast, for instance--what those dearlittle ridiculous waistcoats, with all their flowery embroidery, cost ayard, say--yes, yes, and what book that is--and who gave him the hoop--"

He rattled on. Never in Hope's lifetime had such sounds of gay speechbeen heard in that well-arranged and well-behaved parlor. They seemed tolight it up. The rapid talk bubbled like music. 

"Hoop and book--book and hoop! Oh yes. Good boy, very good boy, " saidAbel, laughing. "I should think it was a portrait of the young Dr. Peewee--the wee Peewee, Miss Hope, " said the audacious youth, sliding, as it were, unconsciously and naturally into greater familiarity. "Ah! Iknow you know all his sermons by heart, for you never look away from him. What on earth are they all about?"

What a contrast to Gabriel's awkward silence of the moment before! Such ahandsome face! such a musical voice!

In the midst of it all Hiram was heard remonstrating outside:

"Don't, Sir, don't! You'll--you'll--something will happen, Sir. "

There was a moment's scuffling and trampling, and Christopher Burt, restrained by Hiram, burst into the room. The old man was white withwrath. He had his cane in one hand, and Hiram held the other hand andarm. 

He had come in from the garden, and as he stopped in the dining-roomto take a little trip to the West Indies, he had heard voices in thedrawing-room. Summoning Hiram to know if they were visitors, he hadlearned the awful truth which apprised him that his Hesperidian wallwas down, and that the robbers at that very moment might be shaking hisprecious fruit from the boughs. To be sure he had himself left the gateopen. Do you think, then, it helps a man's temper to be as furious withhimself as with other people? He burst into the room. 

There stood Hope: Abel at her side, in the merry midst of his talk, withhis sketch in his hand, his port-folio under his arm, and his fingerpointed toward the portrait; Gabriel, at a little distance, confoundedand abashed by an acquaintance between Hope and Abel of which he had noprevious suspicion. The poor boy! forgotten by Hope, and purposelytrampled down by the eager talk of Abel. 

"Hope, go up stairs!" shouted the old gentleman. "And what are you doingin my house, you scamps?"

He lifted his cane as he came toward them. "I knew all this fightingbusiness yesterday was a conspiracy--a swindling cheat to get into thishouse! I've a mind to break your impudent bones!"

"Why, Sir, " said Abel, "you gave me leave to come here and sketch. "

"Did I give you leave to come into my parlor and bring boys with you, Sir, and take up the time of my grand-daughter? Hope, I say, go upstairs!"

"I only thought, Sir--" began Abel. 

"Now, in Heaven's name, don't make me angry, Sir!" burst in the oldgentleman, almost foaming at the mouth. "Why should you think, Sir? Whatbusiness have you to think, Sir? You're a boy, Sir--a school-boy, Sir!Are you going to dispute with me in my own house? I take back mypermission. Go, both of you! and never let me see your faces again!"

The old man stood pointing with his cane toward the door. 

"Go, both of you!" repeated he, fiercely. It was impossible to resist;and Abel and Gabriel moved slowly toward the door. The former was furiousat finding himself doomed in company with Gabriel. But he betrayednothing. He was preternaturally calm. Hope, dismayed and pale, stoodlooking on, but saying nothing. Gabriel went quietly out of the room. Abel turned to the door, and bowed gravely to Hope. 

"Remember, Sir, " cried the old man, "I take back my permission!"

"I understand, Sir, " replied Abel, bowing to him also. 

He closed the door; and as he did so it seemed to Hope Wayne as if thesunshine were extinguished. 

CHAPTER XII. 

HELP, HO!

Abel Newt was fully aware that his time was short. His father's letterhad apprised him of his presently leaving school. To leave school--wasit not to quit Delafield? Might it not be to lose Hope Wayne? He wasbanished from Pinewood. There were flaming swords of suspicion wavingover that flowery gate. The days were passing. The summer is ending, thought he, and I am by no means saved. 

Neither he nor Gabriel had mentioned their last visit to Pinewood and itscatastrophe. It was a secret better buried in their own bosoms. Abel'sdislike of the other was deepened and imbittered by the ignominy of theexpulsion by Mr. Burt, of which Gabriel had been not only a companion buta witness. It was an indignity that made Abel tingle whenever he thoughtof it. He fancied Gabriel thinking of it too, and laughing at him in hissleeve, and he longed to thrash him. But Gabriel had much betterbusiness. He was thinking only of Hope Wayne, and laughing at himselffor thinking of her. 

The boys were strolling in different parts of the village. Abel, intowhose mind had stolen that thought of the possible laughter in Gabriel'ssleeve, pulled out his handkerchief suddenly, and waved it with anindignant movement in the air. At the same moment a carriage hadovertaken him and was passing. The horses, startled by the shock of thewaving handkerchief, shied and broke into a run. The coachman tried invain to control them. They sprang forward and had their heads in amoment. 

Abel looked up, and saw that it was the Burt carriage dashing down theroad. He flew after, and every boy followed. The horses, maddened by thecries of the coachman and passers-by, by the rattling of the carriage, and their own excitement and speed, plunged on with fearful swiftness. As the carriage flew by, two faces were seen at the window--both calm, but one terrified. They were those of Hope and Mrs. Simcoe. 

"Stop 'em! stop 'em!" rang the cry along the village street; and theidling villagers looked from the windows or came to the doors--the womenexclaiming and holding up their hands, the men leaving whatever they weredoing and joining the chase. 

The whole village was in motion. Every body knew Hope Wayne--every bodyloved her. 

Both she and Mrs. Simcoe sat quietly in the carriage. They knew itwas madness to leap--that their only chance lay in remaining perfectlyquiet. They both knew the danger--they knew that every instant they werehovering on the edge of death or accident. How strange to Hope's eyes, in those swift moments, looked the familiar houses--the trees--thesigns--the fences--as they swept by! How peaceful and secure they were!How far away they seemed! She read the names distinctly. She thought oflittle incidents connected with all the places. Her mind, and memory, and perception were perfectly clear; but her hands were clenched, andher cheek cold and pale with vague terror. Mrs. Simcoe sat beside her, calmly holding one of Hope's hands, but neither of them spoke. 

The carriage struck a stone, and the crowd shuddered as they saw it rockand swing in its furious course. The mad horses but flew more wildly. Mrs. Simcoe pressed Hope's hand, and murmured, almost inaudibly, "'Christ shall bless thy going out, Shall bless thy coming in;Kindly compass thee about, Till thou art saved from sin. '"

"That corner! that corner!" shouted the throng, as the horses neared asudden turn into a side-road, toward which they seemed to be making, frightened by the persons who came running toward them on the mainstreet. Among these was Gabriel, who, hearing the confused murmur thatrang down the road, turned and recognized the carriage that was whirledalong at the mercy of wild horses. He seemed to his companions to fly ashe went--to himself he seemed to be standing still. 

"Carefully, carefully!" cried the others, as they saw his impetuosity. "Don't be trampled!"

Gabriel did not hear. He only saw the fatal corner. He only knew thatHope Wayne was in danger--that the carriage, already swaying, would beoverturned--might be dashed in pieces, and Hope--

He came near as the horses were about turning. The street toward whichthey were heading was narrow, and on the other corner from him there wasa wall. They were running toward Gabriel down the main road; but just ashe came up with them he flung himself with all his might toward theanimals' heads. The startled horses half-recoiled, turned sharply andsuddenly--dashed themselves against the wall--and the carriage stoodstill. In a moment a dozen men had secured them, and the danger was past. 

The door was opened, and the ladies stepped out. Mrs. Simcoe was pale, but her heart had not quailed. The faith that sustains a woman's heartin life does not fail when death brushes her with his finger-tips. 

"Dear child!" she said to Hope, when they both knew that the crisis wasover, and her lips moved in silent prayer and thanksgiving. 

Hope herself was trembling and silent. In her inmost heart she hoped itwas Abel Newt who had saved them. But in all the throng she did not seehis face. She felt a secret disappointment. 

"Here is your preserver, ma'am, " said one of the villagers, pushingGabriel forward. Mrs. Simcoe actually smiled. She put out her hand tohim kindly; and Hope, with grave Sweetness, told him how great was theirobligation. The boy bowed and looked at her earnestly. 

"Are you hurt?"

"Oh! no, not at all, " replied Hope, smiling, and not without some effort, because she fancied that Gabriel looked at her as if she showed some signof pain--or disappointment--or what?

"We are perfectly well, thanks to you. "

"What started the horses?" asked Gabriel. 

"I'm sure I don't know, " replied Hope. 

"Abel Newt started them, " said Mrs. Simcoe. 

Hope reddened and looked at her companion. "What do you mean, Aunty?"asked she, haughtily. 

Mrs. Simcoe was explaining, when Abel came up out of breath and alarmed. In a moment he saw that there had been no injury. Hope's eyes met his, and the color slowly died away from her cheeks. He eagerly asked how ithappened, and was confounded by hearing that he was the cause. 

"How strange it is, " said he, in a low voice, to Hope, as the peoplebusied themselves in looking after the horses and carriage, and Gabrieltalked to Mrs. Simcoe, with whom he found conversation so much easierthan with Hope--"how strange it is that just as I was wondering whenand where and how I should see you again, I should meet you in thisway, Miss Wayne!"

Pleased, still weak and trembling, pale and flushed by turns, Hopelistened to him. 

"Where _can_ I see you?" he continued; "certainly your grandfather wasunkind--"

Hope shook her head slowly. Abel watched every movement--everylook--every fluctuating change of manner and color, as if he knewits most hidden meaning. 

"I can see you nowhere but at home, " she answered. 

He did not reply. She stood silent. She wished he would speak. Thesilence was dreadful. She could not bear it. 

"I am very sorry, " said she, in a whisper, her eyes fastened upon theground, her hands playing with her handkerchief. 

"I hope you are, " he said, quietly, with a tone of sadness, not ofreproach. There was another painful pause. 

"I hope so, because I am going away, " said Abel. 

"Where are you going?"

"Home. "

"When?"

"In a few weeks. "

"Where is your home?"

"In New York. "

It was very much to the point. Yet both of them wanted to say so muchmore; and neither of them dared!

"Miss Hope!" whispered Abel. 

Hope heard the musical whisper. She perceived the audacity of thefamiliarity, but she did not wish it were otherwise. She bent herhead a little lower, as if listening more intently. 

"May I see you before I go?"

Hope was silent. Dr. Livingstone relates that when the lion had struckhim with his paw, upon a certain occasion, he lay in a kind of paralysis, of which he would have been cured in a moment more by being devoured. 

"Hope, " said Mrs. Simcoe, "the horses will be brought up. We had betterwalk home. Here, my dear!"

"I can only see you at home, " Hope said, in a low voice, as she rose. 

"Then we part here forever, " he replied. "I am sorry. "

Still there was no reproach; it was only a deep sadness which softenedthat musical voice. 

"Forever!" he repeated slowly, with low, remorseless music. 

Hope Wayne trembled, but he did not see it. 

"I am sorry, too, " she said, in a hurried whisper, as she moved slowlytoward Mrs. Simcoe. Abel Newt was disappointed. 

"Good-by forever, Miss Wayne!" he said. He could not see Hope's palerface as she heard the more formal address, and knew by it that he wasoffended. 

"Good-by!" was all he caught as Hope Wayne took Mrs. Simcoe's arm andwalked away. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

SOCIETY. 

Tradition declares that the family of Newt has been uniformly respectablebut honest--so respectable, indeed, that Mr. Boniface Newt, the father ofAbel, a celebrated New York merchant and a Tammany Sachem, had a crest. He had even buttons for his coachman's coat with a stag's head engravedupon them. The same device was upon his sealring. It appeared upon hiscarriage door. It figured on the edges of his dinner-service. It wasworked into the ground glass of the door that led from his dining-roomto the back stairs. He had his paper stamped with it; and a great manyof his neighbors, thinking it a neat and becoming ornament, imitated himin its generous use. 

Mrs. Newt's family had a crest also. She was a Magot--another of the fineold families which came to this country at the earliest possible period. The Magots, however, had no buttons upon their coachman's coat; onereason of which omission was, perhaps, that they had no coachman. Butwhen the ladies of the Magot family went visiting or shopping they hireda carriage, and insisted that the driver should brush his hat and blackhis boots; so that it was not every body who knew that it was a liveryequipage. 

Their friends did, of course; but there were a great many people fromthe country who gazed at it, in passing, with the same emotion withwhich they would have contemplated a private carriage; which was highlygratifying to the feelings of the Magots. 

Their friends knew it, but friends never remark upon such things. Therewas old Mrs. Beriah Dagon--dowager Mrs. Dagon, she was called--aunt ofMr. Newt, who never said, "I see the Magots have hired a hackney-coachfrom Jobbers to make calls in. They quarreled with Gudging over his lastbill. Medora Magot has turned her last year's silk, which is a littlestained and worn; but then it does just as well. "

By-and-by her nephew Boniface married Medora's sister, Nancy. 

It was Mrs. Dagon who sat with Mrs. Newt in her parlor, and said to her, "So your son Abel is coming home. I'm glad to hear it. I hope he knowshow to waltz, and isn't awkward. There are some very good matches to bemade; and I like to have a young man settle early. It's better for hismorals. Men are bad people, my dear. I think Maria Chubleigh would dovery well for Abel. She had a foolish affair with that Colonel Orson, but it's all over. Why on earth do girls fall in love with officers? Theynever have any pay worth speaking of, and a girl must tramp all over theland, and live I don't know how. Pshaw! it's a wretched business. How'sMr. Dinks? I saw him and Fanny waltzing last month at the Shrimps'. Whoare the Shrimps? Somebody says something about the immense fortune Mr. Shrimp has made in the oil trade. You should have seen Mrs. Winslow Orrypeering about at the Shrimps. I really believe she counted the spoons. What an eye that woman has, and what a tongue! Are you really going toSaratoga? Will Boniface let you? He is the kindest man! He is so generousthat I sometimes fear somebody'll be taking advantage of him. Graciousme! how hot it is!"

It was warm, and Mrs. Dagon fanned herself. When she and Mrs. Newtmet there was a tremendous struggle to get the first innings of theconversation, and neither surrendered the ground until fairly forcedoff by breathlessness and exhaustion. 

"Yes, we shall go to Saratoga, " began Mrs. Newt; "and I want Abel tocome, so as to take him. There'll be a very pleasant season. What a pityyou can't go! However, people must regard their time of life, and takecare of their health. There's old Mrs. Octoyne says she shall never giveup. She hopes to bring out her great-grand-daughter next winter, andsays she has no life but in society. I suppose you know Herbert Octoyneis engaged to one of the Shrimps. They keep their carriage, and the girlsdress very prettily. Herbert tells the young men that the Shrimps are afine old family, which has been long out of society, having no daughtersto marry; so they have not been obliged to appear. But I don't know aboutvisiting them. However, I suppose we shall. Herbert Octoyne will give 'emfamily, if they really haven't it; and the Octoynes won't be sorry forher money. What a pretty shawl! Did you hear that Mellish Whitloe hasgiven Laura a diamond pin which cost five hundred dollars? Extravagantfellow! Yet I like to have young men do these things handsomely. I dothink it's such a pity about Laura's nose--"

"She can smell with it, I suppose, mother; and what else do you want of anose?"

It was Miss Fanny Newt who spoke, and who had entered the room during theconversation. She was a tall young woman of about twenty, with firm, darkeyes, and abundant dark hair, and that kind of composure of manner whichis called repose in drawing-rooms and boldness in bar-rooms. 

"Gracious, Fanny, how you do disturb one! I didn't know you were there. Don't be ridiculous. Of course she can smell with it. But that isn't allyou want of a nose. "

"I suppose you want it to turn up at some people, " replied Miss Fanny, smoothing her dress, and looking in the glass. "Well, Aunt Dagon, who'veyou been lunching on?"

Aunt Dagon looked a little appalled. 

"My dear, what do you mean?" she said, fanning herself violently. "I hopeI never say any thing that isn't true about people. I'm sure I should bevery sorry to hurt any body's feelings. There's Mrs. Kite--you know, Joseph Kite's wife, the man they said really did cheat his creditors, only none of 'em would swear to it; well, Kitty Kite, my dear, does doand say the most abominable things about people. At the Shrimps' ball, when you were waltzing with Mr. Dinks, I heard her say to Mrs. Orry, 'Dolook at Fanny Newt hug that man!' It was dreadful to hear her say suchthings, my dear; and then to see the whole room stare at you! It wascruel--it was really unfeeling. "

Fanny did not wince. She merely said, "How old is Mrs. Kite, Aunt Dagon?"

"Well, let me see; she's about my age, I suppose. "

"Oh! well, Aunt, people at her time of life can't see or hear much, youknow. They ought to be in their beds with hot bottles at their feet, andnot obtrude themselves among people who are young enough to enjoy lifewith all their senses, " replied Miss Fanny, carelessly arranging a straylock of hair. 

"Indeed, Miss, you would like to shove all the married people into thewall, or into their graves, " retorted Mrs. Dagon, warmly. 

"Oh no, dear Aunt, only into their beds--and that not until theyare superannuated, which, you know, old people never find out forthemselves, " answered Fanny, smiling sweetly and calmly upon Mrs. Dagon. 

"What a country it is, Aunt!" said Mrs. Newt, looking at Fanny with akind of admiration. "How the young people take every thing into their ownhands! Dear me! dear me! how they do rule us!"

Miss Newt made no observation, but took up a gayly-bound book from thetable and looked carelessly into it. Mrs. Dagon rose to go. She hadsomewhat recovered her composure. 

"Don't think I believed it, dear, " said she to Fanny, in whom, perhaps, she recognized some of the family character. "No, no--not at all! I saidto every body in the room that I didn't believe what Mrs. Kite said, thatyou were hugging Mr. Dinks in the waltz. I believe I spoke to every bodyI knew, and they all said they didn't believe it either. "

"How kind it was of you, dear Aunt Dagon!" said Fanny, as she rose tosalute her departing relative, "and how generous people were not tobelieve it! But I couldn't persuade them that that beautiful lace-edgingon your dress was real Mechlin, although I tried very hard. They said itwas natural in me to insist upon it, because I was your grand-niece; andit was no matter at all, because old ladies could do just as theypleased; but for all that it was not Mechlin. I must have told as many asthirty people that they were wrong. But people's eyes are so sharp--it'sreally dreadful. Good-morning, darling Aunt Dagon!"

"Fanny dear, " said her mother, as the door closed upon Mrs. Dagon, whodeparted speechless and in what may be called a simmering state of mind, "Abel will be here in a day or two. I really hope to hear something aboutthis Miss Wayne. Do you suppose Alfred Dinks is actually engaged to her?"

"How should I know, mother?"

"Why, my dear, you have been so intimate with him. "

"My dear mother, how _can_ any body be intimate with Alfred Dinks? Youmight as well talk of breathing in a vacuum. "

"But, Fanny, he is a very good sort of young man--so respectable, andwith such good manners, and he has a very pretty fortune--"

Mrs. Newt was interrupted by the servant, who announced Mr. Wetherley. 

Poor Mr. Zephyr Wetherley! He was one of the rank and file ofsociety--one of the privates, so to speak, who are mentioned in a massafter a ball, as common soldiers are mentioned after a battle. He enteredthe room and bowed. Mrs. Newt seeing that it was one of her daughter'svisitors, left the room. Miss Fanny sat looking at the young man with herblack eyes so calmly that she seemed to him to be sitting a great way offin a cool darkness. Miss Fanny was not fond of Mr. Wetherley, althoughshe had seen plainly enough the indications of his feeling for her. Thismorning he was well gloved and booted. His costume was unexceptionable. Society of that day boasted few better-dressed men than Zephyr Wetherley. His judgment in a case of cravat was unerring. He had been in Europe, andwas quoted when waistcoats were in debate. He had been very attentive toMr. Alfred Dinks and Mr. Bowdoin Beacon, the two Boston youths who hadbeen charming society during the season that was now over. He was evena little jealous of Mr. Dinks. 

After Mrs. Newt had left the room Mr. Wetherley fell into confusion. Heimmediately embarked, of course, upon the weather; while Fanny, taking upa book, looked casually into it with a slight air of _ennui_. 

"Have you read this?" said she to Mr. Wetherley. 

"No, I suppose not; eh! what is it?" replied Zephyr, who was not areading man. 

"It is John Meal's 'Rachel Dyer. '"

"Oh, indeed! No, indeed. I have not read it!"

"What have you read, Mr. Wetherley?" inquired Fanny, glancing through thebook which she held in her hand. 

"Oh, indeed!--" he began. Then he seemed to undergo some internal spasm. He dropped his hat, slid his chair to the side of Fanny's, and said, "Ah, Miss Newt, how can you ask me at such a moment?"

Miss Fanny looked at him with a perfectly unruffled face. 

"Why not at this moment, Mr. Wetherley?"

"Ah, Miss Newt, how can you when you know my feelings? Did you not carrymy bouquet at the theatre last evening? Have you not long authorized meby your treatment to declare--"

"Stop, Mr. Wetherley, " said Fanny, calmly. "The day is warm--let usbe cool. Don't say any thing which you will regret to remember. Don'tmistake any thing that I have done as an indication of--"

"Oh, Miss Newt, " interrupted Zephyr, "how can you say such things? Hearme but one word. I assure you that I most deeply, tenderly, truly--"

"Mr. Wetherley, " said Fanny, putting down the book and speaking veryfirmly, "I really can not sit still and hear you proceed. You arelaboring under a great misapprehension. You must be aware that I havenever in the slightest way given you occasion to believe that I--"

"I must speak!" burst in the impetuous Zephyr. "My feelings forbidsilence! Great Heavens! Miss Newt, you really have no idea--I am sureyou have no idea--you can not have any idea of the ardor with which fora long, long time I have--"

"Mr. Wetherley, " said Fanny Newt, darker and cooler than ever, "it isuseless to prolong this conversation. I can not consent to hear youdeclare that--"

"But you haven't heard me declare it, " replied Zephyr, vehemently. "It'sthe very thing I am trying to do, and you won't let me. You keep cuttingme off just as I am saying how I--"

"You need go no further, Sir, " said Miss Newt, coldly, rising andstanding by the table; while Zephyr Wetherley, red and hot and confused, crushed his handkerchief into a ball, and swept his hand through hishair, wagging his foot, and rubbing his fingers together. "I understand, Sir, what you wish to say, and I desire to tell you only--"

"Just what I don't want to hear! Oh dear me! Please, please, Miss Newt!"entreated Zephyr Wetherley. 

"Mr. Wetherley, " interrupted the other, imperiously, "you wish to askme to marry you. I desire to spare you the pain of my answer to thatquestion by preventing your asking it. "

Mr. Wetherley was confounded. He wrinkled his brows doubtfully amoment--he stared at the floor and at Miss Newt--he looked foolish andmortified. "But--but--but--" stammered he. "Well--but--why--but--haven'tyou somehow answered the question?" inquired he, with gleams of doubtfulintelligence shooting across his face. 

Fanny Newt smiled icily. 

"As you please, " said she. 

Poor Zephyr was bewildered. 

"It is very confusing, somehow, Miss Newt, isn't it?" said he, wiping hisface. 

"Yes, Mr. Wetherley; one should always look before he leaps. "

"Yes, yes; oh, indeed, yes. A man had better look out, or--"

"Or he'll catch a Tartar!" said a clear, strange voice. 

Fanny Newt and Wetherley turned simultaneously toward the speaker. Itwas a young man, with clustering black hair and sparkling eyes, in atraveling dress. He stood in the back room, which he had entered throughthe conservatory. 

"Abel!" said his sister, running toward him, and pulling him forward. 

"Mr. Wetherley, this is my brother, Mr. Abel Newt. "

The young men bowed. 

"Oh, indeed!" said Zephyr. "How'd he come here listening?"

"Chance, chance, Mr. Wetherley. I have just returned from school. Prettytough old school-boy, hey? Well, it's all the grandpa's doing. Grandpasare extraordinary beings, Mr. Wetherley. Now there was--"

"Oh, indeed! Really, I must go. Good-morning, Miss Newt. Good-morning, Sir. " And Mr. Zephyr Wetherley departed. 

The brother and sister laughed. 

"Sensible fellow, " said Abel; "he flies the grandpas. "

"How did you come here, you wretch!" asked Fanny, "listening to mysecrets?"

"My dear, I arrived this morning, only half an hour ago. I let myselfin by my pass-key, and, hearing voices in the parlor, I went round by theconservatory to spy out the land. Then and there I beheld this spectacle. Fanny, you're wonderful. "

Miss Newt made a demure courtesy. 

"So you've really come home for good? Well, Abel, I'm glad. Now you'rehere I shall have a man of my own to attend me next winter. And there'sto be the handsome Boston bride here, you know, next season. "

"Who is she?" said Abel, laughing, sinking into a chair. "Mother wroteme you said that all Boston girls are dowdy. Who is the dowdy of nextwinter?"

"Mrs. Alfred Dinks, " replied Fanny, carelessly, but looking with herkeenest glance at Abel. 

He, sprang up and began to say something; but his sister's eye arrestedhim. 

"Oh yes, " said he, hurriedly--"Dinks, I've heard about Alfred Dinks. What a devil of a name!"

"Come, dear, you'd better go up stairs and see mamma, " said Fanny; "andI'm so sorry you missed Aunt Dagon. She was here this morning, lovely asever. But I think the velvet is wearing off her claws. "

Fanny Newt laughed a cold little laugh. Abel went out of the room. 

"Master Abel, then, does know Miss Hope Wayne, " said she to herself. "Hemore than knows her--he loves her--or thinks he does. Wouldn't he haveknown if she had been engaged to her cousin?"

She pondered a little while. 

"I don't believe, " thought Miss Fanny, "that she is engaged to him. "

Miss Fanny was pleased with that thought, because she meant to be engagedto him herself, if it proved to be true, as every body declared, that hehad ten or fifteen thousand a year. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

A NEW YORK MERCHANT. 

Mr. Lawrence Newt, the brother of Boniface, sat in his office. Itwas upon South Street, and the windows looked out upon the shippingin the East River--upon the ferry-boats incessantly crossing--upon thelofty city of Brooklyn opposite, with its spires. He heard the sailorssing--the oaths of the stevedores--the bustle of the carts, and the humand scuffle of the passers-by. As he sat at his table he saw the shipshaul into the stream--the little steamers that puffed alongside bringingthe passengers; then, if the wind were not fair, pulling and shoving thehuge hulks into a space large enough for them to manage themselves in. 

Sometimes he watched the parting of passengers at the wharf when the windwas fair, and the ship could sail from her berth. The vast sails wereslowly unfurled, were shaken out, hung for a few moments, then shooklazily, then filled round and full with the gentle, steady wind. Mr. Lawrence Newt laughed as he watched, for he thought of fine ladiestaking their hair out of curl-papers, and patting and smoothing androlling it upon little sticks and over little fingers until the curlsstood round and full, and ready for action. 

Then the ship moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, from the wharf--soslowly, so imperceptibly, that the people on board thought the city wassliding away from them. The merchant saw the solid, trim, beautifulvessel turn her bow southward and outward, and glide gently down theriver. Her hull was soon lost to his eyes, but he could see the streamerfluttering at the mast-head over the masts of the other vessels. Whilehe looked it vanished--the ship was gone. 

Often enough Mr. Lawrence Newt stood leaning his head against thewindow-frame of his office after the ship had disappeared, and seemedto be looking at the ferry-boats or at the lofty city of Brooklyn. Buthe saw neither. Faster than ship ever sailed, or wind blew, or lightflashed, the thought of Lawrence Newt darted, and the merchant, seeminglyleaning against his office-window in South Street, was really sittingunder palm-trees, or dandling in a palanquin, or chatting in a strangetongue, or gazing in awe upon snowier summits than the villagers ofChamouni have ever seen. 

And what was that dark little hand he seemed to himself to press?--andwhat were those eyes, soft depths of exquisite darkness, into whichthrough his own eyes his soul seemed to be sinking?

There were clerks busily writing in the outer office. It was dark inthat office when Mr. Newt first occupied the rooms, and Thomas Tray, thebook-keeper, who had the lightest place, said that the eyes of Venables, the youngest clerk, were giving out. Young Venables, a lad of sixteen, supported a mother and sister and infirm father upon his five hundreddollars a year. 

"Eyes giving out in my service, Thomas Tray! I am ashamed of myself. "

And Lawrence Newt hired the adjoining office, knocked down all the walls, and introduced so much daylight that it shone not only into the eyes ofyoung Venables, but into those of his mother and sister and infirmfather. 

It was scratch, scratch, scratch, all day long in the clerks' office. Messengers were coming and going. Samples were brought in. Draymen camefor orders. Apple-women and pie-men dropped in about noon, and there wereplenty of cheap apples and cheap jokes when the peddlers were youngand pretty. Customers came and brother merchants, who went into Mr. Lawrence Newt's room. They talked China news, and South American news, and Mediterranean news. Their conversation was full of the names ofplaces of which poems and histories have been written. The merchantsjoked complacent jokes. They gossiped a little when business had beendiscussed. So young Whitloe was really to marry Magot's daughter, and theDoolittle money would go to the Magots after all! And old Jacob VanBoozenberg had actually left off knee-breeches and white cravats, andnone of his directors knew him when he came into the Bank in moderncostume. And there was no doubt that Mrs. Dagon wore cotton lace atthe Orrys', for Winslow's wife said she saw it with her own eyes. 

Mr. Lawrence Newt's talk ceased with that about business. When thescandal set in, his mind seemed to set out. He stirred the fire ifit were winter. He stepped into the outer office. He had a word forVenables. Had Miss Venables seen the new novel by Mr. Bulwer? It iscalled "Pelham, " and will be amusing to read aloud in the family. WillMr. Venables call at Carville's on his way up, have the book chargedto Mr. Lawrence Newt, and present it, with Mr. Newt's compliments, tohis sister? If it were summer he opened the window, when it happened tobe closed, and stood by it, or drew his chair to it and looked at theships and the streets, and listened to the sailors swearing when hemight have heard merchants, worth two or three hundred thousand dollarsapiece, talking about Mrs. Dagon's cotton lace. 

One day he sat at his table writing letters. He was alone in the innerroom; but the sun that morning did not see a row of pleasanter faces thanwere bending over large books in odoriferous red Russia binding, andlittle books in leather covers, and invoices and sheets of letter paper, in the outer office of Lawrence Newt. 

A lad entered the office and stood at the door, impressed by the silentactivity he beheld. He did not speak; the younger clerks looked up amoment, then went on with their work. It was clearly packet-day. 

The lad remained silent for so long a time, as if his profound respectfor the industry he saw before him would not allow him to speak, thatThomas Tray looked up at last, and said, "Well, Sir?"

"May I see Mr. Newt, Sir?"

"In the other room, " said Mr. Tray, with his goose-quill in his mouth, nodding his head toward the inner office, and turning over with bothhands a solid mass of leaves in his great, odoriferous red Russiabook, and letting them gently down--proud of being the author of thatclearly-written, massive work, containing an accurate biography ofLawrence Newt's business. 

The youth tapped at the glass door. Mr. Newt said, "Come in, " and, whenthe door opened, looked up, and still holding his pen with the ink init poised above the paper, he said, kindly, "Well, Sir? Be short. It'spacket-day. "

"I want a place, Sir. "

"What kind of a place?"

"In a store, Sir. "

"I'm sorry I'm all full. But sit down while I finish these letters; thenwe'll talk about it. "

CHAPTER XV. 

A SCHOOL-BOY NO LONGER. 

The lad seated himself by the window. Scratch--scratch--scratch. The sunsparkled in the river. The sails, after yesterday's rain, were loosenedto dry, and were white as if it had rained milk upon them instead ofwater. Every thing looked cheerful and bright from Lawrence Newt'swindow. The lad saw with delight how much sunshine there was in theoffice. 

"I don't believe it would hurt my health to work here, " thought he. Mr. Lawrence Newt rang a little bell. Venables entered quietly. 

"Most ready out there?" asked Mr. Newt. 

"Most ready, Sir. "

"Brisk's the word this morning, you know. Please to copy these letters. "

Venables said nothing, took the letters, and went out. 

"Now, young man, " said the merchant, "tell me what you want. "

The lad's heart turned toward him like a fallow-field to the May sun. 

"My father's been unfortunate, Sir, and I want to do something formyself. He advised me to come to you. "

"Why?"

"Because he said you would give me good advice if you couldn't give meemployment. "

"Well, Sir, you seem a strong, likely lad. Have you ever been in astore?"

"No, Sir. I left school last week. "

Mr. Newt looked out of the window. 

"Your father's been unfortunate?"

"Yes, Sir. "

"How's that? Has he told a lie, or lost his eyes, or his health, or hashis daughter married a drunkard?" asked Mr. Lawrence Newt, looking at thelad with a kindly humor in his eyes. 

"Oh no, Sir, " replied the boy, surprised. "He's lost his money. "

"Oh ho! his money! And it is the loss of money which you call'unfortunate. ' Now, my boy, think a moment. Is there any thing belongingto your father which he could so well spare? Has he any superfluous boyor girl? any useless arm or leg? any unnecessary good temper or honesty?any taste for books, or pictures, or the country, that he would partwith? Is there any thing which he owns that it would not be a greatermisfortune to him to lose than his money? Honor bright, my boy. If youthink there is, say so!"

The youth smiled. 

"Well, Sir, I suppose worse things could happen to us than poverty, " saidhe. 

Mr. Lawrence Newt interrupted him by remarks which were belied by hisbeaming face. 

"Worse things than poverty! Why, my boy, what are you thinking of? Doyou not know that it is written in the largest efforts upon the heartsof all Americans, 'Resist poverty, and it will flee from you?' If youdo not begin by considering poverty the root of all evil, where onearth do you expect to end? Cease to be poor, learn to be rich. I'mafraid you don't read the good book. So your father has health"--the boynodded--"and a whole body, a good temper, an affectionate family, generous and refined tastes, pleasant relations with others, a warmheart, a clear conscience"--the boy nodded with an increasing enthusiasmof assent--"and yet you call him unfortunate--ruined! Why, look here, myson; there's an old apple-woman at the corner of Burling Slip, where Istop every day and buy apples; she's sixty years old, and through thickand thin, under a dripping wreck of an umbrella when it rains, under thesky when it shines--warming herself by a foot-stove in winter, by the sunin summer--there the old creature sits. She has an old, sick, queruloushusband at home, who tries to beat her. Her daughters are all out atservice--let us hope, in kind families--her sons are dull, ignorant men;her home is solitary and forlorn; she can not read much, nor does shewant to; she is coughing her life away, and succeeds in selling applesenough to pay her rent and buy food for her old man and herself. She toldme yesterday that she was a most fortunate woman. What does the wordmean? I give it up. "

The lad looked around the spacious office, on every table and desk andchair of which was written Prosperity as plainly as the name of LawrenceNewt upon the little tin sign by the door. Except for the singularmagnetism of the merchant's presence, which dissipated such a suggestionas rapidly as it rose, the youth would have said aloud what was in hisheart. 

"How easy 'tis for a rich man to smile at poverty!"

The man watched the boy, and knew exactly what he was thinking. As theeyes of the younger involuntarily glanced about the office and presentlyreturned to the merchant, they found the merchant's gazing so keenly thatthey seemed to be mere windows through which his soul was looking. Butthe keen earnestness melted imperceptibly into the usual sweetness asLawrence Newt said, "You think I can talk prettily about misfortune because I know nothingabout it. You make a great mistake. No man, even in jest, can talk wellof what he doesn't understand. So don't misunderstand me. I am rich, butI am not fortunate. "

He said it in the same tone as before. 

"If you wanted a rose and got only a butter-cup, should you thinkyourself fortunate?" asked Mr. Newt. 

"Why, yes, Sir. A man can't expect to have every thing precisely as hewants it, " replied the boy. 

"My young friend, you are of opinion that a half loaf is better than nobread. True--so am I. But never make the mistake of supposing a half tobe the whole. Content is a good thing. When the man sent for cake, andsaid, 'John, if you can't get cake, get smelts, ' he did wisely. Butsmelts are not cake for all that. What's your name?" asked Mr. Newt, abruptly. 

"Gabriel Bennet, " replied the boy. 

"Bennet--Bennet--what Bennet?"

"I don't know, Sir. "

Lawrence Newt was apparently satisfied with this answer. He only said:

"Well, my son, you do wisely to say at once you don't know, instead ofgoing back to somebody a few centuries ago, of whose father you have tomake the same answer. The Newts, however, you must be aware, are a veryold family. " The merchant smiled. "They came into England with theNormans; but who they came into Normandy with I don't know. Do you?"

Gabriel laughed, with a pleasant feeling of confidence in his companion. 

"Have you been at school in the city?" asked the merchant. 

Gabriel told him that he had been at Mr. Gray's. 

"Oh ho! then you know my nephew Abel?"

"Yes, Sir, " replied Gabriel, coloring. 

"Abel is a smart boy, " said Mr. Newt. 

Gabriel made no reply. 

"Do you like Abel?"

Gabriel paused a moment; then said, "No, Sir. "

The merchant looked at the boy for a few moments. 

"Who did you like at school?"

"Oh, I liked Jim Greenidge and Little Malacca best, ", replied Gabriel, asif the whole world must be familiar with those names. 

At the mention of the latter Lawrence Newt looked interested, and, aftertalking a little more, said, "Gabriel, I take you into my office. "

He called Mr. Tray. 

"Thomas Tray, this is the youngest clerk, Gabriel Bennet. Gabriel, thisis the head of the outer office, Mr. Thomas Tray. Thomas, ask Venables tostep this way. "

That young man appeared immediately. 

"Mr. Venables, you are promoted. You have seven hundred dollars a year, and are no longer youngest clerk. Gabriel Bennet, this is Frank Venables. Be friends. Now go to work. "

There was a general bowing, and Thomas Tray and the two young menretired. 

As they went out Mr. Newt opened a letter which had been brought in fromthe Post during the interview. 

"DEAR SIR, --I trust you will pardon this intrusion. It is a long timesince I have had the honor of writing to you; but I thought you wouldwish to know that Miss Wayne will be in New York, for the first time, within a day or two after you receive this letter. She is with her aunt, Mrs. Dinks, who will stay at Bunker's. 

"Respectfully yours, "JANE SIMCOE. "

Lawrence Newt's head drooped as he sat. Presently he arose and walked upand down the office. 

Meanwhile Gabriel was installed. That ceremony consisted of offering hima high stool with a leathern seat. Mr. Tray remarked that he should havea drawer in the high desk, on both sides of which the clerks were seated. The installation was completed by Mr. Tray's formally introducing thenew-comer to the older clerks. 

The scratching began again. Gabriel looked curiously upon the work inwhich he was now to share. The young men had no words for him. Mr. Newtwas engaged within. The boy had a vague feeling that he must shift forhimself--that every body was busy--that play in this life had ended andwork begun. The thought tasted to him much more like smelts than cake. And while he was wisely left by Thomas Tray to familiarize himself withthe entire novelty of the situation his mind flashed back to Delafieldwith an aching longing, and the boy would willingly have put his face inhis hands and wept. But he sat quietly looking at his companions--untilMr. Tray said, "Gabriel, I want you to copy this invoice. "

And Gabriel was a school-boy no longer. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

PHILOSOPHY. 

Abel Newt believed in his lucky star. He had managed UncleSavory--couldn't he manage the world?

"My son, " said Mr. Boniface Newt, "you are now about to begin theworld. " (Begin? thought Abel. ) "You are now coming into my house asa merchant. In this world we must do the best we can. It is a greatpity that men are not considerate, and all that. But they are not. Theyare selfish. You must take them as you find them. _You_, my son, thinkthey are all honest and good. "--Do I? quoth son, in his soul. --"It isthe bitter task of experience to undeceive youth from its romanticdreams. As a rule, Abel, men are rascals; that is to say, they pursuetheir own interests. How sad! True; how sad! Where was I? Oh! men arescamps--with some exceptions; but you must go by the rule. Life is ascrub-race--melancholy, Abel, but true. I talk plainly to you, but Ido it for your good. If we were all angels, things would be different. If this were the Millennium, every thing would doubtless be agreeableto every body. But it is not--how very sad! True, how very sad! Wherewas I? Oh! it's all devil take the hindmost. And because your neighborsare dishonest, why should you starve? You see, Abel?"

It was in Mr. Boniface Newt's counting-room that he preached this gospel. A boy entered and announced that Mr. Hadley was outside looking at somecases of dry goods. 

"Now, Abel, " said his father, "I'll return in a moment. "

He stepped out, smiling and rubbing his hands. Mr. Hadley was stoopingover a case of calicoes; Blackstone, Hadley, & Merrimack--no saferpurchasers in the world. The countenance of Boniface Newt beamed uponthe customer as if he saw good notes at six months exuding from everypart of his person. 

"Good-morning, Mr. Hadley. Charming morning, Sir--beautiful day, Sir. What's the word this morning, Sir?"

"Nothing, nothing, " returned the customer. "Pretty print that. Just whatI've been looking for" (renewed rubbing of hands on the part of Mr. Newt)--"very pretty. If it's the right width, it's just the thing. Let mesee--that's about seven-eighths. " He shook his head negatively. "No, notwide enough. If that print were a yard wide, I should take all you have. "

"Oh, that's a yard, " replied Mr. Newt; "certainly a full yard. " He lookedaround inquiringly, as if for a yard-stick. 

"Where is the yard-stick?" asked Mr. Hadley. 

"Timothy!" said Mr. Newt to the boy, with a peculiar look. 

The boy disappeared and reappeared with a yard-stick, while Mr. Newt'sface underwent a series of expressions of subdued anger and disgust. 

"Now, then, " said Mr. Hadley, laying the yard-stick upon the calicoes;"yes, as I thought, seven-eighths; too narrow--sorry. "

There were thirty cases of those goods in the loft. Boniface Newt groanedin soul. The unconscious small boy, who had not understood the peculiarlook, and had brought the yard-stick, stood by. 

"Mr. Newt, " said Hadley, stopping at another case, "that is veryhandsome. "

"Very, very; and that is the last case. "

"You have no other cases?"

"No. "

"Oh! well, send it round at once; for I am sure--"

"Mr. Newt, " said the unconscious boy, smiling with the satisfaction ofone who is able to correct an error, "you are mistaken, Sir. There are adozen more cases just like that up stairs. "

"Ah! then I don't care about it, " said Mr. Hadley, passing on. The headof the large commission-house of Boniface Newt & Co. Looked upon thepoint of apoplexy. 

"Good-morning, Mr. Newt; sorry that I see nothing farther, " said Mr. Hadley, and he went out. 

Mr. Newt turned fiercely to the unconscious boy. 

"What do you mean, Sir, by saying and doing such things?" asked he, sharply. 

"What things, Sir?" demanded the appalled boy. 

"Why, getting the yard-stick when I winked to you not to find it, andtelling of other cases when I said that one was the last. "

"Why, Sir, because it wasn't the last, " said the boy. 

"For business purposes it _was_ the last, Sir, " replied Mr. Newt. "Youdon't know the first principles of business. The tongue is always themischief-maker. Hold your tongue, Sir, hold your tongue, or you'll loseyour place, Sir. "

Mr. Boniface Newt, ruffled and red, went into his office, where he foundAbel reading the newspaper and smoking a cigar. The clerks outside werepale at the audacity, of Newt, Jun. The young man was dressed extremelywell. He had improved the few weeks of his residence in the city byvisits to Frost the tailor, in Maiden Lane; and had sent his measureto Forr, the bootmaker in Paris, artists who turned out the prettiestfigures that decorated the Broadway of those days. Mr. Abel Newt, to hisfather's eyes, had the air of a man of superb leisure; and as he satreading the paper, with one leg thrown over the arm of the office-chair, and the smoke languidly curling from his lips, Mr. Boniface Newt feltprofoundly, but vaguely, uncomfortable, as if he had some slightprescience of a future of indolence for the hope of the house of Newt. 

As his father entered, Mr. Abel dropped by his side the hand stillholding the newspaper, and, without removing the cigar, said, throughthe cloud of smoke he blew, "Father, you were imparting your philosophy of life. "

The older gentleman, somewhat discomposed, answered, "Yes, I was saying what a pity it is that men are such d----d rascals, because they force every body else to be so too. But what can you do?It's all very fine to talk, but we've got to live. I sha'n't be such anass as to run into the street and say, 'I gave ten cents a yard for thosegoods, but you must pay me twenty. ' Not at all. It's other men's businessto find that out if they can. It's a great game, business is, and thesmartest chap wins. Every body knows we are going to get the largestprice we can. People are gouging, and shinning, and sucking all round. It's give and take. I am not here to look out for other men, I'm here totake care of myself--for nobody else will. It's very sad, I know; it'svery sad, indeed. It's absolutely melancholy. Ah, yes! where was I? Oh!I was saying that a lie well stuck to is better than the truth wavering. It's perfectly dreadful, my son, from some points of view--Christianity, for instance. But what on earth are you going to do? The only happypeople are the rich people, for they don't have this eternal bother howto make money. Don't misunderstand me, my son; I do not say that you mustalways tell stories. Heaven forbid! But a man is not bound always to tellthe whole truth. The very law itself says that no man need give evidenceagainst himself. Besides, business is no worse than every other calling. Do you suppose a lawyer never defends a man whom he knows to be guilty?He says he does it to give the culprit a fair trial. Fiddle-de-dee! Hestrains every nerve to get the man off. A lawyer is hired to take theside of a company or a corporation in every quarrel. He's paid by theyear or by the case. He probably stops to consider whether his companyis right, doesn't he? he works for justice, not for victory? Oh, yes!stuff! He works for fees. What's the meaning of a retainer? That if, uponexamination, the lawyer finds the retaining party to be in the right, hewill undertake the case? Fiddle! no! but that he will undertake the caseany how and fight it through. So 'tis all round. I wish I was rich, andI'd be out of it. "

Mr. Boniface Newt discoursed warmly; Mr. Abel Newt listened with extremecoolness. He whiffed his cigar, and leaned his head on one side as hehearkened to the wisdom of experience; observing that his father put hispractice into words and called it philosophy. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

OF GIRLS AND FLOWERS. 

Mr. Abel Newt was not a philosopher; he was a man of action. 

He told his mother that he could not accompany her to the Springs, because he must prepare himself to enter the counting-room of his father. But the evening before she left, Mrs. Newt gave a little party for Mrs. Plumer, of New Orleans. So Miss Grace, of whom his mother had writtenAbel, and who was just about leaving school, left school and enteredsociety, simultaneously, by taking leave of Madame de Feuille and makingher courtesy at Mrs. Boniface Newt's. 

Madame de Feuille's was a "finishing" school. An extreme polish wasgiven to young ladies by Madame de Feuille. By her generous system theywere fitted to be wives of men of even the largest fortune. There wasnot one of her pupils who would not have been equal to the addresses ofa millionaire. It is the profound conviction of all who were familiarwith that seminary that the pupils would not have shrunk from marryinga crown-prince, or any king in any country who confined himself toChristian wedlock with one wife, or even the son of an English duke--soperfect was the polish, so liberal the education. 

Mrs. Newt's party was select. Mrs. Plumer, Miss Grace Plumer and theMagots, with Mellish Whitloe, of course; and Mrs. Osborne Moultrie, alovely woman from Georgia, and her son Sligo, a slim, graceful gentleman, with fair hair and eyes; Dr. And Mrs. Lush, Rev. Dr. And Mrs. Maundy, whocame only upon the express understanding that there was to be no dancing, and a few other agreeable people. It was a Summer party, Abel said--merelow-necked muslin, strawberries and ice-cream. 

The eyes of the strangers of the gentler sex soon discovered the dark, rich face of Abel, who moved among the groups with the grace and ease ofan accomplished man of society, smiling brightly upon his friends, bowinggravely to those of his mother's guests whom he did not personally know. 

"Who is that?" asked Mrs. Whetwood Tully, who had recently returned withher daughter, one of Madame de Feuille's finest successes, from a foreigntour. 

"That is my brother Abel, " replied Miss Fanny. 

"Your brother Abel? how charming! How very like he is to ViscountTattersalls. You've not been in England, I believe, Miss Newt?"

Fanny bowed negatively. 

"Ah! then you have never seen Lord Tattersalls. He is a very superioryoung man. We were very intimate with him indeed. Dolly, dear!"

"Yes, ma. "

"You remember our particular friend Lord Viscount Tattersalls?"

"Was he a bishop?" asked Miss Fanny Newt. 

"Law! no, my dear. He was a--he was a--why, he was a Viscount, youknow--a Viscount. "

"Oh! a Viscount?"

"Yes, a Viscount. "

"Ah! a Viscount. "

"Well, Dolly dear, do you see how much Mr. Abel Newt resembles LordTattersalls?"

"Yes, ma. "

"It's very striking, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma. "

"Or now I look, I think he is even more like the Marquis of Crockford. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, ma?"

"Very like indeed. "

"Yes, ma. "

"Dolly, dear, don't you think his nose is like the Duke of Wellington's?You remember the Wellington nose, my child?"

"Yes, ma. "

"Or is it Lord Brougham's that I mean?"

"Yes, ma. "

"Yes, dear. "

"May I present my brother Abel, Miss Tally?" asked Fanny Newt. 

"Yes, I'm sure, " said Miss Tully. 

Fanny Newt turned just as a song began in the other room, out of whichopened the conservatory. 

"Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sair wi' his love he did deave me:I said there was naething I hated like men-- The deuce gae wi'm to believe'me, believe me, The deuce gae wi'm to believe me. "

The rooms were hushed as the merry song rang out. The voice of the singerwas arch, and her eye flashed slyly on Abel Newt as she finished, and amurmur of pleasure rose around her. 

Abel leaned upon the piano, with his eyes fixed upon the singer. He wasfully conscious of the surprise he had betrayed to sister Fanny when shespoke suddenly of Mrs. Alfred Dinks. It was necessary to remove anysuspicion that she might entertain in consequence. If Mr. Abel Newt hadintentions in which Miss Hope Wayne was interested, was there any reasonwhy Miss Fanny Newt should mingle in the matter?

As Miss Plumer finished the song Abel saw his sister coming toward himthrough the little crowd, although his eyes seemed to be constantly fixedupon the singer. 

"How beautiful!" said he, ardently, in a low voice, looking Grace Plumerdirectly in the eyes. 

"Yes, it is a pretty song. "

"Oh! you mean the song?" said Abel. 

The singer blushed, and took up a bunch of roses that she had laid uponthe piano and began to play with them. 

"How very warm it is!" said she. 

"Yes, " said Abel. "Let us take a turn in the conservatory--it is bothdarker and cooler; and I think your eyes will give light and warmthenough to our conversation. "

"Dear me! if you depend upon me it will be the Arctic zone in theconservatory, " said Miss Grace Plumer, as she rose from the piano. (Mrs. Newt had written Abel she was fourteen! She was seventeen in May. )

"No, no, " said Abel, "we shall find the tropics in that conservatory. "

"Then look out for storms!" replied Miss Plumer, laughing. 

Abel offered his arm, and the young couple moved through the hummingroom. The arch eyes were cast down. The voice of the youth was very low. 

He felt a touch, and turned. He knew very well who it was. It was hissister. 

"Abel, I want to present you to Miss Whetwood Tully. "

"My dear Fanny, I can not turn from roses to violets. Miss Tully, I amsure, is charming. I would go with you with all my heart if I could, "said he, smiling and looking at Miss Plumer; "but, you see, all my heartis going here. "

Grace Plumer blushed again. He was certainly a charming young man. 

Fanny Newt, with lips parted, looked at him a moment and shook herhead gently. Abel was sure she would happen to find herself in theconservatory presently, whither he and his companion slowly passed. It was prettily illuminated with a few candles, but was left purposelydim. 

"How lovely it is here! Oh! how fond I am of flowers!" said Miss Plumer, with the prettiest little rapture, and such a little spring that Abel wasobliged to hold her arm more closely. 

"Are you fond of flowers, Mr. Newt?"

"Yes; but I prefer them living. "

"Living flowers--what a poetic idea! But what do you mean?" asked GracePlumer, hanging her head. 

Abel saw somebody on the cane sofa under the great orange-tree, almosthidden in the shade. Dear Fanny! thought he. 

"My dear Grace, " began Abel, in his lowest, sweetest voice; but theconservatory was so still that the words could have been easily heardby any one sitting upon the sofa. 

Some one was sitting there--some one did hear. Abel smiled in his heart, and bent more closely to his companion. His manner was full of tenderdevotion. He and Grace came nearer. Some one not only heard, but started. Abel raised his eyes smilingly to meet Fanny's. Somebody else startedthen; for under the great orange-tree, on the cane sofa, sat LawrenceNewt and Hope Wayne. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

OLD FRIENDS AND NEW. 

Lawrence Newt had called at Bunker's, and found Mrs. Dinks and MissHope Wayne. They were sitting at the window upon Broadway watching thepromenaders along that famous thoroughfare; for thirty years ago thefashionable walk was between the Park and the Battery, and Bunker's wasclose to Morris Street, a little above the Bowling Green. 

When Mr. Newt was announced Hope Wayne felt as if she were suffocating. She knew but one person of that name. Her aunt supposed it to be thehusband of her friend, Mrs. Nancy Newt, whom she had seen upon a previousvisit to New York this same summer. They both looked up and saw agentleman they had never seen before. He bowed pleasantly, and said, "Ladies, my name is Lawrence Newt. "

There was a touch of quaintness in his manner, as in his dress. 

"You will find the city quite deserted, " said he. "But I have called withan invitation from my sister, Mrs. Boniface Newt, for this evening to asmall party. She incloses her card, and begs you to waive the formalityof a call. "

That was the way that Lawrence Newt and Hope Wayne came to be sittingon the cane sofa under the great orange-tree in Boniface Newt'sconservatory. 

They had entered the room and made their bows to Mrs. Nancy; and Mr. Lawrence, wishing to talk to Miss Hope, had led her by another way tothe conservatory, and so Mr. Abel had failed to see them. 

As they sat under the tree Lawrence Newt conversed with Hope in a tone ofearnest and respectful tenderness that touched her heart. She could notunderstand the winning kindliness of his manner, nor could she resist it. He spoke of her home with an accuracy of detail that surprised her. 

"It was not the same house in my day, and you, perhaps, hardly remembermuch of the old one. The house is changed, but nothing else; no, nothingelse, " he added, musingly, and with the same dreamy expression in hiseyes that was in them when he leaned against his office window andwatched the ships--while his mind sailed swifter and farther than they. 

"They can not touch the waving outline of the hills that you see from thelawn, nor the pine-trees that shade the windows. Does the little brookstill flow in the meadow below? And do you understand the pine-trees? Dothey tell any tales?"

He asked it with a half-mournful gayety. He asked as if he both longedand feared that she should say, "Yes, they have told me: I know all. "

The murmurs of the singing came floating out to them as they sat. Hopewas happy and trustful. She was in the house of Abel--she should seehim--she should hear him! And this dear gentleman--not exactly like afather nor an uncle--well, yes, perhaps a young uncle--he is brother ofAbel's mother, and he mysteriously knows so much about Pinewood, and hissmiling voice has a tear in it as he speaks of old days. I love himalready--I trust him entirely--I have found a friend. 

"Shall we go in again?" said Lawrence Newt. But they saw some oneapproaching, and before they arose, while they were still silent, andHope's heart was like the dawning summer heaven, she suddenly heard AbelNewt's words, and watched him, speechlessly, as he and his companionglided by her into the darkness. It was the vision of a moment; but inthe attitude, the tone, the whole impression, Hope Wayne instinctivelyfelt treachery. 

"Yes, let us go in!" she said to Lawrence Newt, as she rose calmly. 

Abel had passed. He could no more have stopped and shaken hands with HopeWayne than he could have sung like a nightingale. He could not even raisehis head erect as he went by--something very stern and very strong seemedto hold it down. 

Miss Plumer's head was also bent; she was waiting to hear the end of thatsentence. She thought society opened beautifully. Such a handsome fellowin such a romantic spot, beginning his compliments in such a low, richvoice, with his hair almost brushing hers. But he did not finish. AbelNewt was perfectly silent. He glided away with Grace Plumer into gratefulgloom, and her ears, exquisitely apprehensive, caught from his lips not aword further. 

Lawrence Newt rose as Hope requested, and they moved away. She found heraunt, and stood by her side. The young men were brought up and presented, and submitted their observations upon the weather, asked her how sheliked New York--were delighted to hear that she would pass the nextwinter in the city--would show her then that New York had some claim toattention even from a Bostonian--were charmed, really, with Mr. BowdoinBeacon and--and--Mr. Alfred Dinks; at mention of which name they lookedin her face in the most gentlemanly manner to see the red result, asif the remark had been a blister, but they saw only an unconsciousabstraction in her own thoughts, mingled with an air of attention towhat they were saying. 

"Miss Hope, " said Lawrence Newt, who approached her with a young woman byhis side, "I want you to know my friend Amy Waring. "

The two girls looked at each other and bowed. Then they shook hands witha curious cordiality. 

Amy Waring had dark eyes--not round and hard and black--not ebony eyes, but soft, sympathetic eyes, in which you expect to see images as lovelyas the Eastern traveler sees when he remembers home and looks in the dropheld in the palm of the hand of the magician's boy. They had the fresh, unworn, moist light of flowers early in June mornings, when they arefull of sun and dew. And there was the same transparent, rich, puredarkness in her complexion. It was not swarthy, nor black, nor gloomy. It did not look half Indian, nor even olive. It was an illuminatedshadow. 

The two girls--they were women, rather--went together to a sofa and satdown. Hope Wayne's impulse was to lay her head upon her new friend'sshoulder and cry; for Hope was prostrated by the unexpected vision ofAbel, as a strong man is unnerved by sudden physical pain. She felt theoverwhelming grief of a child, and longed to give way to it utterly. 

"I am glad to know you, Miss Wayne!" said Amy Waring, in a cordial, cheerful voice, with a pleasant smile. 

Hope bowed, and thanked her. 

"I find that Mr. Newt's friends always prove to be mine, " continued Amy. 

"I am glad of it; but I don't know why I am his friend, " said Hope. "Inever saw him until to-day. He must have lived in Delafield. Do you knowhow that is?"

She found conversation a great relief, and longed to give way to a kindof proud, indignant volubility. 

"No; but he seems to have lived every where, to have seen every thing, and to have known every body. A very useful acquaintance, I assure you!"said Amy, smiling. 

"Is he married?" asked Hope. 

There was the least little blush upon Amy's cheek as she heard thisquestion; but so slight, that if any body had thought he observed it, hewould have looked again and said, "No, I was mistaken, " Perhaps, too, there was the least little fluttering of a heart otherwise unconscious. But words are like breezes that blow hither and thither, and the leavesupon the most secluded trees in the very inmost covert of the wood maysometimes feel a breath, and stir with responsive music before theyare aware. 

Amy Waring replied, pleasantly, that he was not married. Hope Wayne said, "What a pity!" Amy smiled, and asked, "Why a pity?"

"Because such a man would be so happy if he were married, and would makeothers so happy! He has been in love, you may be sure. "

"Yes, " replied Amy; "I have no doubt of that. We don't see men of forty, or so, who have not been touched--"

"By what?" asked Lawrence Newt, who had come up silently, and now stoodbeside her. 

"Yes, by what?" interposed Miss Fanny, who had been very busy during thewhole evening, trying to get into her hands the threads of the variousinterests that she saw flying and streaming all around her. She had seenMr. Alfred Dinks devoted to Miss Wayne, and was therefore confirmed inher belief that they were engaged. She had seen Abel flirting with Grace, and was therefore satisfied that he cared nothing about her. She had donethe best she could with Alfred Dinks, but was extremely dissatisfied withher best; and, seeing Hope and Amy together, she had been hovering aboutthem for a long time, anxious to overhear or to join in. 

"Really, " said Amy, looking up with a smile, "I was making a veryinnocent remark. "

"Perfectly innocent, I'm sure!" replied Fanny, in her sweetest manner. It was such a different sweetness from Amy Waring's, that Hope turnedand looked very curiously at Miss Fanny. 

"There are few men of forty who have not been in love, " said Amy, calmly. "That is what I was saying. "

As there was only one man of forty, or near that age, in the littlegroup, the appeal was evidently to him. Lawrence Newt looked at thethree girls, with the swimming light in his eyes, half crushing them andsmiling, so that every one of them felt, each in her own way, that theywere as completely blinded by that smile as by a glare of sunlight--whichalso, like that smile, is warm, and not treacherous. 

They could not see beyond the words, nor hope to. 

"Miss Amy is right, as usual, " said he. 

"Why, Uncle Lawrence, tell us all about it!" said Fanny, with a hard, black smile in her eyes. 

Uncle Lawrence was not in the slightest degree abashed. 

"Fanny, " said he, "I will speak to you in a parable. Remember, to _you_. There was a farmer whose neighbor built a curious tower upon his land. It was upon a hill, in a grove. The structure rose slowly, but publiccuriosity rose with fearful rapidity. The gossips gossiped about it inthe public houses. Rumors of it stole up to the city, and down camereporters and special correspondents to describe it with an unctuouseloquence and picturesque splendor of style known only to them. Thebuilder held his tongue, dear Fanny. The workmen speculated upon thesubject, but their speculations were no more valuable than those ofother people. They received private bribes to tell; and all the greatnewspapers announced that, at an enormous expense, they had secured theexclusive intelligence, and the exclusive intelligence was always wrong. The country was in commotion, dear Fanny, about a simple tower thata man was building upon his land. But the wonder of wonders, and theexasperation of exasperations, was, that the farmer whose estate adjoinednever so much as spoke of the tower--was never known to have asked aboutit--and, indeed, it was not clear that he knew of the building of anytower within a hundred miles of him. Of course, my dearest Fanny, aself-respecting Public Sentiment could not stand that. It was insultingto the public, which manifested so profound an interest in the tower, that the immediate neighbor should preserve so strict a silence, and sucha perfectly tranquil mind. There are but two theories possible in regardto that man, said the self-respecting Public Sentiment: he is either afool or a knave--probably a little of each. In any case he must be dealtwith. So Public Sentiment accosted the farmer, and asked him if he werenot aware that a mysterious tower was going up close to him, and thatthe public curiosity was sadly exercised about it? He replied that hewas blessed with tolerable eyesight, and had seen the tower from thevery first stone upward. Tell us, then, all about it! shrieked PublicSentiment. Ask the builder, if you want to know, said the farmer. But hewon't tell us, and we want you to tell us, because we know that you musthave asked him. Now what, in the name of pity!--what is that tower for?I have never asked, replies the farmer. Never asked? shrieked PublicSentiment. Never, retorted Rusticus. And why, in the name of Heaven, haveyou never asked? cried the crowd. Because, said the farmer--"

Lawrence Newt looked at his auditors. "Are you listening, dear Fanny?"

"Yes, Uncle Lawrence. "

"--because it's none of my business. "

Lawrence Newt smiled; so did all the rest, including Fanny, who remarkedthat he might have told her in fewer words that she was impertinent. 

"Yes, Fanny; but sometimes words help us to remember things. It is agreat point gained when we have learned to hoe the potatoes in our ownfields, and not vex our souls about our neighbor's towers. "

Hope Wayne was not in the least abstracted. She was nervously alive toevery thing that was said and done; and listened with a smile to LawrenceNewt's parable, liking him more and more. 

The general restless distraction that precedes the breaking up of a partyhad now set in. People were moving, and rustling, and breaking off theends of conversation. They began to go. A few said good-evening, and hadhad such a charming time! The rest gradually followed, until there was auniversal departure. Grace Plumer was leaning upon Sligo Moultrie'sarm. But where was Abel?

Hope Wayne's eyes looked every where. But her only glimpse of himduring the evening had been that glimmering, dreadful moment in theconservatory. There he had remained ever since. There he still stoodgazing through the door into the drawing-room, seeing but not seen--hismind a wild whirl of thoughts. 

"What a fool I am!" thought Abel, bitterly. He was steadily askinghimself, "Have--I--lost--Hope Wayne--before--I--had--won--her?"

CHAPTER XIX. 

DOG-DAYS. 

The great city roared, and steamed, and smoked. Along the hot, glaring streets by the river a few panting people hurried, clingingto the house wall for a thin strip of shade, too narrow even to covertheir feet. All the windows of the stores were open, and within theoffices, with a little thinking, a little turn of the pen, and a littletracing in ink, men were magically warding off impending disaster, oradding thousands to the thousands accumulated already--men, too, werewriting without thinking, mechanically copying or posting, scribblingletters of form, with heads clear or heads aching, with heartsburning or cold; full of ambition and hope, or vaguely rememberingcountry hill-sides and summer rambles--a day's fishing--a night'sfrolic--Sunday-school--singing-school, and the girl with the chiphat garlanded with sweet-brier; hearts longing and loving, regretting, hoping, and remembering, and all the while the faces above them calmand smooth, and the hands below them busily doing their part of thegreat work of the world. 

In Wall Street there was restless running about. Men in white clothesand straw-hats darted in at doors, darted out of doors--carrying littlebooks, and boxes, and bundles in their hands, nodding to each otheras they passed, but all infected with the same fever; with browshalf-wrinkled or tied up in hopeless seams of perplexity; with mutteringpale lips, or lips round and red, and clearly the lips of clerks who hadno great stakes at issue--a general rushing and hurrying as if everybody were haunted by the fear of arriving too late every where, andlosing all possible chances in every direction. 

Within doors there were cool bank parlors and insurance offices, withlong rows of comely clerks writing in those Russia red books which ThomasTray loved--or wetting their fingers on little sponges in little glassdishes and counting whole fortunes in bank-notes--or perched high onoffice-stools eating apples--while Presidents and Directors, with shinybald pates and bewigged heads, some heroically with permanent spectaclesand others coyly and weakly with eye-glasses held in the hand, satperusing the papers, telling the news, and gossiping about engagements, and marriages, and family rumors, and secrets with the air of practicalmen of the world, with no nonsense, no fanaticism, no fol-de-rol of anykind about them, but who profoundly believed the Burt theory that wivesand daughters were a more sacred kind of property than sheep pastures, or even than the most satisfactory bond and mortgage. 

They talked politics, these banking and insurance gentlemen, with vigorand warmth. "What on earth does, this General Jackson mean, Sir? Is hegoing to lay the axe at the very roots of our national prosperity? Whatthe deuce does a frontier soldier know about banking?"

They talked about Morgan who had been found in Lake Ontario; and theyounger clerks took their turn at it, and furiously denied amongthemselves that Washington was a Mason. The younger clerks held everyMason responsible for the reported murder. Then they turned pale lesttheir neighbors were Masons, and might cause them to be found drownedoff the Battery. The older men shook their heads. 

Murders--did you speak of murders, Mr. Van Boozenberg? Why, this is adreadful business in Salem! Old Mr. White murdered in his bed! The mostawful thing on record. Terrible stories are told, Sir, about respectablepeople! It's getting to be dangerous to be rich. What are we coming to?What can you expect, Sir, with Fanny Wright disseminating her infidelsentiments, and the work-people buying _The Friend of Equal HumanRights_? Equal human fiddle-sticks, Mr. Van Boozenberg!

To which remarks from the mouths of many Directors that eminent officernodded his head, and looked so wise that it was very remarkable so manyfoolish transactions took place under his administration. 

And in all the streets of the great city, in all the lofty workshops andyards and factories, huge hammers smote and clashed, and men, naked tothe waist, reeking in dingy interiors, bent like gnomes at their tasks, while saws creaked, wheels turned, planes and mallets, and chisels shovedand cut and struck; and down in damp cellars sallow ghastly men and womenwove rag-carpets, and twisted baskets in the midst of litters of puny, pale children, with bleared eyes, and sore heads, and dirty faces, tumbling, playing, shouting, whimpering--scampering after the pigs thatcame rooting and nosing in the liquid filth that simmered and stank toheaven in the gutters at the top of the stairs; and the houses above theheads of the ghastly men and women were swarming rookeries, hot and closeand bare, with window-panes broken, and hats, and coats, and rags stuffedin, and men with bloodshot eyes and desperate faces sitting dogged withtheir hats on, staring at nothing, or leaning on their ragged elbows onbroken tables, scowling from between their dirty hands at the world andthe future; while in higher rooms sat solitary girls in hard woodenchairs, a pile of straw covered with a rug in the corner, and a box toput a change of linen in, driving the needle silently and ceaselesslythrough shirts or coats or trowsers, stooping over in the foul air duringthe heat of the day, straining their eyes when the day darkened to save acandle, hearing the roar and the rush and the murmur far away, mingled inthe distance, as if they were dead and buried in their graves, anddreaming a horrid dream until the resurrection. 

Only sometimes an acute withering pain, as if something or somebody weresewing the sewer and pierced her with a needle sharp and burning, madethe room swim and the straw in the corner glimmer; and the girl droppedthe work and closed her eyes--the cheeks were black and hollow beneaththem--and she gasped and panted, and leaned back, while the roar went on, and the hot sun glared, and the neighboring church clock, striking thehour, seemed to beat on her heart as it smote relentlessly the girl'sreturning consciousness. Then she took up the work again, and the needle, with whose little point in pain and sickness and consuming solitude, indarkness, desolation, and flickering, fainting faith, she pricked backdeath and dishonor. 

At neighboring corners were the reefs upon which human health, hope, and happiness lay stranded, broken up and gone to pieces. Bloated facesglowered through the open doors--their humanity sunk away into merebestiality. Human forms--men no longer--lay on benches, hung over chairs, babbled, maundered, shrieked or wept aloud; while women came in and tookblack bottles from under tattered shawls, and said nothing, but put downa piece of money; and the man behind the counter said nothing, but tookthe money and filled the bottles, which were hidden under the tatteredshawl again, and the speechless phantoms glided out, guarding that littletravesty of modesty even in that wild ruin. 

In shops beyond, yards of tape, and papers of pins, and boots and shoesand bread, and all the multitudinous things that are bought and soldevery minute, were being done up in papers by complaisant, or surly, orconceited, or well-behaved clerks; and in all the large and little housesof the city, in all the spacious and narrow streets, there were womencooking, washing, sweeping, scouring, rubbing, lifting, carrying, sewing, reading, sleeping--tens and twenties and fifties and hundreds andthousands of men, women, and children. More than two hundred thousand ofthem were toiling, suffering, struggling, enjoying, dreaming, despairingon a summer day, doing their share of the world's work. The eye was fullof the city's activity; the ear was tired with its noise; the heart wassick with the thought of it; the streets and houses swarmed with people, but the world was out of town. There was nobody at home. 

In the mighty stream, of which men and women are the waves, that pouredceaselessly along its channels, friends met surprised--touched eachother's hands. 

"Came in this morning--off to-night--droll it looks--nobody in town--"

And the tumultuous throng bore them apart. 

In the evening the Park Theatre is jammed to hear Mr. Forrest, who madehis first appearance in Philadelphia nine or ten years ago, and isalready a New York favorite. Contoit's garden flutters with the cooldresses of the promenaders, who move about between the arbors looking forfriends and awaiting ices. The click of billiard balls is heard in theglittering café at the corner of Reade Street, and a gay company smokesand sips at the Washington Hotel. Life bursts from every door, from everywindow, but there is nobody in town. 

More than two hundred thousand men, women, and children go to their bedsand wake up to the morrow, but there is nobody in town. Nobody in town, because Mrs. Boniface Newt & Co. Have gone to Saratoga--no cathedralleft, because some plastering has tumbled off an upper stone--no forestleft, because a few leaves have whirled away. Nobody in town, becauseMrs. Boniface Newt & Co. Have gone to Saratoga, and are doing their partof the world's work there. 

Mr. Alfred Dinks, Mr. Zephyr Wetherley, and Mr. Bowdoin Beacon, wereslowly sauntering down Broadway, when, they were overtaken and passed bya young woman walking rapidly for so warm a morning. 

There was an immense explosion of adjectives expressing surprise whenthe three young, gentlemen discovered that the young lady who was passingthem was Miss Amy Waring. 

"Why, Miss Waring!" cried they, simultaneously. 

She bowed and smiled. They lifted their hats. 

"You in town!" said Mr. Beacon. 

"In town?" echoed Mr. Dinks. 

"Town?" murmured Mr. Wetherley. 

"Town, " said Miss Waring, with her eyes sparkling. 

"Where did you come from? I thought you were all at Saratoga, " shecontinued. 

"It's stupid there, " said Mr. Beacon. 

"Quite stupid, " echoed Mr. Dinks. 

"Stupid, " murmured Mr. Wetherley. 

"Stupid?" asked the lady, this time making the interrogation in theantistrophe of the chant. 

"We wanted a little fun. "

"A little fun. "

"Fun, " replied the gentlemen. 

"Well, I'm going about my business, " said she. "Good-morning. "

"About your business?"

"Your business?"

"Business?" murmured the youths, in order. Zephyr concluding. 

"Business!" said Miss Amy, bursting into a little laugh, in which thelistless, perfectly good-humored youths cheerfully joined. 

"It's dreadful hot, " said Mr. Beacon. 

"Oh! horrid!" said Mr. Dinks. 

"Very, " said Zephyr. And the gentlemen wiped their foreheads. 

"Coming to Saratoga, Miss Waring?" they asked. 

"Hardly, I think, but possibly, " said she, and moved away, with herlittle basket; while the gentlemen, swearing at the heat, the dust, andthe smells, sauntered on, asseverated that Amy Waring was an odd sort ofgirl; and finally went in to the Washington Hotel, where each lolled backin an armchair, with the white duck legs reposing in another--exceptingMr. Dinks, who poised his boots upon the window-sill that commandedBroadway; and so, comforted with a cigar in the mouth, and a glass oficed port-wine sangaree in the hand, the three young gentlemen laboredthrough the hot hours until dinner. 

Amy Waring walked quite as rapidly as the heat would permit. She crossedthe Park, and, striking into Fulton Street, continued toward the river, but turned into Water Street. The old peach-women at the corners, sittingunder huge cotton umbrellas, and parching in the heat, saw the lovelyface going by, and marked the peculiarly earnest step, which the sittersin the streets, and consequent sharp students of faces and feet, easilyenough recognized as the step of one who was bound upon some especialerrand. Clerks looked idly at her from open shop doors, and from windowsabove; and when she entered the marine region of Water Street, the heavystores and large houses, which here and there were covered with a dullgrime, as if the squalor within had exuded through the dingy red bricks, seemed to glare at her unkindly, and sullenly ask why youth, and beauty, and cleanly modesty should insult with sweet contrast that sordid gloom. 

The heat only made it worse. Half-naked children played in the foulgutters with the pigs, which roamed freely at large, and comfortably athome in the purlieus of the docks and the quarter of poverty. Cartsjostled by with hogsheads, and boxes, and bales; the red-faced carmen, furious with their horses, or smoking pipes whose odor did not sweetenthe air, staring, with rude, curious eyes, at the lady making her wayamong the casks and bales upon the sidewalks. There was nothing thatcould possibly cheer the eye or ear, or heart or imagination, in anypart of the street--not even the haggard faces, thin with want, rustywith exposure, and dull with drink, that listlessly looked down uponher from the windows of lodging-houses. 

The door of one of these was open, and Amy Waring went in. She passedrapidly through the desolate entry and up the dirty stairs with thebroken railing--stairs that creaked under her light step. At a room uponthe back of the house, in the third story, she stopped and tapped at thedoor. A voice cried, "Who's there?" The girl answered, "Amy, " and thedoor was immediately unlocked. 

CHAPTER XX. 

AUNT MARTHA. 

The room was clean. There was a rag carpet on the floor; a pine bureauneatly varnished; a half dozen plain but whole chairs; a bedstead, uponwhich the bedding was scrupulously neat; a pine table, upon which lay amuch-thumbed leather-bound family Bible and a few religious books; andbetween the windows, over the bureau, hung a common engraving of Christupon the Cross. The windows themselves looked upon the back of the storeson South Street. Upon the floor was a large basket full of work, withwhich the occupant of the room was evidently engaged. The whole room hadan air of severity and cheerlessness, yet it was clear that every thingwas most carefully arranged, and continually swept and washed and dusted. 

The person who had opened the door was a woman of nearly forty. She wasdressed entirely in black. She had not so much as a single spot of whiteany where about her. She had even a black silk handkerchief twisted abouther head in the way that negro women twine gay cloths; and such was herexpression that it seemed as if her face, and her heart, and her soul, and all that she felt, or hoped, or remembered, or imagined, were cladand steeped in the same mourning garments and utter gloom. 

"Good-morning, Amy, " said she, in a hard and dry, but not unkind voice. In fact, the rigidity of her aspect, the hardness of her voice, and thesingular blackness of her costume, seemed to be too monotonously uniformand resolute not to indicate something willful or unhealthy in thewoman's condition, as if the whole had been rather superinduced thannaturally developed. 

"Aunt Martha, I have brought you some things that I hope you will findcomforting and agreeable. "

The young woman glanced around the desolately regular and forbiddingroom, and sighed. The other took the basket and stepped to a closet, butpaused as she opened it, and turning to Amy, said, in the same dry, hopeless manner, "This bounty is too good for a sinner; and yet it would be theunpardonable sin for so great a sinner to end her own life willfully. "

The solemn woman put the contents of the basket into the closet; but itseemed as if, in that gloom, the sugar must have already lost itssweetness and the tea its flavor. 

Amy still glanced round the room, and her eyes filled with tears. 

"Dear Aunt Martha, when may I tell?" she asked, with piteous earnestness. 

"Amy, would you thwart God? He is too merciful already. I almost fearthat to tolerate your sympathy and kindness is a sore offense in me. Think what a worm I am! How utterly foul and rank with sin!"

She spoke with clasped hands lying before her in her lap, in thesame hard tone as if the words were cut in ebony; with the same fixedlips--the same pale, unsmiling severity of face; above which the abundanthair, streaked with early gray, was almost entirely lost in the blackhandkerchief. 

"But surely God is good!" said Amy, tenderly and sadly. "If we sin, Heonly asks us to repent and be forgiven. "

"But we must pay the penalty, Amy, " said the other. "There is a price setupon every sin; and mine is so vast, so enormous--"

She paused a moment, as if overwhelmed by the contemplation of it; then, in the same tone, she continued: "You, Amy, can not even conceive howdreadful it is. You know what it is, but not how bad it is. "

She was silent again, and her soul appeared to wrap itself in densergloom. The air of the room seemed to Amy stifling. The next moment shefelt as if she were pierced with sharp spears of ice. She sprang up:

"I shall smother!" said she; and opened the window. 

"Aunt Martha, I begin to feel that this is really wicked! If you onlyknew Lawrence Newt--"

The older woman raised one thin finger, without lifting the hand from herlap. Implacable darkness seemed to Amy to be settling upon her too. 

"At least, aunt, let me have you moved to some less horrid place. "

"Foulness and filth are too sweet and fair for me, " said the dark woman;"and I have been too long idle already. "

She lifted the work and began to sew. Amy's heart ached as she looked ather, with sympathy for her suffering and a sense of inability to helpher. 

There came a violent knock at the door. 

"Who's there?" asked Aunt Martha, calmly. 

"Come, come; open this door, and let's see what's going on!" cried aloud, coarse voice. 

"Who is it?"

"Who is it? Why, it's me--Joseph!" replied the voice. 

Aunt Martha rose and unlocked the door. A man whose face was like hisvoice bustled noisily into the room, with a cigar in his mouth and hishat on. 

"Come, come; where's that work? Time's up! Quick, quick! No time, nopay!"

"It is not quite done, Mr. Joseph. "

The man stared at Aunt Martha for a moment; then laughed in a jeeringway. 

"Old lady Black, when you undertake to do a piece of work what d'ye meanby not having it done? Damn it, there's a little too much of the ladyabout you! Show me that work!" and he seated himself. 

The woman brought the basket to him, in the bottom of which were severalpieces completed and carefully folded. The man turned them over rapidly. 

"And why, in the devil's name, haven't you done the rest? Give 'em here!"

He took the whole, finished and unfinished, and, bundling them up, madefor the door. "No time, no pay, old lady; that's the rule. That's theonly way to work such infernally jimmy old bodies as you!"

The sewing woman remained perfectly passive as Mr. Joseph was passingout; but Amy sprang forward from the window:

"Stop, Sir!" said she, firmly. The man involuntarily turned, and such washis overwhelming surprise at seeing a lady suddenly standing before him, and a lady who spoke with perfect authority, that, with the instinct ofobsequiousness instinctive in every man who depends upon the favor ofcustomers, he took off his hat. 

"If you take that work without paying for it you shall be made to pay, "said Amy, quietly, her eyes flashing, and her figure firm and erect. 

The man hesitated for a moment. 

"Oh yes, ma'am, oh certainly, ma'am! Pay for it, of course, ma'am! 'Twasonly to frighten the woman, ma'am; oh certainly, certainly--oh! yes, ma'am, pay for it, of course. "

"At once, " said Amy, without moving. 

"Certainly, ma'am; here's the money, " and Mr. Joseph counted it out uponthe pine table. 

"And you'd better leave the rest to be done at once. "

"I'll do so, ma'am, " said the man, putting down the bundle. 

"And remember that if you ever harm this woman by a word or look, even, "added Amy, bending her head toward her aunt, "you will repent itbitterly. "

The man stared at her and fumbled with his hat. The cigar had droppedupon the floor. Amy pointed to it, and said, "Now go. "

Mr. Joseph stooped, picked up the stump, and departed. Amy felt weak. Heraunt stood by her, and said, calmly, "It was only part of my punishment. "

Amy's eyes flashed. 

"Yes, aunt; and if any body should break into your room and steal everything you have and throw you out of the window, or break your bones andleave you here to die of starvation, I suppose you would think it allpart of your punishment. "

"It would be no more than I deserve, Amy. "

"Aunt Martha, " replied Amy, "if you don't take care you will force me tobreak my promise to you. "

"Amy, to do that would be to bring needless disgrace upon your mother andall her family and friends. They have considered me dead for nearlysixteen years. They have long ago shed the last tear of regret for onewhom they believed to be as pure as you are now. Why should you take herto them from the tomb, living still, but a loathsome mass of sin? I amequal to my destiny. The curse is great, but I will bear it alone; andthe curse of God will fall upon you if you betray me. "

Amy was startled by the intensity with which these words were uttered. There was no movement of the hands or head upon the part of the olderwoman. She stood erect by the table, and, as her words grew stronger, thegloom of her appearance appeared to intensify itself, as a thunder-cloudgrows imperceptibly blacker and blacker. 

When she stopped, Amy made no reply; but, troubled and uneasy, she drew achair to the window and sat down. The older woman took up her work again. Amy was lost in thought, wondering what she could do. She saw nothing asshe looked down into the dirty yards of the houses; but after some time, forgetting, in the abstraction of her meditation, where she was, she wassuddenly aware of the movement of some white object; and lookingcuriously to see what it was, discovered Lawrence Newt gazing up at herfrom the back window of his store, and waving his handkerchief to attracther attention. 

As she saw the kindly face she smiled and shook her hand. There was amotion of inquiry: "Shall I come round?" And a very resolute telegraphingby the head back again: "No, no!" There was another question, in thelanguage of shoulders, and handkerchief, and hands: "What on earth areyou doing up there?" The answer was prompt and intelligible: "Nothingthat I am ashamed of. " Still there came another message of motion frombelow, which Amy, knowing Lawrence Newt, unconsciously interpreted toherself thus: "I know you, angel of mercy! You have brought some angelicsoup to some poor woman. " The only reply was a smile that shone down fromthe window into the heart of the merchant who stood below. The smile wasfollowed by a wave of the hand from above that said farewell. LawrenceNewt looked up and kissed his own, but the smiling face was gone. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE CAMPAIGN. 

Miss Fanny Newt went to Saratoga with a perfectly clear idea of what sheintended to do. She intended to be engaged to Mr. Alfred Dinks. 

That young gentleman was a second cousin of Hope Wayne's, and his motherhad never objected to his little visits at Pinewood, when both he andHope were young, and when the unsophisticated human heart is flexible asmelted wax, and receives impressions which only harden with time. 

"Let the children play together, my dear, " she said, in conjugalseclusion to her husband, the Hon. Budlong Dinks, who needed onlysufficient capacity and a proper opportunity to have been one of the mostdistinguished of American diplomatists. He thought he was such already. There was, indeed, plenty of diplomacy in the family, and that mostskillful of all diplomatic talents, the management of distinguisheddiplomatists, was not unknown there. 

Fanny Newt had made the proper inquiries. The result was that there wererumors--"How _do_ such stories start?" asked Mrs. Budlong Dinks of allher friends who were likely to repeat the rumor--that it was a familyunderstanding that Mr. Alfred Dinks and his cousin Hope were to make amatch. "And they _do_ say, " said Mrs. Dinks, "what ridiculous thingspeople are! and they _do_ say that, for family reasons, we are going tokeep it all quiet! What a world it is!"

The next day Mrs. Cod told Mrs. Dod, in a morning call, that Mrs. BudlongDinks said that the engagement between her son Alfred and his cousin HopeWayne was kept quiet for family reasons. Before sunset of that daysociety was keeping it quiet with the utmost diligence. 

These little stories were brought by little birds to New York, so thatwhen Mrs. Dinks arrived the air was full of hints and suggestions, andthe name of Hope Wayne was not unknown. Farther acquaintance with Mr. Alfred Dinks had revealed to Miss Fanny that there was a certain wealthyancestor still living, in whom the Dinkses had an interest, and that theonly participant with them in that interest was Miss Hope Wayne. That wasenough for Miss Fanny, whose instinct at once assured her that Mrs. Dinksdesigned Hope Wayne for her son Alfred, in order that the fortune shouldbe retained in the family. 

Miss Fanny having settled this, and upon farther acquaintance with Mr. Dinks having discovered that she might as well undertake the matrimonialmanagement of him as of any other man, and that the Burt fortune wouldprobably descend, in part at least, to the youth Alfred, she decided thatthe youth Alfred must marry her. 

But how should Hope Wayne be disposed of? Fanny reflected. 

She lived in Delafield. Brother Abel, now nearly nineteen--not a childishyouth--not unhandsome--not too modest--lived also in Delafield. Had heever met Hope Wayne?

By skillful correspondence, alluding to the solitude of the country, etcetera, and his natural wish for society, and what pleasant people werethere in Delafield, Fanny had drawn her lines around Abel to carry thefact of his acquaintance, if possible, by pure strategy. 

In reply, Abel wrote about many things--about Mrs. Kingo and MissBroadbraid--the Sutlers and Grabeaus--he praised the peaceful tone ofrural society, and begged Fanny to beware of city dissipation; but nota word of old Burt and Hope Wayne. 

Sister Fanny wrote again in the most confiding manner. Brother Abelreplied in a letter of beautiful sentiments and a quotation from Dr. Peewee. 

He overdid it a little, as we sometimes do in this world. We appear sointensely unconscious that it is perfectly evident we know that somebodyis looking at us. So Fanny, knowing that Christopher Burt was the richestman in the village, and lived in a beautiful place, and that his lovelygrand-daughter lived with him constantly, with which information in detailAlfred Dinks supplied her, and perceiving from Abel's letter that he wasnot a recluse, but knew the society of the village, arrived verynaturally and easily at the conclusion that brother Abel did know HopeWayne, and was in love with her. She inferred the latter from the factthat she had long ago decided that brother Abel would not fall in lovewith any poor girl, and therefore she was sure that if he were in theimmediate neighborhood of a lady at once young, beautiful, of good familyand very rich, he would be immediately in love--very much in love. 

To make every thing sure, Abel had not been at home half an hour beforeFanny's well-directed allusion to Hope as the future Mrs. Dinks hadcaused her brother to indicate an interest which revealed every thing. 

"If now, " pondered Miss Fanny, "somebody who shall be nameless becomesMrs. Alfred Dinks, and the nameless somebody's brother marries Miss HopeWayne, what becomes of the Burt property?"

She went, therefore, to Saratoga in great spirits, and with an unusualwardrobe. The opposing general, Field-marshal Mrs. Budlong Dinks, hadcertainly the advantage of position, for Hope Wayne was of her immediateparty, and she could devise as many opportunities as she chose forbringing Mr. Alfred and his cousin together. She did not lose herchances. There were little parties for bowling in the morning, and earlywalking, and Fanny was invited very often, but sometimes omitted, as ifto indicate that she was not an essential part of the composition. Therewas music in the parlor before dinner, and working of purses and bagsbefore the dressing-bell. There was the dinner itself, and the promenade, with music, afterward. Drives, then, and riding; the glowing return atsunset--the cheerful cup of tea--the reappearance, in delightful toilet, for the evening dance--windows--balconies--piazzas--moonlight!

Every time that Fanny, warm with the dance, declared that she must havefresh air, and that was every time she danced with Alfred, she withdrew, attended by him, to the cool, dim piazza, and every time Mrs. Dinksbeheld the departure. On the cool, dim piazza the music sounded morefaintly, the quiet moonlight filled the air, and life seemed all romanceand festival. 

"How beautiful after the hot room!" Fanny said, one evening as they satthere. 

"Yes, how beautiful!" replied Alfred. 

"How happy I feel!" sighed Fanny. "Ever since I have been here I havebeen so happy!"

"Have you been happy? So I have been happy too. How very funny!" repliedAlfred. 

"Yes; but pleasant too. Sympathy is always pleasant. " And Fanny turnedher large black eyes upon him, while the young Dinks was perplexed by asingular feeling of happiness. 

They were content to moralize upon sympathy for some time. Alfred wasfascinated, and a little afraid. Fanny moved her Junonine shoulders, benther swan-like neck, drew off one glove and played with her rings, fannedherself gently at intervals, and, with just enough embarrassment not tofrighten her companion, opened and closed her fan. 

"What a fine fellow Bowdoin Beacon is!" said Miss Fanny, a littlesuddenly, and in a tone of suppressed admiration, as she drew on herglove and laid her fan in her lap, as if on the point of departure. 

"Yes, he's a very good sort of fellow. "

"How cold you men always are in speaking of each other! I think him asplendid fellow. He's so handsome. He has such glorious dark hair--almostas dark as yours, Mr. Dinks. "

Alfred half raged, half smiled. 

"Do you know, " continued Fanny, looking down a little, and speaking alittle lower--"do you know if he has any particular favorites among thegirls here?"

Alfred was dreadfully alarmed. 

"If he has, how happy they must be! I think him a magnificent sort ofman; but not precisely the kind I should think a girl would fall in lovewith. Should you?"

"No, " replied Alfred, mollified and bewildered. He rallied in a moment. "What sort of man do girls fall in love with, Miss Fanny?"

Fanny Newt was perfectly silent. She looked down upon the floor of thepiazza, fixing her eyes upon a pine-knot, patiently waiting, andwondering which way the grain of the wood ran. 

The silence continued. Every moment Alfred was conscious of an increasingnervousness. There were the Junonine shoulders--the neck--the downcasteyes--moonlight--the softened music. 

"Why don't you answer?" asked he, at length. 

Fanny bent her head nearer to him, and dropped these words into hiswaistcoat:

"How good you are! I am so happy!"

"What on earth have I done?" was the perplexed, and pleased, andridiculous reply. 

"Mr. Dinks, how could I answer the question you asked withoutbetraying--?"

"What?" inquired Alfred, earnestly. 

"Without betraying what sort of man _I_ love, " breathed Fanny, in thelowest possible tone, which could be also perfectly distinct, and withher head apparently upon the point of dropping after her words into hiswaistcoat. 

"Well?" said Dinks. 

"Well, I can not do that, but I will make a bargain with you. If you willsay what sort of girl you would love, I will answer your question. "

Fanny dreaded to hear a description of Hope Wayne. But Alfred's mind wasresolved. The foolish youth answered with his heart in his mouth, andbarely whispering, "If you will look in your glass to-night, you will see. "

The next moment Fanny's head had fallen into the waistcoat--AlfredDinks's arms were embracing her. He perceived the perfume from herabundant hair. He was frightened, and excited, and pleased. 

"Dear Alfred!"

"Dear Fanny!"

"Come Hope, dear, it is very late, " said Mrs. Dinks in the ball-room, alarmed at the long absence of Fanny and Alfred, and resolved toinvestigate the reason of it. 

The lovers heard the voice, and were sitting quietly just a little apart, as Mrs. Dinks and her retinue came out. 

"Aren't you afraid of taking cold, Miss Newt?" inquired Alfred's mother. 

"Oh not at all, thank you, I am very warm. But you are very wise to goin, and I shall join you. Good-night, Mr. Dinks. " As she rose, shewhispered--"After breakfast. "

The ladies rustled along the piazza in the moonlight. Alfred, flushed andnervous and happy, sauntered into the bar-room, lit a cigar, and dranksome brandy and water. 

Meanwhile the Honorable Budlong Dinks sat in an armchair at the other endof the piazza with several other honorable gentlemen--Major Scuppernongfrom Carolina, Colonel le Fay from Louisiana, Captain Lamb fromPennsylvania, General Arcularius Belch of New York, besides CaptainJones, General Smith, Major Brown, Colonel Johnson, from other States, and several honorable members of Congress, including, and chief of all, the Honorable B. J. Ele, a leading statesman from New York, with whom Mr. Dinks passed as much time as possible, and who was the chief oracle ofthe wise men in armchairs who came to the springs to drink the waters, to humor their wives and daughters in their foolish freaks for fashionand frivolity, and who smiled loftily upon the gay young people whoamused themselves with setting up ten-pins and knocking them down, whilethe wise men devoted themselves to talking politics and showing eachother, from day to day, the only way in which the country could be madegreat and glorious, and fulfill its destiny. 

"I am not so clear about General Jackson's policy, " said the HonorableBudlong Dinks, with the cautious wisdom of a statesman. 

"Well, Sir, I am clear enough about it, " replied Major Scuppernong. "Itwill ruin this country just as sure as that, " and the Major with greatdexterity directed a stream of saliva which fell with unerring precisionupon the small stone in the gravel walk at which it was evidently aimed. 

The Honorable Budlong Dinks watched the result of the illustration withdeep interest, and shook his head gravely when he saw that the stone wasthoroughly drenched by the salivary cascade. He seemed to feel the forceof the argument. But he was not in a position to commit himself. 

"Now, _I_ think, " said the Honorable B. J. Ele, "that it is the only thingthat can save the country. "

"Ah! you do, " said the Honorable B. Dinks. 

And so they kept it up day after day, pausing in the intervals to smileat the ardor with which the women played their foolish game of gossip andmatch-making. 

When Mrs. Dinks withdrew from her idle employments to the invigoratingair of the Honorable B. 's society, he tapped her cheek sometimes with hisfinger--as he had read great men occasionally did when they were withtheir wives in moments of relaxation from intellectual toil--asked herwhat would become of the world if it were given up to women, and by hismanner refreshed her consciousness of the honor under which she laboredin being Mrs. Budlong Dinks. 

The weaker vessel smiled consciously, as if he very well knew that wasthe one particular thing which under no conceivable circumstances couldshe forget. 

"Budlong, I really think Alfred ought to keep a horse. "

"My dear!" replied the Honorable B. , in a tone of mingled reproach, amusement, contempt, and surprise. 

"Oh! I know we can't afford it. But it would be so pleasant if he coulddrive out his cousin Hope, as so many of the other young men do. Peopleget so well acquainted in that way. Have you observed that Bowdoin Beaconis a great deal with her? How glad Mrs. Beacon would be!" Mrs. Dinks tookoff her cap, and was unpinning her collar, without in the least pressingher request. Not at all. His word was enough. She had evidently yieldedthe point. The horse was out of the question. 

Now the state of the country did not so entirely engross her husband'smind, that he had not seen all the advantage of Hope's marrying Alfred. 

"It _is_ a pleasant thing for a young man to have his own horse. My dear, I will see what can be done, " said he. 

Then the diplomatist untied his cravat as if he had been undoing theparchment of a great treaty. He fell asleep in the midst of rehearsingthe speech which he meant to make upon occasion of his presentation asforeign minister somewhere; while his beloved partner lay by his side, and resolved that Alfred Dinks must immediately secure Hope Wayne beforeFanny Newt secured Alfred Dinks. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

THE FINE ARTS. 

The whole world of Saratoga congratulated Mrs. Dinks upon her beautifulniece, Miss Wayne. Even old Mrs. Dagon said to every body:

"How lovely she is! And to think she comes from Boston! Where did she gether style? Fanny dear, I saw you hugging--I beg your pardon, I meanwaltzing with Mr. Dinks. "

But when Hope Wayne danced there seemed to be nobody else moving. Shefilled the hall with grace, and the heart of the spectator with anindefinable longing. She carried strings of bouquets. She made men happyby asking them to hold some of her flowers while she danced; and then, when she returned to take them, the gentlemen were steeped in such agush of sunny smiling that they stood bowing and grinning--even thewisest--but felt as if the soft gush pushed them back a little; for thebeauty which, allured them defended her like a fiery halo. 

It was understood that she was engaged to Mr. Alfred Dinks, her cousin, who was already, or was to be, very rich. But there was apparentlynothing very marked in his devotion. 

"It is so much better taste for young people who are engaged not to makelove in public, " said Mrs. Dinks, as she sat in grand conclave of mammasand elderly ladies, who all understood her to mean her son and niece, andentirely agreed with her. 

Meanwhile all the gentlemen who could find one of her moments disengagedwere walking, bowling, driving, riding, chatting, sitting, with MissWayne. She smiled upon all, and sat apart in her smiling. Some foolishyoung fellows tried to flirt with her. When they had fully developedtheir intentions she smiled full in their faces, not insultingly norfamiliarly, but with a soft superiority. The foolish young fellows wentdown to light their cigars and drink their brandy and water, feeling asif their faces had been rubbed upon an iceberg, for not less lofty andpure were their thoughts of her, and not less burning was their sense ofher superb scorn. 

But Arthur Merlin, the painter, who had come to pass a few days atSaratoga on his way to Lake George, and whose few days had expanded intothe few weeks that Miss Wayne had been there--Arthur Merlin, the painter, whose eyes were accustomed not only to look, but to see, observed thatMiss Wayne was constantly doing something. It was dance, drive, bowl, ride, walk incessantly. From the earliest hour to the latest she was inthe midst of people and excitement. She gave herself scarcely time tosleep. 

The painter was introduced to her, and became one of her habitualattendants. Every morning after breakfast Hope Wayne held a kind of courtupon the piazza. All the young men surrounded her and worshipped. 

Arthur Merlin was intelligent and ingenuous. His imagination gave a kindof airy grace to his conversation and manner. Passionately interested inhis art, he deserted its pursuit a little only when the observation oflife around him seemed to him a study as interesting. He and Miss Waynewere sometimes alone together; but although she was conscious of apeculiar sympathy with his tastes and character, she avoided him morethan any of the other young men. Mrs. Dagon said it was a pity Miss Waynewas so cold and haughty to the poor painter. She thought that peoplemight be taught their places without cruelty. 

Arthur Merlin constantly said to himself in a friendly way that if he hadbeen less in love with his art, or had not perceived that Miss Wayne hada continual reserved thought, he might have fallen in love with her. Asit was, he liked her so much that he cared for the society of no otherlady. He read Byron with her sometimes when they went in little partiesto the lake, and somehow he and Hope found themselves alone under thetrees in a secluded spot, and the book open in his hand. 

He also read to her one day a poem upon a cloud, so beautiful that HopeWayne's cheek flushed, and she asked, eagerly, "Whose is that?"

"It is one of Shelley's, a friend of Byron's. "

"But how different!"

"Yes, they were different men. Listen to this. "

And the young man read the ode to a Sky-lark. 

"How joyous it is!" said Hope; "but I feel the sadness. "

"Yes, I often feel that in people as well as in poems, " replied Arthur, looking at her closely. 

She colored a little--said that it was warm--and rose to go. 

The cold black eyes of Miss Fanny Newt suddenly glittered upon them. 

"Will you go home with us, Miss Wayne?"

"Thank you, I am just coming;" and Hope passed into the wood. 

When Arthur Merlin was left alone he quietly lighted a cigar, opened hisport-folio and spread it before him, then sharpened a pencil and began tosketch. But while he looked at the tree before him, and mechanicallytransferred it to the paper, he puffed and meditated. 

He saw that Hope Wayne was constantly with other people, and yet he feltthat she was a woman who would naturally like her own society. He alsosaw that there was no person then at Saratoga in whom she had such aninterest that she would prefer him to her own society. 

And yet she was always seeking the distraction of other people. 

Puff--puff--puff. 

Then there was something that made the society of her own thoughtsunpleasant--almost intolerable. 

Mr. Arthur Merlin vigorously rubbed out with a piece of stale bread afalse line he had drawn. 

What is that something--or some-bod-y?

He stopped sketching, and puffed for a long time. 

As he returned at sunset Hope Wayne was standing upon the piazza of thehotel. 

"Have you been successful?" asked she, dawning upon him. 

"You shall judge. "

He showed her his sketch of a tree-stump. 

"Good; but a little careless, " she said. 

"Do you draw, Miss Wayne?"

A curious light glimmered across her face, for she remembered where shehad last heard those words. She shrank a little, almost imperceptibly, asif her eyes had been suddenly dazzled. Then a little more distantly--notmuch more, but Arthur had remarked every thing--she said:

"Yes, I draw a little. Good-evening. "

"Stop, please, Miss Wayne!" exclaimed Arthur, as he saw that she wasgoing. She turned and smiled--a smile that seemed to him like starlight, it was so clear and cool and dim. 

"I have drawn this for you, Miss Wayne. "

She bent and took the sketch which he drew from his port-folio. 

"It is Manfred in the Coliseum, " said he. 

She glanced at it; but the smile faded entirely. Arthur stared at her inastonishment as the blood slowly ebbed from her cheeks, then streamedback again. The head of Manfred was the head of Abel Newt. Hope Waynelooked from the sketch to the artist, searching him with her eye todiscover if he knew what he was doing. Arthur was sincerely unconscious. 

Hope Wayne dropped the paper almost involuntarily. It floated into theroad. 

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Merlin, " said she, making a step to recover it. 

He was before her, and handed it to her again. 

"Thank you, " said she, quietly, and went in. 

It was still twilight, and Arthur lighted a cigar and sat down to ameditation. The result of it was clear enough. 

"That head looks like somebody, and that somebody is Hope Wayne'ssecret. " Puff--puff--puff. 

"Where did I get that head?" He could not remember. "Tut!" cried he, suddenly bringing his chair down upon its legs with a force that knockedhis cigar out of his mouth, "I copied it from a head which Jim Greenidgehas, and which he says was one of his school-fellows. "

Meanwhile Hope Wayne had carefully locked the door of her room. Then shehurriedly tore the sketch into the smallest possible pieces, laid them inher hand, opened the window, and whiffed them away into the dark. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

BONIFACE NEWT, SON, AND CO. , DRY GOODS ON COMMISSION. 

Abel Newt smoked a great many cigars to enable him to see his positionclearly. 

When he told his mother that he could not accompany her to the Springsbecause he was about entering his father's counting-room, it was not somuch because he was enamored of business as that his future relationswith Hope were entirely doubtful, and he did not wish to complicate themby exposing himself to the chances of Saratoga. 

"Business, of course, is the only career in this country, my son, " saidBoniface Newt. "What men want, and women too, is money. What is this cityof New York? A combination of men and machines for making money. Everybody respects a rich man. They may laugh at him behind his back. Theymay sneer at his ignorance and awkwardness, and all that sort of thing, but they respect his money. Now there's old Jacob Van Boozenberg. I sayto you in strict confidence, my son, that there was never a greater foolthan that man. He absolutely knows nothing at all. When he dies he willbe no more missed in this world than an old dead stage-horse who is madeinto a manure heap. He is coarse, and vulgar, and mean. His daughter Katemarried his clerk, young Tom Witchet--not a cent, you know, but fivehundred dollars salary. 'Twas against the old man's will, and he shut hisdoor, and his purse, and his heart. He turned Witchet away; told hisdaughter that she might lie in the bed she had made for herself; toldWitchet that he was a rotten young swindler, and that, as he had marriedhis daughter for her money, he'd be d----d if he wouldn't be up with him, and deuce of a cent should they get from him. They live I don't knowwhere, nor how. Some of her old friends send her money--actually givefive-dollar bills to old Jacob Van Boozenberg's daughter, somewhere overby the North River. Every body knows it, you know; but, for all that, wehave to make bows to old Van B. Don't we want accommodations? Look here, Abel; if Jacob were not worth a million of dollars, he would be of lessconsequence than the old fellow who sells apples at the corner of hisbank. But as it is, we all agree that he is a shrewd, sensible oldfellow; rough in some of his ways--full of little prejudices--rathersharp; and as for Mrs. Tom Witchet, why, if girls will run away, and allthat sort of thing, they must take the consequences, you know. Of coursethey must. Where should we be if every rich merchant's daughters were atthe mercy of his clerks? I'm sorry for all this. It's sad, you know. It'spositively melancholy. It troubles me. Ah, yes! where was I? Oh, I wassaying that money is the respectable thing. And mark, Abel, if this werethe Millennium, things would be very different. But it isn't theMillennium. It's give one and take two, if you can get it. That's what itis here; and let him who wants to, kick against the pricks. "

Abel hung his legs over the arms of the office-chairs in thecounting-room, and listened gravely. 

"I don't suppose, Sir, that 'tis money _as_ money that is worth having. It is only money as the representative of intelligence and refinement, ofbooks, pictures, society--as a vast influence and means of charity; is itnot, Sir?"

Upon which Mr. Abel Newt blew a prodigious cloud of smoke. 

Mr. Boniface Newt responded, "Oh fiddle! that's all very fine. But myanswer to that is Jacob Van Boozenberg. "

"Bless my soul! here he comes. Abel put your legs down! throw that cigaraway!"

The great man came in. His clothes were snuffy and baggy--so was hisface. 

"Good-mornin', Mr. Newt. Beautiful mornin'. I sez to ma this mornin', ma, sez I, I should like to go to the country to-day, sez I. Go 'long; pa!sez she. Werry well, sez I, I'll go 'long if you'll go too. Ma shelaughed; she know'd I wasn't in earnest. She know'd 'twasn't only ajoke. "

Mr. Van Boozenberg drew out a large red bandana handkerchief, and blewhis nose as if it had been a trumpet sounding a charge. 

Messrs. Newt & Son smiled sympathetically. The junior partner observed, cheerfully, "Yes, Sir. "

The millionaire stared at the young man. 

"Ma's going to Saratogy, " remarked Mr. Van Boozenberg. "She said shewanted to go. Werry well, sez I, ma, go. "

Messrs. Newt & Son smiled deferentially, and hoped Mrs. Van B. Wouldenjoy herself. 

"No, I ain't no fear of that, " replied the millionaire. 

"Mr. Van Boozenberg, " said Boniface Newt, half-hesitatingly, "you werevery kind to undertake that little favor--I--I--"

"Oh! yes, I come in to say I done that as you wanted. It's all right. "

"And, Mr. Van Boozenberg, I am pleased to introduce to you my son Abel, who has just entered the house. "

Abel rose and bowed. 

"Have you been in the store?" asked the old gentleman. 

"No, Sir, I've been at school. "

"What! to school till now? Why, you must be twenty years old!" exclaimedMr. Van Boozenberg, in great surprise. 

"Yes, Sir, in my twentieth year. "

"Why, Mr. Newt, " said Mr. Van B. , with the air of a man who is in entireperplexity, "what on earth has your boy been doing at school until now?"

"It was his grandfather's will, Sir, " replied Boniface Newt. 

"Well, well, a great pity! a werry great pity! Ma wanted one of our boysto go to college. Ma, sez I, what on earth should Corlaer go to collegefor? To get learnin', pa, sez ma. To get learnin'! sez I. I'll get himlearnin', sez I, down to the store, Werry well, sez ma. Werry well, sezI, and so 'twas; and I think I done a good thing by him. "

Mr. Van Boozenberg talked at much greater length of his generalintercourse with ma. Mr. Boniface Newt regarded him more and morecontemptuously. 

But the familiar style of the old gentleman's conversation begot acorresponding familiarity upon the part of Mr. Newt. Mr. Van Boozenberglearned incidentally that Abel had never been in business before. Heobserved the fresh odor of cigars in the counting-room--he remarked theextreme elegance of Abel's attire, and the inferential tailor's bills. He learned that Mrs. Newt and the family were enjoying themselves atSaratoga. He derived from the conversation and his observation thatthere were very large family expenses to be met by Boniface Newt. 

Meanwhile that gentleman had continually no other idea of his visitorthan that he was insufferable. He had confessed to Abel that the old manwas shrewd. His shrewdness was a proverb. But he is a dull, ignorant, ungrammatical, and ridiculous old ass for all that, thought BonifaceNewt; and the said ass sitting in Boniface Newt's counting-room, andamusing and fatiguing Messrs. Newt & Son with his sez I's, and sez shes, and his mas, and his done its, was quietly making up his mind that thehouse of Newt & Son had received no accession of capital or strength bythe entrance of the elegant Abel into a share of its active management, and that some slight whispers which he had heard remotely affecting thestanding of the house must be remembered. 

"A werry pretty store you have here, Mr. Newt. Find Pearl Street as goodas Beaver?"

"Oh yes, Sir, " replied Boniface Newt, bowing and rubbing his hands. "Callagain, Sir; it's a rare pleasure to see you here, Mr. Van Boozenberg. "

"Well, you know, ma, sez she, now pa you mustn't sit in draughts. It's sosort of draughty down town in your horrid offices, pa, sez she--sez ma, you know--that I'm awful 'fraid you'll catch your death, sez she, and Imust mind ma, you know. Good-mornin', Mr. Newt, a werry good-mornin', Sir, " said the old gentleman, as he stepped out. 

"Do you have much of that sort of thing to undergo in business, father?"asked Abel, when Jacob Van Boozenberg had gone. 

"My dear son, " replied the older Mr. Newt, "the world is made up offools, bores, and knaves. Some of them speak good grammar and use whitecambric pocket-handkerchiefs, some do not. It's dreadful, I know, and Iam rather tired of a world where you are busy driving donkeys with achance of their presently driving you. "

Mr. Boniface Newt shook his foot pettishly. 

"Father, " said Abel. 

"Well. "

"Which is Uncle Lawrence--a fool, a bore, or a knave?"

Mr. Boniface Newt's foot stopped, and, after looking at his son for a fewmoments, he answered:

"Abel, your Uncle Lawrence is a singular man. He's a sort of exception togeneral rules. I don't understand him, and he doesn't help me to. When hewas a boy he went to India and lived there several years. He came homeonce and staid a little while, and then went back again, although Ibelieve he was rich. It was mysterious, I never could quite understandit--though, of course, I believe there was some woman in it. Neither yourmother nor I could ever find out much about it. By-and-by he came homeagain, and has been in business here ever since. He's a bachelor, youknow, and his business is different from mine, and he has queer friendsand tastes, so that I don't often see him except when he comes to thehouse, and that isn't very often. "

"He's rich, isn't he?" asked Abel. 

"Yes, he's very rich, and that's the curious part of it, " answered hisfather, "and he gives away a great deal of money in what seems to me avery foolish way. He's a kind of dreamer--an impracticable man. He payslots of poor people's rents, and I try to show him that he is merelyencouraging idleness and crime. But I can't make him see it. He declaresthat, if a sewing-girl makes but two dollars a week and has a helplessmother and three small sisters to support besides rent and fuel, and soon, it's not encouraging idleness to help her with the rent. Well, Isuppose it _is_ hard sometimes with some of those people. But you've noright to go by particular cases in these matters. You ought to go by thegeneral rule, as I constantly tell him. 'Yes, ' says he, in that smilingway of his which does put me almost beside myself, 'yes, you shall go bythe general rule, and let people starve; and I'll go by particular cases, and feed 'em. ' Then he is just as rich as if he were an old flint likeVan Boozenberg. Well, it is the funniest, foggiest sort of world. I swearI don't see into it at all--I give it all up. I only know one thing; thatit's first in first win. And that's extremely sad, too, you know. Yes, very sad! Where was I? Ah yes! that we are all dirty scoundrels. "

Abel had relighted his cigar, after Mr. Van Boozenberg's departure, andfilled the office with smoke until the atmosphere resembled the fog inwhich his father seemed to be floundering. 

"Abel, merchants ought not to smoke cigars in their counting-rooms, "said his father, in a half-pettish way. 

"No, I suppose not, " replied Abel, lightly; "they ought to smoke otherpeople. But tell me, father, do you know nothing about the woman that yousay was mixed up with Uncle Lawrence's affairs?"

"Nothing at all"

"Not even her name?"

"Not a syllable. "

"Pathetic and mysterious, " rejoined Abel; "a case of unhappy love, Isuppose. "

"If it is so, " said Mr. Newt, "your Uncle Lawrence is the happiestmiserable man I ever knew. "

"Well, there's a difference among men, you know, father. Some wear theirmiseries like an order in their button-holes. Some do as the Spartan boydid when the wolf bit him. "

"How'd the Spartan boy do?" asked Mr. Newt. 

"He covered it up, laughed, and dropped dead. "

"Gracious!" said Mr. Boniface Newt. 

"Or like Boccaccio's basil-pot, " continued Abel, calmly; pouring forthsmoke, while his befogged papa inquired, "What on earth do you mean by Boccaccio's basil-pot?"

"Why, a girl's lover had his head cut off, and she put it in aflower-pot, and covered it up that way, and instead of laughing herself, set flowers to blooming over it. "

"Goodness me, Abel, what are you talking about?"

"Of Love, the canker-worm, Sir, " replied Abel, imperturbable, andemitting smoke. 

It was evidently not the busy season in the Dry-goods Commission House ofBoniface Newt & Son. 

When Mr. Van Boozenberg went home to dinner, he said:

"Ma, you'd better improve this werry pleasant weather and start forSaratogy as soon as you can. Mr. Boniface Newt tells me his wife andfamily is there, and you'll find them werry pleasant folks. I jes' wantyou to write me all about 'em. You see, ma, one of our directors to-daysez to me, after board, sez he, 'The Boniface Newts is a going itslap-dash up to Saratogy. ' I laughed, and sez I, 'Why shouldn't they?but I don't believe they be, ' sez I. Sez he, 'I'll bet you a new shawlfor your wife they be, ' sez he. Sez I, 'Done. ' So you see ma, if so bethey be, werry well. A new shawl for some folks, you know; only jes'write me all about it. "

Ma was not reluctant to depart at the earliest possible moment. Her sonCorlaer, whose education had been intercepted by his father, was ofopinion, when he heard that the Newts were at Saratoga, that his healthimperatively required Congress water. But papa had other views. 

"Corlaer, I wish you would make the acquaintance of young Mr. Newt. Idone it to-day. He is a well-edicated young man; I shall ask him todinner next Sunday. Don't be out of the way. "

Jacob Van Boozenberg having dined, arose from the table, seated himselfin a spacious easy-chair, and drawing forth the enormous red bandana, spread it over his head and face, and after a few muscular twitches, anda violent nodding of the head, which caused the drapery to fall offseveral times, finally propped the refractory head against the back ofthe chair, and bobbing and twitching no longer, dropped off intotemporary oblivion. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

"QUEEN AND HUNTRESS. "

Hope Wayne leaned out of the window from which she had just scattered thefragments of the drawing Arthur Merlin had given her. The night was softand calm, and trees, not far away, entirely veiled her from observation. 

She thought how different this window was from that other one at home, also shaded by the trees; and what a different girl it was who lookedfrom it. She recalled that romantic, musing, solitary girl of Pinewood, who lived alone with a silent, grave old nurse, and the quiet years thatpassed there like the shadows and sunlight over the lawn. She rememberedthe dark, handsome face that seemed to belong to the passionate poemsthat girl had read, and the wild dreams she had dreamed in the still, oldgarden. In the hush of the summer twilight she heard again the rich voicethat seemed to that other girl of Pinewood sweeter than the music of theverses, and felt the penetrating glance, that had thrilled the heart ofthat girl until her red cheek was pale. 

How well for that girl that the lips which made the music had neverwhispered love! Because--because--

Hope raised herself from lightly leaning on the window-sill as thethought flashed in her mind, and she stood erect, as if straightened by asudden, sharp, almost insupportable pain--"because, " she went on sayingin her mind, "had they done so, that other romantic, solitary girl atPinewood"--dear child! Hope's heart trembled for her--"might haveconfessed that she loved!"

Hope Wayne clenched her hands, and, all alone in her dim room, flushed, and then turned pale, and a kind of cold splendor settled on her face, sothat if Arthur Merlin could have seen her he would have called her Diana. 

During the moment in which she thought these things--for it was scarcelymore--the little white bits of paper floated and fell beneath her. Shewatched them as they disappeared, conscious of them, but not thinking ofthem. They looked like rose-leaves, they were so pure; and how silentlythey sank into the darkness below!

And if she had confessed she loved, thought Hope, how would it be withthat girl now? Might she not be standing in the twilight, watching heryoung hopes scattered like rose-leaves and disappearing in the dark?

She clasped her hands before her, and walked gently up and down the room. The full moon was rising, and the tender, tranquil light streamed throughthe trees into her chamber. 

But, she thought, since she did not--since the young girl dreamed, perhaps only for a moment, perhaps so very vaguely, of what might havebeen--she has given nothing, she has lost nothing. There was a pleasantday which she remembers, far back in her childhood--oh! so pleasant! oh!so sunny, and flowery, and serene! A pleasant day, when something camethat never comes--that never can come--but once. 

She stopped by the window, and looked out to see if she could yetdiscover any signs of the scattered paper. She strained her eyes downtoward the ground. But it was entirely dark there. All the light wasabove--all the light was peaceful and melancholy, from the moon. 

She laid her face in that moonlight upon the window-sill, and covered itwith her hands. The low wind shook the leaves, and the trees rustledsoftly as if they whispered to her. She heard them in her heart. She knewwhat they were saying. They sang to her of that other girl and herwishes, and struggles and prayers. 

Then came the fierce, passionate, profuse weeping--the spring freshet ofa woman's soul. 

--She heard a low knock at the door. She remained perfectly silent. Another knock. Still she did not move. 

The door was tried. 

Hope Wayne raised her head, but said nothing. 

There was a louder knock, and the voice of Fanny Newt:

"Miss Wayne, are you asleep? Please let me in. "

It was useless to resist longer. Hope Wayne opened the door, and FannyNewt entered. Hope sat down with her back to the window. 

"I heard you come in, " said Fanny, "and I did not hear you go out; so Iknew you were still here. But I was afraid you would oversleep yourself, and miss the ball. "

Hope replied that she had not been sleeping. 

"Not sleeping, but sitting in the moonlight, all alone?" said Fanny. "Howromantic!"

"Is it?"

"Yes, of course it is! Why, Mr. Dinks and I are romantic every evening. He _will_ come and sit in the moonlight, and listen to the music. What anagreeable fellow he is!" And Fanny tried to see Hope's face, which wasentirely hidden. 

"He is my cousin, you know, " replied Hope. 

"Oh yes, we all know that; and a dangerous relationship it is too, " saidFanny. 

"How dangerous?"

"Why, cousins are such privileged people. They have all the intimacy ofbrothers, without the brotherly right of abusing us. In fact, a cousin isnaturally half-way between a brother and a lover. "

"Having neither brother nor lover, " said Hope, quietly, "I stop half-waywith the cousin. "

Fanny laughed her cold little laugh. "And you mean to go on the otherhalf, I suppose?" said she. 

"Why do you suppose so?" asked Hope. 

"It is generally understood, I believe, " said Fanny, "that Mr. AlfredDinks will soon lead to the hymeneal altar his beautiful and accomplishedcousin, Miss Hope Wayne. At least, for further information inquire ofMrs. Budlong Dinks. " And Fanny laughed again. 

"I was not aware of the honor that awaited me, " replied Hope. 

"Oh no! of course not. The family reasons, I suppose--"

"My mind is as much in the dark as my body, " said Hope. "I really do notsee the point of the joke. "

"Still you don't seem very much surprised at it. "

"Why should I be? Every girl is at the mercy of tattlers. "

"Exactly, " said Fanny. "They've had me engaged to I don't know how manypeople. I suppose they'll doom Alfred Dinks to me next. You won't bejealous, will you?"

"No, " said Hope, "I'll congratulate him. "

Fanny Newt could not see Hope Wayne's face, and her voice betrayednothing. She, in fact, knew no more than when she came in. 

"Good-by, dear, _à ce soir!_" said she, as she sailed out of the room. 

Hope lingered for some time at the window. Then she rang for candles, andsat down to write a letter. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

A STATESMAN--AND STATESWOMAN. 

In the same twilight Mrs. Dinks and Alfred sat together in her room. 

"Alfred, my dear, I see that Bowdoin Beacon drives out your Cousin Hopea good deal. "

Mrs. Dinks arranged her cap-ribbon as if she were at present mainlyinterested in that portion of her dress. 

"Yes, a good deal, " replied Mr. Alfred, in an uncertain tone, for healways felt uncomfortably at the prospect of a conversation with hismother. 

"I am surprised he should do so, " continued Mrs. Dinks, withextraordinary languor, as if she should undoubtedly fall fast asleepbefore the present interview terminated. And yet she was fully awake. 

"Why shouldn't he drive her out if he wants to?" inquired Alfred. 

"Now, Alfred, be careful. Don't expose yourself even to me. It is too hotto be so absurd. I suppose there is some sort of honor left among youngmen still, isn't there?"

And the languid mamma performed a very well-executed yawn. 

"Honor? I suppose there is. What do you mean?" replied Alfred. 

Mamma yawned again. 

"How drowsy one does feel here! I am so sleepy! What was I saying? Oh Iremember. Perhaps, however, Mr. Beacon doesn't know. That is probably thereason. He doesn't know. Well, in that case it is not so extraordinary. But I should think he must have seen, or inferred, or heard. A man maybe very stupid; but he has no right to be so stupid as that. How manyglasses do you drink at the spring in the morning, Alfred? Not more thansix at the outside, I hope. Well, I believe I'll take a little nap. "

She played with her cap string, somehow as if she were an angler playinga fish. There is capital trouting at Saratoga--or was, thirty years ago. You may see to this day a good many fish that were caught there, and withevery kind of line and bait. 

Alfred bit again. 

"I wish you wouldn't talk in such a puzzling kind of way, mother. What doyou mean about his knowing, and hearing, and inferring?"

"Come, come, Alfred, you are getting too cunning. Why, you sly dog, doyou think you can impose upon me with an air of ignorance because I amso sleepy. Heigh-ho. "

Another successful yawn. Sportsmen are surely the best sport in theworld. 

"Now, Alfred, " continued his mother, "are you so silly as to suppose forone moment that Bowdoin Beacon has not seen the whole thing and known itfrom the beginning?"

"Why, " exclaimed Alfred, in alarm, "do you?"

"Of course. He has eyes and ears, I suppose, and every body understoodit. "

"Did they?" asked Alfred, bewildered and wretched; "I didn't know it. "

"Of course. Every body knew it must be so, and agreed that it was highlyproper--in fact the only thing. "

"Oh, certainly. Clearly the only thing, " replied Alfred, wonderingwhether his mother and he meant the same thing. 

"And therefore I say it is not quite honorable in Beacon to drive herout in such a marked manner. And I may as well say at once that I thinkyou had better settle the thing immediately. The world understands italready, so it will be a mere private understanding among ourselves, muchmore agreeable for all parties. Perhaps this evening even--hey, Alfred?"

Mrs. Dinks adjusted herself upon the sofa in a sort of final manner, asif the affair were now satisfactorily arranged. 

"It's no use talking that way, mother; it's all done. "

Mrs. Dinks appeared sleepy no longer. She bounced like an India-rubberball. Even the cap-ribbons were left to shift for themselves. She turnedand clasped Alfred in her arms. 

"My blessed son!"

Then followed a moment of silent rapture, during which she moistened hisshirt-collar with maternal tears. 

"Alfred, " whispered she, "are you really engaged?"

"Yes'm. "

She squeezed him as if he were a bag of the million dollars of which shefelt herself to be henceforth mistress. 

"You dear, good boy! Then you _are_ sly after all!"

"Yes'm, I'm afraid I am, " rejoined Alfred very uncomfortably, and withan extremely ridiculous and nervous impression that his mother wascongratulating him upon something she knew nothing about. 

"Dear, _dear_, DEAR boy!" said Mrs. Dinks, with a crescendo affectionand triumph. While she was yet embracing him, his father, the unemployedstatesman, the Honorable Budlong Dinks, entered. 

To the infinite surprise of that gentleman, his wife rose, came to him, put her arm affectionately in his, and leaning her head upon hisshoulder, whispered exultingly, and not very softly, "It's done without the wagon. Our dear boy has justified our fondesthopes, Budlong. "

The statesman slipped his shoulder from under her head. If there wereone thing of which he was profoundly persuaded it was that a reallygreat man--a man to whom important public functions may be properlyintrusted--must, under no circumstances, be wheedled by his wife. Hemust gently, but firmly, teach her her proper sphere. She must _not_attempt to bribe that judgment to which the country naturally looks inmoments of difficulty. 

Having restored his wife to an upright position, the honorable gentlemanlooked upon her with distinguished consideration; and, playing with theseals that hung at the end of his watch-ribbon, asked her, with the mostprotective kindness in the world, what she was talking about. 

She laid her cap-ribbons properly upon her shoulder, smoothed her dress, and began to fan herself in a kind of complacent triumph, as sheanswered, "Alfred is engaged as we wished. "

The honorable gentleman beamed approval with as much cordiality asstatesmen who are also fathers of private families, as well as of thepublic, ought to indulge toward their children. Shaking the hand of hisson as if his shoulder wanted oiling, he said, "Marriage is a most important relation. Young men can not be too cautiousin regard to it. It is not an affair of the feelings merely; but commonsense dictates that when new relations are likely to arise, suitableprovision should be made. Hence every well-regulated person considersthe matter from a pecuniary point of view. The pecuniary point of view isindispensable. We can do without sentiment in this world, for sentimentis a luxury. We can not dispense with money, because money is anecessity. It gives me, therefore, great pleasure to hear that thechoice of my son has evinced the good sense which, I may say withoutaffectation, I hope he has inherited, and has justified the pains andexpense which I have been at in his education. My son, I congratulateyou. Mrs. Dinks, I congratulate you. "

The honorable gentleman thereupon shook hands with his wife and son, asif he were congratulating them upon having such an eloquent and dignifiedhusband and father, and then blew his nose gravely and loudly. Havingrestored his handkerchief, he smiled in general, as it were--as if hehung out signals of amity with all mankind upon condition of goodbehavior on their part. 

Poor Alfred was more speechless than ever. He felt very warm and red, andbegan to surmise that to be engaged was not necessarily to be free fromcarking care. He was sorely puzzled to know how to break the real news tohis parents:

"Oh! dear me, " thought Alfred; "oh! dear me, I wonder if Fanny wouldn'tdo it. I guess I'd better ask her. I wonder if Hope would have had me!Oh! dear me. I wonder if old Newt is rich. How'd I happen to do it? Oh!dear me. "

He felt very much depressed indeed. 

"Well, mother, I'm going down, " said he. 

"My dear, dear son! Kiss me, Alfred, " replied his mother. 

He stooped and kissed her cheek. 

"How happy we shall all be!" murmured she. 

"Oh, very, very happy!" answered Alfred, as he opened the door. 

But as he closed it behind him, the best billiard-player at theTrimountain billiard-rooms said, ruefully, in his heart, while hewent to his beloved, "Oh! dear me! Oh!--dear--me! How'd I happen to do it?"

Fanny Newt, of course, had heard from Alfred of the interview with hismother on the same evening, as they sat in Mrs. Newt's parlor beforegoing into the ball. Fanny was arrayed in a charming evening costume. Itwas low about the neck, which, except that it was very white, descendedlike a hard, round beach from the low shrubbery of her back hair to theshore of the dress. It was very low tide; but there was a gentle rippleof laces and ribbons that marked the line of division. Mr. Alfred Dinkshad taken a little refreshment since the conversation with his mother, and felt at the moment quite equal to any emergency. 

"The fact is, Fanny dear, " said he, "that mother has always insisted thatI should marry Hope Wayne. Now Hope Wayne is a very pretty girl, a deucedpretty girl; but, by George! she's not the only girl in the world--hey, Fanny?"

At this point Mr. Dinks made free with the lips of Miss Newt. 

"Pah! Alfred, my dear, you have been drinking wine, " said she, movinggently away from him. 

"Of course I have, darling; haven't I dined?" replied Alfred, renewingthe endearment. 

Now Fanny's costume was too careful, her hair too elaborately arranged, to withstand successfully these osculatory onsets. 

"Alfred, dear, we may as well understand these little matters at once, "said she. 

"What little matters, darling?" inquired Mr. Dinks, with interest. He wasunwontedly animated, but, as he explained--he had dined. 

"Why, this kissing business. "

"You dear!" cried Alfred, impetuously committing a fresh breach of thepeace. 

"Stop, Alfred, " said Fanny, imperiously. "I won't have this. I mean, "said she, in a mollified tone, remembering that she was only engaged, not married--"I mean that you tumble me dreadfully. Now, dear, I'll makea little rule. You know you don't want your Fanny to look mussed up, doyou, dear?" and she touched his cheek with the tip of one finger. Dinksshook his head negatively. "Well, then, you shall only kiss me when Iam in my morning-dress, and one kiss, with hands off, when we saygood-night. "

She smiled a little cold, hard, black smile, smoothing her rumpledfeathers, and darting glances at herself in the large mirror opposite, as if she considered her terms the most reasonable in the world. 

"It seems to me very little, " said Alfred Dinks, discontentedly;"besides, you always look best when you are dressed. "

"Thank you, love, " returned Fanny; "just remember the morning-dress, please, for I shall; and now tell me all about your conversation withyour mother. "

Alfred told the story. Fanny listened with alarm. She had watched Mrs. Dinks closely during the whole summer, and she was sure--for Fanny knewherself thoroughly, and reasoned accordingly--that the lady would stop atnothing in the pursuit of her object. 

"What a selfish woman it is!" thought Fanny. "Not content with Alfred'sshare of the inheritance, she wants to bring the whole Burt fortune intoher family. How insatiable some people are!"

"Alfred, has your mother seen Hope since she talked with you?"

"I'm sure I don't know. "

"Why didn't you warn her not to?"

"I didn't think of it. "

"But why didn't you think of it? If you'd only have put her off, we couldhave got time, " said Fanny, a little pettishly. 

"Got time for what?" asked Alfred, blankly. 

"Alfred, " said Fanny, coaxing herself to speak gently, "I'm afraid youwill be trying, dear. I am very much afraid of it. "

The lover looked doubtful and alarmed. 

"Don't look like a fool, Alfred, for Heaven's sake!" cried Fanny; butshe immediately recovered herself, and said, with a smile, "You see, dear, how I can scold if I want to. But you'll never let me, I know. "

Mr. Dinks hoped certainly that he never should. "But I sha'n't be a veryhard husband, Fanny. I shall let you do pretty much as you want to. "

"Dearest, I know you will, " rejoined his charmer. "But the thing is nowto know whether your mother has seen Hope Wayne. "

"I'll go and ask her, " said Alfred, rising. 

"My dear fellow, " replied Fanny, with her mouth screwed into a semblanceof smiling, "you'll drive me distracted. I must insist on common sense. It is too delicate a question for you to ask. "

Mr. Dinks grinned and look bewildered. Then he assumed a very seriousexpression. 

"It doesn't seem to me to be hard to ask my mother if she has seen mycousin. "

"Pooh! you silly--I mean, my precious darling, your mother's too smartfor you. She'd have every thing out of you in a twinkling. "

"I suppose she would, " said Alfred, meekly. 

Fanny Newt wagged her foot very rapidly, and looked fixedly upon thefloor. Alfred gazed at her admiringly--thought what a splendid Mrs. Alfred Dinks he had secured, and smacked his lips as if he were tastingher. He kissed his hand to her as he sat. He kissed the air toward her. He might as well have blown kisses to the brown spire of Trinity Church. 

"Alfred, you must solemnly promise me one thing, " she said, at length. 

"Sweet, " said Alfred, who began to feel that he had dined very much, indeed--"sweet, come here!"

Fanny flushed and wrinkled her brow. Mr. Dinks was frightened. 

"Oh no, dear--no, not at all, " said he. 

"My love, " said she, in a voice as calm but as black as her eyes, "do youpromise or not? That's all. "

Poor Dinks! He said Yes, in a feeble way, and hoped she wouldn't beangry. Indeed--indeed, he didn't know how much he had been drinking. Butthe fellers kept ordering wine, and he had to drink on; and, oh! dear, hewouldn't do so again if Fanny would only forgive him. Dear, dear Fanny, please to forgive a miserable feller! And Miss Newt's betrothed sobbed, and wept, and half writhed on the sofa in maudlin woe. 

Fanny stood erect, patting the floor with her foot and looking at thisspectacle. She thought she had counted the cost. But the price seemedat this instant a little high. Twenty-two years old now, and if shelived to be only seventy, then forty-eight years of Alfred Dinks! Itwas a very large sum, indeed. But Fanny bethought her of the balm inGilead. Forty-eight years of married life was very different from anengagement of that period. _Courage, ma chère!_

"Alfred, " said she, at length, "listen to me. Go to your mother beforeshe goes to bed to-night, and say to her that there are reasons why shemust not speak of your engagement to any body, not even to Hope Wayne. And if she begins to pump you, tell her that it is the especial requestof the lady--whom you may call 'she, ' you needn't say Hope--that noquestion of any kind shall be asked, or the engagement may be broken. Do you understand, dear?"

Fanny leaned toward him coaxingly as she asked the question. 

"Oh yes, I understand, " replied Alfred. 

"And you'll do just as Fanny says, won't you, dear?" said she, even morecaressingly. 

"Yes, I will, I promise, " answered Alfred. 

"You may kiss me, dear, " said Fanny, leaning toward him, so that theoperation need not disarrange her toilet. 

Alfred Dinks kept his word; and his mother was perfectly willing to doas she was asked. She smiled with intelligence whenever she saw her sonand his cousin together, and remarked that Hope Wayne's demeanor didnot in the least betray the engagement. And she smiled with the sameintelligence when she remarked how devoted Alfred was to Fanny Newt. 

"Can it possibly be that Alfred knows so much?" she asked herself, wondering at the long time during which her son's cunning had laindormant. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE PORTRAIT AND THE MINIATURE. 

The golden days of September glimmered through the dark sighing trees, and relieved the white brightness that had burned upon the hills duringthe dog-days. Mr. Burt drove into town and drove out. Dr. Peewee calledat short intervals, played backgammon with his parishioner, listened tohis stories, told stories of his own, and joined him in his littleexcursions to the West Indies. Mrs. Simcoe was entirely alone. 

One day Hiram brought her a letter, which she took to her own room andsat down by the window to read. 

"SARATOGA. 

"DEAR AUNTY, --We're about going away, and we have been so gay that youwould suppose I had had 'society' enough. Do you remember our talk? Therehave been a great many people here from every part of the country; andit has been nothing but bowling, walking, riding, dancing, dining at thelake, and listening to music in the moonlight, all the time. Aunt Dinkshas been very kind, but although I have met a great many people I havenot made many friends. I have seen nobody whom I like as much as AmyWaring or Mr. Lawrence Newt, of whom I wrote you from New York, and theyhave neither of them been here. I think of Pinewood a great deal, but itseems to me long and long ago that I used to live there. It is strangehow much older and different I feel. But I never forget you, dearestAunty, and I should like this very moment to stand by your side at yourwindow as I used to, and look out at the hills, or, better still, to liein your lap or on my bed, and hear you sing one of the dear old hymns. Ithought I had forgotten them until lately. But I remember them very oftennow. I think of Pinewood a great deal, and I love you dearly; and yetsomehow I do not feel as if I cared to go back there to live. Isn't thatstrange? Give my love to Grandpa, and tell him I am neither engaged to aforeign minister, nor a New York merchant, nor a Southern planter--nor toany body else. But he must keep up heart, for there's plenty of time yet. Good-by, dear Aunty. I seem to hear you singing, "'Oh that I now the rest might know!'

"Do you know how often you used to sing that? Good-by. 

"Your affectionate, HOPE. "

Mrs. Simcoe held the letter in her hand for a long time, looking, asusual, out of the window. 

Presently she rose, and went to a bureau, and unlocked a drawer witha key that she carried in her pocket. Taking out an ebony box like acasket, she unlocked that in turn, and then lifted from it a moroccocase, evidently a miniature. She returned to her chair and seated herselfagain, swaying her body gently to and fro as if confirming some difficultresolution, but with the same inscrutable expression upon her face. Stillholding the case in her hands unopened, she murmured:

"I want a sober mind, A self-renouncing will, That tramples down and casts behindThe baits of pleasing ill. "

She repeated the whole hymn several times, as if it were a kind of spellor incantation, and while she was yet saying it she opened the miniature. 

The western light streamed over the likeness of a man of a gallant, graceful air, in whom the fires of youth were not yet burned out, andin whose presence there might be some peculiar fascination. The hairwas rather long and fair--the features were handsomely moulded, butwore a slightly jaded expression, which often seems to a woman an airof melancholy, but which a man would have recognized at once as theresult of dissipation. There was a singular cast in the eye, and a kindof lofty, irresistible command in the whole aspect, which appeared to bequite as much an assumption of manner as a real superiority. In fact itwas the likeness of what is technically called a man of the world, whosefrank insolence and symmetry of feature pass for manly beauty andcomposure. 

The miniature was in the face of a gold locket, on the back of whichthere was a curl of the same fair hair. It was so fresh and glossy thatit might have been cut off the day before. But the quaintness of thesetting and the costume of the portrait showed that it had been takenmany years previous, and that in the order of nature the original wasprobably dead. 

As Mrs. Simcoe held the miniature in both hands and looked at it, herbody still rocked over it, and her lips still murmured. 

Then rocking and murmuring stopped together, and she seemed like onelistening to music or the ringing of distant bells. 

And as she sat perfectly still in the golden September sunshine, it wasas if it had shone into her soul; so that a softer light streamed intoher eyes, and the hard inscrutability of her face melted as by someinternal warmth, and a tender rejuvenescence somehow blossomed out uponher cheeks until all the sweetness became sadness, and heavy tearsdropped from her eyes upon the picture. 

Then, with the old harshness stealing into her face again, she rosecalmly, carrying the miniature in her hand, and went out of the room, anddown the stairs into the library, which was opposite the parlor in whichAbel Newt had seen the picture of old Grandpa Burt at the age of ten, holding a hoop and book. 

There were book-shelves upon every side but one--stately ranges ofwell-ordered books in substantial old calf and gilt English bindings, and so carefully placed upon the shelves, in such methodical distributionof shapes and sizes, that the whole room had an air of preternaturalpropriety utterly foreign to a library. It seemed the most select andaristocratic society of books--much too fine to permit the excitementof interest in any thing they contained--much too high-bred to be of theslightest use in imparting information. Glass doors were carefully closedover them and locked, as if the books were beatified and laid away inshrines. And the same solemn order extended to the library table, whichwas precisely in the middle of the room, with a large, solemn familyBible precisely in the middle of the table, and smaller books, likesatellites, precisely upon the corners, and precisely on one side anempty glass inkstand, innocent of ink spot or stain of any kind, with apen carefully mended and evidently carefully never used, and an exemplarypen-wiper, which was as unsullied as might be expected of a wiper whichhad only wiped that pen which was never dipped into that inkstand whichhad been always empty. The inkstand was supported on the other side ofthe Bible by an equally immaculate ivory paper-knife. 

The large leather library chairs were arranged in precisely the properangle at the corners of the table, and the smaller chairs stood under thewindows two by two. All was cold and clean, and locked up--all--except aportrait that hung against the wall, and below which Mrs. Simcoe stopped, still holding the miniature in her hand. 

It was the likeness of a lovely girl, whose rich, delicate loveliness, full of tender but tremulous character, seemed to be a kind offoreshadowing of Hope Wayne. The eyes were of a deep, soft darkness, that held the spectator with a dreamy fascination. The other featureswere exquisitely moulded, and suffused with an airy, girlish grace, so innocent that the look became almost a pathetic appeal against theinevitable griefs of life. 

As Mrs. Simcoe stood looking at it and at the miniature she held, thesadness which had followed the sweetness died away, and her face resumedthe old rigid inscrutability. She held the miniature straight before her, and directly under the portrait; and, as she looked, the apparent prideof the one and the tremulous earnestness of the other indescribablyblended into an expression which had been long familiar to her, for itwas the look of Hope Wayne. 

While she thus stood, unconscious of the time that passed, the sun hadset and the room was darkening. Suddenly she heard a sound close at herside, and started. Her hand instinctively closed over the miniature andconcealed it. 

There stood a man kindly regarding her. He was not an old man, but therewas a touch of quaintness in his appearance. He did not speak when shesaw him, and for several minutes they stood silent together. Then theireyes rose simultaneously to the picture, met again, and Mrs. Simcoe, putting out her hand, said, in a low voice, "Lawrence Newt!"

He shook her hand warmly, and made little remarks, while she seemed tobe studying into his face, as if she were looking for something she didnot find there. Every body did it. Every body looked into Lawrence Newt'sface to discover what he was thinking of, and nobody ever saw. Mrs. Simcoe remembered a time when she had seen. 

"It is more than twenty years since I saw you. Have I grown very old?"asked he. 

"No, not old. I see the boy I remember; but your face is not so clear asit used to be. "

Lawrence Newt laughed. 

"You compliment me without knowing it. My face is the lid of a chest fullof the most precious secrets; would you have the lid transparent? I am amerchant. Suppose every body could look in through my face and see what Ireally think of the merchandise I am selling! What profit do you think Ishould make? No, no, we want no tell-tale faces in South Street. "

He said this in a tone that corresponded with the expression whichbaffled Mrs. Simcoe, and perplexed her only the more. But it did notrepel her nor beget distrust. A porcupine hides his flesh in bristlingquills; but a magnolia, when its time has not yet come, folds its heartin and in with over-lacing tissues of creamy richness and fragrance. The flower is not sullen, it is only secret. 

"I suppose you are twenty years wiser than you were, " said Mrs. Simcoe. 

"What is wisdom?" asked Lawrence Newt. 

"To give the heart to God, " replied she. 

"That I have discovered, " he said. 

"And have you given it?"

"I hope so. "

"Yes, but haven't you the assurance?" asked she, earnestly. 

"I hope so, " responded Lawrence Newt, in the same kindly tone. 

"But assurance is a gift, " continued she. 

"A gift of what?"

"Of Peace, " replied Mrs. Simcoe. 

"Ah! well, I have that, " said the other, quietly, as his eyes rested uponthe portrait. 

There was moisture in the eyes. 

"Her daughter is very like her, " he said, musingly; and the two stoodtogether silently for some time looking at the picture. 

"Not entirely like her mother, " replied Mrs. Simcoe, as if to assert someother resemblance. 

"Perhaps not; but I never saw her father. "

As Lawrence Newt said this, Mrs. Simcoe raised her hand, opened it, andheld the miniature before his eyes. He took it and gazed closely at it. 

"And this is Colonel Wayne, " said he, slowly. "This is the man who brokeanother man's heart and murdered a woman. "

A mingled expression of pain, indignation, passionate regret, andresignation suddenly glittered on the face of Mrs. Simcoe. 

"Mr. Newt, Mr. Newt, " said she, hurriedly, in a thick voice, "let us atleast respect the dead!"

Lawrence Newt, still holding the miniature in his hand, looked surprisedand searchingly at his companion. A lofty pity shot into his eyes. 

"Could I speak of her otherwise?"

The sudden change in Mrs. Simcoe's expression conveyed her thought to himbefore her words:

"No, no! not of _her_, but--"

She stopped, as if wrestling with a fierce inward agony. The veins on herforehead were swollen, and her eyes flashed with singular light. It wasnot clear whether she were trying to say something to conceal something, or simply to recover her self-command. It was a terrible spectacle, andLawrence Newt felt as if he must veil his eyes, as if he had no right tolook upon this great agony of another. 

"But--" said he, mechanically, as if by repeating her last word to helpher in her struggle. 

The sad, severe woman stood before him in the darkening twilight, erect, and more than erect, drawn back from him, and quivering and defiant. Shewas silent for an instant; then, leaning forward and reaching toward him, she took the miniature from Lawrence Newt, closed her hand over itconvulsively, and gasped in a tone that sounded like a low, wailing cry:

"But of _him_. "

Lawrence Newt raised his eyes from the vehement woman to the portraitthat hung above her. 

In the twilight that lost loveliness glimmered down into his veryheart with appealing pathos. Perhaps those parted lips in their redbloom had spoken to him--lips so long ago dust! Perhaps those eyes, inthe days forever gone--gone with hopes and dreams, and the soft lustreof youth--had looked into his own, had answered his fond yearning withequal fondness. By all that passionate remembrance, by a lost love, bythe early dead, he felt himself conjured to speak, nor suffer his silenceeven to seem to shield a crime. 

"And why not of him?" he began, calmly, and with profound melancholyrather than anger. "Why not of him, who did not hesitate to marrythe woman whom he knew loved another, and whom the difference of yearsshould rather have made his daughter than his wife? Why not of him, whobrutally confessed, when she was his wife, an earlier and truer love ofhis own, and so murdered her slowly, slowly--not with blows of the hand, oh no!--not with poison in her food, oh no!" cried Lawrence Newt, warminginto bitter vehemence, clenching his hand and shaking it in the air, "butwho struck her blows on the heart--who stabbed her with sharp icicles ofindifference--who poisoned her soul with the tauntings of his meansuspicions--mean and false--and the meaner because he knew them to befalse? Why not of him, who--"

"Stop! in the name of God!" she cried, fiercely, raising her hand as ifshe appealed to Heaven. 

It fell again. The hard voice sank to a tremulous, pitiful tone:

"Oh! stop, if you, are a man!"

They stood opposite each other in utter silence. The light had almostfaded. The face in the picture was no longer visible. 

Bewildered and awed by the passionate grief of his companion, LawrenceNewt said, gently, "Why should I stop?"

The form before him had sunk into a chair. Both its hands were claspedover the miniature. He heard the same strange voice like the wailing cryof a child:

"Because I am the woman he loved--because I loved him. "

CHAPTER XXVII. 

GABRIEL AT HOME. 

During all this time Gabriel Bennet is becoming a merchant. Every morninghe arrives at the store with the porter or before him. He helps him sweepand dust; and it is Gabriel who puts Lawrence Newt's room in order, laying the papers in place, and taking care of the thousand namelessdetails that make up comfort. He reads the newspapers before the otherclerks arrive, and sits upon chests of tea or bales of matting in theloft, that fill the air with strange, spicy, Oriental odors, and talkswith the porter. In the long, warm afternoons, too, when there is nopressure of business, and the heat is overpowering, he sits also aloneamong those odors, and his mind is busy with all kinds of speculations, and dreams, and hopes. 

As he walks up Broadway toward evening, his clear, sweet eyes see everything that floats by. He does not know the other side of the fine dresseshe meets any more than of the fine houses, with the smiling, glitteringwindows. The sun shines bright in his eyes--the street is gay--he nodsto his friends--he admires the pretty faces--he wonders at the fast mendriving fast horses--he sees the flowers in the windows, the smilingfaces between the muslin curtains--he gazes with a kind of awe at thefunerals going by, and marks the white bands of the clergymen and thephysicians--the elm-trees in the hospital yard remind him of the woods atDelafield; and here comes Abel Newt, laughing, chatting, smoking, with anarm in the arms of two other young men, who are also smoking. As Gabrielpasses Abel their eyes meet. Abel nods airily, and Gabriel quietly; thenext moment they are back to back again--one is going up street, theother down. 

It is not one of the splendid houses before which Gabriel stops when hehas reached the upper part of the city. It is not a palace, nor is itnear Broadway. Nor are there curtains at the window, but a pair ofsmiling faces, of friendly women's faces. One is mild and maternal, withthat kind of tender anxiety which softens beauty instead of hardening it. It has that look which, after she is dead, every affectionate son thinkshe remembers to have seen in his mother's face; and the other is younger, brighter--a face of rosy cheeks, and clustering hair, and blue eyes--abeaming, loyal, loving, girlish face. 

They both smile welcome to Gabriel, and the younger face, disappearingfrom the window, reappears at the door. Gabriel naturally kisses thoseblooming lips, and then goes into the parlor and kisses his mother. Thosesympathetic friends ask him what has happened during the day. They see ifhe looks unusually fatigued; and if so, why so? they ask. Gabriel musttell the story of the unlading the ship _Mary B. _, which has just comein--which is Lawrence Newt's favorite ship; but why called _Mary B. _ noteven Thomas Tray knows, who knows every thing else in the business. Thensitting on each side of him on the sofa, those women wonder and guesswhy the ship should be called _Mary B. _ What Mary B. ? Oh! dear, theremight be a thousand women with those initials. And what has ever happenedto Mr. Newt that he should wish to perpetuate a woman's name? Stop!remembers mamma, his mother's name was Mary. Mary what? asks thedaughter. Mamma, _you_ remember, of course. 

Mamma merely replies that his mother's name was Bunley--Mary Bunley--afamous belle of the close of the last century, when she was the mostbeautiful woman at President Washington's levees--Mary Bunley, to whomAaron Burr paid his addresses in vain. 

"Yes, mamma; but who was Aaron Burr?" ask those blooming lips, as thebright young eyes glance from under the clustering curls at her mother. 

"Ellen, do you remember this spring, as we were coming up Broadway, we passed an old man with a keen black eye, who was rather carelesslydressed, and who wore a cue, with thick hair of his own, white as snow, whom a good many people looked at and pointed out to each other, butnobody spoke to?--who gazed at you as we passed so peculiarly that youpressed nearer to me, and asked who it was, and why such an old manseemed to be so lonely, and in all that great throng, which evidentlyknew him, was as solitary as if he had been in a desert?"

"Perfectly--I remember it, " replies Ellen. 

"That friendless old man, my dear, whom at this moment perhaps scarcelya single human being in the world loves, was the most brilliant beauand squire of dames that has ever lived in this country; handsome, accomplished, and graceful, he has stepped many a stately dance with thequeenly Mary Bunley, mother of Lawrence Newt. But that was half a centuryago. "

"Mamma, " asks Ellen, full of interest in her mother's words, "but whydoes nobody speak to him? Why is he so alone? Had he not better have diedhalf a century ago?"

"My dear, you have seen Mrs. Beriah Dagon, an aunt of Mr. LawrenceNewt's? She was Cecilia Bunley, sister of Mary. When she was youngershe used to go to the theatre with a little green snake coiled aroundher arm like a bracelet. It was the most lovely green--the softest coloryou ever saw; it had the brightest eyes, the most sinuous grace; it hada sort of fascination, but it filled you with fear; fortunately, it washarmless. But, Ellen, if it could have stung, how dreadful it would havebeen! Aaron Burr was graceful, and, accomplished, and brilliant; hecoiled about many a woman, fascinating her with his bright eyes and hissinuous manner; but if he had stung, dear?"

Ellen shakes her head as her mother speaks, and Gabriel involuntarilythinks of Abel Newt. 

When Mrs. Bennet goes out of the room to attend to the tea, Gabriel saysthat for his part he doesn't believe in the least that the ship was namedfor old Mrs. Newt; people are not romantic about their mothers; and MissEllen agrees with him. 

The room in which they sit is small, and very plain. There are only asofa, and table, and some chairs, with shelves of books, and a coarsecarpet. Upon the wall hangs a portrait representing a young and beautifulwoman, not unlike Mrs. Bennet; but the beauty of the face is flashing andpassionate, not thoughtful and mild like that of Gabriel's mother. Butalthough every thing is very plain, it is perfectly cheerful. There isnothing forlorn in the aspect of the room. Roses in a glass upon thetable, and the voice and manner of the mother and daughter, tell everything. 

Presently they go in to tea, and Mr. Bennet joins them. His face is pale, and of gentle expression, and he stoops a little in his walk. He wearsslippers and an old coat, and has the air of a clergyman who has made uphis mind to be disappointed. But he is not a clergyman, although hiswhite cravat, somewhat negligently tied, and his rusty black dress-coat, favor that theory. There is a little weariness in his expression, and aninvoluntary, half-deferential smile, as if he fully assented to everything that might be presented--not because he is especially interested init or believes it, but because it is the shortest way of avoidingdiscussion and getting back to his own thoughts. 

"Gabriel, my son, I am glad to see you!" his father says, as he seatshimself, not opposite his wife, but at one side of the table. He inquiresif Mr. Newt has returned, and learns that he has been at home for severaldays. He hopes that he has enjoyed his little journey; then sips his tea, and looks to see if the windows are closed; shakes himself gently, andsays he feels chilly; that the September evenings are already autumnal, and that the time is coming when we must begin to read aloud again aftertea. And what book shall we read? Perhaps the best of all we can selectis Irving's Life of Columbus; Mr. Bennet himself has read it in theprevious year, but he is sure his children will be interested anddelighted by it; and, for himself, he likes nothing better than to readover and over a book he knows and loves. He puts down his knife ashe speaks, and plays with his tea-spoon on the edge of the cup. 

"I find myself enchanted with the description of the islands in theGulf, and the life of those soft-souled natives. As I read on, I smellthe sweet warm odors from the land; I pick up the branches of greentrees floating far out upon the water; I see the drifting sea-weed, and the lights at night upon the shore; then I land, and lie underthe palm-trees, and hear the mellow tongue of the tropics; I taste theluscious fruits; I bask in that rich, eternal sun--" His eyes swim withtropical languor as he speaks. He still mechanically balances the spoonupon the cup, while his mind is deep sunk in reverie. As his wife glancesat him, both the look of tenderness and of anxiety in her face deepen. But the moment of silence rouses him, and with the nervous smile upon hisface, he says, "Oh--ah!--I--yes--let it be Irving's Columbus!"

Toward his wife Mr. Bennet's manner is almost painfully thoughtful. Hiseye constantly seeks hers; and when he speaks to her, the mechanicalsmile which greets every body else is replaced by a kind ofindescribable, touching appeal for forgiveness. It is conveyed inno particular thing that he says or does, but it pervades his wholeintercourse with her. As Gabriel and Ellen grow up toward maturity, Mrs. Bennet observes that the same peculiarity is stealing into his mannertoward them. It is as if he were involuntarily asking pardon for somegreat wrong that he has unconsciously done them. And yet his mildness, and sweetness, and simplicity of nature are such, that this singularmanner does not disturb the universal cheerfulness. 

"You look a little tired to-night, father, " says Gabriel, when they areall seated in the front room again, by the table, with the lamp lighted. 

"Yes, " replies the father, who sits upon the sofa, with his wife by hisside--"yes; Mr. Van Boozenberg was very angry to-day about some error hethought he had discovered, and he was quite short with us book-keepers, and spoke rather sharply. "

A slight flush passes over Mr. Bennet's face, as if he recalled somethingextremely disagreeable. His eyes become dreamy again; but after a momentthe old smile returns, and, as if begging pardon, in a half bewilderedway, he resumes:

"However, his position is trying. Fortunately there wasn't any mistakeexcept of his own. "

He is silent again. After a little while he asks, "Couldn't we have somemusic? Ellen, can't you sing something?"

Ellen thinks she can, if Gabriel will sing second; Gabriel says he willtry, with pleasure; but really--he is so overwhelmed--the state of hisvoice--he feigns a little cough--if the crowded and fashionable audiencewill excuse--he really--in fact, he will--but he is sure--

During this little banter Nellie cries, "Pooh, pooh!" mamma lookspleased, and papa smiles gently. Then the fresh young voices of thebrother and sister mingle in "Bonnie Doon. "

The room is not very light, for there is but one lamp upon the table bywhich the singers sit. The parents sit together upon the sofa; and as thesong proceeds the hand of the mother steals into that of the father, which holds it closely, while his arm creeps noiselessly around herwaist. Their hearts float far away upon that music. His eyes droop aswhen he was speaking of the tropic islands--as if he were hearing thesoft language of those shores. As his wife looks at him she sees on hisface, beneath the weariness of its expression, the light which shonethere in the days when they sang "Bonnie Doon" together. He draws hercloser to him, and his head bows as if by long habit of humility. Hereyes gradually fill with tears; and when the song is over her head islying on his breast. 

While they are still sitting in silence there is a ring at the door, andLawrence Newt and Amy Waring enter the room. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

BORN TO BE A BACHELOR. 

"The truth is, Madame, " began Lawrence Newt, addressing Mrs. Bennet, "that I am ashamed of myself--I ought to have called a hundred times. I ask your pardon, Sir, " he continued, turning to Mr. Bennet, who wasstanding irresolutely by the sofa, half-leaning upon the arm. 

"Oh!--ah! I am sure, " replied Mr. Bennet, with the nervous smile flittingacross his face and apparently breaking out all over him; and there heremained speechless and bowing, while Mr. Newt hastened to seat himself, that every body else might sit down also. 

Mrs. Bennet said that she was really, glad to see the face of an oldfriend again whom she had not seen for so long. 

"But I see you every day in Gabriel, my dear Madame, " replied LawrenceNewt, with quaint dignity. Mother and son both smiled, and the fatherbowed as if the remark had been addressed to him. 

Amy seated herself by Gabriel and Ellen, and talked very animatedly withthem, while the parents and Mr. Newt sat together. She praised the roses, and smelled them very often; and whenever she did so, her eyes, havingnothing in particular to do at the moment, escaped, as it were, under herbrows through the petals of the roses as she bent over them, and wanderedaway to Lawrence Newt, whose kind, inscrutable eyes, by the mostextraordinary chance in the world, seemed to be expecting hers, and wereready to receive them with the warmest welcome, and a half-twinkle--orwas it no twinkle at all? which seemed to say, "Oh! you came--did you?"And every time his eyes seemed to say this Amy burst out into freshpraises of those beautiful roses to her younger cousins, and pressed themclose to her cheek, as if she found their moist, creamy coolnesspeculiarly delicious and refreshing--pressed them so close, indeed, thatshe seemed to squeeze some of their color into her cheeks, which Gabrieland Ellen both thought, and afterward declared to their mother, to bequite as beautiful as roses. 

Amy's conversation with her young cousins was very lively indeed, but ithad not a continuous interest. There were incessant little pauses, duringwhich the eyes slipped away again across the room, and fell as softly asbefore, plump into the same welcome and the same little interrogation inthose other eyes, twinkling with that annoying "did you?"

Amy Waring was certainly twenty-five, although Gabriel laughed and jeeredat any such statement. But mamma and the Family Bible were too much forhim. Lawrence Newt was certainly more than forty. But the Newt FamilyBible was under a lock of which the key lay in Mrs. Boniface Newt'sbureau, who, in a question of age, preferred tradition, which she couldjudiciously guide, to Scripture. When Boniface Newt led Nancy Magot tothe altar, he recorded, in a large business hand, both the date of hismarriage and his wife's birth. She protested, it was vulgar. And when thebridegroom inquired whether the vulgarity were in the fact of being bornor in recording it, she said: "Mr. Newt, I am ashamed of you, " and lockedup the evidence. 

There was a vague impression in the Newt family--Boniface had alreadymentioned it to his son Abel--that there was something that UncleLawrence never talked about--many things indeed, of course, but stillsomething in particular. Outside the family nothing was suspected. Lawrence Newt was simply one of those incomprehensibly pleasant, eccentric, benevolent men, whose mercantile credit was as good as JacobVan Boozenberg's, but who perversely went his own way. One of these waysled to all kinds of poor people's houses; and it was upon a visit to thewidow of the clergyman to whom Boniface Newt had given eight dollars forwriting a tract entitled "Indiscriminate Almsgiving a Crime, " thatLawrence Newt had first met Amy Waring. As he was leaving money with thepoor woman to pay her rent, Amy came in with a basket of comfortablesugars and teas. She carried the flowers in her face. Lawrence Newt wasalmost blushing at being caught in the act of charity; and as he wassliding past her to get out, he happened to look at her face, andstopped. 

"Bless my soul! my dear young lady, surely your name is Darro!"

The dear young lady smiled and colored, and replied, "No, mine is not, but my mother's was. "

"Of course it was. Those eyes of yours are the Darro eyes. Do you think Ido not know the Darro eyes when I see them?"

And he took Amy's hand, and said, "Whose daughter are you?"

"My name is Amy Waring. "

"Oh! then you are Corinna's daughter. Your aunt Lucia married Mr. Bennet, and--and--" Lawrence Newt's voice paused and hesitated for a moment, "and--there was another. "

There was something so tenderly respectful in the tone that Amy, withonly a graver face, replied, "Yes, there was my Aunt Martha. "

"I remember all. She is gone; my dear young lady, you will forgive me, but your face recalls other years. " Then turning to the widow, he said, "Mrs. Simmer, I am sure that you could have no kinder, no better friendthan this young lady. "

The young lady looked at him with a gentle inquiry in her eyes as whoshould say, "What do you know about it?"

Lawrence Newt's eyes understood in a moment, and he answered:

"Oh, I know it as I know that a rose smells sweet. "

He bowed as he said it, and took her hand. 

"Will you remember to ask your mother if she remembers Lawrence Newt, andif he may come and see her?"

Amy Waring said Yes, and the gentleman, bending and touching the tips ofher fingers with his lips, said, "Good-by, Mrs. Simmer, " and departed. 

He called at Mrs. Waring's within a few days afterward. He had known heras a child, but his incessant absence from home when he was younger hadprevented any great intimacy with old acquaintances. But the Darros weredancing-school friends and partners. Since those days they had becomewomen and mothers. He had parted with Corinna Darro, a black-eyed littlegirl in short white frock and short curling hair and red ribbons. He mether as Mrs. Delmer Waring, a large, maternal, good-hearted woman. 

This had happened two years before, and during all the time since thenLawrence Newt had often called--had met Amy in the street on manyerrands--had met her at balls whenever he found she was going. He did notask her to drive with him. He did not send her costly gifts. He didnothing that could exclude the attentions of younger men. But sometimesa basket of flowers came for Miss Waring--without a card, without anyclue. The good-hearted mother thought of various young men, candidatesfor degrees in Amy's favor, who had undoubtedly sent the flowers. Thegood-hearted mother, who knew that Amy was in love with none of them, pitied them--thought it was a great shame they should lose their time insuch an utterly profitless business as being in love with Amy; and whenany of them called said, with a good-humored sigh, that she believed herdaughter would never be any thing but a Sister of Charity. 

Sometimes also a new book came, and on the fly-leaf was written, "To MissAmy Waring, from her friend Lawrence Newt. " Then the good-hearted motherremarked that some men were delightfully faithful to old associations, and that it was really beautiful to see Mr. Newt keeping up theacquaintance so cordially, and complimenting his old friend so delicatelyby thinking of pleasing her daughter. What a pity he had never married, to have had daughters of his own! "But I suppose, Amy, some men are bornto be bachelors. "

"I suppose they are, mother, " Amy replied, and found immediately afterthat she had left her scissors, she couldn't possibly remember where;perhaps in your room, mamma, perhaps in mine. 

They must be looked for, however, and, O how curious! there they lay inher own room upon the table. In her own room, where she opened the newbook and read in it for half an hour at a time, but always poring on thesame page. It was such a profound work. It was so full of weighty matter. When would she ever read it through at this rate, for the page over whichshe pored had less on it than any other page in the book. In fact it hadnothing on it but that very commonplace and familiar form of words, "ToMiss Amy Waring, from her friend Lawrence Newt. "

Amy was entirely of her mother's opinion. Some men are undoubtedly bornto be bachelors. Some men are born to be as noble as the heroes ofromances--simple, steadfast, true; to be gentle, intelligent, sagacious, with an experience that has mellowed by constant and various intercoursewith men, but with a heart that that intercourse has never chilled, anda faith which that experience has only confirmed. Some men are born topossess every quality of heart, and mind, and person that can awaken andsatisfy the love of a woman. Yes, unquestionably, said Amy Waring in hermind, which was so cool, so impartial, so merely contemplating thesubject as an abstract question, some men--let me see, shall I say likeLawrence Newt, simply as an illustration?--well, yes--some men likeLawrence Newt, for instance, are born to be all that some women dream ofin their souls, and they are the very ones who are born to be bachelors. 

It might be very sad not to be aware of it, thought Amy. What a profoundpity it would be if any young woman should not see it, for instance, in the case of Lawrence Newt. But when a young woman is in no doubt atall, when she knows perfectly well that such a man is not intended bynature to be a marrying man, and therefore never thinks of such a thing, but only with a grace, and generosity, and delicacy beyond expressionoffers his general homage to the sex by giving little gifts to her, "why, then--then, " thought Amy, and she was thinking so at the very moment whenshe sat with Gabriel and Ellen, talking in a half wild, lively, incoherent way, "why, then--then, " and her eyes leaped across the roomand fell, as it were, into the arms of Lawrence Newt's, which caressedthem with soft light, and half-laughed "You came again, did you?"--"why, then--then, " and Amy buried her face in the cool, damp roses, and did notdare to look again, "then she had better go and be a Sister of Charity. "

CHAPTER XXIX. 

MR. ABEL NEWT, GRAND STREET. 

As the world returned to town and the late autumnal festivities began, the handsome person and self-possessed style of Mr. Abel Newt became thefashion. Invitations showered upon him. Mrs. Dagon proclaimed every wherethat there had been nobody so fascinating since the days of the brilliantyouth of Aaron Burr, whom she declared that she well remembered, andadded, that if she could say it without blushing, or if any reputablewoman ought to admit such things, she should confess that in her youngerdays she had received flowers and even notes from that fascinating man. 

"I don't deny, my dears, that he was a naughty man. But I can tell youone thing, all the naughty men are not in disgrace yet, though he is. And, if you please, Miss Fanny, with all your virtuous sniffs, dear, andall your hugging of men in waltzing, darling, Colonel Burr was not sentto Coventry because he was naughty. He might have been naughty all thedays of his life, and Mrs. Jacob Van Boozenberg and the rest of 'em wouldhave been quite as glad to have him at their houses. No, no, dears, society doesn't punish men for being naughty--only women. I am olderthan you, and I have observed that society likes spice in character. It doesn't harm a man to have stories told about him. "

No ball was complete without Abel Newt. Ladies, meditating parties, engaged him before they issued a single invitation. At dinners he wassparkling and agreeable, with tact enough not to extinguish the othermen, who yet felt his superiority and did not half like it. They imitatedhis manner; but what was ease or gilded assurance in him was openinsolence, or assurance with the gilt rubbed off, in them. The charmand secret of his manner lay in an utter devotion, which said to everywoman, "There's not a woman in the world who can resist me, except you. Have you the heart to do it?" Of course this manner was assisted bypersonal magnetism and beauty. Wilkes said he was only half an hourbehind the handsomest man in the world. But he would never have overtakenhim if the handsome man had been Wilkes. 

In his dress Abel was costly and elegant. With the other men of his day, he read "Pelham" with an admiration of which his life was the witness. Pelham was the Byronic hero made practicable, purged of romance, andadapted to society. Mr. Newt, Jun. , was one of a small but influentialset of young men about town who did all they could to repair themisfortune of being born Americans, by imitating the habits of foreignlife. 

It was presently clear to him that residence under the parental roof wasincompatible with the habits of a strictly fashionable man. 

"There are hours, you know, mother, and habits, which make a separatelodging much more agreeable to all parties. I have friends to smoke, orto drink a glass of punch, or to play a game of whist; and we must sing, and laugh, and make a noise, as young men will, which is not seemly forthe paternal mansion, mother mine. " With which he took his admiringmother airily under the chin and kissed her--not having mentionedevery reason which made a separate residence desirable. 

So Abel Newt hired a pleasant set of rooms in Grand Street, nearBroadway, in the neighborhood of other youth of the right set. Hefurnished them sumptuously, with the softest carpets, the most luxuriouseasy-chairs, the most costly curtains, and pretty, bizarre little tables, and bureaus, and shelves. Various engravings hung upon the walls; aprofile-head of Bulwer, with a large Roman nose and bushy whiskers, andone of his Majesty George IV. , in that famous cloak which LordChesterfield bought at the sale of his Majesty's wardrobe for elevenhundred dollars, and of which the sable lining alone originally cost fourthousand dollars. Then there were little vases, and boxes, and casketsstanding upon all possible places, with a rare flower in some one of themoften, sent by some kind dowager who wished to make sure of Abel at adinner or a select soiree. Pipes, of course, and boxes of choice cigars, were at hand, and in a convenient closet such a beautiful set of Englishcut glass for the use of a gentleman!

It was no wonder that the rooms of Abel Newt became a kind of club-roomand elegant lounge for the gay gentlemen about town. He even gave littledinners there to quiet parties, sometimes including two or threeextremely vivacious and pretty, as well as fashionably dressed, youngwomen, whom he was not in the habit of meeting in society, but who wereknown quite familiarly to Abel and his friends. 

Upon other occasions these little dinners took place out of town, whitherthe gentlemen drove alone in their buggies by daylight, and, meeting theladies there, had the pleasure of driving them back to the city in theevening. The "buggy" of Abel's day was an open gig without a top, veryeasy upon its springs, but dangerous with stumbling horses. The drivewas along the old Boston road, and the rendezvous, Cato's--CatoAlexander's--near the present shot-tower. If the gentlemen returnedalone, they finished the evening at Benton's, in Ann Street, wherethey played a game of billiards; or at Thiel's retired rooms over thecelebrated Stewart's, opposite the Park, where they indulged in faro. Abel Newt lost and won his money with careless grace--always a littleglad when he won, for somebody had to pay for all this luxurious life. 

Boniface Newt remonstrated. His son was late at the office in themorning. He drew large sums to meet his large expenses. Several times, instead of instantly filling out the checks as Abel directed, thebook-keeper had delayed, and said casually to Mr. Newt during Abel'sabsence at lunch, which was usually prolonged, that he supposed it wasall right to fill up a check of that amount to Mr. Abel's order? Mr. Boniface Newt replied, in a dogged way, that he supposed it was. 

But one day when the sum had been large, and the paternal temper morethan usually ruffled, he addressed the junior partner upon his returnfrom lunch and his noontide glass with his friends at the WashingtonHotel, to the effect that matters were going on much too rapidly. 

"To what matters do you allude, father?" inquired Mr. Abel, withcomposure, as he picked his teeth with one hand, and surveyed a cigarwhich he held in the other. 

"I mean, Sir, that you are spending a great deal too much money. "

"Why, how is that, Sir?" asked his son, as he called to the boy in theouter office to bring him a light. 

"By Heavens! Abel, you're enough to make a man crazy! Here I have put youinto my business, over the heads of the clerks who are a hundred-foldbetter fitted for it than you; and you not only come down late and goaway early, and destroy all kind of discipline by smoking and lounging, but you don't manifest the slightest interest in the business; and, aboveall, you are living at a frightfully ruinous rate! Yes, Sir, ruinous!How do you suppose I can pay, or that the business can pay, for suchextravagance?"

Abel smoked calmly during this energetic discourse, and blew little ringsfrom his mouth, which he watched with interest as they melted in the air. 

"Certain things are inevitable, father. "

His parent, frowning and angry, growled at him as he made this remark, and muttered, "Well, suppose they are. "

"Now, father, " replied his son, with great composure, "let us proceedcalmly. Why should we pretend not to see what is perfectly plain?Business nowadays proceeds by credit. Credit is based upon something, orthe show of something. It is represented by a bank-bill. Here now--" Andhe opened his purse leisurely and drew out a five-dollar note of the Bankof New York, "here is a promise to pay five dollars--in gold or silver, of course. Do you suppose that the Bank of New York has gold and silverenough to pay all those promises it has issued? Of course not. "

Abel knocked off the ash from his cigar, and took a long contemplativewhiff, as if he were about making a plunge into views even more profound. Mr. Newt, half pleased with the show of philosophy, listened with lessfrowning brows. 

"Well, now, if by some hocus-pocus the Bank of New York hadn't a cent incoin at this moment, it could redeem the few claims that might be madeupon it by borrowing, could it not?"

Mr. Newt shook his head affirmatively. 

"And, in fine, if it were entirely bankrupt, it could still do atremendous business for a very considerable time, could it not?"

Mr. Newt assented. 

"And the managers, who knew it to be so, would have plenty of time to getoff before an explosion, if they wanted to?"

"Abel, what do you mean?" inquired his father. 

The young man was still placidly blowing rings of smoke from his mouth, and answered:

"Nothing terrible. Don't be alarmed. It is only an illustration of thepractical value of credit, showing how it covers a retreat, so to speak. Do you see the moral, father?"

"No; certainly not. I see no moral at all. "

"Why, suppose that nobody wanted to retreat, but that the Bank was onlyto be carried over a dangerous place, then credit is a bridge, isn't it?If it were out of money, it could live upon its credit until it got themoney back again. "

"Clearly, " answered Mr. Newt. 

"And if it extended its operations, it would acquire even more credit?"

"Yes. "

"Because people, believing in the solvency of the Bank, would supposethat it extended itself because it had more means?"

"Yes. "

"And would not feel any dust in their eyes?"

"No, " said Mr. Newt, following his son closely. 

"Well, then; don't you see?"

"No, I don't see, " replied the father; "that is, I don't see what youmean. "

"Why, father, look here! I come into your business. The fact is known. People look. There's no whisper against the house. We extend ourselves;we live liberally, but we pay the bills. Every body says, 'Newt & Son aredoing a thumping business. ' Perhaps we are--perhaps we are not. We arecrossing the bridge of credit. Before people know that we have beenliving up to our incomes--quite up, father dear"--Mr. Newt frowned anentire assent--"we have plenty of money!"

"How, in Heaven's name!" cried Boniface Newt, springing up, and in soloud a tone that the clerks looked in from the outer office. 

"By my marriage, " returned Abel, quietly. 

"With whom?" asked Mr. Newt, earnestly. 

"With an heiress. "

"What's her name?"

"Just what I am trying to find out, " replied Abel, lightly, as he threwhis cigar away. "And now I put it to you, father, as a man of the worldand a sensible, sagacious, successful merchant, am I not more likely tomeet and marry such a girl, if I live generously in society, than if Ishut myself up to be a mere dig?"

Mr. Newt was not sure. Perhaps it was so. Upon the whole, it probably wasso. 

Mr. Abel did not happen to suggest to his father that, for the purpose ofmarrying an heiress, if he should ever chance to be so fortunate as tomeet one, and, having met her, to become enamored so that he might bejustified in wooing her for his wife--that for all these contingenciesit was a good thing for a young man to have a regular business connectionand apparent employment--and very advantageous, indeed, that thatconnection should be with a man so well known in commercial andfashionable circles as his father. That of itself was one of the greatadvantages of credit. It was a frequent joke of Abel's with his father, after the recent conversation, that credit was the most creditable thinggoing. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

CHECK. 

During these brilliant days of young bachelorhood Abel, by some curiouschance, had not met Hope Wayne, who was passing the winter in New Yorkwith her Aunt Dinks, and who had hitherto declined all society. It waswell known that she was in town. The beautiful Boston heiress was oftenenough the theme of discourse among the youth at Abel's rooms. 

"Is she really going to marry that Dinks? Why, the man's a donkey!" saidCorlaer Van Boozenberg. 

"And are there no donkeys among your married friends?" inquired Abel, with the air of a naturalist pursuing his researches. 

One day, indeed, as he was passing Stewart's, he saw Hope alighting froma carriage. He was not alone; and as he passed their eyes met. He bowedprofoundly. She bent her head without speaking, as one acknowledges aslight acquaintance. It was not a "cut, " as Abel said to himself; "not atall. It was simply ranking me with the herd. "

"Who's that stopping to speak with her?" asked Corlaer, as he turned backto see her. 

"That's Arthur Merlin. Don't you know? He's a painter. I wonder how thedeuce he came to know her!"

In fact, it was the painter. It was the first time he had met hersince the summer days of Saratoga; and as he stood talking with herupon the sidewalk, and observed that her cheeks had an unusual flush, and her manner a slight excitement, he could not help feeling a secretpleasure--feeling, in truth, so deep a delight, as he looked into thatlovely face, that he found himself reflecting, as he walked away, howvery fortunate it was that he was so entirely devoted to his art. Itis very fortunate indeed, thought he. And yet it might be a pity, too, if I should chance to meet some beautiful and sympathetic woman; because, being so utterly in love with my art, it would be impossible for me tofall in love with her! Quite impossible! Quite out of the question!

Just as he thought this he bumped against some one, and looked upsuddenly. A calm, half-amused face met his glance, as Arthur said, hastily, "I beg your pardon. "

"My pardon is granted, " returned the gentleman; "but still you had betterlook out for yourself. "

"Oh! I shall not hit any body else, " said Arthur, as he bowed and waspassing on. 

"I am not speaking of other people, " replied the other, with a look whichwas very, friendly, but very puzzling. 

"Whom do you mean, then?" asked Arthur Merlin. 

"Yourself, of course, " said the gentleman with the half-amused face. 

"How?" inquired Arthur. 

"To guard against Venus rising from the fickle sea, or Hope descendingfrom a carriage, " rejoined his companion, putting out his hand. 

Arthur looked surprised, and, could he have resisted the face of his newacquaintance, he would have added indignation to his expression. But itwas impossible. 

"To whom do I owe such excellent advice?"

"To Lawrence Newt, " answered that gentleman, putting out his hand. "I amglad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Arthur Merlin. "

The painter shook the merchant's hand cordially. They had some furtherconversation, and finally Mr. Merlin turned, and the two men strolledtogether down town. While they yet talked, Lawrence Newt observed thatthe eyes of his companion studied every carriage that passed. He did itin a very natural, artless way; but Lawrence Newt smiled with his eyes, and at length said, as if Arthur had asked him the question, "There shecomes!"

Arthur was a little bit annoyed, and said, suddenly, and with a fine airof surprise, "Who?"

Lawrence turned and looked him full in the face; upon which the painter, who was so fanatically devoted to his art that it was clearly impossiblehe should fall in love, said, "Oh!" as if somebody had answered hisquestion. 

The next moment both gentlemen bowed to Hope Wayne, who passed with Mrs. Dinks in her carriage. 

"Who are those gentlemen to whom you are bowing, Hope?" Mrs. Dinks asked, as she saw her niece lean forward and blush as she bowed. 

"Mr. Merlin and Mr. Lawrence Newt, " replied Hope. 

"Oh, I did not observe. "

After a while she said, "Don't you think, Hope, you could make up yourmind to go to Mrs. Kingfisher's ball next week? You know you haven't beenout at all. "

"Perhaps, " replied Hope, doubtfully. 

"Just as you please, dear. I think it is quite as well to stay away ifyou want to. Your retirement is very natural, and proper, and beautiful, under the circumstances, although it is unusual. Of course I don't fullyunderstand. But I have perfect confidence in the justice of yourreasons. "

Mrs. Dinks looked at Hope tenderly and sagaciously as she said this, andsmiled meaningly. 

Hope was entirely bewildered. Then a sudden apprehension shot through hermind as she thought of what her aunt had said. She asked suddenly and alittle proudly, "What do you mean by 'circumstances, ' aunt?"

Mrs. Dinks was uneasy in her turn. But she pushed bravely on, and saidkindly, "Why on earth shouldn't I know why you are unwilling to have it known, Hope? You know I am as still as the grave. "

"Have what known, aunt?" asked Hope. 

"Why, dear, " replied Mrs. Dinks, confused by Hope's air of innocence, "your engagement, of course. "

"My engagement?" said Hope, with a look of utter amazement; "to whom, Ishould like to know?"

Mrs. Dinks looked at her for an instant, and asked, in a clear, dry tone:

"Are you not engaged to Alfred?"

Hope Wayne's look of anxious surprise melted into an expression ofintense amusement. 

"To Alfred Dinks!" said she, in a slow, incredulous tone, and with hereyes sparkling with laughter. "Why, my dear aunt?"

Mrs. Dinks was overwhelmed by a sudden consciousness of bitterdisappointment, mingled with an exasperating conviction that shehad been somehow duped. The tone was thick in which she answered. 

"What is the meaning of this? Hope, are you deceiving me?"

She knew Hope was not deceiving her as well as she knew that they weresitting together in the carriage. 

Hope's reply was a clear, ringing, irresistible laugh. Then she said, "It's high time I went to balls, I see. I will go to Mrs. Kingfisher's. But, dear aunt, have you seriously believed such a story?"

"Do I think my son is a liar?" replied Mrs. Dinks, sardonically. 

The laugh faded from Hope's face. 

"Did he say so?" asked she. 

"Certainly he did. "

"Alfred Dinks told you I was engaged to him?"

"Alfred Dinks told me you were engaged to him. "

They drove on for some time without speaking. 

"What does he mean by using my name in that way?" said Hope, with theDiana look in her eyes. 

"Oh! that you must settle with him, " replied the other. "I'm sure I don'tknow. "

And Field-marshal Mrs. Dinks settled herself back upon the seat and saidno more. Hope Wayne sat silent and erect by her side. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

AT DELMONICO'S. 

Lawrence Newt had watched with the warmest sympathy the rapid developmentof the friendship between Amy Waring and Hope Wayne. He aided it in everyway. He called in the assistance of Arthur Merlin, who was in some doubtwhether his devotion to his art would allow him to desert it for amoment. But as the doubt only lasted while Lawrence Newt was unfolding aplan he had of reading books aloud with the ladies--and--in fact, a greatmany other praiseworthy plans which all implied a constant meeting withMiss Waring and Miss Wayne, Mr. Merlin did not delay his co-operationin all Mr. Newt's efforts. 

And so they met at Amy Waring's house very often and pretended to read, and really did read, several books together aloud. Ostensibly poetry waspursued at the meetings of what Lawrence Newt called the Round Table. 

"Why not? We have our King Arthur, and our Merlin the Enchanter, " hesaid. 

"A speech from Mr. Merlin, " cried Amy, gayly, while Hope looked up fromher work with encouraging, queenly eyes. Arthur looked at them eagerly. 

"Oh, Diana! Diana!" he thought, but did not say. That was the only speechhe made, and nobody heard it. 

The meetings of the Round Table were devoted to poetry, but of a verypractical kind. It was pure romance, but without any thing technicallyromantic. Mrs. Waring often sat with the little party, and, as sheworked, talked with Lawrence Newt of earlier days--"days when you werenot born, dears, " she said, cheerfully, as if to appropriate Mr. Newt. And whenever she made this kind of allusion Amy's work became veryintricate indeed, demanding her closest attention. But Hope Wayne, remembering her first evening in his society, raised her eyes again withcuriosity, and as she did so Lawrence smiled kindly and gravely, and hiseyes hung upon hers as if he saw again what he had thought never to see;while Hope resolved that she would ask him under what circumstances hehad known Pinewood. But the opportunity had not yet arrived. She didnot wish to ask before the others. There are some secrets that weinvoluntarily respect, while we only know that they are secrets. 

The more Arthur Merlin saw of Hope Wayne the more delighted he was tothink how impossible it was for him, in view of his profound devotion tohis art, to think of beautiful women in any other light than that ofpicturesque subjects. 

"Really, Mr. Newt, " Arthur said to him one evening as they were diningtogether at Delmonico's--which was then in William Street--"if I were topaint a picture of Diana when she loved Endymion--a picture, by-the-by, which I intend to paint--I should want to ask Miss Wayne to sit to me forthe principal figure. It is really remarkable what a subdued splendorthere is about her--Diana blushing, you know, as it were--the moondelicately veiled in cloud. It would be superb, I assure you. "

Lawrence Newt smiled--he often smiled--as he wiped his mouth, and asked, "Who would you ask to sit for Endymion?"

"Well, let me see, " replied Arthur, cheerfully, and pondering as if todetermine who was exactly the man. It was really beautiful to see hisexclusive enthusiasm for his art. "Let me see. How would it do to paintan ideal figure for Endymion?"

"No, no, " said Lawrence Newt, laughing; "art must get its ideal out ofthe real. I demand a good, solid, flesh-and-blood Endymion. "

"I can't just think of any body, " replied Arthur Merlin, musingly, looking upon the floor, and thinking so intently of Hope, in order toimage to himself a proper Endymion, that he quite forgot to think of thecandidates for that figure. 

"How would my young friend Hal Battlebury answer?" asked Lawrence Newt. 

"Oh, not at all, " replied Arthur, promptly; "he's too light, you know. "

"Well, let me see, " continued the other, "what do you think of that youngSoutherner, Sligo Moultrie, who was at Saratoga? I used to think he hadsome of the feeling for Hope Wayne that Diana wanted in Endymion, and hehas the face for a picture. "

"Oh, he's not at all the person. He's much too dark, you see, " answeredArthur, at once, with remarkable readiness. 

"There's Alfred Dinks, " said Lawrence Newt, smiling. 

"Pish!" said Arthur, conclusively. 

"Really, I can not think of any body, " returned his companion, with amock gravity that Arthur probably did not perceive. The young artist wasevidently very closely occupied with the composition of his picture. Hehalf-closed his eyes, as if he saw the canvas distinctly, and said, "I should represent her just lighting upon the hill, you see, with arich, moist flush upon her face, a cold splendor just melting intopassion, half floating, as she comes, so softly superior, so queenlyscornful of all the world but him. Jove! it would make a splendidpicture!"

Lawrence Newt looked at his friend as he imagined the condescendingDiana. The artist's face was a little raised as he spoke, as if he sawa stately vision. It was rapt in the intensity of fancy, and Lawrenceknew perfectly well that he saw Hope Wayne's Endymion before him. But atthe same moment his eye fell upon his nephew Abel sitting with a choicecompany of gay youths at another table. There was instantly a mischievoustwinkle in Lawrence Newt's eye. 

"Eureka! I have Endymion. "

Arthur started and felt a half pang, as if Lawrence Newt had suddenlytold him of Miss Wayne's engagement. He came instantly out of the cloudson Latinos, where he was dreaming. 

"What did you say?" asked he. 

"Why, of course, how dull I am! Abel will be your Endymion, if you canget him. "

"Who is Abel?" inquired Arthur. 

"Why, my nephew, Abel Don Juan Pelham Newt, of Grand Street, and BonifaceNewt, Son, & Company, Dry Goods on Commission, Esquire, " replied LawrenceNewt, with perfect gravity. 

Arthur looked at him bewildered. 

"Don't you know my nephew, Abel Newt?"

"No, not personally. I've heard of him, of course. "

"Well, he's a very handsome young man; and though he be dark, he mayalso be Endymion. Why not? Look at him; there he sits. 'Tis the one justraising the glass to his lips. "

Lawrence Newt bent his head as he spoke toward the gay revelers, who sat, half a dozen in number, and the oldest not more than twenty-five, alldandies, all men of pleasure, at a neighboring table spread with aprofuse and costly feast. Abel was the leader, and at the moment ArthurMerlin and Lawrence Newt turned to look he was telling some anecdote towhich they all listened eagerly, while they sipped the red wine ofFrance, poured carefully from a bottle reclining in a basket, anddelicately coated with dust. Abel, with his glass in his hand and theglittering smile in his eye, told the story with careless grace, as ifhe were more amused with the listeners' eagerness than with the anecdoteitself. The extreme gayety of his life was already rubbing the boyishbloom from his face, but it developed his peculiar beauty more strikinglyby removing that incongruous innocence which belongs to every boyishcountenance. 

As he looked at him, Arthur Merlin was exceedingly impressed by the airof reckless grace in his whole appearance, which harmonized so entirelywith his face. Lawrence Newt watched his friend as the latter gazed atAbel. Lawrence always saw a great deal whenever he looked any where. Perhaps he perceived the secret dissatisfaction and feeling of suddenalarm which, without any apparent reason, Arthur felt as he looked atAbel. 

But the longer Arthur Merlin looked at Abel the more curiouslyperplexed he was. The feeling which, if he had not been a painter soutterly devoted to his profession that all distractions were impossible, might have been called a nascent jealousy, was gradually merged in ahalf-consciousness that he had somewhere seen Abel Newt before, butwhere, and under what circumstances, he could not possibly remember. He watched him steadily, puzzling himself to recall that face. 

Suddenly he clapped his hand upon the table. Lawrence Newt, who waslooking at him, saw the perplexity of his expression smooth itself away;while Arthur Merlin, with an "oh!" of surprise, satisfaction, and alarm, exclaimed--and his color changed--

"Why, it's Manfred in the Coliseum!"

Lawrence Newt was confounded. Was Arthur, then, not deceiving himself, after all? Did he really take an interest in all these people only as apainter, and think of them merely as subjects for pictures?

Lawrence Newt was troubled. He had seen in Arthur with delight what hesupposed the unconscious beginnings of affection for Hope Wayne. He hadpleased himself in bringing them together--of course Amy Waring must bepresent too when he himself was, that any _tête-à-tête_ which arose mightnot be interrupted--and he had dreamed the most agreeable dreams. He knewHope--he knew Arthur--it was evidently the hand of Heaven. He had evenmentioned it confidentially to Amy Waring, who was profoundly interested, and who charitably did the same offices for Arthur with Hope Wayne thatLawrence Newt did for the young candidates with her. The conversationabout the picture of Diana had only confirmed Lawrence Newt in hisconviction that Arthur Merlin really loved Hope Wayne, whether he himselfknew it or not. 

And now was he all wrong, after all? Ridiculous! How could he be?

He tried to persuade himself that he was not. But he could not forgethow persistently Arthur had spoken of Hope only as a fine Diana; and how, after evidently being struck with Abel Newt, he had merely exclaimed, with a kind of suppressed excitement, as if he saw what a strikingpicture he would make, "Manfred in the Coliseum!"

Lawrence Newt drank a glass of wine, thoughtfully. Then he smiledinwardly. 

"It is not the first time I have been mistaken, " thought he. "I shallhave to take Amy Waring's advice about it. "

As he and his friend passed the other table, on their way out, Abelnodded to his uncle; and as Arthur Merlin looked at him carefully, he wasvery sure that he saw the person whose face so singularly resembled thatof Manfred's in the picture he had given Hope Wayne. 

"I am all wrong, " thought Lawrence Newt, ruefully, as they passed outinto the street. 

"Abel Newt, then, is Hope Wayne's somebody, " thought Arthur Merlin, as hetook his friend's arm. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

MRS. THEODORE KINGFISHER AT HOME. _On dansera. _

Society stared when it beheld Miss Hope Wayne entering the drawing-roomof Mrs. Theodore Kingfisher. 

"Really, Miss Wayne, I am delighted, " said Mrs. Kingfisher, with a smilethat might have been made at the same shop with the flowers that noddedover it. 

Mrs. Kingfisher's friendship for Miss Wayne and her charming auntconsisted in two pieces of pasteboard, on which was printed, in Germantext, "Mrs. Theodore Kingfisher, St. John's Square, " which she had leftduring the winter; and her pleasure at seeing her was genuine--not thatshe expected they would solace each other's souls with friendlyintercourse, but that she knew Hope to be a famous beauty who had heldherself retired until now at the very end of the season, when sheappeared for the first time at her ball. 

This reflection secured an unusually ardent reception for Mrs. Dagon, whofollowed Mrs. Dinks's party, and who, having made her salutation to thehostess, said to Mr. Boniface Newt, her nephew, who accompanied her, "Now I'll go and stand by the pier-glass, so that I can rake the rooms. And, Boniface, mind, I depend upon your getting me some lobster salad atsupper, with plenty of dressing--mind, now, plenty of dressing. "

Perched like a contemplative vulture by the pier, Mrs. Dagon declinedchairs and sofas, but put her eye-glass to her eyes to spy out the land. She had arrived upon the scene of action early. She always did. 

"I want to see every body come in. There's a great deal in watching howpeople speak to each other. I've found out a great many things in thatway, my dear, which were not suspected. "

Presently a glass at the other end of the room that was bobbing upand down and about at everybody and thing--at the ceiling, and thewall, and the carpet--discovering the rouge upon cheeks whose ruddyfreshness charmed less perceptive eyes--reducing the prettiest laceto the smallest terms in substance and price--detecting base cotton withone fell glance, and the part of the old dress ingeniously furbished todo duty as new--this philosophic and critical glass presently encounteredMrs. Dagon's in mid-career. The two ladies behind the glasses glared ateach other for a moment, then bowed and nodded, like two Chinese idolsset up on end at each extremity of the room. 

"Good-evening, dear, good Mrs. Winslow Orry, " said the smiling eyes ofMrs. Dagon to that lady. "How doubly scraggy you look in that worn-outold sea-green satin!" said the smiling old lady to herself. 

"How do, darling Mrs. Dagon?" said the responsive glance of Mrs. Orry, with the most gracious effulgence of aspect, as she glared across theroom--inwardly thinking, "What a silly old hag to lug that cotton lacecape all over town!"

People poured in. The rooms began to swarm. There was a warm odor of kidgloves, scent-bags, and heliotrope. There was an incessant fluttering offans and bobbing of heads. One hundred gentlemen said, "How warm it is!"One hundred ladies of the highest fashion answered, "Very. " Fifty youngmen, who all wore coats, collars, and waistcoats that seemed to have beenmade in the lump, and all after the same pattern, stood speechless aboutthe rooms, wondering what under heaven to do with their hands. Fiftyolder married men, who had solved that problem, folded their hands behindtheir backs, and beamed vaguely about, nodding their heads whenever theyrecognized any other head, and saying, "Good-evening, " and then, after alittle more beaming, "How are yer?" Waiters pushed about with trayscovered with little glasses of lemonade and port-sangaree, which offeredfavorable openings to the unemployed young men and the married gentlemen, who crowded along with a glass in each hand, frightening all the ladiesand begging every body's pardon. 

All the Knickerbocker jewels glittered about the rooms. Mrs. Bleecker VanKraut carried not less than thirty thousand dollars' worth of diamondsupon her person--at least that was Mrs. Orry's deliberate conclusionafter a careful estimate. Mrs. Dagon, when she heard what Mrs. Orrysaid, merely exclaimed, "Fiddle! Anastatia Orry can tell the price oflutestring a yard because Winslow Orry failed in that business, but sheknows as much of diamonds as an elephant of good manners. "

The Van Kraut property had been bowing about the drawing-rooms of NewYork for a year or two, watched with palpitating hearts and longing eyes. Until that was disposed of, nothing else could win a glance. There wereseveral single hundreds of thousands openly walking about the same rooms, but while they were received very politely, they were made to feel thattwo millions were in presence and unappropriated, and they fell humblyback. 

Fanny Newt, upon her debut in society, had contemplated the capture ofthe Van Kraut property; but the very vigor with which she conducted thecampaign had frightened the poor gentleman who was the present member forthat property, in society, so that he shivered and withdrew on the dizzyverge of a declaration; and when he subsequently encountered Lucy Slumb, she was immediately invested with the family jewels. 

"Heaven save me from a smart woman!" prayed Bleecker Van Kraut; andHeaven heard and kindly granted his prayer. 

Presently, while the hot hum went on, and laces, silks, satins, brocades, muslins, and broadcloth intermingled and changed places, so that ArthurMerlin, whom Lawrence Newt had brought, declared the ball looked like ashot silk or a salmon's belly--upon overhearing which, Mrs. Bleecker VanKraut, who was passing with Mr. Moultrie, looked unspeakable things--thequick eyes of Fanny Newt encountered the restless orbs of Mrs. Dinks. 

Alfred had left town for Boston on the very day on which Hope Waynehad learned the story of her engagement. Neither his mother nor Hope, therefore, had had an opportunity of asking an explanation. 

"I am glad to see Miss Wayne with you to-night, " said Fanny. 

"My niece is her own mistress, " replied Mrs. Dinks, in a sub-acid tone. 

Fanny's eyes grew blacker and sharper in a moment. An Indian whose lifedepends upon concealment from his pursuer is not more sensitive to thesoftest dropping of the lightest leaf than was Fanny Newt's sagacity tothe slightest indication of discovery of her secret. There is trouble, she said to herself, as she heard Mrs. Dinks's reply. 

"Miss Wayne has been a recluse this winter, " remarked Fanny, withinfinite blandness. 

"Yes, she has had some kind of whim, " replied Mrs. Dinks, shaking hershoulders as if to settle her dress. 

"We girls have all suspected, you know, of course, Mrs. Dinks, " said MissNewt, with a very successful imitation of archness and a little bend ofthe neck. 

"Have you, indeed!" retorted Mrs. Dinks, in almost a bellicose manner. 

"Why, yes, dear Mrs. Dinks; don't you remember at Saratoga--you know?"continued Fanny, with imperturbable composure. 

"What happened at Saratoga?" asked Mrs. Dinks, with smooth defianceon her face, and conscious that she had never actually mentioned anyengagement between Alfred and Hope. 

"Dear me! So many things happen at Saratoga, " answered Fanny, bridlinglike a pert miss of seventeen. "And when a girl has a handsome cousin, it's very dangerous. " Fanny Newt was determined to know where she was. 

"Some girls are very silly and willful, " tartly remarked Mrs. Dinks. 

"I suppose, " said Fanny, with extraordinary coolness, continuing the_rôle_ of the arch maid of seventeen--"I suppose, if every thing onehears is true, we may congratulate you, dear Mrs. Dinks, upon aninteresting event?" And Fanny raised her bouquet and smelled at itvigorously--at least, she seemed to be doing so, because the flowersalmost covered her face, but really they made an ambush from which shespied the enemy, unseen. 

The remark she had made had been made a hundred times before to Mrs. Dinks. In fact, Fanny herself had used it, under various forms, to assureherself, by the pleased reserve of the reply which Mrs. Dinks alwaysreturned, that the lady had no suspicion that she was mistaken. But thistime Mrs. Dinks, whose equanimity had been entirely disturbed by herdiscovery that Hope was not engaged to Alfred, asked formally, and notwithout a slight sneer which arose from an impatient suspicion that Fannyknew more than she chose to disclose--

"And pray, Miss Newt, what do people hear? Really, if other people are asunfortunate as I am, they hear a great deal of nonsense. "

Upon which Mrs. Budlong Dinks sniffed the air like a charger. 

"I know it--it is really dreadful, " returned Fanny Newt. "People do saythe most annoying and horrid things. But this time, I am sure, there canbe nothing very vexatious. " And Miss Newt fanned herself with persistentcomplacency, as if she were resolved to prolong the pleasure which Mrs. Dinks must undoubtedly have in the conversation. 

Hitherto it had been the policy of that lady to demur and insinuate, and declare how strange it was, and how gossipy people were, and finallyto retreat from a direct reply under cover of a pretty shower of ohs!and ahs! and indeeds! and that policy had been uniformly successful. Everybody said, "Of course Alfred Dinks and his cousin are engaged, andMrs. Dinks likes to have it alluded to--although there are reasons whyit must be not openly acknowledged. " So Field-marshal Mrs. Dinksoutgeneraled Everybody. But the gallant young private, Miss Fanny Newt, was resolved to win her epaulets. 

As Mrs. Dinks made no reply, and assumed the appearance of a lady who, for her own private and inscrutable reasons, had concluded to forego theprerogative of speech for evermore, while she fanned herself calmly, andregarded Fanny with a kind of truculent calmness that seemed to say, "What are you going to do about that last triumphant move of mine?" Fannyproceeded in a strain of continuous sweetness that fairly rivaled thesmoothness of the neck, and the eyes, and the arms of Mrs. Bleecker VanKraut:

"I suppose there can be nothing very disagreeable to Miss Wayne's friendsin knowing that she is engaged to Mr. Alfred Dinks?"

Alas! Mrs. Dinks, who knew Hope, knew that the time for dexteroussubterfuges and misleadings had passed. She resolved that people, whenthey discovered what they inevitably soon must discover, should notsuppose that she had been deceived. So, looking straight into FannyNewt's eyes without flinching--and somehow it was not a look of profoundaffection--she said, "I was not aware of any such engagement. "

"Indeed!" replied the undaunted Fanny, "I have heard that love is blind, but I did not know that it was true of maternal love. Mr. Dinks's motheris not his confidante, then, I presume?"

The bad passions of Mr. Dinks's mother's heart were like the heathen, andfuriously raged together at this remark. She continued the fanning, andsaid, with a sickly smile, "Miss Newt, you can contradict from me the report of any suchengagement. "

That was enough. Fanny was mistress of the position. If Mrs. Dinks werewilling to say that, it was because she was persuaded that it never wouldbe true. She had evidently discovered something. How much had shediscovered? That was the next step. 

As these reflections flashed through the mind of Miss Fanny Newt, and hercold black eye shone with a stony glitter, she was conscious that thetime for some decisive action upon her part had arrived. To be or not tobe Mrs. Alfred Dinks was now the question; and even as she thought of itshe felt what must be done. She did not depreciate the ability of Mrs. Dinks, and she feared her influence upon Alfred. Poor Mr. Dinks! he wasat that moment smoking a cigar upon the forward deck of the _ChancellorLivingston_ steamer, that plied between New York and Providence. Mr. Bowdoin Beacon sat by his side. 

"She's a real good girl, and pretty, and rich, though she is my cousin, Bowdoin. So why don't you?"

Mr. Beacon, a member of the upper sex, replied, gravely, "Well, perhaps!"

They were speaking of Hope Wayne. 

At the same instant also, in Mrs. Kingfisher's swarming drawing-rooms, looking on at the dancers and listening to the music, stood Hope Wayne, Lawrence Newt, Amy Waring, and Arthur Merlin. They were chatting togetherpleasantly, Lawrence Newt usually leading, and Hope Wayne bending herbeautiful head, and listening and looking at him in a way to make anyman eloquent. The painter had been watching for Mr. Abel Newt's entrance, and, after he saw him, turned to study the effect produced upon MissWayne by seeing him. 

But Abel, who saw as much in his way as Mrs. Dagon in hers, althoughwithout the glasses, had carefully kept in the other part of the rooms. He had planted his batteries before Mrs. Bleecker Van Kraut, havingresolved to taste her, as Herbert Octoyne had advised, notwithstandingthat she had no flavor, as Abel himself had averred. 

But who eats merely for the flavor of the food?

That lady clicked smoothly as Abel, metaphorically speaking, touched her. Louis Wilkottle, her cavalier, slipped away from her he could not tellhow: he merely knew that Abel Newt was in attendance, vice Wilkottle, disappeared. So Wilkottle floated about the rooms upon limp pinions forsometime, wondering where to settle, and brushed Fanny Newt in flying. 

"Oh! Mr. Wilkottle, you are just the man. Mr. Whitloe, Laura Magot, andI were just talking about Batrachian reptiles. Which are the best toads, the fattest?"

"Or does it depend upon the dressing?" asked Mr. Whitloe. 

"Or the quantity of jewelry in the head?" said Laura Magot. 

Mr. Wilkottle smiled, bowed, and passed on. 

If they had called him an ass--as they were ladies of the bestposition--he would have bowed, smiled, and passed on. 

"An amiable fellow, " said Fanny, as he disappeared; "but quite aremarkable fool. "

Mr. Zephyr Wetherley, still struggling with the hand problem, approachedMiss Fanny, and remarked that it was very warm. 

"You're cool enough in all conscience, Mr. Wetherley, " said she. 

"My dear Miss Newt, 'pon honor, " replied Zephyr, beginning to be veryred, and wiping his moist brow. 

"I call any man cool who would have told St. Lawrence upon the gridironthat he was frying, " interrupted Fanny. 

"Oh!--ah!--yes!--on the gridiron! Yes, very good! Ha! ha! Quite on thegridiron--very much so! 'Tis very hot here. Don't you think so? It'squite confusing, like--sort of bewildering. Don't you think so, MissNewt?"

Fanny was leveling her black eyes at him for a reply, but Mr. Wetherley, trying to regulate his hands, said, hastily, "Yes, quite on the gridiron--very!" and rapidly moved off it by movingon. 

"Good evenin', Mrs. Newt, " said a voice in another part of the room. "Good-evenin', marm. I sez to ma, Now ma, sez I, you'd better go to Mrs. Kingfisher's ball. Law, pa, sez she, I reckon 'twill be so werry hot toMrs. Kingfisher's that I'd better stay to home, sez she. So she staid. Well, 'tis dreadful hot, Mrs. Newt. I'm all in a muck. As I was a-puttin'on my coat, I sez, Now, ma, sez I, I hate to wear that coat, sez I. A man does git so nasty sweaty in a great, thick coat, sez I. Whew! I'mall sticky. "

And Mr. Van Boozenberg worked himself in his garments and stretched hisarms to refresh himself. 

Mrs. Boniface Newt, to whom he made this oration, had been taught by herhusband that Mr. Van Boozenberg was an oaf, but an oaf whose noise was tobe listened to with the utmost patience and respect. "He's a brute, mydear; but what can we do? When I am rich we can get rid of such people. "

On the other hand, Jacob Van Boozenberg had his little theory of BonifaceNewt, which, unlike that worthy commission merchant, he did not impart tohis ma and the partner of his bosom, but locked up in the vault of hisown breast. Mr. Van B. Gloried in being what he called a self-made man. He was proud of his nasal twang and his want of grammar, and allamenities and decencies of speech. He regarded them as inseparablefrom his success. He even affected them in the company of those who werepeculiarly elegant, and was secretly suspicious of the mercantile paperof all men who were unusually neat in their appearance, and who spoketheir native language correctly. The partner of his bosom was theconstant audience of his self-glorification. 

A little while before, her lord had returned one day to dinner, and said, with a tone of triumph, "Well, ma, Gerald Bennet & Co. Have busted up--smashed all to pieces. Always knew they would. I sez to you, ma, a hundred times--don't youremember?--Now, ma, sez I, 'tain't no use. He's been to college, and hetalks grammar, and all that; but what's the use? What's the use oftalkin' grammar? Don't help nothin'. A man feels kind o' stuck up whenhe's been to college. But, ma, sez I, gi' me a self-made man--a man whatknows werry well that twice two's four. A self-made man ain't no time forgrammar, sez I. If a man expects to get on in this world he mustn't betoo fine. This is the second time Bennet's busted. Better have no grammarand more goods, sez I. You remember--hey, ma?"

When, a little while afterward, Mr. Bennet applied for a situation asbook-keeper in the bank of which Mr. Van Boozenberg was president, thatofficer hung, drew, and quartered the English language, before the veryeyes of Mr. Bennet, to show him how he despised it, and to impress himwith the great truth that he, Jacob Van Boozenberg, a self-made man, whohad no time to speak correctly, nor to be comely or clean, was yet amillionaire before whom Wall Street trembled--while he, Gerald Bennet, with all his education, and polish, and care, and scrupulous neatness andpoliteness, was a poverty-stricken, shiftless vagabond; and what good hadgrammar done him? The ruined gentleman stood before the president--whowas seated in his large armchair at the bank--holding his hatuncertainly, the nervous smile glimmering like heat lightning uponhis pale, anxious face, in which his eyes shone with that singular, soft light of dreams. 

"Now, Mr. Bennet, I sez to ma this very mornin'--sez I, 'Ma, I s'pose Mr. Bennet 'll be wantin' a place in our bank. If he hadn't been so weryfine, ' sez I, 'he might have got on. He talks be-youtiful grammar, ma, '"said the worthy President, screwing in the taunt, as it were; "'butgrammar ain't good to eat, ' sez I. 'He ain't a self-made man, as somefolks is, ' sez I; 'but I suppose I'll have to stick him in somewheres, 'sez I--that's all of it. "

Gerald Bennet winced. Beggars mustn't be choosers, said he, feebly, inhis sad heart, and he thankfully took the broken victuals Jacob VanBoozenberg threw him. But he advised Gabriel, as we saw, to try LawrenceNewt. 

Mrs. Newt agreed with Mr. Van Boozenberg that it was very warm. 

"I heerd about you to Saratogy last summer, Mrs. Newt; but you ain't beento see ma since you come home. 'Ma, ' sez I, 'why don't Mrs. Newt call andsee us?' 'Law, pa, ' sez she, 'Mrs. Newt can't call and see such folks aswe be!' sez she. 'We ain't fine enough for Mrs. Newt, '" said the greatman of Wall Street, and he laughed aloud at the excellent joke. 

"Mrs. Van Boozenberg is very much mistaken, " replied Mrs. Newt, anxiously. "I am afraid she did not get my card. I am very sorry. ButI hope you will tell her. "

The great Jacob knew perfectly well that Mrs. Newt had called, but heliked to show himself how vast his power was. He liked to see fine ladiesin splendid drawing-rooms bowing, down before his ungrammatical throne, and metaphorically kissing his knobby red hand. 

"Your son, Abel, seems to enjoy himself werry well, Mrs. Newt, " said Mr. Van Boozenberg, as he observed that youth, in sumptuous array, dancingdevotedly with Mrs. Bleecker Van Kraut. 

"Oh dear, yes, " replied Mrs. Newt. "But you know what young sons are, Mr. Van Boozenberg. '"

The conversation was setting precisely as that gentleman wished, and ashe had intended to direct it. 

"Mercy, yes, Mrs. Newt! Ma sez to me, 'Pa, what a boy Corlear is! how hedoes spend money!' And I sez to ma, 'Ma, he do. ' Tut, tut! The bills. Ihave to pay for that bay--! I s'pose, now, your Abel don't lay up nomoney--ha! ha!"

Mr. Van Boozenberg laughed again, and Mrs. Newt joined, but in a low andrather distressed way, as if it were necessary to laugh, although nothingfunny had been said. 

"It's positively dreadful the way he spends money, " replied she. "I don'tknow where it will end. "

"Oh ho! it's the way with all young men, marm. I always sez to ma sheneedn't fret her gizzard. Young men will sow their wild oats. Oh, 'tain'tnothin'. Mr. Newt knows that werry well. Every man do. "

He watched Mrs. Newt's expression as he spoke. She answered, "I don't know about that; but Mr. Newt shakes his head dismally nowadaysabout something or other, and he's really grown old. "

In uttering these words Mrs. Newt had sealed the fate of a large offeringfor discount made that very day by Boniface Newt, Son, & Co. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

ANOTHER TURN IN THE WALTZ. 

The music streamed through the rooms in the soft, yearning, lingering, passionate, persuasive measures of a waltz. Arthur Merlin had been veryintently watching Hope Wayne, because he saw Abel Newt approaching withMrs. Van Kraut, and he wished to catch the first look of Hope upon seeinghim. 

Mrs. Bleecker Van Kraut, when she waltzed, was simply a circularadvertisement of the Van Kraut property. Her slow rising and fallingmotion displayed the family jewels to the utmost advantage. The sameinsolent smoothness and finish prevailed in the whole performance. Itwas almost as perfect as the Paris toys which you wind up, and which spinsmoothly round upon the table. Abel Newt, conscious master of the danceand chief of brilliant youth, waltzed with an air of delicate deferencetoward his partner, and, gay defiance toward the rest of the world. 

The performance was so novel and so well executed that the ball instantlybecame a spectacle of which Abel and Mrs. Van Kraut were the centralfigures. The crowd pressed around them, and Abel gently pushed them backin his fluctuating circles. Short ladies in the back-ground stood uponchairs for a moment to get a better view; while Mrs. Dagon and Mrs. Orry, whom no dexterous waltzer would ever clasp in the dizzy whirl, spatteredtheir neighborhood with epithets of contempt and indignation, thankingHeaven that in their day things had not quite come to such a pass asthat. Colonel Burr himself, my dears, never dared to touch more thanthe tips of his partner's fingers in the contra-dance. 

Hope Wayne had not met Abel Newt since they had parted after the runawayat Delafield, except in his mother's conservatory, and when she wasstepping from the carriage. In the mean while she had been learningevery thing at once. 

As her eyes fell upon him now she remembered that day upon the lawnat Pinewood, when he stood suddenly beside her, casting a shadow uponthe page she was reading. The handsome boy had grown into this proud, gallant, gay young man, surrounded by that social prestige which givesgraceful confidence to the bearing of any man. He knew that Hope hadheard of his social success; but he could not justly estimate its effectupon her. 

Of all those who stood by her Arthur Merlin was the only one who knewthat she had ever known Abel, and Arthur only inferred it from Abel'sresemblance to the sketch of Manfred, which had evidently deeply affectedHope. Lawrence Newt, who knew Delafield, had wondered if Abel and Hopehad ever met. Perhaps he had a little fear of their meeting, knowingAbel to be audacious and brilliant, and Hope to be romantic. Perhapsthe anxiety with which he now looked upon the waltz arose from theapprehension that Hope could not help, at least, fancying such a handsomefellow. And then--what?

Amy Waring certainly did not know, although Lawrence Newt's eyes seemedto ask hers the question. 

Hope heard the music, and her heart beat time. As she saw Abeland remembered the days that were no more, for a moment her cheekflushed--not tumultuously, but gently--and Lawrence Newt and the painterremarked it. The emotion passed, almost imperceptibly, and her eyesfollowed the dancers calmly, with only a little ache in the heart--withonly a vague feeling that she had lived a long, long time. 

Abel Newt had not lost Hope Wayne from his attention for a single momentduring the evening; and before the interest in the dance was palled, before people had begun to buzz again and turn away, while Mrs. Van Krautand he were still the spectacle upon which all eyes were directed, hesuddenly whirled his partner toward the spot where Hope Wayne and herfriends were standing, and stopped. 

It was no more necessary for Mrs. Van Kraut to fan herself than ifshe had been a marble statue. But it is proper to fan one's self whenone has done dancing--so she waved the fan. Besides, it was a Van Krautheir-loom. It came from Amsterdam. It was studded with jewels. It waspart of the property. 

As for Abel, he turned and bowed profoundly to Miss Wayne. Of course sheknew that people were looking. She bowed as if to a mere acquaintance. Abel said a few words, signifying nothing, to his partner, then heremarked to Miss Wayne that he was very glad indeed to meet her again;that he had not called because he knew she had been making a conventof her aunt's house--making herself a nun--a Sister of Charity, he didnot doubt, doing good as she always did--making every body in the worldhappy, as she could not help doing, and so forth. 

Abel rattled on, he did not know why; but he did know that his UncleLawrence, and Amy Waring, and Mr. Merlin heard every thing he said. Hopelooked at him calmly, and listened to the gay cascade of talk. 

The music was still playing; Mr. Van Boozenberg spoke to LawrenceNewt; Amy Waring said that she saw her Aunt Bennet. Would Mr. Merlintake her to her aunt?--he should return to his worship in one moment. Mr. Merlin was very gallant, and replied with spirit that when her worshipreturned--here he made a low bow--his would. As they moved away AmyWaring laughed at him, and said that men would compliment as long as--aswomen are lovely, interpolated Mr. Merlin. Arthur also wished to knowwhat speech was good for, if not to say the sweetest things; and so theywere lost to view, still gayly chatting with the pleasant freedom of ayoung man and woman who know that they are not in love with each other, and are perfectly content not to be so, because--whether they know it ornot--they are each in love with somebody else. 

This movement had taken place as Abel was finishing his scattering volleyof talk. 

"Yes, " said he, as he saw that he was not overheard, and sinking hisvoice into that tone of tender music which Hope so well remembered--"yes, making every body in the world happy but one person. "

His airy persiflage had not pleased Hope Wayne. The sudden modulationinto sentiment offended her. Before she replied--indeed she had nointention of replying--the round eyes of Mrs. Van Kraut informed herpartner that she was ready for another turn, and forth they whirled uponthe floor. 

"I jes' sez to Mrs. Dagon, you know, ma'am, sez I, I don't like to see ayoung man like Mr. Abel Newt, sez I, wasting himself upon married women. No, sez I, ma'am, when you women have made your market, sez I, yououghter stan' one side and give the t'others a chance, sez I. "

Mr. Van Boozenberg addressed this remark to Lawrence Newt. In the eyesof the old gentleman it was another instance of imprudence on Abel's partnot to be already engaged to some rich girl. 

Lawrence Newt replied by looking round the room as if searching for someone, and then saying:

"I don't see your daughter, Mrs. Witchet, here to-night, Mr. VanBoozenberg. "

"No, " growled the papa, and moved on to talk with Mrs. Dagon. 

"My dear Sir, " said the Honorable Budlong Dinks, approaching just asLawrence Newt finished his remark, and Van Boozenberg, growling, departed:

"That was an unfortunate observation. You are, perhaps, not aware--"

"Oh! thank you, yes, I am fully aware, " replied Lawrence Newt. "But onething I do not know. "

The Honorable Budlong Dinks bowed with dignity as if he understood Mr. Newt to compliment him by insinuating that he was the man who knew allabout it, and would immediately enlighten him. 

"I do not know why, if a man does a mean and unfeeling, yes, an inhumanact, it is bad manners to speak of it. Old Van Boozenberg ought to besent to the penitentiary for his treatment of his daughter, and we allknow it. "

"Yes; but really, " replied the Honorable Budlong Dinks, "really--youknow--it would be impossible. Mr. Van Boozenberg is a highly respectableman--really--we should lapse into chaos, " and the honorable gentlemanrubbed his hands with perfect suavity. 

"When did we emerge?" asked Lawrence Newt, with such a kindly glimmer inhis eyes, that Mr. Dinks said merely, "really, " and moved on, remarkingto General Arcularius Belch, with a diplomatic shrug, that Lawrence Newtwas a very odd man. 

"Odd, but not without the coin. He can afford to be odd, " replied thatgentleman. 

While these little things were said and done, Lawrence moved through thecrowd and somehow found himself at the side of Amy Waring, who wastalking with Fanny Newt. 

"You young Napoleon, " said Lawrence to his niece as he joined them. 

"What do you mean, you droll Uncle Lawrence?" demanded Fanny, her eyesglittering with inquiry. 

"Where's Mrs. Wurmser--I mean Mrs. Dinks?" continued Lawrence. "Why, whenI saw you talking together a little while ago, I could think of nothingbut the young Bonaparte and the old Wurmser. "

"You droll Uncle Lawrence, aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

It was an astuter young Napoleon than Uncle Lawrence knew. Even thenand there, in Mrs. Kingfisher's ball-room, had Fanny Newt resolved howto carry her Mantua by a sudden coup. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

HEAVEN'S LAST BEST GIFT. 

"My dear Alfred, I am glad to see you. You may kiss me--carefully, carefully!"

Mr. Alfred Dinks therewith kissed lips upon his return from Boston. 

"Sit down, Alfred, my dear, I wish to speak to you, " said Fanny Newt, with even more than her usual decision. The eyes were extremely round andblack. Alfred seated himself with vague trepidation. 

"My dear, we must be married immediately, " remarked Fanny, quietly. 

The eyes of the lover shone with pleasure. 

"Dear Fanny!" said he, "have you told mother?"

"No, " answered she, calmly. 

"Well, but then you know--" rejoined Alfred. He would have said more, but he was afraid. He wanted to inquire whether Fanny thought that herfather would supply the sinews of matrimony. Alfred's theory was that heundoubtedly would. He was sure that a young woman of Fanny's calmness, intrepidity, and profound knowledge of the world would not proposeimmediate matrimony without seeing how the commissariat was to besupplied. She has all her plans laid, of course, thought he--she is sotalented and cool that 'tis all right, I dare say. Of course she knowsthat I have nothing, and hope for nothing except from old Burt, and he'snot sure for me, by any means. But Boniface Newt is rich enough. 

And Alfred consoled himself by thinking of the style in which that worthycommission merchant lived, and especially of his son Abel's expense andsplendor. 

"Alfred, dear--just try not to be trying, you know, but think what youare about. Your mother has found out that something has gone wrong--thatyou are not engaged to Hope Wayne. "

"Yes--yes, I know, " burst in Alfred; "she treated me like a porcupinethis morning--or ant-eater, which is it, Fanny--the thing with quills, you know?"

Miss Fanny Newt patted the floor with her foot. Alfred continued:

"Yes, and Hope sent down, and she wanted to see me alone some timeto-day. "

Fanny's foot stopped. 

"Alfred, dear, " said she, "you are a good fellow, but you are tooamiable. You must do just as I want you to, dearest, or something awfulwill happen. "

"Pooh! Fanny; nothing shall happen. I love you like any thing. "

Smack! smack!

"Well, then, listen, Alfred! Your mother doesn't like me. She would doany thing to prevent your marrying me. The reasons I will tell you atanother time. If you go home and talk with her and Hope Wayne, you cannot help betraying that you are engaged to me; and--you know your mother, Alfred--she would openly oppose the marriage, and I don't know what shemight not say to my father. "

Fanny spoke clearly and rapidly, but calmly. Alfred looked utterlybewildered. 

"It's a great pity, isn't it?" said he, feebly. "What do you think we hadbetter do?"

"We must be married, Alfred, dear!"

"Yes; but when, Fanny?"

"To-day, " said Fanny, firmly, and putting out her hand to her beloved. 

He seized it mechanically. 

"To-day, Fanny?" asked he, after a pause of amazement. 

"Certainly, dear--to-day. I am as ready now as I shall be a year hence. "

"But what will my mother say?" inquired Alfred, in alarm. 

"It will be too late for her to say any thing. Don't you see, Alfred, dear!" continued Fanny, in a most assuring tone, "that if we go to yourmother and say, 'Here we are, married!' she has sense enough to perceivethat nothing can be done; and after a little while all will be smoothagain?"

Her lover was comforted by this view. He was even pleased by the audacityof the project. 

"I swear, Fanny, " said he, at length, in a more cheerful and composedvoice, "I think it's rather a good idea!"

"Of course it is, dear. Are you ready?"

Alfred gasped a little at the prompt question, despite his confidence. 

"Why, Fanny, you don't mean actually now--this very day? Gracious!"

"Why not now? Since we think best to be married immediately and inprivate, why should we put it off until to-night, or next week, whenwe are both as ready now as we can be then?" asked Fanny, quietly;"especially as something may happen to make it impossible then. "

Alfred Dinks shut his eyes. 

"What will your father say?" he inquired, at length, without raising hiseyelids. 

"Do you not see he will have to make up his mind to it, just as yourmother will?" replied Fanny. 

"And my father!" said Alfred, in a state of temporary blindnesscontinued. 

"Yes, and your father too, " answered Fanny, both she and Alfred treatingthe Honorable Budlong Dinks as a mere tender to that woman-of-war hiswife, in a way that would have been incredible to a statesman whoconsidered his wife a mere domestic luxury. 

There was a silence of several minutes. Then Mr. Dinks opened his eyes, and said, "Well, Fanny, dear!"

"Well, Alfred, dear!" and Fanny leaned toward him, with her head poisedlike that of a black snake. Alfred was fascinated. Perhaps he was sorryhe was so; perhaps he wanted to struggle. But he did not. He was underthe spell. 

There was still a lingering silence. Fanny waited patiently. At lengthshe asked again, putting her hand in her lover's:

"Are you ready?"

"Yes!" said Alfred, in a crisp, resolute tone. 

Fanny raised her hand and rang the bell. The waiter appeared. 

"John, I want a carriage immediately. "

"Yes, Miss. "

"And, John, tell Mary to bring me my things. I am going out. "

"Yes, Miss. " And hearing nothing farther, John disappeared. 

It was perhaps a judicious instinct which taught Fanny not to leaveAlfred alone by going up to array herself in her own chamber. Theintervals of delay between the coming of the maid and the coming of thecarriage the young woman employed in conversing dexterously about Boston, and the friends he had seen there, and in describing to him the greatKingfisher ball. 

Presently she was bonneted and cloaked, and the carriage was at the door. 

Her home had not been a Paradise to Fanny Newt--nor were Aunt Dagon, Papa and Mamma Newt, and brother Abel altogether angels. She had nosuperfluous emotions of any kind at any time; but as she passedthrough the hall she saw her sister May--the youngest child--a girl ofsixteen--Uncle Lawrence's favorite--standing upon the stairs. 

She said nothing; the hall was quite dim, and as the girl stood in thehalf light her childlike, delicate beauty seemed to Fanny more strikingthan ever. If Uncle Lawrence had seen her at the moment he would havethought of Jacob's ladder and the angels ascending and descending. 

"Good-by, May!" said Fanny, going up to her sister, taking her facebetween her hands and kissing her lips. 

The sisters looked at each other, each inexplicably conscious that it wasnot an ordinary farewell. 

"Good-by, darling!" said Fanny, kissing her again, and still holding heryoung, lovely face. 

Touched and surprised by the unwonted tenderness of her sister's manner, May threw her arms around her neck and burst into tears. 

"Oh! Fanny. "

Fanny did not disengage the arms that clung about her, nor raise theyoung head that rested upon her shoulder. Perhaps she felt that somehowit was a benediction. 

May raised her head at length, kissed Fanny gently upon the lips, smoothed her black hair for a moment with her delicate hand, half smiledthrough her tears as she thought that after this indication of affectionshe should have such a pleasant intercourse with her sister, and thenpushed her softly away, saying, "Mr. Dinks is waiting for you, Fanny. "

Fanny said nothing, but drew her veil over her face, and Mr. Dinks handedher into the carriage. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

MOTHER-IN-LAW AND DAUGHTER-IN-LAW. 

Mrs. Dinks and Hope Wayne sat together in their lodgings, waitingimpatiently for Alfred's return. They were both working busily, and saidlittle to each other. Mrs. Dinks had resolved to leave New York at theearliest possible moment. She waited only to have a clear explanationwith her son. Hope Wayne was also waiting for an explanation. She waspainfully curious to know why Alfred Dinks had told his mother that theywere engaged. As her Aunt Dinks looked at her, and saw how noble andlofty her beauty was, yet how simple and candid, she was more than everangry with her, because she felt that it was impossible she should everhave loved Alfred. 

They heard a carriage in the street. It stopped at the door. In a momentthe sound of a footstep was audible. 

"My dear, I wish to speak to Alfred alone. I hear his step, " said Mrs. Dinks. 

"Yes, aunt, " answered Hope Wayne, rising, and taking her little basketshe moved toward the door. Just as she reached it, it opened, and AlfredDinks and Fanny Newt entered. Hope bowed, and was passing on. 

"Stop, Hope!" whispered Alfred, excitedly. 

She turned at the door and looked at her cousin, who, with uncertainbravado, advanced with Fanny to his mother, who was gazing at them inamazement, and said, in a thick, hurried voice, "Mother, this is your daughter Fanny--my wife--Mrs. Alfred Dinks. "

As she heard these words Hope Wayne went out, closing the door behindher, leaving the mother alone with her children. 

Mrs. Dinks sat speechless in her chair for a few moments, staring atAlfred, who looked as if his legs would not long support him, and atFanny, who stood calmly beside him. At length she said to Alfred, "Is that woman really your wife?"

"Yes, 'm, " replied the new husband. 

"What are you going to support her with?"

"I have my allowance, " said Alfred, in a very small voice. 

"Mrs. Alfred Dinks, your husband's allowance is six hundred dollars ayear from his father. I wish you joy. "

There was a sarcastic sparkle in her eyes. Mrs. Dinks had long felt thatshe and Fanny were contesting a prize. At this moment, while she knewthat she had not won, she was sure that Fanny had lost. 

Fanny was prepared for such a reception. She did not shrink. Sheremembered the great Burt fortune. But before she could speak Mrs. Dinks rose, and, with an air of contemptuous defiance, inquired, "Where are you living, Mrs. Dinks?"

Mr. Alfred looked at his wife in profound perplexity. He thought, for hispart, that he was living in that very house. But his wife answered, quietly, "We are at Bunker's, where we shall be delighted to see you. Good-morning, Mrs. Dinks. "

And Fanny took her husband by the arm and went out, having entirelyconfounded her mother-in-law, who meant to have wished her childrengood-morning, and then have left them to their embarrassment. But victoryseemed to perch upon Fanny's standards along the whole line. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE BACK WINDOW. 

Lawrence Newt was not unmindful of the difference of age between AmyWaring and himself; and instinctively he did nothing which could show toothers that he felt more for her than for a friend. Younger men, whocould not help yielding to the charm of her presence, never complained ofhim. He was never "that infernal old bore, Lawrence Newt, " to them. Morethan one of them, in the ardor of young feeling, had confided his passionto Lawrence, who said to him, bravely, "My dear fellow, I do not wonderyou feel so. God speed you--and so will I, all I can. "

And he did so. He mentioned the candidate kindly to Miss Waring. Herepeated little anecdotes that he had heard to his advantage. Lawrenceregarded the poor suitor as a painter does a picture. He took him up inthe arms of his charity and moved him round and round. He put him uponhis sympathy as upon an easel, and turned on the kindly lights andjudiciously darkened the apartment. 

His generosity was chivalric, but it was unavailing. Beautiful flowersarrived from the aspiring youths. They were so lovely, so fragrant!What taste that young Hal Battlebury has! remarks Lawrence Newt, admiringly, as he smells the flowers that stand in a pretty vase uponthe centre-table. Amy Waring smiles, and says that it is Thorburn'staste, of whom Mr. Battlebury buys the flowers. Mr. Newt replies that itis at least very thoughtful in him. A young lady can not but feel kindly, surely, toward young men who express their good feeling in the form offlowers. Then he dexterously leads the conversation into some otherchannel. He will not harm the cause of poor Mr. Battlebury by persistingin speaking of him and his bouquets, when that persistence will evidentlyrender the subject a little tedious. 

Poor Mr. Hal Battlebury, who, could he only survey the Waring mansionfrom the lower floor to the roof, would behold his handsome flowers thatcame on Wednesday withering in cold ceremony upon the parlor-table--andin Amy Waring's bureau-drawer would see the little book she received from"her friend Lawrence Newt" treasured like a priceless pearl, with apressed rose laid upon the leaf where her name and his are written--arose which Lawrence Newt playfully stole one evening from one of theceremonious bouquets pining under its polite reception, and said gayly, as he took leave, "Let this keep my memory fragrant till I return. "

But it was a singular fact that when one of those baskets without a cardarrived at the house, it was not left in superb solitary state upon thecentre-table in the parlor, but bloomed as long as care could coax it inthe strict seclusion of Miss Waring's own chamber, and then some choicestflower was selected to be pressed and preserved somewhere in the depthsof the bureau. 

Could the bureau drawers give up their treasures, would any human beinglonger seem to be cold? would any maiden young or old appear a voluntaryspinster, or any unmarried octogenarian at heart a bachelor?

For many a long hour Lawrence Newt stood at the window of the loft in therear of his office, and looked up at the window where he had seen AmyWaring that summer morning. He was certainly quite as curious about thatroom as Hope about his early knowledge of her home. 

"I'll just run round and settle this matter, " said the merchant tohimself. 

But he did not stir. His hands were in his pockets. He was standing asfirmly in one spot as if he had taken root. 

"Yes--upon the whole, I'll just run round, " thought Lawrence, without theremotest approach to motion of any kind. But his fancy was running roundall the time, and the fancies of men who watch windows, as Lawrence Newtwatched this window, are strangely fantastic. He imagined every thing inthat room. It was a woman with innumerable children, of course--some oldnurse of Amy's--who had a kind of respectability to preserve, whichintrusion would injure. No, no, by Heaven! it was Mrs. Tom Witchet, oldVan Boozenberg's daughter! Of course it was. An old friend of Amy's, half-starving in that miserable lodging, and Amy her guardian angel. Lawrence Newt mentally vowed that Mrs. Tom Witchet should never wantany thing. He would speak to Amy at the next meeting of the Round Table. 

Or there were other strange fancies. What will not an India merchantdream as he gazes from his window? It was some old teacher of Amy's--somemusic-master, some French teacher--dying alone and in poverty, or with alarge family. No, upon the whole, thought Lawrence Newt, he's not oldenough to have a large family--he is not married--he has too delicate anature to struggle with the world--he was a gentleman in his own country;and he has, of course, it's only natural--how could he possibly helpit?--he has fallen in love with Miss Waring. These music-masters andItalian teachers are such silly fellows. I know all about it, thought Mr. Newt; and now he lies there forlorn, but picturesque and very handsome, singing sweetly to his guitar, and reciting Petrarch's sonnets withlarge, melancholy eyes. His manners refined and fascinating. His age?About thirty. Poor Amy! Of course common humanity requires her to comeand see that he does not suffer. Of course he is desperately in love, andshe can only pity. Pity? pity? Who says something about the kinship ofpity? I really think, says Lawrence Newt to himself, that I ought to goover and help that unfortunate young man. Perhaps he wishes to return tohis native country. I am sure he ought to. His native air will be balmto him. Yes, I'll ask Miss Waring about it this very evening. 

He did not. He never alluded to the subject. They had never mentionedthat summer noontide exchange of glance and gesture which had so curiousan effect on Lawrence Newt that he now stood quite as often at his backwindow, looking up at the old brick house, as at his front window, looking out over the river and the ships, and counting the spires--atleast it seemed so--in Brooklyn. 

For how could Lawrence know of the book that was kept in the bureaudrawer--of the rose whose benediction lay forever fragrant upon thoseunited names?

"I am really sorry for Hal Battlebury, " said the merchant to himself. "He is such a good, noble fellow! I should have supposed that Miss Waringwould have been so very happy with him. He is so suitable in every way;in age, in figure, in tastes--in sympathy altogether. Then he is so manlyand modest, so simple and true. It is really very--very--"

And so he mused, and asked and answered, and thought of Hal Battleburyand Amy Waring together. 

It seemed to him that if he were a younger man--about the age ofBattlebury, say--full of hope, and faith, and earnest endeavor--aglowing and generous youth--it would be the very thing he should do--tofall in love with Amy Waring. How could any man see her and not love her?His reflections grew dreamy at this point. 

"If so lovely a girl did not return the affection of such a young man, itwould be--of course, what else could it be?--it would be because she haddeliberately made up her mind that, under no conceivable circumstanceswhatsoever, would she ever marry. "

As he reached this satisfactory conclusion Lawrence Newt paced up anddown before the window, with his hands still buried in his pockets, thinking of Hal Battlebury--thinking of the foreign youth with the large, melancholy eyes pining upon a bed of pain, and reciting Petrarch'ssonnets, in the miserable room opposite--thinking also of that strangecoldness of virgin hearts which not the ardors of youth and love couldmelt. 

And, stopping before the window, he thought of his own boyhood--of thefirst wild passion of his young heart--of the little hand he held--ofthe soft darkness of eyes whose light mingled with his own--again thepalm-trees--the rushing river--when, at the very window upon which hewas unconsciously gazing, one afternoon a face appeared, with a blacksilk handkerchief twisted about the head, and looking down into thecourt between the houses. 

Lawrence Newt stared at it without moving. Both windows were closed, norwas the woman at the other looking toward him. He had, indeed, scarcelyseen her fully before she turned away. But he had recognized that face. He had seen a woman he had so long thought dead. In a moment Amy Waring'svisit was explained, and a more heavenly light shone upon her characteras he thought of her. 

"God bless you, Amy dear!" were the words that unconsciously stole to hislips; and going into the office, Lawrence Newt told Thomas Tray that heshould not return that afternoon, wished his clerks good-day, and hurriedaround the corner into Front Street. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

ABEL NEWT, _vice_ SLIGO MOULTRIE REMOVED. 

The Plumers were at Bunker's. The gay, good-hearted Grace, full of funand flirtation, vowed that New York was life, and all the rest of theworld death. 

"You do not compliment the South very much, " said Sligo Moultrie, smiling. 

"Oh no! The South is home, and we don't compliment relations, you know, "returned Miss Grace. 

"Yes, thank Heaven! the South _is_ home, Miss Grace. New York is like aforeign city. The tumult is fearful; yet it is only a sea-port after all. It has no metropolitan repose. It never can have. It is a trading town. "

"Then I like trading towns, if that is it, " returned Miss Grace, lookingout into the bustling street. 

Mr. Moultrie smiled--a quiet, refined, intelligent, and accomplishedsmile. 

He smiled confidently. Not offensively, but with that half-shy sense ofsuperiority which gave the high grace of self-possession to his manner--alanguid repose which pervaded his whole character. The symmetry of hisperson, the careless ease of his carriage, a sweet voice, a handsomeface, were valuable allies of his intellectual accomplishments; and whenall the forces were deployed they made Sligo Moultrie very fascinating. He was not audacious nor brilliant. It was a passive, not an activenature. He was not rich, although Mrs. Boniface Newt had a vague ideathat every Southern youth was _ex-officio_ a Croesus. Scion of a fine oldfamily, like the Newts, and Whitloes, and Octoynes of New York, Mr. SligoMoultrie, born to be a gentleman, but born poor, was resolved to maintainhis state. 

Miss Grace Plumer, as we saw at Mrs. Boniface Newt's, had bright blackeyes, profusely curling black hair, olive skin, pouting mouth, and pearlyteeth. Very rich, very pretty, and very merry was Miss Grace Plumer, whobelieved with enthusiastic faith that life was a ball, but who was veryshrewd and very kindly also. 

Sligo Moultrie understood distinctly why he was sitting at the windowwith Grace Plumer. 

"The roses are in bloom at your home, I suppose, Miss Grace?" said he. 

"Yes, I suppose they are, and a dreadfully lonely time they're having ofit. Southern life, of course, is a hundred times better than life here;but it is a little lonely, isn't it, Mr. Moultrie?"

Grace said this turning her neck slightly, and looking an archinterrogatory at her companion. 

"Yes, it is lonely in some ways. But then there is so much going up totown and travelling that, after all, it is only a few months that we areat home; and a man ought to be at home a good deal--he ought not to be avagabond. "

"Thank you, " said Grace, bowing mockingly. 

"I said 'a man, ' you observe, Miss Grace. "

"Man includes woman, I believe, Mr. Moultrie. "

"In two cases--yes. "

"What are they?"

"When he holds her in his arms or in his heart. "

Here was a sudden volley masked in music. Grace Plumer was charmed. Shelooked at her companion. He had been "a vagabond" all winter in New York;but there were few more presentable men. Moreover, she felt at home withhim as a _compatriot_. Yes, this would do very well. 

Miss Grace Plumer had scarcely mentally installed Mr. Sligo Moultrie asfirst flirter in her corps, when a face she remembered looked up at thewindow from the street, more dangerous even than when she had seen it inthe spring. It was the face of Abel Newt, who raised his hat and bowed toher with an admiration which he concealed that he took care to show. 

The next moment he was in the room, perfectly _comme il faut_, sparkling, resistless. 

"My dear Miss Plumer, I knew spring was coming. I felt it as I approachedBunker's. I said to Herbert Octoyne (he's off with the Shrimp; PapaShrimp was too much, he was so old that he was rank)--I said, either Ismell the grass sprouting in the Battery or I have a sensation of spring. I raise my eyes--I see that it is not grass, but flowers. I recognize thedear, delicious spring. I bow to Miss Plumer. "

He tossed it airily off. It was audacious. It would have been outrageous, except that the manner made it seem persiflage, and therefore allowable. Grace Plumer blushed, bowed, smiled, and met his offered hand half-way. Abel Newt knew perfectly what he was doing, and raised it respectfully, bowed over it, kissed it. 

"Moultrie, glad to see you. Miss Plumer, 'tis astonishing how this manalways knows the pleasant places. If I want to know where the best fruitsand the earliest flowers are, I ask Sligo Moultrie. "

Mr. Moultrie bowed. 

"The first rose of the year blooms in Mr. Moultrie's button-hole, "continued Abel, who galloped on, laughing, and seating himself upon anottoman, so that his eyes were lower than the level of Grace Plumer's. 

She smiled, and joined the hunt. 

"He talks nothing but 'ladies' delights, '" said she. 

"Yes--two other things, please, Miss Grace, " said Moultrie. 

"What, Mr. Moultrie, two other cases? You always have two more. "

"Better two more than too much, " struck in Abel, who saw that Miss Plumerhad put out her darling little foot from beneath her dress, and thereforehad fixed his eyes upon it, with an admiration which was not lost uponthe lady. 

"Heavens!" cried Moultrie, laughing and looking at them. "You are bothtwo more and too much for me. "

"Good, good, good for Moultrie!" applauded Abel; "and now, Miss Plumer, Isubmit that he has the floor. "

"Very well, Mr. Moultrie. What are the two other things that you talk?"

"Pansies and rosemary, " said the young man, rising and bowing himselfout. 

"Miss Plumer, you have been the inspiration of my friend Sligo, who wasnever so brilliant in his life before. How generous in you to rise andshine on this wretched town! It is Sahara. Miss Plumer descends upon itlike dew. Where have you been?"

"At home, in Louisiana. "

"Ah! yes. Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle--I have neverbeen there; but it comes to me here when you come, Miss Plumer. "

Still the slight persiflage to cover the audacity. 

"And so, Mr. Newt, I have the honor of seeing the gentleman of whom Ihave heard most this winter. "

"What will not our enemies say of us, Miss Plumer?"

"You have no enemies, " replied she, "except, perhaps--no, I'll notmention them. "

"Who? who? I insist, " said Abel, looking at Grace Plumer earnestly for amoment, then dropping his eyes upon her very pretty and very be-ringedwhite hands, where the eyes lingered a little and worshipped in the mostevident manner. 

"Except, then, your own sex, " said the little Louisianian, half blushing. 

"I do them no harm, " replied Abel. 

"No; but you make them jealous. "

"Jealous of what?" returned the young man, in a lower tone, and moreseriously. 

"Oh! it's only of--of--of--of what I hear from the girls, " said Grace, fluttering a little, as she remembered the conservatory at Mrs. BonifaceNewt's, which also Abel had not forgotten. 

"And what do you hear, Miss Grace?" he asked, in pure music. 

Grace blushed, and laughed. 

"Oh! only of your success with poor, feeble women, " said she. 

"I have no success with women, " returned Abel Newt, in a half-seriousway, and in his most melodious voice. "Women are naturally generous. Theyappreciate and acknowledge an honest admiration, even when it is onlyhonest. "

"Only honest! What more could it be, Mr. Newt?"

"It might be eloquent. It might be fascinating and irresistible. Evenwhen a man does not really admire, his eloquence makes him dangerous. If, when he truly admires, he were also eloquent, he would be irresistible. There is no victory like that. I should envy Alexander nothing andNapoleon nothing if I thought I could really conquer one woman's heart. My very consciousness of the worth of the prize paralyzes my efforts. Itis musty, but it is true, that fools rush in where angels fear to tread. "

He sat silent, gazing abstractedly at the two lovely feet of Miss GracePlumer, with an air that implied how far his mind had wandered in theirconversation from any merely personal considerations. Miss Grace Plumerhad not made as much progress as Mr. Newt since their last meeting. AbelNewt seemed to her the handsomest fellow she had ever seen. What he hadsaid both piqued and pleased her. It pleased her because it piqued her. 

"Women are naturally noble, " he continued, in a low, rippling voice. "Ifthey see that a man sincerely admires them they forgive him, although hecan not say so. Yes, and a woman who really loves a man forgives himevery thing. "

He was looking at her hands, which lay white, and warm, and glittering inher lap. She was silent. 

"What a superb ruby, Miss Grace! It might be a dew-drop from apomegranate in Paradise. "

She smiled at the extravagant conceit, while he took her hand as hespoke, and admired the ring. The white, warm hand remained passive inhis. 

"Let me come nearer to Paradise, " he said, half-abstractedly, as if hewere following his own thoughts, and he pressed his lips to the fingersupon which the ruby gleamed. 

Miss Grace Plumer was almost frightened. This was a very differentperformance from Mr. Sligo Moultrie's--very different from any she hadknown. She felt as if she suggested, in some indescribable way, strangeand beautiful thoughts to Abel Newt. He looked and spoke as if headdressed himself to the thoughts she had evoked rather than to herself. Yet she felt herself to be both the cause and the substance. It was verysweet. She did not know what she felt; she did not know how much shedared. But when he went away she knew that Abel Newt was appointed firstflirter, _vice_ Sligo Moultrie removed. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING. 

"On the 23d instant, Alfred Dinks, Esq. , of Boston, to Fanny, oldestdaughter of Boniface Newt, Esq. , of this city. "

Fanny wrote the notice with her own hands, and made Alfred take it to thepapers. In this manner she was before her mother-in-law in spreading thenews. In this manner, also, as Boniface Newt, Esq. , sat at breakfast, helearned of his daughter's marriage. His face grew purple. He lookedapoplectic as he said to his wife, "Nancy, what in God's name does this mean?"

His frightened wife asked what, and he read the announcement aloud. 

He rose from table, and walked up and down the room. 

"Did you know any thing of this?" inquired he. "What does it mean?"

"Dear me! I thought he was engaged to Hope Wayne, " replied Mrs. Newt, crying. 

There was a moment's silence. Then Mr. Newt said, with a sneer, "It seems to me that a mother whose, daughter gets married without herknowledge is a very curious kind of mother--an extremely competent kindof mother. "

He resumed his walking. Mrs. Newt went on with her weeping. But BonifaceNewt was aware of the possibilities in the case of Alfred, and thereforetried to recover himself and consider the chances. 

"What do you know about this fellow?" said he, petulantly, to his wife. 

"I don't know any thing in particular, " she sobbed. 

"Do you know whether he has money, or whether his father has?"

"No; but old Mr. Burt is his grandfather. "

"What! his mother's father?"

"I believe so. I know Fanny always said he was Hope Wayne's cousin. "

Mr. Newt pondered for a little while. His brow contracted. 

"Why on earth have they run away? Did Mr. Burt's grandson suppose hewould be unwelcome to me? Has he been in the habit of coming here, Nancy?"

"No, not much. "

"Have you seen them since this thing?"

"No, indeed, " replied the mother, bursting into tears afresh. 

Her husband looked at her darkly. 

"Don't blubber. What good does crying do? G--! if any thing happens inthis world, a woman falls to crying her eyes out, as if that would helpit. "

Boniface Newt was not usually affectionate. But there was almost aferocity in his address at this moment which startled his wife intosilence. His daughter May turned pale as she saw and heard her father. 

"I thought Abel was trial enough!" said he, bitterly; "and now the girlmust fall to cutting up shines. I tell you plainly, Nancy, if Fanny hasmarried a beggar, a beggar she shall be. There is some reason for aprivate marriage that we don't understand. It can't be any good reason;and, daughter or no daughter, she shall lie in the bed she has made. "

He scowled and set his teeth as he said it. His wife did not dare to cryany more. May went to her mother and took her hand, while the father ofthe family walked rapidly up and down. 

"Every thing comes at once, " said he. "Just as I am most bothered anddriven down town, this infernal business of Fanny's must needs happen. One thing I'm sure of--if it was all right it would not be a privatewedding. What fools women are! And Fanny, whom I always thought soentirely able to take care of herself, turns out to be the greatestfool of all! This fellow's a booby, I believe, Mrs. Newt. I think I haveheard even you make fun of him. But to be poor, too! To run away with apauper-booby, by Heavens, it's too absurd!"

Mr. Newt laughed mockingly, while the tears flowed fast from the eyes ofhis wife, who said at intervals, "I vow, " and "I declare, " with suchutter weakness of tone and movement that her husband suddenly exclaimed, in an exasperated tone, "Nancy, if you don't stop rocking your body in that inane way, andshaking your hand and your handkerchief, and saying those imbecilethings, I shall go mad. I suppose this is the kind of sympathy a mangets from a woman in his misfortunes!"

May Newt looked shocked and indignant. "Mother, I am sorry for poorFanny, " said she. 

She said it quietly and tenderly, and without the remotest reference inlook, or tone, or gesture to her father. 

He turned toward her suddenly. 

"Hold your tongue, Miss!"

"Mamma, I shall go and see Fanny to-day, " May continued, as if herfather had not spoken. Her mother looked frightened, and turned to herdeprecatingly with a look that said, "For Heaven's sake, don't!" Herfather regarded her for a moment in amazement. 

"What do you mean, you little vixen? Let me catch you disobeying me andgoing to see that ungrateful wicked girl, if you think fit!"

There was a moment in which May Newt turned pale, but she said, in a verylow voice, "I must go. "

"May, I forbid your going, " said Mr. Newt, severely and loudly. 

"Father, you have no right to forbid me. "

"I forbid your going, " roared her father, planting himself in front ofher, and quite white with wrath. 

May said no more. 

"A pretty family you have brought up, Mrs. Nancy Newt, " said he, atlength, looking at his wife with all the contempt which his voiceexpressed. "A son who ruins me by his extravagance, a daughter who runsaway with--with"--he hesitated to remember the exact expression--"with apauper-booby, and another daughter who defies and disobeys her father. I congratulate you upon your charming family, upon your distinguishedsuccess, Mrs. Newt. Is there no younger brother of your son-in-law whomyou might introduce to Miss May Newt? I beg your pardon, she is MissNewt, now that her sister is so happily married, " said Boniface Newt, bowing ceremoniously to his daughter. 

Mrs. Newt clasped her hands in an utterly helpless despair, andunconsciously raised them in a beseeching attitude before her. 

"The husband's duty takes him away from home, " continued Mr. Newt. "While he is struggling for the maintenance of his family he supposesthat his wife is caring for his children, and that she has, at least, thesmallest speck of an idea of what is necessary to be done to make themtolerably well behaved. Some husbands are doomed to be mistaken. "

Boniface Newt bowed, and smiled sarcastically. 

"Yes, and as if it were not enough to have my wife such a modeltrainer--and my son so careful--and my daughter so obedient--and myyounger daughter so affectionate--I must also have trials in my business. I expected a great loan from Van Boozenberg's bank, and I haven't got it. He's an old driveling fool. Mrs. Newt, you must curtail expenses. There'sone mouth less, and one Stewart's bill less, at any rate. "

"Father, " said May, as if she could not bear the cool cutting adrift ofher sister from the family, "Fanny is not dead. "

"No, " replied her father, sullenly. "No, the more's the--"

He stopped, for he caught May's eye, and he could not finish thesentence. 

"Mr. Newt, " said his wife, at length, "perhaps Alfred Dinks is not poor. "

That was the chance, but Mr. Newt was skeptical. He had an instinctivesuspicion that no rich young man, however much a booby, would havemarried Fanny clandestinely. Men are forced to know something of theirreputations, and Boniface Newt was perfectly aware that it was generallyunderstood he had no aversion to money. He knew also that he was reputedrich, that his family were known to live expensively, and he was quiteshrewd enough to believe that any youth in her own set who ran off withhis daughter did so because he depended upon her father's money. He wassatisfied that the Newt family was not to be a gainer by the newalliance. The more he thought of it the more he was convinced, and themore angry he became. He was still storming, when the door was thrownopen and Mrs. Dagon rushed in. 

"What does it all mean?" asked she. 

Mr. Newt stopped in his walk, smiled contemptuously, and pointed to hiswife, who sat with her handkerchief over her eyes. 

"Pooh!" said Mrs. Dagon, "I knew 'twould come to this. I've seen herhugging him the whole winter, and so has every body else who has eyes. "

And she shook her plumage as she settled into a seat. 

"Mrs. Boniface Newt is unfortunately blind; that is to say, she seesevery body's affairs but her own, " said Mr. Newt, tauntingly. 

Mrs. Dagon, without heeding him, talked on. 

"But why did they run away to be married? What does it mean? Fanny's notromantic, and Dinks is a fool. He's rich, and a proper match enough, fora woman can't expect to have every thing. I can't see why he didn'tpropose regularly, and behave like other people. Do you suppose he wasactually engaged to his cousin Hope Wayne, and that our darling Fanny hasoutwitted the Boston beauty, and the Boston beau too, for that matter? Itlooks like it, really. I think that must be it. It's a pity a Newt shouldmarry a fool--"

"It is not the first time, " interrupted her nephew, making a low bow tohis wife. 

Mrs. Dagon looked a little surprised. She had seen little jars and rubsbefore in the family, but this morning she seemed to have happened inupon an earthquake. She continued:

"But we must make the best of it. Are they in the house?"

"No, Aunt Dagon, " said Mr. Newt. "I knew nothing of it until, half anhour ago, I read it in the paper with all the rest of the world. It seemsit was a family secret. " And he bowed again to his wife, "Don't, don't, " sobbed she. "You know I didn't know any thing about it. Oh! Aunt Dagon, I never knew him so unjust and wicked as he is to-day. Hetreats me cruelly. " And the poor woman covered her red eyes again withher handkerchief, and rocked herself feebly. Mr. Newt went out, andslammed the door behind him. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A FIELD-DAY. 

"Now, Nancy, tell me about this thing, " said Mrs. Dagon, when the husbandwas gone. 

But Nancy had nothing to tell. 

"I don't like his running away with her--that looks bad, " continued Mrs. Dagon. She pondered a few moments, and then said:

"I can tell you one thing, Nancy, which it wasn't worth while to mentionto Boniface, who seems to be nervous this morning--but I am sure Fannyproposed the running off. Alfred Dinks is too great a fool. He neverwould have thought of it, and he would never have dared to do it if hehad. "

"Oh dear me!" responded Mrs. Newt. 

"Pooh! it isn't such a dreadful thing, if he is only rich enough, " saidAunt Dagon, in a consoling voice. "Every thing depends on that; and Ihaven't much doubt of it. Alfred Dinks is a fool, my dear, but Fanny Newtis not; and Fanny Newt is not the girl to marry a fool, except forreasons. You may trust Fanny, Nancy. You may depend there was somefoolish something with Hope Wayne, on the part of Alfred, and Fanny hascut the knot she was not sure of untying. Pooh! pooh! When you are as oldas I am you won't be distressed over these things. Fanny Newt is fullyweaned. She wants an establishment, and she has got it. There are plentyof people who would have been glad to marry their daughters to AlfredDinks. I can tell you there are some great advantages in having a foolfor your husband. Don't you see Fanny never would have been happy with aman she couldn't manage. It's quite right, my dear. "

At this moment the bell rang, and Mrs. Newt, not wishing to be caughtwith red eyes, called May, who had looked on at this debate, and left theroom. 

While Mrs. Dagon had been so volubly talking she had also been busilythinking. She knew that if Alfred were a fool his mother was not--atleast, not in the way she meant. There had been no love lost between theladies, so that Mrs. Dagon was disposed to criticise the other's conductvery closely. She saw, therefore, that if Alfred Dinks were not rich--andit certainly was a question whether he were so really, or only inexpectation from Mr. Burt--then also he might not be engaged to HopeWayne. But the story of his wealth and his engagement might very easilyhave been the _ruse_ by which the skillful Mrs. Dinks meant to conducther campaign in New York. In that case, what was more likely than thatshe should have improved Fanny's evident delusion in regard to her son, and, by suggesting to him an elopement, have secured for him the daughterof a merchant so universally reputed wealthy as Boniface Newt?

Mrs. Dagon was clever--so was Mrs. Dinks; and it is the homage that oneclever person always pays to another to believe the other capable ofevery thing that occurs to himself. 

In the matter of the marriage Mrs. Budlong Dinks had been defeated, butshe was not dismayed. She had lost Hope Wayne, indeed, and she could nolonger hope, by the marriage of Alfred with his cousin, to consolidatethe Burt property in her family. She had been very indignant--very deeplydisappointed. But she still loved her son, and the meditation of a nightrefreshed her. 

Upon a survey of the field, Mrs. Dinks felt that under no circumstanceswould Hope have married Alfred; and he had now actually married Fanny. Somuch was done. It was useless to wish impossible wishes. She did notdesire her son to starve or come to social shame, although he had marriedFanny; and Fanny, after all, was rather a belle, and the daughter of arich merchant, who would have to support them. She knew, of course, thatFanny supposed her husband would share in the great Burt property. But asMrs. Dinks herself believed the same thing, that did not surprise her. Infact, they would all be gainers by it; and nothing now remained but todevote herself to securing that result. 

The first step under the circumstances was clearly a visit to the Newts, and the ring which had sent Mrs. Newt from the room was Mrs. Dinks's. 

Mrs. Dagon was alone when Mrs. Dinks entered, and Mrs. Dagon was by nomeans sure, whatever she said to Nancy, that Mrs. Dinks had not outwittedthem all. As she entered Mrs. Dagon put up her glasses and gazed at her;and when Mrs. Dinks saluted her, Mrs. Dagon bowed behind the glasses, asif she were bowing through a telescope at the planet Jupiter. 

"Good-morning, Mrs. Dagon!"

"Good-morning, Mrs. Dinks!" replied that lady, still contemplatingthe other as if she were a surprising and incomprehensible phenomenon. 

Profound silence followed. Mrs. Dinks was annoyed by the insult whichMrs. Dagon was tacitly putting upon her, and resolving upon revenge. Meanwhile she turned over some illustrated books upon the table, as ifengravings were of all things those that afforded her the profoundestsatisfaction. 

But she was conscious that she could not deceive Mrs. Dagon by anappearance of interest; so, after a few moments, Mrs. Dinks seatedherself in a large easy-chair opposite that lady, who was still lookingat her, shook her dress, glanced into the mirror with the utmostnonchalance, and finally, slowly drawing out her own glasses, raised themto her eyes, and with perfect indifference surveyed the enemy. 

The ladies gazed at each other for a few moments in silence. 

"How's your daughter, Mrs. Alfred Dinks?" asked Mrs. Dagon, abruptly. 

Mrs. Dinks continued to gaze without answering. She was resolved to putdown this dragon that laid waste society. The dragon was instantlyconscious that she had made a mistake in speaking, and was angryaccordingly. She said nothing more; she only glared. 

"Good-morning, my dear Mrs. Dinks, " said Mrs. Newt, in a troubled voice, as she entered the room. "Oh my! isn't it--isn't it--singular?"

For Mrs. Newt was bewildered. Between her husband and Mrs. Dagon she hadbeen so depressed and comforted that she did not know what to think. Shewas sure it was Fanny who had married Alfred, and she supposed, with allthe world, that he had, or was to have, a pretty fortune. Yet she felt, with her husband, that the private marriage was suspicious. It seemed, atleast, to prove the indisposition of Mrs. Dinks to the match. But, asthey were married, she did not wish to alienate the mother of the richbridegroom. 

"Singular, indeed, Mrs. Newt!" rejoined Mrs. Dinks; "I call itextraordinary!"

"I call it outrageous, " interpolated Mrs. Dagon. "Poor girl! to be runaway with and married! What a blow for our family!"

Mrs. Dinks resumed her glasses, and looked unutterably at Mrs. Dagon. ButMrs. Dinks, on her side, knowing the limitations of Alfred's income, andbelieving in the Newt resources, did not wish to divert from him anykindness of the Newts. So she outgeneraled Mrs. Dagon again. 

"Yes, indeed, it is an outrage upon all our feelings. We must, of course, be mutually shocked at the indiscretion of these members of both ourfamilies. "

"Yes, oh yes!" answered Mrs. Newt. "I do declare! what do people do sofor?"

Neither cared to take the next step, and make the obvious and necessaryinquiries as to the future, for neither wished to betray the thought thatwas uppermost. At length Mrs. Dinks ventured to say, "One thing, at least, is fortunate. "

"Indeed!" ejaculated Mrs. Dagon behind the glasses, as if she scoffed atthe bare suggestion of any thing but utter misfortune being associatedwith such an affair. 

"I say one thing is fortunate, " continued Mrs. Dinks, in a more decidedtone, and without the slightest attention to Mrs. Dagon's remark. 

"Dear me! I declare I don't see just what you mean, Mrs. Dinks, " saidMrs. Newt. 

"I mean that they are neither of them children, " answered the other. 

"They may not be children, " commenced Mrs. Dagon, in the most implacabletone, "but they are both fools. I shouldn't wonder, Nancy, if they'd bothoutwitted each other, after all; for whenever two people, without theslightest apparent reason, run away to be married, it is because one ofthem is poor. "

This was a truth of which the two mothers were both vaguely conscious, and which by no means increased the comfort of the situation. It led toa long pause in the conversation. Mrs. Dinks wished Aunt Dagon on the topof Mont Blanc, and while she was meditating the best thing to say, Mrs. Dagon, who had rallied, returned to the charge. 

"Of course, " said she, "that is something that would hardly be said ofthe daughter of Boniface Newt. "

And Mrs. Dagon resumed the study of Mrs. Dinks. 

"Or of the grand-nephew of Christopher Burt, " said the latter, putting upher own glasses and returning the stare. 

"Grand-nephew! Is Alfred Dinks not the grandson of Mr. Burt?" asked Mrs. Newt, earnestly. 

"No, he is his grand-nephew. I am the niece of Mr. Burt--daughter of hisbrother Jonathan, deceased, " replied Mrs. Dinks. 

"Oh!" said Mrs. Newt, dolefully. 

"Not a very near relation, " added Mrs. Dagon. "Grand-nephews don'tcount. "

That might be true, but it was thin consolation for Mrs. Newt, who beganto take fire. 

"But, Mrs. Dinks, how did this affair come about?" asked she. 

"Exactly, " chimed in Aunt Dagon; "how did it come about?"

"My dear Mrs. Newt, " replied Mrs. Dinks, entirely overlooking theexistence of Mrs. Dagon, "you know my son Alfred and your daughter Fanny. So do I. Do you believe that Alfred ran away with Fanny, or Fanny withAlfred. Theoretically, of course, the man does it. Do you believe Alfreddid it?"

Mrs. Dinks's tone was resolute. Mrs. Newt was on the verge of hysterics. 

"Do you mean to insult my daughter to her mother's face?" exclaimed she. "O you mean to insinuate that--"

"I mean to insinuate nothing, my dear Mrs. Newt. I say plainly what Imean to say, so let us keep as cool as we can for the sake of allparties. They are married--that's settled. How are they going to live?"

Mrs. Newt opened her mouth with amazement. 

"I believe the husband usually supports the wife, " ejaculated the dragonbehind the glasses. 

"I understand you to say, then, my dear Mrs. Newt, " continued Mrs. Dinks, with a superb disregard of the older lady, who had made the remark, "thatthe husband usually supports the family. Now in this matter, you know, weare going to be perfectly cool and sensible. You know as well as I thatAlfred has no profession, but that be will by-and-by inherit a fortunefrom his grand-uncle--"

At this point Mrs. Dagon coughed in an incredulous and contemptuousmanner. Mrs. Dinks put her handkerchief to her nose, which she pattedgently, and waited for Mrs. Dagon to stop. 

"As I was saying--a fortune from his grand-uncle. Now until thenprovision must be made--"

"Really, " said Mrs. Dagon, for Mrs. Newt was bewildered into silence bythe rapid conversation of Mrs. Dinks--"really, these are matters ofbusiness which, I believe, are usually left to gentlemen. "

"I know, of course, Mrs. Newt, " continued the intrepid Mrs. Dinks, utterly regardless of Mrs. Dagon, for she had fully considered her part, and knew her own intentions, "that such things are generally arranged bythe gentlemen. But I think sensible women like you and I, mothers, too, are quite as much interested in the matter as fathers can be. Our honoris as much involved in the happiness of our children as their fathers'is. So I have come to ask you, in a purely friendly and private manner, what the chances for our dear children are?"

"I am sure I know nothing, " answered Mrs. Newt; "I only know that Mr. Newt is furious. "

"Perfectly lunatic, " added Aunt Dagon, in full view of Mrs. Dinks. 

"Pity, pity!" returned Mrs. Dinks, with an air of compassionateunconcern; "because these things can always be so easily settled. I hope Mr. Newt won't suffer himself to be disturbed. Every thingwill come right. "

"What does Mr. Dinks say?" feebly inquired Mrs. Newt. 

"I really don't know, " replied Mrs. Dinks, with a cool air of surprisethat any body should care what he thought--which made Mrs. Dagon almostenvious of her enemy, and which so impressed Mrs. Newt, who consideredthe opinion of her husband as the only point of importance in the wholeaffair, that she turned pale. 

"I mean that his mind is so engrossed with other matters that he rarelyattends to the domestic details, " added Mrs. Dinks, who had no desire offrightening any of her new relatives. "Have you been to see Fanny yet?"

"No, " returned Mrs. Newt, half-sobbing again, "I have only just heard ofit; and--and--I don't think Mr. Newt would wish me to go. "

Mrs. Dinks raised her eyebrows, and again touched her face gently withthe handkerchief. Mrs. Dagon rubbed her glasses and waited, for she knewvery well that Mrs. Dinks had not yet discovered what she had come tolearn. The old General was not deceived by the light skirmishing. 

"I am sorry not to have seen Mr. Newt before he went down town, " beganMrs. Dinks, after a pause. "But since we must all know these matterssooner or later--that is to say, those of us whose business it is"--hereshe glanced at Mrs. Dagon--"you and I, my dear Mrs. Newt, may talkconfidentially. How much will your husband probably allow Fanny untilAlfred comes into his property?"

Mrs. Dinks leaned back and folded her shawl closely around her, and Mrs. Dagon hemmed and smiled a smile of perfect incredulity. 

"Gracious, gracious! Mrs. Dinks, Mr. Newt won't give her a cent!"answered Mrs. Newt. As she uttered the words Mrs. Dagon held the enemyin full survey. 

Mrs. Dinks was confounded. That there would be some trouble in arrangingthe matter she had expected. But the extreme dolefulness of Mrs. Newt hadalready perplexed her; and the prompt, simple way in which she answeredthis question precluded the suspicion of artifice. Something was clearly, radically wrong. She knew that Alfred had six hundred a year from hisfather. She had no profound respect for that gentleman; but men arewillful. Suppose he should take a whim to stop it? On the other side, sheknew that Boniface Newt was an obstinate man, and that fathers weresometimes implacable. Sometimes, even, they did not relent in makingtheir wills. She knew all about Miss Van Boozenberg's marriage with TomWitchet, for it was no secret in society. Was it possible her darlingAlfred might be in actual danger of such penury--at least until he cameinto his property? And what property was it, and what were the chancesthat old Burt would leave him a cent?

These considerations instantly occupied her mind as Mrs. Newt spoke; andshe saw more clearly than ever the necessity of propitiating old Burt. 

At length she asked, with an undismayed countenance, and with even a showof smiling:

"But, Mrs. Newt, why do you take so cheerless a view of your husband'sintentions in this matter?"

The words that her husband had spoken in his wrath had rung in Mrs. Newt's mind ever since, and they now fell, echo-like, from her tongue. 

"Because he said that, daughter or no daughter, she shall lie in the bedshe has made. "

Mrs. Dinks could not help showing a little chagrin. It was the sign forMrs. Newt to burst into fresh sorrow. Mrs. Dagon was as rigid as a bronzestatue. 

"Very well, then, Mrs. Newt, " said her visitor, rising, "Mr. Newt willhave the satisfaction of seeing his daughter starve. "

"Oh, her husband will take care of that, " said the bronze statue, blandly. 

"My son Alfred, " continued Mrs. Dinks, "has an allowance of six hundreddollars a year, no profession, and expectations from his grand-uncle. These are his resources. If his father chooses, he can cut off hisallowance. Perhaps he will. You can mention these facts to Mr. Newt. "

"Oh! mercy! mercy!" exclaimed Mrs. Newt. "What shall we do? What willpeople say?"

"Good-morning, ladies!" said Mrs. Dinks, with a comprehensive bow. Shewas troubled, but not overwhelmed; for she believed that the rich Mr. Newt would not, of course, allow his daughter to suffer. Mrs. Dagon wasmore profoundly persuaded than ever that Mrs. Dinks had managed the wholematter. 

"Nancy, " said she, as the door closed upon Mrs. Dinks, "it is a scheming, artful woman. Her son has no money, and I doubt if he ever will have any. Boniface will be implacable. I know him. He is capable of seeing hisdaughter suffer. Fanny has made a frightful mistake. Poor Fanny! she wasnot so clever as she thought herself. There is only one hope--that is inold Burt. I think we had better present that view chiefly to Boniface. Wemust concede the poverty, but insist and enlarge upon the prospect. NoNewt ought to be allowed to suffer if we can help it. Poor Fanny! She wasalways pert, but not quite so smart as she thought herself!"

Mrs. Dagon indulged in a low chuckle of triumph, while Mrs. Newt wasoverwhelmed with a vague apprehension that all her husband's wrath athis daughter's marriage would be visited upon her. 

CHAPTER XL. 

AT THE ROUND TABLE. 

Mrs. Dinks had informed Hope that she was going home. That lady wassatisfied, by her conversation with Mrs. Newt, that it would be uselessfor her to see Mr. Newt--that it was one of the cases in which facts andevents plead much more persuasively than words. She was sure the richmerchant would not allow his daughter to suffer. Fathers do so in novels, thought she. Of course they do, for it is necessary to the interest ofthe story. And old Van Boozenberg does in life, thought she. Of course hedoes. But he is an illiterate, vulgar, hard old brute. Mr. Newt is ofanother kind. She had herself read his name as director of at least sevendifferent associations for doing good to men and women. 

But Mrs. Dinks still delayed her departure. She knew that there was noreason for her staying, but she staid. She loved her son dearly. She wasunwilling to leave him while his future was so dismally uncertain; andevery week she informed Hope that she was on the point of going. 

Hope Wayne was not sorry to remain. Perhaps she also had her purposes. At Saratoga, in the previous summer, Arthur Merlin had remarked herincessant restlessness, and had connected it with the picture and thelikeness of somebody. But when afterward, in New York, he cleared up themystery and resolved who the somebody was, to his great surprise heobserved, at the same time, that the restlessness of Hope Wayne was gone. From the months of seclusion which she had imposed upon herself he sawthat she emerged older, calmer, and lovelier than he had ever seen her. The calmness was, indeed, a little unnatural. To his sensitive eye--for, as he said to Lawrence Newt, in explanation of his close observation, itis wonderful how sensitive an exclusive devotion to art will make theeye--to his eye the calmness was still too calm, as the gayety had beentoo gay. 

In the solitude of his studio, as he drew many pictures upon thecanvas, and sang, and smoked, and scuffled across the floor to surveyhis work from a little distance--and studied its progress through hisopen fist--or as he lay sprawling upon his lounge in a cotton velvetItalian coat, inimitably befogged and bebuttoned--and puffed profusely, following the intervolving smoke with his eye--his meditations werealways the same. He was always thinking of Hope Wayne, and befoolinghimself with the mask of art, actually hiding himself from himself:and not perceiving that when a man's sole thought by day and nightis a certain woman, and an endless speculation about the quality ofher feeling for another man, he is simply a lover thinking of hismistress and a rival. 

The infatuated painter suddenly became a great favorite in society. Hecould not tell why. Indeed there was no other secret than that he was avery pleasant young gentleman who made himself agreeable to young women, because he wished to know them and to paint them--not, as he wickedlytold Lawrence Newt, who winked and did not believe a word of it, becausethe human being is the noblest subject of art--but only because he wishedto show himself by actual experience how much more charming in character, and sprightly in intelligence, and beautiful in person and manner, HopeWayne was than all other young women. 

He proved that important point to his perfect satisfaction. He punctuallyattended every meeting of the Round Table, as Lawrence called themeetings at which he and Arthur read and talked with Hope Wayne and AmyWaring, that he might lose no opportunity of pursuing the study. He foundHope Wayne always friendly and generous. She frankly owned that he hadshown her many charming things in poetry that she had not known, and hadhelped her to form juster opinions. It was natural she should think itwas Arthur who had helped her. She did not know that it was a verydifferent person who had done the work--a person whose name was AbelNewt. For it was her changing character--changing in consequence of heracquaintance with Abel--which modified her opinions; and Arthur arrivedupon her horizon at the moment of the change. 

She was always friendly and generous with him. But somehow he couldnot divest himself of the idea that she must be the Diana of his greatpicture. There was an indescribable coolness and remoteness about her. Has it any thing to do with that confounded sketch at Saratoga, andthat--equally confounded Abel Newt? thought he. 

For the conversation at the Round Table sometimes fell upon Abel. 

"He is certainly a handsome fellow, " said Amy Waring. "I don't wonder athis success. "

"It's beauty that does it, then, Miss Waring?" asked Arthur. 

"Does what?" said she. 

"Why, that gives what you call social success. "

"Oh! I mean that I don't wonder such a handsome, bright, graceful;accomplished young man, who lives in fine style, drives pretty horses, and knows every body, should be a great favorite with the girls andtheir mothers. Don't you see, Abel Newt is a sort of Alcibiades?"

Lawrence Newt laughed. 

"You don't mean Pelham?" said he. 

"No, for he has sense enough to conceal the coxcomb. But you ought toknow your own nephew, Mr. Newt, " answered Amy. 

"Perhaps; but I have a very slight acquaintance with him, " said Mr. Newt. 

"I don't exactly like him, " said Arthur Merlin, with perfect candor. 

"I didn't know you knew him, " replied Amy, looking up. 

Arthur blushed, for he did not personally know him; but he felt as if hedid, so that he unwittingly spoke so. 

"No, no, " said he, hastily; "I don't know him, I believe; but I knowabout him. "

As he said this he looked at Hope Wayne, who had been sitting, working, in perfect silence. At the same moment she raised her eyes to hisinquiringly. 

"I mean, " said Arthur, quite confused, "that I don't--somehow--that is tosay, you know, there's a sort of impression you get about people--"

Lawrence Newt interposed--

"I suppose that Arthur doesn't like Abel for the same reason that oildoesn't like water; for the same reason that you, Miss Amy, and MissWayne, would probably not like such a man. "

Arthur Merlin looked fixedly at Hope Wayne. 

"What kind of man is Mr. Newt?" asked Hope, faintly coloring. She wastrying herself. 

"Don't you know him?" asked Arthur, abruptly and keenly. 

"Yes, " replied Hope, as she worked on, only a little more rapidly. 

"Well, what kind of man do you think him to be?" continued Arthur, nervously. 

"That is not the question, " answered Hope, calmly. 

Lawrence Newt and Amy Waring looked on during this little conversation. They both wanted Hope to like Arthur. They both doubted how Abel mighthave impressed her. Lawrence Newt had not carelessly said that neitherAmy nor Hope would probably like Abel. 

"Miss Hope is right, Arthur, " said he. "She asks what kind of man mynephew is. He is a brilliant man--a fascinating man. "

"So was Colonel Burr, " said Hope Wayne, without looking up. 

"Exactly, Miss Hope. You have mentioned the reason why neither you norAmy would like my nephew. "

Hope and Amy understood. Arthur Merlin was bewildered. 

"I don't quite understand, " said he; "I am such a great fool. "

Nobody spoke. 

"I am sorry for that poor little Grace Plumer, " Lawrence Newt gravelysaid. 

"Don't you be troubled about little Grace Plumer. She can take propercare of herself, " answered Arthur, merrily. 

Hope Wayne's busy fingers did not stop. She remembered Miss Grace Plumer, and she did not agree with Arthur Merlin. Hope did not know Grace; butshe knew the voice, the manner, the magnetism to which the gay girl wasexposed, "If Mr. Godefroi Plumer is really as rich as I hear, " said Lawrence, "Ithink we shall have a Mrs. Abel Newt in the autumn. Poor Mrs. Abel Newt!"

He shook his head with that look, mingled of feeling and irony, whichwas very perplexing. The tone in which he spoke was really so full oftenderness for the girl, that Hope, who heard every word and felt everytone, was sure that Lawrence Newt pitied the prospective bride sincerely. 

"I beg pardon, Mr. Newt, and Miss Wayne, " said Arthur Merlin; "but howcan a man have a high respect for women when he sees his sister do whatFanny Newt has done?"

"Why should a man complain that his sister does precisely what he istrying to do himself?" asked Lawrence. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

A LITTLE DINNER. 

When Mrs. Dinks told her husband of Alfred's marriage, the HonorableBudlong said it was a great pity, but that it all came of the foolishfondness of the boy's mother; that nothing was more absurd than formothers to be eternally coddling their children. Although who wouldhave attended to Mr. Alfred if his mother had not, the unemployedstatesman forgot to state, notwithstanding that he had just writtena letter upon public affairs, in which he eloquently remarked that hehad no aspirations for public life; but that, afar from the turmoilsof political strife, his modest ambition was satisfied in the performanceof the sweet duties which the wise Creator, who has set the children ofmen in families, has imposed upon all parents. 

"However, " said he, "Mr. Newt is a wealthy merchant. It's all right, mydear! Women, and especially mothers, are peculiarly silly at such times. Endeavor, Mrs. Dinks, to keep the absurdity--which, of course, you willnot be able to suppress altogether--within bounds. Try to control yournerves, and rely upon Providence. "

Therewith the statesman stroked his wife's chin. He controlled his ownnerves perfectly, and went to dress for dinner with a select party atGeneral Belch's, in honor of the Honorable B. J. Ele, who, in hiscapacity as representative in Washington, had ground an axe for hisfriend the General. Therefore, when the cloth was removed, the Generalrose and said: "I know that we are only a party of friends, but I cannot help indulging my feelings, and gratifying yours, by proposing thehealth of our distinguished, able, and high-minded representative, whoseCongressional career proves that there is no office in the gift of a freeand happy people to which he may not legitimately aspire. I have thehonor and pleasure to propose, with three times three, the Honorable B. Jawley Ele. "

The Honorable Budlong Dinks led off in gravely pounding the table withhis fork; and when the rattle of knives, and forks, and spoons, andglasses had subsided, and when Major Scuppernong, of North Carolina--whohad dined very freely, and was not strictly following the order ofevents, but cried out in a loud voice in the midst of the applause, "Encore, encore! good for Belch!"--had been reduced to silence, thenthe honorable gentleman who had been toasted rose, and expressed hisopinion of the state of the country, to the general effect that GeneralJackson--Sir, and fellow-citizens--I mean my friends, and you, Mr. Speaker--I beg pardon, General Belch, that General Jackson, gentlemen andladies, that is to say, the relatives here present--I mean--yes--is oneof the very greatest--I venture to say, and thrust it in the teeth anddown the throat of calumny--_the_ greatest human being that now lives, or ever did live, or ever can live. 

Mr. Ele sat down amidst a fury of applause. Major Scuppernong, of NorthCarolina, and Captain Lamb, of Pennsylvania, turned simultaneously to theyoung gentleman who sat between them, and who had been introduced to themby General Belch as Mr. Newt, son of our old Tammany friend BonifaceNewt, and said to him, with hysterical fervor, "By G--, Sir! that is one of the greatest men in this country. He doeshonor, Sir, to the American name!"

The gentlemen, without waiting for a reply, each seized a decanter andfilled their glasses. Abel smiled and bowed on each side of him, filledhis own glass and lighted a cigar. 

Of course, after General Belch had spoken and Mr. Ele had responded, itwas necessary that every body else should be brought to a speech. GeneralBelch mentioned the key-stone of the arch of States; and Captain Lamb, inreply, enlarged upon the swarthy sons of Pennsylvania. General Smith, ofVermont, when green mountains were gracefully alluded to by GeneralBelch, was proud to say that he came--or, rather, he might say--yes, he_would_ say, _hailed_ from the hills of Ethan Allen; and, in closing, treated the company to the tale of Ticonderoga. The glittering mouth ofthe Father of Waters was a beautiful metaphor which brought Colonol leFay, of Louisiana, to his feet; and the Colonel said that really he didnot know what to say. "Say that the Mississippi has more water in itsmouth than ever you had!" roared Major Scuppernong, with great hilarity. The company laughed, and the Colonel sat down. When General Belchmentioned Plymouth Hock, the Honorable Budlong Dinks sprang upon it, andcongratulated himself and the festive circle he saw around him upon theinestimable boon of religious liberty which, he might say, was plantedupon the rock of Plymouth, and blazed until it had marched all over theland, dispensing from its vivifying wings the healing dew of charity, like the briny tears that lave its base. 

"Beautiful! beautiful! My God, Sir, what a poetic idea!" murmured, orrather gurgled, Major Scuppernong to Abel at his side. 

But when General Belch rose and said that eloquence was unnecessary whenhe mentioned one name, and that he therefore merely requested his friendsto fill and pledge, without further introduction, "The old North State, "there was a prolonged burst of enthusiasm, during which Major Scuppernongtottered on to his feet and wavered there, blubbering in maudlin woe, andwiping his eyes with a napkin; while the company, who perceived hiscondition, rattled the table, and shouted, and laughed, until SligoMoultrie, who sat opposite Abel, declared to him across the table thatit was an abominable shame, that the whole South was insulted, and thathe should say something. 

"Fiddle-de-dee, Moultrie, " said Abel to him, laughing; "the South is nomore insulted because Major Scuppernong, of North Carolina, gets drunkand makes a fool of himself than the North is insulted because GeneralSmith, of Vermont, and the Honorable Dinks, of Boston, make fools ofthemselves without getting drunk. Do you suppose that, at this time ofnight, any of these people have the remotest idea of the points of thecompass? Their sole interest at the present moment is to know whetherthe gallant Major will tumble under the table before he gets throughhis speech. "

But the gallant Major did not get through his speech at all, because henever began it. The longer he stood the unsteadier he grew, and the moreprofusely he wept. Once or twice he made a motion, as if straighteninghimself to begin. The noise at table then subsided a little. The guestscried "H'st. " There was a moment of silence, during which the eloquentand gallant Major mopped the lingering tears with his napkin, then hismouth opened in a maudlin smile; the roar began again, until at lastthe smile changed into a burst of sobbing, and to Abel Newt's extremediscomfiture, and Sligo Moultrie's secret amusement, Major Scuppernongsuddenly turned and fell upon Abel's neck, and tenderly embraced him, whispering with tipsy tenderness, "My dearest Belch, I love you! Yes, by Heaven! I swear I love you!"

Abel called the waiters, and had the gallant and eloquent Major removedto a sofa. 

"He enjoys life, the Major, Sir, " said Captain Lamb, of Pennsylvania, atAbel's left hand; "a generous, large-hearted man. So is our host, Sir. General Belch is a man who knows enough to go in when it rains. "

Captain Lamb, of Pennsylvania, cocked one eye at his glass, and thenopening his mouth, and throwing his head a little back, tipped the entirecontents down at one swallow. He filled the glass again, took a puff athis cigar, scratched his head a moment with the handle of a spoon, thenopening his pocket-knife, proceeded to excavate some recesses in histeeth with the blade. 

"Is Dinks a rising man in Massachusetts, do you know, Sir?" asked CaptainLamb of Abel, while the knife waited and rested a moment on the outsideof the mouth. 

"I believe he is, Sir, " said Abel, at a venture. 

"Wasn't there some talk of his going on a foreign mission? Seems to meI heard something. "

"Oh! yes, " replied Abel. "I've heard a good deal about it. But I am notsure that he has received his commission yet. "

Captain Lamb cocked his eye at Abel as if he had been a glass of wine. 

Abel rose, and, seating himself by Sligo Moultrie, entered intoconversation. 

But his object in moving was not talk. It was to give the cue to thecompany of changing their places, so that he might sit where he would. Hedrifted and tacked about the table for some time, and finally sailed intothe port toward which he had been steering--an empty chair by Mr. Dinks. They said, good-evening. Mr. Dinks added, with a patronizing air, "I presume you are not often at dinners of this kind, Mr. Newt?"

"No, " replied Abel; "I usually dine on veal and spring chickens. "

"Oh!" said Mr. Dinks, who thought Abel meant that he generally ate thatfood. 

"I mean that men of my years usually feed with younger and softer peoplethan I see around me here, " explained the young man. 

"Yes, of course, I understand, " replied Mr. Dinks, loftily, who had notthe least idea what Abel meant; "young men must expect to begin atwomen's dinners. "

"They must, indeed, " replied Abel. "Now, Mr. Dinks, one of thepleasantest I remember was this last winter, under the auspices of yourwife. Let me see, there were Mr. Moultrie there, Mr. Whitloe and MissMagot, Mr. Bowdoin Beacon and Miss Amy Waring--and who else? Oh! I begpardon, your son Alfred and my sister Fanny. "

As he spoke the young gentleman filled a glass of wine, and looked overthe rim at Mr. Dinks as he drained it. 

"Yes, " returned the Honorable Mr. Dinks, "I don't go to women's dinners. "

He seemed entirely unconscious that he was conversing with the brother ofthe young lady with whom his son had eloped. Abel smiled to himself. 

"I suppose, " said he, "we ought to congratulate each other, Mr. Dinks. "

The honorable gentleman looked at Abel, paused a moment, then said:

"My son marries at his own risk. Sir. He is of years of discretion, Ibelieve, and having an income of only six hundred dollars a year, whichI allow him, I presume he would not marry without some security upon theother side. However, Sir, as that is his affair, and as I do not find itvery interesting--no offense, Sir, for I shall always be happy to see mydaughter-in-law--we had better, perhaps, find some other topic. The artof life, my young friend, is to avoid what is disagreeable. Don't youthink Mr. Ele quite a remarkable man? I regard him as an honor to yourState, Sir. "

"A very great honor, Sir, and all the gentlemen at this charming dinnerare honors to the States from which they come, and to our common country, Mr. Dinks. We younger men are content to dine upon veal and springchickens so long as we know that such intellects have the guidanceof public affairs. "

Mr. Abel Newt bowed to Mr. Dinks as he spoke, while that gentlemanlistened with the stately gravity with which a President of the UnitedStates hears the Latin oration in which he is made a Doctor of Laws. Hebowed in reply to the little speech of Abel's, as if he desired to returnthanks for the combined intellects that had been complimented. 

"And yet, Sir, " continued Abel, "if my father should unhappily conceive aprejudice in regard to this elopement, and decline to know any thing ofthe happy pair, six hundred dollars, in the present liberal style of lifeincumbent upon a man who has moved in the circles to which your son hasbeen accustomed, would be a very limited income for your son anddaughter-in-law--very limited. "

Abel lighted another cigar. Mr. Dinks was a little confounded by thesudden lurch of the conversation. 

"Very, very, " he replied, as if he were entirely loth to linger upon thesubject. 

"The father of the lady in these cases is very apt to be obdurate, " saidAbel. 

"I think very likely, " replied Mr. Dinks, with the polite air of a manassenting to an axiom in a science of which, unfortunately, he has notthe slightest knowledge. 

"Now, Sir, " persisted Abel, "I will not conceal from you--for I know afather's heart will wish to know to what his son is exposed--that myfather is in quite a frenzy about this affair. "

"Oh! he'll get over it, " interrupted Mr. Dinks, complacently. "Theyalways do; and now, don't you think that we had better--"

"Exactly, " struck in the other. "But I, who know my father well, knowthat he will not relent. Oh, Sir, it is dreadful to think of a familydivided!" Abel puffed for a moment in silence. "But I think my dearestfather loves me enough to allow me to mould him a little. If, forinstance, I could say to him that Mr. Dinks would contribute say fifteenhundred dollars a year, until Mr. Alfred comes into his fortune, I thinkin that case I might persuade him to advance as much; and so, Sir, yourson and my dear sister might live somewhat as they have been accustomed, and their mutual affection would sustain them, I doubt not, until thegrandfather died. Then all would be right. "

Abel blew his nose as if to command his emotion, and looked at Mr. Dinks. 

"Mr. Newt, I should prefer to drop the subject. I can not afford to givemy son a larger allowance. I doubt if he ever gets a cent from Mr. Burt, who is not his grandfather, but only the uncle of my wife. Possibly Mrs. Dinks may receive something. I repeat that I presume my son understandswhat he is about. If he has done a foolish thing, I am sorry. I hope hehas not. Let us drink to the prosperity of the romantic young pair, Sir. "

"With all my heart, " said Abel. 

He was satisfied. He had come to the dinner that he might discover, in the freedom of soul which follows a feast, what Alfred Dinks'sprospects really were, and what his father would do for him. BonifaceNewt, upon coming to the store after the _tête-à-tête_ with his wife, had told Abel of his sister's marriage. Abel had comforted his parentby the representation of the probable Burt inheritance. But the fatherwas skeptical. Therefore, when General Arcularius Belch requested thepleasure of Mr. Abel Newt's company at dinner, to meet the HonorableB. Jawley Ele--an invitation which was dictated by General Belch'sdesire to stand well with Boniface Newt, who contributed generouslyto the expenses of the party--the father and son both perceived theopportunity of discovering what they wished. 

"Mr. And Mrs. Alfred Dinks will have six hundred a year, as long as papaDinks chooses to pay it, " said Abel to his father the day after thedinner. 

Mr. Newt clenched his teeth and struck his fist upon the table. 

"Not a cent shall they have from me!" cried he. "What the devil does agirl mean, by this kind of thing?"

Abel was not discomposed. He did not clench his teeth or strike his fist. 

"I tell you what they can do, father, " said he. 

His father looked at him inquiringly. 

"They can take Mr. And Mrs. Tom Witchet to board. "

Mr. Newt remembered every thing he had said of Mr. Van Boozenberg. Butof late, his hair was growing very gray, his brow very wrinkled, hisexpression very anxious and weary. When he remembered the old banker, it was with no self-reproach that he himself was now doing what, in thebanker's case, he had held up to Abel's scorn. It was only to rememberthat the wary old man had shut down the portcullis of the bank vaults, and that loans were getting to be almost impossible. His face darkened. He swore a sharp oath. "That--old villain!"

CHAPTER XLII. 

CLEARING AND CLOUDY. 

It was summer again, and Aunt Martha sat sewing in the hardest of woodenchairs, erect, motionless. Yet all the bleakness of the room wasconquered by the victorious bloom of Amy's cheeks, and the tendermaidenliness of Amy's manner, and the winning, human, sympatheticsweetness which was revealed in every word and look of Amy, who satbeside her aunt, talking. 

"Amy, Lawrence Newt has been here. "

The young woman looked almost troubled. 

"No, Amy, I know you did not tell him, " said Aunt Martha. "I was allalone here, as usual, and heard a knock. I cried, 'Who's there?' forI was afraid to open the door, lest I should see some old friend. 'Afriend, ' was the reply. My knees trembled, Amy. I thought the time hadcome for me to be exposed to the world, that the divine wrath might befulfilled in my perfect shame. I had no right to resist, and said, 'Come in!' The door opened, and a man entered whom I did not at firstrecognize. He looked at me for a moment kindly--so kindly, that it seemedto me as if a gentle hand were laid upon my head. Then he said, 'MarthaDarro. ' 'I am ready, ' I answered. But he came to me and took my hand, and said, 'Why, Martha, have you forgotten Lawrence Newt?'"

She stopped in her story, and leaned back in her chair. The work fellfrom her thin fingers, and she wept--soft tears, like a spring rain. 

"Well?" said Amy, after a few moments, and her hand had taken AuntMartha's, but she let it go again when she saw that it helped her totell the story if she worked. 

"He said he had seen you at the window one day, and he was resolved tofind out what brought you into Front Street. But before he could make uphis mind to come, he chanced to see me at the same window, and then hewaited no longer. "

The tone was more natural than Amy had ever heard from Aunt Martha'slips. She remarked that the severity of her costume was unchanged, exceptthat a little strip of white collar around the throat somewhat alleviatedits dense gloom. Was it Amy's fancy merely that the little line of whitewas symbolical, and that she saw a more human light in her aunt's eyesand upon her face?

"Well?" said Amy again, after another pause. 

The solemn woman did not immediately answer, but went on sewing, androcking her body as she did so. Amy waited patiently until her auntshould choose to answer. She waited the more patiently because she wastelling herself who it was that had brought that softer light into theface, if, indeed, it were really there. She was thinking why he had beencurious to know the reason that she had come into that room. She wasremembering a hundred little incidents which had revealed his constantinterest in all her comings, and goings, and doings; and therefore shestarted when Aunt Martha, still rocking and sewing, said, quietly, "Why did Lawrence Newt care what brought you here?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Aunt Martha. "

Miss Amy looked as indifferent as she could, knowing that her companionwas studying her face. And it was a study that companion relentlesslypursued, until Amy remarked that Lawrence Newt was such a generousgentleman that he could get wind of no distress but he instantly lookedto see if he could relieve it. 

Finding the theme fertile, Amy Waring, looking, with tender eyes at herrelative, continued. 

And yet with all the freedom with which she told the story of LawrenceNewt's large heart, there was an unusual softness and shyness in herappearance. The blithe glance was more drooping. The clear, ringing voicewas lower. The words that generally fell with such a neat, crisparticulation from her lips now lingered upon them as if they were somehowhoneyed, and so flowed more smoothly and more slowly. She told of herfirst encounter with Mr. Newt at the Widow Simmers's--she told of allthat she had heard from her cousin, Gabriel Bennet. 

"Indeed, Aunt Martha, I should like to have every body think of me askindly as he thinks of every body. "

She had been speaking for some time. When she stopped, Aunt Martha said, quietly, "But, Amy, although you have told me how charitable he is, you have nottold me why he wanted to come here because he saw you at the window. "

"I suppose, " replied Amy, "it was because he thought there must besomebody to relieve here. "

"Don't you suppose he thinks there is somebody to relieve in the nexthouse, and the next, and has been ever since he has had an office inSouth Street?"

Amy felt very warm, and replied, carelessly, that she thought it wasquite likely. 

"I have plenty of time to think up here, my child, " continued AuntMartha. "God is so good that He has spared my reason, and I havesatisfied myself why Lawrence Newt wanted to come here. "

Amy sat without replying, as if she were listening to distant music. Herhead drooped slightly forward; her hands were clasped in her lap; thedelicate color glimmered upon her cheek, now deepening, now paling. Thesilence was exquisite, but she must break it. 

"Why?" said she, in a low voice. 

"Because he loves you, Amy, " said the dark woman, as her busy fingersstitched without pausing. 

Amy Waring was perfectly calm. The words seemed to give her souldelicious peace, and she waited to hear what her aunt would say next. 

"I know that he loves you, from the way in which he spoke of you. I knowthat you love him for the same reason. "

Aunt Martha went on working and rocking. Amy turned pale. She had notdared to say to herself what another had now said to her. But suddenlyshe started as if stung. "If Aunt Martha has seen this so plainly, whymay not Lawrence Newt have seen it?" The apprehension frightened her. 

A long silence followed the last words of Aunt Martha. She did not lookat Amy, for she had no external curiosity to satisfy, and she understoodwell enough what Amy was thinking. 

They were still silent, when there was a knock at the door. 

"Come in, " said the clear, hard voice of Aunt Martha. 

The door opened--the two women looked--and Lawrence Newt walked into theroom. He shook hands with Aunt Martha, and then turned to Amy. 

"This time, Miss Amy, I have caught you. Have I not kept your secretwell?"

Amy was thinking of another secret than Aunt Martha's living in FrontStreet, and she merely blushed, without speaking. 

"I tried very hard to persuade myself to come up here after I saw you atthe window. But I did not until the secret looked out of the window andrevealed itself. I came to-day to say that I am going out of town in aday or two, and that I should like, before I go, to know that I may dowhat I can to take Aunt Martha out of this place. "

Aunt Martha shook her head slowly. "Why should it be?" said she. "Greatsin must be greatly punished. To die, while I live; to be buried aliveclose to my nearest and dearest; to know that my sister thinks of me asdead, and is glad that I am so--"

"Stop, Aunt Martha, stop!" cried Amy, with the same firm tone in which, upon a previous visit, in this room, she had dismissed the insolentshopman, "how can you say such things?" and she stood radiant beforeher aunt, while Lawrence Newt looked on. 

"Amy, dear, you can not understand. Sons and daughters of evil, when wesee that we have sinned, we must be brave enough to assist in our ownpunishment. God's mercy enables me tranquilly to suffer the penalty whichhis justice awards me. My path is very plain. Please God, I shall walkin it. "

She said it very slowly, and solemnly, and sadly. Whatever her offensewas, she had invested her situation with the dignity of a religious duty. It was clear that her idea of obedience to God was to do precisely whatshe was doing. And this was so deeply impressed upon Amy Waring's mindthat she was perplexed how to act. She knew that if her aunt suspectedin her any intention of revealing the secret of her abode, she woulddisappear at once, and elude all search. And to betray it while it wasunreservedly confided to her was impossible for Amy, even if she had notsolemnly promised not to do so. 

Observing that Amy meant to say nothing, Lawrence Newt turned to AuntMartha. 

"I will not quarrel with what you say, but I want you to grant me arequest. "

Aunt Martha bowed, as if waiting to see if she could grant it. 

"If it is not unreasonable, will you grant it?"

"I will, " said she. 

"Well, now please, I want you to go next Sunday and hear a man preachwhom I am very fond of hearing, and who has been of the greatest serviceto me. "

"Who is it?"

"First, do you ever go to church?"

"Always. "

"Where?"

Aunt Martha did not directly reply. She was lost in reverie. 

"It is a youth like an angel, " said she at length, with an air ofcurious excitement, as if talking to herself. "His voice is music, butit strikes my soul through and through, and I am frightened and in agony, as if I had been pierced with the flaming sword that waves over thegate of Paradise. The light of his words makes my sin blacker and moreloathsome. Oh! what crowds there are! How he walks upon a sea of sinners, with their uplifted faces, like waves white with terror! How fierce hisdenunciation! How sweet the words of promise he speaks! 'The sacrificesof God are a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thouwilt not despise. '"

She had risen from her chair, and stood with her eyes lifted in asingular condition of mental exaltation, which gave a lyrical tone andflow to her words. 

"That is Summerfield, " said Lawrence Newt. "Yes, he is a wonderful youth. I have heard him myself, and thought that I saw the fire of Whitfield, and heard the sweetness of Charles Wesley. I have been into the old JohnStreet meeting-house, where the crowds hung out at the windows and doorslike swarming bees clustered upon a hive. He swayed them as a wind bendsa grain-field, Miss Amy. He swept them away like a mountain stream. Heis an Irishman, with all the fervor of Irish genius. But, " continuedLawrence Newt, turning again to Aunt Martha, "it is a very differentman I want you to hear. "

She looked at him inquiringly. 

"His name is Channing. He comes from Boston. "

"Does he preach the truth?" she asked. 

"I think he does, " answered Lawrence, gravely. 

"Does he drive home the wrath of God upon the sinful, rebellious soul?"exclaimed she, raising both hands with the energy of her words. 

"He preaches the Gospel of Christ, " said Lawrence Newt, quietly; "and Ithink you will like him, and that he will do you good. He is called--"

"I don't care what he is called, " interrupted Aunt Martha, "if he makesme feel my sin. "

"That you will discover for yourself, " replied Lawrence, smiling. "Hemakes me feel mine. "

Aunt Martha, whose ecstasy had passed, seated herself, and said she wouldgo, as Mr. Newt requested, on the condition that neither he nor Amy, ifthey were there, would betray that they knew her. 

This was readily promised, and Amy and Lawrence Newt left the roomtogether. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

WALKING HOME. 

"Miss Amy, " said Lawrence Newt, as they walked slowly toward FultonStreet, "I hope that gradually we may overcome this morbid state of mindin your aunt, and restore her to her home. "

Amy said she hoped so too, and walked quietly by his side. There wassomething almost humble in her manner. Her secret was her own no longer. Was it Lawrence Newt's? Had she indeed betrayed herself?

"I didn't say why I was going out of town. Yet I ought to tell you, " saidhe. 

"Why should you tell me?" she answered, quickly. 

"Because it concerns our friend Hope Wayne, " said Lawrence. "See, here isthe note which I received this morning. "

As he spoke he opened it, and read aloud:

"MY DEAR MR. NEWT, --Mrs. Simcoe writes me that grandfather has had astroke of paralysis, and lies very ill. Aunt Dinks has, therefore, resolved to leave on Monday, and I shall go with her. She seems very muchaffected, indeed, by the news. Mrs. Simcoe writes that the doctor saysgrandfather will hardly live more than a few days, and she wishes youcould go on with us. I know that you have some kind of association withPinewood--you have not told me what. In this summer weather you will findit very beautiful; and you know how glad I shall be to have you for myguest. My guest, I say; for while grandfather lies so dangerously ill Imust be what my mother would have been--mistress of the house. I shallhardly feel more lonely than I always did when he was active, for we hadbut little intercourse. In case of his death, which I suppose to be verynear, I shall not care to live at the old place. In fact, I do not veryclearly see what I am to do. But there is One who does; and I remember mydear old nurse's hymn, 'On Thee I cast my care. ' Come, if you can. 

"Your friend, "HOPE WAYNE. "

Lawrence Newt and Amy walked on for some time in silence. At length Amysaid, "It is just one of the cases in which it is a pity she is not married orengaged. "

"Isn't that always a pity for a young woman?" asked Lawrence, shootingentirely away from the subject. 

"Theoretically, yes, " replied Amy, firmly, "but not actually. It may bea pity that every woman is not married; but it might be a greater pitythat she should marry any of the men who ask her. "

"Of course, " said Lawrence Newt, dryly, "if she didn't love him. "

"Yes, and sometimes even if she did. "

Amy Waring was conscious that her companion looked at her in surprise asshe said this, but she fixed her eyes directly before her, and walkedstraight on. 

"Oh yes, " said Mr. Newt; "I see. You mean when he does not love her. "

"No, I mean sometimes even when they do love each other, " said theresolute Amy. 

Lawrence Newt was alarmed. "Does she mean to convey to me delicately thatthere may be cases of true mutual love where it is better not to marry?"thought he. "Where, for instance, there is a difference of age perhaps, or where there has been some other and earlier attachment?"

"I mean, " said Amy, as if answering his thoughts, "that there maysometimes be reasons why even lovers should not marry--reasons whichevery noble man and woman understand; and therefore I do not agreewith you that it is always a pity for a girl not to be married. "

Lawrence Newt said nothing. Amy Waring's voice almost trembled withemotion, for she knew that her companion might easily misunderstand whatshe said; and yet there was no way to help it. At any rate, thought she, he will see that I do not mean to drop into his arms. 

They walked silently on. The people in the street passed them likespectres. The great city hummed around them unheard. Lawrence Newt saidto himself, half bitterly, "So you have waked up at last, have you? Youhave found that because a beautiful young woman is kind to you, it doesnot follow that she will one day be your wife. "

Neither spoke. "She sees, " thought Lawrence Newt, "that I love her, andshe wishes to spare me the pain of hearing that it is in vain. "

"At least, " he thought, with tenderness and longing toward the beautifulgirl that walked beside him--"at least, I was not mistaken. She wasnobler and lovelier than I supposed. "

At length he said, "I have written to ask Hope Wayne to go and hear my preacher to-morrow. Miss Amy, will you go too?"

She looked at him and bowed. Her eyes were glistening with tears. 

"My dearest Miss Amy, " said Lawrence Newt, impetuously, seizing her hand, as her face turned toward him. 

"Oh! please, Mr. Newt--please--" she answered, hastily, in a tone ofpainful entreaty, withdrawing her hand from his grasp, confused and verypale. 

The words died upon his lips. 

"Forgive me--forgive me!" he said, with an air of surprise and sadness, and with a voice trembling with tenderness and respect. "She can not bearto give me the pain of plainly saying that she does not love me, " thoughtLawrence; and he gently took her hand and laid her arm in his, as if toshow that now they understood each other perfectly, and all was well. 

"At least, Miss Amy, " he said, by-and-by, tranquilly, and with the oldcheerfulness, "at least we shall be friends. "

Amy Waring bent her head and was silent. It seemed to her that she wassuffocating, for his words apprised her how strangely he had mistaken hermeaning. 

They said nothing more. Arm in arm they passed up Broadway. Every momentAmy Waring supposed the merchant would take leave of her and return tohis office. But every moment he was farther from doing it. Abel Newt andGrace Plumer passed them, and opened their eyes; and Grace said to Abel, "How long has Amy Waring been engaged to your Uncle Lawrence?"

When they reached Amy's door Lawrence Newt raised her hand, bent over itwith quaint, courtly respect, held it a moment, then pressed it to hislips. He looked up at her. She was standing on the step; her full, darkeyes, swimming with moisture, were fixed upon his; her luxuriant haircurled over her clear, rich cheeks--youth, love, and beauty, they wereall there. Lawrence Newt could hardly believe they were not all his. Itwas so natural to think so. Somehow he and Amy had grown together. Heunderstood her perfectly. 

"Perfectly?" he said to himself. "Why you are holding her hand; you arekissing it with reverence; you are looking into the face which is dearerand lovelier to you than all other human faces; and you are as far off asif oceans rolled between. "

CHAPTER XLIV. 

CHURCH GOING. 

The Sunday bells rang loud from river to river. Loud and sharp they rangin the clear, still air of the summer morning, as if the voice ofEverardus Bogardus, the old Dominie of New Amsterdam, were calling thepeople in many tones to be up and stirring, and eat breakfast, and washthe breakfast things, and be in your places early, with bowed heads andreverend minds, and demurely hear me tell you what sinners you alwayshave been and always will be, so help me God--I, Everardus Bogardus, inthe clear summer morning, ding, dong, bell, amen!

So mused Arthur Merlin, between sleeping and waking, as the bells rangout, loud and low--distant and near--flowing like a rushing, swellingtide of music along the dark inlets of narrow streets--touching aridhearts with hope, as the rising water touches dry spots with green. Comeyou, too, out of your filthy holes and hovels--come to church as in thedays when you were young and had mothers, and you, grisly, drunken, blear-eyed thief, lisped in your little lessons--come, all of you, come!The day has dawned; the air is pure; the hammer rests--come and repent, and be renewed, and be young again. The old, weary, restless, debauched, defeated world--it shall sing and dance. You shall be lambs. I see thedawn of the millennium on the heights of Hoboken--yea, even out of theJerseys shall a good thing come! It is I who tell you--it is I who orderyou--I, Everardus Bogardus, Dominie of New Amsterdam--ding, dong, bell, amen!

The streets were quiet and deserted. A single hack rattled under hiswindow, and Arthur could hear its lessening sound until it was lost inthe sweet clangor of the bells. He lay in bed, and did not see the peoplein the street; but he heard the shuffling and the slouching, the draggingstep and the bright, quick footfall. There were gay bonnets and blackhats already stirring--early worshippers at the mass at St. Peter's orSt. Patrick's--but the great population of the city was at home. 

Except, among the rest, a young man who comes hastily out of Thiel's, over Stewart's--a young man of flowing black hair and fiery black eyes, which look restlessly and furtively up and down Broadway, which seems tothe young man odiously and unnaturally bright. He gains the street with abound. He hurries along, restless, disordered, excited--the black eyesglancing anxiously about, as if he were jealous of any that should seehis yesterday was not over, and that somehow his wild, headlong night hadbeen swept into the serene, open bay of morning. He hurries up thestreet; tossing many thoughts together--calculating his losses, for theblack-haired young man has lost heavily at Thiel's faro-table--wonderingabout payments--remembering that it is Sunday morning, and that he is toattend a young lady from the South to church--a young lady whose fatherhas millions, if universal understanding be at all correct--thinking ofrevenge at the table, of certain books full of figures in a certaincounting-room, and the story they tell--story known to not half a dozenpeople in the world; the black-eyed youth, in evening dress, alert, graceful, but now meandering and gliding swiftly like a snake, darts upBroadway, and does not seem to hear the bells, whose first strokestartled him as he sat at play, and which are now ringing strange changesin the peaceful air: Come, Newt! Come, Newt! Abel Newt! Come, Newt! It isI, Everardus, Dominie Bogardus--come, come, come! and be d----d, ding, dong, bell, amen-n-n-n!

Later in the morning the bells rang again. The house doors opened, andthe sidewalk swarmed with well-dressed people. Boniface Newt and his wifesedately proceeded to church--not a new bonnet escaping Mrs. Nancy, whileMay walked tranquilly behind--like an angel going home, as Gabriel Bennetsaid in his heart when he passed her with his sister Ellen leaning on hisarm. The Van Boozenberg carriage rolled along the street, conveying Mr. And Mrs. Jacob to meditate upon heavenly things. Mrs. Dagon and Mrs. Orrypassed, and bowed sweetly, on their way to learn how to love theirneighbors as themselves. And among the rest walked Lawrence Newt withAmy Waring, and Arthur Merlin with Hope Wayne. 

The painter had heard the voice of the Dominie Bogardus, which his fancyhad heard in the air; or was he obeying another Dominie, of a widerparish, whose voice he heard in his heart? It was not often that thepainter went to church. More frequently, in his little studio at the topof a house in Fulton Street, he sat smoking meditative cigars during theSunday hours; or, if the day were auspicious, even touching his canvas!

In vain his sober friends remonstrated. Aunt Winnifred, with whom helived, was never weary of laboring with him. She laid good books upon thetable in his chamber. He returned late at night, often, and found littletracts upon his bureau, upon the chair in which he usually laid hisclothes when he retired--yes, even upon his pillow. "Aunt Winnifred'spiety leaves its tracts all over my room, " he said, smilingly, toLawrence Newt. 

But when the good lady openly attacked him, and said, "Arthur, how can you? What will people think? Why don't you go tochurch?"

Arthur replied, with entire coolness, "Aunt Winnifred, what's the use of going to church when Van Boozenberggoes, and is not in the least discomposed? I'm afraid of the morality ofsuch a place!"

Aunt Winnifred's eyes dilated with horror. She had no argument to throwat Arthur in return, and that reckless fellow always had to help her out. 

"However, dear aunt, you go; and I suppose you ought to be quite as gooda reason for going as Van Boozenberg for staying away. "

After such a conversation it fairly rained tracts in Arthur's room. Theshower was only the signal for fresh hostilities upon his part; but forall the hostility Aunt Winnifred was not able to believe her nephew tobe a very bad young man. 

As he and his friends passed up Broadway toward Chambers Street they metAbel Newt hastening down to Bunker's to accompany Miss Plumer to GraceChurch. The young man had bathed and entirely refreshed himself duringthe hour or two since he had stepped out of Thiel's. There was not abetter-dressed man upon Broadway; and many a hospitable feminine eyeopened to entertain him as long and as much as possible as he passed by. He had an unusual flush in his cheek and spring in his step. Perhaps hewas excited by the novelty of mixing in a throng of church-goers. Hehad not done such a thing since on summer Sunday mornings he used tostroll with the other boys along the broad village road, skirted withstraggling houses, to Dr. Peewee's. Heavens! in what year was that? hethought, unconsciously. Am I a hundred years old? On those mornings heused to see--Precisely the person he saw at the moment the thoughtcrossed his mind--Hope Wayne--who bowed to him as he passed her party. How much calmer, statelier, and more softly superior she was than inthose old Delafield days!

She remembered, too; and as the lithe, graceful figure of the handsomeand fascinating Mr. Abel Newt bent in passing, Arthur Merlin, who felt, at the instant Abel passed, as if his own feet were very large, and hisclothes ugly, and his movement stupidly awkward--felt, in fact, as if helooked like a booby--Arthur Merlin observed that his companion went onspeaking, that she did not change color, and that her voice was neitherhurried nor confused. 

Why did the young painter, as he observed these little things, feel as ifthe sun shone with unusual splendor? Why did he think he had never hearda bird sing so sweetly as one that hung at an open window they passed?Nay, why in that moment was he almost willing to paint Abel Newt as theEndymion of his great picture?

CHAPTER XLV. 

IN CHURCH. 

They turned into Chambers Street, in which was the little church whereDr. Channing was to preach. Lawrence Newt led the way up the aisle tohis pew. The congregation, which was usually rather small, to-day quitefilled the church. There was a general air of intelligence and shrewdnessin the faces, which were chiefly of the New England type. Amy Waringsaw no one she had ever seen before. In fact, there were but few presentin whose veins New England blood did not run, except some curious hearerswho had come from a natural desire to see and hear a celebrated man. 

When our friends entered the church a slow, solemn voluntary was playingupon the organ. The congregation sat quietly in the pews. Chairs andbenches were brought to accommodate the increasing throng. Presently thehouse was full. The bustle and distraction of entering were over--therewas nothing heard but the organ. 

In a few moments a slight man, wrapped in a black silk gown, slowlyascended the pulpit stairs, and, before seating himself, stood for amoment looking down at the congregation. His face was small, and thin, and pale; but there was a pure light, an earnest, spiritual sweetnessin the eyes--the irradiation of an anxious soul--as they surveyed thepeople. After a few moments the music stopped. There was perfect silencein the crowded church. Then, moving like a shadow to the desk, thepreacher, in a voice that was in singular harmony with the expressionof his face, began to read a hymn. His voice had a remarkable cadence, rising and falling with yearning tenderness and sober pathos. It seemedto impart every feeling, every thought, every aspiration of the hymn. It was full of reverence, gratitude, longing, and resignation:

"While Thee I seek, protecting Power, Be my vain wishes stilled;And may this consecrated hour With better hopes be filled. "

When he had read it and sat down again, Hope Wayne felt as if a religiousservice had already been performed. 

The simplicity, and fervor, and long-drawn melody with which he had readthe hymn apparently inspired the choir with sympathy, and after a fewnotes from the organ they began to sing an old familiar tune. It wastaken up by the congregation until the church trembled with the sound, and the saunterers in the street outside involuntarily ceased laughingand talking, and, touched by some indefinable association, raised theirhats and stood bareheaded in the sunlight, while the solemn music filledthe air. 

The hymn was sung, the prayer was offered, the chapter was read; then, after a little silence, that calm, refined, anxious, pale, yearning faceappeared again at the desk. The preacher balanced himself for a fewmoments alternately upon each foot--moved his tongue, as if tasting thewords he was about to utter--and announced his text: "Peace I leave withyou: my peace I give unto you. "

He began in the same calm, simple way. A natural, manly candor certifiedthe truth of every word he spoke. The voice--at first high in tone, andswinging, as it were, in long, wave-like inflections--grew graduallydeeper, and more equally sustained. There was very little movement ofthe hands or arms; only now and then the finger was raised, or the handgently spread and waved. As he warmed in his discourse a kind ofcelestial grace glimmered about his person, and his pale, thoughtful facekindled and beamed with holy light. His sentences were entirely simple. There was no rhetoric, no declamation or display. Yet the soul of thehearer seemed to be fused in a spiritual eloquence which, like a whiteflame, burned all the personality of the speaker away. The people satas if they were listening to a disembodied soul. 

But the appeal and the argument were never to passion, or prejudice, ormere sensibility. Fear and horror, and every kind of physical emotion, soto say, were impossible in the calmness and sweetness of the assurance ofthe Divine presence. It was a Father whose message the preacher brought. Like as a father so the Lord pitieth His children, said he, in tones thattrickled like tears over the hearts of his hearers, although his voicewas equable and unbroken. He went on to show what the children of such aFather must needs be--to show that, however sinful, and erring, and lost, yet the Father had sent to tell them that the doctrine of wrath was ofold time; that the eye for the eye, and the tooth for the tooth, wasthe teaching of an imperfect knowledge; that a faith which was trulychildlike knew the Creator only as a parent; and that out of such faithalone arose the life that was worthy of him. 

Wandering princes are we! cried the preacher, with a profound ecstasyand exultation in his tone, while the very light of heaven shone in hisaspect--wandering princes are we, sons of the Great King. In foreignlands outcast and forlorn, groveling with the very swine in the mire, andpining for the husks that the swine do eat; envying, defying, hating, forgetting--but never hated nor forgot; in the depths of our rage, andimpotence, and sin--in the darkest moment of our moral death, when wewould crucify the very image of that Parent who pities us--there is onevoice deeper and sweeter than all music, the voice of our elder brotherpleading with that common Father--"Forgive them, forgive them, for theyknow not what they do!"

He sat down, but the congregation did not move. Leaning forward, withupraised eyes glistening with tears and beaming with sympathy, with hope, with quickened affection, they sat motionless, seemingly unwilling todestroy the holy calm in which, with him, they had communed with theirFather. There were those in the further part of the church who did nothear; but their mouths were open with earnest attention; their eyesglittered with moisture; for they saw afar off that slight, rapt figure;and so strong was the common sympathy of the audience that they seemed tofeel what they could not hear. 

Lawrence Newt did not look round for Aunt Martha. But he thought of herlistening to the discourse, as one thinks of dry fields in a saturatingsummer rain. She sat through the whole--black, immovable, silent. Thepeople near her looked at her compassionately. They thought she was aninconsolable widow, or a Rachel refusing comfort. Nor, had they watchedher, could they have told if she had heard any thing to comfort orrelieve her sorrow. From the first word to the last she gazed fixedly atthe speaker. With the rest she rose and went out. But as she passed bythe pulpit stairs she looked up for a moment at that pallid face, and afiner eye than any human saw that she longed, like another woman of oldlooking at another teacher, to kiss the hem of his garment. Oh! not byearthquake nor by lightning, but by the soft touch of angels at midnight, is the stone rolled away from the door of the sepulchre. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

IN ANOTHER CHURCH. 

While thus one body of Christian believers worshipped, another wasassembled in the Methodist chapel in John Street, where Aunt Marthausually went. 

A vast congregation crowded every part of the church. They swarmed uponthe pulpit stairs, upon the gallery railings, and wherever a foot couldpress itself to stand, or room be found to sit. As the young preacher, Summerfield, rose in the pulpit, every eye in the throng turned to himand watched his slight, short figure--his sweet blue eye, and his face ofearnest expression and a kind of fiery sweetness. He closed his eyes andlifted his hands in prayer; and the great responsibility of speaking tothat multitude of human beings of their most momentous interestsevidently so filled and possessed him, that in the prayer he seemed toyearn for strength and the gifts of grace so earnestly--he cried, so asif his heart were bursting, "Help, Lord, or I perish!" that the greatcongregation, murmuring with sobs, with gasps and sighs, echoed solemnly, as if it had but one voice, and it were muffled in tears, "Help, Lord, orI perish!"

When the prayer was ended a hymn was sung by all the people, to a quick, martial melody, and seemed to leave them nervously awake to whatevershould be said. The preacher, with the sweet boyish face, began hissermon gently, and in a winning voice. There was a kind of caressingpersuasion in his whole manner that magnetized the audience. He grewmore and more impassioned as he advanced, while the people satopen-mouthed, and responding at intervals, "Amen!"

"Ah! sinner, sinner, it is he, our God, who shoots us through andthrough with the sharp sweetness of his power. It is our God whoscatters the arrows of his wrath; but they are winged with the plumesof the dove, the feathers of softness, and the Gospel. Oh! the promises!the promises!--Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, andI will give you rest. Yes, patriarch of white hairs, of wasted cheeks, and tottering step! the burden bears you down almost to the groundto-day--into the ground to-morrow. Here stands the Judge to give yourest. Yes, mother of sad eyes and broken spirit! whose long life is asorrowful vigil, waiting upon the coming of wicked sons, of deceitfuldaughters--weary, weary, and heavy laden with tribulation, here is theComforter who shall give you rest. And you, young man, and you, youngmaiden, sitting here to-day in the plenitude of youth, and hope, andlove, Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, for the dark daycometh--yea, it is at hand!"

So fearfully did his voice, and look, and manner express apprehension, asif something were about to fall upon the congregation, that there was asudden startled cry of terror. There were cries of "Lord! Lord! havemercy!" Smothered shrieks and sobs filled the air; pale faces stared ateach other like spectres. People fell upon their knees, and cried outthat they felt the power of the Lord. "My soul sinks in deep waters, Selah;" cried the preacher, "but they are the waters of grace and faith, and I am convicted of all my sins. " Then pausing a moment, while the vastcrowd swayed and shook with the tumult of emotion, with his armsoutspread, the veins on his forehead swollen, and the light flashing inhis eyes, he raised his arms and eyes to heaven, and said, withinexpressible sweetness, in tones which seemed to trickle with balm intothe very soul, as soft spring rains ooze into the ground, "Yea, it is athand, but so art thou! Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly; and when youth, and hope, and love have become dead weights and burdens in these younghearts, teach them how to feel the peace that passeth understanding. Drawthem to thee, for they, wearily labor: they are heavily laden, graciousFather! Oh, give them rest!"

"Come!" he exclaimed, "freely come! It is the eternal spring of livingwater. It is your life, and it flows for you. Come! come! it is the goodshepherd who calls his flock to wander by the still waters and in thegreen pastures. Will you abide outside? Then, woe! woe! when the nightcometh, and the shepherd folds his flock, and you are not there. Willyou seek Philosophy, and confide in that? It is a ravening wolf, and eremorning you are consumed. Will you lean on human pride--on your ownsufficiency? It is a broken reed, and your fall will be forever fatal. Will you say there is no God?"--his voice sank into a low, menacingwhisper--"will you say there is no God?" He raised his hands warningly, and shook them over the congregation while he lowered his voice. "Hush!hush! lest he hear--lest he mark--lest the great Jehovah"--his voiceswelling suddenly into loud, piercing tones--"Maker of heaven and earth, Judge of the quick and the dead, the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginningand the End, the eternal Godhead from everlasting to everlasting, shouldknow that you, pitiable, crawling worm--that you, corrupt in nature andconceived in sin! child of wrath and of the devil! say that there is noGod! Woe, woe! for the Judge cometh! Woe, woe! for the gnashing of teethand the outer darkness! Woe, woe! for those who crucified him, andbuffeted him, and pierced him with thorns! Woe, woe! for the Lord ourGod is a just God, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy. But oh! whenthe day of mercy is past! Oh! for the hour--sinner, sinner, beware!beware!--when that anger rises like an ingulfing fiery sea, and sweepsthee away forever!"

It seemed as if the sea had burst into the building; for the congregationhalf rose, and a smothered cry swept over the people. Many rose uprightwith clasped hands and cried, "Hallelujah!" "Praise be to God!" Otherslay cowering and struggling upon the seats; others sobbed and gazed withfrantic earnestness at the face of the young apostle. Children withfrightened eyes seized the cold hands of their mothers. Some fainted, butcould not be borne out, so solid was the throng. Their neighbors loosenedtheir garments and fanned them, repeating snatches of hymns, and waitingfor the next word of the preacher. "The Lord is dealing with his people, "they said; "convicting sinners, and calling the lost sheep home. "

The preacher stood as if lifted by an inward power, beholding with joythe working of the Word, but with a total unconsciousness of himself. Theyoung man seemed meek and lowly while he was about his Father's business. And after waiting for a few moments, the music of his voice poured outpeace upon that awakened throng. 

"'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will giveyou rest. ' Yes, fellow-sinners, rest. For all of us, rest. For theweariest, rest. For you who, just awakened, tremble in doubt, rest. Foryou, young woman, who despairest of heaven, rest. For you, young man, solong in the bondage of sin, rest. Oh! that I had the wings of a dove, for then would I fly away and be at rest. Brother, sister, it shall beso. To your weary soul those wings shall be fitted. Far from the world ofgrief and sin, of death and disappointment, you shall fly away. Deep inthe bosom of your God, you shall be at rest. That dove is his holy grace. Those wings are his tender promises. That rest is the peace of heaven. 

"Come, O thou all-victorious Lord, Thy power to us make known; Strike with the hammer of thy word, And break these hearts of stone. 

"Oh that we all might now begin Our foolishness to mourn; And turn at once from every sin, And to the Saviour turn. 

"Give us ourselves and thee to know, In this our gracious day: Repentance unto life bestow, And take our sins away. 

"Convince us first of unbelief, And freely then release; Fill every soul with sacred grief, And then with sacred peace. "

CHAPTER XLVII. 

DEATH. 

The clover-blossom perfumed the summer air. The scythe and the sicklestill hung in the barn. Grass and grain swayed and whispered and sparkledin the sun and wind. June loitered upon all the gentle hills, andpeaceful meadows, and winding brook sides. June breathed in thesweet-brier that climbed the solid stone posts of the gate-way, andclustered along the homely country stone wall. June blossomed in theyellow barberry by the road-side, and in the bright rhodora and the paleorchis in the dark woods. June sang in the whistle of the robin swingingon the elm and the cherry, and the gushing warble of the bobolinktumbling, and darting, and fluttering in the warm meadow. June twinkledin the keen brightness of the fresh green of leaves, and swelled in thefruit buds. June clucked and crowed in the cocks and hens that steppedabout the yard, followed by the multitudinous peep of little chickens. June lowed in the cattle in the pasture. June sprang, and sprouted, andsang, and grew in all the sprouting and blooming, in all the sunny newlife of the world. 

White among the dark pine-trees stood the old house of Pinewood--a templeof silence in the midst of the teeming, overpowering murmur of new life;of silence and darkness in the midst of jubilant sunshine and universalsong, that seemed to press against the very windows over which the greenblinds were drawn. 

But that long wave of rich life, as it glided across the lawn and inamong the solemn pine-trees, was a little hushed and subdued. The birdssang in the trees beyond--the bobolinks gushed in the meadows below. Butthere was a little space of silence about the house. 

In the large drawing-room, draped in cool-colored chintz, where onceGabriel Bennet and Abel Newt had seen Hope Wayne, on the table wherebooks had lain like porcelain ornaments, lay a strange piece offurniture, long, and spreading at one end, smelling of new varnish, studded with high silver-headed nails, and with a lid. It was linedwith satin. Yes, it was a casket. 

The room was more formal, and chilly, and dim than ever. Puffs of aircrept through it as if frightened--frightened to death before theygot out again. The smell of the varnish was stronger than that of theclover-blossoms, or the roses or honey-suckles outside in the fields andgardens, and about the piazzas. 

Upon the wall hung the portrait of Christopher Burt at the age of ten, standing in clean clothes, holding a hoop in one hand and a book in theother. It was sixty-four years before that the portrait was painted, andif one had come searching for that boy he would have found him--bylifting that lid he would have seen him; but in those sunken features, that white hair, that startling stillness of repose, would he haverecognized the boy of the soft eyes and the tender heart, whose Juneclover had not yet blossomed?

There was a creaking, crackling sound upon the gravel in the avenue, andthen a carriage emerged from behind the hedge, and another, and another. They were family carriages, and stopped at the front door, which wasswung wide open. There was no sound but the letting down of steps andslamming of doors, and the rolling away of wheels. People with gravefaces, which they seemed to have put on for the occasion as they put onwhite gloves for weddings, stepped out and came up the steps. They weremostly clad in sober colors, and said nothing, or conversed in a low, murmuring tone, or in whispers. They entered the house and seatedthemselves in the library, with the large, solemn Family Bible, andthe empty inkstand, and the clean pen-wiper, and the paper knife, andthe melancholy recluses of books locked into their cells. 

Presently some one would come to the door and beckon with his finger tosome figure sitting in the silent library. The sitter arose and walkedout quietly, and went with the beckoner and looked in at the lid, and sawwhat had once been a boy with soft eyes and tender heart. Coming back tothe library the smell of varnish was for a moment blown out of the wideentry by the breath of the clover that wandered in, and reminded thesilent company of the song and the sunshine and bloom that were outside. 

At length every thing was waiting. No more carriages came--no morepeople. There was no more looking into the casket--no more whisperingand moving. The rooms were full of a silent company, and they were allwaiting. The clock ticked audibly. The wind rustled in the pine-trees. What next? Would not the master of the house appear to welcomehis guests?

He did not come; but from the upper entry, at the head of the stairs, near a room in which sat Hope Wayne, and Lawrence Newt, and Mrs. Simcoe, and Fanny Dinks, and Alfred, and his parents, and a few others, was heardthe voice of Dr. Peewee, saying, "Let us pray!"

And he prayed a long prayer. He spoke of the good works of this life, andthe sweet promises of the next; of the Christian hero, who fights thegood fight encompassed by a crowd of witnesses; of those who do justiceand love mercy, and walk in the way of the Lord. He referred to our deardeparted brother, and eulogized Christian merchants, calling thoseblessed who, being rich, are almoners of the Lord's bounty. He prayed forthose who remained, reminding them, that the Lord chastens whom he loves, and that they who die, although full of years and honors, do yet go wherethe wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest, and at lastpass beyond to enter into the joy of their Lord. 

His voice ceased, and silence fell again upon the house. Every body satquietly; the women fanned themselves, and the men looked about. Here wasagain the sense of waiting--of vague expectation. What next?

Three or four workmen went into the parlor. One of them put down the lidand screwed it tight. The casket was closed forever. They lifted it, andcarried it out carefully down the steps. They rolled it into a hearsethat stood upon the gravel, and the man who closed the lid buttoned ablack curtain over the casket. 

The same man went to the front door and read several names from a paperin a clear, dry voice. The people designated came down stairs, went outof the door, and stepped into carriages. The company rose in the libraryand drawing-room, and, moving toward the hall, looked at the mourners--atHope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe, at Mr. And Mrs. Budlong Dinks, Mr. And Mrs. Alfred Dinks, and others, as they passed out. 

Presently the procession began to move slowly along the avenue. Those whoremained stepped out upon the piazza and watched it; then began to bustleabout for their own carriages. One after another they drove away. Mr. Kingo said to Mr. Sutler that he believed the will was in the hands ofMr. Budlong Dinks, and would be opened in the morning. They looked aroundthe place, and remarked that Miss Wayne would probably become itsmistress. 

"Mrs. Alfred Dinks seems to be a very--a very--" said Mr. Kingo, gravely, pausing upon the last word. 

"Very much so, indeed, " replied Mr. Sutler, with equal gravity. 

"And yet, " said Mr. Grabeau, "if it had been so ordered that young Mr. Dinks should marry his cousin, Miss Wayne, he would--that is, I supposehe would--;" and he too hesitated. 

"Undoubtedly, " replied both the other gentlemen, seriously, "withoutquestion it would have been a very good thing. Mr. Burt must have left avery large property. "

"He made every cent tell, " said Mr. Sutler, taking the reins and steppinginto his carriage. 

"Rather--rather--a screw, perhaps?" inquired Mr. Grabeau, gravely, as hetook out his whip. 

"Awful!" replied Mr. Kingo, as he drove away. 

The last carriage went, and the stately old mansion stood behind itstrees deserted. The casket and its contents had been borne away forever;but somebody had opened all the windows of the house, and June, with itssong, and perfume, and sunshine, overflowed the silent chambers, andbanished the smell of the varnish and every thought of death. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

THE HEIRESS. 

The next morning it was hard to believe in the spectacle of the precedingday. The house of Pinewood was pleasantly open to the sun and air. HopeWayne, in a black dress of the lightest possible texture, so thin thather arms could be seen through the sleeves, sat by a window. LawrenceNewt sat beside her. Dr. Peewee was talking with Mrs. Dinks. Her sonAlfred was sitting alone in a chair, looking at his mother, and Mrs. Fanny Newt Dinks was looking out at a window upon the lawn. Mrs. Simcoesat near Hope Wayne. There was a table in the middle of the room, fromwhich every thing had been removed. The Honorable Budlong Dinks waswalking slowly up and down the room; and several legal-looking gentlemen, friends of his, were conversing and smiling among themselves. 

Mr. Dinks stopped in his walk, and, leaning upon the table with the tipsof two fingers and the thumb of his left hand, he thrust the right handinto his waistcoat, by the side of the ruffle of his shirt, as if he wereabout to address the house upon a very weighty question. 

"In accordance, " said he, with an air of respect and resignation, "withthe wishes of the late Christopher Burt, as expressed in a paper found inhis secretary drawer after his decease, I am about to open his will. "

The Honorable Mr. Dinks cleared his throat. Mrs. Fanny Newt Dinks turnedback from the window, and conversation ceased. All eyes were fixed uponthe speaker, who became more pigeon-breasted every moment. He took outhis glasses and placed them upon his nose, and slowly surveyed thecompany. He then drew a sealed paper from his pocket, clearing his throatwith great dignity as he did so:

"This is the document, " said he, again glancing about the room. At thispoint Hiram stepped gently in, and stood by the door. 

Mr. Dinks proceeded to break the seal as if it had been sacramentalbread, and with occasional looks at the groups around him, opened thedocument--shook it--creased it back--smoothed it--and held it carefullyin the attitude of reading. 

When the audience had been sufficiently impressed with this ceremony, andwith a proper conviction of the fact that he of all other men had beenselected to reveal the contents of that important paper to mankind, hebegan, and read that, being of sound mind and body, etc. , etc. , Christopher Burt, etc. , etc. , as an humble Christian, and loving the oldforms, gave his body to the ground, his soul to his God, in the hope of ahappy resurrection, etc. , etc. ; and devised and bequeathed his property, etc. , etc. , in the manner following, to wit; that is to say:

At this point Mr. Dinks paused, and blew his nose with profound gravity. He proceeded:

"_First_. I give to my housekeeper, Jane Simcoe, the friend of mydarling daughter Mary, and the life-long friend and guardian of mydear grand-daughter, Hope Wayne, one thousand dollars per annum, ashereinafter specified. "

Mrs. Simcoe's face did not change; nobody moved except Alfred Dinks, whochanged the position of his legs, and thought within himself--"By Jove!"

"_Second. _ I give to Almira Dinks, the daughter of my brother JonathanBurt, and the wife of Budlong Dinks, of Boston, the sum of five thousanddollars. "

The voice of Mr. Dinks faltered. His wife half rose and sat downagain--her face of a dark mahogany color. Fanny Newt sat perfectly stilland looked narrowly at her father-in-law, with an expression which wasvery black and dangerous. Alfred had an air of troubled consternation, as if something fearful were about to happen. The whole company weredisturbed. They seemed to be in an electrical condition of apprehension, like the air before a thunder-burst. 

Mr. Dinks continued:

"_Third_. I give to Alfred Dinks, my grand-nephew, my silvershoe-buckles, which belonged to his great-grandfather Burt. "

"_Fourth. _ And all the other estate, real and personal, of which I maydie seized, I give, devise, and bequeath to Budlong Dinks, Timothy Kingo, and Selah Sutler, in trust, nevertheless, and for the sole use, behoof, and benefit of my dearly-beloved grand-daughter, Hope Wayne. "

Mr. Dinks stopped. There were some papers annexed, containing directionsfor collecting the annuity to be paid to Mrs. Simcoe, and a schedule ofthe property. The Honorable B. Dinks looked hastily at the schedule. 

"Miss Wayne's property will be at least a million of dollars, " said he, in a formal voice. 

There were a few moments of utter silence. Even the legal gentlemenceased buzzing; but presently the forefinger of one of them was laid inthe palm of his other hand, and as he stated his proposition to hisneighbor, a light conversation began again. 

Mrs. Fanny Dinks Newt seemed to have been smitten. She sat crushed up, asit were, biting her nails nervously; her brow wrinkled incredulously, andglaring at her father-in-law, as he folded the paper. Her face grewaltogether as black as her hair and her eyes; as if she might discharge afrightful flash and burst of tempest if she were touched or spoken to, or even looked at. 

But Mrs. Dinks the elder did look at her, not at all with an air ofsullen triumph, but, on the contrary, with a singularly inquisitiveglance of apprehension and alarm, as if she felt that the petty trial ofwits between them was insignificant compared with the chances of Alfred'shappiness. In one moment it flashed upon her mind that the consequencesof this will to her Alfred--to her son whom she loved--would beoverwhelming. Good Heavens! she turned pale as she thought of him andFanny together. 

The young man had merely muttered "By Jove, that's too d---- bad!" andflung himself out of the room. 

His wife did not observe that her mother-in-law was regarding her; shedid not see that her husband had left the room; she thought of no contestof wits, of no game she had won or lost. She thought only of the tragicalmistake she had made--the dull, blundering crime she had committed; andstill bowed over, and gnawing her nails, she looked sideways with herhard, round, black eyes, at Hope Wayne. 

The heiress sat quietly by the side of her friend Lawrence Newt. Shewas holding the hand of Mrs. Simcoe, who glanced sometimes at Lawrence, calmly, and with no sign of regretful or revengeful remembrance. TheHonorable Budlong Dinks was walking up and down the room, stroking hischin with his hand, not without a curiously vague indignation with thelate lamented proprietor of Pinewood. 

It was a strange spectacle. A room full of living men and women who hadjust heard what some of them considered their doom pronounced by a deadman. They had carried him out of his house, cold, powerless, screwed intothe casket. They had laid him in the ground beneath the village spire, and yet it was his word that troubled, enraged, disappointed, surprised, and envenomed them. Beyond their gratitude, reproaches, taunts, or fury, he lay helpless and dumb--yet the most terrible and inaccessible ofdespots. 

The conversation was cool and indifferent. The legal gentlemen movedabout with a professional and indifferent air, as if they assisted atsuch an occasion as medical students at dissections. It was in the wayof business. As Mr. Quiddy, the confidential counsel of the latelamented Mr. Burt, looked at Mrs. Alfred Dinks, he remarked to Mr. Baze, a younger member of the bar, anxious to appear well in the eyesof Quiddy, that it was a pity the friends of deceased parties permittedtheir disappointments to overpower them upon these occasions. Sayingwhich, Mr. Quiddy waved his forefinger in the air, while Mr. Baze, ina deferential manner and tone, answered, Certainly, because they couldnot help themselves. There was no getting round a will drawn as thatwill was--here a slight bow to Mr. Quiddy, who had drawn the will, wasinterpolated--and if people didn't like what they got, they had bettergrin and bear it. Mr. Quiddy further remarked, with the forefinger stillwandering in the air as if restlessly seeking for some argument to point, that the silver shoe-buckles which had so long been identified with thequaint costume of Mr. Burt, would be a very pretty and interestingheir-loom in the family of young Mr. Dinks. 

Upon which the eminent confidential counsel took snuff, and while heflirted the powder from his fingers looked at his young friend Baze. 

Young Mr. Baze said, "Very interesting!" and continued the attitude oflistening for further wisdom from his superior. 

Lawrence Newt meanwhile had narrowly watched his niece Fanny. Nobody elsecared to approach her; but he went over to her presently. 

"Well, Fanny. "

"Well, Uncle Lawrence. "

"Beautiful place, Fanny. "

"Is it?"

"So peaceful after the city. "

"I prefer town. "

"Fanny!"

"Uncle Lawrence. "

"What are you going to do?"

She had not looked at him before, but now she raised her eyes to his. Shemight as well have closed them. Dropping them, she looked upon the floorand said nothing. 

"I'm sorry for you, Fanny. "

She looked fierce. There was a snake-like stealthiness in her appearance, which Alfred's mother saw across the room and trembled. Then she raisedher eyes again to her uncle's, and said, with a kind of hissing sneer, "Indeed, Uncle Lawrence, thank you for nothing. It's not very hard foryou to be sorry. "

Not dismayed, not even surprised by this speech, Lawrence was about toreply, but she struck in, "No, no; I don't want to hear it. I've been cheated, and I'll have myrevenge. As for you, my respected uncle, you have played your cardsbetter. "

He was surprised and perplexed. 

"Why, Fanny, what cards? What do you mean?"

"I mean that an old fox is a sly fox, " said she, with the hissing sneer. 

Lawrence looked at her in amazement. 

"I mean that sly old foxes who have lined their own nests can afford topity a young one who gets a silver shoe-buckle, " hissed Fanny, withbitter malignity. "If Alfred Dinks were not a hopeless fool, he'd breakthe will. Better wills than this have been broken by good lawyers beforenow. Probably, " she added suddenly, with a sarcastic smile, "my dearuncle does not wish to have the will broken?"

Lawrence Newt was pondering what possible interest she thought he couldhave in the will. 

"What difference could it make to me in any case, Fanny?"

"Only the difference of a million of dollars, " said she, with her teethset. 

Gradually her meaning dawned upon Lawrence Newt. With a mingled pain, andcontempt, and surprise, and a half-startled apprehension that othersmight have thought the same thing, and that all kinds of disagreeableconsequences might flow from such misapprehension, he perceived what shewas thinking of, and said, so suddenly and sharply that even Fannystarted, "You think I want to marry Hope Wayne?"

"Of course I do. So does every body else. Do you suppose we have notknown of your intimacies? Do you think we have heard nothing of yourmeetings all winter with that artist and Amy Waring, and your readingpoetry, and your talking poetry?" said Fanny, with infinite contempt. 

There was a look of singular perplexity upon the face of Lawrence Newt. He was a man not often surprised, but he seemed to be surprised and eventroubled now. He looked musingly across the room to Hope Wayne, who wassitting engaged in earnest conversation with Mrs. Simcoe. In her wholebearing and aspect there was that purity and kindliness which are alwaysassociated with blue eyes and golden hair, and which made the painterspaint the angels as fair women. A lambent light played all over her form, and to Lawrence Newt's eyes she had never seemed so beautiful. Thegirlish quiet which he had first known in her had melted into a sweetcomposure--a dignified serenity which comes only with experience. Thelight wind that blew in at the window by which she sat raised her hairgently, as if invisible fingers were touching her with airy benedictions. Was it so strange that such a woman should be loved? Was it not strangethat any man should see much of her, be a great deal with her, and notlove her? Was Fanny's suspicion, was the world's gossip, unnatural?

He asked himself these questions as he looked at her, while a cloud ofthoughts and memories floated through his mind. 

Yet a close observer, who could read men's hearts in their faces--andthat could be more easily done with every one else than with him--wouldhave seen another expression gradually supplanting the first, or minglingwith it rather: a look as of joy at some unexpected discovery--as if, forinstance, he had said to himself, "She must be very dear whom I love sodeeply that it has not occurred to me I could love this angel!"

Something of that kind, perhaps; at least, something that brought atransfigured cheerfulness into his face. 

"Believe me, Fanny, " he said, at length, "I am not anxious to marry MissWayne; nor would she marry me if I asked her. "

Then he rose and passed across the room to her side. 

"We were talking about the future life of the mistress of this mansion, "said Hope Wayne to Lawrence as he joined them. 

"What does she wish?" asked he; "that is always the first question. "

"To go from here, " said she, simply. 

"Forever?"

"Forever!"

Hope Wayne said it quietly. Mrs. Simcoe sat holding her hand. The threeseemed to be all a little serious at the word. 

"Aunty says she has no particular desire to remain here, " said Hope. 

"It is like living in a tomb, " said Mrs. Simcoe, turning her calm face toLawrence Newt. 

"Would you sell it outright?" asked he. Hope Wayne bent her head inassent. 

"Why not? My own remembrances here are only gloomy. I should rather findor make another home. We could do it, aunty and I. "

She said it simply. Lawrence shook his head smilingly, and replied, "I don't think it would be hard. "

"I am going to see my trustees this morning, Uncle Dinks says, " continuedHope, "and I shall propose to them to sell immediately. "

"Where will you go?" asked Lawrence. 

"My best friends are in New York, " replied she, with a tender color. 

Lawrence Newt thought of Arthur Merlin. 

"With my aunty, " continued she, looking fondly at Mrs. Simcoe, "I think Ineed not be afraid. "

Lunch was brought in; and meanwhile Mr. Kingo and Mr. Sutler had beensent for, and arrived. Mr. Burt had not apprised them of his intentionof making them trustees. 

They fell into conversation with Mr. Quiddy, and Mr. Baze, and Mr. Dinks. Dr. Peewee took his leave, "H'm ha! yes. My dear Miss Wayne, Icongratulate you; congratulate you! h'm ha, yes, oh yes--congratulateyou. " The other legal gentlemen, friends of Mr. Dinks, drove off. Nobodywas left behind but the trustees and the family and Lawrence Newt--theDinks were of the family. 

After business had been discussed, and the heiress--the owner ofPinewood--had announced her wishes in regard to that property, she alsoinvited the company to remain to dinner, and to divert themselves as theychose meanwhile. 

Mrs. Fanny Newt Dinks declined to stay. She asked her husband to calltheir carriage, and when it came to the door she made a formal courtesy, and did not observe--at least she did not take--the offered hand of HopeWayne. But as she bowed and looked at Hope that young lady visiblychanged color, for in the glance which Fanny gave her she seemed tosee the face of her brother Abel; and she was not glad to see it. 

Toward sunset of that soft June day, when Uncle and Aunt Dinks--thelatter humiliated and alarmed--were gone, and the honest neighbors weregone, Hope Wayne was sitting upon the very bench where, as she once satreading, Abel Newt had thrown a shadow upon her book. But not eventhe memory of that hour or that youth now threw a shadow upon her heartor life. The eyes with which she watched the setting sun were as freefrom sorrow as they were from guile. 

Lawrence Newt was standing near the window in the library, looking up atthe portrait that hung there, and deep into the soft, dark eyes. He had atrustful, candid air, as if he were seeking from it a benediction orconsolation. As the long sunset light swept across the room, and touchedtenderly the tender girl's face of the portrait, it seemed to him tosmile tranquilly and trustingly, as if it understood and answered hisconfidence, and a deep peace fell upon his heart. 

And high above, from her window that looked westward--with a clearer, softer gaze, as if Time had cleared and softened the doubts andobscurities of life--Mrs. Simcoe's face was turned to the setting sun. 

Behind the distant dark-blue hills the June sun set--set upon threehearts, at least, that Time and Life had taught and tempered--upon threehearts that were brought together then and there, not altogetherunderstanding each other, but ready and willing to understand. As itdarkened within the library and the picture was hidden, Lawrence Newtstood at the window and looked upon the lawn where Hope was sitting. Heheard a murmuring voice above him, and in the clear, silent air Hopeheard it too. It was only a murmur mingling with the whisper of thepine-trees. But Hope knew what it was, though she could not hear thewords. And yet the words were heard:

"I hold Thee with a trembling hand, And will not let Thee go;Till steadfastly by faith I stand, And all Thy goodness know. "

CHAPTER XLIX. 

A SELECT PARTY. 

On a pleasant evening in the same month of June Mr. Abel Newt entertaineda few friends at supper. The same June air, with less fragrance, perhaps, blew in at the open windows, which looked outside upon nothing but thestreet and the house walls opposite, but inside upon luxury and ease. 

It mattered little what was outside, for heavy muslin curtains hung overthe windows; and the light, the beauty, the revelry, were all within. 

The boyish look was entirely gone now from the face of the lord of thefeast. It was even a little sallow in hue and satiated in expression. There was occasionally that hard, black look in his eyes which those whohad seen his sister Fanny intimately had often remarked in her--a lookwith which Alfred Dinks, for instance, was familiar. But the companionsof his revels were not shrewd of vision. It was not Herbert Octoyne, norCorlaer Van Boozenberg, nor Bowdoin Beacon, nor Sligo Moultrie, nor anyother of his set, who especially remarked his expression; it was, oddlyenough, Miss Grace Plumer, of New Orleans. 

She sat there in the pretty, luxurious rooms, prettier and moreluxurious than they. For, at the special solicitation of Mr. Abel Newt, Mrs. Plumer had consented to accept an invitation to a little supper athis rooms--very small and very select; Mrs. Newt, of course, to bepresent. 

The Plumers arrived, and Laura Magot; but a note from mamma excused herabsence--papa somewhat indisposed, and so forth; and Mr. Abel himself sosorry--but Mrs. Plumer knows what these husbands are! Meanwhile theladies have thrown off their shawls. 

The dinner is exquisite, and exquisitely served. Prince Abel, with royalgrace, presides. By every lady's plate a pretty bouquet; the handsomestof all not by Miss, but by Mrs. Plumer. Flowers are every where. It isGrand Street, indeed, in the city; but the garden at Pinewood, perhaps, does not smell more sweetly. 

"There is, indeed, no perfume of the clover, which is the very breath ofour Northern June, Mrs. Plumer; but clover does not grow in the city, Miss Grace. "

Prince Abel begins the little speech to the mother, but his voice andface turn toward the daughter as it ends. 

Flowers are in glasses upon the mantle, and in vases of many-coloredmaterials and of various shapes upon tables about the room. The last newbooks, in English editions often, and a few solid classics, are in sight. Pictures also. 

"What a lovely Madonna!" says Miss Plumer, as she raises her eyes to abeautiful and costly engraving that hangs opposite upon the wall; which, indeed, was intended to be observed by her. 

"Yes. It is the Sistine, you know, " says the Prince, as he sees that thewaiter pours wine for Mrs. Plumer. 

The Prince forgets to mention that it is not the engraving which usuallyhangs there. Usually it is a pretty-colored French print representing"Lucille, " a young woman who has apparently very recently issued from thebath. Indeed there is a very choice collection of French prints which theyoung men sometimes study over their cigars, but which are this eveningin the port-folio, which is not in sight. 

The waiters move very softly. The wants of the guests are revealed tothem by being supplied. Quiet, elegance, luxury prevail. 

"Really, Mr. Newt"--it is Mrs. Plumer, of New Orleans, who speaks--"youhave created Paris in Grand Street!"

"Ah! madame, it is you who graciously bring Versailles and the Tuilerieswith you!"

He speaks to the mother; he looks, as he ends, again at the daughter. 

The daughter for the first time is in the sanctuary of a bachelor--of ayoung man about town. It is a character which always interests her--whichhalf fascinates her. Miss Plumer, of New Orleans, has read more Frenchliterature of the lighter sort--novels and romances, for instance--thanmost of the young women whom Abel Newt meets in society. Her eyes arevery shrewd, and she is looking every where to see if she shall not lightupon some token of bachelor habits--something that shall reveal the manwho occupies those pretty rooms. 

Every where her bright eyes fall softly, but every where upon quiet, elegance, and luxury. There is the Madonna; but there are also thelast winner at the Newmarket, the profile of Mr. Bulwer, and a Frenchlandscape. The books are good, but not too good. There is an air ofcandor and honesty in the room, united with the luxury and elegance, thatgreatly pleased Miss Grace Plumer. The apartment leads naturally up tothat handsome, graceful, dark-haired, dark-eyed gentleman whose eye isfollowing hers, while she does not know it; but whose mind has precededhers in the very journey around the room it has now taken. 

Sligo Moultrie sits beyond Miss Plumer, who is at the left of Mr. Newt. Upon his right sits Mrs. Plumer. The friendly relations of Abel and Sligohave not been disturbed. They seem, indeed, of late to have become evenstrengthened. At least the young men meet oftener; not infrequently inMrs. Plumer's parlor. Somehow they are aware of each other's movements;somehow, if one calls upon the Plumers, or drives with them, or walkswith them alone, the other knows it. And they talk together freely of allpeople in the world, except the Plumers of New Orleans. In Abel's room ofan evening, at a late hour, when a party of youth are smoking, thereare many allusions to the pretty Plumer--to which it happens that Newtand Moultrie make only a general reply. 

As the dinner proceeds from delicate course to course, and the wines ofvarying hue sparkle and flow, so the conversation purls along--a gentle, continuous stream. Good things are said, and there is that kind of happyappreciation which makes the generally silent speak and the clever morewitty. 

Mrs. Godefroi Plumer has traveled much, and enjoys the world. She is aCreole, with the Tropics in her hair and complexion, and Spain in hereyes. She wears a Parisian headdress, a brocade upon her ample person, and diamonds around her complacent neck and arms. Diamonds also flash inthe fan which she sways gently, admiring Prince Abel. Diamonds--hugesolitaires--glitter likewise in the ears of Miss Grace. She wears also aremarkable bracelet of the same precious stones; for the rest, her dressis a cloud of Mechlin lace. She has quick, dark eyes, and an olive skin. Her hands and feet are small. She has filbert nails and an arched instep. Prince Abel, who hangs upon his wall the portrait of the last Newmarketvictor, has not omitted to observe these details. He thinks how theywould grace a larger house, a more splendid table. 

Sligo Moultrie remembers a spacious country mansion, surrounded by asilent plantation, somewhat fallen from its state, whom such a mistresswould superbly restore. He looks a man too refined to wed for money, perhaps too indolently luxurious to love without it. 

Half hidden under the muslin drapery by the window hangs a cage witha canary. The bird sits silent; but as the feast proceeds he pours ashrill strain into the murmur of the guests. For the noise of thegolden-breasted bird Sligo Moultrie can not hear something that issaid to him by the ripe mouth between the solitaires. He asks pardon, and it is repeated. 

Then, still smiling and looking toward the window, he says, and, as hesays it, his eyes--at which he knows his companion is looking--wanderover the room, "A very pretty cage!"

The eyes drop upon hers as they finish the circuit of the room. They sayno more than the lips have said. And Miss Grace Plumer answers, "I thought you were going to say a very noisy bird. "

"But the bird is not very noisy, " says the young man, his dark eyes stillholding hers. 

There is a moment of silence, during which Miss Plumer may have her fancyof what he means. If so, she does not choose to betray it. If her eyesare clear and shrewd, the woman's wit is not less so. It is with an airof the utmost simplicity that she replies, "It was certainly noisy enough to drown what I was saying. "

There is a sound upon her other side as if a musical bell rang. 

"Miss Plumer!"

Her head turns. This time Mr. Sligo Moultrie sees the massive dark braidsof her hair behind. The ripe mouth half smiles upon Prince Abel. 

He holds a porcelain plate with a peach upon it, and a silver fruit-knifein his hand. She smiles, as if the music had melted into a look. Then shehears it again:

"Here is the sunniest side of the sunniest peach for Miss Plumer. "

Sligo Moultrie can not help hearing, for the tone is not low. But, whilehe is expecting to catch the reply, Miss Magot, who sits beyond him, speaks to him. The Prince Abel, who sees many things, sees this; and, ina tone which is very low, Miss Plumer hears, and nobody else in the roomhears:

"May life always be that side of a sweet fruit to her!"

It is the tone and not the words which are eloquent. 

The next instant Sligo Moultrie, who has answered Miss Magot's question, hears Miss Plumer say:

"Thank you, with all my heart. "

It seems to him a warm acknowledgment for a piece of fruit. 

"I did not speak of the bird; I spoke of the cage, " are the words thatMiss Plumer next hears, and from the other side. 

She turns to Sligo Moultrie and says, with eyes that expect a reply, "Yes, you are right; it is a very pretty cage. "

"Even a cage may be a home, I suppose. "

"Ask the canary. "

"And so turned to the basest uses, " says Mr. Moultrie, as if thinkingaloud. 

He is roused by a little ringing laugh:

"A pleasant idea of home you suggest, Mr. Moultrie. "

He smiles also. 

"I do not wonder you laugh at me; but I mean sense, for all that, " hesays. 

"You usually do, " she says, sincerely, and eyes and solitaires glittertogether. 

Sligo Moultrie is happy--for one moment. The next he hears the musicalbell of that other voice again. Miss Plumer turns in the very middle of aword which she has begun to address to him. 

"Miss Grace?"

"Well, Mr. Newt. "

"You observe the engraving of the Madonna?"

"Yes. "

"You see the two cherubs below looking up?"

"Yes. "

"You see the serene sweetness of their faces?"

"Yes. "

"Do you know what it is?"

Grace Plumer looks as if curiously speculating. Sligo Moultrie can nothelp hearing every word, although he pares a peach and offers it to MissMagot. 

"Miss Grace, do you remember what I said once of honest admiration--thatif it were eloquent it would be irresistible?"

Grace Plumer bows an assent. 

"But that its mere consciousness--a sort of silent eloquence--is purehappiness to him who feels it?"

She thinks she remembers that too, although the Prince apparentlyforgets that he never said it to her before. 

"Well, Miss Plumer, it seems to me the serene sweetness of that pictureis the expression of the perfect happiness of entire admiration--that isto say, of love; whoever loves is like those cherubs--perfectly happy. "

He looks attentively at the picture, as if he had forgotten his ownexistence in the happiness of the cherubs. Grace Plumer glances at himfor a few moments with a peculiar expression. It is full of admiration, but it is not the look with which she would say, as she just now said toSligo Moultrie, "You always speak sincerely. "

She is still looking at the Prince, when Mr. Moultrie begins again:

"I ought to be allowed to explain that I only meant that as a cage is ahome, so it is often used as a snare. Do you know, Miss Grace, that theprettiest birds are often put into the prettiest cages to entice otherbirds? By-the-by, how lovely Laura Magot is this evening!"

He cuts a small piece of the peach with his silver knife and puts it intohis mouth, "Peaches are luxuries in June, " he says, quietly. 

This time it is at Sligo Moultrie that Miss Grace Plumer looks fixedly. 

"What kind of birds, Mr. Moultrie?" she says, at length. 

"Miss Grace, do you know the story of the old Prince of Este?" answershe, as he lays a bunch of grapes upon her plate. She pulls one carelesslyand lets it drop again. He takes it and puts it in his mouth. 

"No; what is the story?"

"There was an old Prince of Este who had a beautiful villa and abeautiful sister, and nothing else in the world but a fiery eye andan eloquent tongue. "

Sligo Moultrie flushes a little, and drinks a glass of wine. Grace Plumeris a little paler, and more serious. Prince Abel plies Madame Plumer withfruit and compliments, and hears every word. 

"Well. "

"Well, Miss Grace, she was so beautiful that many a lady became herfriend, and many of those friends sighed for the brother's fiery eyes andblushed as they heard his honeyed tongue. But he was looking for a queen. At length came the Princess of Sheba--"

"Are you talking of King Solomon?"

"No, Miss Plumer, only of Alcibiades. And when the Princess of Sheba camenear the villa the Prince of Este entreated her to visit him, promisingthat the sister should be there. It was a pretty cage, I think; thesister was a lovely bird. And the Princess came. "

He stops and drinks more wine. 

"Very well! And then?"

"Why, then, she had a very pleasant visit, " he says, gayly. 

"Mr. Moultrie, is that the whole of the story?"

"No, indeed, Miss Plumer; but that is as far as we have got. "

"I want to hear the rest. "

"Don't be in such a hurry; you won't like the rest so well. "

"Yes; but that is my risk. "

"It _is_ your risk, " says Sligo Moultrie, looking at her; "will you takeit?"

"Of course I will, " is the clear-eyed answer. 

"Very well. The Princess came; but she did not go away. "

"How curious! Did she die of a peach-stone at the banquet?"

"Not at all. She became Princess of Este instead of Sheba. "

"Oh-h-h, " says Grace Plumer, in a long-drawn exclamation. "And then?"

"Why, Miss Grace, how insatiable you are!--then I came away. "

"You did? I wouldn't have come away. "

"No, Miss Grace, you didn't. "

"How--I didn't? What does that mean, Mr. Moultrie?"

"I mean the Princess remained. "

"So you said. Is that all?"

"No. "

"Well. "

"Oh! the rest is nothing. I mean nothing new. "

"Let me hear the old story, then, Mr. Moultrie. "

"The rest is merely that the Princess found that the fiery eyes burnedher and the eloquent tongue stung her, and truly that is the whole. Isn'tit a pretty story? The moral is that cages are sometimes traps. "

Sligo Moultrie becomes suddenly extremely attentive to Miss Magot. GracePlumer ponders many things, and among others wonders how, when, where, Sligo Moultrie learned to talk in parables. She does not ask herself_why_ he does so. She is a woman, and she knows why. 

CHAPTER L. 

WINE AND TRUTH. 

The conversation takes a fresh turn. Corlaer Van Boozenberg is talking ofthe great heiress, Miss Wayne. He has drunk wine enough to be bold, andcalls out aloud from his end of the table, "Mr. Abel Newt!"

That gentleman turns his head toward his guest. 

"We are wondering down here how it is that Miss Wayne went away from NewYork unengaged. "

"I am not her confidant, " Abel answers; and gallantly adds, "I am sure, like every other man, I should be glad to be so. "

"But you had the advantage of every body else. "

"How so?" asks Abel, conscious that Grace Plumer is watching him closely. 

"Why, you were at school in Delafield until you were no chicken. "

Abel bows smilingly. 

"You must have known her. "

"Yes, a little. "

"Well, didn't you know what a stunning heiress she was, and so handsome!How'd you, of all men in the world, let her slip through your fingers?"

A curious silence follows this effusion. Corlaer Van Boozenberg isslightly flown with wine. Hal Battlebury, who sits near him, lookstroubled. Herbert Octoyne and Mellish Whitloe exchange meaning glances. The young ladies--Mrs. Plumer is the only matron, except Mrs. Dagon, whosits below--smile pleasantly. Sligo Moultrie eats grapes. Grace Plumerwaits to hear what Abel says, or to observe what he does. Mrs. Dagonregards the whole affair with an approving smile, nodding almostimperceptibly a kind of Freemason's sign to Mrs. Plumer, who thinks thatthe worthy young Van Boozenberg has probably taken too much wine. 

Abel Newt quietly turns to Grace Plumer, saying, "Poor Corlaer! There are disadvantages in being the son of a very richman; one is so strongly inclined to measure every thing by money.. As ifmoney were all!"

He looks her straight in the eyes as he says it. Perhaps it is someeffort he is making which throws into his look that cold, hard blacknesswhich is not beautiful. Perhaps it is some kind of exasperation arisingfrom what he has heard Moultrie say privately and Van Boozenbergpublicly, as it were, that pushes him further than he means to go. Thereis a dangerous look of craft; an air of sarcastic cunning in his eyes andon his face. He turns the current of talk with his neighbors, without anyother indication of disturbance than the unpleasant look. Van Boozenbergis silent again. The gentle, rippling murmur of talk fills the room, andat a moment when Moultrie is speaking with his neighbor, Abel says, looking at the engraving of the Madonna, "Miss Grace, I feel like those cherubs. "

"Why so, Mr. Newt?"

"Because I am perfectly happy. "

"Indeed!"

"Yes, Miss Grace, and for the same reason that I entirely love andadmire. "

Her heart beats violently. Sligo Moultrie turns and sees her face. Hedivines every thing in a moment, for he loves Grace Plumer. 

"Yes, Miss Grace, " he says, in a quick, thick tone, as if he werecontinuing a narration--"yes, she became Princess of Este; but thefiery eyes burned her, and the sweet tongue stung her forever and ever. "

Mrs. Plumer and Mrs. Dagon are rising. There is a rustling tumult ofwomen's dresses, a shaking out of handkerchiefs, light gusts of laughter, and fragments of conversation. The handsome women move about like birds, with a plumy, elastic motion, waving their fans, smelling their bouquets, and listening through them to tones that are very low. The Prince of thehouse is every where, smiling, sinuous, dark in the eyes and hair. 

It is already late, and there is no disposition to be seated. SligoMoultrie stands by Grace Plumer, and she is very glad and even gratefulto him. Abel, passing to and fro, looks at her occasionally, and can notpossibly tell if her confusion is pain or pleasure. There is a recklessgayety in the tone with which he speaks to the other ladies. "Surely Mr. Newt was never so fascinating, " they all think in their secret souls; andthey half envy Grace Plumer, for they know the little supper is given forher, and they think it needs no sibyl to say why, or to prophesy thefuture. 

It is nearly midnight, and the moon is rising. Hark!

A band pours upon the silent night the mellow, passionate wail of "RobinAdair. " The bright company stands listening and silent. The festivescene, the hour, the flowers, the luxury of the place, the beauty ofthe women, impress the imagination, and touch the music with a softermelancholy. Hal Battlebury's eyes are clear, but his heart is full oftears as he listens and thinks of Amy Waring. He knows that all is invain. She has told him, with a sweet dignity that made her only lovelierand more inaccessible, that it can not be. He is trying to believe it. Heis hoping to show her one day that she is wrong. Listening, he follows inhis mind the song the band is playing. 

Sligo Moultrie feels and admires the audacious skill of Abel in crowningthe feast with music. Grace Plumer leans upon his arm. Abel Newt'sglittering eyes are upon them. It is the very moment he had intended tobe standing by her side, to hold her arm in his, and to make her feelthat the music which pealed in long cadences through the midnight, andstreamed through the draped windows into the room, was the passionateentreaty of his heart, the irresistible pathos of the love he bore her. 

Somehow Grace Plumer is troubled. She fears the fascination she enjoys. She dreads the assumption of power over her which she has observed inAbel. She recoils from the cold blackness she has seen in his eyes. Shesees it at this moment again, in that glittering glance which slipsacross the room and holds her as she stands. Involuntarily she leansupon Sligo Moultrie, as if clinging to him. 

There is more music?--a lighter, then a sadder and lingering strain. Itrecedes slowly, slowly up the street. The company stand in the prettyparlor, and not a word is spoken. It is past midnight; the music is over. 

"What a charming party! Mr. Newt, how much we are obliged to you!" saysMrs. Godefroi Plumer, as Abel hands her into the carriage. 

"The pleasure is all mine, Madame, " replies Mr. Newt, as he sees withbitterness that Sligo Moultrie stands ready to offer his hand to assistMiss Plumer. The footman holds the carriage door open. Miss Plumer canaccept the assistance of but one, and Mr. Abel is resolved to know whichone. 

"Permit me, Miss Plumer, " says Sligo. 

"Allow me, Miss Grace, " says Abel. 

The latter address sounds to her a little too free. She feels, perhaps, that he has no rights of intimacy--at least not yet--or what does shefeel? But she gives her hand to Sligo Moultrie, and Abel bows. 

"Thank you for a delightful evening, Mr. Newt. Good-night!"

The host bows again, bareheaded, in the moonlight. 

"By-the-by, Mr. Moultrie, " says the ringing voice of the clear-eyed girl, who remembers that Abel is listening, but who is sure that only Sligo canunderstand, "I ought to have told you that the story ended differently. The Princess left the villa. Good-night! good-night!"

The carriage rattles down the street. 

"Good-night, Newt; a very beautiful and pleasant party. "

"Good-night, Moultrie--thank you; and pleasant dreams. "

The young Georgian skips up the street, thinking only of Grace Plumer'slast words. Abel Newt stands at his door for a moment, remembering themalso, and perfectly understanding them. The next instant he is shawlingand cloaking the other ladies, who follow the Plumers; among them Mrs. Dagon, who says, softly, "Good-night, Abel. I like it all very well. A very proper girl! Such acomplexion! and such teeth! Such lovely little hands, too! It's all veryright. Go on, my dear. What a dreadful piece of work Fanny's made of it!I wonder you don't like Hope Wayne. Think of it, a million of dollars!However, it's all one, I suppose--Grace or Hope are equally pleasant. Good-night, naughty boy! Behave yourself. As for your father, I'm afraidto go to the house lest he should bite me. He's dangerous. Good-night, dear!"

Yes, Abel remembers with singular distinctness that it was a word, onlyone word, just a year ago to Grace Plumer--a word intended only todeceive that foolish Fanny--which had cost him--at least, he thinksso--Hope Wayne. 

He bows his last guests out at the door with more sweetness in his facethan in his soul. Returning to the room he looks round upon the ruins ofthe feast, and drinks copiously of the wine that still remains. Not atall inclined to sleep, he goes into his bedroom and finds a cigar. Returning, he makes a few turns in the room while he smokes, and stopsconstantly to drink another glass. He half mutters to himself, as headdresses the chair in which Grace Plumer has been sitting, "Are you or I going to pay for this feast, Madame? Somebody has got to doit. Young woman, Moultrie was right, and you are wrong. She _did_ becomePrincess of Este. I'll pay now, and you'll pay by-and-by. Yes, my dearGrace, you'll pay by-and-by. "

He says these last words very slowly, with his teeth set, the heada little crouched between the shoulders, and a stealthy, sullen, uglyglare in the eyes. 

"I've got to pay now, and you shall pay by-and-by. Yes, Miss GracePlumer; you shall pay for to-night and for the evening in my mother'sconservatory. "

He strides about the room a little longer. It is one o'clock, and he goesdown stairs and out of the house. Still smoking, he passes along Broadwayuntil he reaches Thiel's. He hurries up, and finds only a few desperategamblers. Abel himself looks a little wild and flushed. He sits downdefiantly and plays recklessly. The hours are clanged from the belfryof the City Hall. The lights burn brightly in Thiel's rooms. Nobody issleeping there. One by one the players drop away--except those who remarkAbel's game, for that is so careless and furious that it is threatening, threatening, whether he loses or wins. 

He loses constantly, but still plays on. The lights are steady. His eyesare bright. The bank is quite ready to stay open for such a run of luckin its favor. 

The bell of the City Hall clangs three in the morning as a young manemerges from Thiel's, and hurries, then saunters, up Broadway. Hismotions are fitful, his dress is deranged, and his hair matted. Hisface, in the full moonlight, is dogged and dangerous. It is the Princeof the feast, who had told Grace Plumer that he was perfectly happy. 

CHAPTER LI. 

A WARNING. 

A few evenings afterward, when Abel called to know how the ladies hadborne the fatigues of the feast, Mrs. Plumer said, with smiles, that itwas a kind of fatigue ladies bore without flinching. Miss Grace, who wassitting upon a sofa by the side of Sligo Moultrie, said that it was oneof the feasts at which young women especially are supposed to beperfectly happy. She emphasized the last words, and her bright blackeyes opened wide upon Mr. Abel Newt, who could not tell if he sawmischievous malice or a secret triumph and sense release in them. 

"Oh!" said he, gayly, "it would be too much for me hope to make anyladies, and especially young ladies, perfectly happy. "

And he returned Miss Plumer's look with a keen glance masked inmerriment. 

Sligo Moultrie wagged his foot. 

"There now is conscious power!" said Abel, with a laugh, as he pointed atMiss Plumer's companion. 

They all laughed, but not very heartily. There appeared to be somemeaning lurking in whatever was said; and like all half-concealedmeanings, it seemed, perhaps, even more significant than it really was. 

Abel was very brilliant, and told more and better stories than usual. Mrs. Plumer listened and laughed, and declared that he was certainly thebest company she had met for a long time. Nor were Miss Plumer and Mr. Moultrie reluctant to join the conversation. In fact, Abel was severaltimes surprised by the uncommon spirit of Sligo's replies. 

"What is it?" said Abel to himself, with a flash of the black eyes thatwas startling. 

All the evening he felt particularly belligerent toward Sligo Moultrie;and yet a close observer would have discovered no occasion in the conductof the young man for such a feeling upon Abel's part. Mr. Moultrie satquietly by the side of Grace Plumer--"as if somehow he had a right to sitthere, " thought Abel Newt, who resolved to discover if indeed he had aright. 

During that visit, however, he had no chance. Moultrie sat persistently, and so did Abel. The clock pointed to eleven, and still they did notmove. It was fairly toward midnight when Abel rose to leave, and at thesame moment Sligo Moultrie rose also. Abel bade the ladies good-evening, and passed out as if Moultrie were close by him. But that young manremained standing by the sofa upon which Grace Plumer was seated, andsaid quietly to Abel, "Good-evening, Newt!"

Grace Plumer looked at him also, with the bright black eyes, and blushed. 

For a moment Abel Newt's heart seemed to stand still! An expression ofsome bitterness must have swept over his face, for Mrs. Plumer steppedtoward him, as he stood with his hand upon the door, and said, "Are you unwell?"

The cloud dissolved in a forced smile. 

"No, thank you; not at all!" and he looked surprised, as if he could notimagine why any one should think so. 

He did not wait longer, and the next moment was in the street. 

Mrs. Plumer also left the room almost immediately after his departure. Sligo Moultrie seated himself by his companion. 

"My dear Grace, did you see that look?"

"Yes. "

"He suspects the truth, " returned Sligo Moultrie; and he might have addedmore, but that his lips at that instant were otherwise engaged. 

Abel more than suspected the truth. He was sure of it, and the certaintymade him desperate. He had risked so much upon the game! He had been soconfident! As he half ran along the street he passed many things rapidlyin his mind. He was like a seaman in doubtful waters, and the breeze wasswelling into a gale. 

Turning out of Broadway he ran quickly to his door, opened it, and leapedup stairs. 

To his great surprise his lamp was lighted and a man was sitting readingquietly at his table. As Abel entered his visitor closed his book andlooked up. 

"Why, Uncle Lawrence, " said the young man, "you have a genius forsurprises! What on earth are you doing in my room?"

His uncle said, only half smiling, "Abel, we are both bachelors, and bachelors have no hours. I want to talkwith you. "

Abel looked at his guest uneasily; but he put down his hat and lighted acigar; then seated himself, almost defiantly, opposite his uncle, withthe table between them. 

"Now, Sir; what is it?"

Lawrence Newt paused a moment, while the young man still calmly puffedthe smoke from his mouth, and calmly regarded his uncle. 

"Abel, you are not a fool. You know the inevitable results of certaincourses. I want to fortify your knowledge by my experience. I understandall the temptations and excitements that carry you along. But I don'tlike your looks, Abel; and I don't like the looks of other people whenthey speak of you and your father. Remember, we are of the same blood. Heaven knows its own mysteries! Your father and I were sons of one woman. That is a tie which we can neither of us escape, if we wanted to. Whyshould you ruin yourself?"

"Did you come to propose any thing for me to do, Sir, or only to informme that you considered me a reprobate?" asked Abel, half-sneeringly, thesmoke rising from his mouth. 

Lawrence Newt did not answer. 

"I am like other young men, " continued Abel. "I am fond of living well, of a good horse, of a pretty woman. I drink my glass, and I am not afraidof a card. Really, Uncle Lawrence, I see no such profound sin or shame init all, so long as I honestly pay the scot. Do I cheat at cards? Do I liein the gutters?"

"No!" answered Lawrence. 

"Do I steal?"

"Not that I know, " said the other. 

"Please, Uncle Lawrence, what do you mean, then?"

"I mean the way, the spirit in which you do things. If you are notconscious of it, how can I make you? I can not say more than I have. I came merely--"

"As a handwriting upon the wall, Uncle Lawrence?"

Lawrence Newt rose and stood a little back from the table. 

"Yes, if you choose, as a handwriting on the wall. Abel, when theprodigal son _came to himself_, he rose and went to his father. I cameto ask you to return to yourself. "

"From these husks, Sir?" asked Abel, as he looked around his luxuriousrooms, his eye falling last upon the French print of Lucille, fresh fromthe bath. 

Lawrence Newt looked at his nephew with profound gravity. The youngman lay back in his chair, lightly holding his cigar, and carelesslyfollowing the smoke with his eye. The beauty and intelligence of hisface, the indolent grace of his person, seen in the soft light of thelamp, and set like a picture in the voluptuous refinement of the room, touched the imagination and the heart of the older man. There was a lookof earnest, yearning entreaty in his eyes as he said, "Abel, you remember Milton's Comus?"

The young man bowed. 

"Do you think the revelers were happy?"

Abel smiled, but did not answer. But after a few minutes he said, with asmile, "I was not there. "

"You _are_ there, " answered Lawrence Newt, with uplifted finger, and in avoice so sad and clear that Abel started. 

The two men looked at each other silently for a few moments. 

"Good-night, Abel. "

"Good-night, Uncle Lawrence. "

The door closed behind the older man. Abel sat in his chair, intentlythinking. His uncle's words rang in his memory. But as he recalled thetone, the raised finger, the mien, with which they had been spoken, theyoung man looked around him, and seemed half startled and frightened bythe stillness, and awe-struck by the midnight hour. He moved his headrapidly and arose, like a person trying to rouse himself from sleep ornightmare. Passing the mirror, he involuntarily started at the haggardpaleness of his face under the clustering black hair. He was trying toshake something off. He went uneasily about the room until he had lighteda match, and a candle, with which he went into the next room, stillhalf-looking over his shoulder, as if fearing that something dogged him. He opened the closet where he kept his wine. He restlessly filled a largeglass and poured it down his throat--not as if he were drinking, but asif he were taking an antidote. He rubbed his forehead with his hand, andhalf-smiled a sickly smile. 

But still his eyes wandered nervously to the spot in which his unclehad stood; still he seemed to fear that he should see a ghostly figurestanding there and pointing at him; should see himself, in some phantomcounterpart, sitting in the chair. His eyes opened as if he werelistening intently. For in the midnight he thought he heard, in that dimlight he thought he saw, the Prophet and the King. He did not remembermore the words his uncle had spoken. But he heard only, "Thou art theman! Thou art the man!"

And all night long, as he dreamed or restlessly awoke, he heard the samewords, spoken as if with finger pointed--"Thou art the man! Thou art theman!"

CHAPTER LII. 

BREAKERS. 

Lawrence Newt had certainly told the truth of his brother's home. Mr. Boniface Newt had become so surly that it was not wise to speak to him. He came home late, and was angry if dinner were not ready, and cross ifit were. He banged all the doors, and swore at all the chairs. Afterdinner he told May not to touch the piano, and begged his wife, forHeaven's sake, to take up some book, and not to sit with an air ofimbecile vacancy that was enough to drive a man distracted. He snarled atthe servants, so that they went about the house upon tip-toe and fled hispresence, and were constantly going away, causing Mrs. Newt to pass manyhours of the week in an Intelligence Office. Mr. Newt found holes in thecarpets, stains upon the cloths, knocks upon the walls, nicks in theglasses and plates at table, scratches upon the furniture, and defectsand misfortunes every where. He went to bed without saying good-night, and came down without a good-morning. He sat at breakfast morose andsilent; or he sighed, and frowned, and muttered, and went out without asmile or a good-by. There was a profound gloom in the house, an unnaturalorder. Nobody dared to derange the papers or books upon the tables, tomove the chairs, or to touch any thing. If May appeared in a new dresshe frowned, and his wife trembled every time she put in a breast-pin. 

Only in her own room was May mistress of every thing. If any body hadlooked into it he would have seen only the traces of a careful andelegant hand, and often enough he would have seen a delicate girl-face, almost too thoughtful for so young a face, resting upon the hand, as ifMay Newt were troubled and perplexed by the gloom of the house and thesilence of the household. Her window opened over the street, and therewere a few horse-chestnut trees before the house. She made friends withthem, and they covered themselves with blossoms for her pleasure. Shesat for hours at her window, looking into the trees, sewing, reading, musing--solitary as a fairy princess in a tower. 

Sometimes flowers came, with Uncle Lawrence's love. Or fine fruit forMiss May Newt, with the same message. Several times from her window Mayhad seen who the messenger was: a young man with candid eyes, with aquick step, and an open, almost boyish face. When the street was stillshe heard him half-singing as he bounded along--as nobody sings, shethought, whose home is not happy. 

Solitary as a fairy princess in a tower, she looked down upon the figureas it rapidly disappeared. The sewing or the reading stopped entirely;nor were they resumed when he had passed out of sight. May Newt thoughtit strange that Uncle Lawrence should send such a messenger in the middleof the day. He did not look like a porter. He was not an office boy. Hewas evidently one of the upper-clerks. It was certainly very kind inUncle Lawrence. 

So thought the solitary Princess in the tower, her mind wandering fromthe romance she was reading to a busy speculation upon the reality in thestreet beneath her. 

The blind was thrown partly back as she sat at the open window. A simpleairy dress, made by her own hands, covered her flower-like figure. Thebrown hair was smoothed over the white temples, and the sweet girl eyeslooked kindly into the street from which the figure of the young man hadjust passed. If by chance the eyes of that young man had been turnedupward, would he not have thought--since one Sunday morning, when hepassed her on the way to church, he was sure that she looked like anangel going home--would he not have thought that she looked like an angelbending down toward him out of heaven?

It was not strange that Uncle Lawrence had sent him. For somehow UncleLawrence had discovered that if there was any thing to go to May Newt, there was nothing in the world that Gabriel Bennet was so anxious to doas to carry it. 

But while the young man was always so glad to go to Boniface Newt'sgloomy house--for some reason which he did not explain, and which evenhis sister Ellen did not know--or, at least, which she pretended not toknow, although one evening that wily young girl talked with brotherGabriel about May Newt, as if she had some particular purpose in theconversation, until she seemed to have convinced herself of some hithertodoubtful point--yet with all the willingness to go to the house, GabrielBennet never went to the office of Boniface Newt, Son, & Co. 

If he had done so it would not have been pleasant to him, for it wasperpetual field-day in the office. A few days after Uncle Lawrence'svisit to his nephew, the senior partner sat bending his hard, anxiousface over account-books and letters. The junior partner lounged in hischair as if the office had been a club-room. The "Company" neverappeared. 

"Father, I've just seen Sinker. "

"D---- Sinker!"

"Come, come, father, let's be reasonable! Sinker says that the Canal willbe a clear case of twenty per cent, per annum for ten years at least, andthat we could afford to lose a cent or two upon the Bilbo iron to make itup, over and over again. "

Mr. Abel Newt threw his leg over the arm of the chair and looked at hisboot. Mr. Boniface Newt threw his head around suddenly and fiercely. 

"And what's Sinker's commission? How much money do you suppose he has toput in? How much stock will he take?"

"He has sold out in the Mallow Mines to put in, " said Abel, a littledoggedly. 

"Are you sure?"

"He says so, " returned Abel, shortly. 

"Don't believe a word of it!" said his father, tartly, turning back againto his desk. 

Abel put both hands in his pockets, and both feet upon the ground, sideby side, and rocked them upon the heels backward and forward, looking allthe time at his father. His face grew cloudy--more cloudy every moment. At length he said, "I think we'd better do it. "

His father did not speak or move. He seemed to have heard nothing, andto be only inwardly cursing the state of things revealed by the books andpapers before him. 

Abel looked at him for a moment, and then, raising his voice, continued:

"As one of the firm, I propose that we sell out the Bilbo and buy intothe Canal. "

Not a look or movement from his father. 

Abel jumped up--his eyes black, his face red. He took his hat and went tothe door, saying, "I shall go and conclude the arrangement!"

As he reached the door his father raised his eyes and looked at him. Theeyes were full of contempt and anger, and a sneering sound came from hislips. 

"You'll do no such thing. "

The young man glanced sideways at his parent. 

"Who will prevent me?"

"I!" roared the elder. 

"I believe I am one of the firm, " said Abel, coldly. 

"You'd better try it!" said the old man, disregarding Abel's remark. 

Abel was conscious that his father had this game, at least, in his hands. The word of the young man would hardly avail against a simultaneousveto from the parent. No transaction would stand a moment under suchcircumstances. The young man slowly turned from the door, and fixing hiseyes upon his father, advanced toward him with a kind of imperiousinsolence. 

"I should like to understand my position in this house, " said he, withforced calmness. 

"Good God! Sir, a bootblack, if I choose!" returned his father, fiercely. "The unluckiest day of my life was when you came in here, Sir. Ever sincethen the business has been getting more and more complicated, until itis only a question of days how long it can even look respectable. Weshall all be beggars in a month. We are ruined. There is no chance, "cried the old man, with a querulous wail through his set teeth. "And youknow who has done it all. You know who has brought us all to shame anddisgrace--to utter poverty;" and, rising from his chair, the father shookhis clenched hands at Abel so furiously that the young man fell backabashed. 

"Don't talk to me, Sir. Don't dare to say a word, " cried Mr. Newt, in avoice shrill with anger. "All my life has come to nothing. All mysacrifices, my industry, my efforts, are of no use. I am a beggar, Sir;so are you!"

He sank back in his chair and covered his face with his hands. The noisemade the old book-keeper outside look in. But it was no new thing. Thehot debates of the private room were familiar to his ear. With thesilent, sad fidelity of his profession he knew every thing, and was dumb. Not a turn of his face, not a light in his eye, told any tales to themost careful and sagacious inquirer. Within the last few months Mr. VanBoozenberg had grown quite friendly with him. When they met, thePresident had sought to establish the most familiar intercourse. But hediscovered that for the slightest hint of the condition of the Newtbusiness he might as well have asked Boniface himself. Like a mother, whoknows the crime her son has committed, and perceives that he can only alittle longer hide it, but who, with her heart breaking, still smilesaway suspicion, so the faithful accountant, who supposed that the crashwas at hand, was as constant and calm as if the business were neverbefore so prosperous. 

CHAPTER LIII. 

SLIGO MOULTRIE _vice_ ABEL NEWT. 

Abel Newt had now had two distinct warnings of something which nobodyknew must happen so well as he. He dined sumptuously that very day, anddressed very carefully that evening, and at eight o'clock was sittingalone with Grace Plumer. The superb ruby was on her finger. But on thethird finger of her left hand he saw a large glowing opal. His eyesfastened upon it with a more brilliant glitter. They looked at her tooso strangely that Grace Plumer felt troubled and half alarmed. "Am I toolate?" he thought. 

"Miss Grace, " said Abel, in a low voice. 

The tone was significant. 

"Mr. Newt, " said she, with a half smile, as if she accepted a contest ofbadinage. 

"Do you remember I said I was perfectly happy?"

He moved his chair a little nearer to hers. She drew back almostimperceptibly. 

"I remember you _said_ so, and I was very glad to hear it. "

"Do you remember my theory of perfect happiness?"

"Yes, " said Miss Plumer, calmly, "I believe it was perfect love. But Ithink we had better talk of something else;" and she rose from her chairand stood by the table. 

"Miss Plumer!"

"Mr. Newt. "

"It was you who first emboldened me. "

"I do not understand, Sir. "

"It was a long time ago, in my mother's conservatory. "

Grace Plumer remembered the evening, and she replied, more softly, "I am very sorry, Mr. Newt, that I behaved so foolishly: I was young. ButI think we did each other no harm. "

"No harm, I trust, indeed, Miss Grace, " said Abel. "It is surely no harmto love; at least, not as I love you. "

He too had risen, and tried to take her hand. She stepped back. Hepressed toward her. 

"Grace; dear Grace!"

"Stop, Sir, stop!" said his companion, drawing herself up and waving himback; "I can not hear you talk so. I am engaged. "

Abel turned pale. Grace Plumer was frightened. He sprang forward andseized her hand. 

"Oh! Grace, hear me but one word! You knew that I loved you, and youallowed me to come. In honor, in truth, before God, you are mine!"

She struggled to release her hand. As she looked in his face she sawthere an expression which assured her that he was capable of saying anything, of doing any thing; and she trembled to think how much she mightbe--how much any woman is--in the power of a desperate man. 

"Indeed, Mr. Newt, you must let me go!"

"Grace, Grace, say that you love me!"

The frightened girl broke away from him, and ran toward the door. Abelfollowed her, but the door opened, and Sligo Moultrie entered. 

"Oh, Sligo!" cried Grace, as he put his arm around her. 

Abel stopped and bowed. 

"Pardon me, Miss Plumer. Certainly Mr. Moultrie will understand the ardorof a passion which in his case has been so fortunate. I am sorry, Sir, "he said, turning to Sligo, "that my ignorance of your relation to MissPlumer should have betrayed me. I congratulate you both from my soul!"

He bowed again, and before they could speak he was gone. The tone of hisvoice lingering upon their ears was like a hiss. It was a most sinisterfelicitation. 

CHAPTER LIV. 

CLOUDS AND DARKNESS. 

"At least, Miss Amy--at least, we shall be friends. "

Amy Waring sat in her chamber on the evening of the day that LawrenceNewt had said these words. Her long rich brown hair clustered upon hershoulders, and the womanly brown eyes were fixed upon a handful ofwithered flowers. They were the blossoms she had laid away at varioustimes--gifts of Lawrence Newt, or consecrated by his touch. 

She sat musing for a long time. The womanly brown eyes were soft witha look of aching regret rather than of sharp disappointment. Then sherose--still holding the withered remains--and paced thoughtfully up anddown the room. The night hours passed, and still she softly paced, ortranquilly seated herself, without the falling of a tear, and onlynow and then a long deep breath rather than a sigh. 

At last she took all the flowers--dry, yellow, lustreless--and opened asheet of white paper. She laid them in it, and the brown womanly eyeslooked at them with yearning fondness. She sat motionless, as if shecould not prevail upon herself to fold the paper. But at length she sankgradually to her knees--a sinless Magdalen; her brown hair fell about herbending face, and she said, although her lips did not move, "To each, inhis degree, the cup is given. Oh, Father! strengthen each to drain it andbelieve!"

She rose quietly and folded the paper, with the loving care and lingeringdelay with which a mother smooths the shroud that wraps her baby. Shetied it with a pure white ribbon, so that it looked not unlike a bridalgift; and pressing her lips to it long and silently, she laid it in theold drawer. There it still remained. The paper was as white, the ribbonwas as pure as ever. Only the flowers were withered. But her heart wasnot a flower. 

"Well, Aunt Martha, " said she, several months after the death of oldChristopher Burt, "I really think you are coming back to this worldagain. "

The young woman smiled, while the older one busily drove her needle. 

"Why, " continued Amy, "here is a white collar; and you have actuallysmiled at least six times in as many months!"

The older woman still said nothing. The old sadness was in her eyes, butit certainly had become more natural--more human, as it were--and themelodramatic gloom in which she had hitherto appeared was certainly lessobvious. 

"Amy, " she said at length, "God leads his erring children through thedark valley, but he does lead them--he does not leave them. I did notknow how deeply I had sinned until I heard the young man Summerfield, who came to see me even in this room. "

She looked up and about, as if to catch some lingering light upon thewall. 

"And it was Lawrence Newt's preacher who made me feel that there was hopeeven for me. "

She sewed on quietly. 

"I thank God for those two men; and for one other, " she added, after alittle pause. 

Amy only looked, she did not ask who. 

"Lawrence Newt, " said Aunt Martha, calmly looking at Amy--"Lawrence Newt, who came to me as a brother comes to a sister, and said, 'Be of goodcheer!' Amy, what is the matter with you and Lawrence Newt?"

"How, aunty?"

"How many months since you met here?"

"It was several months ago, aunty. "

Aunt Martha sat quietly sewing, and after some time said, "He is no longer a young man. "

"But, Aunt Martha, he is not old. "

Still sewing, the grave woman looked at the burning cheeks of her youngercompanion. Amy did not speak. 

The older woman continued: "When you and he went from this room monthsago I supposed you would be his wife before now. "

Still Amy did not speak. It was not because she was unwilling to confideentirely in Aunt Martha, but there was something she did not wish tosay to herself. Yet suddenly, as if lifted upon a calm, irresistiblepurpose--as a leaf is lifted upon the long swell of the sea--she said, with her heart as quiet as her eyes, "I do not think Lawrence Newt loves me. "

The next moment the poor leaf is lost in the trough of the sea. The nextmoment Amy Waring's heart beat tumultuously; she felt as if she shouldfall from her seat. Her eyes were blind with hot tears. Aunt Martha didnot look up--did not start or exclaim--but deliberately threaded herneedle carefully, and creased her work with her thumb-nail. After alittle while, during which the sea was calming itself, she said, slowly, repeating Amy's words syllable by syllable, "You do not believe Lawrence Newt loves you?"

"No, " was the low, firm whisper of reply. 

"Whom do you think he loves?"

There was an instant of almost deathly stillness in that turbulent heart. For a moment the very sea of feeling seemed to be frozen. 

Then, and very slowly, a terrible doubt arose in Amy Waring's mind. Before this conversation every perplexity had resolved itself in theconsciousness that somehow it must all come right by-and-by. It had neveroccurred to her to ask, Does he love any one else? But she saw now atonce that if he did, then the meaning of his words was plain enough;and so, of course, he did. 

Who was it?

Amy knew there was but one person in the world whose name could possiblyanswer that question. 

But had Lawrence not watched with her--and with delight--the progress ofArthur Merlin's feeling for that other?

Yes; but if, as he watched so closely, he saw and felt how lovely thatother was, was it so wonderful that he should love her?

These things flashed through her mind as she sat motionless by AuntMartha; and she said, with profound tranquillity, "Very possibly, Hope Wayne. "

Aunt Martha did not look up. She seemed to feel that she should seesomething too sad if she did so; but she asked, "Is she worthy of him?"

"Perfectly!" answered Amy, promptly. 

At this word Aunt Martha did look up, and her eyes met Amy's. Amy Waringburst into tears. Her aunt laid aside her work, and gently put her armsabout her niece. She waited until the first gush of feeling had passed, and then said, tenderly, "Amy, it is by the heart that God leads us women to himself. Through loveI fell; but through love, in another way, I hope to be restored. Do youreally believe he loves Hope Wayne?"

"I don't know, " was the low reply. 

"I know, Amy. "

The two women had risen, and were walking, with their arms clasped aroundeach other, up and down the room. They stopped at the window and lookedout. As they did so, their eyes fell simultaneously upon the man of whomthey were speaking, who was standing at the back of his lofts, looking upat the window, which was a shrine to him. 

"There she stood and smiled at me, " he said to himself whenever he lookedat it. 

As their eyes met, he smiled and waved his hand. With his eyes and headhe asked, as when he had first seen her there, "May I come up?" and he waved his handkerchief. 

The two women looked at him. As Amy did so, she felt as if there had beena long and gloomy war; and now, in his eager eyes and waving hand, shesaw the illumination and waving flags of victory and peace. 

She smiled as she looked, and nodded No to him with her head. 

But Aunt Martha nodded Yes so vehemently that Lawrence Newt immediatelydisappeared from his window. 

Alarmed at his coming, doubtful of Aunt Martha's intention, Amy Waringsuddenly cried, "Oh! Aunt Martha!" and was gone in a moment. LawrenceNewt dashed round, and knocked at the door. 

"Come in!"

He rushed into the room. Some sweet suspicion had winged his feet andlightened his heart; but he was not quick enough. He looked eagerlyabout him. 

"She is gone!" said Aunt Martha. 

His eager eyes drooped, as if light had gone out of his life also. 

"Mr. Newt, " said Aunt Martha, "sit down. You have been of the greatestservice to me. How can I repay you?"

Lawrence Newt, who had felt during the moment in which he saw Amy at thewindow, and the other in which he had been hastening to her, that thecloud was about rolling from his life, was confounded by finding that itwas an account between Aunt Martha, instead of Amy, and himself that wasto be settled. 

He bowed in some confusion, but recovering in a moment, he said, courteously, "I am aware of nothing that you owe me in any way. "

"Lawrence Newt, " returned the other, solemnly, "you have known my story;you knew the man to whom I supposed myself married; you have known of mychild; you have known how long I have been dead to the world and to allmy family and friends, and when, by chance, you discovered me, you becameas my brother. How many an hour we have sat talking in this room, and howconstantly your sympathy has been my support and your wisdom my guide!"

Lawrence Newt, whose face had grown very grave, waved his handdeprecatingly. 

"I know, I know, " she continued. "Let that remain unsaid. It can not beunforgotten. But I know your secrets too. "

They looked at each other. 

"You love Amy Waring. "

His face became inscrutable, and his eyes were fixed quietly upon hers. She betrayed no embarrassment, but continued, "Amy Waring loves you. "

A sudden light shot into that inscrutable face. The clear eyes wereveiled for an instant by an exquisite emotion. 

"What separates you?"

There was an authority in the tone of the question which Lawrence Newtfound hard to resist. It was an authority natural to such intimateknowledge of the relation of the two persons. But he was so entirelyunaccustomed to confide in any body, or to speak of his feelings, that hecould not utter a word. He merely looked at Aunt Martha as if he expectedher to answer all her own questions, and solve every difficulty anddoubt. 

Meanwhile she had resumed her sewing, and was rocking quietly in herchair. Lawrence Newt arose and found his tongue. He bowed in that quaintway which seemed to involve him more closely in himself, and to warn offevery body else. 

"I prefer to hear that a woman loves me from her own lips. "

The tone was perfectly kind and respectful; but Aunt Martha felt that shehad been struck dumb. 

"I thank you from my heart, " Lawrence Newt said to her. And taking herhand, he bent over it and kissed it. She sat looking at him, and atlength said, "Mayn't I do any thing to show my gratitude?"

"You have already done more than I deserve, " replied Lawrence Newt. "Imust go now. Good-by! God bless you!"

She heard his quick footfalls as he descended the stairs. For a long timethe sombre woman sat rocking idly to and fro, holding her work in herhand, and with her eyes fixed upon the floor. She did not seem to seeclearly, whatever it might be she was looking at. She shook out her workand straightened it, and folded it regularly, and looked at it as if thesecret would pop out of the proper angle if she could only find it. Then she creased it and crimped it--still she could not see. Then shetook a few stitches slowly, regarding fixedly a corner of the room as ifthe thought she was in search of was a mouse, and might at any moment runout of his hole and over the floor. 

And after all the looking, she shook her head intelligently and fellquietly to work, as if the mystery were plain enough, saying to herself, "Why didn't I trust a girl's instinct who loves as Amy does? Of courseshe is right. Dear! dear! Of course he loves Hope Wayne. "

CHAPTER LV. 

ARTHUR MERLIN'S GREAT PICTURE. 

Arthur Merlin had sketched his great picture of Diana and Endymion ahundred times. He talked of it with his friends, and smoked scores ofboxes of cigars during the conversations. He had completed what he calledthe study for the work, which represented, he said, the Goddess alightingupon Latmos while Endymion slept. He pointed out to his companions, especially to Lawrence Newt, the pure antique classical air of thecomposition. 

"You know, " he said, as he turned his head and moved his hands over thestudy as if drawing in the air, "you know it ought somehow to seemsilent, and cool, and remote; for it is ancient Greece, Diana, andmidnight. You see?"

Then came a vast cloud of smoke from his mouth, as if to assist the eyesof the spectator. 

"Oh yes, I see, " said every one of his companions--especially LawrenceNewt, who did see, indeed, but saw only a head of Hope Wayne in a mist. The Endymion, the mountain, the Greece, the antiquity, were all vigorousassumptions of the artist. The study for his great picture was simply anunfinished portrait of Hope Wayne. 

Aunt Winnifred, who sometimes came into her nephew's studio, saw thestudy one day, and exclaimed, sorrowfully, "Oh, Arthur! Arthur!"

The young man, who was busily mixing colors upon his pallet, and humming, as he smoked, "'Tis my delight of a shiny night, " turned in dismay, thinking his aunt was suddenly ill. 

"My dear aunt!" and he laid down his pallet and ran toward her. 

She was sitting in an armchair holding the study. Arthur stopped. 

"My dear Arthur, now I understand all. "

Arthur Merlin was confused. He, perhaps, suspected that his picture ofDiana resembled a certain young lady. But how should Aunt Winnifred knowit, who, as he supposed, had never seen her? Besides, he felt it was adisagreeable thing, when he was and had been in love with a young ladyfor a long time, to have his aunt say that she understood all about it. How could she understand all about it? What right has any body to saythat she understands all about it? He asked himself the petulant questionbecause he was very sure that he himself did not by any means understandall about it. 

"What do you understand, Aunt Winnifred?" demanded Arthur, in a resoluteand defiant tone, as if he were fully prepared to deny every thing he wasabout to hear. 

"Yes, yes, " continued Aunt Winnifred, musingly, and in a tone of profoundsadness, as she still held and contemplated the picture--"yes; yes! Isee, I see!"

Arthur was quite vexed. 

"Now really my dear aunt, " said he, remonstratingly, "you must be awarethat it is not becoming in a woman like you to go on in this way. Youought to explain what you mean, " he added, decidedly. 

"Well, my poor boy, the hotter you get the surer I am. Don't you see?"

Mr. Merlin did not seem to be in the least pacified by this reply. Itwas, therefore, in an indignant tone that he answered:

"Aunt Winnifred, it is not kind in you to come up here and make me losemy time and temper, while you sit there coolly and talk in infernalparables!"

"Infernal parables!" cried the lady, in a tone of surprise and horror. 

"Oh, Arthur, Arthur! that comes of not going to church. Infernalparables! My soul and body, what an awful idea!"

The painter smiled. The contest was too utterly futile. He went slowlyback to his easel, and, after a few soothing puffs, began again to rubhis colors upon the pallet. He was humming carelessly once more, andputting his brush to the canvas before him, when his aunt remarked, "There, Arthur! now that you are reasonable, I'll tell you what I meant. "

The artist looked over his shoulder and laughed. 

"Go on, dear aunt. "

"I understand now why you don't go to our church. "

It was a remark so totally unexpected that Arthur stopped short andturned quite round. 

"What do you mean, Aunt Winnifred?"

"I mean, " said she, holding up the study as if to overwhelm him withresistless proof, "I mean, Arthur--and I could cry as I say it--that youare a Roman Catholic!"

Aunt Winnifred, who was an exemplary member of the Dutch Reformed Church, or, as Arthur gayly called her to her face, a Dutch Deformed Woman, wastoo simple and sincere in her religious faith to tolerate with equanimitythe thought that any one of the name of Merlin should be domiciled in theHouse of Sin, as she poetically described the Church of Rome. 

"Arthur! Arthur! and your father a clergyman. It's too dreadful!"

And the tender-hearted woman burst into tears. 

But still weeping, she waved the picture in melancholy confirmation ofher assertion. Arthur was amused and perplexed. 

"My dear aunt, what has put such a droll idea into your head?"

"Because--because, " said Aunt Winnifred, sobbing and wiping her eyes, "because this picture, which you keep locked up so carefully, is apicture of the Holy Virgin. Oh dear! just to think of it!"

There was a fresh burst of feeling from the honest and affectionatewoman, who felt that to be a Roman Catholic was to be visibly sealed andstamped for eternal woe. But there was an answering burst of laughterfrom Arthur, who staggered to a sofa, and lay upon his back shoutinguntil the tears also rolled from his eyes. 

His aunt stopped, appalled, and made up her mind that he was not only aCatholic but a madman. Then, as Arthur grew more composed, he and hisaunt looked at each other for some moments in silence. 

"Aunt, you are right. It is the Holy Virgin!"

"Oh! Arthur, " she groaned. 

"It is my Madonna!"

"Poor boy!" sighed she. 

"It is the face I worship. "

"Arthur! Arthur!" and his aunt despairingly patted her knees slowly withher hands. 

"But her name is not Mary. "

Aunt Winnifred looked surprised. 

"Her name is Diana. "

"Diana?" echoed his aunt, as if she were losing her mind. "Oh! I beg yourpardon. Then it's only a portrait after all? Yes, yes. Diana who?"

Arthur Merlin curled one foot under him as he sat, and, lighting a freshcigar, told Aunt Winnifred the lovely legend of Latmos--talking of Dianaand Endymion, and thinking of Hope Wayne and Arthur Merlin. 

Aunt Winnifred listened with the utmost interest and patience. Her nephewwas eloquent. Well, well, thought the old lady, if interest in hispursuit makes a great painter, my dear nephew will be a great man. Duringthe course of the story Arthur paused several times, evidently lost inreverie--perhaps tracing the analogy. When he ended there was a moment'ssilence. Then Aunt Winnifred looked kindly at him, and said:

"Well?"

"Well, " said Arthur, as he uncurled his leg, and with a half sigh, as ifit were pleasanter to tell old legends of love than to paint modernportraits. 

"Is that the whole?"

"That is the whole. "

"Well; but Arthur, did she marry him after all?"

Arthur looked wistfully a moment at his aunt. 

"Marry him! Bless you, no, Aunt Winnifred. She was a goddess. Goddessesdon't marry. "

Aunt Winnifred did not answer. Her eyes softened like eyes that see daysand things far away--like eyes in which shines the love of a heart that, under those conditions, would rather not be a goddess. 

CHAPTER LVI. 

REDIVIVUS. 

Ellen Bennet, like May Newt, was a child no longer--hardly yet a woman, or only a very young one. Rosy cheeks, and clustering hair, and blueeyes, showed only that it was May--June almost, perhaps--instead of gustyMarch or gleaming April. 

"Ellen, " said Gabriel, in a low voice--while his mother, who was busilysewing, conversed in a murmuring undertone with her husband, who sat uponthe sofa, slowly swinging his slippered foot--"Ellen, Lawrence Newtdidn't say that he should ask Edward to his dinner on my birthday. "

Ellen's cheeks answered--not her lips, nor her eyes, which were bent upona purse she was netting. 

"But I think he will, " added Gabriel. "I think I have mistaken LawrenceNewt if he does not. "

"He is usually very thoughtful, " whispered Ellen, as she netted busily. 

"Ellen, how handsome Edward is!" said Gabriel, with enthusiasm. 

The young woman said nothing. 

"And how good!" added Gabriel. 

"He is, " she answered, scarcely audibly. Then she said she had leftsomething up stairs. How many things are discovered by young women, undercertain circumstances, to have been left up stairs! Ellen rose and leftthe room. 

"I was saying to your father, Gabriel, " said his mother, raising hervoice, and still sewing, "that Edward comes here a great deal. "

"Yes, mother; and I am glad of it. He has very few friends in the city. "

"He looks like a Spaniard, " said Mr. Bennet, slowly, dwelling upon everyword. "How rich that lustrous tropical complexion is! Its duskiness ismysterious. The young man's eyes are like summer moonlight. "

Mr. Bennet's own eyes half closed as he spoke, as if he were dreaming ofgorgeous summer nights and the murmur of distant music. 

Gabriel and his mother were instinctively silent. The click of her needlewas the only sound. 

"Oh yes, yes--that is--I mean, my dear, he does come here very often. Ido go off on such foolish fancies!" remarked Mr. Bennet, at length. 

"He comes very often when you are not at home, Gabriel, " said Mrs. Bennet, after a kind glance at her husband, and still sewing. 

"Yes, mother. "

"Then it isn't only to see you?"

"No, mother. "

"And often when your father and I return from an evening stroll in thestreets we find him here. "

"Yes, mother. "

"It isn't to see us altogether, then?"

"No, mother. "

Mrs. Bennet turned her work, and in so doing glanced for a moment at herson. His eyes were upon her face, but he seemed to have said all he hadto say. 

"I always feel, " said Mr. Bennet, in a tone and with an expression as ifhe were looking at something very far away, "as if King Arthur must havelived in the tropics. There is that sort of weird, warm atmosphere in theromance. Where is Ellen? Shall we read some more in this little editionof the old story?"

He laid his hand, as he spoke, upon a small copy of old Malory's Romanceof Arthur. It was a kind of reading of which he was especially fond, andto which the rest were always willing and glad to listen. 

"Call Ellen, " said he to Gabriel; "and now then for King Arthur!"

As he spoke the door-bell rang. The next moment a young man, apparentlyof Gabriel's age, entered the room. His large melancholy black eyes, themassive black curls upon his head, the transparent olive complexion, anatural elegance of form and of movement--all corresponded with what Mr. Bennet had been saying. It was evidently Edward. 

"Good-evening, Little Malacca!" cried Gabriel, gayly, as he rose and putout his hand. 

"Good-evening, Gabriel!" he answered, in a soft, ringing voice; thenbowed and spoke to Mr. And Mrs. Bennet. 

"Gabriel doesn't forget old school-days, " said the new-comer to Mrs. Bennet. 

"No, he has often told us of his friendship with Little Malacca, "returned the lady calmly, as she resumed her work. 

"And how little I thought I was to see him when I came to Mr. Newt'sstore, " said the young man. 

"Where did you first know Mr. Lawrence Newt?" asked Mrs. Bennet. 

"I don't remember when I didn't know him, Madam, " replied Edward. 

"Happy fellow!" said Gabriel. 

Meanwhile Miss Ellen had probably found the mysterious something whichshe had left up stairs; for she entered the room, and bowed very calmlyupon seeing Edward, and, seating herself upon the side of the tablefarthest from him, was presently industriously netting. As for Edward, he had snapped a sentence in the middle as he rose and bowed to her, andcould not possibly fit the two ends together when he sat down again, andso lost it. 

Gradually, as the evening wore on, the conversation threatened to divideitself into _têtes-à-tête_; for Gabriel suddenly discovered that he hadan article upon Hemp to read in the Encyclopedia which he had recentlypurchased, and was already profoundly immersed in it, while Mr. And Mrs. Bennet resumed their murmuring talk, and the chair of the youth with thelarge black eyes, somehow--nobody saw how or when--slipped round until itwas upon the same side of the table with that of Ellen, who was busilynetting. 

Mrs. Bennet was conscious that the chair had gone round, and the swimmingeyes of her husband lingered with pleasure upon the mass of black curlsbent toward the golden hair which was bowed over that intricate purse. Ellen was sitting under that portrait of the lady, with the flashing, passionate eyes, who seemed to bear a family likeness to Mrs. Bennet. 

The more closely he looked at the handsome youth and the lovely girl themore curious Mr. Bennet's eyes became. He watched the two with suchintentness that his wife several times looked up at him surprised whenshe received no answer to her remarks. Evidently something had impressedMr. Bennet exceedingly. 

His wife bent her head a little nearer to his. 

"My dear, did you never see a pair of lovers before?"

He turned his dreaming eyes at that, smiled, and pressed his lipssilently to the face which was so near his own that if it had been therefor the express purpose of being caressed it could hardly have beennearer. 

Then slipping his arm around her waist, Mr. Bennet drew his wife towardhim and pointed with his head, but so imperceptibly that only sheperceived it, toward the young people, as if he saw something more than apair of lovers. The fond woman's eyes followed her husband's. Graduallythey became as intently fixed as his. They seemed to be curiouslycomparing the face of the young man who sat at their daughter's side withthe face of the portrait that hung above her head. Mrs. Bennet grewperceptibly paler as she looked. The unconscious Edward and Ellenmurmured softly together. She did not look at him, but she felt thelight of his great eyes falling upon her, and she was not unhappy. 

"My dear, " began Mr. Bennet in a low tone, still studying the face andthe portrait. 

"Hush!" said his wife, softly, laying her head upon his shoulder; "I seeit all, I am sure of it. "

Gabriel turned at this moment from his Encyclopedia. He looked intentlyfor some time at the group by the table, as if studying all theirthoughts, and then said, gravely, in a loud, clear voice, so that Ellendropped a stitch, Edward stopped whispering, and Mr. And Mrs. Bennet saterect, "Exactly. I knew how it was. It says distinctly, 'This plant is supposedto be a native of India; but it has long been naturalized and extensivelycultivated elsewhere, particularly in Russia, where it forms an articleof primary importance. '"

CHAPTER LVII. 

DINING WITH LAWRENCE NEWT. 

Gabriel Bennett was not confident that Edward Wynne would be at thebirthday dinner given in his honor by Lawrence Newt, but he was very surethat May Newt would be there, and so she was. It was at Delmonico's; anda carriage arrived at the Bennets' just in time to convey them. Anothercame to Mr. Boniface Newt's, to whom brother Lawrence explained that hehad invited his daughter to dinner, and that he should send a youngfriend--in fact, his confidential clerk, to accompany Miss Newt. BrotherBoniface, who looked as if he were the eternally relentless enemy of allyoung friends, had nevertheless the profoundest confidence in brotherLawrence, and made no objection. So the hero of the day conducted MissMay Newt to the banquet. 

The hero of the day was so engaged in conversation with Miss May Newtthat he said very little to his neighbor upon the other side, who was noother than Hope Wayne. She had been watching very curiously a young manwith black curls and eyes, who seemed to have words only for hisneighbor, Miss Ellen Bennet. She presently turned and asked Gabrielif she had never seen him before. "I have, surely, some glimmeringremembrance of that face, " she said, studying it closely. 

Her question recalled a day which was strangely remote and unreal inGabriel's memory. He even half blushed, as if Miss Wayne had reminded himof some early treason to a homage which he felt in the very bottom of hisheart for his blue-eyed neighbor. But the calm, unsuspicious sweetness ofHope Wayne's face consoled him. He looked at her for a moment withoutspeaking. It was really but a moment, yet, as he looked, he lay in aheavily-testered bed--he heard the beating of the sea upon the shore--hesaw the sage Mentor, the ghostly Calypso putting aside the curtain--for amoment he was once more the little school-boy, bruised and ill atPinewood; but this face--no longer a girl's face--no longer anxious, but sweet, serene, and tender--was this the half-haughty face he hadseen and worshipped in the old village church--the face whose eyes ofsympathy, but not of love, had filled his heart with such exquisite pain?

"That young man, Miss Wayne, is Edward Wynne, " he said, in reply to thequestion. 

It did not seem to resolve her perplexity. 

"I don't recall the name, " she answered. "I think he must remind me ofsome one I have known. "

"He is as black as Abel Newt, " said Gabriel, looking with his clear eyesat Hope Wayne. 

"But much handsomer than Mr. Newt now is, " she answered, with perfectunconcern. "His eyes are softer; and, in fact, " she said, smilingpleasantly, "I am not surprised to see what a willing listener hisneighbor is. I wish I could recall him. I don't think that he resemblesMr. Newt at all, except in complexion. "

Arthur Merlin heard every word, and watched every movement, and markedevery expression of Hope Wayne's, at whose other hand he sat, during thislittle remark. Gabriel said, in reply to it, "The truth is, Miss Wayne, you have seen him before. The first time youever saw me he was with me. "

The clear eyes of the young man were turned full upon her again. 

"Oh, yes, I remember now!" she answered. "He was your friend in thatterrible battle with Abel Newt. It seems long ago, does it not?"

However far away it may have seemed, it was apparently a remembrance thatroused no especial emotion in Miss Hope Wayne's heart. Having satisfiedherself, she released the attention of Gabriel, who had other subjects ofconversation with May Newt than his quarrel with her brother for thefavor of Hope Wayne. 

But Arthur Merlin observed that while Hope Wayne listened with herears to him, with her eyes she listened to Lawrence Newt. His simple, unselfish, and therefore unconscious urbanity--his genial, kindlyhumor--and the soft, manly earnestness of his face, were notunheeded--how could they be?--by her. Since the day the will was read hehad been a faithful friend and counselor. It was he who negotiated forher house. It was he who daily called and gave her a thousand counsels inthe details of management, of which every woman who comes into a largeproperty has such constant need. And in all the minor arrangements ofbusiness she found in him the same skill and knowledge, combined with awomanly reserve and softness, which had first so strongly attracted her. 

Yet his visits as financial counsel, as he called himself, did notdestroy, they only heightened, the pleasure of the meetings of the RoundTable. For the group of friends still met. They talked of poetry still. They talked of many things, and perhaps thought of but a few. Thepleasure to all of them was evident enough; but it seemed more perplexedthan formerly. Hope Wayne felt it. Amy Waring felt it. Arthur Merlin feltit. But not one of them could tell whether Lawrence Newt felt it. Therewas a vague consciousness of something which nearly concerned them all, but not one of them could say precisely what it was--except, possibly, Amy Waring; and except, certainly, Lawrence Newt. 

For Aunt Martha's question had drawn from Amy's lips what had lainliterally an unformed suspicion in her mind, until it leaped to life andrushed armed from her mouth. Amy Waring saw how beautiful Hope Wayne was. She knew how lovely in character she was. And she was herself beautifuland lovely; so she said in her mind at once, "Why have I never seen this?Why did I not know that he must of course love her?"

Then, if she reminded herself of the conversation she had held withLawrence Newt about Arthur Merlin and Hope Wayne, she was only perplexedfor a moment. She knew that he could not but be honest; and she saidquietly in her soul, "He did not know at that time how well worthy hislove she was. "

CHAPTER LVIII. 

THE HEALTH OF THE JUNIOR PARTNER. 

"I call for a bumper!" said Lawrence Newt, when the fruit was placed uponthe table. 

The glasses were filled, and the host glanced around his table. He didnot rise, but he said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, commercial honesty is not impossible, but it israre. I do not say that merchants are worse than other people; I only saythat their temptations are as great, and that an honest man--a manperfectly honest every how and every where--is a wonder. Whatever anhonest man does is a benefit to all the rest of us. If he become alawyer, justice is more secure; if a doctor, quackery is in danger; ifa clergyman, the devil trembles; if a shoemaker, we don't wear rottenleather; if a merchant, we get thirty-six inches to the yard. I have beenlong in business. I have met many honest merchants. But I know that 'tishard for a merchant to be honest in New York. Will you show me the placewhere 'tis easy? When we are all honest because honesty is the bestpolicy, then we are all ruined, because that is no honesty at all. Whyshould a man make a million of dollars and lose his manhood? He dies whenhe has won them, and what are the chances that he can win his manhoodagain in the next world as easily as he has won the dollars in this?For he can't carry his dollars with him. Any firm, therefore, that getsan honest man into it gets an accession of the most available capital inthe world. This little feast is to celebrate the fact that my firm hasbeen so enriched. I invite you to drink the health of Gabriel Bennet, junior partner of the firm of Lawrence Newt & Co. !"

There was a moment of perfect silence. Then every body looked at Gabrielexcept his mother, whose eyes were so full of tears that she could seenothing. Gabriel himself was entirely surprised. He had had no hint fromLawrence Newt of this good fortune. He had worked faithfully, constantly, and intelligently--honestly, of course--that was all Gabriel knew abouthis position. He had been for some time confidential clerk, so that hewas fully cognizant of the state of the business, and knew how prosperousit was. And yet, in this moment of delight and astonishment, he had butone feeling, which seemed entirely alien and inadequate to the occasion, for it was merely the hope that now he might be a regular visitor at thehouse of Boniface Newt. 

Hope Wayne's eye had hung upon Lawrence Newt, during the little speech hehad made, so intently, that Arthur Merlin's merriment had been entirelychecked. He found himself curiously out of spirits. Until that moment, and especially after the little conversation between Hope and Gabriel, in which Abel Newt's name had been mentioned, Arthur had thought it, uponthe whole, the pleasantest little dinner he had ever known. He was not ofthe same opinion now. 

Edward Wynne and Ellen Bennet showed entire satisfaction with the dinner, and especially with Lawrence Newt's toast. And when the first hum ofapplause and pleasure had ceased, Edward cried out lustily, "A speech from the junior partner! A speech! a speech!"

There was a general call. Gabriel could not help rising, and blushing, and bowing, and stuttering, and sitting down again, amidst tempestuousapplause, without the slightest coherent idea of what he had said, exceptthat he was very happy, and very glad, and very sure, and very, etc. , etc. 

But he did not care a song for what he had said, nor for the applausethat greeted it, when he saw certain blue eyes glistening, and a softshyness upon certain cheeks and lips, as if they had themselves beenspeaking, and had been saying--what was palpably, undeniably, conspicuously true--that they were very happy, and very glad, and verysure, and very, etc. , etc. Very, indeed!

CHAPTER LIX. 

MRS. ALFRED DINKS. 

It was but a few days after the dinner that the junior partner was takingthe old path that led under the tower of the fairy princess, when lo! hemet her in the way. In her eyes there was that sweet light of expectationand happiness which illuminated all Gabriel's thoughts of her, andpersuaded him that he was the happiest and unworthiest of men. 

"Where are you going, May?"

"I am going to Fanny's. "

"May I go too?"

May Newt looked at him and said, gravely, "No, I am going to ask LittleMalacca to go with me. "

"Oh, very well, " replied Mr. Gabriel Bennet, with equal gravity. 

"What splendid, melancholy eyes he has!" said May, with unusual ardor. 

"Ah! you think so?"

"Of course I do, and such hair! Why, Mr. Bennet, did you ever see suchmagnificent hair--"

"Oh, you like black hair?"

"And his voice--"

"Now, May--"

"Well, Sir. "

"Please--"

What merry light in the fairy eyes! What dazzling splendor of love andhappiness in the face that turned to his as he laid her arm in his own!One would have thought she, too, had been admitted a junior partner insome most prosperous firm. 

They passed along the street, which was full of people, and Gabriel andMay unconsciously looked at the crowd with new eyes and thoughts. Can itbe possible that all these people are so secretly happy as two that weknow? thought they. "All my life, " said Gabriel to himself, withoutknowing it, "have I been going up and down, and never imagined how muchhoney there was hived away in all the hearts of which I saw only therough outside?" "All my life, " mused May, with sweet girl-eyes, "haveI passed lovers as if they were mere men and women?" And under her veil, where no eye could see, her cheek was flushed, and her eyes were sweeter. 

They passed up Broadway and turned across to the Bowery. Crossing thebroad pavement of the busy thoroughfare, they went into a narrow streetbeyond, and so toward the East River. At length they stopped before alow, modest house near a quiet corner. A sloppy kitchen-maid stood uponthe area steps abreast of the street. A few miserable trees, pining todeath in the stone desert of the town, were boxed up along the edge ofthe sidewalk. A scavenger's cart was joggling along, and a little behind, a ragman's wagon with a string of jangling bells. The smell of the sewerwas the chief odor, and the long lines of low, red brick houses, withwooden steps and balustrades, and the blinds closed, completed apermanent camp of dreariness. 

"Does Fanny Newt live there?" asked Gabriel, in a tone which indicatedthat there might be hearts in which honey was not abundantly hived. 

"Yes, " said May, gravely. "You know they have very little to live upon, and--and--oh dear, I don't like to speak of it, Gabriel, but they arevery miserable. "

Gabriel said nothing, but rang the bell. 

The sloppy servant having stared wildly for a moment at the apparitionof blooming love that had so incomprehensibly alighted upon the steps, ducked under them, and in a moment reappeared at the door. She seemedto recognize May, and said "Yes'm" before any question had been asked. 

Gabriel and May walked into the little parlor. It was dark and formal. There was a black haircloth sofa with wooden edges all over it, so thatnobody could lean or lounge, or do any thing but sit uncomfortablyupright. There were black haircloth chairs, a table with two or threebooks; two lamps with glass drops upon the mantle; a thin cheap carpet;gloom, silence, and a complicated smell of grease--as if the ghostsof all the wretched dinners that had ever been cooked in the househaunted it spitefully. 

While May went up stairs to find Fanny, Gabriel Bennet looked and smelledaround him. He had not believed that a human home could be so dismal, andhe could not understand how haircloth furniture and dimness could make itso. His father's house was certainly not very large; and it was scantilyand plainly furnished, but no Arabian palace had ever seemed so splendidto his imagination as that home was dear to his heart. No, it isn't thefurniture nor the smell, thought he. I am quite sure it is something thatI neither see nor smell that makes the difference. 

As he sat on the uncomfortable sofa and heard the jangling bells of theragman die away into the distance, and the loud, long, mournful whoop ofthe chimney-sweep, his fancy was busy with the figures of a thousandthings that might be--of a certain nameless somebody, mistress of thatpoor, sombre house, but so lighting it up with grace and gay sweetnessthat the hard sofa became the most luxurious lounge, and the cheap tablemore gorgeous than ormolu; and of a certain other nameless somebodycoming home at evening--an opening door--a rustle in the hall as ofwomen's robes--a singular sound as of meeting lips--then a comingtogether arm in arm into the dingy furnished little parlor, but with sucha bright fire blazing under the wooden mantle--and then--and then--apattering of little feet down the stairs--Hem! hem! said Gabriel Bennet, clearing his throat, as if to arouse himself by making a noise. For therewas a sound of feet upon the stairs, and the next moment May and hersister Fanny entered the room. Gabriel rose and bowed, and held out hishand. Mrs. Alfred Dinks said, "How do you do?" and seated herself withouttaking the hand. 

Time had not softened her face, but sharpened it, and her eyes were of afierce blackness. She looked forty years old; and there was a permanentfrown of her dark brows. 

"So this silly May is going to marry you?" said she, addressing Gabriel. 

Surprised by this kind of congratulation, but also much amused by it, asif there could be nothing so ludicrous as the idea of May not marrying aman who loved her as he loved, Gabriel gravely responded, "Yes, ma'am, she is set upon it. "

Fanny Newt, who had seated herself with an air of utter and chroniccontempt and indifference, and who looked away from Gabriel the momentshe had spoken to him, now turned toward him again suddenly with anexpression like that of an animal which pricks up his ears. The keenfire of the old days shot for a moment into her eyes, for it was thefirst word of badinage or humor that Fanny Newt had heard for a long, long time. 

"A woman who is such a fool as to marry ought to be unhappy, " shereplied, with her eyes fixed upon Gabriel. 

"A man who persuades her to do it ought to be taken out and hung, "answered he, with aphoristic gravity. 

Fanny was perplexed. 

"Better to be the slave of a parent than a husband, " she continued. 

"I'd lock him out, " retorted Gabriel, with pure irrelevancy; "I'd scotchhis sheets; I'd pour water in his boots; I'd sift sand in his hair-brush;I'd spatter vitriol on his shirts. A man who marries a woman deservesnothing better. "

He wagged his foot carelessly, took up one of the books upon the table, and looked into it indifferently. Fanny Newt turned to her sister, whosat smiling by her side. 

"What is the matter with this man?" asked Mrs. Alfred Dinks, audibly, ofMay. 

"There is a pregnant text, my dear Mrs. Dinks, _née_ Newt, a name which Idelight to pronounce, " said Gabriel, striking in before May could reply, with the lightest tone and the soberest face in the world, "whichinstructs us to answer a fool according to his folly. "

Fanny was really confounded. She had heard Abel in old days speak ofGabriel Bennet as a spooney--a saint in the milk--a goodsey, boodsey, booby--a sort of youth who would turn pale and be snuffed out by oneof her glances. She found him incomprehensible. She owed him the firstpositive emotion of human interest she had known for years. 

May Newt looked and listened without speaking. The soft light glimmeredin her eyes, for she knew what it all meant. It meant precisely what herpraises of Little Malacca meant. It meant that she and Gabriel loved eachother. 

The junior partner was still holding the book when a heavy step was heardin the entry. Fanny's eyes grew darker and the frown deeper. There was ablundering movement outside--a hat fell--a cane struck something--andGabriel knew as perfectly as if he could look through the wall what kindof man was coming. The door opened with a burst, and Mr. Alfred Dinksstopped as his eye fell upon the company. A heavy, coarse, red-faced, dull-eyed man, with an air of brutish obstinacy in every lineament andmovement, he stared for a moment without a word or sign of welcome, andthen looking at his wife, said, in a grunting, surly tone, "Look here; don't be fooling round. The old man's bust up!"

He banged the door violently to, and they heard his clumsy footstepscreaking up the stairs. 

CHAPTER LX. 

POLITICS. 

"In course; I sez to ma--why, Lord bless me, it must have been three orfour years ago--that 'twould all turn out so. What's rotten will come topieces, ma, sez I. Every year she sez to me, sez she, why ain't the Newtsfailed yet? as you said they was going to. Jest you be quiet, sez I, ma, it's comin'. So 'twas. I know'd all about it. "

President Van Boozenberg thus unburdened his mind and justified hisvaticinations to the knot of gentlemen who were perpetually at the bank. They listened, and said ah! and yes, and shook their heads; and the shakyones wondered whether the astute financier had marked them and had saidto ma, sez he, that for all they looked so bright and crowded canvasso smartly, they are shaky, ma--shaky. 

General Belch heard the news at his office. He was sitting on the endof his back-bone, which was supported on the two hind legs of a woodenchair, while the two fore legs and his own were lifted in the air. Hisown, however, went up at a more precipitate angle and rested with thefeet apart upon the mantle. By a skillful muscular process the Generalejected tobacco juice from his mouth, between his legs, and usuallylodged it in the grate before him. It was evident, however, that manyof his friends had not been so successful, for the grate, the hearth, and the neighboring floor were spotted with the fluid. 

The Honorable Mr. Ele was engaged in conversation with his friend Belch, who was giving him instructions for the next Congressional session. 

"You see, Ele, if we could only send something of the right stamp--theright stamp, I say, in the place of Watkins Bodley from the thirddistrict, we should be all right. Bodley is very uncertain. "

"I know, " returned the Honorable Mr. Ele, "Bodley is not sound. He hasnot the true party feeling. He is not willing to make sacrifices. And yetI think that--that--perhaps--"

He looked at General Belch inquiringly. That gentleman turned, beamedapproval, and squirted a copious cascade. 

"Exactly, " said Mr. Ele, "I was saying that I think if Mr. Bodkins, whois a perfectly honorable man--"

"Oh, perfectly; nothing against his character. Besides, it's a freecountry, and every body may have his opinions, " said General Belch. 

"Precisely, " resumed Mr. Ele, "as I was saying; being a perfectlyhonorable man--in fact, unusually honorable, I happen to know that heis in trouble--ahem! ahem! pecuniary trouble. "

He paused a moment, while his friend of the military title looked hard atthe grate, as if selecting a fair mark, then made a clucking noise, anddrenched it completely. He then said, musingly, "Yes, yes--ah yes--I see. It is a great pity. The best men get into suchtrouble. How much money did you say he wanted?"

"I said he was in pecuniary trouble, " returned Mr. Ele, with a slighttone of correction. 

"I understand, Mr. Ele, " answered the other, a little pompously, and withan air of saying, "Know your place, Sir. "

"I understand, and I wish to know how large a sum would relieve Mr. Bodley from his immediate pressure. "

"I think about eight or nine thousand dollars. Perhaps a thousand more. "

"I suppose, " said General Belch, slowly, still looking into the blank, dismal grate, and rubbing his fat nose steadily with his fat forefingerand thumb, "I suppose that a man situated as Mr. Bodley is finds it verydetrimental to his business to be engaged in public life, and mightpossibly feel it to be his duty to his family and creditors to resignhis place, if he saw a promising way of righting his business, withoutdepending upon the chances of a Congressional career. "

As he drew to the end of this hypothetical harangue General Belch lookedsideways at his companion to see if he probably understood him. 

The Honorable Mr. Ele shook his head in turn, looked solemnly into theempty grate, and said, slowly and with gravity:

"The supposition might be entertained for the sake of the argument. "

The General was apparently satisfied with this reply, for he continued:

"Let us, then, suppose that a sum of eight or nine thousand dollarshaving been raised--and Mr. Bodley having resigned--that a new candidateis to be selected who shall--who shall, in fact, serve his country fromour point of view, who ought the man to be?"

"Precisely; who ought the man to be?" replied Mr. Ele. 

The two gentlemen looked gravely into the grate. General Belch squirtedreflectively. The Honorable Mr. Ele raised his hand and shaded his eyes, and gazed steadfastly, as if he expected to see the candidate emerge fromthe chimney. While they still sat thoughtfully a knock was heard at thedoor. The General started and brought down his chair with a crash. Mr. Ele turned sharply round, as if the candidate had taken him by surprisein coming in by the door. 

A boy handed General Belch a note:

"MY DEAR BELCH, --B. Newt, Son, & Co. Have stopped. We do not hear of anassignment, so desire you to take steps at once to secure judgment uponthe inclosed account. 

"Yours, PERIWING & BUDDBY. "

"Hallo!" said General Belch, as the messenger retired, "old Newt'ssmashed! However, it's a great while since he has done any thing forthe party. --By Jove!"

The last exclamation was sudden, as if he had been struck by a happythought. He took a fresh quid in his mouth, and, putting his hands uponhis knees, sat silently for five minutes, and then said, "I have the man!"

"You have the man?" said Ele, looking at him with interest. 

"Certainly. Look here!"

Mr. Ele did look, as earnestly as if he expected the General to take theman out of his pocket. 

"You know we want to get the grant, at any rate. If we only have men whosee from our point of view, we are sure of it. I think I know a man whocan be persuaded to look at the matter from that point--a man who may beof very great service to the party, if we can persuade him to see fromour point of view. "

"Who is that?" asked Mr. Ele. 

"Abel Newt, " replied General Belch. 

Mr. Ele seemed somewhat surprised. 

"Oh--yes--ah--indeed. I did not know he was in political life, " said he. 

"He isn't, " returned General Belch. 

Mr. Ele looked for further instructions. 

"Every body must begin, " said Belch. "Look here. If we don't get thisgrant from Congress, what on earth is the use of having worked so longin this devilish old harness of politics? Haven't we been to primarymeetings, and conventions, and elections, and all the other tomfoolery, speechifying and plotting and setting things right, and being bled, byJupiter!--bled to the tune of more hundreds than I mean to lose; and now, just as we are where a bold push will save every thing, and make it worthwhile to have worked in the nasty mill so long, we must have our witsabout us. Do you know Abel Newt?"

"No. "

"I do. He is a gentleman without the slightest squeamishness. He isperfectly able to see things from particular points of view. He has greatknowledge of the world, and he is a friend of the people, Sir. Hispolitics are of the right kind, " said General Belch, in a tone whichseemed to be setting the tune for any future remarks Mr. Ele might haveto make about Mr. Newt--at public meetings, for instance, or elsewhere. 

"I am glad to hear he is a friend of the people, " returned Mr. Ele. 

"Yes, Sir, he is the consistent enemy of a purse-proud aristocracy, Sir. "

"Exactly; purse-proud aristocracy, " repeated Mr. Ele, as if conning alesson by rote. 

"Dandled in the lap of luxury, he does not hesitate to descend from it toespouse the immortal cause of popular rights. "

"Popular rights, " returned the Honorable Mr. Ele, studying his lesson. 

"Animated by a glowing patriotism, he stands upon the people, and wavesabove his head the glorious flag of our country. "

"Glorious flag of our country, " responded the other. 

"The undaunted enemy of monopoly, he is equally the foe of classlegislation and the friend of State rights. "

"Friend of State rights. "

"Ahem!" said General Belch, looking blankly at Mr. Ele, "where was I?"

"Friend of State rights, " parroted Mr. Ele. 

"Exactly; oh yes! And if ever the glorious fabric of our country's--ourcountry's--our country's--d---- it! our country's what, Mr. Ele?"

That honorable gentleman was engaged with his own thoughts while hefollowed with his tongue the words of his friend, so that, perhaps alittle maliciously, perhaps a little unconsciously, he went on in thesame wooden tone of repetition. 

"D---- it! Our country's what, Mr. Ele?"

General Belch looked at his companion. They both smiled. 

"How the old phrases sort o' slip out, don't they?" asked the General, squirting. 

"They do, " said Mr. Ele, taking snuff. 

"Well, now, don't you see what kind of man Abel Newt is?"

"I do, indeed, " replied Ele. 

"I tell you, if you fellows from the city don't look out for yourselves, you'll find him riding upon your shoulders. He is a smart fellow. I amvery sorry for Watkins Bodley. Any family?"

"Yes--a good deal, " replied Mr. Ele, vaguely. 

"Ah indeed! Pity! pity! I suppose, then, that a proper sense of what heowes to his family--eh?"

"Without question. Oh! certainly. "

General Belch rose. 

"I do not see, then, that we have any thing else that ought todetain you. I will see Mr. Newt, and let you know. Good-morning, Mr. Ele--good-morning, my dear Sir. "

And the General bowed out the representative so imperatively that theHonorable B. Jawley Ele felt very much as if he had been kicked downstairs. 

CHAPTER LXI. 

GONE TO PROTEST. 

There was an unnatural silence and order in the store of Boniface Newt, Son, & Co. The long linen covers were left upon the goods. The cases wereclosed. The boys sat listlessly and wonderingly about. The porter layupon a bale reading a newspaper. There was a sombre regularity andrepose, like that of a house in which a corpse lies, upon the morningof the funeral. 

Boniface Newt sat in his office haggard and gray. His face, like hisdaughter Fanny's, had grown sharp, and almost fierce. The blinds wereclosed, and the room was darkened. His port-folio lay before him uponthe desk, open. The paper was smooth and white, and the newly-mendedpens lay carefully by the inkstand. But the merchant did not write. He had not written that day. His white, bony hand rested upon theport-folio, and the long fingers drummed upon it at intervals, whilehis eyes half-vacantly wandered out into the store and saw the longshrouds drawn over the goods. Occasionally a slight sigh of wearinessescaped him. But he did not seem to care to distract his mind from itsgloomy intentness; for the morning paper lay beside him unopened, although it was afternoon. 

In the outer office the book-keeper was still at work. He lookedfrom book to book, holding the leaves and letting them fallcarefully--comparing, computing, writing in the huge volumes, and filingvarious papers away. Sometimes, while he yet held the leaves in his handsand the pen in his mouth, with the appearance of the utmost abstractionin his task, his eyes wandered in to the inner office, and dimly saw hisemployer sitting silent and listless at his desk. For many years he hadbeen Boniface Newt's clerk; for many years he had been a still, faithful, hard-worked servant. He had two holidays, besides the Sundays--New Year'sDay and the Fourth of July. The rest of the year he was in the office bynine in the morning, and did not leave before six at night. During thetime he had been quietly writing in those great red books he had marrieda wife and seen the roses fade in her cheeks--he had had children grow-uparound him--fill his evening home and his Sunday hours with light--marry, one after another, until his home had become as it was before a child wasborn to him, and then gradually grow bright and musical again with theeyes and voices of another generation. Glad to earn his little salary, which was only enough for decency of living, free from envy and ambition, he was bound by a kind of feudal tenure to his employer. 

As he looked at the merchant and observed his hopeless listlessness, hethought of his age, his family, and of the frightful secrets hidden inthe huge books that were every night locked carefully into the iron safe, as if they were written all over with beautiful romances instead ofterrible truths--and the eyes of the patient plodder were so blurred thathe could not see, and turning his head that no one might observe him, he winked until he could see again. 

A young man entered the store hastily. The porter dropped the paperand sprang up; the boys came expectantly forward. Even the book-keeperstopped to watch the new-comer as he came rapidly toward the office. Onlythe head of the house sat unconcernedly at his desk--his long, pale, bonyfingers drumming on the port-folio--his hard eyes looking out at themessenger. 

"This way, " said the book-keeper, suddenly, as he saw that he was goingtoward Mr. Newt's room. 

"I want Mr. Newt. "

"Which one?"

"The young one, Mr. Abel Newt. "

"He is not here. "

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. "

Before the book-keeper was aware the young man had opened the door thatcommunicated with Mr. Newt's room. The haggard face under the gray hairturned slowly toward the messenger. There was something in the sittingfigure that made the youth lift his hand and remove his cap, and say, in a low, respectful voice, "Can you tell me, Sir, where to find Mr. Abel Newt?"

The long, pale, bony fingers still listlessly drummed. The hard eyesrested upon the questioner for a few moments; then, without any evidenceof interest, the old man answered simply, "No, " and looked away as if hehad forgotten the stranger's presence. 

"Here's a note for him from General Belch. "

The gray head beckoned mechanically toward the other room, as if allbusiness were to be transacted there; and the young man bowing again, with a vague sense of awe, went in to the outer office and handed thenote to the book-keeper. 

It was very short and simple, as Abel found when he read it:

"MY DEAR SIR, --I have just heard of your misfortunes. Don't be dismayed. In the shindy of life every body must have his head broken two or threetimes, and in our country 'tis a man's duty to fall on his feet. Such menas Abel Newt are not made to fail. I want to see you immediately. 

"Yours very truly, "ARCULARIUS BELCH. "

CHAPTER LXII. 

THE CRASH, UP TOWN. 

The moment Mrs. Dagon heard the dismal news of Boniface Newt's failureshe came running round to see his wife. The house was as solemnly stillas the store and office down town. Mrs. Dagon looked in at the parlor, which was darkened by closed blinds and shades drawn over the windows, and in which all the furniture was set as for a funeral, except thatthe chilly chintz covers were not removed. 

She found Mrs. Nancy Newt in her chamber with May. 

"Well, well! What does this mean? It's all nothing. Don't you be alarmed. What's failing? It doesn't mean any thing; and I really hope, now thathe has actually failed and done with it, Boniface will be a little morecheerful and liberal. Those parlor curtains are positively too bad!Boniface ought to have plenty of time to himself; and I hope he will givemore of those little dinners, and cheer himself up! How is he?"

Mrs. Newt was dissolved in tears. She shook her head weakly, and rubbedher hands. 

"Oh! Aunt Dagon, it's dreadful to see him. He don't seem himself. He doesnothing but sit at the table and drum with his fingers; and in the nighthe lies awake, thinking. And, oh dear!" she said, giving way to a suddenburst of grief, "he doesn't scold at any thing. "

Mrs. Dagon listened and reflected. 

"My dear, " she asked, "has he settled any thing upon you?"

"Nothing, " replied Mrs. Newt. 

"Aunt Dagon, " said May, who sat by, looking at the old lady, "we are nowpoor people. We shall sell this house, and go and live in a small way outof sight. "

"Fiddle, diddle! my dear, " returned Mrs. Dagon, warmly; "you'll do nosuch thing. Poor people, indeed! Why, May, you know nothing about thesethings. Failing, failing; why, my dear, that's nothing. A New Yorkmerchant expects to fail, just as an English lord expects to have thegout. It isn't exactly a pleasant thing, but it's extremely respectable. Every body fails. It's understood. "

"What's understood?" asked May. 

"Why, that business is a kind of game, and that every body runs for luck. Oh, I know all about it, my dear! It's all a string of cards--as ColonelBurr used to say; and I think if any body knew the world he did--it's alla string of blocks. B trusts A, C trusts B, D trusts C, and so on. Atumbles over, and down go B, and C, and D. That's the whole of it, mydear. Colonel Burr used to say that his rule was to keep himself just outof reach of any other block. If they knock me over, my dear Miss Bunley, he once said to me--ah! May, what a voice he said it in, what an eye!--ifthey knock me over, I shall be so busy picking myself up that I shall beforced to be selfish, and can't help them, so I had better keep away, andthen I can be of some service. That was Colonel Burr's principle. Hedeclared it was the only way in which you could be sure of helpingothers. People talk about Colonel Burr. My dear, Colonel Burr was a manwho minded his own business. "

May Newt held her tongue. She felt instinctively that a woman ofsixty-five, who had been trained by Colonel Burr, was not very likely toaccept the opinions of a girl of her years. Mrs. Newt was feebly rockingherself during the conversation between her daughter and aunt; and whenthey had finished said, despairingly, "Dear me! what will people say? Oh! I can't go and live poor. I'm notused to it. I don't know how. "

"Live poor!" sniffed Mrs. Dagon; "of course you won't live poor. I'veheard Boniface say often enough that it was too bad, but it was a worldof good-for-nothing people; and you don't think he's going to letgood-for-nothing people drive him from a becoming style of living?Fiddle! I'd like to see him undertake to live poor. "

"Do you think people will come to see us?" gasped Mrs. Newt. 

"Come? Of course they will. They'll all rush, the first thing, to see howyou take it. Why, such a thing as this is a godsend to 'em. They'll havesomething to talk about for a week. And they'll all try to discover ifyou mean to sell out at auction. Oh, they will be _so_ sorry!" said theold lady, imitating imaginary callers; "'and, my dear Mrs. Newt, what_are_ you going to do? And to think of your being obliged to leave thislovely house!' Come?--did you ever know the vultures not to come to acarcass?"

Mrs. Nancy Newt looked appalled; and so energetic was Mrs. Dagon in herallusion to vultures and carcass, that her niece unconsciously put to hernose the smelling-bottle she held in her hand. 

"Oh, it's dreadful!" she sighed, rocking and smelling, and with the tearsoozing from her eyes. 

"Fiddle! I won't hear of it. 'Tain't dreadful. It's nothing at all. Youmust go out with me and make calls this very morning. It's none of yourbusiness. If your husband chooses to fail, let him fail. He can't expectyou to take to making shirts, and to give up society. I shall call attwelve in the carriage; and, mind, don't you look red and mopy. Remember. So, good-morning! And, May, I want to speak to you. "

They left Mrs. Newt rocking and weeping, with the smelling-bottle at hernose, and descended to the solemn parlor. 

"What brought this about?" asked Mrs. Dagon, as she closed the door. "Your mother is in such a state that it does no good to talk to her. Where's Abel?"

"Aunt Dagon, I have my own opinion, but I know nothing. I suppose Abel isdown town. "

"What's your opinion?"

May paused for a moment, and then said:

"From what I have heard drop from father during the last few years sinceAbel has been in the business, I don't believe that Abel has helpedhim--"

"Exactly, " interrupted Mrs. Dagon, as if soliloquizing; "and why on earthdidn't the fellow marry Hope Wayne, or that Southern girl, Grace Plumer?"

"Abel marry Hope Wayne?" asked May, with an air and tone of such utteramazement and incredulity that Aunt Dagon immediately recovered from herabstraction, and half smiled. 

"Why, why not?" said she, with equal simplicity. 

May Newt knew Hope Wayne personally, and she had also heard of her fromGabriel Bennet. Indeed, Gabriel had no secrets from May. The whole schoolstory of his love had been told to her, and she shared the young man'sfeeling for the woman who, as a girl, had so utterly enthralled hisimagination. But Gabriel's story of school life also included her brotherAbel, and what she heard of the boy agreed with what she knew and felt ofthe man. 

"I presume, " said May Newt, loftily, "that Hope Wayne would be as likelyto marry Aaron Burr as Abel Newt. "

Mrs. Dagon looked at her kindly, and with amused admiration. 

"Well, May, at any rate I congratulate Gabriel Bennet. "

May's lofty look drooped. 

"And if"--continued Mrs. Dagon--"if it was so wonderfully impossiblethat Abel should marry Hope Wayne, why might he not have married GracePlumer, or some other rich girl? I'm sure I don't care who. It wasevidently the only thing for _him_, whatever it may be for other people. When you are of my age, May, you will rate things differently. Well-bredmen and women in society ought to be able to marry any body. Societyisn't heaven, and it's silly to behave as if it were. Your romance isvery pretty, dear; we all have it when we are young, as we have themeasles and the whooping-cough. But we get robust constitutions, mydear, " said the old lady, smiling kindly, "when we have been throughall that business. When you and Gabriel have half a dozen children, and your girls grow up to be married, you'll understand all about it. I suppose you know about Mellish Whitloe and Laura Magot, don't you, dear?"

May shook her head negatively. 

"Well, they are people who were wise early. Just after they were marriedhe said to her, 'Laura, I see that you are fond of this new dance whichis coming in; you like to waltz. ' 'Yes, I do, ' said she. 'Well, I don'tlike it, and I don't want you to waltz. ' She pouted and cried, and calledhim a tyrant. He hummed Yankee Doodle. 'I _will_ waltz, ' said she atlength. 'Very well, my dear, ' he answered. 'I'll make a bargain withyou. If you waltz, I'll get drunk. ' You see it works perfectly. Theyrespect each other, and each does as the other wishes. I hope you'll beas wise with Gabriel, my dear. "

"Aunt, I hope I shall never be as old as you are, " said May, quietly. "I'd rather die. "

Mrs. Dagon laughed her laugh. "That's right, dear, stand by your colors. You're all safe. Gabriel is Lawrence's partner. You can afford to beromantic, dear. "

As she spoke the door opened, and Abel entered. His dress was disordered, his face was flushed, and his manner excited. He ran up to May and kissedher. She recoiled from the unaccustomed caress, and both she and Mrs. Dagon perceived in his appearance and manner, as well as in the odorwhich presently filled the room, that Abel was intoxicated. 

"May, darling, " he began in a maudlin tone, "how's our dear mother?"

"She's pretty well, " replied May, "but you had better not go up and seeher. "

"No, darling, I won't go if you say not. "

His eyes then fell uncertainly upon Mrs. Dagon, and he added, thickly, "That's only Aunt Dagon. How do, Aunt Dagon?"

He smiled at her and at May, and continued, "I don't mind Aunt Dagon. Do you mind her, May?"

"What do you want, Abel?" asked May, with the old expression sliding intoher eyes that used to be there when she sat alone--a fairy princess inher tower, and thought of many things. 

Abel had seated himself upon the sofa, with his hat still on his head. There was perhaps something in May's tone that alarmed him, for he beganto shed tears. 

"Oh! May, don't you love your poor Abel?"

She looked at him without speaking. At length she said, "Where have youbeen?"

"I've been to General Belch's, " he sobbed, in reply; "and I don't mindAunt Dagon, if you don't. "

"What do you mean by that, you silly fool?" asked Mrs. Dagon, sharply. 

Abel stopped and looked half angry, for a moment, but immediately fellinto the old strain. 

"I mean I'd just as lieve say it before her. "

"Then say it, " said May. 

"Well, May, darling, couldn't you now just coax Gabriel--good fellow, Gabriel--used to know him and love him at school--couldn't you coax himto get Uncle Lawrence to do something?"

May shook her head. Abel began to snivel. 

"I don't mean for the house. D----n it, that's gone to smash. I mean formyself. May, for your poor brother Abel. You might just try. "

He lay back and looked at her ruefully. 

"Aunt Dagon, " she said, quietly, "we had better go out of the room. Abel, don't you come up stairs while you are in this state. I know all thatUncle Lawrence has done for father and you, and he will do nothing more. Do you expect him to pay your gambling debts?" she asked, indignantly. 

Abel raised himself fiercely, while the bad blackness filled his eyes. 

"D----d old hunks!" he shouted. 

But nobody heard. Mrs. Dagon and May Newt had closed the door, and Abelwas left alone. 

"It's no use, " he said, moodily and aloud, but still thickly. "Ican't help it. I shall have to do just as Belch wishes. But he musthelp me. If he expects me to serve him, he must serve me. He says hecan--buy off--Bodley--and then--why, then--devil take it!" he said, vacantly, with heavy eyes, "then--then--oh yes!" He smiled a maudlinsmile. "Oh yes! I shall be a great--a great--great--man--I'llbe--rep--rep--sentive--ofs--ofs--dear pe--pe. "

His head fell like a lump upon the cushion of the sofa, and he breathedheavily, until the solemn, dark, formal parlor smelled like a bar-room. 

CHAPTER LXIII. 

ENDYMION. 

Lawrence Newt had told Aunt Martha that he preferred to hear from a youngwoman's own lips that she loved him. Was he suspicious of the truth ofAunt Martha's assertion?

When the Burt will was read, and Fanny Dinks had hissed her envy andchagrin, she had done more than she would willingly have done: she hadsaid that all the world knew he was in love with Hope Wayne. If all theworld knew it, then surely Amy Waring did; "and if she did, was it sostrange, " he thought, "that she should have said what she did to me?"

He thought often of these things. But one of the days when he sat in hisoffice, and the junior partner was engaged in writing the letters whichformerly Lawrence wrote, the question slid into his mind as brightly, butas softly and benignantly, as daylight into the sky. 

"Does it follow that she does not love me? If she did love me, butthought that I loved Hope Wayne, would she not hide it from me in everyway--not only to save her own pride, but in order not to give me pain?"

So secret and reticent was he, that as he thought this he was nervouslyanxious lest the junior partner should happen to look up and read it allin his eyes. 

Lawrence Newt rose and stood at the window, with his back to Gabriel, forhis thoughts grew many and strange. 

As he came down that morning he had stopped at Hope Wayne's, and they hadtalked for a long time. Gabriel had told his partner of his visit to Mrs. Fanny Dinks, and Lawrence had mentioned it to Hope Wayne. The young womanlistened intently. 

"You don't think I ought to increase the allowance?" she asked. 

"Why should you?" he replied. "Alfred's father still allows him the sixhundred, and Alfred has promised solemnly that he will never mention tohis wife the thousand you allow him. I don't think he will, because he isafraid she would stop it in some way. As it is, she knows nothing morethan that six hundred dollars seems to go a very great way. Your incomeis large; but I think a thousand dollars for the support of two utterlyuseless people is quite as much as you are called upon to pay, althoughone of them is your cousin, and the other my niece. "

They went on to talk of many things. In all she showed the same calmcandor and tenderness. In all he showed the same humorous quaintness andgood sense. Lawrence Newt observed that these interviews were becominglonger and longer, although the affairs to arrange really became fewer. He could not discover that there was any particular reason for it; andyet he became uncomfortable in the degree that he was conscious of it. 

When the Round Table met, it was evident from the conversation betweenHope Wayne and Lawrence Newt that he was very often at her house; andsometimes, whenever they all appeared to be conscious that each one wasthinking of that fact, the cloud of constraint settled more heavily, butjust as impalpably as before, over the little circle. It was not removedby the conviction which Amy Waring and Arthur Merlin entertained, that atall such times Hope Wayne was trying not to show that she was peculiarlyexcited by this consciousness. 

And she was excited by it. She knew that the interviews were longer andlonger, and that there was less reason than ever for any interviewswhatsoever. But when Lawrence Newt was talking to her--when he waslooking at her--when he was moving about the room--she was happier thanshe had ever been--happier than she had supposed she could ever be. Whenhe went, that day was done. Nor did another dawn until he came again. 

Perhaps Hope Wayne understood the meaning of that mysterious constraintwhich now so often enveloped the Round Table. 

As for Arthur Merlin, the poor fellow did what all poor fellows do. Solong as it was uncertain whether she loved him or not, he was willing tosay nothing. But when he was perfectly sure that there was no hope forhim, he resolved to speak. 

In vain his Aunt Winnifred had tried to cheer him. Ever since the morningwhen he had told her in his studio the lovely legend of Latmos he couldnot persuade himself that he had not unwittingly told his own story. AuntWinnifred showered the choicest tracts about his room. She said with asigh that she was sure he had experienced no change of heart; and Arthurreplied, with a melancholy smile, "Not the slightest. "

The kind old lady was sorely puzzled. It did not occur to her thather Arthur could be the victim of an unfortunate attachment, like thelove-lorn heroes of whom she had read in the evil days when she readnovels. It did not occur to her, because she could as easily havesupposed a rose-tree to resist June as any woman her splendid Arthur. 

If some gossip to whom she sighed and shook her head, and wondered whatcould possibly ail Arthur--who still ate his dinner heartily, and had asmany orders for portraits as he cared to fulfill--suggested that therewas a woman in the case, good Aunt Winnifred smiled bland incredulity. 

"Dear Mrs. Toxer, I should like to see that woman!"

Then she plied her knitting-needles nimbly, sighed, scratched her headwith a needle, counted her stitches, and said, "Sometimes I can't but hope that it is concern of mind, without hisknowing it. "

Mrs. Toxer also knitted, and scratched, and counted. 

"No, ma'am; much more likely concern of heart with a full consciousnessof it. One, two, three--bless my soul! I'm always dropping a stitch. "

Aunt Winnifred, who never dropped stitches, smiled pleasantly, andanswered, "Yes, indeed, and this time you have dropped a very great one. "

Meanwhile Arthur's great picture advanced rapidly. Diana, who had lookedonly like a portrait of Hope Wayne looking out of a cloud, was now morefully completed. She was still bending from the clouds indeed, but therewas more and more human softness in the face every time he touched it. And lo! he had found at last Endymion. He lay upon a grassy knoll. Longwhispering tufts sighed around his head, which rested upon the verysummit of the mountain. There were no trees, no rocks. There was nothingbut the sleeping figure with the shepherd's crook by his side upon themountain top, all lying bare to the sky and to the eyes that looked fromthe cloud, and from which all the moonlight of the picture fell. 

When Lawrence Newt came into the studio one morning, Arthur, who workedin secret upon his picture and never showed it, asked him if he wouldlike to look at it. The merchant said yes, and seated himself comfortablyin a large chair, while the artist brought the canvas from an inner roomand placed it before him. As he did so, Arthur stepped a little aside, and watched him closely. 

Lawrence Newt gazed for a long time and silently at the picture. As hedid so, his face rapidly donned its armor of inscrutability, and Arthur'seyes attacked it in vain. Diana was clearly Hope Wayne. That he had seenfrom the beginning. But Endymion was as clearly Lawrence Newt! He lookedsteadily without turning his eyes, and after many minutes he said, quietly, "It is beautiful. It is triumphant. Endymion is a trifle too old, perhaps. But Diana's face is so noble, and her glance so tenderlyearnest, that it would surely rouse him if he were not dead. "

"Dead!" returned Arthur; "why you know he is only sleeping. "

"No, no, " said Lawrence, gently, "dead; utterly dead--to her. If he werenot, it would be simply impossible not to awake and love her. Who's thatold gentleman on the wall over there?"

Lawrence Newt asked the same question of all the portraits sopersistently that Arthur could not return to his Diana. When he hadsatisfied his curiosity--a curiosity which he had never shown before--themerchant rose and said good-by. 

"Stop, stop!"

Lawrence Newt turned, with his hand upon the door. 

"You like my picture--"

"Immensely. But if she looks forever she'll never waken him. PoorEndymion! he's dead to all that heavenly splendor. "

He was about closing the door. 

"Hallo!" cried Arthur. 

Lawrence Newt put his head into the room. 

"It's fortunate that he's dead!" said the painter. 

"Why so?"

"Because goddesses never marry. "

Lawrence Newt's head disappeared. 

CHAPTER LXIV. 

DIANA. 

"Good-morning, Miss Hope. "

"Good-morning, Mr. Merlin. "

He bowed and seated himself, and the conversation seemed to haveterminated. Hope Wayne was embroidering. The moment she perceived thatthere was silence she found it very hard to break it. 

"Are you busy now?" said she. 

"Very busy. "

"As long as men and women are vain, so long your profession willflourish, I suppose, " she replied, lifting her eyes and smiling. 

"I like it because it tells the truth, " replied Arthur, crushing his hat. 

"It omitted Alexander's wry neck, " said Hope. 

"It put in Cromwell's pimple, " answered Arthur. 

They both smiled. 

"However, that is not the kind of truth I mean--I mean poetic truth. Michael Angelo's Last Judgment shows the whole Catholic Church. "

Hope Wayne felt relieved, and looked interested. She did not feel somuch afraid of the silence, now that Arthur seemed entering upon adisquisition. But he stopped and said, "I've painted a picture. "

"Full of poetic truth, I suppose, " rejoined Hope, still smiling. 

"I've come to ask you to go and see that for yourself. "

"Now?"

"Now. "

She laid aside her embroidery, and in a little while they had reached hisstudio. As Hope Wayne entered she was impressed by the spaciousness ofthe room, the chastened light, and the coruscations of rich color hangingupon the walls. 

"It's like the garden of the Hesperides, " she said, gayly--"such mellowshadows, and such gorgeous colors, like those of celestial fruits. Idon't wonder you paint poetic truth. "

Arthur Merlin smiled. 

"Now you shall judge, " said he. 

Hope Wayne seated herself in the chair where Lawrence Newt had beensitting not two hours before, and settled herself to enjoy the spectacleshe anticipated; for she had a secret faith in Arthur's genius, and shemeant to purchase this great work of poetic truth at her own valuation. Arthur placed the picture upon the easel and drew the curtain from it, stepping aside as before to watch her face. 

The airy smile upon Hope Wayne's face faded instantly. The blood rushedto her hair. But she did not turn her eyes, nor say a word. The momentshe felt she could trust her voice, she asked, gravely, without lookingat Arthur, "What is it?"

"It is Diana and Endymion, " replied the painter. 

She looked at it for a long time, half-closing her eyes, which clung tothe face of Endymion. 

"I have not made Diana tender enough, " thought Arthur, mournfully, as hewatched her. 

"How soundly he sleeps!" said Hope Wayne, at length, as if she had beenreally trying to wake him. 

"You think he merely sleeps?" asked Arthur. 

"Certainly; why not?"

"Oh! I thought so too. But Lawrence Newt, who sat two hours ago justwhere you are sitting, said, as he looked at the picture, that Endymionwas dead. "

Hope Wayne put her finger to her lip, and looked inquiringly at hercompanion. 

"Dead! Did he say dead?" she asked. 

"Dead, " repeated Arthur Merlin. 

"I thought Endymion only slept, " continued Hope Wayne; "but Mr. Newt is ajudge of pictures--he knows. "

"He certainly spoke as if he knew, " persisted the painter, recklessly, ashe saw and felt the usual calmness return to his companion. "He said thatif Endymion were not dead he couldn't resist such splendor of beauty. "

As Arthur Merlin spoke he looked directly into Hope Wayne's face, as ifhe were speaking of her. 

"Mr. Newt's judgment seems to be better than his memory, " said she, pleasantly. 

"How?"

"He forgets that Endymion _did_ awake. He has not allowed time enough forthe effect of Diana's eyes. Now I am sure, " she said, shaking her fingerat the picture, "I am sure that that silly shepherd will not sleep thereforever. Never fear, he will wake up. Diana never looks or loves fornothing. "

"It will do no good if he does, " insisted Arthur, ruefully, as if he weresure that Hope Wayne understood that he was speaking in parables. 

"Why?" she asked, as she rose, still looking at the picture. 

"Because goddesses never marry. "

He looked into her eyes with so much meaning, and the "do they?" which hedid not utter, was so perfectly expressed by his tone, that Hope Wayne, as she moved slowly toward the door, looking at the pictures on the wallas she passed, said, with her eyes upon the pictures, and not upon thepainter, "Do you know the moral of that remark of yours?"

"Moral? Heaven forbid! I don't make moral remarks, " replied Arthur. 

"This time you have done it, " she said, smiling; "you have made a remarkwith a moral. I'm going, and I leave it with you as a legacy. The moralis, If goddesses never marry, don't fall in love with a goddess. "

She put out her hand to him as she spoke. He involuntarily took it, andthey shook hands warmly. 

"Good-morning, Mr. Merlin, " she said. "Remember the Round Table to-morrowevening. "

She was gone, and Arthur Merlin sank into the chair she had just left. 

"Oh Heavens!" said he, "did she understand or not?"

CHAPTER LXV. 

THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE. 

General Belch's office was in the lower part of Nassau Street. At theouter door there was a modest slip of a tin sign, "Arcularius Belch, Attorney and Counselor. " The room itself was dingy and forlorn. There wasno carpet on the floor; the windows were very dirty, and slats werebroken out of the blinds--the chairs did not match--there was a woodenbook-case, with a few fat law-books lounging upon the shelves; the tablewas a chaos of pamphlets, printed forms, newspapers, and files ofletters, with a huge inkstand, inky pens, and a great wooden sand-box. Upon each side of the chimney, the grate in which was piled with crushedpieces of waste paper, and the bars of which were discolored with tobaccojuice, stood two large spittoons, the only unsoiled articles in theoffice. 

This was the place in which General Belch did business. It had theatmosphere of Law. But, above all, it was the spot where, with one legswinging over the edge of the table and one hand waving in earnestgesticulation, General Belch could say to every body who came, andespecially to his poorer fellow-citizens, "I ask no office; I am contentwith my moderate practice. It is enough for me, in this glorious country, to be a friend of the people. "

As he said this--or only implied it in saying something else--the brokenslats, the dirty windows, the uncarpeted floor, the universal untidiness, whispered in the mind of the hearer, "Amen!"

His residence, however, somewhat atoned for the discomfort of his office. Not unfrequently he entertained his friends sumptuously; and whenever anyof the representatives of his party, who acted in Congress as his privateagents, had succeeded--as on one occasion, already commemorated, the Hon. Mr. Ele had--in putting a finer edge upon a favorite axe, General Belchentertained a select circle who agreed with him in his politicalphilosophy, and were particular friends of the people and of thepopular institutions of their country. 

Abel Newt, in response to the General's note, had already called at thatgentleman's office, and had received overtures from him, who offered himMr. Bodley's seat in Congress, upon condition that he was able to seethings from particular points of view. 

"Mr. Watkins Bodley, it seems, " said General Belch, "and I regret tosay it, is in straitened pecuniary circumstances. I understand he willfeel that he owes it to his family to resign before the next session. There will be a vacancy; and I am glad to say that the party is justnow in a happy state of harmony, and that my influence will secure yournomination. But come up to-night and talk it over. I have asked Ele andSlugby, and a few others--friends of course--and I hope Mr. Bat will dropin. You know Aquila Bat?"

"By reputation, " replied Abel. 

"He is a very quiet man, but very shrewd. He gives great dignity andweight to the party. A tremendous lawyer Bat is. I suppose he is at thevery head of the profession in this country. You'll come?"

Abel was most happy to accept. He was happy to go any where fordistraction. For the rooms in Grand Street had become inconceivablygloomy. There were no more little parties there: the last one was givenin honor of Mrs. Sligo Moultrie--before her marriage. The elegant youthof the town gradually fell off from frequenting Abel's rooms, for healways proposed cards, and the stakes were enormous; which was adepressing circumstance to young gentlemen who mainly depended uponthe paternal purse. Such young gentlemen as Zephyr Wetherley, who wasfor a long time devoted to young Mrs. Mellish Whitloe, and sent her theloveliest fans, and buttons, and little trinkets, which he selected atMarquand's. But when the year came round the bill was inclosed to Mr. Wetherley, senior, who, after a short and warm interview with his sonZephyr, inclosed it in turn to Whitloe himself; who smiled, and paid it, and advised his wife to buy her own jewelry in future. 

It was not pleasant for young Wetherley, and his friends in a similarsituation, to sit down to a night at cards with such a desperate playeras Abel Newt. Besides, his rooms had lost that air of voluptuous elegancewhich was formerly so unique. The furniture was worn out, and notreplaced. The decanters and bottles were no longer kept in a prettyside-board, but stood boldly out, ready for instant service; and wheneverone of the old set of men happened in, he was very likely to find agentleman--whose toilet was suspiciously fine, whose gold looked likegilt--who made himself entirely at home with Abel and his rooms, andwhose conversation indicated that his familiar haunts were race-courses, bar-rooms, and gambling-houses. 

It was unanimously decreed that Abel Newt had lost tone. His dresswas gradually becoming flashy. Younger sisters, who had heard theirelders--who were married now--speak of the fascinating Mr. Newt, perceived that the fascinating Mr. Newt was a little too familiar whenhe flirted, and that his breath was offensive with spirituous fumes. Hewas noisy in the gentlemen's dressing-room. The stories he told therewere of such a character, and he told them so loudly, that more than oncesome husband, whose wife was in the neighboring room, had remonstratedwith him. Sligo Moultrie, during one of the winters that he passed in thecity after his marriage, had a fierce quarrel with Abel for that veryreason. They would have come to blows but that their friends parted them. Mr. Moultrie sent a friend with a note the following morning, and Mr. Newt acknowledged that he had been rude. 

In the evening, at General Belch's, Abel was presented to all the guests. Mr. Ele was happy to remember a previous occasion upon which he had hadthe honor, etc. Mr. Enos Slugby (Chairman of our Ward Committee, whispered Belch, audibly, as he introduced him) was very glad to knowa gentleman who bore so distinguished a name. Every body had a littlecompliment, to which Abel bowed and smiled politely, while he observedthat the residence was much more comfortable than the office of GeneralBelch. 

They went into the dining-room and sat down to what Mr. Slugby called "aChampagne supper. " They ate birds and oysters, and drank wine. Then theyate jellies, blanc mange, and ice-cream. Then they ate nuts and fruit, and drank coffee. Then every thing was removed, and fresh decanters, fresh glasses, and a box of cigars were placed upon the table, and theservants were told that they need not come until summoned. 

At this point a dry, grave, thin, little old man opened the door. GeneralBelch rose and rushed forward. 

"My dear Mr. Bat, I am very happy. Sit here, Sir. Gentlemen, you all knowMr. Bat. "

The company was silent for a moment, and bowed. Abel looked up and saw aman who seemed to be made of parchment, and his complexion, of the hue ofdried apples, suggested that he was usually kept in a warm green satchel. 

After a little more murmuring of talk around the table, General Belchsaid, in a louder voice, "Gentlemen, we have a new friend among us, and a little business tosettle to-night. Suppose we talk it over. "

There was a general filling of glasses and a hum of assent. 

"I learn, " said the General, whiffing the smoke from his mouth, "thatour worthy friend and able representative, Watkins Bodley, is aboutresigning, in consequence of private embarrassments. Of course he musthave a successor. "

Every body poured out smoke and looked at the speaker, except Mr. Bat, who seemed to be undergoing a little more drying up, and looked at apicture of General Jackson, which hung upon the wall. 

"That successor, I need not say, of course, " continued General Belch, "must be a good man and a faithful adherent of the party. He must be theconsistent enemy of a purse-proud aristocracy. "

"He must, indeed, " said Mr. Enos Slugby, whisking a little of the ashfrom his cigar off an embroidered shirt-bosom, in doing which the flashfrom a diamond ring upon his finger dazzled Abel, who had turned as hespoke. 

"He must espouse the immortal cause of popular rights, and be willing tospend and be spent for the people. "

"That's it, " said Mr. William Condor, whose sinecure under government wasnot worth less than twenty thousand a year. 

"He must always uphold the honor of the glorious flag of our country. "

"Excuse me, General Belch, but I can not control my feelings; I mustpropose three cheers, " interrupted Alderman MacDennis O'Rourke; and thethree cheers were heartily given. 

"And this candidate must be equally the foe of class legislation and thefriend of State rights. "

Here Mr. Bat moved his head, as if he were assenting to a remark of hisfriend General Jackson. 

"And I surely need not add that it would be the first and most sacredpoint of honor with this candidate to serve his party in every thing, tobe the unswerving advocate of all its measures, and implicitly obedientto all its behests, " said General Belch. 

"Which behests are to be learned by him from the authorized leaders ofthe party, " said Mr. Enos Slugby. 

"Certainly, " said half of the gentlemen. 

"Of course, " said the other half. 

During the remarks that General Belch had been making his eyes were fixedupon Abel Newt, who understood that this was a political examination, inwhich the questions asked included the answers that were to be given. When the General had ended, the company sat intently smoking for sometime, and filling and emptying their glasses. 

"Mr. Bat, " said General Belch, "what is your view?"

Mr. Bat removed his eyes from General Jackson's portrait, and cleared histhroat. 

"I think, " he said, closing his eyes, and rubbing his fingers along hiseyebrows, "that the party holding to the only constitutional policy isto be supported at all hazards, and I think the great party to whichwe belong is that party. Our principles are all true, and our measuresare all just. Speculative persons and dreamers talk about independentpolitical action. But politics always beget parties. Governments arealways managed by parties, and parties are always managed by--"

The dried-apple complexion at this point assumed an ashy hue, as ifsomething very indiscreet had been almost uttered. Mr. Bat's eyes openedand saw Abel's fixed upon him with a peculiar intelligence. The wholeparty looked a little alarmed at Mr. Bat, and apprehensively at thenew-comer. Mr. Ele frowned at General Belch, "What does he mean?"

But Abel relieved the embarrassment by quietly completing Mr. Bat'ssentence--

--"by the managers. "

His black eyes glittered around the table, and Mr. Ele remembered aremark of General Belch's about Mr. Newt's riding upon the shouldersof his fellow-laborers. 

"Exactly, by the managers, " said every body. 

"And now, " said General Belch, cheerfully, "whom had we better propose toour fellow-citizens as a proper candidate for their suffrages to succeedthe Honorable Mr. Bodley?"

He leaned back and puffed. Mr. Ele, who had had a little previousconversation with the host, here rose and said, that, if he mightventure, he would say, although it was an entirely unpremeditated thing, which had, in fact, only struck him while he had been sitting at thathospitable board, but had impressed him so forcibly that he could notresist speaking--if he might venture, he would say that he knew a mostable and highly accomplished gentleman--in fact, it had occurred to himthat there was then present a gentleman who would be precisely the manwhom they might present to the people as a candidate suitable in everyway. 

General Belch looked at Abel, and said, "Mr. Ele, whom do you mean?"

"I refer to Mr. Abel Newt, " responded the Honorable Mr. Ele. 

The company looked as companies which have been prepared for a surprisealways look when the surprise comes. 

"Is Mr. Newt sound in the faith?" asked Mr. William Condor, smiling. 

"I answer for him, " replied Mr. Ele. 

"For instance, Mr. Newt, " said Mr. Enos Slugby, who was interested inGeneral Belch's little plans, "you have no doubt that Congress ought topass the grant to purchase the land for Fort Arnold, which has beenoffered to it by the company of which our friend General Belch iscounsel?"

"None at all, " replied Abel. "I should work for it as hard as I could. "

This was not unnatural, because General Belch had promised him aninterest in the sale. 

"Really, then, " said Mr. William Condor, who was also a proprietor, "I do not see that a better candidate could possibly be offered to ourfellow-citizens. The General Committee meet to-morrow night. They willcall the primaries, and the Convention will meet next week. I think weall understand each other. We know the best men in our districts to goto the Convention. The thing seems to me to be very plain. "

"Very, " said the others, smoking. 

"Shall it be Abel Newt?" said Mr. Condor. 

"Ay!" answered the chorus. 

"I propose the health of the Honorable Abel Newt, whom I cordiallywelcome as a colleague, " said Mr. Ele. 

Bumpers were drained. It was past midnight, and the gentlemen rose. Theycame to Abel and shook his hand; then they swarmed into the hall and puton their hats and coats. 

"Stay, Newt, " whispered Belch, and Abel lingered. 

The Honorable B. J. Ele also lingered, as if he would like to be the lastout of the house; for although this distinguished statesman did not careto do otherwise than as General Belch commanded, he was anxious to be theGeneral's chief butler, while the remark about riding on his companions'shoulders and the personal impression Abel had made upon him, hadseriously alarmed him. 

While he was busily looking at the portrait of General Jackson, GeneralBelch stepped up to him and put out his hand. 

"Good-night, my dear Ele! Thank you! thank you! These things will not beforgotten. Good-night! good-night!" And he backed the Honorable B. JawleyEle out of the room into the hall. 

"This is your coat, I think, " said he, taking up a garment and helpingMr. Ele to get it on. "Ah, you luxurious dog! you're a pretty friend ofthe people, with such a splendid coat as this. Good-night! good-night!"he added, helping his guest toward the door. 

"Hallo, Condor!" he shouted up the street. "Here's Ele--don't leave himbehind; wait for him!"

He put him put of the door. "There, my dear fellow, Condor's waiting foryou! Good-night! Ten thousand thanks! A pretty friend of the people, hey?Oh, you cunning dog! Good-night!"

General Belch closed the door and returned to the drawing-room. Abel Newtwas sitting with one leg over the back of the chair, and a tumbler ofbrandy before him, smoking. 

"God!" said Abel, laughing, as the General returned, "I wouldn't treat adog as you do that man. "

"My dear Mr. Representative, " returned Belch, "you, as a legislator andpublic man, ought to know that Order is Heaven's first law. "

CHAPTER LXVI. 

MENTOR AND TELEMACHUS. 

Drawing his chair near to Abel's, General Belch lighted a cigar, andsaid:

"You see it's not so very hard. "

Abel looked inquiringly. 

"To go to Congress, " answered Belch. 

"Yes, but I'm not elected yet, thank you. "

General Arcularius Belch blew a long, slow cloud, and gazed at hiscompanion with a kind of fond superiority. 

"What do you mean by looking so?" asked Abel. 

"My dear Newt, I was not aware that you had such a soft spot. No, positively, I did not know that you had so much to learn. It isinconceivable. "

The General smiled, and smoked, and looked blandly at his companion. 

"You're not elected yet, hey?" asked the General, with an amused laugh. 

"Not that I am aware of, " said Abel. 

"Why, my dear fellow, who on earth do you suppose does the electing?"

"I thought the people were the source of power, " replied Abel, gravely. 

The General looked for a moment doubtfully at his companion. 

"Hallo! I see you're gumming. However, there's one thing. You know you'llhave to speak after the election. Did you ever speak?"

"Not since school, " replied Abel. 

"Well, you know the cue. I gave it to you to-night. The next thing is, how strong can you come down?"

"You know I've failed. "

"Of course you have. That's the reason the boys will expect you to bevery liberal. "

"How much?" inquired Abel. 

"Let me see. There'll be the printing, halls, lights, ballots, advertisements--Well, I should say a thousand dollars, and a thousandmore for extras. Say two thousand for the election, and a thousand forthe committee. "

"Devil! that's rather strong!" replied Abel. 

"Not at all, " said General Belch. "Your going to Washington secures thegrant, and the grant nets you at least three thousand dollars upon everyshare. It's a good thing, and very liberal at that price. By-the-by, don't forget that you're a party man of another sort. You do the dancingbusiness, and flirting--"

"Pish!" cried Abel; "milk for babes!"

"Exactly. And you're going to a place that swarms with babes. So give 'emmilk. Work the men through their wives, and mistresses, and daughters. Itisn't much understood yet; but it is a great idea. "

"Why don't you go to Congress?" asked Abel, suddenly. 

"It isn't for my interest, " answered the General. "I make more by stayingout. "

"How many members are there for Belch?" continued Abel. 

The General did not quite like the question, nor the tone in which it wasasked. His fat nose glistened for a moment, while his mouth twisted intoa smile, and he answered, "They're only for Belch as far as Belch is for them--"

"Or as far as Belch makes them think he is, " answered Abel, smiling. 

The General smiled too, for he found the game going against him. 

"We were speaking of your speech, " said he. "Now, Newt, the thing's inyour own hands. You've a future before you. With the drill of the party, and with your talents, you ought to do any thing. "

"Too many rivals, " said Abel, curtly. 

"My dear fellow, what are the odds? They can't do any thing outside theparty, or without the drill. Make it their interest not to be ambitious, and they're quiet enough. Here's William Condor--lovely, lovely William. He loves the people so dearly that he does nothing for them at twentythousand dollars a year. Tell him that you will secure him his place, andhe's your humble servant. Of course he is. Now I am more familiar withthe details of these things, and I'm always at your service. Before yougo, there will be a caucus of the friends of the grant, which you mustattend, and make a speech. "

"Another speech?" said Abel. 

"My dear fellow, you are now a speech-maker by profession. Now that youare in Congress, you will never be free from the oratorical liability. Wherever two or three are gathered together, and you are one of them, you'll have to return thanks, and wave the glorious flag of our country. And you'll have to begin very soon. "

CHAPTER LXVII. 

WIRES. 

General Belch was right. Abel had to begin very soon. The committee metand called the meetings. The members of the committee, each in his owndistrict, consulted with various people, whom they found generally atcorner groceries. They were large, coarse-featured, hulking men, and wereall named Jim, or Tom, or Ned. 

"What'll you have, Jim?"

"Well, Sir, it's so early in the day, that I can't go any thing strongerthan brandy. "

"Two cocktails--stiff, " was the word of the gentleman to the bar-keeper. 

The companions took their glasses, and sat down behind a heavy screen. 

"Well, Sir, what's the word? I see there's going to be more meetin's. "

"Yes, Jim. Bodley has resigned. "

"Who's the man, Mr. Slugby?" asked Jim, as if to bring matters to apoint. 

"Mr. Abel Newt has been mentioned, " replied the gentleman with thediamond ring, which he had slipped into his waistcoat pocket before theinterview. 

Jim cocked his eye at his glass, which was nearly empty. 

"Here! another cocktail, " cried Mr. Slugby to the bar-tender. 

"Son of old Newt that bust t'other day?"

"The same. "

"Well, I s'pose it's all right, " said Jim, as he began his secondtumbler. 

"Oh yes; he's all right. He understands things, and he's coming downrather strong. By-the-by, I've never paid you that ten dollars. "

And Mr. Slugby pulled out a bill of that amount and handed it to Jim, whoreceived it as if he were pleased, but did not precisely recall any suchamount as owing to him. 

"I suppose the boys will be thirsty, " said Mr. Enos Slugby. 

"There never's nothin' to make a man thirsty ekal to a 'lection, "answered Jim, with his huge features grinning. 

"Well, the fellows work well, and deserve it. Here, you needn't go out ofyour district, you know, and this will be enough. " He handed more moneyto his companion. "Have 'em up in time, and don't let them get high untilafter the election of delegates. It was thought that perhaps Mr. Musherand I had better go to the Convention. It's just possible, Jim, that someof Bodley's friends may make trouble. "

"No fear, Mr. Slugby, we'll take care of that. Who do you want forchairman of the meeting?" answered Jim. 

"Edward Gasserly is the best chairman. He understands things. "

"Very well, Sir, all right, " said Jim. 

"Remember, Jim, Wednesday night, seven o'clock. You'll want thirty men tomake every thing short and sure. Gasserly, chairman; Musher and Slugby, delegates. And you needn't say any thing about Abel Newt, because thatwill all be settled in the Convention; and the delegates of the peoplewill express their will there as they choose. I'll write the names of thedelegates on this. "

Mr. Slugby tore off a piece of paper from a letter in his pocket, andwrote the names. He handed the list, and, taking out his watch, said, "Bless my soul, I'm engaged at eleven, and 'tis quarter past. Good-by, Jim, and if any thing goes wrong let me know. "

"Sartin, Sir, " replied Jim, and Mr. Slugby departed. 

Mr. William Condor had a similar interview with Tom, and Mr. Ele took afriendly glass with Ned. And other Mr. Slugbys, and Condors, and Eles, had little interviews with other red-faced, trip-hammer-fisted Jims, Toms, and Neds. These healths being duly drunk, the placards were posted. They were headed with the inspiring words "Liberty and Equality, " withcuts of symbolic temples and ships and lifted arms with hammers, andsummoned the legal voters to assemble in primary meetings and electdelegates to a convention to nominate a representative. The Hon. Mr. Bodley's letter of resignation was subjoined:

"FELLOW-CITIZENS, --Deeply grateful for the honorable trust you have solong confided to me, nothing but the imperative duty of attending to myprivate affairs, seriously injured by my public occupations, would induceme to resign it into your hands. But while his country may demand much ofevery patriot, there is a point, which every honest man feels, at whichhe may retire. I should be deeply grieved to take this step did I notknow how many abler representatives you can find in the ranks of thatconstituency of which any man may be proud. I leave the halls oflegislation at a moment when our party is consolidated, when its promisefor the future was never more brilliant, and when peace and prosperityseem to have taken up their permanent abode in our happy country, whosetriumphant experiment of popular institutions makes every despot shakeupon his throne. Gentlemen, in bidding you farewell I can only say that, should the torch of the political incendiary ever be applied to thesublime fabric of our system, and those institutions which were laid inour father's struggles and cemented with their blood, should totterand crumble, I, for one, will be found going down with the ship, andwaving the glorious flag of our country above the smouldering ruins ofthat moral night. 

"I am, fellow-citizens, your obliged, faithful, and humble servant, WATKINS BODLEY. "

In pursuance of the call the meetings were held. Jim, Tom, and Ned wereearly on the ground in their respective districts, with about thirtychosen friends. In Jim's district Mr. Gasserly was elected chairman, and Messrs. Musher and Slugby delegates to the Convention. Mr. Slugby, who was present when the result was announced, said that it wasextremely inconvenient for him to go, but that he held it to be theduty of every man to march at the call of the party. His private affairswould undoubtedly suffer, but he held that every man's private interestmust give way to the good of his party. He could say the same thingfor his friend, Mr. Musher, who was not present. But he should say toMusher--Musher, the people want us to go, and go we must. With the mostrespectful gratitude he accepted the appointment for himself and Musher. 

This brisk little off-hand speech was received with great favor. Immediately upon its conclusion Jim moved an adjournment, which wasunanimously carried, and Jim led the way to a neighboring corner, wherehe expended a reasonable proportion of the money which Slugby had givenhim. 

A few evenings afterward the Convention met. Mr. Slugby was appointedPresident, and Mr. William Condor Secretary. The Honorable B. J. Elepresented a series of resolutions, which were eloquently advocated byGeneral Arcularius Belch. At the conclusion of his speech the HonorableA. Bat made a speech, which the daily _Flag of the Country_ the nextmorning called "a dry disquisition about things in general, " but whichthe _Evening Banner of the Union_ declared to be "one of his moststatesmanlike efforts. "

After these speeches the Convention proceeded to the ballot, when it wasfound that nine-tenths of all the votes cast were for Abel Newt, Esquire. 

General Belch rose, and in an enthusiastic manner moved that thenomination be declared unanimous. It was carried with acclamation. Mr. Musher proposed an adjournment, to meet at the polls. The vote wasunanimous. Mr. Enos Slugby rose, and called for three cheers for "theHonorable Abel Newt, our next talented and able representative inCongress. " The Convention rose and roared. 

"Members of the Convention who wish to call upon the candidate will fallinto line!" shouted Mr. Condor; then leading the way, and followed by themembers, he went down stairs into the street. A band of music was athand, by some thoughtful care, and, following the beat of drums andclangor of brass, the Convention marched toward Grand Street. 

CHAPTER LXVIII. 

THE INDUSTRIOUS APPRENTICE. 

Good news fly fast. On the wings of the newspapers the nomination of AbelNewt reached Delafield, where Mr. Savory Gray still moulded the youthfulmind. He and his boys sat at dinner. 

"Fish! fish! I like fish, " said Mr. Gray. "Don't you like fish, Farthingale?"

Farthingale was a new boy, who blushed, and said, promptly, "Oh! yes, Sir. "

"Don't you like fish, Mark Blanding? Your brother Gyles used to, " askedMr. Gray. 

"Yes, Sir, " replied that youth, slowly, and with a certain expression inhis eye, "I suppose I do. "

"All boys who are in favor of having fish dinner on Fridays will hold uptheir right hands, " said Mr. Gray. He looked eagerly round the table. "Come, come! up, up, up!" said he, good-naturedly. 

"That's it. Mrs. Gray, fish on Fridays. "

"Mr. Gray, " said Mark Blanding. 

"Well, Mark?"

"Ain't fish cheaper than meat?"

"Mark, I am ashamed of you. Go to bed this instant. "

Mark was unjust, for Uncle Savory had no thought of indulging his purse, but only his palate. 

When the criminal was gone Mr. Gray drew a paper from his pocket, andsaid, "Boys, attend! In this paper, which is a New York paper, there is anaccount of the nomination of a member of Congress--a member of Congress, boys, " he repeated, slowly, dwelling upon the words to impress their dueimportance. "What do you think his name is? Who do you suppose it is whois nominated for Congress?"

He waited a moment, but the boys, not having the least idea, were silent. 

"Well, it is Abel Newt, who used to sit at this very table. Abel Newt, one of Mr. Gray's boys. "

He waited another moment, to allow the overwhelming announcement to haveits due effect, while the scholars all looked at him, holding theirknives and forks. 

"And there is not one of you, who, if he be a good boy, may not arrive atthe same eminence. Think, boys, any one of you, if you are good, may oneday get nominated to Congress, as the Honorable Mr. Newt is, who was oncea scholar here, just like you. Hurrah for Mr. Gray's boys! Now eat yourdinners. "

CHAPTER LXIX. 

IN AND OUT. 

"And Boniface Newt has failed, " said Mr. Bennet to his wife, in a lowvoice. 

He was shading his eyes with his hand, and his wife was peacefully sewingbeside him. 

She made no reply, but her face became serious, then changed to anexpression in which, from under his hands, for her husband's eyes werenot weak, her husband saw the faintest glimmering of triumph. But Mrs. Bennet did not raise her eyes from her work. 

"Lucia!" He spoke so earnestly that his wife involuntarily started. 

"My dear, " she replied, looking at him with a tear in her eye, "it isonly natural. "

Her husband said nothing, but shook his slippered foot, and his neck sunka little lower in his limp, white cravat. They were alone in the littleparlor, with only the portrait on the wall for company, and only theroses in the glass upon the table, that were never wanting, and alwaysshowed a certain elegance of taste in arrangement and care which made thedaughter of the house seem to be present though she might be away. 

"What a beautiful night!" said Mr. Bennet at last, as his eyes lingeredupon the window through which he saw the soft illumination of the fullmoonlight. 

His wife looked for a moment with him, and answered, "Beautiful!"

"How lovely those roses are, and how sweet they smell!" he said, afteranother interval of silence, and as if there were a change in thepleasant dreams he was dreaming. 

"Yes, " she replied, and looked at him and smiled, and, smiling, sewed on. 

"Where is Ellen to-night?" he asked, after a little pause. 

"She is walking in this beautiful moonlight. "

"All alone?" he inquired, with a smile. 

"No! with Edward. "

"Ah! with Edward. " And there was evidently another turn in the pleasantdream. 

"And Gabriel--where is Gabriel?" asked he, still shaking the slipperedfoot. 

His wife smoothed her work, and said, with an air of tranquil happiness, "I suppose he is walking too. "

"All alone?"

"No, with May. "

Involuntarily, as she said it, she laid her work in her lap, as if hermind would follow undisturbed the happy figures of her children. Shelooked abstractedly at the window, as if she saw them both, the manlycandor of her Gabriel, and the calm sweetness of May Newt--the loyalheart of her blue-eyed Ellen clinging to Edward Wynne. Down the windingsof her reverie they went, roses in their cheeks and faith in theirhearts. Down and down, farther and farther, closer and closer, whilethe springing step grew staid, and the rose bloom slowly faded. Fartherand farther down her dream, and gray glistened in the brown hair and theblack and gold, but the roses bloomed around them in younger cheeks, andthe brown hair and the black and gold were as glossy and abundant uponthose younger heads, and still their arms were twined and their eyes werelinked, as if their hearts had grown together, each pair into one. Farther and farther--still with clustering younger faces--still with eversofter light in the air falling upon the older forms, grown reverend, until--until--had they faded in that light, or was she only blinded byher tears?

For there were tears in her eyes--eyes that glistened with happiness--andthere was a hand in hers, and as she looked at her husband she knew thattheir hands had clasped each other because they saw the same sweetvision. 

He looked at his wife, and said, "Could I have been the rich man I one day hoped to be--the great merchantI longed to be, when I asked you to marry me--I could have ownednothing--no diamond--so dear to me as that very tear in your eye. Iwanted to be rich--I felt as if I had cheated you, in being so poor andunsuccessful--you, who were bred so differently. For your sake I wantedto be rich. " He spoke with a stronger, fuller voice. "Yes, and when LauraMagot broke my engagement with her because of my first failure, Iresolved that she should see me one of the merchant princes she idolized, and that my wife should be envied by her as being the wife of a richerman than Boniface Newt. Darling, you know how I struggled for it--youdid not know the secret spur--and how I failed. And I know who it wasthat made my failure my success, and who taught a man who wanted to berich how to be happy. "

While he spoke his wife's arm had stolen tenderly around him. As hefinished, she said, gently, "I am not such a saint, Gerald. "

"If you are not, I don't believe in saints, " replied her husband. 

"No, I will prove it to you. "

"I defy you, " said Gerald, smiling. 

"Listen! Why did you say Lucia in such a tone, a little while ago?" askedhis wife. 

Gerald Bennet smiled with arch kindness. 

"Shall I answer truly?"

"Under pain of displeasure. "

"Well, " he began, slowly, "when I heard that Laura Magot's husband hadfailed, as I knew that Lucia Darro's husband had once been jilted byLaura Magot because he failed, I could not help wondering--now, Luciadear, how could I help wondering?--I wondered how Lucia Darro would feel. Because--because--"

He made a full stop, and smiled. 

"Because what?" asked his wife. 

He lingered, and smiled. 

"Because what?" persisted his wife, with mock gravity. 

"Because Lucia Darro was a woman, and--well! I'll make a clean breast ofit--and because, although a man and woman love each other as long anddearly as Lucia Darro and her husband have and do, there is stillsomething in the woman that the man can not quite understand, and uponwhich he is forever experimenting. So I was curious to hear, or rather tosee and feel, what your thoughts were; and, at the moment I spoke, Ithought I saw them, and I was surprised. "

"Exactly, Sir; and that surprise ought to have shown you that I was nosaint. Listen again, Sir. Lucia Darro's husband was never jilted by LauraMagot, for the impetuous and ambitious young man who was engaged to thatlady is an entirely different person from my husband. Do you hear, Sir?"

"Precisely; and who made him so entirely different?"

"Hush, Sir! I've no time to hear such folly. I, too, am going to make aclean breast of it, and confess that there was the least little senseof--of--of--well, justice, in my mind, when I thought that Laura Magotwho jilted you, who were so unfortunate, and with whom she might havebeen so happy--"

Gerald Bennet dissented, with smiles and shaking head. 

"Hush, Sir! Any woman might have been. That she should have led such alife with Boniface Newt, and have seen him ruined after all. Poor soul!poor soul!"

"Which?" asked her husband. 

"Both--both, Sir. I pity them both from my heart. "

"Thou womanest of women!" retorted her husband. "Art thou, therefore, nosaint because thou pitiest them?"

"No, no; but because it was not an unmixed pity. "

"At any rate, it is an unmixed goodness, " said her husband. 

The restless glance, the glimmering uncertainty, had faded from his eyes. He sat quietly on the sofa, swinging his foot, and with his head bent alittle to one side over the limp cravat. 

"Gerald, " said his wife, "let us go out, and walk in the moonlight too. "

CHAPTER LXX. 

THE REPRESENTATIVE OF THE PEOPLE. 

In a few moments they were sauntering along the street. It was full andmurmurous. The lights were bright in the shop windows, and the scufflingof footsteps, more audible than during the day, when it is drowned by theroar of carriage-wheels upon the pavement, had a friendly, social sound. 

"Broadway is never so pleasant as in the early evening, " said Mr. Bennet;"for then the rush of the day is over, and people move with a leisurelyair, as if they were enjoying themselves. What is that?"

They were going down the street, and saw lights, and heard music and acrowd approaching. They came nearer; and Mr. Bennet and his wife turnedaside, and stood upon the steps of a dwelling-house. A band of music camefirst, playing "Hail Columbia!" It was surrounded by a swarm of men andboys, in the street and on the sidewalk, who shouted, and sang, and ran;and it was followed by a file of gentlemen, marching in pairs. Several ofthem carried torches, and occasionally, as they passed under a house, they all looked up at the windows, and gave three cheers. Sometimes, also, an individual in the throng shouted something which was receivedwith loud hi-hi's and laughter. 

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Bennet. 

"This is a political procession, my dear. Look! they will not come by usat all; they are turning into Grand Street, close by. I suppose they aregoing to call upon some candidate. I never see any crowd of this kindwithout thinking how simple and beautiful our institutions are. Do youever think of it, Lucia? What a majestic thing the popular will is!"

"Let's hurry, and we may see something, " said his wife. 

The throng had left Broadway, and had stopped in Grand Street under abalcony in a handsome house. The music had stopped also, and all faceswere turned toward the balcony. Mr. Bennet and his wife stood at thecorner of Broadway. Suddenly a gentleman took off his hat and wavedit violently in the air, and a superb diamond-ring flashed in thetorch-light as he did so, while he shouted, "Three cheers for Newt!"

There was a burst of huzzas from the crowd--the drums rolled--the boysshrieked and snarled in the tone of various animals--the torcheswaved--one excited man cried, "One more!"--there was another stentorianyell, and roll, and wave--after which the band played a short air. Butthe windows did not open. 

"Newt! Newt! Newt!" shouted the crowd. The young gentleman with thediamond-ring disappeared into the house, with several others. 

"Why, Slugby, where the devil is he?" said one of them to another, in awhisper, as they ran up the stairs. 

"I'm sure I don't know. Musher promised to have him ready. "

"And I sent Ele up to get here before we did, " replied his friend, in thesame hurried whisper, his fat nose glistening in the hall-light. 

When they reached Mr. Newt's room they found him lying upon a sofa, whileMusher and the Honorable B. J. Ele were trying to get him up. 

"D----n it! stand up, can't you?" cried Mr. Ele. 

"No, I can't, " replied Abel, with a half-humorous maudlin smile. 

At the same moment the impetuous roar of the crowd in the street stole inthrough the closed windows. 

"Newt! Newt! Newt!"

"What in ---- shall we do?" gasped Mr. Enos Slugby, walking rapidly upand down the room. 

"Who let him get drunk?" demanded General Belch, angrily. 

Nobody answered. 

"Newt! Newt! Newt!" surged in from the street. 

"Thunder and devils, there's nothing for it but to prop him up on thebalcony!" said General Belch. "Come now, heave to, every body, and stickhim on his pins. "

Abel looked sleepily round, with his eyes half closed and his under liphanging. 

"'Tain't no use, " said he, thickly; "'tain't no use. "

And he leered and laughed. 

The perspiring and indignant politicians grasped him--Slugby and WilliamCondor under the arms, Belch on one side, and Ele ready to help anywhere. They raised their friend to his feet, while his head rolled slowlyround from one side to the other, with a maudlin grin. 

"'Tain't no use, " he said. 

Indeed, when they had him fairly on his feet nothing further seemed to bepossible. They were all holding him and looking very angry, while theyheard the loud and imperative--"Newt! Newt! Newt!" accompanied withunequivocal signs of impatience in an occasional stone or chip thatrattled against the blinds. 

In the midst of it all the form of the drunken man slipped back upon thesofa, and sitting there leaning on his hands, which rested on his knees, and with his head heavily hanging forward, he lifted his forehead, and, seeing the utterly discomfited group standing perplexed before him, hesaid, with a foolish smile, "Let's all sit down. "

There was a moment of hopeless and helpless inaction. Then suddenlyGeneral Belch laid his hands upon the sofa on which Abel was lying, andmoved it toward the window. 

"Now, " cried he to the others, "open the blinds, and we'll make an end ofit. "

Enos Slugby raised the window and obeyed. The crowd below, seeing theopening blinds and the lights, shouted lustily. 

"Now then, " cried the General, "boost him up a moment and hold himforward. Heave ho! all together. "

They raised the inert body, and half-lifted, half-slid it forward uponthe narrow balcony. 

"Here, Slugby, you prop him behind; and you, Ele and Condor, one on eachside. There! that's it! Now we have him. I'll speak to the people. "

So saying, the General removed his hat and bowed very low to the crowd inthe street. There was a great shout, "Three cheers for Newt!" and thethree cheers rang loudly out. 

"'Tain't Newt, " cried a sharp voice: "it's Belch. "

"Three cheers for Belch!" roared an enthusiastic somebody. 

"D---- Belch, " cried the sharp voice. 

"Hi! hi!" roared the chorus; while the torches waved and the drums rolledonce more. 

During all this time General Arcularius Belch had been bowing profoundlyand grimacing in dumb show to the crowd, pointing at Abel Newt, whostood, ingeniously supported, his real state greatly concealed by thefriendly night. 

"Gentlemen!" cried Belch, in a piercing voice. 

"H'st! h'st! Down, down! Silence, " in the crowd. 

"Gentlemen, I am very sorry to have to inform you that our distinguishedfellow-citizen, Mr. Newt, to compliment whom you have assembled thisevening, is so severely unwell (oh! gum! from the sharp-voiced skepticbelow) that he is entirely unable to address you. But so profoundlytouched is he by your kindness in coming to compliment him by this call, that he could not refuse to appear, though but for a moment, to look thethanks he can not speak. At the earliest possible moment he promiseshimself the pleasure of addressing you. Let me, in conclusion, proposethree cheers for our representative in the next Congress, the HonorableAbel Newt. And now--" he whispered to his friends as the shouts began, "now lug him in again. "

The crowd cheered, the Honorable Mr. Newt was lugged in, the windows wereclosed, and General Belch and his friends withdrew. 

"I tell you what it is, " said he, as they passed up the street at aconvenient distance behind the crowd, "Abel Newt is a man of very greattalent, but he must take care. By Jove! he must. He must understand timesand seasons. One thing can not be too often repeated, " said he, earnestly, "if a man expects to succeed in political life he mustunderstand when not to be drunk. "

The merry company laughed, and went home with Mr. William Condor to cracka bottle of Champagne. 

Mr. And Mrs. Bennet had stood at the street corner during the few minutesoccupied by these events. When they heard the shouts for Newt they hadlooked inquiringly at each other. But when the scene was closed, and thecheers for the Honorable Abel Newt, our representative in Congress, haddied away, they stood for a few moments quite stupefied. 

"What does it mean, Gerald?" asked his wife. "Is Abel Newt in Congress?"

"I didn't know it. I suppose he is only a candidate. "

He moved rapidly away, and his wife, who was not used to speed in hiswalking, smiled quietly, and, could he have seen her eye, a littlemischievously. She said presently, "Yes, our institutions are very simple and beautiful. "

Mr. Bennet said nothing. But she relentlessly continued, "What a majestic thing the election of Abel Newt by the popular will willbe!"

"My dear, " he answered, "don't laugh until you know that it _is_ thepopular will; and when you do know it, cry. "

They walked on silently for some little distance further, and then GeraldBennet turned toward St. John's Square. His wife asked:

"Where are you going?"

"Can't you guess?"

"Yes; but we have never been there before. "

"Has he ever failed before?"

"No, you dear soul! and I am very glad we are going. "

CHAPTER LXXI. 

RICHES HAVE WINGS. 

They rang at the door of Boniface Newt. It was quite late in the evening, and when they entered the parlor there were several persons sittingthere. 

"Why! father and mother!" exclaimed Gabriel, who was sitting in a remotedim corner, and who instantly came forward, with May Newt following him. 

Mrs. Newt rose and bowed a little stiffly, and said, in an excited voice, that really she had no idea, but she was very happy indeed, she was sure, and so was Mr. Newt. When she had tied her sentence in an inextricableknot, she stopped and seated herself. 

Boniface Newt rose slowly and gravely. He was bent like a very old man. His eye was hard and dull, and his dry voice said:

"How do you do? I am happy to see you. "

Then he sat down again, while Lawrence went up and shook hands with thenew-comers. Boniface drummed slowly upon his knees with the long, bonywhite fingers, and rocked to and fro mechanically, as he sat. 

When Lawrence had ended his greetings there was a pause. Mrs. Newt seemedto be painfully conscious of it. So did Mr. Bennet, whose eyes wanderedabout the room, resting for a few instants upon Boniface, then slidingtoward his wife. Boniface himself seemed to be entirely unconscious ofany pause, or of any person, or of any thing, except some mysteriouserratic measure that he was beating with the bony fingers. 

"It is a great while since we have met, Mrs. Newt, " said Mrs. Bennet. 

"Yes, " returned Mrs. Nancy Newt, rapidly; "and now that we are to be sovery nearly related, it is really high time that we became intimate. "

She looked, however, very far off from intimacy with the person sheaddressed. 

"I am glad our children are so happy, Mrs. Newt, " said Gerald Bennet, ina tremulous voice, with his eyes glimmering. 

"Yes. I am glad Gabriel's prospects are so good, " returned Mrs. Newt. "I've no doubt he'll be a very rich man very soon. "

When she had spoken, Boniface Newt, still drumming, turned his face andlooked quietly at his wife. Nobody spoke. Gabriel only winced at whatMay's mother had said; and they all looked at Boniface. The old man gazedfixedly at his wife as if he saw nobody else, and as if he were repeatingthe words to which the bony fingers beat time. He said, in a cold, dryvoice, still beating time, "Riches have wings! Riches have wings!"

"I'm sure, Boniface, I know that, if any body does, " said his wife, pettishly, and in a half-whimpering voice. "I think we've all learnedthat. "

"Riches have wings! Riches have wings!" he said, beating with the bonyfingers. 

"Really, Boniface, " said his wife, with an air of offended propriety, "I see no occasion for such pointed allusions to our misfortunes. Itis certainly in very bad taste. "

"Riches have wings! Riches have wings!" persisted her husband, stillgazing at her, and still beating time with the white bony fingers. 

Mrs. Newt's whimpering broadened into crying. She sat weeping and wipingher eyes, in the way which used to draw down a storm from her husband. There was no storm now. Only the same placid stare--only the samemeasured refrain. 

"Riches have wings! Riches have wings!"

Lawrence Newt laid his hand gently on his brother's arm. 

"Boniface, you did your best. We all did what we thought best and right. "

The old man turned his eyes from his wife and went on silently drumming, looking at the wall. 

"Nancy, " said Lawrence, "as Mr. And Mrs. Bennet are about to be a part ofthe family, I see no reason for not saying to them that provision is madefor your husband's support. His affairs are as bad as they can be; butyou and he shall not suffer. Of course you will leave this house, and--"

"Oh dear! What will people say? Nobody'll come to see us in a smallhouse. What will Mrs. Orry say?" interrupted Mrs. Newt. 

"Let her say what she chooses, Nancy. What will honest people say to whomyour husband owes honest debts, if you don't try to pay them?"

"They are not my debts, and I don't see why I should suffer for them, "said Mrs. Newt, vehemently, and crying. "When I married him he said Ishould ride in my carriage; and if he's been a fool, why should I be abeggar?"

There was profound silence in the room. 

"I think it's very hard, " said she, querulously. 

It was useless for Lawrence to argue. He saw it, and merely remarked, "The house will be sold, and you'll give up the carriage and live asplainly as you can. "

"To think of coming to this!" burst out Mrs. Newt afresh. 

But a noise was heard in the hall, and the door opened to admit Mr. AndMrs. Alfred Dinks. 

It was the first time they had entered her father's house since hermarriage. May, who had been the last person Fanny had seen in her oldhome, ran forward to greet her, and said, cheerfully, "Welcome home, Fanny. "

Mrs. Dinks looked defiantly about the room. Her keen black eyes saw everybody, and involuntarily every body looked at her--except her father. Heseemed quite unconscious of any new-comers. Alfred's heavy figure droppedinto a chair, whence his small eyes, grown sullen, stared stupidly about. Mrs. Newt merely said, hurriedly, "Why Fanny!" and looked, from the oldhabit of alarm and apprehension, at her husband, then back again to herdaughter. The silence gradually became oppressive, until Fanny broke itby saying, in a dull tone, "Oh! Uncle Lawrence. "

He simply bowed his head, as if it had been a greeting. Mr. Bennet's foottwitched rather than wagged, and his wife turned toward him, from time totime, with a tender smile. Mrs. Newt, like one at a funeral, presentlybegan to weep afresh. 

"Pleasant family party!" broke in the voice of Fanny, clear and hard asher eyes. 

"Riches have wings! Riches have wings!" repeated the gray old man, drumming with lean white fingers upon his knees. 

"Will nobody tell me any thing?" said Fanny, looking sharply round. "What's going to be done? Are we all beggars?"

"Riches have wings! Riches have wings!" answered the stern voice of theold man, whose eyes were still fixed upon the wall. 

Fanny turned toward him half angrily, but her black eyes quailed beforethe changed figure of her father. She recalled the loud, domineering, dogmatic man, insisting, morning and night, that as soon as he was richenough he would be all that he wanted to be--the self-important, patronizing, cold, and unsympathetic head of the family. Where was he?Who was this that sat in the parlor, in his chair, no longer pompous andfierce, but bowed, gray, drumming on his thin knees with lean whitefingers?

"Father!" exclaimed Fanny, involuntarily, and terrified. 

The old man turned his head toward her. The calm, hard eyes looked intohers. There was no expression of surprise, or indignation, orforgiveness--nothing but a placid abstraction and vagueness. 

"Father!" Fanny repeated, rising, and half moving toward him. 

His head turned back again--his eyes looked at the wall--and she heardonly the words, "Riches have wings! Riches have wings!"

As Fanny sank back into her chair, pale and appalled, May took her handand began to talk with her in a low, murmuring tone. The others fell intoa fragmentary conversation, constantly recurring with their eyes to Mr. Newt. The talk went on in broken whispers, and it was quite late in theevening when a stumbling step advanced to the door, which was burst open, and there stood Abel Newt, with his hat crushed, his clothes soiled, hisjaw hanging, and his eyes lifted in a drunken leer. 

"How do?" he said, leaning against the door-frame and nodding his head. 

His mother, who had never before seen him in such a condition, glanced athim, and uttered a frightened cry. Lawrence Newt and Gabriel rose, and, going toward him, took his arms and tried to lead him out. Abel had nokindly feeling for either of them. His brow lowered, and the sullenblackness shot into his eyes. 

"Hands off!" he cried, in a threatening tone. 

They still urged him out of the room. 

"Hands off!" he said again, looking at Lawrence Newt, and then in asneering tone:

"Oh! the Reverend Gabriel Bennet! Come, I licked you like--like--likehell once, and I'll--I'll--I'll--do it again. Stand back!" he shouted, with drunken energy, and struggling to free his arms. 

But Gabriel and Lawrence Newt held fast. The others rose and stoodlooking on, Mrs. Newt hysterically weeping, and May pale with terror. Alfred Dinks laughed, foolishly, and gazed about for sympathy. GeraldBennet drew his wife's arm within his own. 

The old man sat quietly, only turning his head toward the noise, andlooking at the struggle without appearing to see it. 

Finding himself mastered, Abel swore and struggled with drunken frenzy. After a little while he was entirely exhausted, and sank upon the floor. Lawrence Newt and Gabriel stood panting over him; the rest crowded intothe hall. Abel looked about stupidly, then crawled toward the staircase, laid his head upon the lower step, and almost immediately fell intoa deep, drunken slumber. 

"Come, come, " whispered Gerald Bennet to his wife. 

They took Mrs. Newt's hand and said Good-by. 

"Oh, dear me! isn't it dreadful?" she sobbed. "Please don't, say anything about it. Good-night. "

They shook her hand, but as they opened the door into the still moonlightmidnight they heard the clear, hard voice in the parlor, and in theirminds they saw the beating of the bony fingers. 

"Riches have wings! Riches have wings!"

CHAPTER LXXII. 

GOOD-BY. 

The happy hours of Hope Wayne's life were the visits of Lawrence Newt. The sound of his voice in the hall, of his step on the stair, gave her asense of profound peace. Often, as she sat at table with Mrs. Simcoe, inher light morning-dress, and with the dew of sleep yet fresh upon hercheeks, she heard the sound, and her heart seemed to stop and listen. Often, as time wore on, and the interviews were longer and more delayed, she was conscious that the gaze of her old friend became curiously fixedupon her whenever Lawrence Newt came. Often, in the tranquil evenings, when they sat together in the pleasant room, Hope Wayne cheerfullychatting, or sewing, or reading aloud, Mrs. Simcoe looked at her sowistfully--so as if upon the point of telling some strange story--thatHope could not help saying, brightly, "Out with it, aunty!" But as theyounger woman spoke, the resolution glimmered away in the eyes of hercompanion, and was succeeded by a yearning, tender pity. 

Still Lawrence Newt came to the house, to consult, to inspect, to bringbills that he had paid, to hear of a new utensil for the kitchen, to seeabout coal, about wood, about iron, to look at a dipper, at a faucet--heknew every thing in the house by heart, and yet he did not know how orwhy. He wanted to come--he thought he came too often. What could he do?

Hope sang as she sat in her chamber, as she read in the parlor, as shewent about the house, doing her nameless, innumerable household duties. Her voice was rich, and full, and womanly; and the singing was not thefragmentary, sparkling gush of good spirits, and the mere overflow of ahappy temperament--it was a deep, sweet, inward music, as if a woman'ssoul were intoning a woman's thoughts, and as if the woman were at peace. 

But the face of Mrs. Simcoe grew sadder and sadder as Hope's singing wassweeter and sweeter, and significant of utter rest. The look in her eyesof something imminent, of something that even trembled on her tongue, grew more and more marked. Hope Wayne brightly said, "Out with it, aunty!" and sang on. 

Amy Waring came often to the house. She was older than Hope, and it wasnatural that she should be a little graver. They had a hundred plans inconcert for helping a hundred people. Amy and Hope were a charitablesociety. 

"Fiddle diddle!" said Aunt Dagon, when she was speaking of his twofriends to her nephew Lawrence. "Does this brace of angels think thatvirtue consists in making shirts for poor people?"

Lawrence looked at his aunt with the inscrutable eyes, and answeredslowly, "I don't know that they do, Aunt Dagon; but I suppose they don't think itconsists in _not_ making them. "

"Phew!" said Mrs. Dagon, tossing her cap-strings back pettishly. "Isuppose they expect to make a kind of rope-ladder of all their charitygarments, and climb up into heaven that way!"

"Perhaps they do, " replied Lawrence, in the same tone. "They have notmade me their confidant. But I suppose that even if the ladder doesn'treach, it's better to go a little way up than not to start at all. "

"There! Lawrence, such a speech as that comes of your not going tochurch. If you would just try to be a little better man, and go to hearDr. Maundy preach, say once a year, " said Mrs. Dagon, sarcastically, "youwould learn that it isn't good works that are the necessary thing. "

"I hope, Aunt Dagon, " returned Lawrence, laughing--"I do really hope thatit's good words, then, for your sake. My dear aunt, you ought to besatisfied with showing that you don't believe in good works, and letother people enjoy their own faith. If charity be a sin, Miss Amy Waringand Miss Hope Wayne are dreadful sinners. But then, Aunt Dagon, what asaint you must be!"

Gradually Mrs. Simcoe was persuaded that she ought to speak plainly toLawrence Newt upon a subject which profoundly troubled her. Havingresolved to do it, she sat one morning waiting patiently for the doorof the library--in which Lawrence Newt was sitting with Hope Wayne, discussing the details of her household--to open. There was a placid airof resolution in her sad and anxious face, as if she were only awaitingthe moment when she should disburden her heart of the weight it had solong secretly carried. There was entire silence in the house. The richcurtains, the soft carpet, the sumptuous furniture--every object on whichthe eye fell, seemed made to steal the shock from noise; and the rattleof the street--the jarring of carts--the distant shriek of the belatedmilkman--the long, wavering, melancholy cry of the chimney-sweep--camehushed and indistinct into the parlor where the sad-eyed woman satsilently waiting. 

At length the door opened and Lawrence Newt came out. He was going towardthe front door, when Mrs. Simcoe rose and went into the hall, and said, "Stop a moment!"

He turned, half smiled, but saw her face, and his own settled into itsarmor. 

Mrs. Simcoe beckoned him toward the parlor; and as he went in she steppedto the library door and said, to avoid interruption, "Hope, Mr. Newt and I are talking together in the parlor. "

Hope bowed, and made no reply. Mrs. Simcoe entered the other room andclosed the door. 

"Mr. Newt, " she said, in a low voice, "you can not wonder that I amanxious. "

He looked at her, and did not answer. 

"I know, perhaps, more than you know, " said she; "not, I am sure, morethan you suspect. "

Lawrence Newt was a little troubled, but it was only evident in the quietclosing and unclosing of his hand. 

They stood for a few moments without speaking. Then she opened theminiature, and when she saw that he observed it she said, very slowly, "Is it quite fair, Mr. Newt?"

"Mrs. Simcoe, " he replied, inquiringly. 

His firm, low voice reassured her. 

"Why do you come here so often?" asked she. 

"To help Miss Hope. "

"Is it necessary that you should come?"

"She wishes it. "

"Why?"

He paused a moment. Mrs. Simcoe continued:

"Lawrence Newt, at least let us be candid with each other. By the memoryof the dead--by the common sorrow we have known, there should be no cloudbetween us about Hope Wayne. I use your own words. Tell me what you feelas frankly as you feel it. "

There was simple truth in the earnest face before him. While she wasspeaking she raised her hand involuntarily to her breast, and gaspedas if she were suffocating. Her words were calm, and he answered, "I waited, for I did not know how to answer--nor do I now. "

"And yet you have had some impression--some feeling--some conviction. Yonknow whether it is necessary that you should come--whether she wants youfor an hour's chat, as an old friend--or--or"--she waited a moment, andadded--"or as something else. "

As Lawrence Newt stood before her he remembered curiously his interviewwith Aunt Martha, but he could not say to Mrs. Simcoe what he had said toher. 

"What can I say?" he asked at length, in a troubled voice. 

"Lawrence Newt, say if you think she loves you, and tell me, " she said, drawing herself erect and back from him, as in the twilight of the oldlibrary at Pinewood, while her thin finger was pointed upward--"tell me, as you will be judged hereafter--me, to whom her mother gave her as shedied, knowing that she loved you. "

Her voice died away, overpowered by emotion. She still looked at him, and suspicion, incredulity, and scorn were mingled in her look, while heruplifted finger still shook, as if appealing to Heaven. Then she askedabruptly, and fiercely, "To which, in the name of God, are you false--the mother or thedaughter?"

"Stop!" replied Lawrence Newt, in a tone so imperious that the hand ofhis companion fell at her side, and the scorn and suspicion faded fromher eyes. "Mrs. Simcoe, there are things that even you must not say. Youhave lived alone with a great sorrow; you are too swift; you are unjust. Even if I had known what you ask about Miss Hope, I am not sure that Ishould have done differently. Certainly, while I did not know--while, atmost, I could only suspect, I could do nothing else. I have feared ratherthan believed--nor that, until very lately. Would it have been kind, orwise, or right to have staid away altogether, when, as you know, Iconstantly meet her at our little Club? Was I to say, 'Miss Hope, I seeyou love me, but I do not love you?' And what right had I to hint thesame thing by my actions, at the cost of utter misapprehension and painto her? Mrs. Simcoe, I do love Hope Wayne too tenderly, and respect hertoo truly, not to try to protect her against the sting of her own womanlypride. And so I have not staid away. I have not avoided a woman in whom Imust always have so deep and peculiar an interest, I have been friend andalmost father, and never by a whisper even, by a look, by a possiblehint, have I implied any thing more. "

His voice trembled as he spoke. He had no right to be silent any longer, and as he finished Mrs. Simcoe took his hand. 

"Forgive me! I love her so dearly--and I too am a woman. "

She sank upon the sofa as she spoke, and covered her face for a littlewhile. The tears stole quietly down her cheeks. Lawrence Newt stood byher sadly, for his mind was deeply perplexed. They both remained for sometime without speaking, until Mrs. Simcoe asked, "What can we do?"

Lawrence Newt shook his head doubtfully. 

They were silent again. At length Mrs. Simcoe said:

"I will do it. "

"What?" asked Lawrence. 

"What I have been meaning to do for a long, long time, " replied theother. "I will tell her the story. "

An indefinable expression settled upon Lawrence Newt's face as she spoke. 

"Has she never asked?" he inquired. 

"Often; but I have always avoided telling. "

"It had better be done. It is the only way. But I hoped it would never benecessary. God bless us all!"

He moved toward the door when he had finished, but not until he hadshaken her warmly by the hand. 

"You will come as before?" she said. 

"Of course, there will not be the slightest change on my part. And, Mrs. Simcoe, remember that next week, certainly, I shall meet Miss Hope atMiss Amy Waring's. Our first meeting had better be there, so before thenplease--"

He bowed and went out. As he passed the library door he involuntarilylooked in. There sat Hope Wayne, reading; but as she heard him she raisedthe head of golden hair, the dewy cheeks, the thoughtful brow, and as shebowed to him the clear blue eyes smiled the words her tongue uttered--

"Good-by, Mr. Newt, good-by!"

The words followed him out of the door and down the street. The air rangwith them every where. The people he passed seemed to look at him as ifthey were repeating them. Distant echoes caught them up and whisperedthem. He heard no noise of carriages, no loud city hum; he only heard, fainter and fainter, softer and softer, sadder and sadder, and everfollowing on, "Good-by, Mr. Newt, good-by!"

CHAPTER LXXIII. 

THE BELCH PLATFORM. 

"My dear Newt, as a friend who has the highest respect for you, and thefirmest faith in your future, I am sure you will allow me to say onething. "

"Oh! certainly, my dear Belch; say two, " replied Abel, with the utmostsuavity, as he sat at table with General Belch. 

"I have no peculiar ability, I know, " continued the other, "but I have, perhaps, a little more experience than you. We old men, you know, alwaysplume ourselves upon experience, which we make do duty for all thevirtues and talents. "

"And it is trained for that service by being merely a synonym for aknowledge of all the sins and rascalities, " said Abel, smiling, as heblew rings of smoke and passed the decanter to General Belch. 

"True, " replied the other; "very true. I see, my dear Newt, that youhave had your eyes and your mind open. And since we are going to acttogether--since, in fact, we are interested in the same plans--"

"And principles, " interrupted Abel, laying his head back, and lookingwith half-closed eyes at the vanishing smoke. 

"Oh yes, I was coming to that--in the same plans and principles, it iswell that we should understand each other perfectly. "

General Belch paused, looked at Abel, and took snuff. 

"I think we do already, " replied Abel. 

"Still there are one or two points to which I would call your attention. One is, that you can not be too careful of what you say, in regard to itsbearing upon the party; and the other is, a general rule that the Publicis an ass, but you must never let it know you think so. If there is onething which the party has practically proved, it is that the people haveno will of their own, but are sheep in the hands of the shepherd. "

The General took snuff again. 

"The Public, then, is an ass and a sheep?" inquired Abel. 

"Yes, " said the General, "an ass in capacity, and in preference of athistle diet; a sheep in gregarious and stupid following. You say 'Ca, ca, ca, ' when you want a cow to follow you; and you say 'Glorious oldparty, ' and 'Intelligence of the people, ' and 'Preference of truth tovictory, ' and so forth, when you want the people to follow you. "

"An ass, a sheep, and a cow, " said Abel. "To what other departments ofnatural history do the people belong, General?"

"Adders, " returned Belch, sententiously. 

"How so?" asked Abel, amused. 

"Because they are so cold and ungrateful, " said the General. 

"As when, for instance, " returned Abel, "the Honorable Watkins Bodley, having faithfully served his constituency, is turned adrift by--by--thepeople. "

He looked at Belch and laughed. The fat nose of the General glistened. 

"No, no, " said he, "your illustration is at fault. He did not faithfullyserve his constituency. He was not sound upon the great Grant question. "

The two gentlemen laughed together and filled their glasses. 

"No, no, " resumed the General, "never forget that the great thing isdrill--discipline. Keep the machinery well oiled, and your hand upon thecrank, and all goes well. "

"Until somebody knocks off your hand, " said Abel. 

"Yes, of course--of course; but that is the very point. The fight isnever among the sheep, but only among the shepherds. Look at our splendidsystem, beginning with Tom, Jim, and Ned, and culminating in thePresident--the roots rather red and unsightly, but oh! such a prettyflower, all broadcloth, kid gloves, and affability--contemplate thesuperb machinery, " continued the General, warming, "the primaries, theward committees, the--in fact, all the rest of it--see how gloriously itworks--the great result of the working of the whole is--"

"To establish justice, insure domestic tranquillity, promote the generalwelfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and ourposterity, " interrupted Abel, who had been scanning the Constitution, and who delivered the words with a rhetorical pomp of manner. 

General Belch smiled approvingly. 

"That's it--that's the very tone. You'll do. The great result is, whoshall have his hand on the crank. And there are, therefore, always threeparties in our beloved country. "

Abel looked inquiringly. 

"First, the _ins_, who are in two parties--the clique that have, and theclique that haven't. They fight like fury among themselves, but when theymeet t'other great party they all fight together, because the hopes ofthe crank for each individual of each body lie in the party itself, andin their obedience to its discipline. These are two of the parties. Thenthere is the great party of the _outs_, who have a marvelous unanimity, and never break up into quarrelsome bodies until there is a fair chanceof their ousting the _ins_. I say these things not because they are notpretty obvious, but because, as a man of fashion and society, you haveprobably not attended to such matters. It's dirty work for a gentleman. But I suppose any of us would be willing to pick a gold eagle out of themud, even if we did soil our fingers. "

"Of course, " replied Abel, in a tone that General Belch did not entirelycomprehend--"of course no gentleman knows any thing of politics. Gentlemen are the natural governors of a country; and where they are noterected into a hereditary governing class, self-respect forbids them tomix with inferior men--so they keep aloof from public affairs. GoodHeavens! what gentleman would be guilty of being an alderman in thistown! Why, as you know, my dear Belch, nothing but my reducedcircumstances induces me to go to Congress. By-the-by--"

"Well, what is it?" asked the General. 

"I'm dreadfully hard up, " said Abel. "I have just the d----est luck youever conceived, and I must raise some money. "

The fat nose glistened again, while the General sat silently pondering. 

"I can lend you a thousand, " he said, at length. 

"Thank you. It will oblige me very much. "

"Upon conditions, " added the General. 

"Conditions?" asked Abel, surprised. 

"I mean understandings, " said the General. 

"Oh! certainly, " answered Abel. 

"You pledge yourself to me and our friends that you will at the earliestmoment move in the matter of the Grant; you engage to secure the votessomehow, relying upon the pecuniary aid of our friends who areinterested; and you will repay me out of your first receipts. Ele willstand by you through thick and thin. We keep him there for that purpose. "

"My dear Belch, I promise any thing you require. I only want the money. "

"Give me your hand, Newt. From the bottom of my soul I do respect a manwho has no scruples. "

They shook hands heartily, and filling their glasses they drank"Success!" The General then wrote a check and a little series ofinstructions, which he gave to Abel, while Abel himself scribbled anI. O. U. , which the General laid in his pocket-book. 

"You'll have an eye on, Ele, " said the General, as he buttoned his coat. 

"Certainly--two if you want, " answered Abel, lazily, repeating the joke. 

"He's a good fellow, Ele is, " said Belch; "but he's largely interested, and he'll probably try to chouse us out of something by affectingsuperior influence. You must patronize him to the other men. Keep himwell under. I have a high respect for cellar stairs, but they mustn'ttry to lead up to the roof. Good-by. Hail Newt! Senator that shall be!"laughed the General, as he shook hands and followed his fat nose outof the door. 

Left to himself, Abel walked for some time up and down his room, withhis hands buried in his pocket and a sneering smile upon his face. Hesuddenly drew one hand out, raised it, clenched it, and brought it downheavily in the air, as he muttered, contemptuously, "What a stupid fool! I wonder if he never thinks, as he looks in theglass, that that fat nose of his is made to lead him by. "

For the sagacious and fat-nosed General had omitted to look at the littlepaper Newt handed to him, thinking it would be hardly polite to do sounder the circumstances. But if he had looked he would have seen that theexact sum they had spoken of had been forgotten, and a veryinconsiderable amount was specified. 

It had flashed across Abel's mind in a moment that if the Generalsubsequently discovered it and were disposed to make trouble, thedisclosure of the paper of instructions which he had written, andwhich Abel had in his possession, would ruin his hopes of politicalfinanciering. "And as for my election, why, I have my certificate inmy pocket. "

CHAPTER LXXIV. 

MIDNIGHT. 

Gradually the sneer faded from Abel's face, and he walked up and downthe room, no longer carelessly, but fitfully; stopping sometimes--againstarting more rapidly--then leaning against the mantle, on which theclock pointed to midnight--then throwing himself into a chair or upon asofa; and so, rising again, walked on. 

His head bent forward--his eyes grew rounder and harder, and seemed tobe burnished with the black, bad light; his step imperceptibly grewstealthy--he looked about him carefully--he stood erect and breathlessto listen--bit his nails, and walked on. 

The clock upon the mantle pointed to half an hour after midnight. AbelNewt went into his chamber and put on his slippers. He lighted a candle, and looked carefully under the bed and in the closet. Then he drew theshades over the windows and went out into the other room, closing andlocking the door behind him. 

He glided noiselessly to the door that opened into the entry, and lockedthat softly and bolted it carefully. Then he turned the key so that thewards filled the keyhole, and taking out his handkerchief he hung it overthe knob of the door, so that it fell across the keyhole, and no eyecould by any chance have peered into the room. 

He saw that the blinds of the windows were closed, the windows shut andlocked, and the linen shades drawn over them. He also let fall the heavydamask curtains, so that the windows were obliterated from the room. Hestood in the centre of the room and looked to every corner where, by anychance, a person might be concealed. 

Then, moving upon tip-toe, he drew a key from his pocket and fitted itinto the lid of a secretary. As he turned it in the lock the snap of thebolt made him start. He was haggard, even ghastly, as he stood, lettingthe lid back slowly, lest it should creak or jar. With another key heopened a little drawer, and involuntarily looking behind him as he didso, he took out a small piece of paper, which he concealed in his hand. 

Seating himself at the secretary, he put the candle before him, andremained for a moment with his face slightly strained forward with astartling intentness of listening. There was no sound but the regularticking of the clock upon the mantle. He had not observed it before, butnow he could hear nothing else. 

Tick, tick--tick, tick. It had a persistent, relentless, remorselessregularity. Tick, tick--tick, tick. Every moment it appeared to be louderand louder. His brow wrinkled and his head bent forward more deeply, while his eyes were set straight before him. Tick, tick--tick, tick. Thesolemn beat became human as he listened. He could not raise his head--hecould not turn his eyes. He felt as if some awful shape stood over himwith destroying eyes and inflexible tongue. But struggling, withoutmoving, as a dreamer wrestles with the nightmare, he presently sprangbolt upright--his eyes wide and wild--the sweat oozing upon his ghastlyforehead--his whole frame weak and quivering. With the same suddennesshe turned defiantly, clenching his fists, in act to spring. 

There was nothing there. He saw only the clock--the gilt pendulumregularly swinging--he heard only the regular tick, tick--tick, tick. 

A sickly smile glimmered on his face as he stepped toward the mantle, still clutching the paper in his hand, but crouching as he came, andleering, as if to leap upon an enemy unawares. Suddenly he started asif struck--a stifled shriek of horror burst from his lips--he staggeredback--his hand opened--the paper fell fluttering to the floor. Abel Newthad unexpectedly seen the reflection of his own face in the mirror thatcovered the chimney behind the clock. 

He recovered himself, swore bitterly, and stooped to pick up the paper. Then with sullen bravado, still staring at his reflection in the glass, he took off the glass shade of the clock, touched the pendulum andstopped it; then turning his back, crept to his chair, and sat downagain. 

The silence was profound, not a sound was audible but the creaking of hisclothes as he leaned heavily against the edge of the desk and drew hisagitated breath. He raised the candle and bent his gloomy face over thepaper which he held before him. It was a note of his late firm indorsedby Lawrence Newt & Co. He gazed at his uncle's signature intently, studying every line, every dot--so intently that it seemed as if his eyeswould burn it. Then putting down the candle and spreading the name beforehim, he drew a sheet of tissue paper from a drawer and placed it over it. The writing was perfectly legible--the finest stroke showed through thethin tissue. He filled a pen and carefully drew the lines of thesignature upon the tissue paper--then raised it--the fac-simile wasperfect. 

Taking a thicker piece of paper, he laid the note before him, and slowly, carefully, copied the signature. The result was a resemblance, butnothing more. He held the paper in the flame of the candle until it wasconsumed. He tried again. He tried many times. Each trial was a greatersuccess. 

Tearing a check from his book he filled the blanks and wrote belowthe name of Lawrence Newt & Co. , and found, upon comparison with theindorsement, that it was very like. Abel Newt grinned; his lips moved: hewas muttering "Dear Uncle Lawrence. "

He stopped writing, and carefully burned, as before, the check and allthe paper. Then covering his face with his hands as he sat, he said tohimself, as the hot, hurried thoughts flickered through his mind, "Yes, yes, Mrs. Lawrence Newt, I shall not be master of Pinewood, butI shall be of your husband, and he will be master of your property. Practice makes perfect. Dear Uncle Lawrence shall be my banker. "

His brain reeled and whirled as he sat. He remembered the words of hisfriend the General: "Abel Newt was not born to fail. "

"No, by God!" he shouted, springing up, and clenching his hands. 

He staggered. The walls of the room, the floor, the ceiling, thefurniture heaved and rolled before his eyes. In the wild tumult thatoverwhelmed his brain as if he were sinking in gurgling whirlpools--thepeaceful lawn of Pinewood--the fight with Gabriel--the runninghorses--the "Farewell forever, Miss Wayne"--the shifting chances ofhis subsequent life--Grace Plumer blazing with diamonds--the figureof his father drumming with white fingers upon his office-desk--Lawrenceand Gabriel pushing him out--they all swept before his consciousness inthe moment during which he threw out his hands wildly, clutched at theair, and plunged headlong upon the floor, senseless. 

CHAPTER LXXV. 

REMINISCENCE. 

On the very evening that General Belch and Abel Newt were sittingtogether, smoking, taking snuff, sipping wine, and discussing the greatprinciples that should control the action of American legislators andstatesmen, Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe sat together in their pleasantdrawing-room talking of old times. The fire crackled upon the hearth, andthe bright flames flickering through the room brought out every objectwith fitful distinctness. The lamp was turned almost out--for they foundit more agreeable to sit in a twilight as they spoke of the days whichseemed to both of them to be full of subdued and melancholy light. Theysat side by side; Hope leaning her cheek upon her hand, and gazingthoughtfully into the fire; Mrs. Simcoe turned partly toward her, andoccasionally studying her face, as if peculiarly anxious to observeits expression. 

It might have happened in many ways that they were speaking of the oldtimes. The older woman may have intentionally led the conversation inthat direction for some ulterior purpose she had in view. Or what is morelikely than that the young woman should constantly draw her friend andguardian to speak of days and people connected with her own life, butpassed before her memory had retained them?

After a long interval, as if, when she had once broken her reserve abouther life, she must pour out all her experience, Mrs. Simcoe began:

"When I was twenty years old, living with my father, a poor farmer in thecountry, there came to pass the summer in the village a gentleman, a gooddeal older than I. He was handsome, graceful, elegant, fascinating. I sawhim at church, but he did not see me. Then I met him sometimes upon theroad, idly sauntering along, swinging a little cane, and looking as ifvillage life were fatiguing. He seemed at length to observe me. One dayhe bowed. I said nothing, but hurried on. When I was a little beyond himI turned my head. He also was turning and looking at me. 

"I was old enough to know why I turned. Yes, and so was he. How wellI remember the peaceful western light that fell along the fields andtouched the trees so kindly! Every thing was still. The birds droppedhurrying homeward notes, and the cows were coming in from the pasture. I was going after our cow, but I leaned a long time on the bars andlooked at the new moon timidly showing herself in the west. Then I lookedat my clumsy gown, and thick shoes, and large hands, and thought of thegraceful, elegant man, who had not bowed to me insolently. I imaginedthat a gentleman used to city life must find our country ways tiresome. I pitied him, but what could I do?

"Once in the meadows I was following up the brook to find cardinalflowers. The brook wound through a little wood; and as I was passing, looking closely among the flags and pickerel-wood, I suddenly heard avoice close to me--'The lobelia blossoms are further on, Miss Jane. ' Iknew instantly who it was, and I was conscious of being more scarletthan the flowers I was seeking. 

"Well, dear, " said Mrs. Simcoe, after pausing for a few moments, "I cannot repeat every detail. The time came when I was not afraid to speak tohim--when I cared to speak to no one else--when I thought of him all dayand dreamed of him all night--when I wore the ribbons he praised, and thecolors he loved, and the flowers he gave me; when he told me of the greatlife beyond the village, of lofty and beautiful women he had known, ofwise men he had seen, of the foreign countries he had visited--when hetwined my hair around his finger and said, 'Jane, I love you!'"

Her eyes were excited, and her voice was hurried, but inexpressibly sad. Hope sat by, and the tears flowed from her eyes. 

"A long, long time. Yet it was only a few months--it was only a summer. He came in May, and was gone again in November. But between his comingand going the roses in our garden blossomed and withered. So you seethere was time enough. Time enough! Time enough! I was heavenly happy. 

"One day he said that he must go. There was some frightful trouble in hiseye. 'Will you come back?' I asked. I tremble to remember how sternly Iasked it, and how cold and bloodless I felt. 'So help me God!' heanswered, and left me. Left me! 'So help me God!' he murmured, as histears fell upon my cheek and he kissed me. 'So help me God!'--and he leftme. Not a word, not a look, not a sign had he given me to suppose that hewould not return; not a thought, not a wish had he breathed to me thatyou might not hear. His miniature hung in a locket around my neck, even as my whole heart and soul hung upon his love. 'So help me God!'he whispered, and left me. 

"He did not come back. I thought my heart was frozen. My mother sighedas she went on with her hard, incessant work. My father tried to becheerful. 'Cry, girl, cry, ' my mother said; 'only cry, and you'll bebetter. ' I could not cry; I could not smile. I could do nothing but helpher silently in the long, hard work, day after day, summer and winter. I read the books he had given me. I thought of the things he had said. I sat in my chamber when the floor was scrubbed, and the bread baked, andthe dishes washed, and the flies buzzed in the hot, still kitchen. I canhear them now. And there I sat, looking out of my window, straining myeyes toward the horizon--sometimes sure that I heard him coming, clickingthe gate, hurrying up the gravel, with his eager, handsome, melancholyface. I started up. My heart stood still. I was ready to fall upon hisbreast and say, 'I believe 'twas all right. ' He did not come. 'So help meGod!' he said, and did not come. 

"My father brought me to New York to change the scene. But God hadbrought me here to change my heart. I heard one Sunday good old BishopAsbury, and he began the work that Summerfield sealed. My parentspresently died. They left nothing, and I was the only child. I did what Icould, and at last I became your grandfather's housekeeper. "

As her story proceeded Mrs. Simcoe looked more and more anxiously atHope, whose eyes were fixed upon her incessantly. The older woman pausedat this point, and, taking Hope's face between her hands, smoothed herhair, and kissed her. 

"Your grandfather had a daughter Mary. "

"My mother, " said Hope, earnestly. 

"Your mother, darling. She was as beautiful but as delicate as a flower. The doctors said a long salt voyage would strengthen her. So yourgrandfather sent her in the ship of one of his friends to India. In Indiashe staid several weeks, and met a young man of her own age, clerk in ahouse there. Of course they were soon engaged. But he was young, notyet in business, and she knew the severity of your grandfather and hisambition for her. At length the ship returned, and your mother returnedin it. Scarcely was she at home a month than your grandfather told methat he had a connection in view for his daughter, and wanted me toprepare her to receive the addresses of a gentleman a good deal olderthan she, but of the best family, and in every way a desirable husband. He was himself getting old, he said, and it was necessary that hisdaughter should marry. Your mother loved me dearly, as I did her. Gentlesoul, with her soft, dark, appealing eyes, with her flower-like fragilityand womanly dependence. Ah me! it was hard that your grandfather shouldhave been her parent. 

"She was stunned when I told her. I thought her grief was only natural, and I was surprised at the sudden change in her. She faded before oureyes. We could not cheer her. But she made no effort to resist. She didnot refuse to see her suitor; she did not say that she loved any oneelse. I think she had a mortal fear of her father, and, dear soul! shecould not do any thing that required resolution. 

"One day your grandfather said at dinner, 'To-morrow, Miss Mary, your newfriend will be here. '

"All night she lay awake, trembling and tearful; and at morning sherose like a spectre. The stranger arrived. Mary kept her room untildinner-time. Then we both went down to see the new-comer. He was in thelibrary with your grandfather, and was engaged in telling him some veryamusing story when we came in, for your grandfather was laughingheartily. They both rose upon seeing us. 

"'Colonel Wayne, my daughter, ' said your grandfather, waving his handtoward her. He bowed--she sank, spectre-like, into a chair. 

"'Mrs. Simcoe, Colonel Wayne. '

"Our eyes met. It was my lover. He was too much amazed to bow. But in amoment he recovered himself, smiled courteously, and seated himself; forhe saw at once what place I filled in the household. I said nothing. Iremember that I sank into a chair and looked at him. He was older, butthe same charm still hovered about his person. His voice had the samesecret music, and his movement that careless grace which seemed to springfrom the consciousness of power. I was conscious of only two things--thatI loved him, and that he was unworthy the love of any woman. 

"During dinner he made two or three observations to me. But I bowed andsaid nothing. I think I was morally stunned, and the whole scene seemedto me to be unreal. After a few days he made a formal offer of his handto Mary Burt. Poor child! Poor child! She trembled, hesitated, fluttered, delayed. 'You must; you shall!' were the terrible words she heard fromher parent. She dreaded to tell the truth, lest he should force a summarymarriage. Hope, my child, you could have resisted--so could I; she couldnot. 'Only, dear father, ' she said, 'I am so young. Let me not be marriedfor a year. ' Her father laughed and assented, and I think she instantlywrote to her lover in India. 

"People came driving out to congratulate. 'Such a reasonable connection!'every body said; 'a military man of fine old family. It is reallydelightful to have a union sometimes take place in which all theconditions are satisfactory. '

"All the time his miniature hung round my neck. Why? Because, in thebottom of my soul, I still believed him. I had heard him say, So helpme God!'

"He went away, and sometimes returned for a week. I was comforted byseeing that he did not love your mother, and by the confidence I had thatshe would not marry him. I was sure that something would happen toprevent. 

"The year was coming round. One night your mother appeared in my room inher night-dress; her face was radiant, and she held a note in her hand. It was from her lover. He had thrown himself upon a ship when her letterreached him, and here he was close at hand. Full of generous ardor, heproposed to marry her privately at once; there was no other way, he wassure. 

"'Will you help us?' she said, after she had told me every thing. 

"'But you are two such children, ' I said. 

"'Then you will not help. You will make me marry Colonel Wayne. '

"I tried to see the matter calmly. I sought the succor of God. I donot say that I did just what I should have done, but I helped them. Theheart is weak, and perhaps I was the more willing to help, because thefulfillment of her plan would prevent her becoming the wife of ColonelWayne. The time was arranged when she was to go away. I was to accompanyher, and she was to be married. 

"The lover came. It was a June night; the moon was full. We went quietlyalong the avenue. The gate was opened. We were just passing through whenyour grandfather and Colonel Wayne suddenly stepped from the shadow ofthe wall and the trees. 

"Your mother and her lover stood perfectly still. She gave a little cry. Your grandfather was furious. 

"'Go, Sir!' he shrieked at the young man. 

"'If your daughter commands it, ' he replied. 

"Your grandfather seized him involuntarily. 

"'Sir, my daughter is the betrothed wife of Colonel Wayne. '

"The young man looked with an incredulous smile at your mother, who hadsunk senseless into my arms, and said, in a low voice, "'She was mine before she ever saw him. '

"Your grandfather actually hissed at him with contempt. 

"'Go--before I strike you!'

"The young man hesitated for a few moments, saw that it was useless toremain longer at that time, and went. 

"The next day Mr. Burt sent for Dr. Peewee. 

"The moment I knew what he intended to do I ran to your grandfather andtold him that Colonel Wayne was not a fit husband for his daughter. Butwhen I told him that the Colonel had deserted me, Mr. Burt laughedscornfully. 

"'You, Mrs. Simcoe? Why, you have lost your wits. Remember, Colonel Wayneis a gentleman of the oldest family, and you are--you were--'

"'I was a poor country girl, ' said I, 'and Colonel Wayne loved me, andI loved him, and here is the pledge and proof of it. '

"I drew out his miniature as I spoke, and held it before yourgrandfather's eyes. He fairly staggered, and rang the bell violently. 

"'Call Colonel Wayne, ' he said, hastily, to the servant. 

"In a moment the Colonel came in. I saw his color change as his eye fellupon me, holding the locket in my hand, and upon your grandfather'sflushed face. 

"'Colonel Wayne, have you ever seen Mrs. Simcoe before?'

"He was very pale, and there were sallow circles under his eyes as hespoke; but he said, calmly, "'Not to my knowledge. '

"Scorn made me icily calm. 

"'Who gave me that, Sir?' said I, thrusting the miniature almost into hisface. 

"He took it in his hand and looked at it. I saw his lip work and histhroat quiver with an involuntary spasm. 

"'I am sure I do not know. '

"I was speechless. Your grandfather was confounded. Colonel Wayne lookedwhite, but resolute. 

"'God only is my witness, ' said I, slowly, as if the words came gaspingfrom my heart. 'So help me God, I loved him, and he loved me. '

"A quiver ran through his frame as I spoke, but he preserved the sameplacidity of face. 

"'There is some mistake, Mrs. Simcoe, ' said your grandfather, notunkindly, to me. 'Go to your room. '

"I obeyed, for my duty was done. "

Mrs. Simcoe paused, and rocked silently to and fro. Hope took her handand kissed it reverently. Presently the narration was quietly resumed:

"I told your mother my story. But she was stunned by her own grief, and Ido not think she comprehended me. Dr. Peewee came, and she was married. Your mother did not say yes--for she could not utter a word--but theceremony proceeded. I heard the words, 'Whom God hath joined together, 'and I laughed aloud, and fell fainting. 

"It was a few days after the marriage, when Colonel Wayne and his wifewere absent, that your grandfather said to me, "'Mrs. Simcoe, your story seems to be true. But think a moment. A manlike Colonel Wayne must have had many experiences. We all do. He has beenrash, and foolish, and thoughtless, I have no doubt. He may even havetrifled with your feelings. I am very sorry. If he has done so, I thinkhe ought to have acknowledged it the other day. But I hope sincerely thatwe shall all let by-gones be by-gones, and live happily together. Ah! Isee dinner is ready. Good-day, Mrs. Simcoe. Dr. Peewee, will you ask ablessing?'"

It was already midnight, and the two women sat before the fire. It wasthe moment when Abel Newt was stealing through his rooms, fastening doorsand windows. Hope Wayne was pale and cold like a statue as she listenedto the voice of Mrs. Simcoe, which had a wailing tone pitiful to hear. After a long silence she began again:

"What ought I to have done? Should I have gone away? That was the easiestcourse. But, Hope, the way of duty is not often the easiest way. I wrotea long letter to the good old Bishop Asbury, who seemed to me like afather, and after a while his answer came. He told me that I should seekthe Lord's leading, and if that bade me stay--if that told me that itwould be for my soul's blessing that my heart should break daily--then Ihad better remain, seeing that the end is not here--that here we have nocontinuing city, and that our proud hearts must be bruised by grief, evenas our Saviour's lowly forehead was pierced with thorns. 

"So I staid. It was partly pity for your mother, who began to droop atonce. It was partly that I might keep my wound bleeding for my soul'ssalvation; and partly--I see it now, but I could not then--because Ibelieved, as before God I do now believe, that in his secret heart I wasthe woman your father loved, and I could not give him up. 

"Your mother's lover wrote to me at once, I discovered afterward, but hisletters were intercepted, for your grandfather was a shrewd, resoluteman. Then he came to Pinewood, but he was not allowed to see your mother. The poor boy was frantic; but before he could effect any thing yourmother was the wife of Colonel Wayne. Then, in the same ship in which hehad come from India, he returned; and after he was gone all his letterswere given to me. I wrote to him at once. I told him every thing aboutyour mother, but there was not much to tell. She never mentioned his nameafter her marriage. There were gay parties given in honor of the wedding, and her delicate, drooping, phantom-like figure hung upon the arm of herhandsome, elegant husband. People said that her maidenly shyness wasbeautiful to behold, and that she clung to her husband like the wavingivy to the oak. 

"She did not cling long. She was just nineteen when she was married--shewas not twenty when you were born--she was just twenty when they buriedher. Oh! I did not think of myself only, but of her, when I heard thesaintly youth breathe that plaintive prayer, 'Draw them to thee, for theywearily labor: they are heavily laden, gracious Father! oh, give themrest!'

"'No chilling winds or pois'nous breath Can reach that healthful shore: Sickness and sorrow, pain and death, Are felt and fear'd no more. '"

"And my father?" asked Hope, in a low voice. 

"He went abroad for many years. Then he returned, and came sometimes toPinewood. His life was irregular. I think he gambled, for he and yourgrandfather often had high words in the library about the money that hewanted. But your grandfather never allowed you to leave the place. Herarely spoke of your mother; but I think he often thought of her, andhe gradually fell into the habit you remember. Yet he had the sameambition for you that he had had for your mother. He treated me alwayswith stately politeness; but I know that it was a dreary home for a younggirl. Hope, " said Mrs. Simcoe, after a short pause, "that is all--the endyou yourself remember. "

"Yes, " replied Hope, in the same low, appalled tone, "my father went outupon the pond, one evening, with a friend to bathe, and was drowned. Mr. Gray's boys found him. My grandfather would not let me wear mourning forhim. I wore a blue ribbon the day Dr. Peewee preached his funeral sermon;and I did not care to wear black. Aunty, I had seen him too little tolove him like a father, you know. "

She said it almost as if apologizing to Mrs. Simcoe, who merely bowed herhead. 

It was past midnight. It was the very moment when Abel Newt was startingwith horror as he saw his own reflection in the glass. 

Something yet remained to be said between those two women. Each knewit--neither dared to begin. 

Hope Wayne closed her eyes with an inward prayer, and then said, calmly, but in a low voice, "And, aunty, the young man?"

Mrs. Simcoe took Hope's face between her caressing hands. She smoothedthe glistening golden hair, and kissed her upon the forehead. 

"Aunty, the young man?" said Hope, in the same tone. 

"Was Lawrence Newt, " answered Mrs. Simcoe. 

--It was the moment when Abel sat at his desk writing the name that Mrs. Simcoe had pronounced. 

Hope Wayne was perfectly sure it was coming, and yet the word shot outupon her like a tongue of lightning. At first she felt every nerve inher frame relaxed--a mist clouded her eyes--she had a weary sense ofhappiness, for she thought she was dying. The mist passed. She felt hercheeks glowing, and was preternaturally calm. Mrs. Simcoe sat beside her, weeping silently. 

"Good-night, dearest aunty!" said Hope, as she rose and bent down to kissher. 

"My child!" said the older woman, in tones that trembled out of an achingheart. 

Hope took her candle, and moved toward the door. As she went she heardMrs. Simcoe repeating, in the old murmuring sunset strain, "Convince us first of unbelief, And freely then release; Fill every soul with sacred grief, And then with sacred peace. "

CHAPTER LXXVI. 

A SOCIAL GLASS. 

The Honorable Abel Newt was elected to Congress in place of the HonorableWatkins Bodley, who withdrew on account of the embarrassment of hisprivate affairs. At a special meeting of the General Committee, Mr. EnosSlugby, Chairman of the Ward Committee, introduced a long and eloquentresolution, deploring the loss sustained by the city and by the wholecountry in the resignation of the Honorable Watkins Bodley--sympathizingwith him in the perplexity of his private affairs--but rejoicing that theword "close up!" was always faithfully obeyed--that there was always afresh soldier to fill the place of the retiring--and that the Party neversummoned her sons in vain. 

General Belch then rose and offered a resolution:

"_Resolved--_That in the Honorable Abel Newt, our representative, justelected by a triumphant majority of the votes of the enlightened andindependent voters of the district--a constituency of whose favor themost experienced and illustrious statesmen might be proud--we recognizea worthy exemplar of the purest republican virtues, a consistent enemyof a purse-proud aristocracy, the equally unflinching friend of thepeople; a man who dedicates with enthusiasm the rare powers of his youth, and his profoundest and sincerest convictions, to the great cause ofpopular rights of which the Party is the exponent. 

"_Resolved_--That the Honorable Abel Newt be requested, at the earliestpossible moment, to unfold to his fellow-citizens his views upon Stateand National political affairs. "

Mr. William Condor spoke feelingly in support of the resolutions:

"Fellow-citizens!" he said, eloquently, in conclusion, "if there is onething nobler than another, it is an upright, downright, disinterested, honest man. Such I am proud and happy to declare my friend, your friend, the friend of all honest men, to be; and I call for three cheers forHonest Abel Newt!"

They were given with ardor; and then General Belch was called out fora few remarks, "which he delivered, " said the _Evening Banner of theUnion_, "with his accustomed humor, keeping the audience in a roar oflaughter, and sending every body happy to bed. "

The Committee-meeting was over, and the spectators retired to theneighboring bar-rooms. Mr. Slugby, Mr. Condor, and General Belchtarried behind, with two or three more. 

"Shall we go to Newt's?" asked the General. 

"Yes, I told him we should be round after the meeting, " replied Mr. Condor; and the party were presently at his rooms. 

The Honorable Abel had placed several full decanters upon the table, witha box of cigars. 

"Mr. Newt, " said Enos Slugby, after they had been smoking and drinkingfor some time. 

Abel turned his head. 

"You have an uncle, have you not?"

Abel nodded. 

"A very eminent merchant, I believe. His name is very well known, and hecommands great respect. Ahem!"

Mr. Slugby cleared his throat; then continued:

"He will naturally be very much interested in the career and success ofhis nephew. "

"Oh, immensely!" replied Abel, in a thick voice, and with a look and tonewhich suggested to his friends that he was rapidly priming himself. "Immensely, enormously!"

"Ah, yes, " said Mr. Slugby, with an air of curious meditation. "I donot remember to have heard the character of his political proclivitiesmentioned. But, of course, as the brother of Boniface Newt and the uncleof the Honorable Abel Newt"--here Mr. Slugby bowed to that gentleman, whowinked at him over the rim of his glass--"he is naturally a friend of thepeople. "

"Yes, " returned Abel. 

"I think you said he was very fond of you?" added Mr. Slugby, while hisfriends looked expectantly on. 

"Fond? It's a clear case of apple of the eye, " answered Abel, chuckling. 

"Very good, " said William Condor; "very good, indeed! Capital!" laughedBelch; and whispered to his neighbor Condor, "In vino veritas. "

As they whispered, and smiled, and nodded together, Abel Newt glancedaround the circle with sullen, fiery eyes. 

"Uncle Lawrence is worth a million of dollars, " said he, carelessly. 

The group of political gentlemen shook their heads in silent admiration. They seemed to themselves to have struck a golden vein, and General Belchcould not help inwardly complimenting himself upon his profound sagacityin having put forward a candidate who had a bachelor uncle who doatedupon him, and who was worth a million. He perceived at once his ownincreased importance in the Party. To have displaced Watkins Bodley--whowas not only an uncertain party implement, but poor--by an unhesitatingyoung man of great ability and of enormous prospects, he knew was to havesecured for himself whatever he chose to ask. The fat nose reddened andglistened as if it would burst with triumph and joy. General ArculariusBelch was satisfied. 

"Of course, " said William Condor, "a man of Mr. Lawrence Newt'sexperience and knowledge of the world is aware that there are certainnecessary expenses attendant upon elections--such as printing, rent, lighting, warming, posting, etc. --"

"In fact, sundries, " said Abel, smiling with the black eyes. 

"Yes, precisely; sundries, " answered Mr. Condor, "which sometimes swellto quite an inordinate figure. Your uncle, I presume, Mr. Newt, would notbe unwilling to contribute a certain share of the expense of yourelection; and indeed, now that you are so conspicuous a leader, he wouldprobably expect to contribute handsomely to the current expenses of theParty. Isn't it so?"

"Of course, " said General Belch. 

"Of course, " said Enos Slugby. 

"Of course, " echoed the two or three other gentlemen who sat silently, assiduously smoking and drinking. 

"Oh, clearly, of course, " answered Abel, still thickly, and in a tone byno means agreeable to his companions. "What should you consider to be hisfair share?"

"Well, " began Condor, "I should think, in ordinary times, a thousand ayear; and then, as particular occasion demands. "

At this distinct little speech the whole company lifted their glassesthat they might more conveniently watch Abel. 

With a half-maudlin grin he looked along the line. 

"By-the-by, Condor, how much do you give a year?" asked he. 

There was a moment's silence. 

"Hit, by G----!" energetically said one of the silent men. 

"Good for Newt!" cried General Belch, thumping the table. 

There was another little burst of laughter, with the least possiblemerriment in it. William Condor joined with an entirely unruffled face. 

"As for Belch, " continued Abel, with what would be called in animals anugly expression--"Belch is the clown, and they left him off easy. TheParty is like the old kings, it keeps a good many fools to make itlaugh. "

His tone was threatening, and nobody laughed. General Belch looked as ifhe were restraining himself from knocking his friend down. But they allsaw that their host was mastered by his own liquor. 

"Squeeze Lawrence Newt, will you? Why, Lord, gentlemen, what do yousuppose he thinks of you--I mean, of fellows like you?" asked Abel. 

He paused, and glared around him. William Condor daintily knocked off theash of his cigar faith the tip of his little finger, and said, calmly, "I am sure I don't know. "

"Nor care, " said General Belch. 

"He thinks you're all a set of white-livered sneaks!" shouted Abel, in avoice harsh and hoarse with liquor. 

The gentlemen were silent. The leaders wagged their feet nervously; theothers looked rather amused. 

"No offense, " resumed Abel. "I don't mean he despises you in particular, but all bar-room bobtails. "

His voice thickened rapidly. 

"Of all mean, mis-mis-rabble hounds, he thinks you are the dirt-est. "

Still no reply was made. The honorable gentleman looked at his guestsleeringly, but found no responsive glance. 

"In vino veritas, " whispered Condor to his neighbor Belch. William Condorwas always clean in linen and calm in manner. 

"Don't be 'larmed, fel-fel-f'-low cit-zens! Lawrence Newt's no friend ofmine. I guess his G---- d---- pride 'll get a tumble some day; by G---- Ido!" Abel added, with a fierce hiss. 

The guests looked alarmed as they heard the last words. Abel ceased, andpassed the decanter, which they did not decline; for they all felt as ifthe Honorable Abel Newt would probably throw it at the head of any manwho said or did what he did not approve. There was a low anxious murmurof conversation among them until Abel was evidently very intoxicated, and his head sank upon his breast. 

"I'm terribly afraid we've burned our fingers, " said Mr. Enos Slugby, looking a little ruefully at the honorable representative. 

"Oh, I hope not, " said General Belch; "but there may be some breakersahead. If we lose the Grant it won't be the first cause or man that hasbeen betrayed by the bottle. Condor, let me fill your glass. It is clearthat if our dear friend Newt has a weakness it is the bottle; and if ourenemies at Washington, who want to head off this Grant, have a strength, it is finding out an adversary's soft spot. We may find in this case thatit's dangerous playing with edged tools. But I've great faith in his wantof principle. We can show him so clearly that his interest, his advance, his career depend so entirely upon his conduct, that I think we can keephim straight. And, for my part, if we can only work this Grant through, I shall retire upon my share of the proceeds, and leave politics to thosewho love 'em. But I don't mean to have worked for nothing--hey, Condor?"

"Amen, " replied William, placidly. 

"By-the-by, Condor, " said Mr. Enos Slugby. 

Mr. Condor turned toward him inquiringly. 

"I heard Jim say t'other day--"

"Who's Jim?" asked Condor. 

"Jim!" returned Slugby, "Jim--why, Jim's the party in my district. "

"Oh yes--yes; I beg pardon, " said Condor; "the name had escaped me. "

"Well, I heard Jim say t'other day that Mr. William Condor was gettingtoo d----d stuck up, and that he'd yank him out of his office if hedidn't mind his eye. That's you, Condor; so I advise you to look out. It's easy enough to manage Jim, if you take care. He'll go as gently asa well-broke filly; but if he once takes a lurch--if he thinks you're too'proud' or 'big, ' it's all up with you. So mind how you treat Jim. "

"Well, well, " said Belch, impatiently; "we've other business on handnow. "

"Exactly, " said Condor; "we are the Honorable Abel's Jim. Turn about isfair play. Jim makes us go; we make Abel go. It's a lovely series ofchecks and balances. "

He said it so quietly and airily that they all laughed. Then the Generalcontinued:

"We're going to send Newt to look after Ele, and I rather think we shallhave to send somebody to look after Newt. However, we'll see. Let's leavethis hog to snore by himself. "

They rose as he spoke. 

"What were the words of your resolution, Belch?" asked William Condor, with his eyes twinkling. "I don't quite remember. Did you say, " he added, looking at Abel, who lay huddled, dead drunk, in his chair, "that hededicated to his country his profoundest and sincerest, or sincerest andprofoundest convictions?"

"And you, Condor, " said Enos Slugby, smiling, as he lighted a freshcigar, "did you say that you were proud and happy, or happy and proud, to call him your friend?"

"Lord! Lord! what an old hum it is--isn't it?" said General Belch, cheerfully, as he smoothed his hat with his coat-sleeve, and put it on. 

They went down stairs laughing and chatting; and the Honorable Abel Newt, the worthy exemplar of the purest republican virtues--as the resolutionstated when it appeared in the next morning's papers--was left snoringamidst his constituency of empty decanters and drained glasses. 

CHAPTER LXXVII. 

FACE TO FACE. 

"Signore Pittore! what brings a bird into the barn-yard?" said LawrenceNewt, as Arthur Merlin entered his office. 

"The hope of some crumb of comfort. "

"Do you dip from your empyrean to the cold earth--from the studio to acounting-room--to find comfort?" asked Lawrence Newt, cheerfully. 

Arthur Merlin looked only half sympathetic with his friend's gayety. There was a wan air on his face, a piteous look in his eyes, whichtouched Lawrence. 

"Why, Arthur, what is it?"

"Do you remember what Diana said?" replied the painter. "She said, 'I amsure that that silly shepherd will not sleep there forever. Never fear, he will wake up. Diana never looks or loves for nothing. '"

Lawrence Newt gazed at him without speaking. 

"Come, " said Arthur, with a feeble effort at fun, "you havecorrespondence all over the world. What is the news from Latmos? Hasthe silly shepherd waked up?"

"My dear Arthur, " said Mr. Newt, gravely, "I told you long ago that hewas dead to all that heavenly splendor. "

The two men gazed steadfastly at each other without speaking. At lengthArthur said, in a low voice, "Dead?"

"Dead. "

As Lawrence Newt spoke the word the air far off and near seemed to himto ring again with that pervasive murmur, sad, soft, infinitely tender, "Good-by, Mr. Newt, good-by!"

But his eye was calm and his face cheerful. 

"Arthur, sit down. "

The young man seated himself, and the older one drawing a chair to thewindow, they sat with their backs to the outer office and looked uponthe ships. 

"I am older than you, Arthur, and I am your friend. What I am going tosay to you I have no right to say, except in your entire friendship. "

The young man's eyes glistened. 

"Go on, " he said. 

"When I first knew you I knew that you loved Hope Wayne. "

A flush deepened upon Arthur's face, and his fingers played idly upon thearm of the chair. 

"I hoped that Hope Wayne would love you. I was sure that she would. Itnever occurred to me that she could--could--"

Arthur turned and looked at him. 

"Could love any body else, " said Lawrence Newt, as his eyes wandereddreamily among the vessels, as if the canvas were the wings of his memorysailing far away. 

"Suddenly, without the least suspicion on my part, I discovered that shedid love somebody else. "

"Yes, " said Arthur, "so did I. "

"What could I do?" said the other, still abstractedly gazing; "for Iloved her. "

"You loved her?" cried Arthur Merlin, so suddenly and loud that ThomasTray looked up from his great red Russia book and turned his head towardthe inner office. 

"Certainly I loved her, " replied Lawrence Newt, calmly, and with tendersweetness; "and I had a right to, for I loved her mother. Could I havehad my way Hope Wayne's mother would have been my wife. "

Arthur Merlin stole a glance at the face of his companion. 

"I was a child and she was a child--a boy and a girl. It was not to be. She married another man and died; but her memory is forever sacred to me, and so is her daughter. "

To this astonishing revelation Arthur Merlin said nothing. His fingersstill played idly on the chair, and his eyes, like the eyes of Lawrence, looked out upon the river. Every thing in Lawrence Newt's conduct was atonce explained; and the poor artist was ready to curse his absurd follyin making his friend involuntarily sit for Endymion. Lawrence Newt knewhis friend's thoughts. 

"Arthur, " he said, in a low voice, "did I not say that, if Endymion werenot dead, it would be impossible not to awake and love her? Do you notsee that I was dead to her?"

"But does she know it?" asked the painter. 

"I believe she does now, " was the slow answer. "But she has not known itlong. "

"Does Amy Waring know it?"

"No, " replied Lawrence Newt, quietly, "but she will to-night. "

The two men sat silently together for some time. The junior partner camein, spoke to Arthur, wrote a little, and went out again. Thomas Trayglanced up occasionally from his great volume, and the melancholy eyes ofLittle Malacca scarcely turned from the two figures which he watched fromhis desk through the office windows. Venables was promoted to be secondto Thomas Tray on the very day that Gabriel was admitted a juniorpartner. They were all aware that the head of the house was engagedin some deeply interesting conversation, and they learned from LittleMalacca who the stranger was. 

The two men sat silently together, Lawrence Newt evidently tranquillywaiting, Arthur Merlin vainly trying to say something further. 

"I wonder--" he began, at length, and stopped. A painful expression ofdoubt clouded his face; but Lawrence turned to him cheerfully, and said, in a frank, assuring tone, "Arthur, speak out. "

"Well, " said the artist, with almost a girl's shyness in his wholemanner, "before you, at least, I can speak, and am not ashamed. I wantto know whether--you--think--"

He spoke very slowly, and stopped again. Before he resumed he sawLawrence Newt shake his head negatively. 

"Why, what?" asked Arthur, quickly. 

"I do not believe she ever will, " replied the other, as if the artist hadasked a question with his eyes. He spoke in a very low, serious tone. 

"Will what?" asked Arthur, his face burning with a bright crimson flush. 

Lawrence Newt waited a moment to give his friend time to recover, beforehe said, "Shall I say what?"

Arthur also waited for a little while; then he said, sadly, "No, it's no matter. "

He seemed to have grown older as he sat looking from the window. Hishands idly played no longer, but rested quietly upon the chair. He shookhis head slowly, and repeated, in a tone that touched his friend to theheart, "No--no--it's no matter. "

"But, Arthur, it's only my opinion, " said the other, kindly. 

"And mine too, " replied the artist, with an inexpressible sadness. 

Lawrence Newt was silent. After a few moments Arthur Merlin rose andshook his hand. 

"Good-by!" he said. "We shall meet to-night. "

CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

FINISHING PICTURES. 

Arthur Merlin returned to his studio and carefully locked the door. Thenhe opened a huge port-folio, which was full of sketches--and they wereall of the same subject, treated in a hundred ways--they were all HopeWayne. 

Sometimes it was a lady leaning from an oriel window in a medieval tower, listening in the moonlight, with love in her eyes and attitude, to themusic of a guitar, touched by a gallant knight below, who looked asArthur Merlin would have looked had Arthur Merlin been a gallant medievalknight. 

Then it was Juliet, pale and unconscious in the tomb; superb insnow-white drapery; pure as an angel, lovely as a woman; but it wasHope Wayne still--and Romeo stole frightened in, but Romeo was Arthur. 

Or it was Beatrice moving in a radiant heaven; while far below, kneeling, and with clasped hands, gazing upward, the melancholy Dante watched thevision. 

Or the fair phantom of Goethe's ballad looked out with humid, passionateglances between the clustering reeds she pushed aside, and lured thefisherman with love. 

There were scores of such sketches, from romance, and history, and fancy, and in each the beauty was Hope Wayne's; and it was strange to see thatin each, however different from all the others, there was still a charmcharacteristic of the woman he loved; so that it seemed a vivid record ofall the impressions she had made upon him, and as if all heroines ofpoetry or history were only ladies in waiting upon her. In all of them, too, there was a separation between them. She was remote in sphere or inspace; there was the feeling of inaccessibility between them in all. 

As he turned them slowly over, and gazed at them as earnestly as if hisglance could make that beauty live, he suddenly perceived, what he hadnever before felt, that the instinct which had unconsciously given thesame character of hopelessness to the incident of the sketches was thesame that had made him so readily acquiesce in what Lawrence Newt hadhinted. He paused at a drawing of Pygmalion and his statue. The sameinstinct had selected the moment before the sculptor's prayer wasgranted; when he looks at the immovable beauty of his statue with theyearning love that made the marble live. But the statue of Arthur'sPygmalion would never live. It was a statue only, and forever. He askedhimself why he had not selected the moment when she falls breathingand blushing into the sculptor's arms. 

Alone in his studio the artist blushed, as if the very thought werewrong; and he felt that he had never really dared to hope, however hehad longed, and wished, and flattered his fancy. 

He looked at each one of the drawings carefully and long, then kissedit and turned it upon its face. When he had seen them all he sat for amoment; then quietly tore them into long strips, then into small pieces;and, lifting the window, scattered them upon the air. The wind whirledthem over the street. 

"Oh, what a pretty snow-storm!" said the little street children, lookingup. 

Then Arthur Merlin turned to his great easel, upon which stood the canvasof the picture of Diana and Endymion. Through the parted clouds the faceof the Queen and huntress--the face of Hope Wayne--looked tenderly uponthe sleeping figure of the shepherd on the bare top of the grassyhill--the face and figure of Lawrence Newt. 

The painter took his brushes and his pallet, and his maulstick. He pausedfor some time again, as he stood before the easel, then he went quietlyto work. He touched it here and there. He stepped back to mark theeffect--rubbed with his finger--sighed--stepped back--and still workedon. The hours glided away, and daylight began to fade, but not untilhe had finished his work. 

Then he scraped his pallet and washed his brushes, and seated himselfupon the sofa opposite the easel. There was no picture, of Diana or ofEndymion any longer. In the place of Diana there was a full summer moonshining calmly in a cloudless heaven. Its benignant light fell upon asolitary grave upon a hill-top, which filled the spot where Endymionhad lain. 

Arthur Merlin sat in the corner of the sofa with folded arms, looking atthe picture, until the darkness entirely hid it from view. 

CHAPTER LXXIX. 

THE LAST THROW. 

While Arthur and Lawrence were conversing in the office of the latter, Abel Newt, hat in hand, stood in Hope Wayne's parlor. His hair wasthinner and grizzled; his face bloated, and his eyes dull. His hands hadthat dead, chalky color in which appetite openly paints its excesses. Thehand trembled as it held the hat; and as the man stood before the mirror, he was straining his eyes at his own reflection, and by some secretmagic he saw, as if dimly traced beside it, the figure of the boy thatstood in the parlor of Pinewood--how many thousand years ago?

He heard a step, and turned. 

Hope Wayne stopped, leaving the door open, bowed, and looked inquiringlyat him. She was dressed simply in a morning dress, and her golden hairclustered and curled around the fresh beauty of her face--the rose ofhealth. 

"Did you wish to say something to me?" she asked, observing that Abelmerely stared at her stupidly. 

He bowed his head in assent. 

"What do you wish to say?"

Her voice was as cold and remote as if she were a spirit. 

Abel Newt was evidently abashed by the reception. But he moved towardher, and began in a tone of doubtful familiarity. 

"Miss Hope, I--"

"Mr. Newt, you have no right to address me in that way. "

"Miss Wayne, I have come to--to--"

He stopped, embarrassed, rubbing his fingers upon the palms of his hands. She looked at him steadily. He waited a few moments, then began again ina hurried tone:

"Miss Wayne, we are both older than we once were; and once, I think, wewere not altogether indifferent to each other. Time has taught us manythings. I find that my heart, after foolish wanderings, is still true toits first devotion. We can both view things more calmly, not less truly, however, than we once did. I am upon the eve of a public career. I haveoutgrown morbid emotions, and I come to ask you if you would take timeto reflect whether I might not renew my addresses; for indeed I love, andcan love, no other woman. "

Hope Wayne stood pale, incredulous, and confounded while Abel Newt, withsome of the old fire in the eye and the old sweetness in the voice, poured out these rapid words, and advanced toward her. 

"Stop, Sir, " she said, as soon as she could command herself. "Is this allyou have to say?"

"Don't drive me to despair, " he said, suddenly, in reply, and so fiercelythat Hope Wayne started. "Listen. " He spoke with stern command. 

"I am utterly ruined. I have no friends. I have bad habits. You can saveme--will you do it?"

Hope stood before him silent. His hard black eye was fixed upon her witha kind of defying appeal for help. Her state of mind for some days, sinceshe had heard Mrs. Simcoe's story, had been one of curious mentaltension. She was inspired by a sense of renunciation--of self-sacrifice. It seemed to her that some great work to do, something which shouldoccupy every moment, and all her powers and thoughts, was her only hopeof contentment. What it might be, what it ought to be, she had notconceived. Was it not offered now? Horrible, repulsive, degrading--yes, but was it not so much the worthier? Here stood the man she had loved inall the prime and power of his youth, full of hope, and beauty, andvigor--the hero that satisfied the girl's longing--and he was bent, gray, wan, shaking, utterly lost, except for her. Should she restore him tothat lost manhood? Could she forgive herself if she suffered her ownfeelings, tastes, pride, to prevent?

While the thought whirled through her excited brain:

"Remember, " he said, solemnly--"remember it is the salvation of a humansoul upon which you are deciding. "

There was perfect silence for some minutes. The low, quick ticking of theclock upon the mantle was all they heard. 

"I have decided, " she said, at last. 

"What is it?" he asked, under his breath. 

"What you knew it would be, " she answered. 

"Then you refuse?" he said, in a half-threatening tone. 

"I refuse!"

"Then the damnation of a soul rest upon your head forever, " he said, in aloud coarse voice, crushing his hat, and his black eyes glaring. 

"Have you done?" she asked, pale and calm. 

"No, Hope Wayne, I have not done; I am not deceived by your smooth faceand your quiet eyes. I have known long enough that you meant to marrymy Uncle Lawrence, although he is old enough to be your father. Thewhole world has known it and seen it. And I came to give you a chanceof saving your name by showing to the world that my uncle came herefamiliarly because you were to marry his nephew. You refuse the chance. There was a time when you would have flown into my arms, and now youreject me ... And I shall have my revenge! I warn you to beware, Mrs. Lawrence Newt! I warn you that my saintly uncle is not beyond misfortune, nor his milksop partner, the Reverend Gabriel Bennet. I am a man at bay;and it is you who put me there; you who might save me and won't. You whowill one day remember and suffer. "

He threw up his arms in uncontrollable rage and excitement. His thickhoarse voice, his burning, bad, black eyes, his quivering hands, hisbloated body, made him a terrible spectacle. 

"Have you done?" asked Hope Wayne, with saintly dignity. 

"Yes, I have done for this time, " he hissed; "but I shall cross you manya time. You and yours, " he sneered, "but never so that you can harm me. You shall feel, but never see me. You have left me nothing but despair. And the doom of my soul be upon yours!"

He rushed from the room, and Hope Wayne stood speechless. Attracted bythe loud tone of his voice, Mrs. Simcoe had come down stairs, and themoment he was gone she was by Hope's side. They seated themselvestogether upon the sofa, and Hope leaned her head upon her aunty'sshoulder and wept with utter surprise, grief, indignation, and weariness. 

CHAPTER LXXX. 

CLOUDS BREAKING. 

The next morning Amy Waring came to Hope Wayne radiant with the prospectof her Aunt Martha's restoration to the world. Hope shook her handwarmly, and looked into her friend's illuminated face. 

"She is engaged to Lawrence Newt, " said Hope, in her heart, as she kissedAmy's lips. 

"God bless you, Amy!" she added, with so much earnestness that Amy lookedsurprised. 

"I am very glad, " said Hope, frankly. 

"Why, what do you know about it?" asked Amy. 

"Do you think I am blind?" said Hope. 

"No; but no eyes could see it, it was so hidden. "

"It can't be hidden, " said Hope, earnestly. 

Amy stopped, looked inquiringly at her friend, and blushed--wonderingwhat she meant. 

"Come, Hope, at least we are hiding from each other. I came to ask you toa family festival. "

"I am ready, " answered Hope, with an air of quiet knowledge, and not atall surprised. Amy Waring was confused, she hardly knew why. 

"Why, Hope, I mean only that Lawrence Newt--"

Hope Wayne smiled so tenderly and calmly, and with such tranquilconsciousness that she knew every thing Amy was about to say, that Amystopped again. 

"Go on, " said Hope, placidly; "I want to hear it from your own lips. "

Amy Waring was in doubt no longer. She knew that Hope expected to hearthat she was engaged. And not with less placidity than Hope's, she said:

"Lawrence Newt wants us all to come and dine with him, because my AuntMartha is found, and he wishes to bring Aunt Bennet and her together. "

That was all. Hope looked as confusedly at the calm Amy as Amy, a momentsince, had looked at her. Then they both smiled, for they had, perhaps, some vague idea of what each had been thinking. 

The same evening the Round Table met. Arthur Merlin came early--so didHope Wayne. They sat together talking rapidly, but Hope did not escapeobserving the unusual sadness of the artist--a sadness of manner ratherthan of expression. In a thousand ways there was a deference in histreatment of her which was unusual and touching. She had been very surethat he had understood what she meant when she spoke to him with an airof badinage about his picture. And certainly it was plain enough. It wasclear enough; only he would not see what was before his eyes, nor hearwhat was in his ears, and so had to grope a little further until LawrenceNewt suddenly struck a light and showed him where he was. 

While they were yet talking Lawrence Newt came in. He spoke to AmyWaring, and then went straight up to Hope Wayne and put out his hand withthe old frank smile breaking over his face. She rose and answered hissmile, and laid her hand in his. They looked in each other's eyes; andLawrence Newt saw in Hope Wayne's the beauty of a girl that long ago, asa boy, he had loved; and in his own, Hope felt that tenderness which hadmade her mother's happiness. 

It was but a moment. It was but a word. For the first time he said, "Hope. "

And for the first time she answered, "Lawrence. "

Amy Waring heard them. The two words seemed sharp: they pierced herheart, and she felt faint. The room swam, but she bit her lip till theblood came, and her stout heart preserved her from falling. 

"It is what I knew: they are engaged. "

But how was it that the manner of Lawrence Newt toward herself was neverbefore more loyal and devoted? How was it that the quiet hilarity of themorning was not gone, but stole into his conversation with her sopointedly that she could not help feeling that it magnetized her, andthat, against her will, she was more than ever cheerful? How was it thatshe knew it was herself who helped make that hilarity--that it was notonly her friend Hope who inspired it?

They are secrets not to be told. But as they all sat around the table, and Arthur Merlin for the first time insisted upon reading from Byron, and in his rich melancholy voice recited

"Though the day of my destiny's over, "

It was clear that the cloud had lifted--that the spell of constraintwas removed; and yet none of them precisely understood why. 

"To-morrow, then, " said Lawrence Newt as they parted. 

"To-morrow, " echoed Amy Waring and Hope Wayne. 

Arthur Merlin pulled his cap over his eyes and sauntered slowly homeward, whistling musingly, and murmuring, "A bird in the wilderness singing, That speaks to my spirit of thee. "

His Aunt Winnifred heard him as he came in. The good old lady had placeda fresh tract where he would be sure to see it when he entered his room. She heard his cautious step stealing up stairs, for the painter wascareful to make no noise; and as she listened she drew pictures upon herfancy of the scenes in which her boy had been mingling. It was AuntWinnifred's firm conviction that society--that is, the great world ofwhich she knew nothing--languished for the smile and presence of hernephew, Arthur. That very evening her gossip, Mrs. Toxer, had been in, and Aunt Winnifred had discussed her favorite theme until Mrs. Toxer wenthome with a vague idea that all the young and beautiful unmarried womenin the city were secretly pining away for love of Arthur Merlin. 

"Mercy me, now!" said Aunt Winnifred as she lay listening to the creakingstep of her nephew. "I wonder what poor girl's heart that wicked boy hasbeen breaking to-night;" and she turned over and fell asleep again. 

That young man reached his room, and struck a light. It flashed upon apaper. He took it up eagerly, then smiled as he saw that it was a tract, and read, "A word to the Unhappy. "

"Dear Aunt Winnifred!" said he to himself; "does she think a man's griefsare like a child's bumps and bruises, to be cured by applying a piece ofpaper?"

He smiled sadly, with the profound conviction that no man had ever beforereally known what unhappiness was, and so tumbled into bed and fellasleep. And as he dreamed, Hope Wayne came to him and smiled, as Dianasmiled in his picture upon Endymion. 

"See!" she said, "I love you; look here!"

And in his dream he looked and saw a full moon in a summer sky shiningupon a fresh grave upon a hill-top. 

CHAPTER LXXXI. 

MRS. ALFRED DINKS AT HOME. 

A new element had forced itself into the life of Hope Wayne, and thatwas the fate of Abel Newt. There was something startling in the direct, passionate, personal appeal he had made to her. She put on her bonnet andfurs, for it was Christmas time, and passed the Bowery into the small, narrow street where the smell of the sewer was the chief odor and the fewmiserable trees cooped up in perforated boxes had at last been releasedfrom suffering, and were placidly, rigidly dead. 

The sloppy servant girl was standing upon the area steps with her apronover her head, and blowing her huge red fingers, staring at every thing, and apparently stunned when Hope Wayne stopped and went up the steps. Hope rang, entered the little parlor and seated herself upon thehaircloth sofa. Her heart ached with the dreariness of the house; butwhile she was resolving that she would certainly raise her secretallowance to her Cousin Alfred, whether her good friend Lawrence Newtapproved of it or not, she saw that the dreariness was not in the smallroom or the hair sofa, nor in the two lamps with glass drops upon themantle, but in the lack of that indescribable touch of feminine taste, and tact, and tenderness, which create comfort and grace wherever theyfall, and make the most desolate chambers to blossom with cheerfulness. Hope felt as she glanced around her that money could not buy what waswanting. 

Mrs. Alfred Dinks presently entered. Hope Wayne had rarely met her sincethe season at Saratoga when Fanny had captured her prize. She saw thatthe black-eyed, clever, resolute girl of those days had grown larger andmore pulpy, and was wrapped in a dingy morning wrapper. Her hair was notsmooth, her hands were not especially clean; she had that dullcarelessness, or unconsciousness of personal appearance, which seemedto Hope only the parlor aspect of the dowdiness that had run entirelyto seed in the sloppy servant girl upon the area steps. 

Hope Wayne put out her hand, which Fanny listlessly took. There wasnothing very hard, or ferocious, or defiant in her manner, as Hope hadexpected--there was only a weariness and indifference, as if she had beenworsted in some kind of struggle. She did not even seem to be excited byseeing Hope Wayne in her house, but merely said, "Good-morning, " and thensank quietly upon the sofa, as if she had said every thing she had tosay. 

"I came to ask you if you know any thing about Abel?" said Hope. 

"No; nothing in particular, " replied Fanny; "I believe he's going toCongress; but I never see him or hear of him. "

"Doesn't Alfred see him?"

"He used to meet him at Thiel's; but Alfred doesn't go there much now. It's too fine for poor gentlemen. I remember some time ago I saw he had ablack eye, and he said that he and my 'd---- brother Abel, ' as heelegantly expressed it, had met somewhere the night before, and Abel wasdrunk and gave him the lie, and they fought it out. I think, by-the-way, that's the last I've heard of brother Abel. "

There was a slight touch of the old manner in the tone with whichFanny ended her remark; after which she relapsed into the previoushalf-apathetic condition. 

"Fanny, I wish I could do something for Abel. "

Fanny Dinks looked at Hope Wayne with an incredulous smile, and said, "I thought once you would marry him; and so did he, I fancy. "

"What does he do? and how can I reach him?" asked Hope, entirelydisregarding Fanny's remark. 

"He lives at the old place in Grand Street, I believe; the Lord knowshow; I'm sure I don't. I suppose he gambles when he isn't drunk. "

"But about Congress?" inquired Hope. 

"I don't know any thing about that. Abel and father used to say that nogentleman would ever have any thing to do with politics; so I never heardany thing, and I'm sure I don't know what he's going to do. "

Fanny apparently supposed her last remark would end the conversation. Notthat she wished to end it--not that she was sorry to see Hope Wayne againand to talk with her--not that she wanted or cared for any thing inparticular, no, not even for her lord and master, who burst into the roomwith an oath, as usual, and with his small, swinish eyes heavy withdrowsiness. 

The master of the house was evidently just down. He wore a dirtymorning-gown, and slippers down at the heel, displaying his dirtystockings. He came in yawning and squeezing his eves together. 

"Why the h---- don't that slut of a waiter have my coffee ready?" he saidto his wife, who paid no more attention to him than to the lamp on themantle, but, on the contrary, appeared to Hope to be a little moreindifferent than before. 

"I say, why the h----" Mr. Dinks began again, and had advanced so farwhen he suddenly saw his cousin. 

"Hallo! what are you doing here?" he said to her abruptly, and in thehalf-sycophantic, half-bullying tone that indicates the feeling of sucha man toward a person to whom he is under immense obligation. AlfredDinks's real feeling was that Hope Wayne ought to give him a much largerallowance. 

Hope was inexpressibly disgusted; but she found an excitement inencountering this boorishness, which served to stimulate her in thestruggle going on in her own soul. And she very soon understood how thesharp, sparkling, audacious Fanny Newt had become the inert, indifferentwoman before her. A clever villain might have developed her, throughadmiration and sympathy, into villainy; but a dull, heavy brute merelycrushed her. There is a spur in the prick of a rapier; only stupidityfollows the blow of a club. 

After sitting silently for some minutes, during which Alfred Dinkssprawled in a chair, and yawned, and whistled insolently to himself, while Fanny sat without looking at him, as if she were deaf and dumb, Hope Wayne said to the husband and wife:

"Abel Newt is ruining himself, and he may harm other people. If there isany thing that can be done to save him we ought to do it. Fanny, he isyour own flesh and blood. "

She spoke with a kind of despairing earnestness, for Hope herself felthow useless every thing would probably be. But when she had ended Alfredbroke out into uproarious laughter, "Ho! ho! ho! Ho! ho! ho!"

He made such a noise that even his wife looked at him with almost aglance of contempt. 

"Save Abel Newt!" cried he. "Convert the Devil! Yes, yes; let's send himsome tracts! Ho! ho! ho!"

And he roared again until the water oozed from his eyes. 

Hope Wayne scarcely looked at him. She rose to go; but it seemed to herpitiful to leave Fanny Newt in such utter desolation of soul and body, in which she seemed to her to be gradually sinking into idiocy. She wentto Fanny and took her hand. Fanny listlessly rose, and when Hope haddone shaking hands Fanny crossed them before her inanely, but in anunconsciously appealing attitude, which Hope saw and felt. Alfred stillsprawled in his chair; laughing at intervals; and Hope left the room, followed by Fanny, who shuffled after her, her slippers, evidently downat the heel, pattering on the worn oil-cloth in the entry as she shambledtoward the front door. Hope opened it. The morning was pleasant, thoughcool, and the air refreshing after the odor of mingled grease and staletobacco-smoke which filled the house. 

As they passed out, Fanny quietly sat down upon the step, leaned her chinupon one hand, and looked up and down the street, which, it seemed toHope, offered a prospect that would hardly enliven her mind. There wassomething more touching to Hope in this dull apathy than in the mostpositive grief. 

"Fanny Newt!" she said to her, suddenly. 

Fanny lifted her lazy eyes. 

"If I can do nothing for your brother, can I do nothing for you? You willrust out, Fanny, if you don't take care. "

Fanny smiled languidly. 

"What if I do?" she answered. 

Thereupon Hope sat down by her, and told her just what she meant, andwhat she hoped, and what she would do if she would let her. And the eageryoung woman drew such pleasant pictures of what was yet possible toFanny, although she was the wife of Alfred Dinks, that, as if thelong-accumulating dust and ashes were blown away from her soul, and itbegan to kindle again in a friendly breath, Fanny felt herself moved andinterested. She smiled, looked grave, and finally laid her head uponHope's shoulder and cried good, honest tears of utter weariness andregret. 

"And now, " said Hope, "will you help me about Abel?"

"I really don't see that you can do any thing, " said Fanny, "nor any bodyelse. Perhaps he'll get a new start in Congress, though I don't know anything about it. "

Hope Wayne shook her head thoughtfully. 

"No, " she said, "I see no way. I can only be ready to befriend him if thechance offers. "

They said no more of him then, but Hope persuaded Fanny to come toLawrence Newt's Christmas dinner, to which they had all been bidden. "And I will make him understand about it, " she said, as she went downthe steps. 

Mrs. Dinks sat upon the door-step for some time. There was nobody to seeher whom she knew, and if there had been she would not have cared. Shedid not know how long she had been sitting there, for she was thinking ofother things, but she was roused by hearing her husband's voice:

"Well, by G----! that's a G---- d---- pretty business--squatting on adoor-step like a servant girl! Come in, I tell you, and shut the door. "

From long habit Fanny did not pay the least attention to this order. Butafter some time she rose and closed the door, and clattered along theentry and up stairs, upon the worn and ragged carpet. Mr. Alfred Dinksreturned to the parlor, pulled the bell violently, and when the sloppyservant girl appeared, glaring at him with the staring eyes, heimmediately damned them, and wanted to know why in h---- he was keptwaiting for his boots. The staring eyes vanished, and Mr. Dinksreclined upon the sofa, picking his teeth. Presently there was theslop--slop--slop of the girl along the entry. She opened the door, dropped the boots, and fled. Mr. Dinks immediately pulled the bellviolently, walking across the room a greater distance than to his boots. Slop--slop again. The door opened. 

"Look here! If you don't bring me my boots, I'll come and pull the hairout of your head!" roared the master of the house. 

The cowering little creature dashed at the boots with a wobegone look, and brought them to the sofa. Mr. Dinks took them in his hand, and turnedthem round contemptuously. 

"G----! You call those boots blacked?"

He scratched his head a moment, enjoying the undisguised terror of thepuny girl. 

"If you don't black 'em better--if you don't put a brighter shine on to'em, I'll--I'll--I'll put a shine on your face, you slut!"

The girl seemed to be all terrified eye as she looked at him, and thenfled again, while he laughed. 

"Ho! ho! ho! I'll teach 'em how--insolent curs! G---- d---- Paddies! Whatbusiness have they coming over here? Ho! ho! ho!"

Leaving his slippers upon the parlor floor, Mr. Dinks mounted to his roomand changed his coat. He tried the door of his wife's room as he passedout, and found it locked. He kicked it violently, and bawled, "Good-morning, Mrs. Dinks! If Miss Wayne calls, tell her I've gone totell Mr. Abel Newt that she repents, and wants to marry him; and I shalladd that, having been through the wood, she picks up a crooked stick atlast. Ho! ho! ho! (Kick. ) Good-morning, Mrs. Dinks!"

He went heavily down stairs and slammed the front door, and was gone forthe day. 

When they were first married, after the bitter conviction that there wasreally no hope of old Burt's wealth, Fanny Dinks had carried matters witha high hand, domineering by her superior cleverness, and with asuperiority that stung and exasperated her husband at every turn. Herbitter temper had gradually entirely eaten away the superficial, stupidgood-humor of his younger days; and her fury of disappointment, carriedinto the detail of life, had gradually confirmed him in all his worsthabits and obliterated the possibility of better. But the sour, superiornature was, as usual, unequal to the struggle. At last it spent itselfin vain against the massive brutishness of opposition it had itselfdeveloped, and the reaction came, and now daily stunned her into hopelessapathy and abject indifference. Having lost the power of vexing, andbeyond being really vexed by a being she so utterly despised as herhusband, there was nothing left but pure passivity and inanition, intowhich she was rapidly declining. 

Mr. Dinks kicked loudly and roared at the door, but Mrs. Dinks did notheed him. She was sitting in her dingy wrapper, rocking, and ponderingupon the conversation of the morning--mechanically rocking, and thinkingof the Christinas dinner at Uncle Lawrence's. 

CHAPTER LXXXII. 

THE LOST IS FOUND. 

It was a whim of Lawrence's to give dinners; to have them good, and toask only the people he wanted, and who he thought would enjoy themselvestogether. 

"How much, " he said, quietly, as he conversed with Mrs. Bennet, while hisguests were assembling, "Edward Wynne looks like your sister Martha!"

It was the first time Mrs. Bennet had heard her sister's name mentionedby any stranger for years. But Lawrence spoke as calmly and naturally asif Martha Darro had been the subject of their conversation. 

"Poor Martha!" said Mrs. Bennet, sadly; "how mysterious it was!"

Her husband saw her as she spoke, and he was so struck by themournfulness of her face that he came quietly over. 

"What is it?" he said, gently. 

"For my son who was dead is alive again. He was lost and is found, " saidLawrence Newt, solemnly. 

Mrs. Bennet looked troubled, startled, almost frightened. The words werefull of significance, the tone was not to be mistaken. She looked atLawrence Newt with incredulous eagerness. He shook his head assentingly. 

"Alive?" she gasped rather than asked. 

"And well, " he continued. 

Mrs. Bennet closed her eyes in a silent prayer. A light so sweet stoleover her matronly face that Lawrence Newt did not fear to say, "And near you; come with me!"

They left the room together; and Amy Waring, who knew why they went, followed her aunt and Lawrence from the room. 

The three stopped at the door of Lawrence Newt's study. 

"Your sister is here, " said he; and Amy and he remained outside whileMrs. Bennet entered the room. 

It was more than twenty years since the sisters had met, and they claspedeach other silently and wept for a long time. 

"Martha!"

"Lucia!"

It was all they said; and wept again quietly. 

Aunt Martha was dressed in sober black. Her face was very comely; for thehardness that came with a morbid and mistaken zeal was mellowed, and thesadness of experience softened it. 

"I have lived not far from you, Lucia, all these long years. "

"Martha! and you did not come to me?"

"I did not dare. Listen, Lucia. If a woman who had always gratified herlove of admiration, and gloried in the power of gratifying it--whoconquered men and loved to conquer them--who was a woman of ungovernedwill and indomitable pride, should encounter--as how often they do?--aman who utterly conquered her, and betrayed her through the very weaknessthat springs from pride, do you not see that such a woman would go nearto insanity--as I have been--believing that I had committed theunpardonable sin, and that no punishment could be painful enough?"

Mrs. Bennet looked alarmed. 

"No, no; there is no reason, " said her sister, observing it. 

"The man came. I could not resist him. There was a form of marriage. Ibelieved that it was I who had conquered. He left me; my child was born. I appealed to Lawrence Newt, our old friend and playmate. He promised mefaithful secrecy, and through him the child was sent where Gabriel was atschool. Then I withdrew from both. I thought it was the will of God. Ifelt myself commanded to a living death--dead to every friend andkinsman--dead to every thing but my degradation and its punishment;and yet consciously close to you, near to all old haunts and familiarfaces--lost to them all--lost to my child--" Her voice faltered, and thetears gushed from her eyes. "But I persevered. The old passionate pridewas changed to a kind of religious frenzy. Lawrence Newt went and came toand from India. I was utterly lost to the world. I knew that my childwould never know me, for Lawrence had promised that he would not betrayme; and when I disappeared from his view, Lawrence gradually came toconsider me dead. Then Amy discovered me among the poor souls shevisited, and through Amy Lawrence Newt; and by them I have been led outof the valley of the shadow of death, and see the blessed light of loveonce more. "

She bowed her head in uncontrollable emotion. 

"And your son?" said her sister, half-smiling through her sympathetictears. 

"Will be yours also, Amy tells me, " said Aunt Martha. "Thank God! thankGod!"

"Martha, who gave him his name?" asked Mrs. Bennet. 

Aunt Martha paused for a little while. Then she said:

"You never knew who my--my--husband was?"

"Never. "

"I remember--he never came to the house. Well, I gave my child almost hisfather's name. I called him Wynne; his father's name was Wayne. "

Mrs. Bennet clasped her hands in her lap. 

"How wonderful! how wonderful!" was all she said. 

Lawrence Newt knocked at the door, and Amy and he came in. There was sosweet and strange a light upon Amy's face that Mrs. Bennet looked at herin surprise. Then she looked at Lawrence Newt; and he cheerfully returnedher glance with that smiling, musing expression in his eyes that wasutterly bewildering to Mrs. Bennet. She could only look at each of thepersons before her, and repeat her last words:

"How wonderful! how wonderful!"

Amy Waring, who had not heard the previous conversation between her twoaunts, blushed as she heard these words, as if Mrs. Bennet had beenalluding to something in which Amy was particularly interested. 

"Amy, " said Mrs. Bennet. 

Amy could scarcely raise her eyes. There was an exquisite maidenlyshyness overspreading her whole person. At length she looked the responseshe could not speak. 

"How could you?" asked her aunt. 

Poor Amy was utterly unable to reply. 

"Coming and going in my house, my dearest niece, and yet hugging such asecret, and holding your tongue. Oh Amy, Amy!"

These were the words of reproach; but the tone, and look, and impressionwere of entire love and sympathy. Lawrence Newt looked calmly on. 

"Aunt Lucia, what could I do?" was all that Amy could say. 

"Well, well, I do not reproach you; I blame nobody. I am too glad andhappy. It is too wonderful, wonderful!"

There was a fullness and intensity of emphasis in what she said thatapparently made Amy suspect that she had not correctly understood heraunt's intention. 

"Oh, you mean about Aunt Martha!" said Amy, with an air of relief andsurprise. 

Lawrence Newt smiled. Mrs. Bennet turned to Amy with a fresh look ofinquiry. 

"About Aunt Martha? Of course about Aunt Martha. Why, Amy, what on earthdid you suppose it was about?"

Again the overwhelming impossibility to reply. Mrs. Bennet was verycurious. She looked at her sister Martha, who was smiling intelligently. Then at Lawrence Newt, who did not cease smiling, as if he were in noperplexity whatsoever. Then at Amy, who sat smiling at her through thetears that had gathered in the thoughtful womanly brown eyes. 

"Let me speak, " said Lawrence Newt, quietly. "Why should we not all beglad and happy with you? You have found a sister, Aunt Martha has foundherself and a son, I have found a wife, and Amy a husband. "

They returned to the room where they had left the guests, and the storywas quietly told to Hope Wayne and the others. 

Hope and Edward looked at each other. 

"Little Malacca!" she said, in a low tone, putting out her hand. 

"Sister Hope, " said the young man, blushing, and his large eyes fillingwith tenderness. 

"And my sister, too, " whispered Ellen Bennet, as she took Hope's otherhand. 

CHAPTER LXXXIII. 

MRS. DELILAH JONES. 

Mr. Newt's political friends in New York were naturally anxious when hewent to Washington. They had constant communication with the HonorableMr. Ele in regard to his colleague; for although they were entirely sureof Mr. Ele, they could not quite confide in Mr. Newt, nor help feelingthat, in some eccentric moment, even his interest might fail to controlhim. 

"The truth is, I begin to be sick of it, " said General Belch to the calmWilliam Condor. 

That placid gentleman replied that he saw no reason for apprehension. 

"But he may let things out, you know, " said Belch. 

"Yes, but is not our word as good as his, " was the assuring reply. 

"Perhaps, perhaps, " said General Belch, dolefully. 

But Belch and Condor were forgotten by the representative they had sentto Congress when he once snuffed the air of Washington. There wassomething grateful to Abel Newt in the wide sphere and complicatedrelations of the political capital, of which the atmosphere was one ofintrigue, and which was built over the mines and countermines ofselfishness. He hoodwinked all Belch's spies, so that the Honorable Mr. Ele could never ascertain any thing about his colleague, until once whenhe discovered that the report upon the Grant was to be brought in withina day or two by the Committee, and that it would be recommended, uponwhich he hastened to Abel's lodging. He found him smoking as usual, witha decanter at hand. It was past midnight, and the room was in thedisorder of a bachelor's sanctum. 

Mr. Ele seated himself carelessly, so carelessly that Abel saw at oncethat he had come for some very particular purpose. He offered his frienda tumbler and a cigar, and they talked nimbly of a thousand things. Whohad come, who had gone, and how superb Mrs. Delilah Jones was, who hadsuddenly appeared upon the scene, invested with mystery, and bringing anote to each of the colleagues from General Belch. 

"Mrs. Delilah Jones, " said that gentleman, in a private note to Ele, "isour old friend, Kitty Dunham. She appears in Washington as the widow of acaptain in the navy, who died a few years since upon the Brazil station. She can be of the greatest service to us; and you must have no secretsfrom each other about our dear friend, who shall be nameless. "

To Abel Newt, General Belch wrote: "My dear Newt, the lady to whom I havegiven a letter to you is daughter of an old friend of my family. Shemarried Captain Jones of the navy, whom she lost some years since uponthe Brazil station. She has seen the world; has money; and comes toWashington to taste life, to enjoy herself--to doff the sables, perhaps, who knows? Be kind to her, and take care of your heart. Don't forget theGrant in the arms of Delilah! Yours, Belch. "

Abel Newt, when he received this letter, looked over his books of reportsand statistics. 

"Captain Jones--Brazil station, " he said, skeptically, to himself. But hefound no such name or event in the obituaries; and he was only the moreamused by his friend Belch's futile efforts at circumvention and control. 

"My dear Belch, " he replied, after he had made his investigations, "Ihave your private note, but I have not yet encountered the superbDelilah; nor have I forgotten what you said to me about working 'emthrough their wives, and sisters, etc. I shall not begin to forget itnow, and I hope to make the Delilah useful in the campaign; for there aregoslings here, more than you would believe. Thank you for such an ally. _You_, at least, were not born to fail. Yours, A. Newt. "

"Goslings, are there? I believe you, " said Belch to himself, inwardlychuckling as he read and folded Abel's letter. 

"Ally, hey? Well, that _is_ good, " he continued, the chuckle rising intoa laugh. "Well, well, I thought Abel Newt was smart; but he doesn't evensuspect, and I have played a deeper game than was needed. "

"I guess that will fix him, " said Abel, as he looked over his letter, laughed, folded it, and sent it off. 

Mr. Ele by many a devious path at length approached the object of hisvisit, and hoped that Mr. Newt would flesh his maiden sword in the comingfray. Abel said, without removing his cigar, "I think I shall speak. "

He said no more. Mr. Ele shook his foot with inward triumph. 

"The Widow Jones will do a smashing business this winter, I suppose, " hesaid, at length. 

"Likely, " replied Newt. 

"Know her well?"

"Pretty well. "

Mr. Ele retired, for he had learned all that his friend meant he shouldknow. 

"Do I know Delilah?" laughed Abel Newt to himself, as he said"Good-night, Ele. "

Yes he did. He had followed up his note to General Belch by calling uponthe superb Mrs. Delilah Jones. But neither the skillful wig, nor thefreshened cheeks, nor the general repairs which her personal appearancehad undergone, could hide from Abel the face of Kitty Dunham, whom he hadsometimes met in other days when suppers were eaten in Grand Street andwagons were driven to Cato's. He betrayed nothing, however; and she wroteto General Belch that she had disguised herself so that he did not recallher in the least. 

Abel was intensely amused by the espionage of the Honorable Mr. Ele andthe superb Jones. He told his colleague how greatly he had been impressedby the widow--that she was really a fascinating woman, and, by Jove!though she was a widow, and no longer twenty, still there were a goodmany worse things a man might do than fall in love with her. 'Pon honor, he did not feel altogether sure of himself, though he thought he washardened if any body was. 

Mr. Ele smiled, and said, in a serious way, that she was a splendidwoman, and if Abel persisted he must look out for a rival. 

"For I thought it best to lead him on, " he wrote to his friend Belch. 

As for the lady herself, Abel was so dexterous that she really began tobelieve that she might do rather more for herself than her employers. Hebrought to bear upon her the whole force of the fascination which hadonce been so irresistible; and, like a blowpipe, it melted out the wholeconspiracy against him without her knowing that she had betrayed it. The point of her instructions from Belch was that she was to persuade himto be constant to the Grant at any price. 

"To-morrow, then, Mr. Newt, " she said to him, as they stood together inthe crush of a levee at the White House--"_our_ bill is to be reported, and favorably. "

Mrs. Delilah Jones was a pretty woman, and shrewd. She had large eyes;languishing at will--at will, also, bright and piercing. Her face was asmiling, mobile face; the features rather coarse, the expression almostvulgar, but the vulgarity well concealed. She was dressed in the extremeof the mode, and drew Mr. Newt's arm very close to her as she spoke. She observed that Mr. Newt was more than usually disposed to chat. Thehonorable representative had dined. 

"_Our_ bill, Lady Delilah? Thank you for that, " said Abel, in a lowvoice, and almost pressing the hand that lay upon his close-held arm. 

The reply was a slow turn of the head, and a half languishment in theeyes as they sought his with the air of saying, "Would you deceive awoman who trusts in you utterly?"

They moved out of the throng a little, and stood by the window. 

"I wish I dared to ask you one thing as a pure favor, " said the superbMrs. Delilah Jones, and this time the eyes were firm and bright. 

"I hoped, by this time, that you dared every thing, " replied Abel, with avague reproach in his tone. 

Mrs. Jones looked at him for a moment with a look of honest inquiry inher eyes. His own did not falter. Their expression combined confidenceand respect. 

"May I then ask, " she said, earnestly, and raising her other hand as ifto lay it imploringly upon his shoulder, but somehow it fell into hishand, which was raised simultaneously, and which did not let it go--. 

"For my sake, will you speak in favor of it?" she asked, casting her eyesdown. 

"For your sake, Delilah, " he said, in a musical whisper, and under therouge her cheeks tingled--"for your sake I will make a speech--my maidenspeech. "

There was more conversation between them. The Honorable Mr. Ele stoodguard, so to speak, and by incessant chatter warded off the company frompressing upon them unawares. The guests, smiled as they looked on; andafter the levee the newspapers circulated rumors (it was before thedays of "Personal") that were read with profound interest throughout thecountry, that the young and talented representative from the commercialemporium had not forfeited his reputation as a squire of dames, andgossip already declared that the charming and superb Mrs. D-li-h J-neswould ere long exchange that honored name for one not less esteemed. 

When Abel returned from the levee he threw himself into his chair, andsaid, aloud, "Isn't a man lucky who is well paid for doing just what he meant to do?"

For Abel Newt intended to get all he could from the Grant, and to enjoyhimself as fully as possible while getting it; but he had his own work todo, and to that his power was devoted. To make a telling speech upon thewinning side was one of his plans, and accordingly he made it. 

When the bill was reported as it had been drafted by his friends in NewYork, it had been arranged that Mr. Newt should catch the speaker's eye. His figure and face attracted attention, and his career in Washington hadalready made him somewhat known. During the time he had been there hisconstant employment had been a study of the House and of its individualmembers, as well as of the general character and influence of thespeeches. His shrewdness showed him the shallows, the currents, andthe reefs. Day after day he saw a great many promising plans, likefull-sailed ships, ground upon the flats of dullness, strike rocks ofprejudice, or whirl in the currents of crudity, until they broke up andwent down out of sight. 

He rose, and his first words arrested attention. He treated the Housewith consummate art, as he might have treated a woman whom he wished topersuade. The House was favorably inclined before. It was resolved whenhe sat down. For he had shown so clearly that it was one of the cases inwhich patriotism and generosity--the finer feelings and only a moderateexpense--were all one, that the majority, who were determined to pass theGrant in any case, were charmed to have the action so imposingly stated;and the minority, who knew that it was useless to oppose it, enjoyed therhetoric of the speech, and, as it was brief, and did not encroach upondinner-time, smiled approval, and joined in the congratulation to Mr. Newt upon his very eloquent and admirable oration. 

In the midst of the congratulations Abel raised his eyes to Mrs. DelilahJones, who sat conspicuous in the gallery. 

CHAPTER LXXXIV. 

PROSPECTS OF HAPPINESS. 

The Honorable Abel Newt was the lion of the hour. Days of dinnerinvitations and evening parties suddenly returned. He did not fail to usethe rising tide. It helped to float him more securely to the fulfillmentof his great work. Meanwhile he saw Mrs. Jones every day. She no longertried to play a game. 

The report of his speech was scattered abroad in the papers. GeneralBelch rubbed his hands and expectorated with an energy that showed thewarmth of his feeling. Far away in quiet Delafield, when the newsarrived, Mr. Savory Gray lost no time in improving the pregnant text. Thegreat moral was duly impressed upon the scholars that Mr. Newt was agreat man because he had been one of Mr. Gray's boys. The Washingtonworld soon knew his story, the one conspicuous fact being that he was thefavorite nephew of the rich merchant, Lawrence Newt. All the doors flewopen. The dinner invitations, the evening notes, fell upon his table moreprofusely than ever. 

He sneered at his triumph. Ambition, political success, social prestigehad no fascination for a man who was half imbruted, and utterlydisappointed and worn out. One thing only Abel really wanted. He wantedmoney--money, which could buy the only pleasures of which he was nowcapable. 

"Look here, Delilah--I like that name better than Kitty, it meanssomething--you know Belch. So do I. Do you suppose a man would work withhim or for him except for more advantage than he can insure? Or do youthink _I_ want to slave for the public--_I_ work for the public? God!would I be every man's drudge? No, Mrs. Delilah Jones, emphaticallynot. I will be my own master, and yours, and my revered uncle will footthe bills. "

The woman looked at him inquiringly. She was a willing captive. Sheaccepted him as master. 

"It isn't for you to know how he will pay, " said Abel, "but to enjoy thefruits. "

The woman, in whose face there were yet the ruins of a coarse beauty, which pleased Abel now as the most fiery liquor gratified his palate, looked at him, and said, "Abel, what are we to do?"

"To be happy, " he answered, with the old hard, black light in his eyes. 

She almost shuddered as she heard the tone and saw the look, and yet shedid not feel as if she could escape the spell of his power. 

"To be happy!" she repeated. "To be happy!"

Her voice fell as she spoke the words; Her life had not been a long one. She had laughed a great deal, but she had never been happy. She knew Abelfrom old days. She saw him now, sodden, bloated--but he fascinated herstill. Was he the magician to conjure happiness for her?

"What is your plan?" she asked. 

"I have two passages taken in a brig for the Mediterranean. We go to NewYork a day or two before she sails. That's all. "

"And then?" asked his companion, with wonder and doubt in her voice. 

"And then a blissful climate and happiness. "

"And then?" she persisted, in a low, doubtful voice. 

"Then Hell--if you are anxious for it, " said Abel, in a sharp, suddenvoice. 

The poor woman cowered as she sat. Men had often enough sworn at her; butshe recoiled from the roughness of this lover as if it hurt her. Her eyeswere not languishing now, but startled--then slowly they grew dim andsoft with tears. 

Abel Newt looked at her, surprised and pleased. 

"Kitty, you're a woman still, and I like it. It's so much the better. I don't want a dragon or a machine. Come, girl, are you afraid?"

"Of what?"

"Of me--of the future--of any thing?"

The tone of his voice had a lingering music of the same kind as thelingering beauty in her face. It was a sensual, seductive sound. 

"No, I am not afraid, " she answered, turning to him. "But, oh! my God! myGod! if we were only both young again!"

She spoke with passionate hopelessness, and the tears dried in her eyes. 

Later in the evening Mrs. Delilah Jones appeared at the French minister'sball. 

"Upon the whole, " said Mr. Ele to his partner, "I have never seen Mrs. Jones so superb as she is to-night. "

She stood by the mantle, queen-like--so the representatives from severalStates remarked--and all the evening fresh comers offered homage. 

"_Ma foi!_" said the old Brazilian ambassador, as he gazed at her throughhis eye-glass, and smacked his lips. 

"_Tiens!_" responded the sexagenarian representative from Chili, half-closing one eye. 

CHAPTER LXXXV. 

GETTING READY. 

Hope Wayne had not forgotten the threat which Abel had vaguely thrownout; but she supposed it was only an expression of disappointment andindignation. Could she have seen him a few evenings after the ball andhis conversation with Mrs. Delilah Jones, she might have thoughtdifferently. 

He sat with the same woman in her room. 

"To-morrow, then?" she said, looking at him, hesitatingly. 

"To-morrow, " he answered, grimly. 

"I hope all will go well. "

"All what?" he asked, roughly. 

"All our plans. "

"Abel Newt was not born to fail, " he replied; "or at least General Belchsaid so. "

His companion had no knowledge of what Abel really meant to do. She onlyknew that he was capable of every thing, and as for herself, her littlemask had fallen, and she did not even wish to pick it up again. 

They sat together silently for a long time. He poured freely and drankdeeply, and whiffed cigar after cigar nervously away. The few bells ofthe city tolled the hours. Ele had come during the evening and knocked atthe door, but Abel did not let him in. He and his companion sat silently, and heard the few bells strike. 

"Well, Kitty, " he said at last, thickly, and with glazing eye. "Well, myPrincess of the Mediterranean. We shall be happy, hey? You're not afraideven now, hey?"

"Oh, we shall be very happy, " she replied, in a low, wild tone, as if itwere the night wind that moaned, and not a woman's voice. 

He looked at her for a few moments. He saw how entirely she wasenthralled by him. 

"I wonder if I care any thing about you?" he said at length, leering ather through the cigar-smoke. 

"I don't think you do, " she answered, meekly. 

"But my--my--dear Mrs. Jones--the su-superb Mrs. Delilah Jo-Jones oughtto be sure that I do. Here, bring me a light: that dam--dam--cigar's goneout. "

She rose quietly and carried the candle to Abel. There was aninexpressible weariness and pathos in all her movements: a kind ofwomanly tranquillity that was touchingly at variance with the impressionof her half-coarse appearance. As Abel watched her he remembered thewomen whom he had tried to marry. His memory scoured through his wholecareer. He thought of them all variously happy. 

"I swear! to think I should come to you!" he said at length, looking athis companion, with an indescribable bitterness of sneering. 

Kitty Dunham sat at a little distance from him on the end of a sofa. Shewas bowed as if deeply thinking; and when she heard these words her headonly sank a little more, as if a palpable weight had been laid upon her. She understood perfectly what he meant. 

"I know I am not worth loving, " she said, in the same low voice, "but mylove will do you no harm. Perhaps I can help you in some way. If you areill some day, I can nurse you. I shall be poor company on the longjourney, but I will try. "

"What long journey?" asked Abel, suddenly and angrily. 

"Where we are going, " she replied, gently. 

"D---- it, then, don't use such am-am-big-'us phrases. A man would thinkwe were go-going to die. "

She said no more, but sat, half-crouching, upon the sofa, looking intothe fire. Abel glanced at her, from time to time, with maudlin grins andsneers. 

"Go to bed, " he said at length; "I've something to do. Sleep all you can;you'll need it. I shall stay here 'till I'm ready to go, and come for youin the morning. "

"Thank you, " she answered, and rose quietly. "Good-night!" she said. 

"Oh! good-night, Mrs. De-de-liah--superb Jo-Jones!"

He laughed as she went--sat ogling the fire for a little while, and thenunsteadily, but not unconsciously, drew a pocket-book from his pocket andtook out a small package. It contained several notes, amounting to notless than a hundred thousand dollars signed by himself, and indorsed byLawrence Newt & Co. --at least the name was there, and it was a shrewd eyethat could detect the difference between the signature and that which wasevery day seen and honored in the street. 

Abel looked at them carefully, and leered and glared upon them as if theyhad been windows through which he saw something--sunny isles, and luxury, and a handsome slave who loved him to minister to every whim. 

"'Tis a pretty game, " he said, half aloud; "a droll turnabout is life. Uncle Lawrence plays against other people, and wins. I play against UncleLawrence, and win. But what's un-dred--sousand--to--him?"

He said it drowsily, and his hands unconsciously fell. He was asleep inhis chair. 

He sat there sleeping until the gray of morning. Kitty Dunham, cominginto the room ready-dressed for a journey, found him there. She wasfrightened; for he looked as if he were dead. Going up to him she shookhim, and he awoke heavily. 

"What the h----'s the matter?" said he, as he opened his sleepy eyes. 

"Why, it's time to go. "

"To go where?"

"To be happy, " she said, standing passively and looking in his face. 

He roused himself, and said:

"Well, I'm all ready. I've only to stop at my room for my trunk. "

His hair was tangled, his eyes were bloodshot, his clothes tumbled andsoiled. 

"Wouldn't you like to dress yourself?" she asked. 

"Why, no; ain't I dressed enough for you? No gentleman dresses when he'sgoing to travel. "

She said no more. The carriage came as Abel had ordered, a privateconveyance to take them quite through to New York. All the time before itcame Kitty Dunham moved solemnly about the room, seeing that nothing wasleft. The solemnity fretted Abel. 

"What are you so sober about?" he asked impatiently. 

"Because I am getting ready for a long journey, " she answered, tranquilly. 

"Perhaps not so long, " he said, sharply--"not if I choose to leave youbehind. "

"But you won't. "

"How do you know?"

"Because you will want somebody, and I'm the only person in the worldleft to you. "

She spoke in the same sober way. Abel knew perfectly well that she spokethe truth, but he had never thought of it before. Was he then going solong a journey without a friend, unless she went with him? Was she theonly one left of all the world?

As his mind pondered the question his eye fell upon a newspaper of theday before, in which he saw his name. He took it up mechanically, andread a paragraph praising him and his speech; foretelling "honor andtroops of friends" for a young man who began his public career sobrilliantly. 

"There; hear this!" said he, as he read it aloud and looked at hiscompanion. "Troops of friends, do you see? and yet you talk of being myonly dependence in the world! Fie! fie! Mrs. Delilah Jones. "

It was melancholy merriment. He did not smile, and the woman's face wasquietly sober. 

"For the present, then, Mr. Speaker and fellow-citizens, " said Abel Newt, waving his hand as he saw that every thing was ready, and that thecarriage waited only for him and his companion, "I bid these scenesadieu! For the present I terminate my brief engagement. And you, myfellow-members, patterns of purity and pillars of truth, farewell!Disinterested patriots, I leave you my blessing! Pardon me that Iprefer the climate of the Mediterranean to that of the District, and thesmiles of my Kitty to the intelligent praises of my country. Friends ofmy soul, farewell! I kiss my finger tips! Boo--hoo!"

He made a mock bow, and smiled upon an imaginary audience. Then offeringhis arm with grave ceremony to his companion as if a crowd had beenlooking on, he went down stairs. 

CHAPTER LXXXVI. 

IN THE CITY. 

It was a long journey. They stopped at Baltimore, at Philadelphia, andpushed on toward New York. While they were still upon the way Hope Waynesaw what she had been long expecting to see--and saw it without asolitary regret. Amy Waring was Amy Waring no longer; and Hope Waynewas the first who kissed Mrs. Lawrence Newt. Even Mrs. Simcoe lookedbenignantly upon the bride; and Aunt Martha wept over her as over herown child. 

The very day of the wedding Abel Newt and his companion arrived at JerseyCity. Leaving Kitty in a hotel, he crossed the river, and ascertainedthat the vessel on which he had taken two berths under a false name wasfull and ready, and would sail upon her day. He showed himself in WallStreet, carefully dressed, carefully sober--evidently mindful, peoplesaid, of his new position; and they thought his coming home showed thathe was on good terms with his family, and that he was really resolved tobehave himself. 

For a day or two he appeared in the business streets and offices, andtalked gravely of public measures. General Belch was confounded by thecool sobriety, and superiority, and ceremony of the Honorable Mr. Newt. When he made a joke, Abel laughed with such patronizing politeness thatthe General was frightened, and tried no more. When he treated Abelfamiliarly, and told him what a jolly lift his speech had given to theircommon cause--the Grant--the Honorable Mr. Newt replied, with a cold bow, that he was glad if he had done his duty and satisfied his constituents;bowing so coldly that the General was confounded. He spat into his fire, and said, "The Devil!"

When Abel had gone, General Belch was profoundly conscious that King Logwas better than King Stork, and thought regretfully of the HonorableWatkins Bodley. 

After a day or two the Honorable Mr. Newt went to his Uncle Lawrence'soffice. Abel had not often been there. He had never felt himself to bevery welcome there; and as he came into the inner room where Lawrence andGabriel sat, they were quite as curious to know why he had come as hewas to know what his reception would be. Abel bowed politely, and said hecould not help congratulating his uncle upon the news he had heard, butwould not conceal his surprise. What his surprise was he did not explain;but Lawrence very well knew. Abel had the good sense not to mention, the name of Hope Wayne, and not to dwell upon any subject that involvedfeeling. He said that he hoped by-gones would be by-gones; that he hadbeen a wild boy, but that a career now opened upon him of which he hopedto prove worthy. 

"There was a time, Uncle Lawrence, " he said, "when I despised yourwarning; now I thank you for it. "

Lawrence held out his hand to his nephew:

"Honesty is the best policy, at least, if nothing more, " he said, smiling. "You have a chance; I hope, with all my heart, you will useit well. "

There was little more to say, and of that little Gabriel said nothing. Abel spoke of public affairs; and after a short time he took leave. 

"Can the leopard change his spots?" said Gabriel, looking at the seniorpartner. 

"A bad man may become better, " was all the answer; and the two merchantswere busy again. 

Returning to Wall Street, the Honorable Abel Newt met Mr. President VanBoozenberg. They shook hands, and the old gentleman said, warmly, "I see ye goin' into your Uncle Lawrence's a while ago, as I was comin'along South Street. Mr. Abel, Sir, I congratilate ee, Sir. I've read yourspeech, and I sez to ma, sez I, I'd no idee of it; none at all. Ma, sezshe, Law, pa! I allers knowed Mr. Abel Newt would turn up trumps. Youallers did have the women, Mr. Newt; and so I told ma. "

"I am very glad, Sir, that I have at last done something to deserve yourapprobation. I trust I shall not forfeit it. I have led rather a gaylife, and careless; and my poor father and I have met with misfortunes. But they open a man's eyes, Sir; they are angels in disguise, as the poetsays. I don't doubt they have been good for me. At least I'm resolvednow to be steady and industrious; and I certainly should be a great foolif I were not. "

"Sartin, Sir, with your chances and prospects, yes, and your talents, coz, I allers said to ma, sez I, he's got talent if he hain't nothin'else. I suppose your Uncle Lawrence won't be so shy of you now, hey?No, of course not. A man who has a smart nevy in Congress has a tap in agood barrel. "

And Mr. Van Boozenberg laughed loudly at his own humor. 

"Why, yes. Sir. I think I may say that the pleasantest part of my newlife--if you will allow me to use the expression--is my return to thefriends best worth having. I think I have learned, Sir, that steady-goingbusiness, with no nonsense about it, is the permanent thing. It isn'tflopdoddle, Sir, but it's solid food. "

"Tonguey, " thought old Jacob Van Boozenberg, "but vastly improved. Hascome to terms with Uncle Lawrence. Sensible fellow!"

"I think he takes it, " said Abel to himself, with the feeling of anangler, as he watched the other. 

Just before they parted Abel took out his pocket-book and told Mr. VanBoozenberg that he should like to negotiate a little piece of paper whichwas not altogether worthless, he believed. 

Smiling as he spoke, he handed a note for twenty-five thousand dollars, with his uncle's indorsement, to the President. The old gentleman lookedat it carefully, smiled knowingly, "Yes, yes, I see. Sly dog, that UncleLawrence. I allers sez so. This ere's for the public service, I suppose, eh! Mr. Newt?" and the President chuckled over his confirmed convictionthat Lawrence Newt was "jes' like other folks. "

He asked Abel to walk with him to the bank. They chatted as they passedalong, nodded to those they knew, while some bowed politely to the youngmember whom they saw in such good company. 

"Well, well, " said Mr. Zephyr Wetherley as he skimmed up Wall Street fromthe bank, where he had been getting dividends, "I didn't think to see theday when Abel Newt would be a solid, sensible man. "

And Mr. Wetherley wondered, in a sighing way, what was the secret ofAbel's success. 

The honorable member came out of the bank with the money in his pocket. When the clock struck three he had the amount of all the notes in theform of several bills of foreign exchange. 

He went hastily to the river side and crossed to Jersey City. 

"They have sent to say that the ship sails at nine in the morning, andthat we must be on board early, " said Kitty Dunham, as he entered theroom. 

"I am all ready, " he replied, in a clear, cold, alert voice. "Now sitdown. "

His tone was not to be resisted. The woman seated herself quietly andwaited. 

"My affectionate Uncle Lawrence has given me a large sum of money, andrecommends travelling for my health. The money is in bills on London andParis. To-morrow morning we sail. We post to London--get the money; sameday to Paris--get the money; straight on to Marseilles, and sail forSicily. There we can take breath. "

He spoke rapidly, but calmly. She heard and understood every word. 

"I wish we could sail to-night, " she said. 

"Plenty of time--plenty of time, " answered Abel. "And why be so anxiousfor so long a journey?"

"It seems long to you, too?"

"Why, yes; it will be long. Yes, I am going on a long journey. "

He smiled with the hard black eyes a hard black smile. Kitty did notsmile; but she took his hand gently. 

Abel shook his head, mockingly. 

"My dear Mrs. Delilah Jones, you overcome me with your sentimentality. I don't believe in love. That's what I believe in, " said he, as he openedhis pocket-book and showed her the bills. 

The woman looked at them unmoved. 

"Those are the delicate little keys of the Future, " chuckled Abel, as hegloated over the paper. 

The woman raised her eyes and looked into his. They were busy with thebills. Then with the same low tone, as if the wind were wailing, sheasked, "Abel, tell me, before we go upon this long journey, don't you love me inthe least?"

Her voice sank into an almost inaudible whisper. 

Abel turned and looked at her, gayly. 

"Love you? Why, woman, what is love? No, I don't love you. I don't loveany body. But that's no matter; you shall go with me as if I did. Youknow, as well as I do, that I can't whine and sing silly. I'll be yourfriend, and you'll be mine, and this shall be the friend of both, " saidhe, as he raised the bills in his hands. 

She sat beside him silent, and her eyes were hot and dry, not wet withtears. There was a look of woe in her face so touching and appealingthat, when Abel happened to see it, he said, involuntarily, "Come, come, don't be silly. "

The evening came, and the Honorable Mr. Newt rose and walked about theroom. 

"How slowly the time passes!" he said, pettishly. "I can't stand it. "

It was nine o'clock. Suddenly he sprang up from beside Kitty Dunham, whowas silently working. 

"No, " said he, "I really can not stand it. I'll run over to town, and beback by midnight. I do want to see the old place once more before thatlong journey, " he added, with emphasis, as he put on his coat and hat. Heran from the room, and was just going out of the house when he heard amuffled voice calling to him from up stairs. 

"Why, Kitty, what is it?" he asked, as he stopped. 

There was no answer. Alarmed for a moment, he leaped up the stairs. Shestood waiting for him at the door of the room. 

"Well!" exclaimed he, hastily. 

"You forgot to kiss me, Abel, " she said. 

He took her by the shoulders, and looked at her before him. In her eyesthere were pity, and gentleness, and love. 

"Fool!" he said, half-pleased, half-vexed--kissed her, and rushed outinto the street. 

CHAPTER LXXXVII. 

A LONG JOURNEY. 

Abel Newt ran to the ferry and crossed. Then he gained Broadway, andsauntered into one of the hells in Park Row. It was bright and full, andhe saw many an old friend. They nodded to him, and said, "Ah! backagain!" and he smiled, and said a man must not be too virtuous all atonce. 

So he ventured a little, and won; ventured a little more, and lost. Ventured a little more, and won again; and lost again. 

Then came supper, and wine flowed freely. Old friends must pledge inbumpers. 

To work again, and the bells striking midnight. Win, lose; lose, win;win, win, lose, lose, lose, lose, lose, lose. 

Abel Newt smiled: his face was red, his eyes glaring. 

"I've played enough, " he said; "the luck's against me!"

He passed his hands rapidly through his hair. 

"Cash I can not pay, " he said; "but here is my I O U, and a check of myUncle Lawrence's in the morning; for I have no account, you know. "

His voice was rough. It was two o'clock in the morning; and the lonelywoman he had left sat waiting and wondering: stealing to the front doorand straining her eyes into the night: stealing softly back again topress her forehead against the window: and the quiet hopelessness of herface began to be pricked with terror. 

"Good-night, gentlemen, " said Abel, huskily and savagely. 

There was a laugh around the table at which he had been playing. 

"Takes it hardly, now that he's got money, " said one of his old cronies. "He's made up with Uncle Lawrence, I hear. Hope he'll come often, hey?"he said to the bank. 

The bank smiled vaguely, but did not reply. 

It was after two, and Abel burst into the street. He had been drinkingbrandy, and the fires were lighted within him. Pulling his hat heavilyupon his head, he moved unsteadily along the street toward the ferry. Thenight was starry and still. There were few passers in the street; and nolight but that which shone at some of the corners, -the bad, red eye thatlures to death. The night air struck cool upon his face and into hislungs. His head was light. --He reeled. 

"Mus ha' some drink, " he said, thickly. 

He stumbled, and staggered into the nearest shop. There was a counter, with large yellow barrels behind it; and a high blind, behind which twoor three rough-looking men were drinking. In the window there was a sign, "Liquors, pure as imported. "

The place was dingy and cold. The floor was sanded. The two or threeguests were huddled about a stove--one asleep upon a bench, the otherssmoking short pipes; and their hard, cadaverous faces and sullen eyesturned no welcome upon Abel when he entered, but they looked at himquickly, as if they suspected him to be a policeman or magistrate, and asif they had reason not to wish to see either. But in a moment they saw itwas not a sober man, whoever he was. Abel tried to stand erect, to lookdignified, to smooth himself into apparent sobriety. He vaguely hoped togive the impression that he was a gentleman belated upon his way home, and taking a simple glass for comfort. 

"Why, Dick, don't yer know him?" said one, in a low voice, to hisneighbor. 

"No, d---- him! and don't want to. "

"I do, though, " replied the first man, still watching the new-comercuriously. 

"Why, Jim, who in h---- is it?" asked Dick. 

"That air man's our representative. That ain't nobody else but AbelNewt. "

"Well, " muttered Jim, sullenly, as he surveyed the general appearance ofAbel while he stood drinking a glass of brandy--"pure as imported"--atthe counter--"well, we've done lots for him: what's he going to do forus? We've put that man up tremendious high; d'ye think he's going to kickaway the ladder?"

He half grumbled to himself, half asked his neighbor Dick. They were botha little drunk, and very surly. 

"I dunno. But he's vastly high and mighty--that I know; and, by ----, I'll tell him so!" said Dick, energetically clasping hishands, bringing one of them down upon the bench on which he sat, and clenching every word with an oath. 

"Hallo, Jim! let's make him give us somethin' to drink!"

The two constituents approached the representative whose election theyhad so ardently supported. 

"Well, Newt, how air ye?"

Abel Newt was confounded at being accosted in such a place at such anhour. He raised his heavy eyes as he leaned unsteadily against thecounter, and saw two beetle-browed, square-faced, disagreeable-lookingmen looking at him with half-drunken, sullen insolence. 

"Hallo, Newt! how air ye?" repeated Jim, as he confronted therepresentative. 

Abel looked at him with shaking head, indignant and scornful. 

"Who the devil are you?" he asked, at length, blurring the words as hespoke, and endeavoring to express supreme contempt. 

"We're the men that made yer!" retorted Dick, in a shrill, tipsy voice. 

The liquor-seller, who was leaning upon his counter, was instantlyalarmed. He knew the signs of impending danger. He hurried round, andsaid, "Come, come; I'm going to shut up! Time to go home; time to go home!"

The three men at the counter did not move. As they stood facing eachother the brute fury kindled more and more fiercely in each one of them. 

"We're Jim and Dick, and Ned's asleep yonder on the bench; and we're cometo drink a glass with yer, Honorable Abel Newt!" said Dick, in a sneeringtone. "It's we what did your business for ye. What yer going to do forus?"

There was a menacing air in his eye as he glanced at Abel, who felthimself quiver with impotent, blind rage. 

"I dun--dun--no ye!" he said, with maudlin dignity. 

The men pressed nearer. 

"Time to go home! Time to go home!" quavered the liquor-seller; and Nedopened his eyes, and slowly raised his huge frame from the bench. 

"What's the row?" asked he of his comrades. 

"The Honorable Abel Newt's the row, " said Jim, pointing at him. 

There was something peculiarly irritating to Abel in the pointing finger. Holding by the counter, he raised his hand and struck at it. 

Ned rolled his body off the bench in a moment. 

"For God's sake!" gasped the little liquor-seller. 

Jim and Dick stood hesitatingly, glaring at Abel. Jim struck his teethtogether. Ned joined them, and they surrounded Abel. 

"What in ---- do you mean by striking me, you drunken pig?" growled Jim, but not yet striking. Conscious of his strength, he had the instinctiveforbearance of superiority, but it was fast mastered by the maddeningliquor. 

"Time to go home! Time to go home!" cried the thin piping voice of theliquor-seller. 

"What the ---- do you mean by insulting my friend?" half hiccuped Dick, shaking his head threateningly, and stiffening his arm and fist at hisside as he edged toward Abel. 

The hard black eyes of Abel Newt shot sullen fire; His rage half soberedhim. He threw his head with the old defiant air, tossing the hair back. The old beauty flashed for an instant through the ruin that had beenwrought in his face, and, kindling into a wild, glittering look of wrath, his eye swept them all as he struck heavily forward. 

"Time to go home! Time to go home!" came the cry again, unheeded, unheard. 

There was a sudden, fierce, brutal struggle. The men's faces were humanno longer, but livid with bestial passion. The liquor-seller rushed intothe street, and shouted aloud for help. The cry rang along the dark, still houses, and startled the drowsy, reluctant watchmen on theirrounds. They sprang their rattles. 

"Murder! murder!" was the cry, which did not disturb the neighbors, whowere heavy sleepers, and accustomed to noise and fighting. 

"Murder! murder!" It rang nearer and nearer as the watchmen hastenedtoward the corner. They found the little man standing at his door, bareheaded, and shouting, "My God! my God! they've killed a man--they've killed a man!"

"Stop your noise, and let us in. What is it?"

The little man pointed back into his dim shop. The watchmen saw only thegreat yellow round tanks of the liquor pure as imported, and pushed inbehind the blind. There was no one there; a bench was overturned, andthere were glasses upon the counter. No one there? One of the watchmenstruck something with his foot, and, stooping, touched a human body. Hestarted up. 

"There's a man here. "

He did not say dead, or drunk; but his tone said every thing. 

One of them ran to the next doctor, and returned with him after a littlewhile. Meanwhile the others had raised the body. It was yet warm. Theylaid it upon the bench. 

"Warm still. Stunned, I reckon. I see no blood, except about the face. Well dressed. What's he doing here?" The doctor said so as he felt thepulse. He carefully turned the body over, examined it every where, lookedearnestly at the face, around which the matted hair clustered heavily:

"He has gone upon his long journey!" said the young doctor, in a low, solemn tone, still looking at the face with an emotion of sad sympathy, for it was a face that had been very handsome; and it was a young man, like himself. The city bells clanged three. 

"Who is it?" he asked. 

Nobody knew. 

"Look at his handkerchief. "

They found it, and handed it to the young doctor. He unrolled it, holdingit smooth in his hands; suddenly his face turned pale; the tears burstinto his eyes. A curious throng of recollections and emotions overpoweredhim. His heart ached as he leaned over the body; and laying the mattedhair away, he looked long and earnestly into the face. In that dim momentin the liquor-shop, by that bruised body, how much he saw! A play-groundloud with boys--wide-branching elms--a country church--a placid pond. Heheard voices, and summer hymns, and evening echoes; and all the imagesand sounds were soft, and pensive, and remote. 

The doctor's name was Greenidge--James Greenidge, and he had known AbelNewt at school. 

CHAPTER LXXXVIII. 

WAITING. 

The woman Abel had left sat quivering and appalled. Every sound startedher; every moment she heard him coming. Rocking to and fro in the lonelyroom, she dropped into sudden sleep--saw him--started up--cried, "Howcould you stay so?" then sat broad awake, and knew that she had dozed butfor a moment, and that she was alone. 

"Abel, Abel!" she moaned, in yearning agony. "But he kissed me before hewent, " she thought, wildly--"he kissed me--he kissed me!"

Lulled for a moment by the remembrance, she sank into another briefnap--saw him as she had seen him in his gallant days, and heard him say, I love you. "How could you stay so?" she cried, dreaming--started--sprangup erect, with her head turned in intense listening. There was a soundthis time; yes, across the river she heard the solemn city bells strikethree. 

Wearily pacing the room--stealthily, that she might make nonoise--walking the hours away, the lonely woman waited for her lover. The winter, wind rose and wailed about the windows and moaned in thechimney, and in long, shrieking sobs died away. 

"Abel! Abel!" she whispered, and started at the strangeness of her voice. She opened the window softly and looked out. The night was cold and, calmagain, and the keen stars twinkled. She saw nothing--she heard no sound. 

She closed it again, and paced the room. There were no tears in her eyes;but they were wide open, startled, despairing. For the first time in herterrible life she had loved. 

"But he kissed me before he went, " she said, pleadingly, to herself; "hekissed me--he kissed me!"

She said it when the solemn city bells struck three. She said it when thefirst dim light of dawn stole into the chamber. And when the full daybroke, and she heard the earliest footfalls in the street, her heartclung to it as the only memory left to her of all her life:

"He kissed me! he kissed me!"

CHAPTER LXXXIX. 

DUST TO DUST. 

Scarcely had Abel left the bank, after obtaining the money, than Gabrielcame in, and, upon seeing the notes which Mr. Van Boozenberg had shownhim, in order to make every thing sure in so large a transaction, announced that they were forged. The President was quite beside himself, and sat down in his room, wringing his hands and crying; while themessenger ran for a carriage, into which Gabriel stepped with Mr. Van Boozenberg, and drove as rapidly as possible to the office of theChief of Police, who promised to set his men to work at once; but thesearch was suddenly terminated by the bills found upon the body of AbelNewt. 

The papers were full of the dreadful news. They said they were deeplyshocked to announce that a disgrace had befallen the whole city in thecrime which had mysteriously deprived his constituency and his country ofthe services of the young, talented, promising representative, whoseopening career had seemed to be in every way so auspicious. By what foulplay he had been made way with was a matter for the strictest legalinvestigation, and the honor of the country demanded that theperpetrators of such an atrocious tragedy should be brought tocondign punishment. 

The morning papers followed next day with fuller details of the awfulevent. Some of the more enterprising had diagrams of the shop, the blind, the large yellow barrels that held the liquor pure as imported, thebench, the counter, and the spot (marked O) where the officer had foundthe body. In parlors, in banks, in groceries and liquor-shops, inlawyers' rooms and insurance offices, the murder was the chief topicof conversation for a day. Then came the report of the inquest. 

There was no clew to the murderers. The eager, thirsty-eyed crowd of men, and women, and children, crushing and hanging about the shop, graduallyloosened their gaze. The jury returned that the deceased Abel Newt cameto his death by the hands of some person or persons unknown. The shopwas closed, officers were left in charge, and the body was borne away. 

General Belch was in his office reading the morning paper when Mr. William Condor entered. They shook hands. Upon the General's fat facethere was an expression of horror and perplexity, but Mr. Condor wasperfectly calm. 

"What an awful thing!" said Belch, as the other sat down before the fire. 

"Frightful, " said Mr. Condor, placidly, as he lighted a cigar, "but notsurprising. "

"Who do you suppose did it?" asked the General. 

"Impossible to tell. A drunken brawl, with its natural consequences;that's all. "

"Yes, I know; but it's awful. "

"Providential. "

"What do you mean?"

"Abel Newt would have made mince-meat of you and me and the rest of us ifhe had lived. That's what I mean, " replied Mr. Condor, unruffled, andlightly whiffing the smoke. "But it's necessary to draw some resolutionsto offer in the committee, and I've brought them with me. You knowthere's a special meeting called to take notice of this deplorable event, and you must present them. Shall I read them?"

Mr. Condor drew a piece of paper from his pocket, and, holding his cigarin one hand and whiffing at intervals, read:

"Whereas our late associate and friend, Abel Newt, has been suddenlyremoved from this world, in the prime of his life and the height of hisusefulness, by the hand of an inscrutable but all-wise Providence, towhose behests we desire always to bow in humble resignation; and

"Whereas, it is eminently proper that those to whom great public trustshave been confided by their fellow-citizens should not pass away withoutsome signal expression of the profound sense of bereavement which thosefellow-citizens entertain; and

"Whereas we represent that portion of the community with whom thelamented deceased peculiarly sympathized; therefore be it resolved bythe General Committee, "_First_, That this melancholy event impressively teaches the solemntruth that in the midst of life we are in death;

"_Second_ That in the brilliant talents, the rare accomplishments, thedeep sagacity, the unswerving allegiance to principle which characterizedour dear departed brother and associate, we recognize the qualities whichwould have rendered the progress of his career as triumphant as itsopening was auspicious;

"_Third, _ That while we humble ourselves before the mysterious will ofHeaven, which works not as man works, we tender our most respectful andprofound sympathy to the afflicted relatives and friends of the deceased, to whom we fervently pray that his memory may be as a lamp to the feet;

"_Fourth, _ That we will attend his funeral in a body; that we will wearcrape upon the left arm for thirty days; and that a copy of theseresolutions, signed by the officers of the Committee, shall be presentedto his family. "

"I think that'll do, " said Mr. Condor, resuming his cigar, and laying thepaper upon the table. 

"Just the thing, " said General Belch. "Just the thing. You know the Granthas passed and been approved?"

"Yes, so Ele wrote me, " returned Mr. Condor. 

"Condor, " continued the General, "I've had enough of it. I'm going toback out. I'd rather sweep the streets. "

General Belch spoke emphatically, and his friend turned toward him with apleasant smile. 

"Can you make so much in any other way?"

"Perhaps not. But I'd rather make less, and more comfortably. "

"I find it perfectly comfortable, " replied William Condor. "You take ittoo hard. You ought to manage it with less friction. The point is, toavoid friction. If you undertake to deal with men, you ought tounderstand just what they are. "

Mr. Condor smoked serenely, and General Belch looked at his slim, cleanfigure, and his calm face, with curious admiration. 

"By-the-by, " said Condor, "when you introduce the resolutions, I shallsecond them with a few remarks. "

And he did so. At the meeting of the Committee he rose and enforced themwith a few impressive and pertinent words. 

"Gratitude, " he said, "is instinctive in the human breast. When a mandoes well, or promises well, it is natural to regard him with interestand affection. The fidelity of our departed brother is worthy of our mostaffectionate admiration and imitation. If you ask me whether he hadfaults, I answer that he was a man. Who so is without sin, let him castthe first stone. "

On the same day the Honorable B. Jawley Ele rose in his place in Congressto announce the calamity in which the whole country shared, and to movean adjournment in respect for the memory of his late colleague--"a manendeared to us all by the urbanity of his deportment and his socialgraces; but to me especially, by the kindness of his heart and thereadiness of his sympathy. "

Abel Newt was buried from his father's house. There were not manygathered at the service in the small, plain rooms. Fanny Dinks was there, sobered and saddened--the friend now of Hope Wayne, and of Amy, her UncleLawrence's wife. Alfred was there, solemnized and frightened. The officeof Lawrence Newt & Co. Was closed, and the partners and the clerks allstood together around the coffin. Abel's mother, shrouded in black, satin a dim corner of the room, nervously sobbing. Abel's father, sitting inhis chair, his white hair hanging upon his shoulders, looked curiously atall the people, while his bony fingers played upon his knees, and he saidnothing. 

During all the solemn course of the service, from the gracious words, "Iam the resurrection and the life, " to the final Amen which was breathedout of the depth of many a soul there, the old man's eyes did not turnfrom the clergyman. But when, after a few moments of perfect silence, twoor three men entered quietly and rapidly, and, lifting the coffin, beganto bear it softly out of the room, he looked troubled and surprised, andglanced vaguely and inquiringly from one person to another, until, as itwas passing out of the door, his face was covered with a piteous look ofappeal: he half-rose from his chair, and reached out toward the door, with the long white fingers clutching in the air; but Hope Wayne took thewasted hands in hers, placed her arm behind him gently, and tenderlypressed him back into the chair. The old man raised his eyes to her asshe stood by him, and holding one of her hands in one of his, thespectral calmness returned into his face; while, beating his thin kneewith the other hand, he said, in the old way, as the body of his sonwas borne out of his house, "Riches have wings! Riches have wings!" Butstill he held Hope Wayne's hand, and from time to time raised his eyes toher face. 

CHAPTER XC. 

UNDER THE MISLETOE. 

The hand which held that of old Boniface Newt was never placed in that ofany, younger man, except for a moment; but the heart that warmed the handhenceforward held all the world. 

We have come to the last leaf, patient and gentle reader, and the girlwe saw sitting, long ago, upon the lawn and walking in the garden ofPinewood is not yet married! Yes, and we shall close the book, and stillshe will be Hope Wayne. 

How could we help it? How could a faithful chronicler but tell his storyas it is? It is not at his will that heroes marry, and heroines are givenin marriage. He merely watches events and records results; but theinevitable laws of human life are hidden in God's grace beyond hisknowledge. 

There is Arthur Merlin painting pictures to this day, and every year withgreater beauty and wider recognition. He wears the same velvet coat ofmany buttons--or its successor in the third or fourth remove--and stillhe whistles and sings at his work, still draws back from the easel andturns his head on one side to look at his picture, and cons it carefullythrough the tube of his closed hand; still lays down the pallet and, lighting a cigar, throws himself into the huge easy-chair, hanging oneleg over the chair-arm and gazing, as he swings his foot, at somethingwhich does not seem to be in the room. Cheerful and gay, he has always aword of welcome for the loiterer who returns to Italy by visiting thepainters; even if the loiterer find him with the foot idly swinging andthe cigar musingly smoking itself away. 

Nor is the painter conscious of any gaping, unhealed wound thatperiodically bleeds. There are nights in mid-summer when, leaning fromhis window, he thinks of many things, and among others, of a picture heonce painted of the legend of Latmos. He smiles to think that, at thetime, he half persuaded himself that he might be Endymion, yet thefeeling with which he smiles is of pity and wonder rather than of regret. 

At Thanksgiving dinners, at Christmas parties, at New Year and TwelfthNight festivals, no guest so gay and useful, so inventive and delightful, as Arthur Merlin the painter. Just as Aunt Winnifred has abandoned hertheory it has become true, and all the girls do seem to love the man whorespects them as much as the younger men do with whom they nightly dancein winter. He romps with the children, has a perfectly regulated andtriumphant sliding-scale of gifts and attentions; and only thisChristmas, although he is now--well, Aunt Winnifred has locked up theFamily Bible and begins to talk of Arthur as a young man--yet onlythis Christmas, at Lawrence Newt's family party, at which, so nimblydid they run round, it was almost impossible to compute the actualnumber of Newt, and Wynne, and Bennet children--Arthur Merlin broughtin, during the evening, with an air of profound secrecy, somethingcovered with a large handkerchief. Of course there could be no peace, and no blindman's-buff, no stage-coach, no twirling the platter, and nosnap-dragon, until the mystery was revealed; The whole crowd of shortfrocks and trowsers, and bright ribbons, and eyes, and curls, swarmedaround the painter until he displayed a green branch. 

A pair of tiny feet, carrying a pair of great blue eyes and a head ofgolden curls, scampered across the floor to Lawrence Newt. 

"Oh, papa, what is that green thing with little berries on it?"

"That's a misletoe bough, little Hope. "

"But, papa, what's it for?"

The painter was already telling the children what it was for; and when hehad hung it up over the folding-doors such a bubbling chorus of laughterand merry shrieks followed, there was such a dragging of little girls inwhite muslin by little boys in blue velvet, and such smacking, andkissing, and happy confusion, that the little Hope's curiosity wasimmediately relieved. Of all the ingenious inventions of their friendthe painter, this of the misletoe was certainly the most transcendent. 

But when Arthur Merlin himself joined the romp, and, chasing HopeWayne through the lovely crowd of shouting girls and boys, finally caughther and led her to the middle of the room and dropped on one knee andkissed her hand under the misletoe, then the delight burst all bounds;and as Hope Wayne's bright, beautiful face glanced merrily around theroom--bright and beautiful, although she is young no longer--she saw thatthe elders were shouting with the children, and that Lawrence Newt andhis wife, and his niece Fanny, and papa and mamma Wynne, and Bennet, wereall clapping their hands and laughing. 

She laughed too; and Arthur Merlin laughed; and when Ellen Bennet'soldest daughter (of whom there are certain sly reports, in which her nameis coupled with that of her cousin Edward, May Newt's oldest son) satdown to the piano and played a Virginia reel, it was Arthur Merlin whohanded out Hope Wayne with mock gravity, and stepped about and bowedaround so solemnly, that little Hope Newt, sitting upon her papa's kneeand nestling her golden curls among his gray hair, laughed all the time, and wished that Christmas came every day in the year, and that she mightalways see Mr. Arthur Merlin dancing with dear Aunt Hope. 

When the dance was over and the panting children were resting, GabrielNewt, Lawrence's youngest boy, said to Arthur, "Mr. Merlin, what game shall we play now? What game do you like best?"

"The game of life, my boy, " replied Arthur. 

"Oh, pooh!" said Gabriel, doubtfully, with a vague feeling that Mr. Merlin was quizzing him. 

But the painter was in earnest; and if you are of his opinion, patientand gentle reader, it is for you to say who, among all the players wehave been watching, held Trumps.