"Can't come it!" "No go!" "Now, or never!" were some of the exclamations which went up from the excited crowd.

Matthew was too good natured to quarrel with these insinuations. "My friends," said he, "as you appear to have unlimited confidence in each other, suppose you appoint a committee to dispose of this property, which my client generously" (cries of "Oh! oh!") "turns over to you, and divide the proceeds among yourselves pro rata"

The creditors looked at each other suspiciously. A want of that childlike trust which, in a perfect state of society should exist between man and man, was unhappily too apparent.

Just then, when Matthew was at his wits' end, the police man who guarded the front door entered the room, and delivered a note to Mr. Whedell. That gentleman perused it languidly, and passed it to Matthew.

"Good news," said he. "Mr. Abernuckle, the owner of these premises, who was intending to move in to-day, writes that he will not be able to take possession until noon to-morrow. Therefore, I say, let the creditors employ an auctioneer, hang out the red flag, sell, and divide, before that period arrives."

The large creditors were silent—Quigg veiling his dissatisfaction under a look of complete misanthropy—but the small ones, headed by Rickarts, the shoemaker, highly commended it.

"Besides," added a butter man, who had originally been in the mock-auction line, "don't ye see, we can all stay at the auction, and kind o' bid on the things. Hey?" The butter man nodded at the lesser creditors.

The idea took; only a few of the larger creditors holding out against it.

"My friends," again observed Matthew, drawing on his stores of legal knowledge, "you seem to forget that, if my client chose to resist your claims, he could retain a large amount of furniture as household articles under the law, which exempts certain necessary things. But, with rare magnanimity, he gives up all."

The allusion to magnanimity produced some derisive laughs, which slightly nettled Matthew.

"Auction it off," said he, "or we throw ourselves back on our reserved rights."

At this hint, everybody gave in; and a committee, consisting of Quigg, Rickarts, and the butter man, was appointed to make all the arrangements for an immediate sale.

It is not pleasant to pursue this painful theme—the decline and fall of the Whedell household—farther. Let the historian barely record, that the sale attracted a large crowd, and that, by the ingenious side bids of the creditors, the furniture was run up to twice its original value (no uncommon thing at auctions); that the creditors, large and small, were well satisfied with the results; that Mr. Whedell and daughter moved to Boston, and became stipendiaries upon a younger brother, who had made a fortune in the upholstery business, and whom Mr. Whedell had always despised; that Mr. Chiffield took to drink tenaciously in consequence of his misfortunes, and never saw or sought after his wife from the day when he discovered that she was dowerless; that Mrs. Chiffield obtained a divorce from the bonds of matrimony, but had not married again at last accounts; and that Matthew Maltboy, Esq., on looking over the whole episode of his acquaintance with the Whedells thanked his stars that he had got out of their entanglements on the reasonable terms of three hundred dollars.



BOOK ELEVENTH.

DISCOVERIES.



CHAPTER I.

THE OLD HOUSE REVISITED.

In the month that followed the acquittal of Marcus Wilkeson, three real murders, a railway collision killing thirty persons, and a steamboat explosion almost as tragical in its results, occurred. The Minford affair was already getting old. Public curiosity, except in the immediate neighborhood of the house, no longer exercised itself upon the problem which all of Coroner Bullfast's powers of analysis had failed to solve.

Marcus Wilkeson might have derived a selfish consolation from the fact that other mysteries and calamities were causing his name, which last month was on the tongue of the whole town, to be forgotten. But he had a nobler and truer source of consolation in his dear books. In the presence of the philosophers, and sages, and historians, and novelists, and poets, and wits, the men of genius of the past, chroniclers of the loss of empires, grave men who taught the vanity of life, and funny men who taught the same lesson in a different way, Marcus felt his pack of sorrows considerably lightening. His first, last, only disappointment in love had subsided into a gentle and not disagreeable melancholy. His trial, and the dreadful notoriety which his name had acquired, had imparted to his mild nature a gentle tinge of cynicism, which improved him.

Marcus was sitting, one morning, in the little back parlor, idly turning over the leaves of an old folio, and looking with a half eye through the closed window at the houses opposite, and thinking what a deal of trouble it was possible to extract from a single block of buildings, when a slight rap was heard at the door. Simultaneously, the door was pushed open, and Wesley Tiffles shot in.

He had brought all his tonical properties with him. Good nature and cheerfulness effervesced from his face. Through the trial, and since the acquittal, Wesley Tiffles had stuck to Marcus. Twice, often three times a day, he called, and was always welcomed by Marcus, and not inhospitably received by Miss Philomela Wilkeson. The interviews between that lady and the romantic speculator usually took place, quite by accident, in the entry, on the arrival or the departure of Mr. Tiffles; but, as it happened, not with the cognizance of Marcus.

On one occasion—at the edge of evening—Marcus went into the entry a few minutes after Tiffles had left the room, and saw that gentleman and Philomela standing in the doorway. Tiffles appeared to be in the act of raising the lady's hand to kiss it; but, if that were his intention, he abandoned it on seeing Marcus, and shook the attenuated fingers instead. Then he coughed, and, saying "Good-night," went down the steps, as if he had not seen Marcus in the gloom. Miss Wilkeson coughed also (why do people always cough?), and, turning to her approaching brother, said it was a cool night, which was not true, as the night was agreeably warm. Marcus had never afterward seen them together, and had forgotten this slightly mysterious circumstance. Wesley Tiffles had, as usual, something enlivening to tell.

"Got the funniest piece of news for you, my dear fellow!" said he.

"Anything funny is always welcome, Tiffles," said he, closing his folio, that he might not appear to obstruct his friend's jocosity.

"I've heard from that infernal old panorama—when I say infernal, of course I don't mean to imply that it wasn't a splendid idea, if I had had capital enough to see it through—and what do you s'pose the landlord and the other creditor have done with it? You couldn't guess in a month."

"Well, what?" asked Marcus Wilkeson, laughing in anticipation.

"Ha! ha! cut it up, and sold it for window curtains. A friend of mine, who passed through there the other day, says there's a picture of a lion, or a palm tree, or a slice of a desert—principally desert—hung up in every other window. And the best of it is, that they made a good thing of it. The curtains brought at least twice what I owed them. Great heavens! why didn't I think of it myself?"

"Of what?"

"Why, to cut up the panorama into window curtains, when Patching had finished it, and—ha! ha!—peddle them through the country. By Jupiter! that speculation may be worth trying yet. But at present I have my new patent process for——"

Marcus coughed, and opened the book. Tiffles accepted the delicate hint in a spirit of true friendship, and let his new patent process drop.

"Marcus," said he, "I don't wish to revive an unpleasant subject; but have you no idea what the late Mr. Minford was trying to invent?"

"Not the least. I never trouble myself about inventions, as you well know, who are full of them. Besides, poor Mr. Minford was not communicative on that subject. He kept the secret even from his daughter."

"You have a claim on the apparatus, whatever it is."

"Yes. Mr. Minford insisted on giving me a paper to that effect, as security for two loans of five hundred dollars each. I took it to please the old gentleman." Marcus felt like groaning, as he thought of the sorrows that he had derived from his connection with the Minford family; but he had just been reading of the consolations of philosophy, and he stifled the rising weakness.

"I have thought, Marcus, that there might be something about that unfinished machine that could be patented for the benefit of Miss Minford. You know I am a good judge of patentable things."

"What do you propose, then?" asked Marcus, concealing, with an effort, the emotions which the mention of Miss Minford always caused."

"That we go to the house together. The legal claim which you hold upon the machine entitles you to see it, if only to ascertain that it has not been stolen."

"The visit you propose is a disagreeable one; but if you think there is a possibility of benefiting Miss Minford, I will go. Not that she is likely to be in want, however, at present, for I understand that a wealthy lady, Mrs. Crull, who befriended her at the inquest, you remember, has taken her to her own house."

Without further words—for Marcus retained his old business habit of forming his conclusions suddenly, and adhering to them—the friends proceeded to the late residence of Mr. Minford.

Marcus had not yet philosophically conquered his dread of recognition in the street as the man who had been suspected of a murder. He buttoned his overcoat up to his chin, pulled his hat over his brow, and walked fast. As he had purposely altered his style of dress since the inquest, he was not readily identified. But he was sympathetically conscious that several persons whom he passed, and who glanced at him, knew him, and that he was pointed out to others when his back was turned.

Reaching the house, they hurried up stairs, hoping to run the gauntlet of the three floors in safety. Luckily, there had been a general move from the premises—the lodgings being less desirable since the supposed murder. The faces which thrust themselves out of the doorways as the two visitors passed, were strange ones.

Marcus felt his heart palpitating, and his face growing pale, as they ascended the last flight of stairs, at the head of which were the room and the mystery. The lodgings had not been taken. The rent had been paid by Mr. Minford up to the 1st of May; and no person had been sufficiently charmed with the apartments to hire them since that date.

Upon the door was a placard, announcing that the key could be obtained by application to the floor below. Tiffles went for it, and returned accompanied by an old woman, who looked as if she knew a great deal which she did not care to tell. She had been requested by the landlord to show the apartments to applicants, but not to whisper a word about the murder; and she was almost bursting with her great secret. While the old woman was wondering how much longer she would be able to hold in, Marcus and Tiffles entered the front room, and quietly closed the door in her face. The old woman grumbled at this discourtesy but, as she had a superstitious objection to putting her foot in a room where a murder had been committed, she leaned against the banisters of the stairs, and waited for the visitors' reappearance.

The room looked just as it did on the day of the inquest. The faded and worn furniture was all there; the yellow curtains still covered the windows; the clock still hung against the wall, tickless. Marcus's eyes glanced restlessly about the room for a moment, not daring to look at the spot where the old man had received his death blow. But an inevitable magnetism soon brought his eyes to it, and his heart was lightened as he saw that the blood stains had been carefully wiped out.

The door of the adjoining room—the maiden's bedchamber—was ajar. Marcus pushed it open with that slow motion which is a token of delicacy and respect. The general appearance of the room was unchanged, as well as Marcus could recollect from the occasional glimpses of it which he had formerly stolen. The little row of dresses which hung on pegs in a corner, and a few simple ornaments, might have been removed, but nothing more. Marcus felt that he was intruding here, and he closed the door.

In the mean time, Wesley Tiffles had been examining the mysterious machine, which stood undisturbed in its corner, with the protecting screen still standing before it. Tiffles had first wiped off the dust, and then looked into it, and through it, and over it, and under it, with an eye that was predetermined to pry out a secret. Then he felt of every wheel, lever, cam, ratchet, drum, and other portion within reach of his fingers. Everything was immovable. Then he stood aloof from the machine, folded his arms, pursed up his lips, and cocked an eye at it, as if, by the mere force of intellect, he would compel the dumb thing to give up its mystery.

As Tiffles was applying this species of exorcism in vain, Marcus came to his assistance.

"What on earth can it be?" exclaimed Tiffles. "Not a new kind of steam engine; or an electrical apparatus; or a clock; or a sewing machine; or anything for spinning, carding, or weaving—nothing that is adapted to any useful labor. These heavy weights, that have fallen on the floor, would give the works a kind of jerky motion for a few seconds, while the weights were descending. Nothing more. But the ultimate purpose of the machine is a puzzler."

"Mr. Minford always said that it was something that would revolutionize the world of industry—that it was a new mechanical principle of universal application."

Tiffles laughed a little. "Excuse my levity," said he, "but inventors—and I am one of them, you know—always claim that they are about to revolutionize the world of industry. I never knew one of them to claim less than that for a patent flytrap or an improved sausage stuffer. Mr. Minford was a man of genius, I dare say, but he probably overestimated the importance of his invention. Have you any objection to my prying the thing apart at this opening? I want to inspect some of the works that are partly concealed. I pledge myself to put it together again as good as new."



CHAPTER II.

A POSTHUMOUS SECRET.

"Go ahead," said Marcus; and Tiffles, inserting his walking stick in a wide gap between two cog wheels, forced the strange machine apart. A large brass drum upon which a small chain was loosely coiled, fell to the floor. The other portions were not disturbed. Marcus picked up the drum; and Tiffles cast his unerring eye in among the new jumble of wheels and connecting levers that was brought to view.

"Can't make head or tail of it," said he, at length. "Let me see that drum."

Marcus handed it to him. Tiffles took it, like an expert, between a thumb and finger, and tapped it with his stick. It answered back with a muffled clink.

"It is hollow, and contains some soft non-metallic substance. Ah! here we have it." And Tiffles, unscrewing a nicely fitting cap from the drum, drew out a close roll of paper. He unfolded it with trembling fingers.

The upper portion of the paper was covered with neatly drawn diagrams, which bore some semblance to the machine. Beneath, in the fine copperplate hand of the inventor, were these memorable words:

"Eliphalet Minford's original plan of PERPETUAL MOTION, to which he has devoted his fortune, and twenty years of labor. Perseverantia vincit omnia."

"Christmas Day, 185-."

Then followed a careful technical description of the plan, and a mention of the fact that on two occasions the machine had moved. One occasion was the night of April 10, 184-, when the mass of wheels started with a sudden click, but stopped in three seconds by the clock. The other occasion was daybreak, December 30, 185-, when the works began to move of their own accord, and did not stop for six seconds. This record had evidently been made by the inventor for his private reference, and concealed in the brass drum for safe keeping.

Tiffles read with bated breath; and Marcus listened in astonishment.

"What do you think of it?" asked Marcus.

"I think," replied Tiffles, "with every respect for the memory of the inventor, that he was insane. Perpetual motion, without an exhaustive power—or, in other words, the eternal motion of a thing by its own inherent properties—is a simple impossibility. To cite familiar illustrations of its absurdity, you might as well try to lift yourself by the straps of your boots, or pour a quart into a pint pot. I wasted six months on perpetual motion when I was a boy, and gave it up. Every inventive genius bothers his head with this nonsensical problem, till he learns that he is a fool. Of course, I say this with every possible regard for your deceased friend. He was insane on this point—quoad hoc, as the lawyers have it—without question, or he would not have thrown away twenty years on it;—or twenty-three years, I should say, since the paper is dated, you observe, three years ago."

"But Mr. Minford says, in that document, that the machine moved twice. He could have no object in deceiving himself."

"You are wrong there, my friend. Inventors are continually deceiving themselves. Their judgment, their very eyesight becomes worthless in respect to subjects upon which they have labored long and hoped ardently. This machine has evidently been greatly altered from the original plan in the progress of its construction. You observe that these weights do not appear on the diagrams. They were an afterthought—recently put on, I should judge, from the appearance of the cords which hold them. Anybody can see, as I said before, that the weights would move the works spasmodically, so to speak. But this motion cannot be what he alludes to as having taken place on two occasions. Of course, I can't explain what caused the motion on those occasions—if it were a real motion, and not a fantasy of the inventor's brain—but I'll bet my life that any intelligent mechanic could have fully explained it to Mr. Minford at the time. But, mark you, Mr. Minford would never have accepted the explanation. Inventors never take advice."

"So then you are satisfied that this machine is of no value—to Miss Minford—except for old brass?"

"Oh! I don't say that. Mr. Minford, aside from this absurd crotchet, may have possessed real mechanical genius. Let me see if some part of it may not be good for something besides perpetual motion."

Wesley Tiffles peered down among the brazen and steel complexities again. "Sure enough, here it is," said he; "a splendid window fastener."

"I don't see any window fastener," exclaimed Marcus, looking in the direction of his friend's forefinger.

"There—that cam with a small spring and lever attached. Strength and simplicity combined. I have studied the subject of window fasteners—in fact, have invented three or four, which possessed the extraordinary property of never letting the window up or down when you wanted to move it. I recognize, in this window fastener, my ideal. Marcus, you must patent it for Miss Minford. It will be a sure fortune to her. I'll make the drawings and specifications."

Marcus, sadly happy in the thought of rendering any service to that young lady, readily chimed in with Tiffles's views, and said that the patent should be obtained as soon as might be.

It was then agreed that Tiffles should call on Mrs. Crull, on the following day, and inform Miss Minford of the important discoveries which had been made by him—not mentioning the name of Marcus Wilkeson—and should also offer to remove and dispose of the neglected furniture, as the young lady might think best.

As this conclusion was arrived at, the door opened suddenly. The old lady, being apprehensive, from the long stay of the two visitors, that they were ransacking the rooms and hiding portable articles about their persons, had overcome her superstitious antipathy, and opened the door quickly, so that she might catch them in the act. But they were only standing in the middle of the room, earnestly talking to each other.

The old lady muttered an inaudible apology; and the two friends hastened to take their departure.



CHAPTER III.

OVERTOP FINDS A SENSIBLE WOMAN.

Next morning, Mr. Wesley Tiffles, after an inexpensive breakfast at a cheap restaurant in Chatham street, set out on his mission of goodness. He was reduced to his last dollar, but felt opulent in the possession of his diamond breastpin—that tower of moral strength to the borrower. He whistled as he walked, and thought what would be the best name for the new patent window fastener of the future. "Union," "American," "Columbian," "Peoples'," "Washington," "Ne Plus Ultra," and a score more, were turned over and rejected. Finally he settled upon the "Cosmopolitan Window Fastener," meaning that its destined field of usefulness was the whole civilized globe. Patents for it could be and should be obtained in England, France, Germany, Russia, and Spain.

While Wesley Tiffles was taking this rosy view of the "Cosmopolitan Window Fastener," he stumbled upon Fayette Overtop, Esq., who was walking briskly toward his office, and thinking over a hard case in which his services had been secured the day before.

The firm of Overtop & Maltboy had recently come into a small but paying business, in this way: The release of Marcus Wilkeson was generally supposed to have been effected, not by his innocence, but by the skilful and professional, but unprincipled efforts of his legal advisers. Their name was not unfavorably known among the thieves and murderers of the city; and several individuals belonging to those classes of society resolved to employ them when they got into their next little difficulty. And, since the inquest, another thing had greatly contributed to the prosperity of the firm. We allude to the case of Slapman vs. Slapman.

This was an action for divorce, with alimony, brought by Mrs. Grazella Jigbee Slapman against her husband, Ferdinand P. Slapman. The ground upon which the separation was sought, was the continual brutality of Mr. Slapman toward his wife.

It was the law and the custom, in cases where both parties to the action were agreed to that arrangement, to turn over this species of litigation to a referee, who took the testimony in private, heard arguments of counsel, and rendered a decision subject to the confirmation of the Supreme Court. The Court had issued a standing order prohibiting all persons from publishing (except with the consent of the parties to the action) any further reports of the cases than a simple announcement of the decree, as confirmed by the Court, for or against a divorce. This order was put forth to protect the public from the contaminating example of matrimonial infelicities; though we are not aware that the number of divorce cases has materially decreased, or the standard of public morality been greatly elevated in consequence thereof.

The case of Slapman vs. Slapman was on trial before a referee, by mutual agreement of the parties. The newspapers did not report it; but some of them kept hinting at it in an appetizing way. The gentleman whose "gallantry, &c.," was the "remote cause of the action," was described as "a rising young lawyer, who distinguished himself in a recent inquest before Coroner ——, the thrilling particulars of which are still fresh in the minds of our readers;" or as a "young ornament of the legal profession, whose office was not a hundred miles from the corner of Broadway and —— street" (the precise location of his office). One paper went so far as to say, that the "triumph which this disciple of Coke had achieved in the late cause celebre, was only to be equalled by his invariable success in affairs of the heart, &c., &c."

All this caused Fayette Overtop's name to be known by thousands of people. Persons who were seeking divorces, reasoned, strangely enough, that a man whose "gallantry, &c.," was the cause of a divorce, could materially assist them in severing the matrimonial bonds. Therefore they began to flock to him. He already had five female and two male clients of this description.

When Tiffles stumbled against Fayette Overtop, he at once invited his friend to go with him to Mrs. Crull's. His legal knowledge (of which Tiffles, in common with the public, was beginning to have a high opinion) might be of some service. Overtop had been told by Marcus Wilkeson of the previous day's transactions, and of Wesley Tiffles's intended visit to Miss Minford; and he at once consented to accompany him.

On their way to Mrs. Crull's—whose residence had been ascertained from the Directory—they passed Miss Pillbody's select school. Tiffles suggested that it would be well to call on that young lady, and pick up some intelligence of Miss Minford. She might still be receiving lessons from Miss Pillbody; and might, possibly, be in the house at that moment. Overtop also thought it would not be a bad idea to call there. He had heard much from Marcus Wilkeson in praise of Miss Pillbody, especially of her sensible qualities. Being still in the active pursuit of a sensible woman, he was moved with a real curiosity to see her.

The servant showed the two callers to the speckless little front parlor; and, a minute afterward, Miss Pillbody, looking fresh and neat, her narrow collar white and smooth, and every hair of her heavy brown tresses in its place, made her appearance.

Miss Pillbody entered the room in that noiseless, sliding way, which indicates a constitutional diffidence. Her eyelids involuntarily contracted, so that she might see her callers on a near approach to them. Fayette Overtop, marking her modest demeanor and her short-sightedness, immediately announced his name and that of his companion, and the object of their visit.

At the mention of his name, Miss Pillbody started. She had heard of Fayette Overtop, Esq., through the newspapers, as counsel for Marcus Wilkeson; but not as the philosophic friend of Mrs. Slapman. In reply to questions about Miss Minford, she stated that that interesting young pupil had not taken lessons from her since the death of her father.

Miss Pillbody here indulged in a little artifice. She produced a memorandum book, to see when Miss Minford took her last lesson; and, in order that she might read distinctly, drew out her eyeglasses, and adjusted them with a graceful movement of the arm and hand. Overtop thought that she handled the eyeglasses in a most ladylike manner; and that, when they were astride of her shapely nose, they became her face wonderfully.

When Miss Pillbody had referred to the little memorandum book, she gave one short look at Fayette Overtop. That gentleman, conscious that his face was scrutinized, looked at the wall. Miss Pillbody stole but one glance, and then shut the eyeglasses prettily, and stuck them into an invisible pocket of her waist. She had come to the conclusion that Mr. Overtop was a person of dignified and intelligent appearance. And Mr. Overtop had settled into the opinion that Miss Pillbody was a near approach to that imagined paragon—a sensible woman.

Mr. Overtop was about to make a shrewd remark upon the great superiority of private select schools over all public institutions for the education of young ladies, when Miss Pillbody rose.

"Do you desire any other information, gentlemen?" said she.

"No, I thank you, Miss Pillbody," returned Overtop, who interpreted her question to mean that a pupil was waiting for her somewhere—which was true; for Mrs. Gipscon, a fat lady of forty-eight, was taking her second grammar lesson in the back parlor.

The two callers seized their hats.

"Could I intrust you with a message for Miss Minford, Mr. Overtop?"

"With a thousand," said that gallant man.

"Please, then, give my love to her, and ask her to come round and see me."

Mr. Overtop would have said that he always found it difficult to carry a lady's love to another without keeping some himself; but then he thought that this might be a little bold for a stray caller. So he answered, "With pleasure."

The two visitors bowed, and Miss Pillbody bent her head gracefully toward Mr. Overtop.

"What do you think of the schoolmarm?" asked Tiffles, when they had got into the street.

Overtop did not like the phrase "schoolmarm." "I think Miss Pillbody," said he, "is—a sensible woman."



CHAPTER IV.

INNOCENCE ON A SLIPPERY ROAD.

Walking with the nervous and unreasonable quickness of city men, they soon arrived at Mrs. Grail's. The good lady was sitting at one of her front windows, sewing. As she looked into the street, her face was seen to have a sad and thoughtful expression. She came to the door in response to a sharp ring by Wesley Tiffles, who was tentative of bellpulls. Mrs. Crull kept two servants, but she could never get over the impulse to answer the door, when she was near it.

Overtop explained that they were desirous of seeing Miss Minford on important business.

"The poor, dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Crull, in a broken voice. "She is not here."

"Not here!" cried Overtop. "Where is she, then?"

"I don't know, sir; and that's what troubles me so." Here the good Mrs. Crull began to twitch about the mouth. But she did not cry. She had too much of the masculine element for that. Her whole life was a struggle between the weakness of her feminine body and the strong self-control of her manly soul, in which the latter, after an effort, always came out victor.

Mrs. Crull then proceeded to explain, a little incoherently, that she had taken Miss Minford to her house, the day after the murder, and had asked the poor child to live with her, to be her adopted daughter. Miss Minford had gladly accepted the offer, and had stayed there until yesterday. During the last two or three days, she had noticed that Miss Minford, or Pet, as she always called her, was worried about something. She would not tell Mrs. Crull what was the matter, but Mrs. Crull somehow guessed that it was a love affair. She remembered the handsome, dissipated young man at the inquest, and she had seen him standing at the corner below her house, only two days before Miss Minford left.

"Left!" exclaimed Overtop, jumping at a conclusion. "Then that villain has abducted and ruined her."

"It's bad enough, I fear," continued Mrs. Crull; "but perhaps not so bad as that 'ere. Anyhow, I hopes not. I spoke to Pet about that young man, and she looked as innocent as a spring lamb at me, though she kind o' blushed when she denied having met him since the trial. And, to do her justice, I don't think she had met him then, though I sort o' suspeck she seen him from the window two or three times—she had a habit of looking out o' the window—and that he contrived to have a talk with her somewhere and somehow, the day before she went away. And I think he must have had the cheek to come into this very room" (Mrs. Crull had shown her visitors into her front parlor), "because one o' my servants says that she heerd a strange voice in the entry, and the door shut as if somebody had gone out. When she come into the entry to see who it was, she saw Pet hurrying into the parlor, and heerd her humming a tune. Pet wasn't in the habit of humming tunes; and, the servant thought that rather 'spicious. So do I—not of any wrong, mind you. I wouldn't believe that till it was proved. But, to make a long story short, here is the note that poor Pet left on my dressin' table. Read it. I—I haven't got my spectacles."

The truth was, that Mrs. Crull's eyes were filling with tears, and she could not have read the now familiar lines on that little piece of paper even with the powerful aid of her spectacles.

Monday Evening.

DEAR MRS. CRULL:

Please pardon me for what I have done. I knew you would not consent to it, and so I did not tell you. I was afraid I should become a burden to you; though you are too good-hearted to say so. I have a nice place, and am earning my own living honestly. Do not try to find me, but believe I will always be good, and worthy of your love, and, some day, will repay you for all your kindness.

With love and respect,

PATTY MINFORD.

"A very strange note!" murmured Overtop. "Young girls are not apt to complain of being burdens, or to take such misanthropic views of life. There is a man's hand in this. That wretch, Van Quintem, jr., without a doubt. Did you never warn Miss Minford against him?"

"Once," said Mrs. Crull, with a faint choke in her voice. "I had noticed his glances toward her at the inquest, and I told her he was a bad young man, and she must not allow him to speak to her in the street, and that, if he should come to my house to see her, I should shut the door in his face."

"And what did she say to that?"

"She said all she knew about him was, that he had saved her life once. She couldn't forget that. Then I showed her how improper it was in him to hide his own name from her, and what horrid holes these gambling dens was which he goes to. I also p'inted out how unfeelin' his conduct was to his poor old father."

"And what did she say to all that?"

"She nodded her head, and said, 'Yes, so it was;' but I see, now, that all my talk didn't make no impression on her."

"The sum of it is," said Overtop, "that she loves this worthless vagabond, and knew that you would not permit his visits to your house. Therefore she has left you."

Mrs. Crull was a woman of firmness as well as affection. She regretted that her opposition to this young man should have been the means of driving Pet away. But she knew that she had done what any prudent mother would have done for her own child.

"I'm sorry it has come to this," said she; "but I did it all for the best, Heaven knows. Gen'lemen, we must find this child. But how?"

Tiffles, being a man of infinite expedients, and accustomed to solve problems for himself, and everybody else, at the shortest notice, answered at once:

"Not by advertising for her, or putting the police on her track. Young Van Quintem would take the alarm, and move her out of town. She will go anywhere with him, if I mistake not, until she finds him out better. Have you no clue to her whereabouts; or can you think of any one that could give us any information?"

Mrs. Crull reflected. "Unless I am much mistaken," said she, "I saw that tall, clean-looking boy, Bog, I believe they call him—you remember him at the inquest—walking on t'other side o' the street, two or three times since Pet come to live with me. He looked sideways and kind o' sheepish at the house as he passed. I've a notion that he was a lover of Pet's, too."

"He's the man, or boy, for us!" cried Tiffles. "Is in the bill-posting business, and knows the town better than I do, if anything. A shrewd fellow, judging from his looks; and, if he's in love with Miss Minford, then he's sure never to tire of hunting her up. He must disguise himself, and find young Van Quintem, and follow him day and night, till he brings up at Miss Minford. That's the shortest road. When Miss Minford has been found, then we will consider what is to be done next."

Mrs. Crull and Overtop at once approved of this plan, and no time was lost in putting it into execution.



CHAPTER V.

BOG'S OPEN SESAME.

Bog was easily found, and gladly consented to do the work allotted to him. It was agreed that he should conduct the search alone, and in his own way; but that, after he had succeeded in tracing Miss Minford to her place of concealment, he should send word, without delay, to Mrs. Crull, and also to old Van Quintem, whose advice upon the subject had been obtained. It was thought that the reasoning and entreaties of the two together would win back the poor girl from the path of danger which she was unconsciously treading.

Bog disguised himself by putting on his old, discarded working clothes; and, as he looked at his reflection in the glass, thought how much truth there was in the maxim, that "fine feathers make fine birds."

"Go, my good boy," old Van Quintem had said to him, in faltering accents; "go among the gambling houses, and other dens of infamy, and you will surely hear of my son."

Acting on this advice—which confirmed his own opinion—Bog proceeded to visit the gambling houses on Broadway. Child of the city as he was, he knew the locations of them all. His constant travels about town, day and night, had made him a master of all this knowledge, and much more of the sort, which is only useful when, as in the case of this poor orphan boy, it serves to show where evil must be avoided, not sought. Thus the pilot, taking his vessel through Hellgate, profits by his knowledge of the rocks and the shallows, to steer clear of all dangers, and come safely into port.

Bog, before leaving his shop, had been provided with this decoy note, written by the ingenious Wesley Tiffles in cunning imitation of Miss Minford's handwriting. The long, elegant curves, and all the delicate peculiarities of her chirography, taught by Miss Pillbody, had been copied from the sample furnished by her note to Mrs. Crull. It ran as follows:

MR. VAN QUINTEM:

DEAR SIR: Come to me at once, for I am in trouble.

PET.

The plan (Bog's contrivance all this) was to inquire at the gambling houses where Mr. Van Quintem, jr., was most likely to be, and, when he was found, to send this note in to him by a servant. Bog, having delivered the note, was to withdraw to the sidewalk, lie in ambush, till young Van Quintem came out, and then follow him to Miss Minford's retreat. There he was to wait, and send a swift messenger to Mrs. Crull and old Van Quintem. It was not known that young Van Quintem had ever seen Miss Minford's handwriting; but, to make the game sure, the note had been written with a skill worthy of a counterfeiter, or that most dexterous of penmen, young Van Quintem himself.

Bog commenced operations about three o'clock in the afternoon—the hour when the gambler and debauchee, who have been up all the previous night, are ready to begin their feverish life again.

He first visited a snug establishment near the lower end of Broadway. It was situated in the second story, over a nominal exchange office, and was the favorite resort of down-town brokers, who, having gambled on Wall street till the close of business hours, dropped in to flirt with Fortune an hour or two before going home to dinner. Sometimes their hour or two was protracted to six o'clock next morning, when they staggered home to breakfast and a curtain lecture together. This Temple of Faro was never impertinently molested by the police; and it was a subject of remark, among people who thought they had been robbed there, that there was never a policeman within sight of the door.

In the hallway of the second story occupied by this gambling saloon, were a number of doors, which the experienced eye of the boy at once decided to be blinds, or, in other words, no doors at all, but only imitations. The appearance of the second story was that of a suite of unoccupied offices. Whoever rapped at these blind doors, could obtain no admission.

At the end of the hallway, Bog came upon a long window, which was painted white on the inside. He saw, by a glance at the grooves of the lower sash, that it was often raised. There was a boot-worn hollow on the floor beneath the window. The unusual length of the lower sash, and the nearness of the sill to the floor, would permit persons to step into the room easily when the window was raised.

Bog rapped thrice at this window. He had a vague idea—derived from reading, perhaps—that three raps were an open sesame to mysterious rooms the world over. The last rap had not ceased to vibrate on the pane of glass, when the window was suddenly shoved up, as if by somebody waiting on the other side.

A negro of intense blackness stood revealed. He took a hasty inventory of Bog's old clothes, and then said, "Clare out, now!" He commenced to close the window.

"I was told to give you a half dollar," said Bog, bethinking himself of a powerful expedient, "if you would find out whether Mr. Van Quintem was here, and hand him a letter."

The negro's eyes dilated, and his thick lips wreathed into a grin.

"Mr. Fan Squintem—a little feller with a big black mustache? I knows him. Dunno wether he's in, 'L see fur ye." The negro paused. The interrogatory, "Where's your half dollar?" could be plainly seen in his great eyes.

"Here it is," said Bog.

The negro grinned his satisfaction, pocketed the coin, disappeared through another door from which there exhaled an odor of cigars and mint juleps, and returned, in a minute, with the intelligence, "He a'n't in, Mister. P'a'ps you want to leave some word for him?"

Bog had no time to lose. He said, "Nothing partickler," and hurried off, leaving the negro to puzzle over his half dollar.

At the next gambling saloon, near the junction of Broadway and Park Row, Bog simplified his method of operations. Before making any inquiry of the servant who answered his triple rap, he thrust a half dollar at him, and then put his question. This plan saved surly looks and explanations. Mr. Van Quintem was a well-known patron of the establishment, but had not been there for a week: which was rather strange, the man politely added.

Bog continued his search, walking as fast as he could. In second stories, in third stories, in fourth stories, in the rear of ground floors, in one or two basements, among all the more fashionable gambling dens, which, at that period, lay between Fulton and Tenth streets, he picked his way. His new system had drawn heavily upon his stock of loose silver, and he had but two half dollars left. The question now was, how to spend them?—for Bog knew of no more resorts of gamblers on Broadway; and there were none on any of the side streets which a man of young Van Quintem's style would be likely to frequent. It was the edge of evening.

The boy walked up and down between Tenth and Fourteenth streets, thinking what it would be best to do next. He kept a sharp lookout at the passers by, hoping to see the object of his search. He paused to rest himself a few minutes in the doorway of a photographic gallery; and, while there, observed two young men, with sickly complexions and bloodshot eyes, coming up the street. He recognized them as young men whom he had often seen issuing from gambling places in the small hours of the morning. They were talking briskly, and Bog pricked up his ears.

"The very d——l's in the cards lately," said the whitest-faced of the two.

"Luck must have a turn," said the other. "By ——" (with a horrid oath), "suppose we try Van's?"

"Van's? Where's that?"

"Why, the concern just opened on the corner above. The biggest kind of suppers there, they say."

"All right," said the other, wearily. "We'll try Van's."

Van is a common prefix of names in New York; but Bog needed no further assurance that this Van belonged to Quintem. The opening of a new gambling saloon under his name (with some wealthy backer furnishing the capital, as is usually the case) would explain why young Van Quintem had not been seen at any of his old haunts on Broadway for a fortnight past.

Bog followed his guides at a short distance. After proceeding two squares, they stopped in front of a stylish old mansion, and, after a furtive look up and down and across the street, ascended the steps, and opened the door. As they did so, Bog swiftly passed the house, and saw that a muscular servant stood within the entry, for the obvious purpose of preventing the intrusion of persons not wanted there. The large diamond breastpins and depraved faces of the two young men were their passports, and were vised without hesitation by the diplomatic attendant.

Bog took a half dollar in his hand, advanced to the door, which was now closed, and boldly opened it.

The athletic guardian of the place, being confronted with this audacious youth in old clothes, put on a commanding look, and said:

"Well, sir, and what the d——l do you want here?"

"Only to give you half a dollar, as I was told to," said Bog, "and to ask if Mr. Van Quintem was in. Note from a lady, sir; that's all." Bog winked.

The servant smiled, and took the coin.

"He's in," was the reply.

"Then please hand this to him, and say as how it's 'mportant. No arnser wanted."

The servant received the note, and sententiously remarked, "Consider it done;" whereon the boy Bog hurriedly retreated, and hid himself in a doorway nearly opposite. He had hardly done this, before the door of the house opened again, and disclosed the man whom he longed to see. The letter was crumpled in his hand, and his pale face betrayed agitation. He cast wary looks in all directions, and then descended to the sidewalk, and walked fast down Broadway. Bog emerged from his seclusion, and followed him at a distance, always keeping somebody between him and the object of his pursuit.

At the corner of Astor Place, young Van Quintem stopped; and Bog came to a halt also, half a block behind.

The next minute, the Eighth-street stage, going up, approached the corner at a rapid rate, as if the driver were hurrying home to his supper. There were but few persons in the stage.

Young Van Quintem hailed the conveyance, jumped in before it could stop, and the driver whipped up his horses to an increased speed. Bog was tired, and he knew not how far he might have to follow the stage at a full trot. He resolved upon his course instantly. Turning the corner of Clinton Place, he ran up that side of the triangular block, and met the stage. He pulled his old cap farther over his eyes, to prevent the possibility of recognition by young Van Quintem, and, gliding swiftly behind the stage, when he was sure that the driver was not looking, hooked on to the step behind, just as he had done a thousand times when he was a smaller boy.



CHAPTER VI.

TRACKED.

Young Van Quintem sat at the farther end of the stage, absorbed in his own thoughts. His thin lips moved restlessly at times, as if he were arguing to himself. In his hand he still held the crumpled note. Twice he unfolded it, and read the contents carefully; then crushed it in his hand again. Bog watched him through the window of the stage door—not looking straight at him, but with that side vision with which we trace the outline of faint comets. He was aware that young Van Quintem looked at him twice suspiciously, and then settled back into his own meditations. Bog felt safe in his disguise—or rather his original and native dress.

When the stage stopped to take in or let out passengers, Bog slipped from his perch, and hid himself from the driver's sight. Long experience had taught him how to render himself invisible to that vindictive personage.

The stage rolled on to the Greenpoint ferry, dropping all its passengers by the way, excepting the pursued and the pursuer. It was now evident that young Van Quintem was going to Greenpoint.

The ferry boat was not in, and would not be in, and ready to leave again, for ten minutes. Bog, having seen his game enter the ferry house, thereby conclusively proving his intention to cross the river, slipped into a boiler yard near the ferry. There, against a post, he scrawled with a stump of pencil, on the back of two playbills (which he had brought with him for stationery), two notes, as follows:

Tuesday Evening, about 8 o'clock.

Please come to the ferry house on the Greenpoint side, and wait there till I send for you. BOG.

These notes he addressed to Mr. Van Quintem, sen., and Mrs. Crull, at their residences. The next step was to find a boy to deliver them. Bog did not have to wait long for that. Boys of the ragged and city-wise variety may be picked up at any corner of New York at any hour of the day or night.

Another Eighth-street stage, which came rattling toward the ferry, brought a fine specimen of the juvenile vagrant and dare-devil, seated on the step. Bog looked out of the boiler yard, and hailed him with a shrill whistle, formed by thrusting two fingers in the mouth, and blowing fiercely. The boy recognized the signal of his ragged tribe, slid off the seat, and came running to where Bog was standing. As he drew near, Bog recognized him as a trusty lad whom he had employed as file leader in a walking advertisement procession, several weeks before.

"Wot yer want, hey?" asked this youth.

"Know me?" asked Bog.

"Know ye? No. Yer a'n't one of our fellers."

"Look again." Bog raised his ragged cap, and smoothed his hair back.

"Why, it's Mr. Bogert. Cuss me if it a'n't!"

"Just so, Bill. I'm trying to catch a chap that owes me something, you see. He's in the ferry house there, waiting for the boat. I'm going to follow him to Greenpoint, and find out where he lives. Then I'll have him arrested. Now, there are two people I would like to have as witnesses, when I track him to his house. The names are written here; and what I want of you is, to deliver these notes to them as soon as you can, and tell them to come right away. Will you do it, Bill?"

"Won't I, Mr. Bogert? Jest tell me the names, streets, and numbers, cos I can't read handwritin' very well, yer know."

Bog read the addresses, and, at the same time, produced a quarter from his fast-diminishing stock of silver. "Take that," said he.

"No yer don't!" said the eccentric youth. "You've done some good turns to me. Bill Fish don't forget his friends, I can tell yer. Here goes, now."

Bill Fish snatched the notes from Bog's hand, and ran down the street after a stage which had just left the ferry house on its down trip. Bog saw him seat himself on the step, with his head well hid from the driver, and sent a parting whistle after him, to which Bill Fish responded with an enormous grin and a jerk of thumb over shoulder at his natural enemy on the box.

"I'll give Bill Fish a good job, some day," mused Bog. "Now for the scoundrel."

The boat had come in. Bog watched from his hiding place until he saw young Van Quintem step on board, and disappear in the ladies' cabin. Then he hastened to the ferry house, paid his fare, and entered. To avoid being seen by young Van Quintem, he took a seat in that repository of stale tobacco-smoke called the "Gentlemen's Cabin."

At the Greenpoint landing, Bog watched young Van Quintem's departure from the boat, and stole out, taking the opposite side of the street. It was then quite dark, and, with reasonable precaution, there was no fear that the pursued would see him.

The young profligate walked up the street several blocks, and turned into a side street, occupied by residences, with small shops and groceries at the corners, and occasionally at intervals between them. Suddenly, Bog observed him looking around, as if to be sure that he was not watched. Bog slipped behind a large tree. Having apparently come to the conclusion that nobody was observing him, young Van Quintem strode on rapidly a few rods farther, and then made a sharp turn into a neat little millinery shop, which stood quite remote from all other places of business.

When the young man's form had disappeared, Bog ran at the top of his speed to a point opposite the shop, where he could readily see what was going on within.

The door was open and a strong light from the interior shone across the street. There was no tree or awning post, or other object, on the sidewalk, behind which he could conceal himself. Exactly opposite to the shop, and in the full blaze of its light, was a high door shutting on a small alley way. Bog tried the latch, and found the door locked. With instant decision, he caught the top of the door, and vaulted over it, trusting to fortune not to be caught on the inside. Applying his eye to the keyhole, he observed the following condition of things:

The shop was a milliner's, beyond all question. It was filled with articles of ladies' wear, whose names and uses were all unknown to Bog; while outside, in the air, dangled various patterns of skirts which had just then come into fashion; and the public and obtrusive exhibition of which is one of the singularities of our rapid civilization.

Behind the counter stood one of those thin ladies who have dedicated themselves to the millinery and a single life. At that distance, she looked to Bog like a perfectly respectable woman, with a sharp eye to business. Farther on, toward the end of the same counter, was the angel of his heart, Patty Minford. Her appearance, pale, and therefore more touchingly beautiful than ever, threw his senses into that sweet flutter which is the proof and mystery of love. He repeated the vow which he had made to himself, and dreamed of fulfilling a thousand times, to save her from harm at the risk of his life. She was folding up articles on the counter, and packing them into little boxes, and did not look toward young Van Quintem. Bog thought this a good sign.

The young man leaned over the counter, and addressed some words to her, to which her lips moved as if in reply, while her eyes were still downcast on her work. He then smoothed out the crumpled note which he had carried in his hand, and placed it before her. She started in amazement, as she remarked the close imitation of her handwriting; and, having read it, shook her head with a wondering air. Young Van Quintem's inexpressive face assumed a look of astonishment, and he instantly walked to the door, and peered up and down the street, and opposite. Then he nodded to Miss Minford, as if to excuse himself for a moment, and, darting out of the shop, walked rapidly to the street below, and then to the one above, passing Bog's hiding place on that side of the street, and causing that youth to remove his eye from the keyhole for fear of detection. When he had made this reconnoissance, and satisfied himself that there was no spy about, he returned to the shop. In the mean time, some pantomime had been going on between Miss Minford and the shopwoman, which Bog interpreted to mean that Miss Minford appealed to her for protection, and that the shopwoman promised it. This was followed by the retiring of the young lady through a door in the rear of the shop, and the locking of the door by her female friend, who put the key in her pocket.

Young Van Quintem came in, and was surprised not to see Patty. The shopwoman explained, with a gesture, that she had gone up stairs, whereon he consulted his watch, and then sat down in an armchair in front of the counter, as if with the determination of waiting for her.

Bog judged, from all the circumstances, that Miss Minford would not again show herself for some time; that young Van Quintem would wait, in the hope of seeing her; and that the shopwoman could be depended on as her friend to the last. He therefore concluded that he might safely spend time to go to the ferry house, and procure the company of old Van Quintem and Mrs. Crull, who had probably reached the rendezvous. Watching for an opportunity when the young man's back was turned, Bog lightly vaulted from his hiding place, and noiselessly ran down the street.



CHAPTER VII.

FOUND AND LOST.

When he arrived at the ferry house, the boat was coming in, with his venerable accomplices on board. Upon receiving her cue from the faithful Bill Fish, Mrs. Crull entered her carriage (which had been in readiness for her since Bog started out on his search), and was driven to Mr. Van Quintem's. The old gentleman, who was sitting in his study, with his light overcoat and hat on, prepared for any journey, took the spare seat in the carriage, and, in less than twenty-five minutes, by fast driving and the timely cooperation of the ferry boat, they were at the appointed spot.

"Have you found her, you dear Bog?" asked Mrs. Crull, breathless.

Bog answered "Yes," and that Mrs. Crull should see her in five minutes. That lady then assisted him into the carriage, and kissed him on the forehead in a motherly way, which would have astonished the sedate family coachman, if he had not been entirely used to Mrs. Crull's eccentricities.

"My good boy," said old Van Quintem, in a trembling voice, "are you sure we are not too late—quite sure?"

"Sure!" said Bog.

"Thank God! thank God!" murmured the old gentleman. Then he looked with a strange interest upon the honest and intelligent face of the lad. He was contrasting the history of the poor boy, which he had learned from Mrs. Crull, with that of his abandoned son.

The carriage was stopped, by the order of Bog (who calmly took charge of the whole proceedings), at the corner of the street below the shop; and the party (excepting the driver) walked slowly toward the scene of interest. Old Van Quintem's increasing infirmities compelled him to lean for support on the arm of Mrs. Crull, and also with greater and more confiding weight, on that of Bog.

As the party entered the shop, young Van Quintem was sitting with his head turned toward the door by which Miss Minford had vanished, savagely biting his finger nails. He wheeled in his chair, and confronted the intruders.

"What the —— are you doing here?" he cried to his father.

"We are here to save a young girl from ruin, and you from another crime," said the old gentleman, greatly agitated, and leaning with his whole weight, now, on Bog's arm.

"The —— you are! And you have brought along an old woman, and a boy that looks like a pickpocket, to help you."

The phrase "old woman" stirred up Mrs. Crull. She left the old gentleman's side, and advanced to within a yard of the profligate. "Old as I am," said she, "I'm strong enough to spank such a white-livered, broken-down puppy as you are. But I'll leave you to the hands of the law. It's a long lane that hasn't any turning, remember; and you'll pull up at the gallows at last. That's some comfort!"

Mrs. Crull here became conscious that it was highly impolite to lose her temper, and she fell back to the support of her old friend. Young Van Quintem laughed at her, showing his white teeth unpleasantly.

"Ah, I recognize you now," he continued, looking maliciously at the boy Bog. "You are the young thief that tracked me here, are you? I'll settle with you now."

He sprang from his chair, and strode toward the lad. He was met halfway by Bog, whom the insulting epithet had stung to the quick.

A foe met halfway is half vanquished. A single glance at Bog's clear, courageous eye, and his sinewy proportions, assured young Van Quintem that he had more than his match.

"This—this is no place for a row," he faltered. "I'll attend to you, some time, in the street."

"I shall always be ready for you," said Bog, smiling at this pusillanimous postponement—which is a mild way of making a clear backout.

Here the attention of all was called off by the appearance of Miss Minford. The quick ear of the milliner had caught her footstep on the stairs, coming down. She unlocked the door, and the beautiful object of their search stood before them. She was very pale, and tears dimmed her eyes. Mrs. Crull flew toward her, and the poor girl fell on her breast, and cried as if her heart would break.

Good Mrs. Crull helped her to a sofa, and sat down, and strained her young friend closely to her bosom, "Be calm," said she, "dear child!"

Old Van Quintem and Bog looked on with sad interest. The young villain stood in a corner, gnawing his finger nails, and revolving schemes of vengeance. All waited for Miss Minford to become calm before any explanation was sought.

Under the soothing caresses of Mrs. Crull, the young girl soon became comparatively tranquil. With her head still pillowed on the broad bosom of her protectress, she made a broken statement to the following effect, in response to the tender questionings of that lady:

She said that she had no thought of leaving the house of her dear friend, until he had told her how much better it would be to earn her own living at some easy and pleasant trade, than to be dependent on one who was not a relative. He had also told her that, one day, when he was passing the house, he heard Mr. Crull scolding because Mrs. Crull had brought a girl home to be her companion.

At this point, Mrs. Crull turned furiously toward the pale offender. "You miserable wretch!" said she. "I only wish my dear old man was here, to thrash you soundly. Why, he loved this little darling almost as much as I did. Besides, I'm the mistress of our house; and he never meddles with my affairs. Go on, dear Pet."

Pet then stated that he (she never called him by his name) had promised to get a place for her, and that she, supposing he was a true friend, had accepted the offer of his aid. One day, when they had met by appointment (which was very wrong, she admitted, with a fresh torrent of tears), he told her that he had found a nice situation for her in a milliner's shop in Greenpoint, and that she must come right away, or she would lose the chance. She went home, and packed up her few things in a handkerchief, and came with him here in a carriage. She came directly here, and had not been out of Mrs. Wopping's sight since then. Mrs. Wopping had treated her very, very kindly.

Mrs. Wopping, who had been lying in wait for her opportunity, here spoke up. She was a respectable woman, she said, thank God! and had been in the business for fifteen years, in New York. They could inquire about her in Canal street, where she had served her apprenticeship; in Division street, where she had been a forewoman; and in Grand street, where she had kept a shop. In an evil hour, she had been persuaded to start a millinery establishment in Greenpoint; and a very bad time she had had of it. All she knew about this unfortunate affair, was this: The young man, there, had called on her, a few days ago, and said that he wanted to do a favor for an orphan girl, who was a distant relative of his. She was poor, he said, but proud—no strange thing, Mrs. Wopping believed—and would not accept anything directly from him.

"Therefore," said Mrs. Wopping, "he wanted to arrange with me to give her some easy work to do, enough to make her think she was earning her own living, and he would pay me her board, and give me twenty shillings a week to hand to her as her wages. By this plan, I could get a boarder at a fair price, and the services of a young lady to wait on the shop for nothing. Very imprudently, I consented, but not before I had made the young man there swear to Heaven that his intentions were honorable. This he did in the most solemn manner. I loved the dear girl at first sight, and determined to watch over her, and keep her from harm. I had a little sister once—long since dead—that much resembled her. I should add, that, though Miss Minford seemed to think very well of the young man there, when he brought her here, she became quite suspicious of him yesterday—he was here all yesterday afternoon—and refused to ride out with him, though he had brought a handsome carriage for her. I advised her not to go."

"Thank you, good Mrs. Wopping!" said Mrs. Crull, shaking that lady by the hand, "you have been a true friend to our dear child; and I'll order my bonnets from you for the futer. Virtue shouldn't always be its own reward.

"You see, now, my darling," continued Mrs. Crull, "what a scoundrel you have escaped from. Will you be my adopted child forever? Speak, my precious!"

Poor Pet threw her soft white arms around the thick neck of her protectress, and cried for joy. "Dear, dear mother!" she murmured.

There was a pause, daring which everybody but young Van Quintem had occasion to wipe their eyes. He paced up and down, his brow wrinkled, and inextinguishable hate flashing from his eyes.

"Well, sir," said his father, calmly, "what atonement have you to make for this outrage?"

"You're a —— old fool, and that's all I've got to say."

"Heaven be praised that his poor mother was not spared for this sorrow!" was the tranquil reply.

"Curse you—and the old woman's memory. You're always making a fuss about her."

The benignant expression of old Van Quintem's face vanished instantly, and a just rage gleamed on every feature. "Unnatural son! monster! fiend!" he cried, raising his hands aloft; "at last you have gone too far. Leave my presence, sir, and never—never—let me see your face again. I say to you, and before these witnesses, that I disown and disinherit you forever—forever—forever!"

The coward son could not endure that terrible visitation of parental wrath, and fled, without another word, from the shop.

Old Van Quintem fell exhausted upon the strong shoulder of the boy Bog.

"Henceforth," said he, "you—you—shall be my son."



BOOK TWELFTH,

SPECULATIONS—PECUNIARY AND MATRIMONIAL.



CHAPTER I.

THE "COSMOPOLITAN WINDOW FASTENER."

The "Cosmopolitan Window Fastener" was a veritable success. For the first time in his life, Mr. Wesley Tiffles's theories had been demonstrated by results. Had the "Cosmopolitan Window Fastener" been his own invention, and disposed of for his own behoof, he would have abandoned it long before its merits had been fairly tested, and tried some other of the myriad schemes that floated through his brain. But the profits of the "Cosmopolitan Window Fastener" went to another; and this was the secret of Wesley Tiffles's persistent (and therefore successful) exertions.

This was his plan of operations: In the first place, from the funds supplied by Marcus Wilkeson, he procured a patent for the invention. In the second place, he put an advertisement a column long in every daily paper—six insertions paid in advance—and handed a highly polished brass model of the invention to the editor, with a request to notice, if perfectly agreeable. The just and logical result followed. Instead of the ten-line paragraph with which patent churns and washing machines are ordinarily turned loose on society, the "Cosmopolitan Window Fastener" received notices so long and ornate, that it was quite impossible to derive from them a correct idea of the matchless simplicity of the invention.

Having thus roused public curiosity, Tiffles, in the third place, took an office on Broadway, and put up a large sign inscribed in gilt capitals, "The Cosmopolitan Window Fastener Manufacturing Co." From this pou sto, Archimedes-like, he commenced to move the world of house owners. This he accomplished by the following manoeuvre: He caused double-leaded advertisements, under the head of special notices, to be inserted in all the papers, informing the public that it would be utterly impossible to supply the demand for the "Cosmopolitan Window Fastener," and that, therefore, it would be useless to send in orders. The Company were employing all the resources of two large manufacturing establishments; but it was evident that these would fail to meet the extraordinary and totally unexpected demand for this indispensable protection against burglars—this moral safeguard, as it might not inappropriately be called, of civilized homes. The Company had made every effort, but without success, to secure a force of skilled workmen equal to the emergency. Justice to their customers in all parts of the country, compelled the Company to announce that no orders received after that date could be filled under two months. Under these remarkable—they might say, in some respects, disagreeable—circumstances, they begged leave to throw themselves on the indulgence of a generous public.

These notices were put forth not only in the form of newspaper advertisements, but as placards and handbills, which were stuck all over the city, and thrown into all the stages, falling like autumn leaves into the laps of passengers. This was the cooeperative work of the boy Bog, who, though adopted by old Van Quintem as his son and heir, had not yet given up the bill-sticking business, but, on the contrary, had increased it, and now had a practical monopoly of it in the city, with branches in the suburbs. Bog would not eat the bread of idleness—and so he had modestly told Mr. Van Quintem—and that fine old gentleman had patted him on the back, and told him that there was genuine Dutch blood in him.

Bogert & Co. now employed a hundred lads; and Bog's department of labor was the general planning of operations, and the receiving and disbursement of the money—and a very nice and agreeable department it was. It enabled Bog to dress neatly, and keep his hands clean—two points upon which he was now extremely fastidious. Bog was growing tall, manly, and handsome. He was also showing a great improvement in his grammar and pronunciation—the fruit of diligent attendance at the evening school.

The public, being thus continually informed that orders for the "Cosmopolitan Window Fastener" could not possibly be filled under two months, very naturally began to send in orders for the invaluable invention, to be filled after that period. Every mail brought hundreds of them from all parts of the country. The Company—that is, Wesley Tiffles—sat at their desk in the Broadway office from, nine to three o'clock, exhibiting the window fastener to hundreds of visitors, and receiving orders rather as a matter of favor to the customer than to the Company.

At the end of a month, when orders to the amount of nearly seventy-five thousand dollars had been received—every Northern and Western State being extensively represented on the books—the Company issued another advertisement, to the effect that, owing to the overwhelming pressure of business, they were willing to dispose of patent rights for two of the States.

There was a rush of applicants, to all of whom the Company could truthfully exhibit large and genuine orders from all the States. The rights for two States were readily sold, and the Company then found that they could spare one more for a fair compensation; and so on, until every State in the Union had been disposed of, and the Company had not an inch of United States territory left. Not only this, but liberal purchasers were found for Cuba, Canada, South America, England, France, Germany, Russia, and all the countries of the Continent.

In three months, the Company had disposed of their entire interest, and realized about one hundred thousand dollars cash. This sum Tiffles had faithfully paid over, as fast as received, to Fayette Overtop, who not only represented Marcus Wilkeson (unknown to Pet), but was Pet's own attorney and agent. By Fayette Overtop it was placed in bank, credited to Miss Patty Minford, and subject to her order alone.

Thus it happened that the poor inventor had not toiled in vain for the child that he loved.

Tiffles—with that strange unselfishness sometimes found in men of his class—had not thought of or desired any compensation for his services, other than the payment of all the bills incurred in the operation. The pleasure which he took in manipulating the public, and seeing his labors crowned with success, was the only reward that he wished for.

Marcus Wilkeson, however, as soon as he saw that Tiffles was actually about to perform the amazing feat of raising money, determined, as an act of common justice, to insist upon his receiving twenty per cent. of the total. Tiffles flatly refused, at first, saying (which was true) that he could work a great deal better if he had no personal interest in the scheme; but yielded, at length, to the earnest solicitations of Marcus, backed by the emphatic declaration of Miss Minford (through her attorney), that she would not touch a penny of the money unless he consented. So, when the affairs of the Company were wound up, Tiffles found himself the possessor of twenty thousand dollars—a sum whose existence in a concrete form he had always secretly disbelieved. And Tiffles's first act was to settle up all his outstanding debts.

The unexpected acquisition of this immense sum imparted a charm to every object in life except Miss Philomela Wilkeson.

Poor Miss Wilkeson was quick to discern the change in Tiffles's manner toward her. His calls were as frequent as ever, but were exclusively on her half-brother, and had no side bearing in her direction. He no longer lingered in the entry to converse with her; and flatly refused her invitation to take a glass of wine in the dining room. Most ominous of signs, he did not press her hand in the least, when he took it in his own. His voice was no longer winning, but harsh and neglectful. Indifference brooded in the heart of the monster. The worst of it was, that he had been so cautious and noncommittal in his declarations, that she could not upbraid him for his perfidy. With a cold calculation worthy of a demon, he had made love in the pantomimic way, and eschewed written or verbal communications of an erotic nature. No jury could have muleted him one cent for damages in a breach-of-promise case, and he knew it.

While Wesley Tiffles slipped off Miss Wilkeson like a loose glove, she might as well have tried to divest herself of her natural cuticle as to banish all thoughts of him. Miss Wilkeson was accustomed to allude mysteriously to certain sentimental affairs of her youth. In confidential moments, her friends had been favored with shadowy reminiscences of a romantic past. But truth compels us to state that Miss Wilkeson had never been the recipient of that delicate and awkward thing known as a proposal, and that she had never been kissed by man or boy since she wore long dresses. Hence the magnified importance which she attached to that kiss which, in a moment of reckless but cheap gallantry, Wesley Tiffles, on one fatal evening, had impressed upon her withered hand. She loved the destroyer of her peace with the pent-up energies of forty years.



CHAPTER II.

MIDDLE-AGED CUPID.

Being in ignorance of Tiffles's sudden fortune, she was at a loss how to explain his defection. She conjectured all things, and finally settled down to the conclusion that he was a coy young man, and had not been sufficiently encouraged by her. She remembered instances where he had exhibited signs of ardor—in one case so far as beginning to slip a hand around her waist—and she had repelled him. He was evidently waiting for some marked encouragement. How foolishly prudish she had been!

One evening, as Wesley Tiffles was passing through the hall to the door, after a rattling hour with the three bachelors, he was confronted by Miss Wilkeson, who chanced to leave the front parlor on a journey up stairs at that moment. She was dressed in a light silk, and her hair was carefully braided, and her face had a pink color in some parts, which contrasted well with the pallor in other parts; and her glass had told her that she was looking uncommonly youthful and charming. She had carefully studied her part, which was to be a bold one, throwing off all reserve.

"Good evening, Mr. Tiffles," said she, promptly offering her hand.

He took it with unsqueezing indifference. She had expected that.

"Mr. Tiffles," said she, with an air of youthful raillery, "you are a naughty man, and I had an idea of not speaking to you again."

"Naughty!" said Tiffles, astonished. "How?"

"Why, you have hardly been civil to me, of late. I do believe you wouldn't speak, or shake hands with me, if I didn't always set the example." This in a half-complaining, half-laughing way.

It suddenly flashed upon Tiffles that he had been, for some time, rather neglectful of the lady. It also forcibly occurred to him that it was wise policy to be on good terms, at all times, with the mistress of the house; and such was Miss Wilkeson's present position. He therefore clutched her hand again, gave it a faint squeeze, and said that he apologized a million times for his rudeness; but the fact was, he had so much business on hand, that he had been turned into a perfect bear, he supposed. He playfully challenged Miss Wilkeson to step into the parlor and take a glass of wine, and he would show her that he was not the brute she fancied.

Miss Wilkeson laughingly accepted the challenge. "But I do believe," she added, "that it is only the glass of wine you care for. Now tell me, Mr. Tiffles, aren't you a woman hater?"

"When a man is asked that question, categorically, by a woman, his most effective answer is to make love to her out of hand. Tiffles was not prepared to do this in the present case, but he was willing to pay compliments to any extent.

"Ah, Miss Wilkeson, there you do me great injustice," said he, with his pleasantest of laughs. "I drink this glass of wine to 'lovely woman,'" with a nod at Miss Wilkeson.

Miss Wilkeson giggled, and took a fly's sip from the brim of her glass.

Tiffles heaved a sigh. "We bachelors are poor, unhappy fellows, really to be pitied."

"You are horrid creatures—you know you are—and deserve no pity from us!" Miss Wilkeson played her frisky, juvenile part admirably.

"So charming, and yet so cruel!" said Tiffles, uttering the first preposterous compliment that he thought of.

"You flatterer!" said Miss Wilkeson, beating a breeze toward him with her fan.

Tiffles, observing that matters were coming to a crisis, paused. Miss Wilkeson interpreted his silence as another attack of timidity. Time was valuable to her, and this kind of conversation might be kept up all night, and amount to nothing. She resolved upon her final coup.

"Oh! oh! Mr. Tiffles, what—what is the matter?" She looked wildly about her.

"The matter! What matter?" exclaimed that gentleman, little suspecting what was to happen.

"The wine—the warm weather—something—oh! oh!"

"With these inexplicable remarks, Miss Wilkeson dropped her fan, uttered a slight but sharp scream, and fell back in her chair, like a withered flower on a broken stalk.

"By thunder, she has fainted!" said the excited Tiffles. He had never been in a similar dilemma, and did not know what to do. He had heard tickling of the feet highly recommended in such cases; but that was obviously impracticable. A dash of cold water in the face was also said to afford instant relief; but there was no water at hand. "I must call for help," said he.

This remark appeared to arouse Miss Wilkeson. "Support me," she murmured. "I shall be better soon."

Tiffles, all accommodation, clasped her fragile waist with an arm, and gently inclined her head upon his shoulder. She heaved a sigh, and gave other tokens of returning animation. Tiffles here noticed that her face had not the prevailing paleness which always accompanies fainting. He instantly suspected the true nature of Miss Wilkeson's complaint.

The noise of quick footsteps resounded in the entry. Marcus, Overtop, and Maltboy had heard the sharp scream, and were rushing to the rescue.

"Good heavens! what will they say?" exclaimed Tiffles. "Don't be silly, Miss Wilkeson, at your time of life." This cutting remark was wrung from him by the annoyance and confusion of the moment.

It served as a wonderful anodyne; for Miss Wilkeson Jerked herself into an erect position, and said, "You're a fool!"

At this juncture, before Tiffles had quite uncoiled his serpentine arms from her, and while she was looking fiery indignation at him, the door was pushed open, and the three bachelors rushed in.

"I really beg pardon," said Marcus. "No occasion for my services, I see—ahem!"

"Heard a scream—thought it was here—no intention to intrude," added Overtop.

The tableau reminded Maltboy of his own innumerable little affairs, and he laughed. "It's a lovers' quarrel," said he, "and not to be interrupted, of course."

The three bachelors hastily evacuated the room, and their merry laughs rang in the entry.

"Miss Wilkeson," said Times, consulting his watch—he carried a gold one, with an enormous gold chain—"you must really excuse me. Important business engagement at nine. Good evening." So saying, Tiffles precipitately retired, with the determination not to enter the house again until he knew that Miss Wilkeson was out of it.

A week from that memorable day, Tiffles met Marcus Wilkeson on Broadway.

"Why haven't you been to see us?" said Marcus.

"Not been very smart, of late," explained Tiffles.

"Fainting fits, perhaps. Maybe they are catching, eh?"

Tiffles smiled, for he saw that Marcus knew the truth. "How is Miss Wilkeson?" he asked, respectfully.

"She has gone into the country for her health, and will probably stay away a number of years. In short, I have engaged for her the position of first preceptress of a female seminary in the middle of the State. She said she was quite sick of the hollow and heartless life of New York."

Marcus spoke truly. Miss Wilkeson had retired to the country with a thorough feeling of disgust for town existence. She has taught for several years, and is still teaching in the —— Young Ladies' Seminary, with eminent success, though her fair pupils complain, with much pretty pouting, of her savage restrictions upon all walks and talks with the eligible young beaux of the village. They say that she hates the men; and they call her a cross old maid, and a great number of other hard epithets.

But, sometimes, a tear is observed in the corner of her eye, which she hastily wipes away. That tear is an oblation upon the memory of a lost love. That lost love was, and is, and always will be, Wesley Tiffles.



CHAPTER III.

SLAPMAN vs. SLAPMAN.

The case of Slapman vs. Slapman occupied the attention of the referee, Samuel Goldfinch, Esq., over two months. That gentleman was corpulent, fond of good dinners, and had a highly cultivated taste for scandal. It had been his custom to give this interesting case a hearing one or two hours every afternoon, daily, after court. It was a relief from the heavy business of the day; for Goldfinch had heavy business, which came to him because he was a fat and pleasant fellow, with a large head, and a great circle of miscellaneous acquaintance. The real work of the office was done by a modest, unappreciated man named Mixer. On the occasion of these antimatrimonial audiences, Mixer sat in the back room, grubbing among his dusty papers; while Samuel Goldfinch, Esq., in the front room, with shut doors, leaned back in his easy chair and surrendered himself to enjoyment.

In the case of Slapman vs. Slapman, a great number of witnesses had been examined on each side. Affidavits, amounting to hundreds of pages, had been obtained in distant States—some as far away as California. The lawyers had spared neither their own time nor the money of their clients in raking together testimony which would bear in the slightest degree upon the interests which they represented. All the relatives of Mr. Slapman had testified that he was a gentleman uniformly kind and courteous, possessing a singular placidity of temper, and indulgent to his wife to a degree where indulgence became a fault. Those relatives, and they were numerous—particularly in the country branch—who had passed anniversary weeks at Mr. Slapman's house, were very severe on Mrs. Slapman. She was a proud, disagreeable woman. She was continually snubbing her husband before people. She had a great many male friends, whose acquaintance she had retained in defiance of his wishes. She was known to have received letters from men, and when her husband had desired to peruse them, had laughed at him. It is true that she pretended to be a patroness of literature, science, and the arts; but anybody could see that those things were only the cover of the grossest improprieties. She had been heard to listen without remonstrance, to declarations of love from several young men. It turned out, upon cross-examination, that these irregularities took place in charades and plays, of which Mr. Slapman's relatives had been shocked spectators. With regard to Mr. Overtop's transactions in the family, they could say nothing; for they had long since ceased to visit Mrs. Slapman, on account of her disgraceful conduct—and also (they might have added, but they did not add) because Mrs. Slapman latterly had her house full of Jigbees, and put her husband's relatives into obscure rooms in the third story, and quite forgot their existence afterward.

Per contra, all the Jigbees—and they were a prolific race—swore that their distinguished relative was a pattern of artlessness and innocence. That she was remarkable from early childhood for a charming frankness and transparent candor. That when this bright ornament of the Jigbee stock was sought in marriage by the defendant, the whole family, with one mind and voice, opposed the match. They had felt that a being of her exalted intellectual tastes was too good for a sordid money-getting creature like Slapman. But that man, by his ingenious artifices, had succeeded in winning the hand of their gifted kinswoman, and married her against their unanimous protests. There was but one consolation for this family misfortune. Mr. Slapman was reported to be wealthy, and could afford to indulge his wife in the exercise of her noble longings for TRUTH. They were willing to say that Mr. Slapman had not been illiberal, so far as vulgar money was concerned. He had given to his wife the house and lot which she occupied, and had never stinted her in respect of allowances. But what was money to a woman of Mrs. Slapman's soul, when her husband withheld from her his confidence and trust, regarded her innocent labors in behalf of Art, Literature, and the Drama, with a cold, unsympathizing eye, and finally descended so low as to feel a brutal jealousy of those gentlemen of talent, of whom she was the revered patroness?

"Money" (we are quoting here from the remarks of Mrs. Slapman's eminent counsel) "is very desirable in its way, but is it not the vilest dross, your Honor, when compared with the pure gold of connubial trust and sympathy?" Mr. Goldfinch nodded his head, as if to say that he rather thought it was.

The testimony of two servant girls established the fact that Mr. Slapman had several times been overheard to tell his wife that she would regret it; and that the time was fast coming when forbearance would cease to be a virtue; also that the worm, when trodden on repeatedly, might at last turn and sting, and many other enigmatical sayings of that character. The very vagueness of these threats, implying unknown horrors, had inspired his wife with a mortal dread of him. She did not know at what moment this jealous and revengeful man might strike her dead. She had been living in the fear of her life for six years, and, during all this time, had never complained, or expressed that fear to one of her relatives or friends.

"Such is the noble, uncomplaining nature," said the eminent counsel, in reference to this fact, "of the woman that Fate has thrown into the arms of a fiend."

But the most striking proof of Mr. Slapman's murderous designs upon his wife, was his conduct at the last dramatic soiree. Twenty witnesses swore that it was his evident intention to spring on her and strangle her, and that he was only thwarted in this horrid purpose by the noble courage of Fayette Overtop, Esq. Mr. Overtop briefly and modestly testified to this effect also; and, furthermore, narrated all the particulars of his acquaintance with Mrs. Slapman, holding before her a shield, from which the arrows of calumny, aimed by her husband, fell harmless.

Mr. Slapman had not shown himself in the referee's office since the investigation began. He had become convinced that he had lost the case into which his mad jealousy and his lawyer's advice had plunged him. Mrs. Slapman, according to the testimony of the two servants and several others, was immured in her house, and brooding over this saddest episode in her unhappy history.

"Nothing but that instinct of self-preservation," said the eminent counsel, "which bids the dove to fly from the hawk, and the rabbit to evade the pursuing hounds, could have induced that delicate, shrinking lady to lay bare the horrors of her prison house to the world, and to ask, in the name of common humanity, a release from the tyrant, and a liberal alimony."

The eminent counsel repeated this flight of fancy in the ear of Mrs. Slapman, at the opera that evening, whither she was accompanied by a few of the Jigbees, and she smiled, and said that it was really beautiful.

The protracted case—of which we have given a mere sketch—was decided by Samuel Goldfinch, Esq., in favor of the lady, a separation was decreed, and alimony fixed at six thousand dollars a year, that being only a wife's fair proportion of Mr. Slapman's income. Mrs. Slapman, with a well-assumed appearance of levity, gave a grande soiree musicale et dramatique at her house, in honor of the event, at which Overtop was a favored guest. Mr. Slapman went direct to Slapmanville, and raised the rent on all his tenants, turned a superannuated non-paying couple into the street, and took a general account of his property, to see how much he could sell out for, preparatory to leaving for Europe, and so dodging the payment of the alimony.

The illustrated papers published two portraits—one of an angel, the other of a demon. The angel was Mrs. Slapman: the demon was her husband. The comic papers served him up in puns, conundrums, and acrostics, of the most satirical import. The daily papers, always on the look out for subjects to write about, improved the occasion to overhaul the question of divorce, in its statistical, moral, social, and religious bearings. Two editors, in pursuance of a previous agreement, continued to discuss the question with great warmth in their respective journals, until they had written about two hundred octavo pages, when the debate was published in book form, with paper covers, and sold for their joint benefit.



CHAPTER IV.

HOW OVERTOP SEALED A CONTRACT IN A WAY UNKNOWN TO CHITTY.

The notoriety which Fayette Overtop had derived from his questionable connection with the Slapman Divorce case, had (as has been already stated) materially contributed to his professional income. By the time the case was decided, the firm of Overtop & Maltboy ranked among the most successful of the Junior Bar.

Now that Overtop had his hands full of business, his thoughts reverted to matrimony more strongly than ever. It is a singular fact, that business men find more time to think of marriage, than men of leisure.

Thoughts of matrimony invariably brought Miss Pillbody into Overtop's head. He would project mental photographs of her at the top of a table, beaming sweetly upon him, opposite, with her dim, lovely eyes, and pouring out the tea from a small silver pot. Overtop never could explain it; but this imaginary picture realized all his desires of domestic happiness.

Overtop not only thought of Miss Pillbody, but, what was more to the purpose, he visited her. For this, pretexts were not wanting. They never are. At first, he professed to have been requested, by a friend in the country, to find a suitable private school for two young daughters. This justified several visits, until Miss Pillbody could decide positively that it would be impossible for her to take them—an announcement which greatly relieved Overtop, though it temporarily put an end to his calls. Then he hit upon the expedient of pretending to write an essay on Popular Education, for a monthly magazine, and desired to obtain hints from her upon the subject. Miss Pillbody, not displeased with the compliment, though declaring that she had not an idea to give him, gave him a great many good ideas, to which he appeared to listen, while he was contemplating her trim figure, and the animated expression of her face, and thinking how very well she would look at the head of that poetical table behind that phantom teapot. At last the topic of Popular Education ran out; and Overtop felt that this kind of imposition could not be practised much longer.

One day, while Overtop sat at his desk, with a mass of law papers before him, thinking not of them but of his dilemma with respect of Miss Pillbody, a small boy brought him a beautifully written little note from that lady, asking him to call that evening on business. Overtop sent a reply, written with extraordinary care (this is a sign of love), saying that he would be happy to call, as requested. At the same time, he felt a pang of apprehension that she had found places in her school for the two young daughters of his supposititious country friend.

Overtop dressed with unusual care that evening, and presented himself at Miss Pillbody's house, punctually at the appointed hour. The young teacher was hard at work in the back parlor, setting copy for the illiterate wife of a rich city contractor to try her brawny fist on next day. Miss Pillbody's bewitching eyeglasses bestrided her nose; and the narrow collar, wristbands, and dainty apron with the red-bound pockets, looked whiter than ever.

The teacher blushed slightly as Overtop entered, and put away the copy book on a high shelf, thereby intimating that she should not work more that night, and Overtop could stay as long as he would. Thus, at least, that sagacious student of men, women, and things, interpreted it. Without a particle of those preliminary commonplaces for which Overtop had a cherished aversion, Miss Pillbody broke into business at once.

She said that a Mrs. Cudgeon, the wife of a citizen who had made a large fortune in butter and eggs, had been taking lessons in all the English branches, and French (here Miss Pillbody smiled), for six months, but had postponed payment on one pretext and another, and had finally withdrawn from the school, leaving unpaid tuition to the amount of one hundred and fifty dollars. Miss Pillbody had written several dunning letters to Mrs. Cudgeon, and received no answer. The soft grass of epistolary entreaty having failed, Miss P. now proposed to try what virtue there was in the hard stones of the law. She had sent to Mr. Overtop for advice.

Overtop listened to the statement of the case with professional attentiveness. He was sub-thinking, all the time, what an extremely sensible woman Miss Pillbody was, not to allow herself to be cheated, but to go to law in defence of her rights. He assured his interesting client that she could count on his best services, and that she might consider the one hundred and fifty dollars as good as recovered. From this point the conversation glided off into a wilderness of general topics. Overtop had a habit (a bad one, it must be confessed) of sounding people's mental depths. He found that Miss Pillbody was no shallow thinker. He left the house at eleven o'clock, supposing it was ten, and had a delightful vision, that night, of the little round table and the teapot, and the presiding angel.

Next day, Overtop wrote the following letter:

New York,—.

MR. J. CUDGEON:

SIR: Enclosed is a bill of items, amounting to one hundred and fifty dollars, for your wife's tuition at Miss Pillbody's private school. Be good enough to look it over, and inform me, to-morrow, what you will do about it. I will tell you candidly, that it is for our interest, as a young law firm, to sue you for the debt; but my client will not consent to this, until all other efforts fail, out of regard to the feelings of Mrs. C.

Your obedient servant,

OVERTOP & MALTBOY,

No ——— Building,

J. CUDGEON, Esq.

Overtop remembered that one J. Cudgeon had run for the Assembly at the previous fall election, and he surmised that, being a politician and a public character, J. Cudgeon would not like to see the bill of items in print. Overtop reasoned correctly; for, at ten A.M. the following day, that gentleman called at the office and paid the one hundred and fifty dollars, and said that he was very much obliged to Overtop & Maltboy for their gentlemanly conduct in the affair. Mr. Gudgeon had not been aware of his wife's pupilage at Miss Pillbody's private school, though he had observed (he added, confidentially), for some months past, a slight improvement in her grammar. "I am not ashamed to say that we were poor once," said Mr. Gudgeon, with a glow of pride.

"When Overtop placed the one hundred and fifty dollars in the white hand of the schoolmistress, she looked at him with gratitude and admiration, which more than repaid him. Not only this, but she asked him, with not a particle of hesitation, how much his fee was.

"Fee!" exclaimed Overtop, a little nettled at the implied insult. (Young lawyers are apt to be.) "Nothing, Miss Pillbody; decidedly nothing."

"But I prefer to pay you, Mr. Overtop. Why should you work for me for nothing, when I am not willing to do the same thing for Mrs. Gudgeon? 'The laborer is worthy of his hire,'" she added, laughing. "I set that adage in a copy book to-night."

"But I won't take anything," said Overtop, no longer nettled, but charmed to perceive this exhibition of sound good sense in a young lady.

"But I insist that you shall," continued Miss Pillbody, pleasantly. "Tell me, now, how much it is."

Overtop was standing within two feet of the schoolmistress, and her soft, dim eyes were beaming right into his. We leave psychologists to settle the phenomenon as they will; but the fact was, that each saw love in the eyes of the other. Overtop, in his bachelor musings, had thought over a hundred odd methods of putting the question. At this critical moment in the history of two hearts, a new form of the proposition occurred to him, so original and eccentric, that he determined to propound it at once.

He took Miss Pillbody's hand in his, before she knew it. She blushed, and would have withdrawn it; but he retained the hand with a gentle pressure.

"My dear Miss Pillbody," said Overtop, "I will take five dollars from you on one condition, and no other. Will you grant it?"

The schoolmistress, not knowing what she was saying, said "Yes."

"The condition is, that I shall buy an engagement ring, and put it on this dear hand."

Miss Pillbody blushed, and cast down her gentle eyes. The sagacious young lawyer, interpreting these signs as a full consent, stole his arm around her waist, and sealed the contract in a way all unknown to Chitty.