"I will try, sir," replied Maggie.

"I will stay here with your father while you do it."

Maggie went into the rear room; and in less than half an hour she produced a translation of the letter handed to her.

"That is excellently well done, miss," said Mr. Checkynshaw, when he had glanced at the translation. "You write a beautiful hand. It is even better than my daughter's."

"You are very kind, sir."

"I will keep this as a specimen of your work. Here are two dollars for the job," added Mr. Checkynshaw, as he gave her the money.

"Indeed, sir, you are too kind. I don't ask any money for that."

"Take it, Maggie; I always pay people that work for me, especially when they do their work as well as you have done this. Take it, miss, or I shall be offended."

It was not safe to offend such a munificent patron, and Maggie took the money, blushing as she did so.

Mr. Checkynshaw folded up the translation, and put it into his pocket; and, promising to send her some more letters in a few days, he took his leave. The banker went back to his private office. After ransacking his papers for a long time, he found an old letter directed to him, in the care of the firm, postmarked at Paris, with a French postage stamp upon it. Into the envelope of this letter he thrust the translation which Maggie had made.

The banker seated himself in his arm-chair, put his feet on the desk, and lighted a cigar. Mr. Checkynshaw held to the pernicious belief that smoking soothed the nerves of an excited man. He smoked and thought for a while, till his meditations were disturbed by the entrance of Mrs. Wittleworth and Fitz.

"I hope you will excuse me for coming again so soon, Mr. Checkynshaw," said Mrs. Wittleworth, timidly.

"I hope you'll excuse me too," added Fitz, thrusting his thumbs into the arm-holes of his vest, and pursing up his under lip, as he had a habit of doing when he particularly realized his own importance.

He stood with his hat on his head—a narrow-brimmed "stove-pipe," which young men were more in the habit of wearing at that period than at the present time. He was the impersonation of impudence and self-conceit, and the banker looked angry enough to annihilate him.

"I thought I would come and see if you had anything to show me from Marguerite," continued Mrs. Wittleworth, after the banker had bestowed a look of supreme contempt upon Fitz.

"I have something to show you," replied Mr. Checkynshaw, taking the old envelope which contained Maggie's translation from his pocket, and handing it to her.

Fitz was rather taken aback by this ready reply, and by the sight of the musty envelope. His nether lip actually returned to its normal position under the shock.

"This is from Marguerite—is it?" asked Mrs. "Wittleworth.

"It is from Marguerite," replied Mr. Checkynshaw.

"What is it, mother? Open it. Don't be humbugged," said Fitz.

The poor woman opened the letter, and looked blankly at its contents.

"It is in French," she added.

"Marguerite always writes her letters in French," added the banker.

"Because she knows you can't read a word of French," sneered Fitz.

"No impudence, young man!"

"Don't, Fitz!" pleaded Mrs. Wittleworth.

"Mr. Checkynshaw, this business must be settled between me and you. You will not be permitted to take advantage of a woman's weakness to impose upon her," added Fitz, magnificently.

"If you use any impudence in this office, young man, I shall kick you out to-day as I did yesterday."

"Mr. Checkynshaw, I have my own views and opinions on this subject, and I claim the privilege of expressing them as a gentleman should. I have been to see Choate on this business; and me and Choate will see that justice is done to the unfortunate."

"Be still, Fitz!" said his mother.

"I will not be still, mother," protested Mr. Wittleworth. "I will not stand still and have you imposed upon."

The banker sprang out of his chair, and his late clerk retreated a pace or two.

"Mr. Checkynshaw, I have only one word to say," he added, placing himself near enough to the door to effect a hasty retreat in case of necessity. "My mother is disposed to accept your offer of ten thousand dollars for a quitclaim deed of the block of stores. I don't intend that she shall do anything of the kind. I've been to my lawyer, sir—a gentleman recommended by Choate; for Choate is so busy that he can't attend to the case personally; and my lawyer says that none but a non compos would give a quitclaim deed to the property. If my mother sees fit to sign any such paper, my lawyer will take steps to restrain her, sir. Those are my views. I've nothing more to say, Mr. Checkynshaw."

Mr. Wittleworth tipped his hat over on one side, thrust his thumbs into his arm-holes, and pursed up his lips again, as though he had already set the river on fire. His mother was angry and disgusted with him, as she often had occasion to be.

"Is the quitclaim deed ready, Mr. Checkynshaw?" asked the poor woman.

"No; but it shall be ready, and the check with it to-morrow."

"Mother," exclaimed Fitz, in warning tones,—and he evidently did not place much dependence upon the restraining power of his lawyer,—"you promised not to sign any paper to-day."

"And you promised to behave yourself, Fitz, if I permitted you to come with me. I can't depend upon you, and I am going to accept Mr. Checkynshaw's offer," retorted his mother, sharply.

"You are?" gasped Fitz.

"I am; and if the paper was ready, I would sign it this moment. Will you let me take this letter home with me, Mr. Checkynshaw?"

"Certainly, Ellen," replied the banker, graciously.

"I used to read French a little when I was a girl, and I may be able to study out some of it."

"As you like; but when you come again, don't bring that boy with you."

Mrs. Wittleworth and her son retired. On their way home, an angry discussion ensued. Fitz raved at the weakness of women in general, and of his mother in particular; but she firmly declared, even if she was satisfied that Marguerite was not living, she would sign the deed. In the house, both of them examined the letter. Fitz did not know a word of French, and his mother could only make out "Mon cher pere," and an occasional word in the letter.

"I will tell you what we can do, mother. Andre Maggimore, round in Phillimore Court, is a Frenchman, and can talk French like a Dutchman."

"But he is very sick, you said."

"So he is. Well, his daughter Maggie can read it. I will take it to her this evening."

After supper, Fitz, with the letter in his pocket, started for the barber's house.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE LETTER FROM FRANCE.

Leo conducted his team to Pemberton Square, and knocked at the back door of the rich man's house. One of the kitchen girls answered the summons, and great was her surprise when she saw the palace of the mice. It was taken into the kitchen, and Mrs. Checkynshaw was called. She came down, accompanied by Miss Elinora. Leo explained that the banker had purchased the establishment, and that he had been directed to deliver it.

Elinora, though she had sat up late the night before at the party, and had been very ill-natured all day, was surprised into a smile of pleasure when she saw the cunning little creatures in their curious house. Leo gave them some canary seed, of which he carried a supply in his pocket, in order to induce the pets to exhibit themselves when desired. They had behaved very well thus far, and had produced a favorable impression upon all who had seen them.

Elinora was pleased with the mice because they promised to afford her a new sensation.

"I think I'll have them in my chamber, mother, where I can see them," said she, after she had looked at them a while.

"I wouldn't have them in my chamber, miss," replied Leo.

"Why, not?"

"They sleep in the daytime, and train in the night. They would rattle about the house so that you could not sleep."

"I will have them in my dressing-room, then," added she.

"That's not exactly the place for them," continued Leo, who had not a very clear idea of what the dressing-room was.

"Where would you keep them, then?" asked Elinora, petulantly.

"In the kitchen, or the back room."

"What, keep such a pretty cage as that in the kitchen?" exclaimed the rich man's daughter.

"You can see it just as well in the kitchen as in the parlor, and it is just as handsome in one place as another, miss. White mice are pretty little creatures, miss; but, like rabbits, squirrels, and other animals, they have an odor of their own which isn't pleasant, especially when they are shut up in a warm room," Leo explained, with a smile to soften the disparaging remark, for he didn't like to say anything against the pets.

"I don't want them, then," said Elinora, turning up her delicate nose.

"They won't trouble you if you have them well cared for, and keep them in a proper place. A horse is a very fine animal; but you would not find him agreeable in the parlor," added Leo. "There's a nice place for them;" and he pointed to the washroom, through which he had entered the kitchen. "You can come down and see them when you wish, and they won't trouble any one out there."

Mrs. Checkynshaw decided to have the house put up in the wash-room, as Leo suggested, and the young mechanic volunteered to do the work. He had brought with him a couple of wooden brackets and some screws, and, with the assistance of Tom Casey, he put them up, and placed the palace upon them. Mrs. Checkynshaw and her daughter watched the operation with interest, and asked a great many questions about the mice and their habits. Leo talked and worked, and by the time he had finished the job, he had explained all he knew of the little animals. He told the kitchen girl, who was to take care of them, how to feed them, and how to clean out the cage, admonishing her to do the latter every day.

The lady of the house was so well pleased with the zeal and pains displayed by the young mechanic, that she gave him half a dollar for the extra labor he had performed; and Leo and Tom left the house.

"It's a good job you've done the day," said Tom, as they walked down the square.

"I've done first rate, Tom. I've sold my work for a fair price, and got two more jobs. I'm lucky, and I'm very grateful, too, for my good fortune. Tom, I'll give you the half dollar the lady handed to me for your share of the work."

"Go way wid you! I won't take it!" protested the Irish boy.

"Yes, you must, Tom. You have helped me. I don't know how I should have got along without you."

"Niver you mind that. Your ould man is sick, and it's great need you'll have of all the money you can lay your hands on."

"But I have made six dollars besides this, and I'm not going to pocket all the plunder. Take this, and buy some book you need."

Tom was finally prevailed upon to accept the half dollar, though he did so under protest. Leo was happy—never so happy before in his life. Success had crowned his darling scheme, and he entered the house with a radiant smile upon his face. But, in the midst of his exultant joy, he did not forget that his father, for whose sake he had been stimulated to make this mighty effort, was very sick. As softly as a cat he opened the front door, and carried his wagon down cellar. He was disposed to go to work at once at his bench, and make the two palaces which had been ordered; but he could not resist the temptation to go up and tell Maggie what a splendid success he had realized.

"How is father?" he asked, in a whisper, as he entered the rear room, where Maggie was at work.

"He is about the same. He sleeps a great deal, and I hope he will soon be better," she replied. "So you have sold your mouse-house, Leo," she added, with a sympathizing smile.

"Who told you I had?" asked Leo, rather provoked that any one had robbed him of the pleasure of telling the triumphant news himself.

"Mr. Checkynshaw has been here," said she, laughing.

"Did he tell you how much he gave for the mouse-house?"

"Six dollars; and he said you had orders for two more at the same price. How lucky you are, Leo!"

"So I am; but I was almost discouraged before I found a single purchaser. If it hadn't been make or break with me, I should have given up, and come home. I feel good now, Maggie, I can tell you! If the market for white mice holds good, I shall make my fortune."

"I hope it will hold good, at least till father gets well. He was so delighted when he heard of your success!"

"I shall finish the two houses ordered this week, if I can, and that will make eighteen dollars—not in a week, but in three days."

"Twenty, Leo," added Maggie, with a smile.

"Twenty? Three times six are eighteen," laughed Leo.

"I made two dollars to-day by translating a letter for Mr. Checkynshaw; and he has more such work for me to do."

"How lucky we are!" exclaimed Leo; and he had not lived long enough, or seen enough of the world, to realize that the lucky ones are almost always those who are industrious and energetic—a lesson he was to learn in due time.

Leo went in to see Andre; and the barber declared, that with two such children as he had, he could afford to be sick, and that a terribly heavy load had been removed from his mind.

"The good God is kind to me," said he, reverently raising his eyes. "My children are taking care of me while I am helpless, as I took care of them when they were helpless."

Andre was patient and submissive—not as a philosopher, but as a Christian. The great calamity of want had apparently been turned from his door, and he was happy—happy in his heart, even while his frame was suffering. Blessed are they in whom Christian faith and hope have found a resting-place! In his care for these two children, Andre had long before been led to place his trust in things higher than earth, and in striving to guide them in the right path, he had found it himself.

Leo remained but a few moments in the sick room, and then hastened down to the workshop to commence the jobs for which he had contracted. Laying aside the four houses in which he had made some progress, he proceeded to "get out" the lumber for the others. On a paper, stuck up under the window, was the plan of the establishment he had sold to the banker, with all the dimensions written upon it. Under the bench he had several hundred feet of half-inch pine boards, which he had purchased with money earned by shovelling off sidewalks.

As the plan was already drawn, and he knew exactly how all the parts were to be put together, there was no delay in the work. He had sawed out all the lumber required for the two houses, and had nicely planed the boards, when Maggie called him to supper. He had worked very hard, but he did not feel tired. He was never weary of mechanical employment like this, even when doing it with no distinct end in view; but now that he was to keep the wolf from the door, there was an inspiration in the work which lifted him above bodily fatigue.

He went to his supper with a keen appetite; but he did not like to spare the time to eat it, and it seemed like a hardship to be compelled to leave the workshop. When he had finished his supper, and was hurrying down stairs, there was a knock at the front door. He hoped it was a customer come to order a mouse-house; but he was disappointed, when he went to the door, to find only Fitz Wittleworth there.

"Good evening, Leo. Is your sister at home?" asked Fitz, in his usual patronizing tones.

"She is," replied Leo, rather coldly, for he could not see what Fitz wanted with his sister.

"I should like to see her," added Fitz, loftily, as though his presence at the house of the barber was a condescension which Leo ought to appreciate.

"My father is sick, and Maggie is busy taking care of him," replied Leo, who felt that he was now the guardian of his sister, and he did not want any young men "hanging round," especially such young men as Mr. Wittleworth.

"I wish to see her on business," persisted Fitz, annoyed at Leo's answers, and the evident want of appreciation of the honor of his visit which the young mechanic exhibited.

"I'll speak to her. Won't you come in?"

Fitz would come in, and he did. He was shown to the rear room, where Maggie was clearing off the supper table. Fitz was a young "man of the world," and as imitative as a monkey. He had once moved in what he called "good society," and was familiar with all the little courtesies of life. He expressed his regret at the illness of Andre in the most courtly terms, and his sympathy with Maggie. Leo wanted to go to work, but he felt obliged to remain, and witness the interview.

"You will excuse me for calling at such a time; but I will not detain you long, Miss Maggimore. I understand that you are a French scholar. Am I rightly informed?"

"Yes, sir, I speak French," replied Maggie, beginning to expect another job in translating.

"And I suppose you read French."

"Yes, sir."

"I have really forgotten all the French I ever knew," continued Mr. Wittleworth, apologetically; and one would have supposed, from his manner, that the French language was the only thing in the world he did not know, and that it was intensely humiliating to acknowledge that he did not know that. "I have a letter from France, written in French, which it is of the utmost importance that I should read. I have taken the liberty to call upon you to beg the favor of a translation of the letter."

Mr. Wittleworth took from his pocket the letter which the banker had given to his mother.

"I shall be very happy to assist you," added Maggie, kindly.

"Thank you, Miss Maggimore. If you will give me the English of the letter, I will write down the important part of it," continued Fitz, taking a pencil and paper from his pocket, seating himself at the table, and handing her the letter.

"It is postmarked Paris," said she, glancing at the envelope.

"So I observed."

"Why, this is the very letter I translated into French for Mr. Checkynshaw to-day!" exclaimed Maggie, innocently, as she took the paper from the envelope.

"Ah, indeed!" replied Fitz, thoroughly illuminated by this flood of light.

Maggie's fair face was instantly covered with blushes. She was confident, a moment too late, that she had exposed some of Mr. Checkynshaw's business.

"You translated this letter into French for Mr. Checkynshaw—did you?" asked Fitz, taking the letter from her, and folding up his paper, as he rose from his chair.

"I did," replied Maggie; for now that the mischief, whatever it was, had been done, she could only tremble for the consequences.

"If you did, I needn't trouble you to translate it back again," added Fitz, as he took his hat and left the house very abruptly.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE QUITCLAIM DEED.

"Mother, you are determined to be imposed upon," said Fitz, as he rushed into the house with the astounding intelligence he had obtained in Phillimore Court.

"Perhaps you can afford to refuse a gift of ten thousand dollars—I cannot," replied Mrs. Wittleworth. "I did not ask or beg anything of Mr. Checkynshaw. He volunteered to give it to me, rather for my sister's sake than my own, perhaps; but I feel that I ought to take it."

"Don't touch it, mother!" protested Fitz. "It will be the ruin of you if you do. Mother, you have no confidence in me. You are willing to trust almost any one rather than me."

"I judge for myself. It is better to take Mr. Checkynshaw's gift than to starve."

"O, nonsense, mother! Why will you be so absurd?" groaned Fitz. "Why will you persist in talking about starving?"

"Why will I, Fitz? Because we have hardly five dollars in the world, and both of us are out of work."

"But I shall get something to do in a few days. Will you let me bring the suit against Checkynshaw for the block of stores?"

"No, I will not, Fitz."

"I told you Checkynshaw was imposing upon you, and now I have proved it."

"What have you proved?"

"I have proved that this letter is a forgery, as I believed it was. It was translated into French this very day by the barber's daughter. It was not written by Marguerite, and I knew it was not!" replied Fitz, triumphantly; and he proceeded to describe in detail the result of his application to Maggie to translate the letter.

"It doesn't make much difference whether it is a forgery or not," added the poor woman, in whose mind ten thousand dollars overshadowed every other consideration.

"Doesn't it!" sneered Fitz, out of patience with his mother.

"Not much. Mr. Checkynshaw says Marguerite is living; and, whether he means to do right or wrong, he is a man of great wealth and influence, and we could make nothing by going to law with him. We haven't money enough to keep us out of the almshouse more than a fortnight longer."

"But don't I say we need no money to carry on the suit? All we have to do is to attach the property. Checkynshaw won't stand trial. He'll settle it; he'll give up the block of stores."

"You don't know him," sighed Mrs. Wittleworth.

"If I don't know him, I'd like to know who does. Haven't I been in the office with him for years? Choate couldn't attend to this business himself; but he recommended a lawyer, a friend of his, and I have been to see him. I am to call again to-morrow."

"I am willing to hear all that can be said, Fitz, on both sides," replied the poor woman, tired of the controversy, but still believing that "a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush." "I will go with you, and hear what your lawyer has to say."

"Go with me!" sneered Fitz. "Do you think I can't do the business alone?"

"You don't know as much as you think you do, Fitz."

"Perhaps I don't; but if I don't understand this case, then nobody does."

Mrs. Wittleworth was disgusted, and Fitz was disgusted; and both were silent, rather because there was no prospect of making any progress in the business than because either was satisfied. Fitz had been to see the attorney recommended by the distinguished orator—a young fellow, whose practice was mostly confined to the police court, and who was so weak and silly as to be an object of ridicule to his professional brethren. This gentleman was willing to look into the case. He went to the registry of probate, and read the will. So far Fitz was justified. The next morning the lawyer called on Mr. Checkynshaw. It was very unprofessional, but it was very prudent. He did not wish to annoy a gentleman in his position if there were no just grounds for a suit.

The banker was much obliged to him for calling. The banker was plausible, and the banker finally gave him a retaining fee of fifty dollars to act for the defence, in case a suit was brought against him. He had discharged Fitz for impudence, and he was merely seeking some way to annoy him. The lawyer was satisfied, and so was the banker.

In the course of the forenoon, Fitz, attended by his mother, called upon the attorney. He had looked into the case; he was satisfied there was no ground for an action, and he declined to undertake the suit. Fitz was confounded by this reply.

"I hope you are satisfied now, Fitz," said Mrs. Wittleworth, when they were in the street.

"I am sure I am not. That man has been tampered with! I'll speak to Choate about that. Does that man mean to tell me that we have no grounds for a suit?" replied Fitz, indignantly. "I shall find another lawyer, who will undertake the case."

"You needn't do anything more about it. I am going to Mr. Checkynshaw's now."

"Are you going to accept his offer?" almost gasped Fitz.

"I am."

"This is madness, mother."

"It would be madness not to accept it; and I will not let the sun go down again before I close the business, if Mr. Checkynshaw is still of the same mind."

"Will you give up a hundred thousand dollars for ten thousand?" groaned Fitz. "We can live in Beacon Street, and ride in our carriage, if you will only take my advice."

"I shall be more likely to ride in the Black Maria over to the almshouse, if I take your advice. My mind is made up, Fitz," replied his mother, very decidedly.

"I will go with you, mother," said Fitz, desperately.

"You needn't."

"I must be a witness of the transaction, for, in my opinion, it will be a swindle on the part of Checkynshaw; and if I can pick him up on it I mean to do so."

"Fitz, if you are impudent to Mr. Checkynshaw, he will put you out of his office."

"I will not be impudent to him unless he is impudent to me."

Mrs. Wittleworth led the way now, and Fitz reluctantly followed her. He was in despair. He actually believed his mother was selling out her inheritance, a princely fortune, for a mere song; that she was sacrificing the brightest hopes a person ever had. Indeed, he went a point beyond this, and believed she was selling out his hopes and expectations; that she was wronging him out of a brilliant future. But Fitz might have comforted himself with the reflection that he had vigorously opposed the sacrifice, and that it had been made on account of no want of judgment and forethought on his part.

Fitz followed his mother into the banker's private office. Mrs. Wittleworth herself was not entirely satisfied with the situation. She was not at all sure that Marguerite had not died of cholera ten years before. Mr. Checkynshaw's course rather indicated that he was playing a deep game. Why did he want a quitclaim deed, if his rights were clear? Why had he forged a letter from Marguerite, when he must have real ones, if the daughter was still living? And it was not like him to give ten thousand dollars to a person who had no claim upon him.

The poor woman's circumstances were desperate. Want or the almshouse stared her in the face. It was possible, nay, it was probable, that Mr. Checkynshaw was deceiving her; that Marguerite was dead, and that the block of stores rightfully belonged to her; but she had no chances of success in fighting a battle with wealth and influence. If she brought the suit, the ten thousand dollars would certainly be lost, and the chances of obtaining the block of stores were all against her. The money the banker would pay her would keep her from want for the rest of her lifetime. The income of it would support her little family comfortably.

"I will sign the deed, Mr. Checkynshaw," said she, walking up to the desk where the banker sat.

"Why did you bring that boy with you?" asked the great man, with a look of contempt at his late clerk.

"He insisted upon coming."

"I think I have an interest in this business," replied Fitz, loftily. "I will be civil, Mr. Checkynshaw, but I should like to ask you one or two questions."

"You needn't."

"But I will. Why do you give my mother a letter purporting to come from your daughter Marguerite, which was written by Miss Maggimore? That's the first question I want to ask," said Fitz, with the air of a conqueror.

The banker was a little startled; but he did not lose his self-possession—he seldom did in merely business transactions.

"The letter I gave you was a true copy, Ellen," said he.

"It makes but little difference to me whether it was a true copy or not," she added.

"The originals of Marguerite's letters were in my safe, and were stolen with other papers. If your son knows Pilky Wayne, he may be able to recover them."

"I scorn the insinuation, Mr. Checkynshaw," replied Fitz, indignantly.

"I speak a little French, Ellen, but I do not read it very readily; and I had translations made of Marguerite's letters," continued Mr. Checkynshaw, without noticing the irate young man. "One of these translations I had rendered back into the French rather to give employment to the barber's daughter than for any other reason."

Mrs. Wittleworth felt no interest in the translation. Probably the banker was imposing upon her credulity, but she did not care if he was.

"Are the papers ready, Mr. Checkynshaw?" she asked, timidly, fearful that he had altered his mind in regard to the money.

"They are."

"I am ready to sign the deed."

The banker produced the document, and the check, and laid them upon the desk.

"Will you witness your mother's signature, Fitz?" asked Mr. Checkynshaw.

"No, sir. I will have no part in this transaction," replied he, sourly. "It will become my duty, at no distant day, to rip up the whole thing."

"Burnet!" called the banker, opening the window.

The taciturn cashier appeared.

"Witness this signature," added Mr. Checkynshaw.

Mrs. Wittleworth signed the quitclaim deed, and took the check. The cashier saw the act, and wrote his name in the proper place on the deed.

"Take the acknowledgment," said Mr. Checkynshaw to the cashier, who was a justice of the peace.

"You acknowledge this to be your free act and deed, Mrs. Wittleworth?" added Burnet.

"I do," replied the poor woman, or rather the rich one now, in the most decided manner.

"Have it recorded," continued the banker; and the cashier left the room with the deed in his hand.

"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Checkynshaw," said Mrs. Wittleworth. "You have been very kind and very liberal to me."

"Liberal!" sneered Fitz. "He has given you ten thousand dollars for a hundred thousand. It's the best trade he ever made."

"Ellen, I am glad you are satisfied with what you have done. I give you the ten thousand dollars for the reason I stated yesterday—not because you had any claim upon me."

"I know you did, sir; and I am very grateful to you," replied Mrs. Wittleworth.

"After what I have done, it is not right that I should be annoyed by your son," added the banker.

"He shall not annoy you if I can help it."

"That's enough, Ellen. I forbid his coming here again on any pretence whatever."

"You needn't trouble yourself," replied Fitz. "I shall not come near you again if I can help it. I am rather particular about my associates."

Mrs. Wittleworth left the office, followed by Fitz. The fact that his mother had ten thousand dollars in her pocket did not seem to comfort him. He offered to draw the check for her, but his mother preferred to transact her own business. She presented the check at the bank upon which it was drawn, and deposited the money at another. She went home with a light heart, feeling that the wolf was slain, and that she was secured against grim want for the rest of her life.

Mr. Checkynshaw smiled when Mrs. Wittleworth had gone. Perhaps, as Fitz suggested, he felt that he had made a good trade. Apparently he had disposed of the only person who had the power to annoy him.

No one did annoy him. Constable Clapp came back from New York; but He brought no tidings of Pilky Wayne. The banker offered a reward of five hundred dollars for his valuable papers; but week after week passed away, and nothing was heard of them. The banker concluded that the rogue had burned them, so that no clew should be had to him.



CHAPTER XIX.

FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD.

Leo worked till a late hour in the night, on the day that he received the orders for the two mouse-houses. At eleven o'clock Maggie went down to the shop, and entreated him not to wear himself out. Very likely he would have worked all night if her friendly warning had not sent him to bed. The next day he stuck to his bench till nine o'clock in the evening.

On Saturday afternoon the two houses were finished, and put up at the residences of those who had ordered them. His wildest dream had been more than realized, and there was more money in the house over Sunday than there had ever been before. The prospect was still hopeful for the future. The good physician had kept his promise, and Leo had orders enough to keep him at work for two weeks. He finished the four small houses, and disposed of them at two dollars apiece, and two like that sold to the banker at six dollars apiece, during the coming week; and this made twenty dollars.

This extraordinary run of good fortune, however, did not continue long; for, during the third week, he sold but twelve dollars' worth of his merchandise, and the stock was accumulating on his hands. At the end of the fourth week he had six houses unsold; but the average proceeds of his sales had been over fifteen dollars a week.

Leo was enterprising, and with some of his funds he purchased half a dozen pairs of rabbits, and enlarged the sphere of his business. He built very tasty houses for each pair of these animals, with wire netting in front, so that they could be seen. They were provided with proper nests, with conveniences for keeping them clean. These establishments found a ready sale, at remunerative prices for the rabbits and the work.

Then he enlarged the business still further, adding guinea pigs and doves to his stock, till the basement of the house became a menagerie of pets. The dove-houses were made to be placed on sheds, or fastened to the sides of buildings, generally in front of back attic windows, where they could be readily reached. The good doctor, the banker, and his other customers had thoroughly advertised his business for him, and purchasers came every day to see his merchandise. He was continually inventing new patterns for houses, and could now keep a variety of them on hand, to enable those who patronized him to select for themselves.

Leo Maggimore worked very hard; but his business was profitable, and he had every encouragement to persevere. His net proceeds were generally twenty dollars a week; and, after paying for lumber, hardware, glass, and wire netting, his average gains were fully up to the standard he had fixed. Perhaps the young mechanic did not realize the fact, but it was none the less true, that he was largely indebted to powerful friends for the extensive sales he made. Probably many persons bought his wares solely for the purpose of assisting him in his self-imposed task of maintaining the family. Dr. Fisher, while attending the barber, stated the case to at least a hundred of his patients and friends.

The spring came, and Leo's business was as good as ever. He was making his fifteen dollars a week right along, to which Maggie sometimes added two or three more. All this time Andre had been steadily improving. He was now able to go out every day, and had almost recovered the use of his limbs. He was not yet in condition to use a razor, which requires a very steady and delicate hand; but he was able to do a great deal of work about the house. He helped Leo, and became general salesman for all his merchandise. The affairs of the family had been improving from the very day that Andre was stricken down by his malady. The only misfortune over which they mourned was, that the young mechanic had been taken out of school.

At the end of three months, when the barber felt quite able to go to work,—and Cutts & Stropmore were very anxious to have him do so,—the family were never in a more prosperous condition. There was actually about a hundred dollars in the exchequer, though Dr. Fisher's bill had not been paid; but they need not have troubled themselves about that, for the physician would no more have carried in a bill than he would have cheated one of his neighbors; and that was quite impossible for him to do.

Leo went up to see the master of the school as soon as his father was able to go to work; and it was decided that he should immediately resume his place. The teacher was confident that, with extra study, it was still possible for him to obtain the medal. Leo went to work upon his studies with the same energy and determination he had brought to bear upon the mouse business.

"Make or break!" said he; "I will catch up with my class."

Of course he succeeded, though between the shop and the books he had nearly "broken;" for there was still a demand for mice, doves, rabbits, and guinea pigs, and he added several dollars a week to the income of his father. He worked too hard; and Maggie, seeing that he was likely to "break," took upon herself the care of the menagerie and the sales, in addition to the housework, which was really quite enough for a girl of fifteen.

Maggie was a good housekeeper. Mindful of the traditions of the elders, as the spring came on she commenced the semiannual operation of house-cleaning. She went through the performance in the front room first, and then devoted herself to the chamber over it, which was Leo's room. According to her custom she took everything out of the closets, bureau, chest, and table drawers. In the course of this ceremonial she came to the chest in which Leo kept his clothes.

At the bottom she found the papers deposited there by "Mr. Hart," or possibly Pilky Wayne, for it was not certainly known who committed the robbery. There was quite a large bundle of them; and Maggie, inheriting the propensity of Mother Eve, was, of course, anxious to know what they were. She laid them on the table with other articles, and then opened one of them. She saw the name of Mr. Checkynshaw.

She was terrified when she remembered that the banker's safe had been robbed, and that Mr. Checkynshaw had come to the house with the detective to see about it. She was not quite sure of the fact, but it seemed to her that Leo had been suspected of being concerned in the robbery. Here were the valuable papers, hidden away very carefully at the bottom of Leo's chest. They must have been there at least three months, and of course her brother knew they were there.

The longer she considered the matter, the more terrified she became. It was awful to think that Leo had been concerned in a robbery. She was not willing to believe it. If there were any good boys in the world, Leo was one of them. He would cut his right hand off before he would do a wicked thing. It was impossible for her to charge the dear fellow with anything that looked like a crime.

She turned the papers over again. They were strange documents to her, with great seals on them, and no end of legal phrases. Perhaps, after all, they were not good for anything. They could not be the papers which Mr. Checkynshaw had lost. Probably they were some old and useless documents, which the banker had thrown away when they were of no further consequence. It was quite likely that Leo, who was always studying up methods of doing business, had saved them from the dirt barrels in the streets, so as to learn the forms of making out such papers.

This explanation was not quite satisfactory, though it was plausible, to her. It was about nine o'clock in the morning when she found the papers. Leo had gone to school, and her father would not return till night. She was so impatient to know whether the documents were of any value or not, that she was unwilling to wait till noon. At first she thought she would take them up to Mr. Checkynshaw himself, and ask him if they were good for anything; but she did not exactly like to do that.

Then it occurred to her that Fitz Wittleworth, who had been a clerk for the banker, could tell her just as well as his late employer, and he lived only a short distance from Phillimore Court. Mrs. Wittleworth, with a portion of the money received from the banker, had purchased a small house near her former residence. Fitz had not yet found another place, and probably both he and his mother would have come to want before this time, if she had taken his advice. Maggie went to the front door, and called Tom Casey, whom she had seen in the court from the window.

Tom was one of the gallantest young Irishmen in the city. He was a fast friend of Leo, and spent much time in the shop with him. Tom made no mental reservation when he declared that Maggie was the "purtiest gurl in the wurruld;" and he was only too happy to oblige her when she asked him to request Fitz to step in and see her for a moment. In ten minutes Mr. Wittleworth made his appearance, as grand as ever, for three months' idleness had not taken any of the starch out of him.

Maggie showed him the papers with fear and trembling. Fitz rubbed his chin, and pursed his lips, as he examined them, looked wise, and finally, after much sage deliberation, declared that the papers were of the utmost importance.

"O, dear!" groaned poor Maggie.

"What is the matter, Miss Maggimore?" demanded Mr. Wittleworth.

"What shall I do! How came those papers in my brother's chest?"

"I haven't the least idea, Miss Maggimore. I can only say that the papers are very valuable, and that Checkynshaw offered a reward for them. Now I remember! Your brother was with the man that robbed the safe."

"That's what troubles me," gasped poor Maggie.

"Don't be alarmed, Miss Maggimore. It is very fortunate that you called me to attend to this delicate business. If you had not done so, they might have thrown your brother into jail. Checkynshaw has no more consideration for a young man than a mule," said Fitz, patronizingly. "Leave it all to me, Miss Maggimore. I will see that the papers are restored to the owner, and that no harm comes to Leo."

"You are very kind," replied Maggie, hopefully.

"I am always glad to do what I can for those who are in need of assistance. It is fortunate you called me in. It will be best for you not to mention to any one that I have taken them."

Maggie thought so too, and she was very glad to have her visitor take the papers away from the house. She felt as though a contagious disease had been removed as soon as the door closed behind Fitz. Was it possible that Leo had been concerned in the robbery? If so, sooner or later he would ask what had become of the papers. The man that stole the papers had come to the house with Leo, she then called to mind for the first time; but her thoughts were confused, and instead of this circumstance affording a satisfactory explanation to her of the presence of the package in Leo's chest, it had just the opposite effect.

Fitz Wittleworth went home with the papers; went up to his room with them; examined every document in the bundle. There was a copy of his grandfather's will among them, but nothing else relating to the block of stores, and nothing which related to Marguerite—not even the letters which Mr. Checkynshaw had declared were stolen with the papers.

Mr. Wittleworth went up to the banker's office. He was civil, and Mr. Checkynshaw asked him, very sternly, what he wanted.

"You offered a reward of five hundred dollars for the recovery of the papers taken from your safe, Mr. Checkynshaw," Fitz began, pompously.

"I did."

"I claim it."

"The money is ready; where are the papers?" asked the banker, promptly.

"I have them here," replied Fitz, producing the package.

"Where did you get them?"

"That is what I must decline to answer," added Fitz, decidedly.

"Must you? Then I suppose I am to understand that you were a party to the robbery, as I have suspected from the beginning."

Mr. Wittleworth thought this was a very unreasonable view to take of the case. He decided to leave, and conduct the negotiation for the reward in some other manner. He turned to go, but the banker seized him by the collar and held him.

Mr. Wittleworth was in hot water.



CHAPTER XX.

AN AVALANCHE OF GOOD FORTUNE.

Mr. Wittleworth was more astonished than he had ever before been in his life. This was the gratitude of great men! Mr. Checkynshaw did not seem to be at all rejoiced to find his papers, and was so mean as to send for Constable Clapp.

"Didn't you offer a reward of five hundred dollars for your papers, Mr. Checkynshaw?" asked Fitz.

"I did; and I am willing to pay the reward the moment you have explained to me where you got them," replied the banker, as he pitched his prisoner into a chair to await the arrival of the officer.

"I came here in good faith, and I didn't expect to be treated in this manner," growled Mr. Wittleworth.

"I am not yet willing to pay you for stealing my papers and money, or for employing another person to do it for you," added Mr. Checkynshaw, dryly.

"I did not steal them."

"Then you cannot object to telling me where you obtained them."

Mr. Wittleworth did object. He had undertaken to manage this business, and he expected to make at least a commission out of it. His plan was to pay Maggie fifty or a hundred dollars of the reward, and keep the rest himself. It was not probable that the barber,—who was ill at the time,—or his family, had read the newspapers, and it was not likely that they knew anything about the reward. Maggie, or even Leo, would be entirely satisfied with the fifty dollars, and ought to be exceedingly obliged to him for managing the matter so well for them.

Constable Clapp arrived in a few moments, and the case was stated to him.

"How much money was stolen with the papers?" asked the officer.

"About three hundred and fifty dollars," replied the banker.

"Very well; if this young gentleman will restore the papers and the money, he may take the reward; and then we shall be ready to attend to the criminal charge. That will make a balance of one hundred and fifty dollars in his favor," chuckled the officer.

"I am entirely willing to pay the reward I offered," added Mr. Checkynshaw, magnanimously.

"Where did you get the papers, Mr. Wittleworth?" asked the detective.

"I didn't steal them."

"I don't say you did. Where did you get them, was the question I asked."

"Of course I don't wish to expose anybody. They came into my possession in consequence of an accident."

"Exactly so!" said the officer, taking the papers from Fitz, and producing a pair of handcuffs. "In consequence of an accident, I shall be obliged to put these irons on your wrists, and take you over to the jail."

"Me!" gasped Fitz, the iron entering his lofty soul. "I should like to know what my friend Choate would say to that!"

"In one word, will you wear the bracelets, or will you tell where you obtained the papers? Of course Mr. Checkynshaw will pay the reward. He is an honorable man, and does all he agrees. You will want the money to pay your friend Choate for keeping you out of the State Prison. What will you do?"

Fitz thought for a moment. The disgrace of being marched through the streets by a person so well known as Mr. Clapp, and with a pair of irons on his wrists, was intolerable to think of, and he decided to inform the officer where he had obtained the papers. He then related the particulars of his interview with Maggie.

"Then you did not find the papers yourself?" said Mr. Checkynshaw, with a feeling of relief, for it would have galled him sorely to pay the five hundred dollars to one he disliked so much.

"I did not," replied Fitz.

"Then the reward does not belong to you."

"It is hardly necessary for me to say that I was doing the business for Miss Maggimore."

"But it was hardly necessary for you to conceal her name."

The banker was really overjoyed to find his papers, and at once drew a check for the amount which he had offered as a reward.

"We will go down and see Maggie," said the banker, putting the check into his pocket.

"I think the case is plain enough," added the constable. "When I ascertain where the papers were found, I shall be better satisfied."

Mr. Checkynshaw called a carriage, and they went to Phillimore Court. No further notice was taken of Mr. Wittleworth; in fact he was utterly ignored from the moment he had told his story. He was permitted to depart in peace. He did depart, but not in peace; for he was not entirely satisfied. The reward ought to have been paid to him, and he should have had the lion's share of it. This was his feeling as he retired from the office.

Maggie was fearfully frightened when she saw the banker and the constable. The roses fled from her cheek, and she was pale and trembling. That awful officer had come to bear Leo away to the jail. She was almost sorry that she had not burned the papers, instead of sending them back to the owner.

"You have come for poor Leo!" exclaimed she, in terror, when she opened the door.

"Don't be alarmed, Maggie," said Mr. Checkynshaw, in a tone which was gentle for him. "We come to inquire about those papers you found."

"I knew you did!" gasped Maggie in despair, as the two gentlemen followed her into the rear room.

"Where did you find them?" asked Mr. Clapp, in a gentler tone than the banker could speak.

"In Leo's room," stammered she. "I must tell the truth; but I hope you won't harm poor Leo."

"Will you show us just where you found them?"

"I will, if you will come up stairs," she added, leading the way. "You won't put poor Leo in jail—will you? I'm sure he didn't intend to do any wrong."

"I don't think he did," replied the officer, moved by the distress of the poor girl.

"I found them at the bottom of Leo's chest," said Maggie, as she pointed to the place where she had discovered them. "I was cleaning house, and I cleared out all the closets and drawers. I took all Leo's things out of his chest, and I found those papers under his summer clothes."

"Did Leo know they were there?"

"I'm sure I don't know whether he did or not. I don't believe he did. He never stays in his room only when he is asleep. All the clothes he wears in the winter are in the top of the chest."

"I looked into that chest when I searched the room on the day the safe was robbed," added the officer. "I put my hand down into the clothing; but I suppose I didn't reach the bottom. Where is Leo now?"

"He is at school."

"Can you send for him?"

"You won't take him up—will you? It would break his heart," pleaded Maggie.

"I don't think it will be necessary to arrest him," replied the constable, rather cautiously. "The man that stole the papers came to this room, and I have no doubt he put them there to get rid of them."

"Send for Leo; I will promise you he shall not be taken up," added Mr. Checkynshaw, taking the responsibility upon himself.

Maggie wrote a note, and sent Tom Casey to the school with it, the gentlemen having taken seats in the front parlor. In a short time Leo appeared, trembling lest his father had had another attack of paralysis. He was not a little surprised to find the banker and the constable awaiting his arrival.

"Leo, what do you keep in that chest of yours, up in your room?" asked the officer.

"My clothes, sir," replied Leo, astonished at the strange question.

"What else?"

"Nothing else."

"Don't you keep any white mice in it?" said the constable, smiling.

"No, sir."

"Don't your mice get out of their houses down stairs, and come up?"

"I have seen two or three of them in the kitchen."

"But don't they go up in your chamber?"

"I never saw any up there," answered Leo, puzzled by these singular inquiries.

"What would you say if I told you that a couple of them had made a nest in your chest up stairs, and had a litter of little ones there?"

"I don't know what I should say. I don't know that it would be very strange."

"Should you deny it?"

"If you saw them there I should not, though I don't see how they could get into the chest. The lid is always closed."

"But you might have left the lid up some morning, and the mice might have crawled down to the very bottom of the chest, and had a family there. Could this have happened?"

"It could; but I don't think it is very likely it did happen."

"Why not?"

"I should have smelt them," laughed Leo.

"Shouldn't you have seen them?"

"I don't think I should. Maggie puts my shirts and stockings at the top of the chest, and I hardly know what there is at the bottom. She takes care of my things."

"Is there anything in that chest besides your clothes?"

"Yes; I believe there is a piece of brass chain, a ball, some marbles, and a top in the till."

"Anything else?"

"There may be some other things of that sort in the till. I don't remember; if you want to know, I will go up and show you."

"Are there any papers there?" demanded the constable, sharply.

"Yes, sir, there are two or three newspapers."

"Any written papers?"

"Not a paper."

"Have you had any papers there at any time?"

"No, sir; I don't remember that I ever did. I keep my papers in the table drawer in the kitchen."

"Didn't you know there was a package of papers in the chest—such as bonds, deeds, and notes?"

"No, sir, I didn't know it. I never saw anything of the kind there," replied Leo, still puzzled, but satisfied now that something serious had happened.

"Have you overhauled the contents of your chest lately?"

"No, sir; not since last summer, that I remember."

"Leo, in your chest were found the papers which Mr. Checkynshaw lost."

"Then that Mr. Hart, or whatever his name was, put them there!" exclaimed Leo, his face turning red. "I never saw them, and didn't know they were there."



"I am satisfied," interposed Mr. Checkynshaw.

"So am I," added Mr. Clapp.

The truth as it was had been correctly discerned.

"Maggie, I offered a reward of five hundred dollars for those papers," continued the banker. "I would have given five thousand rather than not have had them."

"Then I am very glad you have found them," replied the fair girl, now entirely relieved of all her fears on account of her brother.

"But you found them, Maggie, and you are entitled to the reward. Here is my check for the amount. Your father can draw the money for you."

"I don't deserve the reward!" exclaimed Maggie, blushing deeply, as she took the check. "It is reward enough for me to find that Leo is as good as I always believed him to be."

"You found the papers, and I am indebted to you for their preservation. Another might have destroyed them."

"But I only took them out of the chest. I didn't know what they were. I almost made up my mind that they were good for nothing, and that Leo had saved them from the dirt barrels to learn how to write such papers from. I didn't know what to do, and I sent for Mr. Wittleworth to tell me whether they were good for anything or not. He said they were very valuable, and told me it was fortunate I sent for him, and then kindly undertook to return them to you."

"Very kindly!" sneered the banker. "He claimed this reward."

"He did?"

"Yes; but I am very glad it goes to you, instead of to him."

Maggie objected to taking such a vast sum of money for so slight a service; but Mr. Checkynshaw's mandate was imperative, and he departed, leaving her bewildered at the sudden fortune which had come down like an avalanche upon her. Leo went back to school, as delighted at her good luck as his own in finding himself entirely freed from the charge of being concerned in the robbery.

As usual, Mr. Wittleworth was the only person who was not satisfied. He had again been "left out in the cold." He wanted to know what had happened at the house of Andre, and after dinner he called there; but Maggie had gone to the barber's shop with her father's noonday meal, and he found the door locked. In the evening he went again, when both Andre and Leo were at home.



CHAPTER XXI.

MR. WITTLEWORTH's WRONGS.

Maggie, fluttering with delight, had taken Mr. Checkynshaw's check to her father when she carried his dinner. The barber was astonished as well as pleased with the gift, and, having drawn the check, deposited the money in the Savings Bank, as a provision for dark days, like those through which they had passed at the beginning of Andre's illness.

After supper the family gathered around the cooking-stove in the kitchen. Never before had they been so happy as now, and never before were they so strongly attached to each other. They had passed through the storm of privation and trial—they had triumphed over adverse circumstances. Leo tried to study his lesson, while Andre and Maggie were talking about the great event of the day, and comparing their present situation with the first days of the barber's illness, when all of them were trembling for the future.

"God has been very good to us, my children, and I hope we shall always be grateful to him for his mercies," said Andre, as a tear, which he could not repress, stole down his pale cheek.

"I'm sure I never felt so good before in my life; and I know my prayers mean more to me now than ever before," replied Maggie.

"We have been faithful to each other, and God has been faithful to all of us, as he always is, even when we forsake and forget him."

"Ah, mon pere, how could we help being faithful to you, when you were always so kind to us!" exclaimed Maggie, as she rested her hand on Andre's arm. "And Leo—he has really been a lion! You don't know how brave he was; how he worked, and how he persevered! It was all make, and no break—wasn't it, Leo?"

"It has been, so far," replied Leo, less demonstrative, but not less delighted than the other members of the family. "I think we can do anything we make up our minds to do. I have made up my mind to take the Franklin medal this year, and, make or break, I'm going to do it."

Leo bent over his slate again, and seemed to be determined, make or break, that he would attend to his lessons, whatever happened in the room. Unfortunately, in this instance, it was at least a partial break, for a very imperative knock was heard a few moments later at the front door. Andre answered the summons, and admitted Mr. Wittleworth.

"I hope I don't intrude," said Fitz, as daintily as Paul Pry himself could have said it.

"Take a seat, Mr. Wittleworth," added Maggie, giving him a chair at the stove.

"Thank you. I don't often go out evenings, for mother is alone. My friends groan and complain because I don't visit them; but really this is the first time I have been out of the house of an evening for a month," continued Mr. Wittleworth, as he seated himself in the offered chair, expecting the barber's family to appreciate his condescension in this particular instance.

"The last time I went out of an evening," he added, "I called on my friend Choate—you know Choate? Of course you do, Mr. Maggimore."

"I have not that honor," replied the barber, modestly.

"Choate's a good fellow—Choate is. He is the most gentlemanly person I ever met, not even excepting Everett, who, by the way, was at Choate's when I called upon him. Winthrop was there, too; but Winthrop is rather stiff—Winthrop is. Of course I haven't anything to say against Winthrop. He is a great man, talented, a good speaker, and all that sort of thing; but you see he hasn't that companionable way with him that Choate has. Of course you will not mention what I say to Winthrop, for I don't want him to know but what I think as much of him as I do of Choate or Everett."

Andre very kindly promised not to mention any disparaging allusion he might make in regard to the honorable gentleman.

"In a private conversation one does not like to be held responsible for remarks dropped without much reflection," continued Fitz. "I have nothing against Winthrop, only he is not just like Choate. Choate is my idea of a perfect gentleman—Choate is. But perhaps I am prejudiced in Choate's favor. I used to be in the law business myself—in the same office with Choate. Well, really, I didn't come here to talk about Choate, or any of the rest of my friends. Isn't it singular how a light remark, casually dropped, leads us off into a conversation which occupies a whole evening?"

Andre acknowledged that it was singular how a light remark, casually dropped, leads us into a conversation which occupies a whole evening; but he hoped no light remark of Mr. Wittleworth would be expanded to that extent, for his room was better than his company, now that the family were at the high tide of happiness and prosperity.

"I suppose Miss Maggimore has informed you that she sent for me this morning, in order to obtain the benefit of my advice," continued Fitz.

"Yes, sir, she did," replied Andre.

"The case was rather a singular one; and being alone, she needed the counsel of some person of experience, and of extensive knowledge. She sent for me, and I came," added Mr. Wittleworth, rubbing his chin and pouting his lips, as was his habit when his bump of self-esteem was rubbed; though it was a notable fact that he always rubbed it himself—nobody else ever appeared to do so.

"It was kind of you to come when I sent for you," said Maggie, willing to give him all the credit she could.

"I came; I saw—" but he did not conquer. "I saw the papers, and I undertook to manage the business for Miss Maggimore. I was willing to give her the full benefit of my knowledge and experience, though my doing so came very near involving me in a painful difficulty."

"I am very sorry for that," interposed Maggie.

"It was all on account of my own excessive expenditure of good-nature. I wished to do you a good turn, and Checkynshaw a good turn. So far as Checkynshaw was concerned, it was a mistake; I am willing to confess that it was a blunder on my part. I confided in his honor. I might have known better, for Checkynshaw is a cur—Checkynshaw is."

Mr. Wittleworth slipped lightly over the "painful difficulty" in which he was so nearly involved. He was willing to give Maggie the benefit of his knowledge and experience in negotiating the strictly business matter in relation to the reward; but Checkynshaw basely calumniated him, and bit the hand that was extended to serve him.

"Mr. Checkynshaw came here, with the constable, and inquired into all the circumstances attending the finding of the papers," said Maggie, tired of Mr. Wittleworth's tedious exordium. "He was entirely satisfied with what we had done."

Maggie then explained the manner in which the papers had come into Leo's chest; that they were concealed there by "Pilky Wayne."

"Mr. Checkynshaw was very good and very kind," she added, with enthusiasm.

"Checkynshaw?" exclaimed Fitz, incredulously.

"He was, indeed."

"Checkynshaw don't know how to be good and kind—Checkynshaw don't. It isn't in him."

"Indeed, he does!" protested Maggie.

"So he does!" chimed in Leo, who was very grateful to Mr. Checkynshaw for buying his merchandise and recommending it to his friends. "I blow for Checkynshaw!"

"Mr. Checkynshaw has been very kind to us, and we feel grateful to him for his goodness," added Andre, in his mild, silky-toned voice.

"I know Checkynshaw. I've summered him and wintered him; and you have to summer and winter a man like Checkynshaw before you know him. My friend Choate knows him. Me and Choate both know him. Checkynshaw is mean; Checkynshaw has a small soul. You could set up two such souls as Checkynshaw's on the point of a cambric needle, and they could wander about till the end of time without coming within hailing distance of each other."

"Mr. Checkynshaw is not mean," replied Maggie, her pretty face red with excitement and indignation.

"Excuse me, Miss Maggimore, but you don't know him."

"I think I do know him. He gave me the reward of five hundred dollars for returning the papers to him," said Maggie, warmly; and the banker might have rejoiced to be defended by so fair and spirited an advocate.

"Checkynshaw!" ejaculated Mr. Wittleworth, springing out of his chair.

About the same instant Leo closed his book savagely, and sprang to his feet, his manly face wearing a decidedly belligerent look.

"See here, Fitz; you have said just about enough," Leo began, both fists clinched. "Mr. Checkynshaw is a friend of ours, and we are not going to sit here and have him abused."

"Don't be angry, Leo; he isn't worth minding," whispered Maggie in his ear.

"Then he gave you the reward?" added Fitz, sitting down again.

"He did," replied Maggie.

"Well, that is the only white spot on the general blackness of his character."

"No, 'tisn't!" protested Leo.

"You will excuse me, Miss Maggimore, if you think I speak too plainly; but candor is one of the attributes of a gentleman."

"It's not necessary for you to be so very candid," suggested Maggie.

"I know the man," said Fitz, pompously. "Did I ever tell you how he treated me and my mother? I never did. Well, I will."

"Nobody cares how he treated you and your mother," interposed Leo.

"Allow me to contradict you, Leo. I care; my mother cares; and every person who loves justice and fairness cares."

In spite of several very pointed hints from Andre, Maggie, and Leo, that they did not care to bear the story, Fitz persisted in telling it, and did tell it. He declared it was his solemn conviction that Mr. Checkynshaw had wronged his mother out of the block of stores, and ten years' income of the same, for which he had paid her the petty consideration of ten thousand dollars. Fitz had heard from his mother the narrative of the second Mrs. Checkynshaw's sickness, and of the sickness of little Marguerite, who had been taken to the cholera hospital; and he related it all in the most painfully minute manner.

"That child was the heir of my grandfather's property," continued Fitz, eloquently; for he was still burning under the sense of his own wrongs. "If that child died, the block of stores, according to my grandfather's will, was to come to my mother. That child did die, in my opinion."

"What makes you think so?" asked Andre, interested, in spite of himself, in the story.

"What makes me think so?" repeated Mr. Wittleworth, magnificently. "Am I a man of ordinary common sense? Have I lived to attain my present stature without growing wiser with every day of life I lived? Of what avail are my judgment, my knowledge, and my experience, if I cannot penetrate a sham so transparent as this? What makes me think so? Does a man of wealth and influence leave his own child among strangers, in a foreign land, for ten years? No! I repeat it, no!"

"You say the child was sent to the cholera hospital?" asked Andre, nervously.

"She was; but in my opinion she died there."

"O, she died there—did she?" said Andre, with apparent relief.

"Checkynshaw says she did not die; I say she did."

"Why should he say she didn't die, if she did die?" inquired Maggie, very innocently.

"Why should he? Why, indeed?" repeated Fitz, amazed at her obtuseness. "Don't you see that, if the child died, the block of stores belongs to my mother? But it makes no difference now," sighed Mr. Wittleworth, "for my mother, contrary to my advice, contrary to my solemn protest, sold out all her right in the premises for a mere song."

"But where is the child now?"

"Dead!" replied Fitz, in a sepulchral tone.

"Mr. Checkynshaw does not say so," persisted Andre. "What does he say about the child?"

"He says the child was taken by the Sisters of Charity, and that he found her in one of their nunneries or schools; but of course that is all bosh."

Mr. Wittleworth had told his story, and having done so, he tore himself away, leaving Andre very thoughtful.



CHAPTER XXII.

THE TWO MARGUERITES.

When Mr. Wittleworth passed out into the street, the excitement of the argument subsided. He felt that he had thoroughly and completely demolished Mr. Checkynshaw, and that nothing more could be said in the banker's favor after what he had said against him. The great man need not attempt to hold up his head again, after that.

Mr. Checkynshaw had actually paid the reward to Maggie. It was strange, but it was true; and the saddest part of it was, Mr. Wittleworth had received no share of the money. He had given his valuable advice to the barber's daughter, and his late employer had received the full benefit of it. If he, Mr. Wittleworth, had been so vicious and depraved, so lost to the high instincts of a gentleman, as wilfully and maliciously to have given Miss Maggimore bad advice—advice not based on his experience and knowledge of the world; in a word, if he had told her that the papers were good for nothing, the young lady would doubtless have destroyed them.

Instead of this, he had been upright and conscientious; he had given good, wholesome counsel, worthy of his knowledge and experience. Miss Maggimore had actually asked him if the papers were good for anything; and he had actually informed her that they were very valuable, thus saving them from a devastating conflagration in the cooking-stove. Miss Maggimore had actually been paid five hundred dollars for opening that chest, and taking therefrom the package of papers; while he, who had furnished the intelligence, supplied the brains, and even the physical power by which the papers had been conveyed to the banker's office, had not received a cent!

There was something wrong, in the opinion of Mr. Wittleworth. The reward should be at least equally shared between him and her. In the morning he had made up his mind that fifty dollars would pay her handsomely, while the four hundred and fifty would not be an over-adequate compensation for the brains of the transaction. His calculations had been set at nought. He knew the value of those papers, but he had given the banker credit for integrity he did not possess, and had lost all. The world was always hard on Mr. Wittleworth, and at this time it seemed to be peculiarly savage towards him, especially as he had been out of business three months, and needed money badly.

It would be useless for him to represent his redeeming agency in the affair to Mr. Checkynshaw. The great man refused to acknowledge his shining abilities. Mr. Checkynshaw was prejudiced—he was. But the barber was a singularly simple-hearted man. He would not rob a flea of the mite of warm blood needed for its supper. Maggie was known throughout the neighborhood as a good little girl, and Leo was a mere tinker. These people might be brought to see the justice of his claim, and to acknowledge that through his advice and influence the papers had been saved from destruction, and restored to their owner; or, to put the matter in its most direct form, that he had enabled them to obtain the reward. They were indebted to him for it, and it would be exceedingly stupid of them if they could not see that he was fairly entitled to at least one half of it.

The next evening Mr. Wittleworth, to the consternation of Leo, paid another visit to the humble domicile of the barber. The young student was disgusted. His lessons were behind, and he could not afford to be interrupted; and as soon as Fitz came in, Leo retreated to his chamber—a movement which suited the visitor quite as well as the scholar.

"Mr. Wittleworth, I am very glad you called," said Andre, "for I wished to ask you something more about Mr. Checkynshaw's daughter."

"Any information which I possess I will most cheerfully impart to those who need it; but I ought to say that I came on business, however," replied Fitz, rather anxiously.

"Very well, Mr. Wittleworth; we will attend to the business first, if you desire."

Mr. Wittleworth did desire, and it took him about an hour to go over the argument which had passed through his brain the night before; but he made it appear, to his own entire satisfaction, that he had been the sole instrumentality in enabling his auditors to obtain the princely reward.

"But I hadn't the least intention of burning the papers," protested Maggie. "It is true I almost wished I had burned them; but it was when I was afraid they would get Leo into trouble."

"Exactly so; and it was through my advice, personal influence, and personal efforts, that the papers were restored to Checkynshaw."

"What portion of the reward do you claim, Mr. Wittleworth?" asked Andre, very mildly.

"I should be satisfied with one half of it, at this stage of the proceedings; though, when I consider that it was entirely through my advice and discreet action that the papers were saved, I think I should be justified in claiming four fifths, or even nine tenths of it. As it is, you having already received the money, I will be content with half of it; though this is rather hard on me, considering the personal indignity and the injury in my feelings to which I was subjected."

Maggie looked at Andre, and Andre looked at Maggie. Mr. Wittleworth was modest in his demand, and it was plainly useless to discuss the question.

"We understand your position, Mr. Wittleworth," said Andre. "It takes us rather by surprise; but we will consider your demand, and return you an answer in a day or two. We may wish to consult Mr. Checkynshaw about it."

"No!" said Fitz, very decidedly. "After what I have said to you about Checkynshaw, it would be absurd for you to consult him. Checkynshaw is rich, and he is prejudiced against me—Checkynshaw is. This is a question of abstract justice, not of personal feeling or personal prejudice. I only ask for justice."

"We will think of it, Mr. Wittleworth, and give you an answer to-morrow or next day," repeated Andre. "I am very much interested in what you said about Mr. Checkynshaw's first child."

"In a question of abstract justice, Andre, it is hardly necessary for an honest man to wait a single day before he does his duty. I prefer to settle this little matter at once," added Fitz.

"But I have not the money in the house. I put it in the Savings Bank," replied the barber, anxious only to defer the final answer.

"But you can determine your duty in regard to my claim, and inform me of your intentions."

"I have no intentions at present, and you will pardon me if I decline to say anything more about it to-night."

Fitz began to think he was overdoing the matter. Andre appeared to be slightly ruffled, and he deemed it prudent to proceed no further.

"Very well, Andre; if you do not see the justice of my claim, I will not press it. You are an honest and a just man. If I had not known you as such, I should not have troubled you. Of course my future opinion of you must depend very much upon your decision in this matter. Not that I care so much for the money, but I love justice. If I can afford you any information in regard to Checkynshaw's child, I shall be glad to do so."

"Mr. Wittleworth, I was in one of the cholera hospitals of Paris at the time that child died—I think you said ten years ago."

"Is it possible!" exclaimed Fitz. "It was ten years ago last August."

"Do you know in what hospital the child was placed?" asked Andre, with breathless interest.

"I do not, but my mother does. She has a letter written to her by the present Mrs. Checkynshaw, in which she informed her that Marguerite had died in the hospital. But Checkynshaw looked the matter up afterwards; and he says the child did not die; that she was taken away by the Sisters of Charity. That was all bosh."

"Could I see your mother?" asked Andre.

"Certainly; you can walk over to my house and see her if you like."

"I do not ask from an idle curiosity," added Andre. "The foreign residents in Paris were generally taken to the same hospital, in the Rue Lacepede. I was then the valet of an English gentleman, who died there of cholera. While I was there—for, after the death of my employer, I was engaged as a kind of interpreter for the English patients who did not speak French—the Hopital des Enfants Malades was full, and a portion of our establishment was devoted to foreign children. I well remember two children of the name of Margaret; and I have reason to remember them;" and Andre glanced tenderly at Maggie. "One of them died, and the other is my Maggie."

"But what was the other name of the one that died?" asked Fitz, nervously.

"Marguerite Chuckingham. I suppose there were other Marguerites there; but I did not know them. They could not find the dead child's parents; they were dead themselves. I would like to see your mother's letter," added Andre.

Accepting Fitz's invitation, the barber and his daughter walked over to "his house," and were introduced to Mrs. Wittleworth. Andre repeated his story about the two Marguerites, and she was quite as much interested in it as her son had been.

"I have the letter," said she. "I thought the property was mine, and that the letter might be of use to me; so I have carefully preserved it."

She went to the bureau, and produced the letter. It contained a pitiful account of the sufferings of Mrs. Checkynshaw during the cholera season, and the announcement of little Marguerite's death at the hospital in the Rue Lacepede.

"That's the place!" exclaimed Andre, much excited.

"What became of the child?" asked Mrs. Wittleworth, not less agitated.

"It must have been Marguerite Chuckingham, for that was as near as a Frenchman would be likely to get the name."

"But it may have been the other Marguerite," suggested Mrs. Wittleworth.

"No!" exclaimed Andre, with something like a shudder at the thought of having Maggie taken from him, even to dwell in the palatial home of the banker.

"Why may it not have been?"

"Because I traced the parents of my Maggie to their lodgings, and both of them had died of cholera. The concierge identified the clothing and a locket I found upon her neck. Besides, Maggie spoke French then, and the other child did not. I have no doubt the child that died was Mr. Checkynshaw's."

"Andre, your hand!" said Fitz.

"I don't wish to harm Mr. Checkynshaw," protested the barber, taking the hand involuntarily, rather than because he was interested in the act.

"You love truth and justice; you have the reputation of loving truth and justice, all over the world—you have. You are a noble-minded man," continued Fitz, eloquently. "Now you can see what Checkynshaw is, and now you can see what I am."

"Don't be foolish, Fitz!" interposed Mrs. Wittleworth.

"Foolish! Mother, have I not furnished wisdom for our family? Have I not told you from the beginning what Checkynshaw was? I told you the child was dead. Now it is proved."

"No matter if it is. It makes no difference now."

"It is matter; it does make a difference. Mother, you know how earnestly I protested against your signing that quitclaim deed. Now I am justified. Now you can see that I was right, and you were wrong."

Andre and Maggie had no interest in this discussion, and they hastened their departure as soon as the atmosphere began to look stormy. The barber was sorry he had said anything. Simple-minded man as he was, he had not foreseen that he was getting Mr. Checkynshaw into trouble, and he determined to say nothing more about it.

Fitz stormed furiously when it was proved that "wisdom was justified of her followers." He declared that Checkynshaw had cheated his mother and himself out of their inheritance, and that justice should be done, if the heavens fell.

"What can we do? I have signed the quitclaim deed to the block of stores."

"No matter if you have. Checkynshaw deceived you. You signed the deed only because he said the child was living. We shall prove that the child is dead. The proceeding will be in equity; all that has been done can be ripped up as easily as you can tear up a piece of paper. I know something about law. Me and Choate have talked over cases in equity."

How long this tempestuous debate would have continued none can know, for it was disturbed by the ringing of the door bell. The person admitted was John Wittleworth himself, the husband and father, who came to his family clothed and in his right mind, from the House of Correction, where he had served a term of four months as a common drunkard. He was cordially welcomed, for he was himself; and there, on his bended knee, he promised, and called upon Heaven to record his vow, that he would never again taste the intoxicating cup.

He had been discharged that afternoon, and had been endeavoring till that late hour to find his wife and son. He had finally traced them to their new home. In the course of the evening, after the past had been fully discussed, Fitz brought up the matter of Mr. Checkynshaw's child, and all the facts which had been developed were fully stated to him.

Fitz found a warm supporter of his views in his father, who declared that the quitclaim deed was not valid, because he had not joined her in making it. Within three days proceedings in equity were commenced against Mr. Checkynshaw.



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE GOLD LOCKET.

Mr. Checkynshaw was astonished and disgusted at the conduct of the Wittleworths. The block of stores did not appear even yet to be securely in his possession. It was true he had the quitclaim deed of the contingent heir, but this did not seem to be of much value under the circumstances. Mr. Wittleworth, senior, had again appeared upon the stage. He had not before considered him in making his calculations; for he was a miserable sot, before whom, and at no great distance from him, yawned the drunkard's grave.

John Wittleworth, in his right mind, was an able man, and his reappearance explained the decided action of the family. He had joined the temperance society, and he was now a stumbling-block in the path of the banker.

Mr. Checkynshaw was indignant. He had paid ten thousand dollars for that quitclaim deed, or rather he had given it in charity; and this money was to pay the expenses of the suit brought against him!

He went to see Mrs. Wittleworth, and only hoped that he should not see John or his son. Unfortunately, Fitz was at home. Fitz was airy, Fitz was grand, Fitz was magnificent. His views and opinions had come to be appreciated; they had risen where the froth on the beer rises, to the top of the mug. To use his mother's homely but expressive saying, "you couldn't touch Fitz with a ten-foot pole."

"Ellen," said Mr. Checkynshaw, solemnly, "it did seem to me that I had done my whole duty to you, when, three months ago, I placed you out of the reach of want for the rest of your lifetime. I confess my grief and surprise, after what I have done for you, that this suit should be brought against me."

"If the matter had been left to me, the suit would not have been brought against you," replied Mrs. Wittleworth, who was really much confused and abashed at the reproaches of the great man.

"But, Ellen, I must hold you responsible for it. If you had not consented, it could not have commenced. It is done in your name."

"Hold me responsible, Mr. Checkynshaw," interposed Fitz, placing himself before the banker, and stroking his chin with the most elegant assurance.

Mr. Checkynshaw utterly ignored Fitz, took no notice of him, passed him by in silence.

"The consideration mentioned in the quitclaim deed, Ellen, was ten thousand dollars," continued the great man. "Of course you are ready to pay this back."

"Not at all, sir; we are not ready to pay it back," said Fitz; "but we are ready to give you a receipt for it on account."

"It is hardly right, Ellen, that I should furnish money for you to carry on a suit against me. I gave it to you to keep you from the almshouse, and that you might be independent of any neglect on my part in the future. This money is now to be wasted in idle litigation—in paying the expenses of a lawsuit brought for the sole purpose of annoying me."

"The suit is brought in the name of justice and humanity," shouted Fitz, eloquently, and with a spread-eagle gesture. "The palladium of our liberties—"

"Be still, Fitz—don't be silly!" interposed his mother.

Fitz's elegant speech was nipped in the bud.

"I don't like to do it, Ellen, but I must insist that the money be paid back to me immediately," added the banker. "It is not right for you to spend money given to keep you out of the poorhouse in annoying your benefactor."

Mr. Checkynshaw looked injured.

"I am willing to pay the money back as soon as I can," added Mrs. Wittleworth.

"We are not willing to pay the money back, mother. That would not be proper or business-like, when Mr. Checkynshaw owes us at least fifty thousand dollars for back rents of the block of stores," Fitz protested.

"I shall have to sue you at once, unless the money is paid," said Mr. Checkynshaw, mildly. "Your husband brought the suit against me without giving me any notice. I wished to take a more Christian course with you; but I can stay no longer to be insulted by this puppy!" And the banker nodded his head in the direction of Fitz.

"Puppy!" yelled Mr. Wittleworth, throwing back his head. "Puppy!"

"Be still, Fitz!" said his mother.

"Be still, and be called a puppy!"

"Mr. Checkynshaw, I can only say that I meant to do right," added Mrs. Wittleworth.

"Puppy!" howled Fitz, pacing the room violently. "Puppy!"

"You meant to do right!" exclaimed the banker.

"I did. You told me that Marguerite was alive and well, and that I was—"

"A puppy! That's an insult!" soliloquized Mr. Wittleworth.

"That I was not the legal heir; that I had no claim upon you."

"And you have not," replied Mr. Checkynshaw.

"The blood of the Wittleworths boils!" stormed Fitz.

"But Marguerite is dead—died ten years ago."

"What nonsense is this!" said the banker, in disgust, though his face was a shade paler than usual.

"We have the means of proving that Marguerite died at the time your wife wrote me the letter to that effect."

"Yes, sir; we can prove it, sir!" added Fitz, forgetting for the moment that he was a puppy. "We can prove it by good and reliable witnesses, sir."

"Ellen, this is absurd," continued Mr. Checkynshaw "My wife did write you a letter; but you know what Paris must have been when the cholera was cutting down men, women, and children by the hundred daily. Marguerite had the cholera, and my wife had it. Is it strange that they were separated? Is it strange that the child was reported to be dead? Is it strange that, at such a time, my wife believed the report? She was mistaken. I found the child, and hastened to correct the false rumors."

"We can prove, by a credible witness, that the child, called Marguerite Chuckingham, died," foamed Fitz.

"Who is the witness?" demanded the banker, turning suddenly upon Mr. Wittleworth, and for the first time, apparently, conscious of his presence.

"By Andre Maggimore, a good man and true, who was employed in the Hotel de Saltpetre, in the Ruee Saleratus," replied Mr. Wittleworth, triumphantly.

He had been reading a book on Paris, where mention was made of the Salpetriere, a great almshouse; but the street he named was doubtless his own corruption of the Rue Lacepede, of which he had only heard in Andre's narrative.

Mr. Checkynshaw was really troubled now. Another of the recipients of his bounty had proved faithless; one renegade beneficiary had played into the hands of another. Andre had shaved him for years, but had never said a word about the hospitals of Paris to him; indeed, Andre had never said anything to him, except in answer to his own questions.

In reply to his inquiries, Mrs. Wittleworth stated that the barber had called upon her, and repeated what he had said, in evidence of the truth of her assertion that Marguerite was dead.

"Perhaps Andre means to be truthful, and to assert only what he believes to be true; but he is mistaken," said Mr. Checkynshaw, nervously. "Do you think I should not know my own child when I saw her?"

"Of course you would; but Andre is very positive your child was the Marguerite Chuckingham that died," added Mrs. Wittleworth.

"This matter is too ridiculous to take up my time for a moment. I am ready to abide the decision of the court," continued the banker, taking his hat and moving towards the door. "I hope you are equally ready to do so, Ellen."

"I wish to do only what is right," replied she. "Will you see my husband?"

"No; I will not," answered Mr. Checkynshaw. "If he wished to see me before he commenced this suit, it would have been proper for him to do so. I shall not run after him."

"And he will not run after you," interposed Fitz. "Justice and humanity—"

"Be still, Fitz."

"We shall retain Choate in this case. Me and Choate have talked the matter over, and—"

Mr. Checkynshaw bowed stiffly, and left the room before Fitz had time to say what terrible things "me and Choate" intended to do. The banker was evidently in the most uncomfortable frame of mind. He was nervous and uneasy. His step in the street was quick and sharp, as he walked to Phillimore Court. He did not expect to find Andre there, and he did not. But Maggie was a remarkably intelligent girl, open and truthful, and she would be less likely to veil any designs from him than one who had seen more of the world.

The banker tried to think what motive the barber could have for arraying himself against one who had done so much for him—one who had voluntarily paid his family the reward of five hundred dollars. It was possible that the Wittleworths had been at work upon Andre; that they had induced him to give evidence in support of their assertion that Marguerite was dead. Mr. Checkynshaw was a shrewd and deep man, in his own estimation, and he was confident, if any such scheme had been devised, he could fathom it. He rather preferred, therefore, to see the members of the family separately, and Maggie was the best one to begin with.

Mr. Checkynshaw was admitted to the parlor of the barber's home, and Maggie was the only person in the house with him; for Leo was at school, still determined, make or break, to obtain the medal. The fair girl blushed when she recognized the visitor, and, having heard that the Wittleworths had instituted the suit, she trembled with fear; for she suspected that the great man's coming related to that event.

"Maggie, I am sorry you and your father have been giving bad counsels to those Wittleworths," the banker began, in solemn tones, but apparently more in grief than in anger.

"Why, sir! Bad counsels?" exclaimed Maggie.

"I have given the Wittleworths money enough to keep them comfortable for the rest of their lives; but they are ungrateful, and are now seeking to annoy me as much as possible."

"I am very sorry."

"I thought I had done enough for your family to make you all my friends; but it seems I was mistaken," added the great man, sadly reproachful in his manner.

"I am sure, sir, we are very grateful to you, and would not willingly do anything to injure you," protested Maggie, warmly.

"Why did your father tell the Wittleworths, then, that he was employed in the cholera hospital in Paris?"

"Because he was employed there," replied Maggie, who deemed this a sufficient reason for saying so.

"Was he, indeed?" asked the banker, who had been sceptical even on this point.

Maggie told the whole story of the two Marguerites, as she had heard it from her father.

"One Marguerite died, and you were the other," said Mr. Checkynshaw, musing.

"Yes, sir; and I don't know to this day who my father and mother were; but I suppose they died of cholera. I was told they did. Mon pere traced them to their lodgings, and identified the clothing and a locket I wore."

"A locket?" asked the banker, curiously.

"Yes, sir."

"What was the locket?"

"It was a gold one, with the miniature of a gentleman on one side, and a lady on the other, with locks of hair. I suppose they were my father and mother."

"Where is the locket now?"

"Mon pere has it. I don't know where he keeps it. He tried to find my parents before he came to America, but without success. I saw the locket once, when I was a little girl; but mon pere don't like to talk about these things. He loves me, and he only fears that I may be taken from him."

"But he talked with the Wittleworths about them."

"He couldn't help it then," pleaded Maggie, "when he heard the story of your child from Fitz."

Mr. Checkynshaw abruptly left the house, and hastened to the shop of Cutts & Stropmore. He had a long conversation with Andre, and finally they went to Phillimore Court together.

The banker insisted upon seeing the locket, and Andre showed it to him.



CHAPTER XXIV.

ME AND CHOATE.

"A puppy!" hissed through the teeth of Fitz, when the door closed behind the great man. "The blood of the Wittleworths boils!"

"Then you had better let the blood of the Wittleworths cool off, my son," added his mother, who had no taste for the grandiloquent.

"He called me a puppy—called me a puppy!"

"You shouldn't bark so loud, then. I don't know that any but puppies interrupt people who are busy in conversation. When will you learn to keep still, Fitz?"

"When! When justice and humanity no longer require me to speak in tones of thunder against oppression! Mother, we have struck the enemy a fatal blow! Didn't you see him cringe?"

"No, I didn't see him cringe. I am only sorry that I consented to have this suit brought against Mr. Checkynshaw."

"O, mother! After all, you are only a woman!"

"Stop your nonsensical talk, Fitz! Why don't you go out and try to find a place to work?"

"A place to work!" sneered Fitz. "In a few weeks—be it a few months, if you please—we shall be in possession of that block of stores, with fifty thousand dollars in the bank. What need have I of a place? Besides, I have this trial to look out for."

"I think your father can attend to that better without you than with you."

"Father means well, and I trust he will do well," added the hopeful son, patronizingly. "But father's infirmity has weakened him. He is only the ghost of what he was."

"Are you not ashamed of yourself to speak of your father in that way, Fitz? Don't you make another such remark as that; if you do, you shall not stay in the house with him. Your father has more knowledge and experience in one hair of his head than you have in the whole of your silly brain."

"Was I not right about this affair? Have I not persisted, from the beginning, that the child was dead?"

"That remains to be proved."

"I think I understand this business better than any other man; and if you are beaten in the suit, it will only be because father does not take my advice. I have studied the case. I have given my whole, my undivided attention to the matter for several weeks."

"It would have been better if you had given your undivided attention to something else."

"Mother, I see that you are bound to follow after foolishness rather than wisdom. But I cannot forget that I am your son, and that you are my mother. I shall not willingly permit your interests to be sacrificed. I advised father to retain Choate. He has not seen fit to do so. This shows that he don't understand the matter; that he does not comprehend the difficulty in fighting a man like Checkynshaw, who is both wealthy and influential. Choate can carry the case. Choate is a friend of mine—Choate is; and I am going to see to it that Choate don't stand in a false position before the country in this great case."

"You silly fellow! What are you going to do now?" demanded Mrs. Wittleworth.

"I'm going to see Choate," replied Fitz, putting on his cap.

His mother protested against any and all steps which her son might take; but Fitz left the house. He had a supreme contempt for the every-day practical wisdom of his father and mother, and believed that failure could result only from their neglect to hear and heed his sage counsels. He actually went to the office of the distinguished gentleman who stood at the head of the legal profession, and who had been a member of the United States Senate. Mr. Choate was a very gentlemanly man, affable and kind to all, to whatever sphere in life they belonged. He spoke with gentleness and consideration to the boy as well as to the man.



Fitz had been the errand boy in the office of the eminent lawyer, and, of course, had practically experienced the kindness of his nature and the gentleness of his manner. Fitz "felt big," and put on airs, even when he was a smaller boy than now. Mr. Choate appreciated genuine humor, and it is more than probable that he enjoyed the "big talk" of the office boy. Perhaps he was more familiar with him on this account than he otherwise would have been.

Fitz did not find the distinguished gentleman in his office the first time he went there; but he repeated the call till he did find him. The eloquent advocate received him very graciously, as he did everybody who had any claim upon his attention. Fitz stated his business as briefly as he could.