"I cannot attend to the case," said the great lawyer, very kindly, but very decidedly.

"Excuse me, Mr. Choate; but this is a case of no little importance. Ever since I was in your office, I have had the highest opinion of you, both as a man and a lawyer."

"I thank you for your favorable consideration," replied the eminent orator, soberly.

"If there is any man on the earth whom I respect and esteem above all others, that man is Mr. Choate."

"I hope always to prove worthy of your regard."

"I come to you now, sir, as a friend—for I am proud and happy to consider you as such. You were always very kind to me."

"I trust I have always recognized your great merit."

"You have, sir; and the boast of my life will be, that I have been associated with you in your office."

"You do me honor; and I shall always hold in grateful remembrance the distinguished service you rendered us here."

"It is glorious to be appreciated, Mr. Choate. You are appreciated, Mr. Choate. Folks know you, and look up to you. They believe you are some."

"I am grateful for their and your appreciation. But, really, Mr. Wittleworth, I must beg you to excuse me, for I have important business before me," added the lawyer, nervously turning over a bundle of papers, covered with strange characters, which no mortal man could read; for they were more inexplicable than Chinese and Syriac to a Yankee farmer.

"Pardon me for detaining you yet a moment longer," pleaded Fitz, placing himself in the centre of the room, with his hat under his arm. "This is a case of wrong and injustice, of oppression and usurpation. My mother is the rightful heir to a block of stores in this city, which the greed of avarice withholds from her. Me and father have taken up the matter. We have been foully wronged;" and Mr. Wittleworth threshed his arm, and waxed eloquent. "The heel of injustice has been placed upon our necks. Mr. Choate, you are the people's advocate. Rising superior to all hopes of fee or reward, you raise your eloquent voice in behalf of the widow and the orphan. You plead at the bar of justice for the rights of the down-trodden. Your voice is like a trumpet, and—"

"So is yours; I beg you will not speak so loud. What do you wish me to do?" interposed Mr. Choate.

Fitz explained what he wished the great orator to do—to raise his voice in behalf of the oppressed, meaning his mother and himself; and he soon became quite stormy again. His single auditor, evidently amused by this display of rhetoric, permitted him to go on.

"Who has the block of stores now?" asked Mr. Choate, when Fitz began to be out of breath.

"Mr. Checkynshaw, the banker."

"Ah, indeed! I am very sorry, but I am already retained on the other side."

"On the other side!" gasped Fitz.

"I am; and really, Mr. Wittleworth, you must excuse me now.

"On the other side!" repeated Fitz. "Can it be that the mighty name of Choate is to be linked with injustice and oppression? I will not believe it! I counted something upon your friendship for me, Mr. Choate."

The great orator was evidently trying to read some of the strange characters in the manuscript before him, and, regardless of what Fitz was saying, had relapsed into a fit of abstraction, which effectually placed him out of the reach of Mr. Wittleworth's reproaches. The sheets looked as though a fish-worm had come out of the inkstand, and crawled over the virgin page. It was doubtful whether he was able to read anything he had written, and possibly he was trying to remember what he had intended to commit to the paper.

Fitz, finding that the distinguished gentleman took no further notice of him, put on his hat, and marched in stately grandeur out of the office. The great man had sunk considerably in his estimation, though, as a matter of history, he was never pained by having the fact brought to his knowledge.

Mr. Wittleworth had a great deal of confidence in abstract right and justice. If Mr. Choate pleaded the cause of Mr. Checkynshaw, he would in this instance be beaten. It would be a good lesson to the great lawyer, and Mr. Wittleworth magnanimously hoped that he would profit by it. He was to lose all the glory, honor, and immortality to be gained by being on the right side in the great case of Wittleworth vs. Checkynshaw; but it was not Mr. Wittleworth's fault. He had given him an opportunity to enlist under the banner of truth and justice, and he had refused to do so. It was his own choice, and he must abide the consequences. Mr. Wittleworth rather pitied him, for he always had a very tender regard for the reputation of his friends.

Mr. Wittleworth was compelled to rely upon the skill and knowledge of the legal gentleman whom his father had employed to conduct the suit; but he had faith that justice was on his side, and must prevail in the end. He waited—he could not do anything but wait—until the day assigned for the hearing of the case arrived. Mr. Wittleworth took a seat with his father and mother within the bar, on this, as it seemed to him, most momentous occasion the world had ever seen.

Mr. Checkynshaw appeared by counsel, and asked for a continuation of the case for a reasonable time to enable him to bring his daughter from France. The banker's business lawyer said a few words in making the request, and then Mr. Choate, who had been employed by the banker, as well as retained, added the weight of his personal influence to the application. To the intense disgust of Mr. Wittleworth, it was granted so promptly that he hardly knew what had happened. Another case was called, and the Wittleworths went home.

Though Mr. Checkynshaw had threatened to sue them for the money he had paid, nothing more was said or heard from the action. Fitz assured his father and mother that the banker could not produce his daughter, and that the case would not come to trial. If they were only firm and decided with him, Mr. Checkynshaw would give up the block of stores, and pay over the back rents. He must do so, or his reputation would be blasted forever. He must stand before the world as a knave and a swindler, unless he did full and ample justice to the widow (who had a husband), and the orphan (who had a father and mother); for Mr. Wittleworth, when he waxed eloquent, had a habit of confounding terms.

About a week after the hearing which had been cut short so suddenly, Fitz, deeming it his duty to look after the witnesses in the great case of Wittleworth vs. Checkynshaw, thought it advisable to call one evening at No. 3 Phillimore Court. The door was locked, and the house was dark. He repeated the call every evening for a week, but with no better result. Then he went in the daytime. No one answered his knock, and the door was as unyielding as a rock of granite.

Mr. Wittleworth was bewildered. Mr. Checkynshaw had done this! He had spirited away the chief witness. Fitz went to the barber's shop, and inquired for Andre. He had left his place ten days before. Fitz met Leo on the street one day, a month later.

"Where do you live now?" he asked.

"I am boarding in Gridley Street."

"Where are Maggie and your father?"

"Gone to France with Mr. Checkynshaw after his daughter," replied Leo, hurrying on his way; for, make or break, he intended to be at school in season.

Mr. Wittleworth scratched his head and looked foolish. Mr. Checkynshaw appeared to be flanking him.



CHAPTER XXV.

THE ELEGANT YOUNG LADY.

Leo still slept at the house in Phillimore Court, though he took his meals in Gridley Street. It was necessary for him to go two or three times a day to his shop to look after his stock of mice, rabbits, pigeons, and guinea pigs, in which he still carried on a tolerably lucrative commerce in supplying his old friends and customers. Every moment of his time was occupied from six o'clock in the morning until ten o'clock at night. He did everything "upon honor," and he carried this rule into his lessons as well as his mercantile speculations. What he learned he really learned, and never left the subject till he had fully mastered it.

Though he had been absent from school over two months, he stood so well in his class, that, with the severe exertion he made, he was able to regain the position he lost. As soon as his father began to improve in health, and there was a prospect that Leo might again take his place in school, he devoted himself to his studies, and followed up his geography, history, and arithmetic with a zeal which promised the best results. He called upon the master, and received directions for the conduct of his course. There are always plenty of good people to help those who are willing to help themselves, and Leo had all the friends he needed.

Everything was going on well with Leo, even after the sudden disappearance of Andre and Maggie, whom, no doubt, he greatly missed in their absence. If he knew anything about the reason for their abrupt departure, he kept his own counsel, especially in the presence of Fitz Wittleworth, who, since he had discovered that "his witness" had been tampered with, had become the tormentor of the young mechanic. Fitz placed himself at the corner of Gridley Street almost every day, intent upon worming something out of Leo. The latter was too busy to waste any time on such a fellow as Mr. Wittleworth, and used to avoid him, as far as he could, by taking a round-about way to his boarding-house. But sometimes Fitz blundered upon his victim.

"I want to see you, Leo," said he one day, when he had by a happy scheme outflanked him.

"I'm in a hurry, Fitz; I can't stop now. My mice haven't had their dinner yet," replied Leo, uneasily.

"They won't starve just yet. Hold on! I've got something for you," persisted Fitz, when the victim began to move on.

"I don't want anything."

"Did you know your father had got himself into a scrape?"

"No, I didn't," answered Leo, who was interested in this intelligence.

"He has; and he'll have to answer to the court for clearing out. I suppose you never read law, and don't know anything about the subordination of witnesses. I'll tell you."

"I can't stay to hear it now," replied Leo, laughing, for he knew the difference between "subordination" and "subornation."

"I want to talk with you about half an hour some time."

"What about?"

"About your father. Checkynshaw has bought him up."

"What do you mean by 'bought him up'?" demanded Leo, indignantly.

"I mean that Checkynshaw has paid him to keep out of the way in our great case of Wittleworth versus Checkynshaw," added Fitz.

"I say he hasn't."

"Hasn't he cleared out?"

"What if he has? He's coming back again."

"Don't tell me! I know something about law."

"I won't tell you, and you needn't tell me. If you'll keep your side of the street, I'll keep mine. If you mean to tell me that Andre Maggimore has done anything wrong, or means to do anything wrong, you don't know the man."

"I say he has. He was summoned as a witness for our side, and he has sold out to the enemy."

"He hasn't done anything of the sort."

"What has he gone to France for, then?"

"That's his business, not yours."

"Yes, it is my business; I manage our suit, and you had better tell me all you know about it."

"I guess not! In the first place, I don't know much about it; and in the second, if I did, I wouldn't tell you."

"If Andre Maggimore commits perjury—"

"That will do, Fitz Wittleworth. I don't want to quarrel with you, and I don't mean to do so; but you can't talk like that to me without getting a broken head. So you can't talk to me at all. If you speak to me again, I won't answer you."

Leo turned abruptly from Fitz, bolted into a run, and did not slacken his pace till he reached the house. He was tempted to pitch into Fitz; his fists had involuntarily closed; and he felt that if he listened any longer, he should not be able to control his wrath. Leo stuck to his text, and when Fitz attempted to speak to him, he dodged him as though he had been an unclean beast. Of course Leo knew why his father and his sister had gone away; but he did not intend to give the Wittleworths the benefit of his knowledge. He had an occasional letter from Maggie, and about a week before the exhibition, he received one informing him that she and her father would sail for home in the next steamer, and expected to be present at the exhibition.

The great day of the school year arrived. The examination for medals had taken place, and Leo confidently expected this crowning distinction of his school life, though no one could know who were to be the happy recipients of the medals until their names were called on the great day. There was only one damper upon his enthusiasm as the eventful occasion dawned upon him. The steamer bearing Andre and Maggie had been expected the day before, but she had not arrived; and Leo felt that half his pleasure would be lost because they were not present to witness his triumph.

The exercises of the exhibition proceeded, and Leo spoke his piece, and carried through his part in the original dialogue to the entire satisfaction of all interested. The silver pitcher had been presented to the "beloved teacher," and the chairman of the district committee had risen to deliver the medal speech, when the crowd at the doors was opened by the gentlemanly policeman in attendance to allow the passage of some favored guests. Leo was in a flutter of excitement; for, shortly after the exercises began, the school-house being located near the bay, he had heard the two guns which announced the arrival of an English steamer, in those blissful days when Boston was favored by the Cunard line.

Through the crowd came Mr. Checkynshaw, followed by a young lady of remarkable beauty, who was most elegantly dressed; and behind her came Andre Maggimore. They were provided with seats, and the exercises proceeded. Everybody seemed to pay more attention to the beautiful young lady than to the excellent chairman, whose forte certainly was not speech-making. The fashion of her dress was a season ahead of the ideas of other ladies present, and was of the most costly material.

Some of the people thought they had seen her before, but they were not quite sure. Leo was certain that he had seen her before, and he found it hard work to keep his seat during the solemn and impressive remarks of the worthy chairman of the district committee; and it was only when he began to call the names of the successful candidates for the medal that the whole attention of the aspirant was given to him.

"Leopold Maggimore," called the chairman for the sixth name, which would have been the first if Leo had not been absent so long.

There was some applause bestowed upon each of the recipients; but that which greeted Leo's name was warm and enthusiastic. Andre smiled, and the beautiful young lady in the elegant dress smiled; and even Mr. Checkynshaw was so far in sympathy with the occasion that he smiled too, when the blue ribbon was put upon the neck of Leo. After that, the time hung heavy upon all our characters who were present, especially as the distinguished gentlemen who had been invited to make a "few remarks" were unusually long-winded and prosy.

The exhibition was finished at last, and the elegant young lady flew to the seat of Leo, the silk fluttering like a summer tempest, grasped both his hands, and actually kissed him before the assembled multitude. There were several scores of nice young men present, who envied Leo now more than when the blue ribbon was placed on his neck; and it ought to be added that Leo bore his martyrdom with remarkable fortitude. Andre then grasped his hand, and the tears stole down his pale face. Even Mr. Checkynshaw condescended to take the hand of the young man, and congratulate him upon the distinction he had won.

The party left the school-house. There was a carriage waiting at the door for the banker, which bore them to Pemberton Square. It is not of much consequence what happened there, and we need only say that the elegant young lady was rather sad, and seemed to cling more to Andre and Leo than to the lofty man who entertained them, or to his family.

The great case of Wittleworth vs. Checkynshaw had been twice postponed during the absence of the defendant, and it was called for the fourth time only a few days after his return. All the parties were present this time. Mr. Fitz Wittleworth did not seem quite as confident as before. There were indications of a "gigantic conspiracy," as he expressed it, against the majesty of justice as represented by the Wittleworths. It was alleged that the defendant had his daughter in court—and a beautiful young lady she was; but Mr. Wittleworth insisted that this person—elegant and richly dressed as she appeared—was an impostor, employed to personate the deceased child of his powerful rival, and thus enable him to retain the block of stores and the back rents.

Mrs. Checkynshaw and Elinora were in court; so were Andre and Leo. Mr. Choate was there, and Mr. Wittleworth cast a reproachful glance at him; but it was fortunate for the distinguished orator that he did not know how much he had fallen in the estimation of one "who had formerly been in the office with him."

Certain dry formalities were solemnly passed through; the counsel for the plaintiff made a statement, during which he read extracts from the will of Mr. Osborne. It was plain enough to everybody that the block of stores belonged to Mrs. Wittleworth, unless the trustee and defendant could produce his daughter. She was produced; but Fitz was still hopeful. The elegant young lady was no other than Miss Maggie Maggimore. It was evident enough to him that she had been engaged to play the part in the farce. Mrs. Checkynshaw was the first witness called. She told the whole story about the cholera in Paris; that Marguerite, her husband's daughter, had the disease first, and was reported to have died with it; that she was taken with the terrible malady shortly afterwards; and that the child wore, at the time she was taken to the hospital, a gold locket, which contained portraits of her father and mother, and a lock of the hair of each. This locket was handed to her, and she identified it.

Fitz began to be alarmed.

Andre was called next. He had been employed as an interpreter in the hospital in the Rue Lacepede. He had frequently seen the child whose name was entered on the books of the establishment as Marguerite Poulebah. He was informed that her parents had died, and that she had no friends to whom she could be sent. He became very much interested in her, and when something was said about taking her to an orphan asylum, he had invited her to go home with him. He kept her there a few days, and became so much attached to her that he was not willing to give her up. His landlady took care of her till he embarked for America, where he soon found employment as a barber and had ever since retained her. He identified the locket as the one worn by the child when he took her from the hospital. He confessed that he had done wrong in not using greater efforts to find the friends of the child; but they were so much attached to each other that a separation would have been insupportable to either.

Andre finished his direct statement, and the counsel for the plaintiff immediately opened upon him so fiercely that Fitz began to feel that the day was not wholly lost.



CHAPTER XXVI.

THE RICH MAN'S DAUGHTER.

"Where were you born, Mr. Maggimore?" asked the Wittleworth lawyer.

"In London," replied Andre.

"Are you a Frenchman?"

"My father was Italian, my mother French."

"Did you ever learn the barber's trade, or did you pick it up yourself?"

"I was apprenticed to a barber in London, and served seven years."

"Have you always worked at the business?"

"No, sir. I used to shave an English gentleman who had a stiff arm, and I finally went into his service as his valet. I remained with him till he died of cholera in Paris. I lived with him fourteen years," answered Andre, meekly.

"Have you ever told any person that Marguerite Checkynshaw died at the hospital?" demanded the attorney, sharply.

"I have, sir."

"Was it true?"

"No, sir."

"Why did you say so, then?"

"Because I thought it was true."

"What made you think so?"

"The last name of the Marguerite that died was so like Checkynshaw."

"What was the name of the other Marguerite?"

"Poulebah."

"Did you make any effort to find the parents of the child you adopted?"

"I did; I found the lodgings they had occupied, and the concierge identified some clothing and the locket which I carried to him. He told me that the parents of the child were both dead. He only knew that they were English. I have no doubt now that he was a bad man, and that he told me what he knew was not true in regard to the child."

"Why so?"

"I think it is probable the Chuckinghams left some property in their rooms which he desired to keep, and because I have learned from Mr. Checkynshaw that the house I visited was not the one occupied by him. The concierge told me two falsehoods—that the clothing and locket belonged to the child of his lodger, and that she spoke French."

The lawyer twisted the matter about in various ways; but Andre was as clear as light itself, and he did not materially contradict himself. Mrs. Checkynshaw was called for the defence; but, to the astonishment and disgust of the legal gentleman and his employers, she testified, in the most positive manner, that the elegant young lady in court was Marguerite Checkynshaw. She had taken care of her as a child, and she could not be mistaken. Mrs. Wittleworth was put upon the stand, with the letter announcing the death of Marguerite in her hand; but, poor woman, all her evidence was against herself. She identified the locket, and was in the end very sure that the beautiful young lady was her niece.

Mr. Fitzherbert Wittleworth was utterly disgusted, though he could not help believing that the young lady was his cousin. Not a doubt was left in the mind of any person, and of course Mr. Checkynshaw won his case; but the great man was very far from satisfied with himself, or with the position in which the trial left him. It was apparent to all the world that he had attempted to defraud Mrs. Wittleworth out of the block of stores, and ten years' income upon it; but the banker was not a man to bend before the storm of popular opinion. He took the trouble to define his position, and to explain away what was dark and unsatisfactory. He did not believe his child was dead. He was satisfied that Marguerite Poulebah was Marguerite Checkynshaw, though he could not find her. The director of the hospital said the Sisters had taken her, and he was sure she was living.

Besides, it would have been wicked to hand the property over to Mrs. Wittleworth for her drunken husband to squander away, and make her a beggar a second time. He intended, in due time, if his daughter did not appear, to pass the property to the rightful heir when it could be safely done. The integrity of his intentions could not be doubted, for had he not given Mrs. Wittleworth ten thousand dollars? The quitclaim deed, he declared, was only to save himself from being annoyed by Fitz and his father. Of course he intended to make it all right in the end.

Mr. Checkynshaw did not forgive the Wittleworths for the mischief they had attempted to do. He hinted at steps for compelling them to restore the ten thousand dollars; but Maggie protested, in her way, against such a course, and nothing was ever done.

Marguerite Checkynshaw went to live in Pemberton Square; but she was not happy there, and every day she visited the house at No. 3 Phillimore Court. Poor Andre was actually miserable. He had lost his darling child, and it was little comfort to know that she dwelt in the midst of luxury and splendor. Though he saw her every day, he was sad, and almost disconsolate.

Maggie tried to be happy in her new home, but her heart was not there. Mrs. Checkynshaw was cold and distant to her, and Elinora was a little, petulant, disagreeable tyrant, who lived for herself alone. She tried to love her, but she tried in vain. Her father was kind and indulgent to her; yet she saw but little of him. Maggie went to school for two years, and was busy with her studies and her music lessons; but not an evening passed without her going to see her foster-father, after he left the shop. About nine o'clock Leo walked home with her; but he seldom entered her father's house.

In the choice of a pursuit for life, Leo won the day, and went to learn the machinist's trade. He did not give up the "mouse business" entirely, but found time to make new houses; and there were customers to purchase them, adding quite a sum to the income of his foster-father. A housekeeper was employed to take Maggie's place; but home was never the place it had been after Maggie went away.

John Wittleworth kept his solemn promise, and continued to be a steady man. He obtained employment in a wholesale grocery, and served so faithfully that he won the esteem and regard of the firm. His former ambition returned to him, and when he spoke of going into business on his own account, with a portion of his wife's money as his capital, he was admitted as a partner in the firm that employed him. He was a man of excellent abilities, and in time he acquired a handsome property.

Fitz never amounted to much. His ideas were too big for his station. He obtained several situations; but, as he aspired to manage his employers' business without their aid, he was often out of a place. When his father went into business, he was taken as an entry-clerk; but he was such a trial that even parental solicitude could not tolerate him, and he was sent away. He was not a bad boy; but self-conceit was the rock on which he wrecked himself. He found another situation, and another, and another; but his stay in each was short. And so he went from one place to another, achieving nothing, until he was twenty-five years old, when he married a lady ten years his senior, whom even the twenty thousand dollars she possessed did not tempt any one else to make a wife. Fitz is a gentleman now; and though his lot at home is trying, he still maintains his dignity, and lives on his wife's property. He is not dissipated, and has no bad habits; but he does not amount to anything. People laugh at him, and speak contemptuously of him behind his back; and he is, and will continue to be, nothing but a cipher in the community.

In the little smoking-room in the house in Pemberton Square, three years after Maggie went to live there, on the very sofa where Andre Maggimore had lain, was stretched the inanimate form of another person, stricken down by the same malady. It was Mr. Checkynshaw. The two gentlemen with whom he had been conversing when attacked by the fit had placed him there, and Dr. Fisher had been sent for. From that sofa he was conveyed to his bed, still insensible. His eyes were open, but he knew none of those who stood by his couch.

The doctor came; but the banker was out of the reach of human aid, though he survived a day and a half. Maggie watched over him, as she had over Andre; but vain was her care, and vain were her hopes. Her father died. A few days later a long funeral procession left the house, and Mr. Checkynshaw was borne to his last resting-place at Mount Auburn. Mrs. Checkynshaw was bewildered and overwhelmed; Elinora was so nervous that she required an attendant constantly; and Maggie had little time to weep herself, so devoted was she to the wants of others.

By the death of her father, everything was changed with Maggie. There was little sympathy between her and the other members of the family. Mrs. Checkynshaw decided that the house should be sold, and that she and the two daughters should board with a relative of her own. Maggie did not like this arrangement, though she was prepared to accept it if no better one could be suggested. She stated her objection in the gentlest terms; but her step-mother was cold, and even harsh, and Maggie realized that the future was to be more unhappy than the past. In this emergency she consulted her old friend, Dr. Fisher, who was familiar with all the circumstances of the family.

"I cannot live with Mrs. Checkynshaw and Elinora, now that my father is no longer with us," said she, sadly. "I do not like them, and they do not like me."

"It is not necessary that you should live with them," replied the doctor.

"Couldn't I live with Andre again?" asked she, eagerly.

"Certainly you can. Leave this to me. I will see your father's executors, and tell them your wishes."

"Thank you, doctor."

"The block of stores yields a large income, besides your share of your father's property; but, Maggie, you are under age, and you must have a guardian to take charge of your property. Your own wishes in this matter will be consulted."

"Andre!" exclaimed she, with enthusiasm.

The doctor smiled, and shook his head.

"Why not?" demanded she, her face looking sad again.

"Andre is a very good man, but he does not know much about business."

"There is nothing to do at present but to collect the rents on the block of stores. I could not name any one but Andre for my guardian."

"Perhaps the court will not approve of him if you do," added the doctor, with a smile.

"I'm sure Andre is honest and true, and will be faithful to the end. He knows enough about business to take care of the property."

Maggie argued like a woman, and the doctor promised to do what he could to meet her wishes. Mr. Checkynshaw's executors were opposed to the plan; but, at the earnest solicitation of Maggie and the doctor, they at last consented to recommend it, and Andre was appointed guardian of the rich man's daughter. If ever a man was amazed and bewildered, Andre was, when he found himself the keeper of such a vast property.

Maggie had a plan of her own. Andre was to be a barber no longer. A nice brick house in Harrison Avenue was hired, and furnished in good style, and the strange family were once more united. Leo sold out the mouse business to Tom Casey, and was as happy as a lord in his new home. The executors paid Maggie's share of her father's estate to Andre, in accordance with the provisions of the will. The ex-barber was not a business man; but this fact rendered him all the more cautious in handling the property intrusted to his care. He had shaved men of dignity and substance for so many years, that he had no lack of friendly advisers. With fear and trembling he discharged his sacred duty.

But Andre's duties as guardian were abruptly terminated one day, before Maggie was twenty-one. A remarkably good-looking young lawyer, Mr. Charles Harding, the partner of an older legal gentleman who had done Andre's business, relieved him of his charge by marrying his ward. Everybody said he was a splendid fellow, and Maggie knew he was. No one seemed to be astonished except Leo, who thought the affair had come off rather suddenly. He did not exactly understand how Maggie could have fallen in love with any fellow—he never thought of such things.

"So Maggie is married," said Mr. Fitz Wittleworth one day, when they met in the street.

"Yes; and a capital fellow Harding is, too," replied Leo, warmly.

"It was rather sudden—wasn't it?"

"Well, it was rather sudden; but when I think what a beautiful girl Maggie was, and when I think what a good girl she was, I am not at all surprised—not a bit."

"But, Leo, I always thought you would marry Maggie," added Mr. Wittleworth, stroking his chin.

"I!" exclaimed Leo, opening his eyes. "Why, I never thought of such a thing."

"The more fool you, when you could have done it."

"What, marry my sister!"

"She isn't your sister, any more than I am."

"Well, it's all the same thing, and I could never look upon her as anything but a sister," replied Leo, as he hastened to his work.

Leo was satisfied; for he could still love Mrs. Harding as a sister; and he had certainly never thought of her in any other relation. Perhaps he did not think of anything at that time but machines and machinery. Both he and Andre remained with Mrs. Harding, for she would not consent to their leaving her. And her husband liked them because she did.

When Leo was twenty-five, his inventive genius had laid the foundation of his fortune, and his "royalties" soon made him independent, for he had the business ability to profit by his inventions. When he was married, the "strange family" was separated, but never in spirit. Andre goes from one house to the other half a dozen times a day, and is honored as a "grandpa" by four little boys and girls.

Leo has always been the determined and persevering individual he was in his youth, when engaged in the "mouse business." As an apprentice, as n journeyman, as a master machinist, and as an inventor, it has been "MAKE or BREAK" with him; and, though the parts of his machinery often did break, and the apparatus failed to do its expected work, he did not give up; and he conquered in the end, whatever trials and difficulties interposed.

Mrs. Harding is superlatively happy in her husband, her children, her foster-father, whom she still lovingly calls "mon pere" and in her noble brother. She calls, at long intervals, upon Mrs. Checkynshaw and Elinora; and peace reigns between the two houses of Checkynshaw and Wittleworth. Though she was never happier than when she knew no other relation than that of the poor man's daughter, she has every reason to be thankful, and is thankful, to God for the blessings which have come to her as THE RICH MAN'S DAUGHTER.

THE END