John Wittleworth, the father of Fitz, was a clerk in the counting-room of Mr. Osborne, and finally became the partner of his employer, whose confidence he obtained to such a degree that the merchant was willing to trust him with all he had. He married Ellen Osborne; and when her father retired from business, his son-in-law carried it on alone. At this time, doubtless, John Wittleworth was worthy of all the confidence reposed in him, for the terrible habit, which eventually beggared him, had not developed itself to an extent which seemed perilous even to the eye of affection.

A few years after the marriage of Ellen, Mr. Checkynshaw, then aspiring to no higher title than that of a simple broker, presented himself as the suitor of Mary, the younger daughter of the retired merchant. Mr. Osborne did not like him very well; but Mary did, and their affair was permitted to take its course. Only a few months after this alliance of the Checkynshaw and the Osborne, the merchant was taken sick. When it was evident that his days were drawing to a close, he made his will.

His property consisted of about one hundred thousand dollars. One half of it was invested in a block of stores, which paid a heavy rental, and the other half was in money, stocks, and debts. In settling the affairs of the firm he had taken John Wittleworth's notes for thirty thousand dollars, secured by a mortgage on the stock. In making his will, Mr. Osborne gave to Ellen or—what was the same thing in those days, when a woman did not own her own property—to her husband, all the money, stocks, and debts due from Wittleworth. He did this because his late partner wanted more capital to increase his business.

To Mary, the wife of Mr. Checkynshaw, he gave the block of stores; but, not having so much confidence in Mary's husband as in Ellen's, he gave her the property with certain restrictions. The income of the estate was to be hers—or her husband's—during her life. At her death the estate was to pass to her children. If she died without children, the property was to be her sister's, or her sister's children's. But Mr. Osborne did not wish to exhibit any want of confidence in Mary's husband; so he made Mr. Checkynshaw the trustee, to hold the block of stores for his wife and for her children. He had the power to collect the rents, and as long as his wife lived, or as long as her children lived, the money was practically his own.

Mary, the first Mrs. Checkynshaw, was in rather feeble health, and the doctors advised her to spend the winter in the south of France. Her husband complied with this advice; and her child, Marguerite, was born in Perpignan, and had a French name because she was born in France. The family returned home in the following spring; but Mrs. Checkynshaw died during the succeeding winter. Marguerite was a fine, healthy child; and to her now belonged the block of stores bequeathed by her grandfather, her father holding it in trust for her.

In another year Mr. Checkynshaw married his second wife, who treated little Marguerite well enough, though she felt no deep and motherly interest in her, especially after Elinora, her own daughter, was born. Mr. Checkynshaw called himself a banker now. He had taken Mr. Hart and another gentleman into the concern as partners, and the banking-house of Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co. was a rising establishment.

The second Mrs. Checkynshaw was an ambitious woman, vain and pretentious. Her friends had been to London, Paris, Naples, and Rome. She had never been in Europe, and it galled her to be out of the fashion. When Elinora was only two years old, she insisted upon going abroad. Her husband did not like the idea of travelling with two children, one five and the other two years old. But he was over-persuaded, and finally consented to go. They arrived in Paris in July, and intended to remain there two months; but, before this period elapsed, the banker received a letter from Mr. Hart informing him of the sudden death of the third partner in their house. This event compelled him to return immediately; but Mrs. Checkynshaw was so well pleased with Parisian life, that she was unwilling to leave the city so soon. The voyage to her was terrible, and she had seen little or nothing of Europe. The family had taken apartments, and she was loath to leave them.

A friend of the banker, who with his wife occupied rooms in the same house, suggested that Mrs. Checkynshaw and her children should remain until her husband could return, two or three months later. An arrangement to this effect was made, and the banker hastened home to settle his business affairs. He had hardly departed before the cholera broke out with fearful violence in Paris. One of its first victims was the gentleman who had charge of Mr. Checkynshaw's family. His wife followed him, only a day later, to the cholera hospital.

Of course the banker's wife was terribly frightened, and instantly made her preparations to leave the infected city. Poor little Marguerite was the first of the family to take the disease, and she was hurried off to the hospital by the landlord of the house, who was very polite, but very heartless. This event would not have delayed the departure of Mrs. Checkynshaw, but she was stricken down herself before she could leave. The fearful malady raged with awful violence; hospitals were crowded with patients, and the dead were hurried to their last resting-place without a prayer or a dirge.

Little Elinora was taken by her nurse to the Sisters of Charity, and escaped the disease. Mrs. Checkynshaw recovered, and as soon as she was able, reclaimed her child, and fled to the interior of Switzerland, to a small town which the plague had not yet visited. When the panic had subsided, she returned to Paris. She bad been informed, before her departure, that little Marguerite had died of the disease; but, on her return, she visited the hospital, and made more careful inquiry in regard to the little patient. She was told that the child answering to her description had died, and been buried with a dozen others. It was then impossible to identify the remains of the child.

Mr. Checkynshaw returned to Paris in September. His wife had written to him and to Mrs. Wittleworth as soon as she was able, and her husband had received her letter before his departure from Boston. Poor little Marguerite! She was his own child, and he was sorely grieved at her death. He was not quite satisfied with his wife's investigations, and he determined to inquire further. With Mrs. Checkynshaw he went to the hospital.

"The child died the day after it was brought here," replied the director. "Here is the name;" and he pointed to the record.

The name indicated certainly was not "Checkynshaw," though it was as near it as a Frenchman could be expected to write it. The letters spelled "Chuckingham."

"Allow me to look at the book," said Mr. Checkynshaw.

"Certainly, sir; but I remember the case well. She was a little English girl," added the director.

"This child was American," interposed the anxious father.

"We cannot tell the difference. She spoke only English."

"What is this?" asked Mr. Checkynshaw, pointing to another name. "Marguerite Poulebah."

"That patient was discharged, cured."

"Do you translate English proper names?"

"Never!"

"What became of this patient?" asked Mr. Checkynshaw, deeply interested.

"I don't know."

The banker was satisfied that "Marguerite Poulebah" was his daughter; that the persons who had brought her to the hospital understood a little English, and had translated his surname literally from "chicken" and "pshaw." He investigated the matter for a week. The concierge of the lodgings where he had resided assured him he had not given the name as "Poulebah." At the end of the week he informed his wife that he had obtained a clew to the child. She had been taken from the hospital by the Sisters of Charity, and sent to Strasburg, that she might not have a relapse. Mr. Checkynshaw went to Strasburg alone.

On his return he assured his wife that he had found Marguerite; that she was happy with the Sisters, and cried when he spoke of taking her away. The devoted ladies were very much attached to her, he said; and he had concluded that it would be best to leave her there, at least until they were ready to embark for home. Mrs. Checkynshaw did not object. She had no love for the child, and though she had treated her well from a sense of duty, was rather glad to get rid of her.

The family remained in Europe till the next spring. Mr. Checkynshaw went to see his daughter again. The Sisters were educating her, and he declared that Marguerite was so very happy with them, and begged so hard not to be taken from them, that he had consented to let her remain at their school. Mrs. Checkynshaw did not care; she thought it was strange; but if the child's father deemed it best for her to remain with the Sisters, it was not for her to say anything. She did not say anything—Marguerite was not her own child.

When they returned to Boston, the friends of the Osbornes wished to know what had become of the child. Mr. Checkynshaw had not informed any one of the death of Marguerite when the intelligence came to him in his wife's letter, though Mrs. Wittleworth had received it direct from the same source. He had grieved deeply at the loss of the child. Yet his sorrow was not alone for poor Marguerite; the block of stores, every year increasing in value, must not pass out of his hands.

"The poor child had the cholera in Paris, and was sent to the hospital," was his reply. "When she recovered, Mrs. Checkynshaw was down with the disease, and the Sisters of Charity took her in charge. They treated her as a mother treats her own child, and Marguerite loves them better than she does my wife. I don't like to say anything about it, and will not, except to most intimate friends; but Marguerite was not Mrs. Checkynshaw's own daughter. They were not very fond of each other, and—well, I think you ought to be able to understand the matter without my saying anything more. The poor child is very happy where she is, and I had not the heart to separate her from such dear friends."

Everybody inferred that Mrs. Checkynshaw did not treat the child well, and no more questions were asked. The banking-house of Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co. increased in wealth and importance, and had extensive foreign connections in England. Every year or two the head of the house crossed the ocean, partly, as he declared, to transact his business in London, and partly to visit his child in France.



CHAPTER X.

THE WITTLEWORTH FAMILY.

While everything appeared to be well with the banker, into whose exchequer the revenues of the block of stores flowed with unintermitting regularity, the affairs of the other branch of the Osborne family were in a far less hopeful condition. John Wittleworth drank to excess, and did not attend to his business. It was said that he gambled largely; but it was not necessary to add this vice to the other in order to rob him of his property, and filch from him his good name.

He failed in business, and was unable to reestablish himself. He obtained a situation as a clerk, but his intemperate habits unfitted him for his duties. If he could not take care of his own affairs, much less could he manage the affairs of another. He had become a confirmed sot, had sacrificed everything, and given himself up to the demon of the cup. He became a ragged, filthy drunkard; and as such, friends who had formerly honored him refused to recognize him, or to permit him to enter their counting-rooms. Just before the opening of our story, he had been arrested as a common drunkard; and it was even a relief to his poor wife to know that he was safely lodged in the House of Correction.

When Mrs. Wittleworth found she could no longer depend upon her natural protector, she went to work with her own hands, like an heroic woman, as she was. As soon as her son was old enough to be of any assistance to her, a place was found for him in a lawyer's office, where he received a couple of dollars a week. Her own health giving way under the drudgery of toil, to which she had never been accustomed, she was obliged to depend more and more upon Fitz, who, in the main, was not a bad boy, though his notions were not suited to the station in which he was compelled to walk. At last she was obliged to appeal to her brother-in-law, who gave Fitz his situation.

Fitz was rather "airy." He had a better opinion of himself than anybody else had—a vicious habit, which the world does not readily forgive. He wanted to dress himself up, and "swell" round among bigger men than himself. His mother was disappointed in him, and tried to teach him better things; but he believed that his mother was only a woman, and that he was wiser, and more skilful in worldly affairs, than she was. He paid her three dollars a week out of his salary of five dollars, and in doing this he believed that he discharged his whole duty to her.

Perhaps we ought again to apologize to Mr. Checkynshaw for leaving him so long in such a disagreeable place as the poor home of his first wife's sister; but he was seated before the cooking-stove, and the contemplation of poverty would do him no harm; so we shall not beg his pardon.

The banker looked around the room, at the meagre and mean furniture, and then at the woman herself; her who had once been the belle of the circle in which she moved, now clothed in the cheapest calico, her face pale and hollow from hard work and ceaseless anxiety. Perhaps he found it difficult to believe that she was the sister of his first wife.

"Where is Fitz?" asked he, in gruff accents.

"He has gone up in Summer Street. He will be back in a few minutes," replied Mrs. Wittleworth, as she seated herself opposite the banker, still fearing that some new calamity was about to overtake her.

"I want to see him," added Mr. Checkynshaw, in the most uncompromising tones.

"Fitz says you discharged him," continued the poor woman, heaving a deep sigh.

"I didn't; he discharged himself. I could not endure the puppy's impudence. But that is neither here nor there. I don't want to see him about that."

"I hope you will take him back."

"Take him back if he will behave himself."

"Will you?" asked she, eagerly.

"I will; that is, if it turns out that he was not concerned in robbing my safe."

"In what?" exclaimed Mrs. Wittleworth.

"My safe has been robbed of some of my most valuable papers."

"Robbed!"

"Yes, robbed."

"Did Fitz do it?" gasped the wretched mother; and this was even a greater calamity than any she had dreaded.

"I don't know whether he did or not; that's what I want to find out; that's what I want to see him for."

Mr. Checkynshaw proceeded to relate the circumstances under which the safe had been robbed. Before he had finished, Fitz came in, and his mother was too impatient to wait for her distinguished visitor to set any of his verbal traps and snares. She bluntly informed her hopeful son that he was suspected of being concerned in the robbery.

"I don't know anything about it. I had nothing to do with it," protested Fitz. "There's nothing too mean for Checkynshaw to say."

"Don't be saucy, Fitz. Try to be civil," pleaded his mother.

"Be civil! What, when he comes here to accuse me of robbing his safe? I can't stand that, and I won't, if I know myself," replied Fitz, shaking his head vehemently at the banker.

"I haven't accused you of anything, Fitz," added Mr. Checkynshaw, very mildly for him. "I came to inquire about it."

"Do you think if I did it that I would tell you of it?"

"I wish to ask you some questions."

"Well, you needn't!"

"Very well, young man," said the banker, rising from his chair, "if you don't choose to answer me, you can answer somebody else. I'll have you arrested."

"Arrested! I'd like to see you do it! What for? I know something about law!" He had been an errand boy in a lawyer's office!

"Don't be so rude, Fitz," begged his mother.

"Arrest me!" repeated the violent youth, whose dignity had been touched by the threat. "Do it! Why didn't you do it before you came here? You can't scare me! I wasn't brought up in the city to be frightened by a brick house. Why don't you go for a constable, and take me up now? I'd like to have you do it."

"I will do it if you don't behave yourself," said the banker, beginning to be a little ruffled by the violent and unreasonable conduct of Mr. Wittleworth.

"I wish you would! I really wish you would! I should like to know what my friend Choate would say about it."

"How silly you talk!" exclaimed his mother, quite as much disgusted as her stately visitor.

"You may let him badger you, if you like, mother; but he shall not come any odds on me—not if I know it, and I think I do!"

"It is useless for me to attempt to say anything to such a young porcupine," added Mr. Checkynshaw, taking his hat from the table.

Mrs. Wittleworth burst into tears. She had hoped to effect a reconciliation between her son and his employer, upon which her very immunity from blank starvation seemed to depend. The case was a desperate one, and the bad behavior of Fitz seemed to destroy her last hope.

"I will give up now, Fitz, and go to the almshouse," sobbed she.

Fitz was inclined to give up also when this stunning acknowledgment was made in the presence of his great enemy, the arch dragon of respectability.

"I am willing to work, but not to be trodden upon," added he, sullenly; but his spirit for the moment seemed to be subdued.

"Mr. Checkynshaw wishes to ask you some questions, and it is your duty to answer them," said Mrs. Wittleworth, a little encouraged by the more hopeful aspect of her belligerent son.

"Ask away," replied Fitz, settling himself into a chair, and fixing his gaze upon the stove.

"Do you know Pilky Wayne?" asked the banker, who had a certain undefined fear of Fitz since the robbery, which, however, the immensity of his dignity prevented him from exposing.

"Know who?" demanded Fitz, looking up.

"Pilky Wayne."

"Never heard of him before."

"Yes, you have; you made an arrangement with him to rob my safe," continued the banker, who could not help browbeating his inferior.

"Did I? Well, if I did, I did," answered Fitz, shaking his head. "What do you think my friend Choate would say to that?"

"He would say you were a silly fellow," interposed Mrs. Wittleworth. "Don't be impudent, Fitz."

"Well, I won't be impudent!" said Fitz, with a kind of suppressed chuckle.

"There were, or you thought there were, certain papers in my safe which might be useful to you," added Mr. Checkynshaw.

"I don't believe there were any letters from my cousin Marguerite among them," replied Fitz, with a sneering laugh. "Marguerite must be able to write very pretty letters by this time."

"Be still, Fitz," pleaded Mrs. Wittleworth.

"Fitz, I don't want to quarrel with you," continued Mr. Checkynshaw, in the most pliable tones Fitz had ever heard the banker use to him.

"I thought you did. Accusing a gentleman of robbing your safe is not exactly the way to make friends with him," said Fitz, so much astonished at the great man's change of tone that he hardly knew what to say.

"I accuse you of nothing. Fitz, if you want your place in my office again, you can return to-morrow morning."

Mr. Wittleworth looked at his disconsolate mother. A gleam of triumph rested on his face. The banker, the head and front of the great house of Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co., had fully and directly recognized the value of his services; had fairly "backed out," and actually entreated him to return, and fill the vacant place, which no other person was competent to fill! That was glory enough for one day. But he concluded that it would be better for the banker to come down a peg farther, and apologize for his abusive treatment of his confidential clerk.

"Certainly he will be glad to take the place again, sir," said Mrs. Wittleworth, who was anxious to help along the negotiation.

"Perhaps I will; and then again, perhaps I will not," replied Mr. Wittleworth, who was beginning to be airy again, and threw himself back on his chair, sucked his teeth, and looked as magnificent as an Eastern prince. "Are you willing to double my salary, Mr. Checkynshaw?"

"After what I have heard here to-night, I am," answered the banker, promptly. "I ought to have done it before; and I should, had I known your mother's circumstances."

That was very unlike Mr. Checkynshaw. Mr. Wittleworth did not like it. His salary was to be doubled as an act of charity, rather than because he deserved such a favor. It was not like the banker to want him at all after what had happened. There was something deep under it; but Fitz was deep himself.

"Perhaps you might help me in finding my papers. Of course I don't care a straw for the three hundred and fifty dollars or so which was stolen with them," suggested Mr. Checkynshaw.

"Perhaps I might; perhaps I have some skill in business of that kind, though I suppose it doesn't exactly become me to say so," added Fitz, stroking his chin. "But if you mean to intimate that I know anything about them, you are utterly and entirely mistaken. I'm an honest man—the noblest work of God."

"I will give you ten dollars a week for the future, if you will return," said Mr. Checkynshaw, impatiently.

"Of course he will," almost gasped the eager mother.

Fitz was deep. The banker was anxious. It meant something. Fitz thought he knew what it meant.

"On the whole, I think I will not return," replied he, deliberately.

"Are you crazy, Fitz?" groaned Mrs. Wittleworth, in despair.

"Never a more sane man walked the earth. Mr. Checkynshaw knows what he is about; I know what I am about."

"We shall both starve, Fitz!" cried his mother.

"On the contrary, mother, we shall soon be in possession of that block of stores, with an income of five or six thousand a year," added Fitz, complacently.

"The boy's an idiot!" exclaimed the banker, as he took his hat, and rushed out of the house.



CHAPTER XI.

THE MOUSE BUSINESS.

While Maggie Maggimore took upon herself the blessed task of nursing the barber, Leo charged himself with the duty of providing for the wants of the family. Each had assumed all that one person could be expected to achieve. It was no small thing for a girl of fifteen to take the entire care of a helpless invalid; and it was no small thing for a boy of fifteen to take upon himself the task of providing for the expenses of the house, and the medical attendance of the sick man.

It would have been much easier for Leo to fail in his assumed task than for Maggie to do so. Even a young man of so much importance as Fitzherbert Wittleworth, upon whom the salvation of the great house of Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co. seemed to depend, toiled for the meagre pittance of five dollars a week. Leo had some acquaintance with the late clerk in the private office of the banker, and he had listened with wonder to the astounding achievements of Fitz in the postal and financial departments of the house. Of course Mr. Wittleworth would be a partner in the concern as soon as he was twenty-one, if not before; for, besides his own marvellous abilities, he had the additional advantage of being a relative of the distinguished head of the concern.

Leo was abashed at his own insignificance when he stood in the presence of the banker's clerk. If such an astonishing combination of talent as Mr. Wittleworth possessed could be purchased for five dollars a week, what could he, who was only a mere tinker, expect to obtain? Half that sum would have been an extravagant valuation of his own services, under ordinary circumstances. But beneath the burden which now rested upon him, he felt an inspiration which had never before fired his soul; he felt called upon to perform a miracle.

He was born with a mechanical genius, and he felt it working within him. There was no end of wooden trip-hammers, saw-mills, and other working machines he had invented and constructed. Under the pressure of the present necessity he felt able to accomplish better things. Something must be done which would produce fifteen, or at least ten, dollars a week. It was no use to think it couldn't be done; it must be done. It looked like a species of lunacy on his part to flatter himself that it was possible to make even more than a journeyman mechanic's wages.

Leo had in his busy brain half a dozen crude plans of simple machines. Often, when he saw people at work, he tried to think how the labor might be done by machinery. As he sat in the kitchen, where Maggie was sewing or preparing the dinner, he was devising a way to perform the task with wood and iron. Only a few days before the illness of the barber, he had seen her slicing potatoes to fry, and the operation had suggested a potato slicer, which would answer equally well for cucumbers, onions, and apples.

Sitting on the bench, he was thinking of this apparatus, when fifteen dollars a week became a necessity. But the machine required more iron than wood work, and he had not the means to do the former, and no capital to invest in other people's labor. Then he turned his attention to a new kind of boot-jack he had in his mind—an improvement on one he had seen, which could be folded up and put in a traveller's carpet-bag. As this implement was all wood except the hinges and screws, it looked more hopeful. He could make half a dozen of them in a day, and they would sell for half a dollar apiece. He was thinking of an improvement on the improvement, when the stampede of the mice deranged his ideas; but they gave him a new one.

White mice were beautiful little creatures. Their fur was so very white, their eyes so very pink, and their paws so very cunning, that everybody liked to see them. Even the magnificent Mr. Checkynshaw had deigned to regard them with some attention, and had condescended to say that his daughter Elinora would be delighted to see them. Then the houses, and the gymnastic apparatus which Leo attached to them, rendered them tenfold more interesting. At a store in Court Street the enterprising young man had seen them sold for half a dollar a pair; indeed, he had paid this sum for the ancestral couple from which had descended, in the brief space of a year and a half the numerous tribes and families that peopled the miniature palaces on the basement walls.

At this rate his present stock was worth seventy-five dollars—the coveted salary of five whole weeks! In another month, at least fifty more little downy pink-eyes would emerge from their nests, adding twenty-five dollars more to his capital stock in trade!

Leo had already decided to go into the mouse business.

He was counting his chickens before they were hatched, and building magnificent castles in the air; but even the most brilliant success, as well as the most decided failure, is generally preceded by a vast amount of ground and lofty tumbling in the imagination. If the man in Court Street could sell a pair of white mice for fifty cents, and a beggarly tin box with a whirligig for a dollar, making the establishment and its occupants cost a dollar and a half, why would not one of his splendid palaces, with two or three pairs of mice in it, bring three, or even five dollars? That was the point, and there was the argument all lying in a nutshell.

Leo had faith. What would a rich man care for five dollars when he wanted to please his children? He had watched his mice day after day, and week after week, by the hour at a time, and had never failed to be amused at their gambols. Everybody that came to the house was delighted with them. If the man in Court Street could sell them, he could. There was money in the speculation, Leo reasoned, and it should not fail for the want of a fair trial.

He could make houses of various sizes, styles, and prices, and thus suit all tastes. He could stock each one with as many mice as the customer desired. He could make a pretty elaborate establishment in two days—five-dollar size; and of the smaller and plainer kind—two-dollar pattern—he could make two in a day.

The palace on the bench was nearly completed, and he went to work at once and finished it. It had a glass front, so that the dainty little occupants of the institution could not get out, and the foe of white mice, the terrible cat, could not get in. This establishment had been intended for Mr. Stropmore; but as that gentleman had not been informed of his purpose to present it, Leo decided that it should be used to initiate the experiment on whose success so much depended.

It was ten o'clock at night when the grand palace on the bench was finished. Leo put some cotton wool into the sleeping apartments, and then transferred three pairs of mice from the most densely populated house to the new one. He watched them for a while, as they explored their elegant hotel, going up stairs and down, snuffing in every corner, standing upon their hind legs, and taking the most minute observations of the surroundings.

Leo was entirely satisfied with the work of his hands, and with the conduct of the mice who had been promoted to a residence in its elegant and spacious quarters. If there was not five dollars in that establishment, then the rich men of Boston were stingy and ungrateful. If they could not appreciate that superb palace, and those supple little beauties who held court within its ample walls, why, they were not worthy to be citizens of the Athens of America!

Leo went up stairs. Andre still slept, and Maggie sat by the bedside, patiently watching him in his slumbers. He crept softly into the front room, and looked at the pale face of his father. His heart was lighter than it had been before since the news of the calamity was told to him. He was full of hope, and almost believed that he had solved the problem of supplying all the wants of the family.

"You must sleep yourself, Maggie," said he, in a whisper.

"Hush!" said she, fearful that the sleeper might be disturbed, as she led the way into the rear room.

"I will sit up half the night, Maggie."

"No, Leo; there is no need of that. I wake very easily, and I can sleep enough in the rocking-chair. You seem to be quite cheerful now, Leo," added she, noticing the change which had come over him.

"I feel so, Maggie. You say we shall want fifteen dollars a week."

"No, you said so, Leo. I might take in sewing; but I don't think both of us can make anything like that sum. I am very much worried. I don't know what will become of us."

"Don't be worried any more. I'm going to make that money myself. You needn't do anything but take care of father; and I'll help you do the housework," added Leo, cheerfully.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going into the mouse business."

"Into what?"

"The mouse business," replied Leo, gravely.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Maggie, puzzled as much by his gravity as by the unintelligible phrase he had used.

Leo explained what he meant, and argued the case with much skill and enthusiasm.

Maggie would have laughed if she had not been solemnly impressed by the condition of her father, and by the burden of responsibility that rested upon her as his nurse. She went into the basement, and looked at the house which Leo had just finished. It was certainly very pretty, and the mice in it were very cunning.

"You don't think any one will give you five dollars for that house—do you?" said she, as she joined him in the back room again.

"I mean to ask six for it, and if folks won't give it, they are mean. That is all I've got to say about it," replied Leo.

"But they won't."

"Why, the mice alone are worth a dollar and a half; and there is two days' work in the house, besides the stock and the glass. I certainly expect to get six dollars for the concern, though I shall not complain if I don't get but five. I can make from three to a dozen of them in a week, and if I don't make at least fifteen dollars a week out of the mouse business, I shall be disappointed—that's all."

"I am afraid you will be disappointed, Leo," replied Maggie, with a sigh, as she thought what a sad thing it would be when the brilliant air-castle tumbled to the ground.

"Perhaps I shall; if I do, I can't help it. But if this fails, I have got another string to my bow."

"What's that?"

"I shall go into the boot-jack business next; and I hope to get up my machine for slicing potatoes, and such things, soon."

"O, dear, Leo! You are full of strange ideas. I only hope that some of them will work well," added Maggie.

"I'm going to be reasonable, sis. I'm not going to give up if a thing fails once, twice, or nineteen times. I'm going to keep pulling. I've got half a dozen things in my head; if five of them fail, I shall make a big thing out of the sixth."

"I hope you will; you are so patient and persevering that you ought to succeed in something."

"O, I shall; you may depend upon that! Make or break, I'm bound to succeed in something."

"What do you mean by 'make or break,' Leo? It sounds just as though you meant to make money if you sacrificed everything."

"I don't mean that."

"I would rather go to the almshouse than be dishonest. I can't think of anything more horrid than being wicked."

"Nor I either. I don't mean to be dishonest, Maggie. I would rather be a good man than a rich one, any day; but I think a man can be both. A good man, with lots of money, is better than a good man without it; for he can do good with it. When I say, 'make or break,' I don't mean anything bad by it. I'll tell you what I mean, Maggie. It seems to me, when I get hold of a good thing, I ought to keep pulling till I carry my point, or pull away till something breaks. I don't mean to risk everything on a turn of the wheel of fortune; nothing of that sort. I mean to persevere and stick to anything so long as there's any chance of success—till the strings break, and the whole thing tumbles down. That's my idea."

The idea was satisfactory to Maggie, and she returned to her patient, while Leo went up to bed; but not to sleep for hours, for the "mouse business" excited his brain, and kept him awake.



CHAPTER XII.

LEO'S WONDERFUL PERFORMERS.

Maggie, at the sick bed of Andre, slept even more than Leo. She had a lounge in the room, placed near her charge, on which she rested comfortably, though she rose several times in the night to assure herself that all was well with her father. In the morning Andre seemed to be in the entire possession of his faculties. He had slumbered quietly all night, hardly opening his eyes after he took the doctor's prescription.

He awoke before his attentive nurse. He had but a faint remembrance of the events of the preceding evening; for, after he came out of the fit, he was in a kind of stupor. He had noticed Maggie and Leo at the house of the banker; but everything seemed like a dream.

"Maggie," said he, as he looked around the familiar apartment, and saw her lying on the lounge.

She sprang to her feet, and went to him, glad to hear the sound of his voice, but fearful that the call might be the prelude of another attack. He smiled as she approached him, and made an effort to extend his right hand to her; but he could not move it.

"Father!" exclaimed the fond girl, as she bent over him and kissed his pale face, now slightly flushed with fever.

"I have been very ill," he added.

"You have, indeed; but you are better now; and I am so glad, mon pere!"

"Ah, ma fille, you are a good girl! You have been by my side all night. It was selfish for me to wake you."

"No, no! It was not. I'm glad you did. I am so happy to find you better!"

"What ails me? I can't move my right arm, nor my right leg," asked Andre, struggling to raise his limbs. "There is no feeling in my right side."

"The doctor will come by and by, and tell you all about it."

"My head feels very strange," added the sufferer.

"I am sorry, mon pere. What can I do?" said Maggie, tenderly.

"Give me some cold water."

She gave him the drink, supporting his head with her arm. It was plain, even to Maggie, that Andre was in a very bad way.

"Go up stairs, and go to bed now, Maggie. You have been up all night," said he, with a loving glance at her.

"No, mon pere, I have no need to go to bed. I have slept on the lounge nearly all night. I feel quite bright, only I'm so sad to think you are sick."

"I shall be well soon. I must be well soon," he added, looking anxiously at her.

"I hope you will be well soon; but it may be several weeks before you are able to go out," replied Maggie, wishing to have him reconciled to his lot as soon as possible.

"Several weeks, Maggie! O, no! I must go to the shop sooner than that."

"You must be very patient, mon pere."

"I will be patient, Maggie; but I must go to the shop soon."

"Don't think of the shop yet."

"My poor children! What will become of you? I have no money. I must work, or you will starve, and be turned out of the house because the rent is not paid. Indeed I must go to the shop, Maggie."

"But you cannot. You are not able to lift your right arm at all, and you are so weak you could not stand up. Do be patient, and not think at all of the shop."

"I must do as you bid me now, Maggie."

"Then don't think of the shop, or anything but our nice little home, where we have always been so happy."

"How shall we pay the rent if I lie here? Where will you get food to eat and clothes to wear?" demanded Andre, with something like a shudder of his paralyzed frame.

"Don't think of those things."

"I must. I was wicked not to save up some money."

"No, you were not wicked; you were always as good as you could be. The good God will take care of us."

"They will send us all to the almshouse."

"No, no; Leo is going to make heaps of money!" replied Maggie, though she had not much confidence in her brother's brilliant scheme, or even in the inventions that reposed in his active brain. "Can't you go to sleep again, mon pere?"

"I will try," replied he, meekly. "I will if you go to bed, and sleep. What should I do if you were sick?"

"I shall not be sick. I have slept enough. I will go and make you some beef tea, and get breakfast for Leo. I shall hear you if you call."

Leo had made the fire in the cooking-stove, and in a short time the odor of fried sausages pervaded the house; the beef tea was in course of preparation, and the coffee was boiling on the stove. Maggie was as busy as a bee; but every five minutes she ran into the front room, and asked Andre if he wanted anything. She went to the front door, where the baker had deposited half a dozen two-cent rolls, each of which was nearly as big as one sold for five cents now.

For a girl of fifteen, Maggie was an excellent cook; indeed, she would have been regarded as a prodigy in this respect in our day and generation. She had acquired all her skill from Andre, whose accomplishments were almost unlimited. When he first came to Boston, he had boarded out; but, when Maggie was eight years old, he had taken this house. At first he had done the housework himself, with what little help she could give him, till now she had entirely relieved him from any care of this kind. At this time he had taken Leo from the almshouse, to be her companion in his absence.

Breakfast was soon ready; and Leo was called up from the workshop, where he had already got out a portion of the stock for four small mouse-houses, each intended to accommodate a single pair of mice. He was still cheerful and hopeful, and went in to see Andre before he sat down at the table. He told his father he was sure he could make ten dollars a week by his splendid enterprise. He intended to take the palace he had finished up to State Street, for sale, at noon that day. The problem would soon be solved, and he was already nearly as well satisfied as though he had the price of his curious merchandise in his pocket.

After breakfast he returned to the shop. He was sad when he thought of staying away from school, and of giving up the medal he had set his heart upon; but, then, it was a very great pleasure to do something for his devoted father, who had been so good to him. It was a great sacrifice that he was called upon to make; but there was no help for it, and he tried to yield cheerfully to the necessity of the occasion. Gladly and hopefully he sawed and planed, and squared, and grooved, and mortised his work, and nailed the parts together.

At ten o'clock the doctor came. He was as gentle and kind as he had been the evening before. Andre was partially paralyzed on one side of his frame; but Dr. Fisher was quite hopeful of his patient, though it was not likely that he could go to work for some months. The physician was much pleased with Maggie, and when he was taking his leave he asked for Leo.

"He is in his shop at work," said Maggie. "Every one that comes here goes down to see his white mice; perhaps you would like to do so."

"I would," replied the doctor, with one of those benevolent smiles which all who knew him will remember to the end of their days.

Maggie conducted him to the basement, and then returned to Andre's chamber. The doctor examined the cages and palaces with wondering interest, though the mice were all asleep in their lairs. Leo put a little canary seed in the grand parade of each house, and this was quite enough to rouse them from their slumbers, and induce them to exhibit themselves to the astonished visitor.

"These are my performing mice," said Leo, pointing to a house in which seven full-grown ones were nibbling the seed.

"What do they perform?" laughed the doctor.

"I'll show you, sir."

Leo swept out the canary seed from the grand parade, so that the little actors should have nothing to distract their attention. Taking six little sticks—that looked something like guns—he rapped with his finger-nail on the floor of the house. The seven mice stood up on their hind legs, in a straight line, like a file of soldiers. He then gave each of the first six his musket, and to the seventh a sword.

"Shoulder—arms!" said he, with a movement of his forefinger, which probably had more effect than the words.

The mice, with becoming gravity, obeyed the order, and successively went through four movements in the manual of arms. Then one of the little soldiers was deprived of his gun, and Leo explained that he was a deserter, and was to be shot for his crime. At a movement of the boy's forefinger, the culprit took his station at one side of the grand parade, while his companions formed a line on the other side, with their muskets pointed at the deserter.

"Fire!" said Leo, at the same time dropping a torpedo on the floor of the house, which exploded.

The infamous wretch of a white mouse, which had basely deserted his flag, dropped upon his back, and lay as still as though he had actually suffered the extreme penalty of martial law. It must be added that the captain of the firing party was so frightened by the noise of the torpedo that he scampered away into his nest, much to the mortification of Leo; but he was recalled, and compelled to face the music at the head of his squad.

Leo rapped again on the floor, and the defunct mouse was suddenly resurrected. The tragedy completed, the squad was dismissed, and immediately became white mice again, snuffing about the parade, doubtless wondering what had become of the canary seed, which was choice food, served out only on extra occasions.

"That is really wonderful," said Dr. Fisher. "Did you train them yourself?"

"Partly; but my father did most of it," replied Leo, who proceeded to explain the method by which the little creatures had been educated.

"Leo," said the doctor, as he was about to depart, "your sister seems to be a very sensitive young lady. I wanted to ask her some questions; but I did not feel quite equal to it. I will ask them of you; but I wish you to understand that I do so as your friend."

The good physician then inquired into the circumstances of the poor barber. Leo told him the exact truth, but assured him the family were in no need of assistance, and did not feel like accepting charity. Modestly, and with much enthusiasm, he then stated in what manner he intended to support the family.

"Certainly there are plenty of people who would be glad to have some of your beautiful little pets, especially in these elegant houses you make," added the physician. "I would take one myself if I had time to attend to them." The doctor was a bachelor.

"I have no doubt I can sell them, sir."

"I hope you will not take it amiss if I mention the fact among my friends and patients that you have them for sale," added Dr. Fisher.

"No, sir; I'm sure I should not! I should be very much obliged to you."

"Then I will recommend your wares to those who are able to buy them; and I trust you will drive a large trade in the mouse business."

The doctor went away; and Leo, encouraged by the promise of the powerful influence of his visitor, resumed his work. At twelve o'clock, when Maggie called him to dinner, he had made considerable progress in the four houses in process of construction. When he had finished his noonday meal, he went out and found Tom Casey, an Irish boy whom he had befriended in various ways. Tom agreed to go with him to State Street; and the new "HOTEL DES MICE"—as it was labelled in large letters on the front gable—was loaded upon a little wagon of Leo's build, and they started for the busy street, attended by a crowd of curious youngsters, of both sexes and of all conditions.



The mice were astonished at the sudden revolution which was taking place in their affairs; and Leo was as anxious as though the fate of the nation depended upon his success.



CHAPTER XIII.

WITTLEWORTH vs. CHECKYNSHAW.

Mr. Checkynshaw did a rushing business on the day his papers were stolen from the safe; therefore he rushed out of the humble abode of Mrs. Wittleworth. It is more than probable that he was entirely sincere when he called Fitz an idiot; but whether he was or not, that young gentleman's mother was satisfied that truer words had never been spoken. The banker had actually offered to give him ten dollars a week, and Fitz had declined to return. It was a degree of lunacy which she could neither understand nor appreciate. She was both grieved and angry. She wept, and reproached the reckless youth.

"I must give up in despair, Fitz," said she, bitterly. "If I could support you, I would."

"I don't want you to support me, mother," replied Fitz, stung by the reproach. "If you will leave this matter to me, I will manage it right."

"Leave it to you, Fitz! That would bring starvation to our door."

"No, mother; you look on the dark side. Here's five dollars for my week's salary," he added, handing her the money. "I give you the whole of it this week."

"This may keep off the wolf for a week or two," sighed Mrs. Wittleworth.

"I shall get into another place soon, mother; don't worry about it."

"But why didn't you take the place when he offered it to you at double wages, Fitz? It seems to me you are crazy."

"No, I am not crazy. I know what I am about, and Checkynshaw knows what he is about. What do you suppose induced him to double my salary so readily?"

"Because he saw how poor we were."

"What does he care for that? There is no more soul in him than there is in a brickbat, mother. It wouldn't trouble him if you starved to death—though you are his first wife's sister. That wasn't the reason."

"What was the reason, then, Fitz?" asked she, curiously.

"Checkynshaw is afraid of me," replied Fitz, stopping in his walk up and down the room, and looking into his mother's face to note the effect of this startling announcement.

"Afraid of you, Fitz! You are losing your senses!" exclaimed she, with an expression of strong disgust.

"It's just as I say, mother. He's afraid of me."

"Why should he be afraid of you? You are not so very terrible as to alarm a man in his position."

"Mother, that block of stores ought to be yours. You should have had the income of it ever since Checkynshaw came from France with his wife. I tell you that child died of the cholera, when Mrs. Checkynshaw had it. That is just as plain to me as the nose on a man's face."

"Nonsense, Fitz! Do you suppose Mr. Checkynshaw would keep me out of it if it belonged to me?"

"I know he would. I know the man. I haven't been in his office two years for nothing. I keep my eyes open—I do," answered Fitz, holding up his head till his neck was stretched to its full length. "Checkynshaw may be an honest man, as things go; but you can't make me believe he would give up that block of stores while he could hold on to it by hook or by crook. He wants me under his thumb, where he can know what I'm about. He has lost his papers, and he feels nervous about them. In my opinion, there's something or other among those documents which would let the light in upon that block of stores. That's why he is so anxious to find out where they are. That's why he don't care for the money that was stolen. He knows what he is about, and I know what I'm about."

"What is the use for us to think anything about the block of stores? You don't know that little Marguerite died," added Mrs. Wittleworth, interested, in spite of herself, in the extravagant pretensions of her son.

"I don't know it, I admit; but I think we ought to find out. Checkynshaw says the child is still living with the Sisters of Charity, somewhere in France. We have nothing but his word for it."

"That's enough. He says the child is living, and he don't like to have her ill-treated by her mother-in-law. She is happy at the boarding school, and when her education is finished, doubtless she will come home."

"That's all bosh! Did any one ever see a letter from her? Did Checkynshaw ever write a letter to her? Does he ever send her any money?"

"But he goes to see her every year or two, when he visits Europe."

"Perhaps he does, and then perhaps he don't. Did any one else ever see the child? Has any one any knowledge of her existence except through Checkynshaw? I think not. Don't tell me, mother, that a man would leave his daughter in a foreign country for ten years, and only go to see her every year or two. In my opinion,—and I think my opinion is worth something,—the child died in the hospital. Checkynshaw keeps up this fiction because it puts five or six thousand dollars a year into his pocket. No one has ever claimed the block of stores, and of course he will hold on to it till some one does."

Mrs. Wittleworth could not help thinking, while starvation or the almshouse stared her full in the face, what a blessing that block of stores would be to her. If her sister's child was dead, it rightfully belonged to her. It was certainly proper for Mr. Checkynshaw to prove that Marguerite was still living, or at least to satisfy her privately on the point.

"What can we do, Fitz?" she asked.

"What can we do, mother? That's the question. When I was in Summer Street, this evening, I thought I would call upon my friend Choate. Choate is a gentleman and a scholar—he is."

"Pshaw, Fitz!" ejaculated the poor woman. "Why will you talk about your friend Choate? He is not your friend. He would not touch you with a ten-foot pole. He looks down upon you from an infinite height."

"Not he. Choate always treats everybody like a gentleman. He always treated me like a gentleman. I believe in Choate—I do."

"It is ridiculous for you to talk about his being your friend."

"He is my friend in very deed. I called upon him at his residence, in Winthrop Place, this evening. He treated me like a gentleman. He was glad to see me. He shook hands with me, and welcomed me to his house, as though I had been the governor of the state. Everett was there, and Winthrop came in before I left. I heard them speak of Webster, and I suppose he was expected. I was introduced to Everett and Winthrop."

"You!" exclaimed his mother.

"I, mother!"

"Poor child, they were making fun of you!" sighed Mrs. Wittleworth.

"Not they. Everett bowed to me as gracefully as though I had been the President. Winthrop was a little stiff; but what did I care for him, as long as Choate and Everett were on good terms with me?"

"Your head is turned, Fitz."

"No matter if it is, so long as it is turned in the right direction. Choate told Everett and Winthrop that I had formerly occupied a place in his office, and that he had a high regard for me. He smiled pleasantly, and so did Everett. Winthrop didn't take much notice of me. Choate asked me if I wanted to see him for anything particular. I told him I did; I wanted a little legal advice in the matter of Wittleworth vs. Checkynshaw. He smiled very kindly upon me; he smiled as only Choate can smile."

"What did he say to you?" demanded Mrs. Wittleworth, impatiently.

"He apologized for his inability to attend to the case at that time, as he was engaged upon a matter of politics with Everett and Winthrop; but he hoped he should find time to see me in the course of a week. Of course I didn't care about breaking up his conference with Everett and Winthrop; so I apologized for the interruption, and promised him I would call upon him at his office the next day."

"I suppose he was very sorry he could not attend to the case," added Mrs. Wittleworth.

"He appeared to be. He expressed his regrets; and, as he was attending to the affairs of the nation, I could not be hard on him, you know."

"Certainly not," said his mother, amused in spite of the weakness of her son.

"Choate is a good fellow—Choate is," added Fitz, rubbing his chin, and puffing out his lips. "When he gets hold of this case, he will make things fly, mother."

"What are you going to do, Fitz?" asked Mrs. Wittleworth, seriously.

"I'm not going to mince the matter any longer. I am going to bring a suit against Checkynshaw for the block of stores, and the income received from them for the last ten years," replied Fitz, magnificently.

"You are!"

"I am; that is, when I say I am, of course I am going to do it in your name, for I am the next heir to you. That will bring things to a head, and we shall soon find out whether Checkynshaw is ready to stand trial or not."

"We have no money to go to law with," pleaded the poor woman.

"We don't want any, mother. I have looked into this business, and what I don't know about it isn't worth knowing. I know something about law, for I used to keep my eyes and ears open when I was in the law business."

Mr. Wittleworth had been an errand boy in Mr. Choate's office!

"I don't think you can go to law without money, Fitz. I have always heard it was very expensive," added Mrs. Wittleworth.

"All we want, mother, is a copy of my grandfather's will. We attach the block of stores, if necessary. Under the will it belongs to you, unless Checkynshaw can produce your sister's child."

"Suppose he should produce her?"

"That's the very thing he can't do. If he does, of course our case falls to the ground; but he can't."

"But if he does produce the child, where is the money to pay the expenses?"

"The expenses won't be much. I shall say to Choate, 'Choate,' says I, 'here's a piece of property which belongs to my mother. You can go up to the Registry of Probate, and read the will yourself. Give my mother legal possession of it, and I will pay you five or ten thousand dollars'—I haven't just decided exactly what to offer him. He takes the case, brings the suit, and gets the property for you."

"Suppose he doesn't get it?"

"Then he will get nothing. When I was in the law business, cases were sometimes taken in this way."

Mrs. Wittleworth was encouraged by this hopeful statement, and disposed to let Fitz have his own way. Abject poverty was so terrible that she could not afford to lose such a chance. Mr. Checkynshaw's conduct in leaving his child in France, among strangers, for ten years, was singular enough to beget suspicion.

The conversation was continued till the fire went out, and the chill air of the room drove the intended litigants to their chambers. Fitz did not come down till breakfast time the next morning. He lay in his warm bed, building castles in the air, and thinking what a great man he should be when the block of stores and its revenues were reclaimed from the grasp of Mr. Checkynshaw. He thought it quite possible that he could then go into a barber's shop and be shaved without any one having the impudence to laugh at him.

Mrs. Wittleworth had thought a great deal about the property, but she could not quite make up her mind to take such decided steps as those indicated by her son. If the attempt was made, and proved to be a failure, Mr. Checkynshaw would never forgive her, and might injure her in revenge. When she came down stairs, she had decided to call upon the banker, and state the case to him. If he chose to satisfy her that Marguerite was still living, it would save trouble and future disappointment.

"You can see him if you like, mother. I have no doubt he will smooth you over. Checkynshaw is a plausible man—Checkynshaw is. He carries too many guns for a woman. I would call myself if it were not for letting myself down to his level," said Mr. Wittleworth, stroking his chin, when his mother was ready to go.

"Don't be so silly, Fitz!"

"Checkynshaw won't stand trial, in my opinion. He is shrewd—he is."

"I only intend to ask him what he means to do," added Mrs. Wittleworth.

"He means to hold on to the property—that's what he means to do, mother. He may try to buy you off—don't do it, on any account. Leave this matter all to me. Me and Choate will fix it right. Now, be careful what you do."

"I will not do anything," said his mother, as she put on her bonnet.

"I will see Choate to-day. Me and Choate will touch off a volcano under Checkynshaw's feet in the course of a week or two," he added, as his mother left the house.



CHAPTER XIV.

MR. CHECKYNSHAW IS LIBERAL.

Mrs. Wittleworth went directly to the door of the private office. She had her doubts in regard to the interview which was to take place. Mr. Checkynshaw had never treated her very handsomely. She had called upon him only once since the downfall of her husband. The banker had listened very coldly to her story of hardship and suffering. He had taken Fitz into his employ at that time; but her reception was so cold, and the great man's manner so forbidding, that she had resolved that nothing but imminent starvation should induce her to repeat the visit.

Mr. Checkynshaw was a hard, selfish, money-getting man. He was not one whom a poor relative would willingly approach with a tale of suffering. Though this was not Mrs. Wittleworth's present errand, she dreaded the result almost as much as though she had been an applicant for charity. The banker was overbearing and haughty in his way. He bullied his social inferiors, and looked upon them from a height which was appalling to them. She opened the door and entered. The banker was alone, sitting in the stuffed arm-chair at his desk.

"Ellen?" said he, glancing at her with an inquiring look, probably satisfied that she had come to plead for the return of her son to the place from which he had been discharged.

It did not occur to him that human impudence could extend so far as to permit such people to bring a suit against him for their rights, however well defined or clearly established. If he owed them anything, or they had any claims against him, it was their duty to be solemnly impressed by the loftiness of his social position, and humbly to beg for what belonged to them.

"I thought I would come up and see you this morning, Mr. Checkynshaw," stammered the poor woman; and poverty had so subdued her, and so broken her spirit, that she hardly knew how to introduce the subject upon her mind.

"If you come to ask me to take Fitz back, it will do no good. You permit the puppy to insult me," replied the banker, in the most forbidding tones.

"I don't permit him to insult you. I did what I could to make him speak properly to you," replied Mrs. Wittleworth, meekly.

"It's all the same; it was bad bringing up. I can't have him in my office again," added Mr. Checkynshaw, though at that moment, for some reason best known to himself, he would have been very glad to forgive the young man's insolence, and take him back at double salary. "That boy has outraged my good-nature. When I saw how hard the times were with you, I was willing to give him double wages; but the ingrate only insulted me for it."

"He is very wilful; I wish he was not so headstrong."

"I can't take him back now; at least not till he has apologized for his impudence, and promised better things for the future," continued the banker, shaking his head, as though his mind was firmly made up for the issue.

"I did not come to ask you to take him back," added Mrs. Wittleworth.

"O, you didn't!"

"No, sir; he is not yet willing to come."

"What did you come for—to beg?"

"I don't come to you to beg," replied she with a little display of spirit.

"What do you want, then?"

"You mustn't be angry with me, Mr. Checkynshaw."

"I'm not angry with you. If you have anything to say, say it. I hate long stories," said the banker, impatiently.

"Fitz has taken it into his head that the block of stores which my father gave to Mary belongs to us," continued Mrs. Wittleworth, looking down to the floor, as if fearful that the great man's glance would blast her if she beheld it.

"Has he, indeed?"

If Mrs. Wittleworth had looked at the banker instead of the floor, she might have seen that his face flushed slightly; that his lip quivered, and his chest heaved; but, as she did not look at him, the banker had time to suppress these tell-tale emotions.

"He thinks so; and he seems to be determined that something shall be done about it," added the poor woman, still gazing intently at the floor.

"And you encourage such ridiculous notions—do you, Ellen?" said Mr. Checkynshaw, severely.

"I don't know that I encourage them. I can't help his thoughts."

"Probably you don't wish to help them. Well, you can do as you please about it. If you choose to get him and yourself into difficulty, I suppose nothing I can say will have any influence with you."

"I don't want to get into trouble, or to spend any money in going to law."

"I should judge, from the appearance of your house, that you hadn't much to spend in that way," sneered the banker.

"I have not, indeed. I said all I could to dissuade Fitz from doing anything about the matter; but he is bent upon it. He has been to see Mr. Choate about it."

"To see Mr. Choate!" exclaimed the banker, springing out of his chair; and now his face was deadly pale.

But in an instant Mr. Checkynshaw was conscious that he was revealing the weakness of his position, and he sat down in his chair again, with a placid smile upon his face.

"Am I to understand that Fitz and you intend to fight me in the law upon this matter?" demanded he, with a sardonic grin on his face, indicating both fear and malice.

"Fitz says there will be no fighting about it. We are to bring a suit to recover the property, according to the terms of my father's will, with the income for ten years."

"Fitz says so—does he?"

"He thinks Marguerite died when your present wife had the cholera. He says all you have to do is to produce the child. If you do, that will be the end of it; if not, the property certainly belongs to us."

"What makes Fitz think that Marguerite is not living?" asked Mr. Checkynshaw, more mildly than he had yet spoken.

"Well, he has his reasons," replied she, not quite certain that she might not say something which would compromise her son.

"What are his reasons?"

"I don't know that it is necessary to mention them. I think myself it is very strange that you haven't brought her home. She must be fifteen years old by this time."

"That is her age."

"I don't want any trouble about this business, Mr. Checkynshaw; so I thought I would come up and see you. Perhaps you can show me some letters from Marguerite, or something else that will convince Fitz that she is alive."

"I have no letters here."

"Have you any at your house?" asked Mrs. Wittleworth.

"Not that I am aware of. I never preserve any but business letters. If I understand you, Ellen, Fitz's modest claim is for the block of stores and the income of them for the last ten years."

"That's what he said."

"Are you aware of the amount of this claim?" asked the banker, nervously.

"I don't know, exactly."

"I suppose not," said Mr. Checkynshaw, pausing to reflect. "I don't wish to bring Marguerite home till her education is completed, and this thing may cause me some annoyance."

"I'm sure I don't want to annoy you," pleaded Mrs. Wittleworth.

"Perhaps you do not; but Fitz does. If you refuse to be a party to this suit, of course he can do nothing. He has no rights yet in the premises himself, and he is under age."

"I think myself the matter ought to be settled up somehow or other," replied Mrs. Wittleworth, timidly. "I am so poor I can hardly keep soul and body together, and Fitz has lost his place."

"I will give him his place, at ten dollars a week. I will see that you have a good house, properly furnished, and a sufficient income to live on. If I had known that you were so badly off, I should have done something for you before. Why didn't you come to me?"

"I don't like to ask favors; besides, we have been able to get along till times came on so hard this winter that I couldn't get any work."

"I don't wish to be bothered with this thing, and be compelled to go to France in the middle of the winter after Marguerite. Fitz saw that he could annoy me, and he has taken this means to vent his spite upon me. But the suit depends upon you. He can do nothing without you. Mr. Choate will have nothing to do with it. He doesn't take cases of this kind; but Fitz can find some unprincipled lawyer who will undertake the case, and compel me to derange my plans."

"Could you show me some letters from Marguerite, or some bill you have paid for her board or tuition?"

"Perhaps I may be able to find something of the kind at my house. I'll see. But I think we had better settle up this business between ourselves, without Fitz."

Mr. Checkynshaw looked troubled, and Mrs. Wittleworth could see it now.

"How can we settle it, if you have nothing to show me to prove that Marguerite is living?" asked the poor woman.

"Marguerite is living, or was eighteen months ago, when I was in France."

"Haven't you heard from her for eighteen months?"

"Of course I have; but that is neither here nor there. I don't wish to be annoyed in this way, or to have your son boasting that he has a claim on me. I don't choose to submit to that sort of thing any longer. Neither is it my intention to bring Marguerite home till she is eighteen years old. She is very much attached to the institution in which she spent her childhood."

"I should think you would wish to see her oftener than once in two years," added Mrs. Wittleworth, the remark prompted by her woman's heart.

"So I would. But you know just how it is. I can't bring her home without having trouble in my family; and she is perfectly happy where she is. I ought to have done more for you, Ellen, than I have; but I didn't know the world went so hard with you. I blame myself for not thinking more about it; but I am plunged in business, so that I hardly have time to think of my own family. I don't see how I can do it in any other way than by settling a fixed sum upon you at once. Then I can do all that I have to do at one time, and you will not have to depend upon my bad memory."

"I'm sure I've no claims on you of that kind," replied Mrs. Wittleworth, amazed at this outburst of generosity.

"I know you have no legal claims upon me; but you are the sister of my first wife. I have not forgotten her yet, and I never shall," continued Mr. Checkynshaw, with a gush of sentiment such as the poor woman had never before seen proceed from him. "Property from your father's estate came into my family, and it would not be right for me to permit you to want for the comforts of life, to say nothing of the necessities. I'm going to do something for you here and now—something so that you shall not be dependent upon Fitz, whether I forget you for the time or not. Do you think you could live on the income of ten thousand dollars a year? That would be six hundred dollars, or about twelve dollars a week."

"That is more than I have had for years," gasped Mrs. Wittleworth.

"Very well; I will give you a check for that sum; or I will invest it for you in the best paying stocks I can find."

"You are too good! I did not expect this!" exclaimed the poor woman, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"I shall do no more than my duty—what I ought to have done before," replied the banker, magnanimously. "And, by the way, it would be as well for you to sign a paper, so as to set this business at rest, and prevent Fitz from annoying me," said the banker, as he took down his check-book, and shuffled the papers about the desk with assumed indifference.

"What paper am I to sign?" asked Mrs. Wittleworth, beginning to open her eyes.

"I mean a quitclaim deed on the block of stores; but of course that has nothing to do with the ten thousand dollars I am to pay you."

Mrs. Wittleworth knew what a quitclaim deed was. It was a deed by which she relinquished all her right, title, and interest in the block of stores.

"I think I will not sign it to-day, Mr. Checkynshaw," said she, rather fearfully.

The banker urged her in vain. Fitz had warned her against such a step, and she had more confidence in Fitz's judgment at that moment than ever before.

"Very well; I will have the deed drawn, and fill out the check ready for you the next time you call," added the banker, more disappointed than his manner indicated.

Mrs. Wittleworth went home.



CHAPTER XV.

A SUCCESS IN THE MOUSE BUSINESS.

"Now, Tom, if you will draw the wagon, I will steady the house, and see that the mice don't get out and run away," said Leo, when he had drawn the chariot of the beauties a short distance.

"Small loss if they do," replied Tom Casey, who had already made up his mind that they were going on a fool's errand.

"Not a bit of it, Tom. These mice are worth fifty cents a pair," added Leo, as he placed himself by the house, and his companion took the pole of the wagon.

"Fifty cints—is it? Sure who'd give fifty cints for those bits o' crayturs? I wouldn't give fifty cints for a tousand of 'em, let alone a pair of 'em."

"When I come back with five or six dollars in my pocket, which I shall get for this establishment, you will change your tune, Tom."

"Well, the house is foist rate, and you may get five dollars for that. Sure I think it's worth it; but I wouldn't give two cints for all the mice that's in it."

"Perhaps you wouldn't, Tom. You haven't any taste for white mice."

"Taste—is it? Sure, would anyone ate 'em?"

Tom Casey was a recent importation from the Green Isle, and the emerald dust had not been rubbed off him by the civilizing and humanizing influence of the public schools; but he brought with him from Ireland a big heart, which was worth more than polish and refinement, though both go very well together. In spite of the grave responsibility which rested upon him, Leo laughed heartily at the blunder, and took the trouble to explain the meaning of taste in its artistic sense.

The procession—for the crowd of boys and girls was augmented continually when the mouse-car reached High Street—advanced towards its destination, and Leo had all he could do to keep the youngsters from crowding upon and upsetting the wagon, in their eagerness to see the mice and their magnificent dwelling-house.

"Just twig 'em, Jimmy!" shouted one who had tipped over half a dozen of his companions in his enthusiasm. "Their tails is as long as Seven's rope."

"Hotel dees mice," said another, spelling out the sign over the grand parade. "What does that mean, Billy?"

"They're going to take 'em to a hotel to make soup of. I guess there's some Chinamen at the Tremont. They say them coveys eats rats. Twig the red eyes they has!"

Leo kept the youngsters at bay as well as he could, and hurried Tom along, till they reached State Street, where he took a stand in front of the Exchange. A crowd of curious merchants, clerks, and curb-stone brokers immediately gathered around the palace to examine the structure and its inhabitants. It was a novel establishment, and excited no little attention.

"What have you there, my boy?" asked a well-dressed gentleman, working his way into the interior of the ring.

"White mice, sir," replied Leo.

"They are cunning little creatures," added the gentleman, bending down and looking into the grand parade, where the mice were now feeding on canary seed.

They had become somewhat accustomed to the crowd, and, as if conscious that they were for sale, put the best foot forward.

"What's the price of them?" asked the gentleman.

"Six dollars for the mice and house," replied Leo; but the words almost choked him.

"Six dollars!" exclaimed the questioner, edging off. "That's a very modest price, young man."

"The mice bring fifty cents a pair, and there's a great deal of work in the house, besides the stock."

"But you don't expect any one to give you six dollars for a trap like that, with half a dozen rats in it—do you?"

"I think it is worth that, sir. Do you wish to buy it?"

"I thought it would amuse my children; but I can't think of giving anything like six dollars for it," added the gentleman, shaking his head.

"What would you be willing to give for it?"

"I'll give you a dollar for it."

"No, sir, I couldn't think of selling it at any such price as that. I would give it away before I would sell it for that," replied Leo, indignant at having his work so grossly undervalued.

"I will give you two dollars for it. I have a little lame boy at home, who can't go out, and I am willing to give two for it."

"I will not sell it for less than five dollars, sir."

"Why, that's a rascally price!" exclaimed the proposed purchaser. "Five dollars for a mere rat-trap!"

"That's my lowest price, sir. If you don't want it, the law don't compel you to take it," added Leo, vexed to have the person run down his handiwork.

The gentleman backed out of the crowd, and disappeared. Leo thought he could not care much for his little lame boy, if he was not willing to pay five dollars for such an elegant establishment as the "Hotel des Mice," which could not help being a very great pleasure to the invalid. Half a dozen others looked into the palace, asked questions about the habits of the mice, and inquired the price of the house and its inmates. Leo answered them all very politely; but they laughed and sneered when he mentioned the six dollars.

The "mouse business" did not seem so prosperous as Leo had anticipated. He had been confident that a dozen persons would want the elegant establishment, and he was not quite sure there would not be a quarrel among them for the possession of it at the price he named. He could not see why these rich merchants and bankers should haggle at six dollars if they had any children at home. His heart began to feel heavy in his bosom, for he had expected to sell his present stock of merchandise as soon as he named the price, and to find half a dozen more who would want them badly enough to give him advance orders.

There appeared to be a discount on the mouse business. The gentlemen in State Street were singularly cold and wanting in enthusiasm on the subject of white mice. It began to look like a failure, and Tom Casey seemed to be a true prophet. What an inglorious termination to his career as a mouse merchant it would be to drag the palace back to No. 3 Phillimore Court, and tell Maggie that no one would buy it, even at the moderate price of five dollars!

But Leo soon realized that he was becoming chicken-hearted; that he was almost in despair even before he had been half an hour in the field. This was not his usual style, and he was ashamed of it, as he considered his weakness.

"Make or break!" exclaimed he, slapping his hand upon his chest, and throwing his shoulders back, as if to stiffen his frame. "I'll stick to it till something breaks. This is a new business, and I must make the trade."

The effect of this slapping of the chest and this stiffening of the frame was immediately apparent in his demeanor, for they were the visible manifestations of a firm will. He was more cheerful, answered inquiries more briskly, and was less affected by adverse criticism of his handicraft. Men asked the price, sneered, and turned away. There were plenty to admire his workmanship, but as yet none to buy. While Leo was thus struggling against the tide of fortune, the crowd opened, and Mr. Checkynshaw appeared within the ring. He was a great man, and he showed it in his manner—perhaps more in his manner than in any other way.

Mrs. Wittleworth had taken leave of the banker an hour before, and since that time he had been alone in his private office, only occasionally interrupted by a business call. Mr. Checkynshaw was troubled. Fitz was a thorn in his flesh and a stumbling-block in his path. Doubtless it was very annoying for the father of Marguerite to break up the educational and social relations she had sustained from early childhood. Doubtless it was very wicked of Fitz to put him to all this trouble for nothing. Perhaps it was rash in him to discharge his clerk; but Fitz was so airy and impudent, that a decent self-respect would not permit him to tolerate his insolence.

Mr. Checkynshaw wrote a letter, upon which he labored for a long time; for the letter appeared to be full of difficulties. He finished it at last; but, instead of enclosing it in an envelope, he folded it up and put it into his pocket. Then he took his hat, drew on his overcoat, and went out. He visited a stationery store in the lower part of the street, purchased some French paper and envelopes, and walked up the street till he saw the crowd in front of the Exchange, which had gathered around the "Hotel des Mice."

"What have you here, boy?" he asked, when he recognized Leo.

"White mice, sir. My father can't work now, and I am going to try and make something by selling them," replied Leo, cheerfully.

"What is the price?" demanded the banker, rather curtly.

"Six dollars, sir."

"I'll take it, boy," replied Mr. Checkynshaw, with a promptness which astonished the young mechanic.

The banker took the money from his pocket-book and handed it to Leo.

"Good on your head!" whispered Tom Casey, his eyes opening as wide as teacups when he saw the bank bills; and his dark prophecy was suddenly demolished.

"You know where I live?" interrogated Mr. Checkynshaw.

"Yes, sir."

"Take it up to the house, then," added the banker.

"I will, sir;" and Leo thought the great man, as his first customer, was worthy of his reputation.

Just then the gentleman who had the lame boy pushed his way into the middle of the ring.

"What's the lowest price you will take for the concern?" said he.

"It is sold, sir," replied Leo, triumphantly.

"Sold!" exclaimed the tardy customer, who appeared to think that no one could be foolish enough to buy such an establishment unless he had a lame son.

"Yes, sir; I just sold it."

"What did you get?"

"Six dollars."

"I bought it," interposed Mr. Checkynshaw, bowing to the other gentleman, as though he knew him.

"I'm sorry I didn't take it, for it would have pleased my boy."

"You are too late."

"But I will get up another for you," said Leo, exhilarated by this sudden improvement of the mouse business.

"When can you do it?" asked the gentleman, who was quite disappointed to find he could not purchase the establishment at his own price, as he had expected to do at a later hour in the day, after the young man had had an opportunity to consider the vanity of worldly hopes.

"That depends upon what kind of one you want. If you wish for one like this, I can't get it done before Monday. I can give you a two-dollar house, with one pair of mice, to-morrow," replied Leo, in the most business-like tones.

"I want the best one you can get up. I want one as good or better than this."

"I will build one as good as this. I will have it at your house on Monday; but the price will be six dollars."

"Very well. I thought I should be able to buy this one for two or three dollars before night, for I didn't think any one else would want it."

Probably the example of Mr. Checkynshaw had some influence on the customer. If white mice and their habitations were really articles of merchandise, he was willing to pay the market price. Leo wrote down his name and residence, and assured the gentleman that he should have the mice on Monday; or, if he got the house done, on Saturday.

"Don't you want an establishment of this kind, Baxter?" asked Mr. Checkynshaw of a busy person who had worked his way through the crowd. "You have two or three boys."

Mr. Baxter examined the palace and its denizens, and answered that he did want one, though not till the banker informed him that he had purchased one. It is wonderful how things sell after a great man has purchased. The new customer did not want any two-dollar palaces; he desired one as good as any other person had, and he gave his order accordingly. If Mr. Checkynshaw was fool enough to pay six dollars for such an establishment, Mr. Baxter could not suffer in reputation by doing the same.

Leo was as happy as a lord. It was make, and not break.

"Leo," said the banker, "how is your father?"

"Better, sir, I thank you."

"I think I will go down and see him. He has shaved me for years. By the way, is your sister—what's her name?"

"Maggie, sir."

"Is Maggie at home?"

"Yes, sir."

"I wish to see her very much," said Mr. Checkynshaw, walking away.

What could he want to see Maggie for? was Leo's thought, as he started his team—Tom Casey—up State Street.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE LETTER FROM MARGUERITE.

Mr. Checkynshaw walked down to No. 3 Phillimore Court. It was very plain that he had business there, for it was not his style to visit a poor man who was sick. He was admitted by Maggie, who feared that his coming related to the robbery of his safe, and that Leo might be in some manner implicated in that affair.

"How is your father, miss?" asked the stately gentleman from State Street, as he entered the house.

"He is more comfortable to-day, sir; but I don't know that he is really any better," answered Maggie.

"I am very sorry he is sick. I miss him very much. He has waited upon me at the shop for several years, and I never let any other barber shave me, if I can have him by waiting an hour," added Mr. Checkynshaw, with a degree of condescension which he rarely exhibited. "You are his daughter, I believe."

"Not his own daughter; but it is just the same."

"I think I have seen you at the shop several times."

"Yes, I always carry up mon pere's dinner at half past twelve. He can't come home at noon."

"Mon pere! You speak French—do you?"

"Yes, sir. I speak French and English equally well. Won't you go in and see mon pere!"

Mr. Checkynshaw would be very glad to see Andre, and Maggie conducted him to the front room.

"I am sorry you are sick, Andre," said the great man.

"Thank you, sir. It is very kind of you to call upon me," replied Andre, amazed at the gracious mien of one who had rarely spoken to him save in the tones of authority, addressing him as a menial and an inferior.

"I always feel an interest in those I see every day; but the fact that you were taken sick at my house probably brought the matter more directly to my attention. Are you comfortably provided for, Andre?" asked the rich man, glancing around the room.

"Yes, sir; thank you, sir. I have everything I need," replied Andre, faintly; for he was not quite so sure of what he said as he wished to be, though his pride and independence revolted at any suggestion of charity.

"I saw Leo up in State Street. Your boy's name is Leo—isn't it?" asked the banker, just as though it derogated from his dignity to know the name of a poor boy like the barber's son.

"Yes, sir; his name is Leo," replied Maggie, taking up the conversation, so that the invalid might not be compelled to talk too much.

"He is driving quite a trade in white mice," laughed the great man.

"Has he met with any success, sir?" asked Maggie, who felt that everything depended upon Leo's exertions; and she hardly expected him to accomplish anything in the mouse business.

"Yes, he has been remarkably successful, I should say."

"I am so glad!"

"I bought the house he had with him for six dollars, and he has orders for two more just like it, at the same price. That will give him quite a lift, I hope."

"Indeed it will!" exclaimed Maggie, delighted with the good news. "Eighteen dollars for white mice, mon pere," she added, turning to Andre.

"That is very good indeed!" said the barber. "Leo is a brave boy."

"Knowing that you had a family, Andre, and that your wages were not very large, I thought I would inquire into the matter a little. I should be very glad to help you."

"Thank you, Mr. Checkynshaw," replied Andre, in his feminine tones, weakened by his sickness. "I think we do not need any help—do we, Maggie?"

"No, mon pere, especially as Leo is doing so well. I think we shall get along well enough."

"I am afraid you are too proud to be very poor," said the banker, glancing at Maggie.

"We have always got along very well, and I think we shall in the future. Leo says he shall do great things; and I hope he will."

"Then Leo is to support the family," added Mr. Checkynshaw, fixing his gaze upon the fair girl, who seemed to him altogether too delicate and refined to be a poor man's daughter.

"Perhaps I maybe able to do something by and by, when mon pere gets better."

"What can you do?"

"I can sew, and do any work that I can take home with me."

"Ah, ma fille, you can take in no work. I shall soon be able to go to the shop again," interposed Andre.

"I have a great deal of spare time, mon pere. I am able, and O, I am so willing to work for you!"

"Perhaps I may be of service to you," suggested Mr. Checkynshaw.

"Thank you, sir."

"You speak French, miss, I think you said," added the banker, with an assumed indifference.

"Yes, sir."

"Can you write it correctly?"

"Yes, sir, I think I can."

"Maggie is a very good scholar, and she writes French quite as well as she does English."

"Perhaps you will be willing to give me a specimen of your skill in translating."

"Certainly, sir, if you desire it."

Mr. Checkynshaw took from his pocket the letter he had written in his private office, and the French note paper he had purchased at the stationery store, and handed them to her.

"If you will sit down in the other room, and give me a translation into French of this letter, I can at once determine whether you would be of any service to us. If you are, we will pay you very liberally; but most of our work of this kind is translating French into English."