CHAPTER V.

A RETURNED CALIFORNIAN.

At last, Matthew Maltboy was engaged. He had, since twenty, been dallying on the edge of a betrothal. Now he had taken the momentous step into that anomalous region which lies between celibacy and married life, where a man is not exactly a bachelor, nor yet, by any means, a husband. It is the land in which the dim enchantments of romance begin to assume the plain outlines of reality. It is the land in which the pledge of undying affection, breathed, at some rapturous moment, into a delicate, inclining ear, becomes invested with awful meaning, and has a value in the legal market like a bond and mortgage. It is the land where the excitement of pursuit is over, and the game is securely cornered, but not yet in hand. It is the spot where the ardent huntsman of Love pauses to look back, and ceases to bend his longing gaze into the distance beyond.

How it came to pass that the unreliable Matthew Maltboy had become the affianced one of the pleasant widow Frump, it is not the purpose of this history to record. Let it suffice to say, that the mutual aversion which they felt, some months before, at Mr. Whedell's house, on New Year's day, was the starting point in their course of true love. Such an aversion, subsequently smoothed away, is often the most promising beginning of a courtship.

Mrs. Frump had frequently met Matthew on the street, and been gratified with his deferential bow. His bulk, to which, as a rotund lady, she had taken an antipathy, seemed to dwindle down as it was looked at. Matthew, whose ideal was a delicate woman with observable shoulder blades, had also, by repeated sights of Mrs. Frump, become reconciled to her ample proportions. Meantime, they had heard much, incidentally, of each other through Marcus Wilkeson. Matthew had come to esteem Mrs. Frump for her affectionate devotion to old Van Quintem; and Mrs. Frump had secretly admired the powerful though silent legal ability displayed by Mr. Maltboy in the inquisition before Coroner Bullfast.

One night, Matthew, accompanied Marcus to his old friend's house; and, on the second night following, this couple were engaged—a happy event, which was brought about no less by the widow's experience, and conviction that there was no time to lose, than by Matthew's impulsive ardor.

He had been engaged ten days; and so entirely had he talked out the time to the widow, that it seemed six months.

"Why is it," thought Matthew, stretching himself in his chair, and looking critically at the widow, who was knitting crotchet work, "why is it that I no longer adore her? She is just as pretty, just as amiable, just as affectionate as ever. Now, why don't I care a button for her at this moment?" Matthew was not a transcendental philosopher; and the true answers to these questions did not come to him.

Old Van Quintem, pale and beautiful in his declining years, sat by the window that opened on the green leaves of the back yard, calmly smoking his pipe, and thinking, with a holy sadness, of his dead wife and his worse-than-dead son. The old gentleman, and the two quiet affianced ones, who sat near him, made up a well-dressed and handsome group; the pictorial effect of which was suddenly marred by the apparition of a stranger in the doorway.

He was tall, muscular, and what little could be seen of his face through a heavy growth of whiskers was mild and prepossessing, in spite of two large scars just visible below the broad brim of a rough hat. His dress was faded and dirty.

The stranger stood in the doorway, and surveyed the occupants of the room.

Old Van Quintem looked at the intruder a moment, and then said, as if remembering something, "Are you the man sent by Crumley to mend my piazza railing?"

There was the least hesitation in the man's voice, as he answered, "Yes, sir. I'm here to do that job." His voice was a deep growl, as of a grizzly bear half tamed.

"Where are your tools?" asked old Van Quintem.

The stranger communed with himself, and then replied, in the most natural manner, "I s'pose I only want a saw, a hammer, and a few nails. You have 'em, haven't yer?"

"You're a funny sort of carpenter, to travel without your tools. Do you know, now, that you look more like a California miner than a carpenter?"

"That's not very 'markable," returned the stranger, in profound guttural accents, "considerin' as how I come from California this week."

"You have brought home tons of gold, I dare say," said old Van Quintem, playfully.

"A little," growled the stranger. "The diggins was poor in Calaveras County when I fust went there, but latterly they improved."

At the mention of Calaveras County, the widow suddenly fixed her eyes upon the stranger, and then dropped them on her crotchet work.

Matthew Maltboy here conceived a happy thought, namely, to ask this stranger if he ever knew Amos Frump (the deceased husband of Mrs. Frump), who was killed in that very county in an affray growing out of a disputed claim, five years before. Mrs. Frump, after her engagement to Matthew, had furnished him with slips from three California papers, giving full particulars of the sanguinary affair. Before he was engaged, he had never felt the slightest curiosity to know the history of his predecessor; but, since then, he had entertained a strong secret desire to learn more of him, and especially of the reasons which induced him to abandon a young and lovely wife, and make a Californian exile of himself. Upon this subject the widow had never volunteered any satisfactory information, and he had been politely reluctant to ask her about it.

Old Van Quintem, who was too sleepy at that time to talk much, procured the necessary tools from a cupboard in the kitchen, and showed the stranger what work was to be done. The old gentleman then returned to his easy chair by the window, threw a handkerchief over his head, and settled himself for a nap.

Before the carpenter had struck the first blow, Matthew Maltboy rose, remarked to the widow that he wanted to stretch himself a little, and walked out upon the piazza.

The carpenter stood near the door, with the saw in one hand and the hammer in the other, very much in the attitude of listening. At Matthew's approach, he commenced feeling the teeth of the saw, as if to test their sharpness.

"I would like to speak a word with you, sir," said Matthew, in a low voice, motioning the carpenter to accompany him to a corner of the piazza, out of the widow's possible hearing.

Having attained that safe position, Matthew opened the great subject.

"You remarked that you had dug gold in Calaveras County," said he. "Did you ever happen to know a man by the name of Frump—Amos Frump—who was a miner there?"

"Frump!" replied the carpenter. "He was an intimate friend of mine."

"Now that's lucky," said Matthew, "for I want to find out something about the man."

"Then you've come to the right shop," answered the carpenter; "for his own brother—if he ever had one—couldn't tell you more about him than I."

"I am indeed fortunate. In the first place, then this man Frump is really—dead?"

The carpenter pulled his rough hat farther over his forehead, and replied:

"As dead as two big splits in the skull could make him. But 'xcuse me, sir; he was my bosom friend, and I can't bear to talk of his death."

"He is dead, then, and no mistake," said Matthew, soliloquizing. "Yet I am not exactly glad to know it."

The carpenter's face expressed surprise at this remark.

"I beg your pardon," said Matthew. "Of course I am not glad to hear of your friend's death. But, to tell the truth," he continued (inventing an excuse), "I had always heard that this Frump was a wild fellow; that he didn't treat his wife decently, and at last ran away from her. You see I am acquainted with the family. In fact, I know Mrs. Frump quite well."

"And did she tell you all this about her dead husband?" asked the carpenter.

"Oh, no!" returned Matthew, who began to fear that he had gone too far. "She never says anything about his personal character. I only spoke from common report."

"Then common report is a common liar; for I know there never was a steadier chap than this same Amos Frump; and his wife can't say that he ever struck her, or said a cross word to her. Amos told me all about himself; and I'd believe him through thick and thin." The carpenter spoke in his dismal chest voice, without the least indication of excitement.

"Then why did he leave his wife? and why did she never hear of him until the time of his death? You will confess that that was odd."

"I give you the reasons," answered the carpenter, "as Amos give 'em to me. It seems that he was a poor, uneducated feller. She had a few thousand dollars from her grandfather's property, and was sent by her parents to the best o' schools. Though he and she were so much unlike, they got up a kind o' fondness for each other from the time when Amos saved her from bein' run over by a horse. They used to meet each other secretly, because, you see, her folks didn't like Amos. They thought that a girl with three or four thousand dollars in her own name, ought to set her eyes rather above a feller like him. Well, arter no end o' trouble, they was married. Her folks pretended to treat Amos all right, but was allers talkin' agin him; and finally they pizened her mind with the idee that he had married her only for her money, and that all the while he loved another gal. She began to treat him very cold like, and, one day, when she was in a little bit of temper—"

"Has Mrs. Frump any temper?" asked Matthew, anxiously. "I never saw it."

"But you a'n't her husband," replied the carpenter. "Amos told me that she did show a leetle temper now and then. However, he allers said she was a pooty good gal in the main. Well, one day, when her dander was up about somethin', she told him that she b'lieved he married her for her money, and she'd die before he should have a cent. Amos was a proud feller, if he was poor; and, when he heerd this, he left the house right off, walked to New York, and shipped as a sailor to San Francisco. I met him when he fust come to the mines, and, as he was a spry, tough chap, I let him work a claim with me on shares. We ate and slept together, and many a time, in the dark night, has he spoke to me about his wife, and how much he thought of her; but he said he never should go back till he had money enough to buy out her and her hull family. We was very unlucky, and Amos got downhearted, and took to drink. By and by he moved off to another claim, and worked on his own hook. He did better there; but all the gold he dug out he used to spend in gamblin' and rum; and at last a drunken quarrel put an end to Amos Frump."

"Poor fellow!" said Matthew. "And do you think the widow ever grieved for him?"

"No, I guess not; for Amos allers said that she was not a very lovin', affectionate woman; though, if he had been as rich as her, or if her family had let her alone, she would have made him a tol'able wife."

"Not loving! Not affectionate!" thought Matthew. "And I am about to marry her!" A cold shudder crept over him.

Hiding his emotions with an effort, he again interrogated the affable carpenter:

"And do you really think that Mr. Frump would have returned, and lived again with his wife, if he had become rich?"

"To be sure he would. He couldn't marry anybody else, yer know, without committin' bigamy. He allers said he didn't care much whether his wife loved him, so long as she treated him civilly."

"Mr. Frump had practical views of married life," suggested Matthew.

"Amos was sensible in some things," said the carpenter. "But he was a queer feller, too. He allers had a notion of comin' home kind o' disguised, so that his wife shouldn't know him. I used to tell him that a few more years in Californy would make him so thin, yaller, and grizzly, that he wouldn't need no disguise."



CHAPTER VI.

REVELATIONS OF A LAUGH.

The carpenter here burst out with an extraordinary peal of laughter. It was so very peculiar, that, once heard, it would always be identified with the person making it. This singular laugh consisted of a brilliant stacatto passage on a high key, interrupted by occasional snorts, and terminating with a slur which covered the whole descending octave. It was also very loud and very long.

It had the effect of bringing Mrs. Frump to the door. She thrust out her head, unseen by either the carpenter or Matthew, and looked at the former with a wondering air.

"It was an odd idea," said Matthew, laughing slightly out of compliment to the carpenter, though he could not understand what there was to laugh at.

"And now," continued he, when the carpenter's cachinations had subsided, "I will explain to you my motive in asking all these questions. I am engaged to Mrs. Frump, and she is now—"

The carpenter immediately broke into another of his remarkable laughs, louder and longer than before.

"Well, sir," said Matthew, sarcastically, "when you get through, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me what you are laughing about?"

"The idee—ha! ha!—of your—ha! ha!—marrying Mrs.—ha! ha! ha!" and the remainder of the sentence was lost in that monstrous laugh.

Matthew, irritated by this most aggravating species of ridicule, took the carpenter's measure for a kick—but judiciously refrained from fitting him with one.

The second of the carpenter's laughs had made the widow (still stealthily looking out of the door) turn pale. The third had inspired her with a painful curiosity, which she had determined to gratify, at any risk. Before the last laugh, she had, therefore, crept up, unobserved, near where Matthew and the carpenter were standing, with their backs toward her. Coming around suddenly in front of them, she saw the carpenter's mouth wide open, still in the act of laughing, and observed that one of his front teeth was out. The widow screamed, and fell—into Matthew's arms, nearly flooring him.

"Hold on to her," said the carpenter. "She will come to in a minute."

"Who, sir—who on earth are you?" shouted Matthew, struggling under the burdensome widow and a sense of mental bewilderment.

"I am Amos Frump," he replied, in a voice which had suddenly risen five notes.

"The widow's husband! The dead come to life!" exclaimed Matthew, starting back, and nearly dropping the inanimate form.

Astounded as he was, he did not forget the marital rights of the man before him; and he said, with a trembling voice, politely, "I beg your pardon; but, as you are this lady's husband, perhaps you had better hold her."

"She appears to be doing very well where she is," replied the singularly calm Amos Frump. "A moment more, and she will be out of her fainting spell. I've seed her very often this way before."

Mr. Frump's prediction was verified; for his lips had scarcely closed on the words, when Mrs. Frump opened her eyes, and feebly said, "Is it a dream?"

"No, Gusty," replied the composed Amos; "it is a husband come back from Californy, with fifty thousand dollars."

"It is—it is my own 'husband's voice!" cried Mrs. Frump, throwing herself impulsively out of Matthew's arms upon the patched and faded coat of her restored consort.

"I thought you would know the voice," said Amos, "and that's the reason I changed it into a growl. This 'ere old Californy suit was a pooty good disguise, too. But my confounded laugh betrayed me. I didn't think to change that."

The third laugh had roused old Van Quintem from a nice nap, and he came out on the piazza.

"Hallo, Mr. Carpenter! what are you doing there?" said he, good-naturedly.

A few words from the supposed carpenter defined his position, and threw old Van Quintem into the appropriate state of amazement. Looking at the shaggy face by a variety of lights, he soon came to recognize it as that of his niece's husband, whom he had seen a few times on his yearly visits to the country, before his farming brother, Nicholas Van Quintem, father of Mrs. Frump, had died.

"From the way Gusty hangs to you, I judge you are no ghost," said old Van Quintem, when he had partly recovered his senses.

"No more than I am a carpenter," was the dry response.

"But how does it happen that you are no ghost?" asked old Van Quintem, with fearful interest.

This was what everybody wanted to know; and so Mr. Frump, supporting his wife by the waist, while she, apparently half stupefied, reposed her head on his shoulder, explained the mystery of his appearance. He had been severely injured in a drunken quarrel about a claim—he would not deny that; and, taking off his broad-brimmed hat, he showed the two deep scars extending from his eyebrows to the roots of his hair. He was left on the ground for dead, and his assailants ran away. The enterprising correspondent of three San Francisco papers saw him when he was first found, and, learning that he would undoubtedly die, the enterprising correspondent regarded him as already sufficiently dead for newspaper purposes, and sent three thrilling accounts of his butchery, written up with ingenious variations, to the three journals of which he was the indefatigable "special." In a few days, the nearly murdered man was out of danger. On learning that the news of his death had already been sent to the papers, the singular idea came into his mind to let the report go uncontradicted, change his name, give up drinking, move away to some place where he was not known, and begin his miner's life over again. The special correspondent, on being consulted by him, assured Mr. Frump that he could depend on his (the correspondent's) silence, since it was his invariable practice never to take back or qualify any statement made by him—such a course being obviously fatal to his hard-earned reputation for accuracy. The correspondent also very obligingly supplied him with copies of the papers containing the circumstantial accounts of his death, which he directed in a disguised hand, and sent through the mail to his wife. He had then assumed another name, gone into Benicia County, was successful in gold digging, and, after making about two thousand dollars, had taken up his residence in the nearest village (undesignated), and had invested his money in speculations (kind not particularized). Fortune followed him, but he found it convenient, for certain reasons (not given), to move away to another village, in a few months. In fact, he had, within four years, made the entire circuit of California, never staying in one place more than a quarter of a year.

"I don't want to brag," said Mr. Frump, "but it is well enough to have it understood that I made my pile."

Mr. Frump nodded his head quietly, as one who does not lie.

Old Van Quintem had hitherto hesitated to congratulate Mrs. Frump upon the reacquisition of her husband. He now advanced, and shook her warmly by the hand.

"I wish you joy," said he. "And you too, Mr. Frump. I never had the pleasure of meeting you often, though I had frequently heard of you. With regard to those unpleasant family difficulties in which you became involved, they are now at an end; for Gusty's parents are both dead, and the old house and farm are sold. Let bygones be bygones."

"So say I, Mr. Van Quintem," said Mr. Frump, grasping the extended hand. "As for my wife's relatives, I'm sure I allers forgave 'em. As for the old house and farm, if you like, Gusty, we'll buy it back agin."

Mrs. Frump, still resting on her husband's shoulder, sobbed a little, and clung closer about him.

"Here is one friend of the family," continued Amos, in his pleasantest manner, pointing to Matthew, "whom I don't know by name, though we've scraped an off-hand 'quaintance."

"Mr. Frump—Matthew Maltboy, Esq.," said old Van Quintem.

Matthew, like Mrs. Frump, had fully appreciated the awkwardness of his situation, and had kept a rigid silence since the returned Californian resumed possession of his wife. The minute after Mr. Frump's identity had been established, Matthew could have hugged him with ecstasy. But, having lost the widow, his fickle mind straightway began to discover in her a great many excellencies that he had never seen before. Therefore, when he submitted his hand to the grip of Mr. Frump, his face expressed a strangely mingled joy and regret.

"I like you," said Mr. Frump, "and, as soon as wifey and I commence housekeepin' agin, I'll expect lots o' visits from you. Whenever I'm not at home, wifey'll make everything comfortable. Won't you, dear?"

"If you wish it," replied Mrs. Frump, looking up into his face, which was not a repulsive one, "for your word shall always be my law."

"I must say," said Matthew, his face exhibiting unqualified admiration for Mr. Frump, "that you are the most generous man I ever met. And, if Mrs. Frump will promise to introduce me to some nice young woman, that she could recommend for a wife, perhaps I'll accept your invitation."

"I'll get you a wife in less than a week," said Mrs. F., who was rejoiced that the interview between her recovered husband and late suitor had ended peacefully.

"But one thing you haven't yet explained, Amos," said old Van Quintem. "How did you get into Crumley's employment?"

"Bless your innocent heart, I am not! I arrived this mornin', in the steamer——, straight from Aspinwall, with this old scarecrow suit on, jest as you see me now. I was intendin' to take the railroad for Tioga County, and play off a leetle surprise on Gusty, and her relations up there. But, before goin', it 'curred to me to call on a Mr. Lambkin, who was raised in Tioga, and keeps a grocery store in the lower part of Washington street. I found Mr. Lambkin in, and he told me as how, accordin' to last accounts, Gusty was stayin' with her uncle Van Quintem. I knowed your address, and come up here short metre. I was goin' to pretend that I was a man in search of work, and trust to luck to get a sight of Gusty. I found your front door open, and walked through the entry to the back parlor, where you fust see me standin'. Afore I could ask you for any work, you wanted to know if I hadn't been sent to mend your piazza railing. It was easy to say 'Yes,' and I said it."

"And very well you carried out the joke, Amos," said old Van Quintem. "You wouldn't make a bad actor."

"Rather better actor than carpenter, I guess," said Mr. Frump.

"Perhaps so," said old Van Quintem; "but a financier of your talent needn't act, or mend railings, for a living. I should like to know, now, how you made your money in California. Nine out of ten who go there, come back poorer than they went."

"'Tisn't best to ask too many questions of a returned Californian," answered Amos, in perfect good humor.

"Nor of anybody else, about business matters. You are right," added old Van Quintem.

"I say to wifey, and to all my friends, 'Let bygones be bygones. Take me as you find me, and I'll take you as I find you; and we'll ax no questions on either side.'"

"Dear Amos, you are the best of husbands!" said Mrs. Frump, looking fondly in his face. Mr. Frump improved as he was looked at.

"Let bygones be bygones' is a very good rule," said old Van Quintem.

"Mr. Frump," said Matthew, unable longer to repress the compliment, "you have a wonderful amount of good sense!"

"I told you," was the laughing reply, "that 'Amos was sensible in some things.'"



BOOK THIRTEENTH

THE STRANGE LADY.



CHAPTER I.

A STORY OF THE PAST.

Another year slipped away, and wrought many changes among the inhabitants of the block. Some of them had passed from stately mansions to those narrow houses which are appointed for all the living. Others had wedded, and moved to other blocks which were to be their future homes—till the 1st of the following May. Some of them had grown rich by quick speculations, and got into the choicest society by the simple manoeuvre of taking a four-story brownstone front in the avenue which formed the eastern boundary of the block. Others had attained to poverty by the same process, and had migrated to cheaper lodgings in blocks remote, expecting that a lucky turn of Fortune's wheel would bring them back to fashionable life next year, as it most likely would. The principal personages of this history had been radically affected by this lapse of time—as will hereafter be shown—with the single exception of Marcus Wilkeson.

For one year, life had passed tranquilly, uneventfully. He had sought, and found, in his dear books, a panacea for that sickness of the heart which sometimes attacked him in his lonelier hours. At such, times, he would repeat to himself these expressive lines of an old poet:

This books can do; nor this alone; they give New views of life, and teach us how to live; The grieved they soothe, the stubborn they chastise; Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise. Their aid they yield to all; they never shun The man of sorrow, or the wretch undone. Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd, Nor tell to various people various things, But show to subjects what they show to kings.

The end of the quiet, sad (but not unpleasantly sad) twelve months found Marcus, on a bright morning in the month of August, sitting at his window, with a favorite book on his knees, looking—where he should not have looked so much—at that window in the old house where the only tragedy of his life had been wrought. As he gazed, like one fascinated by a spell, his features lengthened, and the habitually melancholy expression of his face became deepened and confirmed.

So wrapt was he in these unhappy self-communings, that he did not hear a vigorous "rat-tat-tat" on the door of the little back parlor. A repetition of the performance aroused him, and to his call, "Come in," Mash, the cook, presented herself.

"A woman at the door wishes to speak to you, sir, on important business, she says. Shall I show her in, sir?" Mash laid stress on the word "woman," in retaliation for the somewhat peremptory way in which the person in question had accosted her at the door. The "Buttery and the Boudoir—a Tale of Real Life," afforded her a precedent on this point.

"Show in the lady," said Marcus, wondering who she could be.

A tall, shapely person, dressed in deep black, and wearing a thick veil, was ushered into the room. She bowed slightly, and took a seat which Marcus offered her, near the window, and then looked significantly at Mash, who lingered in an uncertain way about the door.

"You may shut the door, Mash," said Marcus; and Mash did so with a little slam, intended to pierce the heart of the mysterious woman in black, for whom that domestic had, in one minute, conceived a mortal dislike.

The strange woman drew back her veil, and revealed a thin, pale face, which might have been handsome twenty years back. "Do you remember having seen me before?"

Marcus looked into the thin face with polite scrutiny. "Yes, madam," said he, at length. "I think I saw you on a railway train in New Jersey, over a year ago; and also in the town of—, in that State, on the evening of a certain unfortunate exhibition. But you are changed, in some respects, since then."

"You would say that I am paler and thinner; and I am here to tell you why I am, and also to make all the atonement in my power for a crime that I have committed."

Marcus Wilkeson's first thought was of the unfathomed murder. His startled face expressed what was passing through his mind.

The strange woman read his thoughts. "The crime to which I refer is not the murder of Mr. Minford; of which, I may here say, I believed, from the first, that you were entirely innocent. Crimes—of that character, at least—have never been known in your family."

"All that you say, taken in connection with some curious circumstances which occurred on that railway ride, and that memorable night in New Jersey," said Marcus, "make me intensely anxious to hear what you have to tell. Please impart the information at once, and fully. I call Heaven to witness, that your name, your history, the secret which you are to reveal, shall pass with me to the grave, if you desire it."

"I accept your offer," said she, with emotion, "though my crime is so flagrant that no publicity, no punishment would be too great for it. Still, as full justice can be done, and reparation made, without this public disgrace, I prefer that my identity should be unknown except to you. I think that I have but few months to live." The woman expelled a hacking cough.

"My story must be short," said she, "and suited to my strength and this cough. You probably remember Lucy Anserhoff, who was a little playmate of yours in your native village? I see, by your nod, that you do. I am—she. You may well look surprised, for there is little in my haggard face and wasted form to recall that once innocent girl. You remember, I presume, my engagement to your brother Aurelius—excuse my faltering, sir, for, even at this distance of time, I cannot speak of your dead brother without emotion. It is not necessary to recall to your memory the details of your brother's conduct to me, and how he afterward married—another—and moved to this city. This early portion of my unfortunate career is well known to you, as it was to all the people of our little village."

Here the strange visitor paused, and coughed. The cough was dry and hollow.

She continued: "I think I may say that I was amiable and good enough, as a child. But your brother's desertion changed my whole nature. I dwelt upon one thought—revenge. I shudder as I confess it, but, for months, I meditated taking the life of the man who had wronged me. I came to this city twice, and lay in wait for him; but my heart faltered, and, thank God! I did not commit that crime. Soon, Heaven interposed—so it seemed to me at that wicked time—to help on my work of vengeance. Your brother's wife died, giving birth to a female child. I used to ride into the city twice a week regularly after this, and watch for him near his place of business, that I might gloat on his pale, unhappy face. I see the look of horror with which you receive this part of my confession; but you will bear in mind, sir, that I am hero to tell the truth, concealing nothing. You remember, sir, the old lines about a woman scorned? I, sir, can bear witness to their awful truth."

Another fit of coughing here interrupted her. At length she resumed, in a feebler voice: "I must hasten while I can talk at all. One day, while I was watching near your brother's house for his appearance, the door opened, and a servant appeared, with a child in her arms—his child. The servant walked down the street, and I followed her, unobserved, until she came to Washington Parade Ground. She entered the park, and took a seat near the fountain. I sat down on a bench near her. It was not long before I made the girl's acquaintance, and had the child in my arms, caressing it with well-counterfeited kindness. Suddenly, the girl recollected that she had left the street door of the house unlocked, and was afraid that the house, having not a soul in it, would be robbed during her absence. She was so much troubled about it, that she asked me to hold the child—then about a year old—until she could go and lock up the house, and return. A horrible suggestion came into my mind, and I took the child in my arms. The servant was no sooner out of my sight, than I rose, and, clasping the child tightly, walked rapidly in the opposite direction. When I had got out of the park, among the side streets near North River, I ran until I was tired, turning at every corner, to avoid pursuit. My plan was clear from the moment that the child was left in my charge. It was, to give her into the keeping of some stranger, and so rob the widowed father of his only child. It was a scheme worthy of the lost and wretched woman that I then was."

A fit of coughing here set in, interrupting the narrative for several minutes. Marcus offered his strange guest a glass of water. She sipped it, until her cough was checked.

"I wished to make a full and minute statement, sir; but this cough again warns me to be very brief. In a word, then, I had not gone far, before I saw a German woman—a neat, elderly person—sitting on the stoop of her house. An impulse moved me to leave the child with her. I accosted her, but she answered me in German, saying that she could not speak English. Hardly knowing what I did, I mounted the steps, and placed the child in her arms, first kissing it. Then I tossed my pocket book, containing about twenty dollars, into her lap, and, without another word or act, ran off again. As I drew near the next corner, I turned, and saw the German woman still sitting on the stoop, looking at the child, and then at the money, and then at my flying form, in perfect amazement.

"Well, I returned to my country home in safety. Next day, I saw in the New York papers a reward of five hundred dollars for the recovery of the child, and the same amount for the arrest of the woman who stole it. My person was described, according to the recollection of the servant, but so imperfectly that I could not be identified. In two weeks I visited the city again, found the house where I had left the child—for I had remembered, even in my haste, the street and the number. The poor little thing was well, and had learned to love its new mother, who, in turn, seemed to love it as well as her own two children. I kissed the child, left more money with the German woman, and fled again to my home. These visits I repeated from week to week for six months, without detection. The German woman supposed that I was the mother of the child, but knew there was a secret, and did not seek to disturb it. At the end of the six months, your—your—brother died." (There was here a slight quaver in her voice, almost instantly passing away.) "Soon after this, my mother died, and the last of our family estate was spent on her burial." (Another tremor in the voice, but brief. The woman seemed to have perfect control of her feelings.)

"Fortunately, I was qualified to earn my living as a seamstress. I went to the city, advertised for such a place, and obtained it. I visited the child secretly, sometimes, and left money for its support and clothing. But the idea of detection and exposure troubled me greatly. One day, I read an advertisement from a married couple who had no children, offering to adopt a girl under two years of age. I answered the advertisement, and thus became acquainted with—"

"I anticipate the disclosure," said Marcus. "Mr. Minford! And the poor, dear child is my niece. Heaven be praised, she is found at last!"



CHAPTER II.

POSSIBLE LOVE.

"You have guessed rightly. Miss Minford is your niece. The proofs will be found in this packet. They are articles of clothing, taken from the child as fast as new ones were supplied, to prevent its identification, bearing the initials of Helen Wilkeson. I preserved them, with the vague idea of benefiting her by them, some day. I have seen the child by stealth a few times since I gave her to Mr. and Mrs. Minford, but never called at their house. It was agreed between us that I should never make myself known as the child's mother, and that they should never seek to learn my name and history. I acted as seamstress in several families in this city, until, about five years ago, I obtained an engagement in a family in New Jersey, living in the very town where that unlucky panorama was exhibited. It happened, as you know, that you and I rode in the same car from New York, where I had been on a shopping excursion. I recognized and was profoundly impressed with your resemblance to your brother. Learning that you were connected with the panorama, I attended the exhibition, that I might observe you more closely. There you were arrested on the charge of murdering Mr. Minford—of which, I again say, I always believed that you were totally innocent. You may remember that a woman fainted away. I was she. The sudden recollection of those two names—Wilkeson and Minford—in such a connection, was too much even for my nerves. I read the trial with fearful interest, and rejoiced in your release from the accusation. Providence at last seemed to point out the way to make all the reparation for my crime. I should have done it immediately after your acquittal, had I not seen by the papers that a wealthy lady—Mrs. Crull—had given your niece a home in her family. I postponed this act of justice from one week to another, until my failing health warned me that it could not be put off with safety longer. I thank Heaven that I have had strength and resolution to do it at last."

"This act of atonement, madam," said Marcus, "entitles you to my respect and sympathy. If you ever need a friend, I trust you will do me the favor of calling on me."

"I thank you," she replied; "but I have means enough to support me for the remainder of my days, which are numbered. The family in which I live, little knowing my true history, are very kind to me."

The protracted conversation had not been closed too soon. A violent cough seized upon the poor woman's frame, and shook it like a leaf. When it had ceased, Marcus observed that her lips were streaked with blood.

He begged to send for a doctor, but she would not have one, and rose to take her leave.

Marcus insisted, however, upon ordering a carriage for her conveyance to the New Jersey Railroad Depot, and she at length consented to receive that kindness from him.

To the driver he whispered words of caution, and instructed him to take the lady to a physician, in case she was ill on the journey; and, if so, to report, immediately thereafter, to him. He then shook her hand frankly, and begged her again to remember that he should always be her friend.

She smiled sadly, as she replied: "Again and again I thank you, sir; but it is useless to accept your kind offers, for we are meeting for the last time."

The carriage was driven slowly away.

The poor woman's word's were true; and Marcus never saw her more.



CHAPTER III

UNCLE AND NIECE.

Marcus Wilkeson had seen Pet but twice since the inquest—once in Mrs. Crull's carriage, and once afoot, on the opposite side of the street. He was delicately conscious that she regarded him with distrust or aversion; and, raising his hat politely to her, bowed, and passed on. He had expressly enjoined upon Tiffles and Overtop, in the communications which they had with her relative to the "Cosmopolitan Window Fastener," not to mention his name. He shrank from appearing to force himself on her notice.

The discovery of her real parentage had modified Marcus's sensitiveness somewhat. He was now no longer in the ridiculous position of a middle-aged, hopeless lover, but was an uncle, with a charming niece whom he could honorably love like a father. His first impulse, after the departure of the mysterious woman, was to hurry around to Mrs. Crull's house, unpack his bundle of proofs, and embrace the dear child with avuncular affection.

Upon him, glowing with this impulse, came the calm, deep Overtop, to whom Marcus told the strange story. Overtop listened with lawyer-like composure, and, when Marcus had finished, asked for the bundle. "The story is likely enough," said he, "but a lawyer wants to know all the proofs."

So saying, he removed from the parcel the string which bound it, and which, with the wrapping cloth, had become yellow with age, and brought to view a baby's long frock, and a cap made of the finest materials, and heavily fringed with lace, and a pair of tarnished golden morocco shoes of fairy dimensions. Upon an edge of the dress were daintily wrought, in needle work, the initials, H.W. A separate package contained extracts from three daily papers, giving accounts of the "Mysterious Disappearance of a Child," and an advertisement, signed Aurelius Wilkeson, offering five hundred dollars for the recovery of his daughter Helen, and describing the circumstances of the abduction so far as they were known, and the articles of dress which the infant wore at the time.

"So far, so good," said Overtop; "but it now remains to identify the original owner of these baby clothes with Miss Minford. We must find some old friends or acquaintances of the late inventor, who can testify that he adopted a child during the year 18—."

Marcus, whose memory was tenacious of names, recollected that Mr. Minford, in his few confidential moments, had told him of several persons whom he had known in more prosperous days.

With these memoranda to guide him, Overtop went resolutely to work, and, in two days, found four old friends of Mr. and Mrs. Minford, who remembered the very year when they adopted an infant child. It was the same year that the daughter of Aurelius Wilkeson had disappeared. Overtop, being a Notary Public, took the affidavits of these persons as he went along.

Here Overtop would have stopped, and left Marcus to break the important news of his new-found relationship to the young lady. But Marcus, who had a perfect horror of scenes, begged his friend to do this troublesome piece of diplomacy for him, but promised, when it was done, to appear at Mrs. Crull's in his new character of uncle.

Overtop performed the difficult task with success. He found Pet not altogether unprepared for the discovery. She recalled to mind several conversations and significant glances between Mr. and Mrs. Minford (the latter died in Pet's twelfth year), in which there was an evident allusion to the mystery of her birth. She remembered how often persons had expressed surprise that she did not resemble her supposed father or mother in the least. She remembered that, on those occasions, Mrs. Minford had been much disconcerted; and Mr. Minford, remarking that it was a freak of nature, he presumed, had always seemed desirous of changing the subject. She remembered that this strange want of resemblance to either of her reputed parents had often been a puzzle to her before Mrs. Minford's death.

With regard to Lucy Anserhoff, and the causes which prompted her to the abduction of the child. Overtop said nothing; because, among other reasons, Marcus, true to his solemn pledge, had told him nothing. He explained that the crime had been committed by a person who had formerly been a servant in her father's family; and that she had made full confession to her uncle, only on condition that her name should never be mentioned to any human being.

Mrs. Crull, who to a practical mind united a love of the romantic and marvellous, accepted Overtop's proofs even more readily than Pet. She said she had observed, at the inquest, a wonderful resemblance between Mr. Wilkeson and her darling, especially in the nose and eyes. Overtop, being appealed to to mark the likeness, took an oracular three-quarters view of the young lady, and said that the word "niece" was written on her face.

"He's your uncle, my dear," said Mrs. Crull. "There a'n't no doubt o' that. But don't forget that I'm your mother, now."

Pet kissed Mrs. Crull, and placed her little hand confidingly in the large, ineradicably red hand of her protectress.

"Now that Marcus Wilkeson stands in the relation of uncle to you," said Overtop, "there is no harm in telling you something." He then broke to her the secret of her uncle's important aid in the affair of the "Cosmopolitan Window Fastener"—the sole credit of which had always been attributed by Pet and Mrs. Crull to Wesley Tiffles and Overtop, agreeably to the wish of Marcus.

"What a fool I've been," said Mrs. Crull, "to feel the least doubt about this excellent man! It was very weak of me, I s'pose, Mr. Overtop; but I don't mind tellin' you, that, after what had 'curred, I thought that Mr. Wilkeson's quaintance with Pet had better be stopped. I take all the 'sponsibility of it. We must make it up, by thinkin' all the more of him now."

At the suggestion of Overtop, a servant, with Mrs. Crull's carriage, was now sent for Marcus, and soon returned with him.

When he entered the room, Pet rose, and walked toward him, half hesitating. Her face was very pale, and her lips quivered. "My dear uncle!" she said, and turned her sweet face up to be kissed.

Marcus, to whom the probable character of his reception had been a distressing subject of conjecture, was delighted at this frank, affectionate greeting, and stooped and imprinted an uncle's kiss on the young girl's brow. It was a pleasant way out of an embarrassment.

The conflicting emotions of the hour were too much for Pet; and she tottered to Mrs. Crull's arms, and wept for a few moments.

"You are her uncle, Mr. Wilkeson," said Mrs. Crull, extending her red right hand, while, with her left, she smoothed Pet's thick brown hair, "but I am her mother." Mrs. Crull seized upon this early opportunity to give notice that her rights as adopted parent were not to be abridged.

"And happy she is in having such a mother, my dear Mrs. Crull," said Marcus.

A quick ring, as of a familiar visitor, was heard at the door. The servant ushered in Bog. He was much changed since his last presentation to the reader. Six months of worldly polish, of private tutoring, and of a strong desire to appear well in the eyes of one he loved, had turned the clumsy boy into the quiet but stylish young gentleman. He had given up the bill-posting business, not because he was sick of it, or ashamed of it, but because old Van Quintem loved his adopted son so well, that he could not spare him from his side. Bog passed the greater portion of every day with him, rambling through the streets, or riding to the suburbs in the old family carriage, or reading the dear old books to him. Bog read well now, and had learned to love those repositories of wit and wisdom with almost as keen a relish as the venerable white-headed listener. This was another bond of affection between the old gentleman and himself.

At Bog's entrance. Pet looked up, and showed the sparkling tears in her eyes. A deep shade of anxiety passed over the young man's face, and he looked around for an explanation.

The prompt Overtop was ready to give it; and, in a few moments, Bog was enlightened with the great discovery.

"And Pet has been crying a little because she is so happy—that's all," added Mrs. Crull. "Sit down here, Bog."

Mrs. Crull made room for him on the other end of the sofa where she was sitting—her left hand still smoothing the soft brown hair of her adopted child.

Bog took the seat, and smiled across the good lady's broad figure to Pet, who smiled back at him again.

This expressive exchange of glances was not lost on Marcus. He instantly saw, what he had not divined before, that the devotion, the self-sacrifice, the constant, unswerving love of the boy, had at last sounded its echo in the bosom of the maiden. As he swiftly contrasted the manly, athletic figure of the young man, with the delicate beauty of his niece, he thought how well they were adapted to each other; and wondered that he could ever have been so blind and conceited as to suppose that a nervous old bachelor like himself could win the heart of that fresh and youthful image of loveliness. And how thankful he then was that he had never, by a single word, hinted at the mad love which he once felt for her.

He had no cause to blush now!



BOOK FOURTEENTH.

HAPPY DAYS.



CHAPTER I.

OWNERS OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

The world and all its inhabitants had rolled round to another fragrant spring. The buds were bursting in city parks and gardens, and birds twittered in the dusty air. Every happy heart said to itself, "This green, and these opening roses, this music of the birds, this shining day, this temperate breeze, are all mine, and made for me."

There were two young persons, one sweet morning in May, who experienced a delightful sense of that universal proprietorship of the Beautiful. They were a couple who appeared to be expressly made for each other; for the young man was tall and broad chested, the young woman short, and delicately formed; his eyes were black, hers blue; he was calm, resolute, deliberate in every movement, she quick and impulsive. There never was a clearer case of mutual fitness by virtue of entire dissimilarity.

Any one could see that they loved each other, and that, if they were not married, they were engaged—for her little hand was entwined most trustingly about his muscular arm, and she leaned toward him with that gentle inclination which seems to be a magnetism of the heart.

"Are you happy, my own Pet?" asked the young man, looking proudly down at the beautiful face beside him.

"Happy! dear Bog—for I will always call you Bog. You know I am!" Her blue eyes filled with tears.

If excess of happiness had not choked her voice, she would have asked Bog if he thought she could be other than perfectly happy in the love of her adopted mother, in the love of her dear uncle—who was at once a father and brother in his tender solicitudes—in the love of that darling old gentleman, Myndert Van Quintem, and in one other love, which it was not necessary to mention.

But Bog knew that she was supremely happy, and he needed no such elaborate answer. He also knew that he possessed the first, fresh, and only love that she had ever cherished. All the events in connection with her Greenpoint adventure, both before and after it, proved that she had never loved young Van Quintem, and that her sentiments toward him were only those of gratitude for his supposed saving of her life, and an innocent, childlike confidence in his good intentions.

The lovers sauntered down the street slowly, as if they would protract the walk. Not another word was said. Passing a garden full of roses, Bog reached through the fence, and plucked a full-blown white one and handed it to Pet. She eagerly took it, and pinned it to the bosom of her dress.

"Here we are, dearest; and I am almost ashamed to show myself to uncle, for I am such a stranger," said Bog, breaking the silence, as they stood at the foot of the memorable bell tower. "Hallo, Uncle Ith!" he shouted, looking upward.

The old gentleman thrust his white head out of an open window at the top, and said, "All right. Come up."

The door at the foot of the tower was open, and the young couple proceeded to comply with the invitation. Bog led the way, and gently dragged Pet from step to step, with much laughter on his part, and many charming little feminine screams on her party until the trap door was reached. Uncle Ith had combed his hair with his five fingers, retied his old black cravat, and put on his coat, to receive them. He smiled through the trap door, as they came in sight, and said, "Be very careful of the young lady, Bog. Mind, now, how the young lady steps."

Bog jumped through the trap door into the cupola. Then he lowered a hand to Pet, and Uncle Ith lent her the same assistance, and the two raised the precious burden to a place of safety. Uncle Ith, after he had been introduced to Pet, proudly, by his nephew, looked at her for a moment in silent admiration. He had never seen her before, but he knew her well from Bog's descriptions (hurriedly communicated by Bog when they had met in the street), and said to himself that the boy had done no more than justice to her rare beauty.

Then Uncle Ith looked at his nephew. "Ah, Bog," said he, shaking his head at him, "what changes Time does make! It seems only a few days ago that you was a little scrub of a chap, runnin' 'round town and pickin' up your livin'. And a very good and honest livin' you picked up, too. Now, here you are, a nicely dressed, tall, handsome young man, with a snug little fortun' all of your own earnin', not to mention your bein' the adopted son of that splendid old gentleman, Myndert Van Quintem. And, last and best, you are goin' to be married to this dear young lady to-morrer."

Pet blushed; and Bog said, "That is why we are here to-day, dear uncle. We must have you at the wedding."

Uncle Ith faltered. "Me at Mr. Van Quintem's! I should feel like a fish out o' water." He said nothing about the antiquated blue coat with brass buttons, the short, black trousers, and the figured satin vest, hanging up in a closet at home; but he thought of them, and what a stiff figure he would cut in them.

"But you must come, Uncle Ith!" said Pet, with her sweetest smile. "I ask it as a particular favor."

"You are my only living relative, you know, uncle," added Bog.

"We should not be happy, if you were away," said Pet, placing her hand confidingly on the old man's shoulder. Young persons always took to the good old man in this spontaneous way.

The entreaties of the couple, and the continual iteration of that name by which he loved to be called—"Uncle Ith"—finally overcame his objections. He reconciled himself to the prospect of the blue coat, short trousers, and gaudy vest, and solemnly promised to attend the wedding.

This important matter having been settled, Uncle Ith pointed out to Pet all the interesting objects to be seen from the tower, and adjusted the spyglass for her, and gave her near views of Governor's Island, the Palisades, and other remote objects. He also explained to her the process of striking the bell by means of the long iron lever, and told her that, if she would wait there long enough, she could hear how the big chap sounded ten feet away. Pet put her hands to her ears, in anticipation of the stunning noise, and laughingly said that she didn't think she would wait long.



CHAPTER II.

THE LAST OF A MYSTERY.

After Pet had looked at all the objects of interest visible from the bell tower—Uncle Ith pointing them out with the pride of an owner—Bog called Pet aside, and said, "Now, Uncle Ith, I have something to show her that I used to think most interesting of all."

Pet rested her hand upon his arm, and gazed through the southeastern window, in the direction indicated by Bog's forefinger.

"Right there," said he, "midway between those two tall chimneys, and a trifle south of the line of that steeple—the last two windows in the upper story of that old house—do you see them?"

Pet looked along his outstretched arm, to get the precise direction, and then said, hurriedly, "It is my old home."

The sight of those familiar windows, in which the calico curtains still hung, recalled the horrid vision of that dreadful night. Pet turned pale, and shuddered. "Let us look elsewhere, Bog," said she.

"I beg your pardon, dearest; but I wanted to tell you how many hours I had spent in this cupola, day and night, gazing at those two windows, and feeling, oh, so happy! if I could but catch a glimpse of you or your shadow. But I never told Uncle Ith about it."

Uncle Ith had not overheard this conversation, but he had followed with his eyes the direction pointed out by Bog. As the young couple stepped back from the window, he said:

"I see some strange sights occasionally, my children" (he was fond of calling young people his children), "I can tell you. There are a couple of windows, in the upper story of that old brick house, between the two big chimneys, that used to interest me some."

"We see them," said Bog and Pet.

"About five years back, I began to notice lights burnin' in that room, long after all other lights, except the street lamps, was put out. Of course, this attracted my attention, and I used to feel a queer kind of pleasure in looking into the room with my spyglass, and wonderin' what was goin' on there. The curtains were usually drawn over the lower sashes; but, this tower bein' fifty or sixty feet higher than the house, I could look over the top of the curtains, and see somethin'. An old man, tall and slim, and a young girl, 'peared to be the only folks that lived there. Are you sick, young lady?" said he, observing that Pet looked pale.

"Oh, no; I am not sick—only a little fatigued."

"What a brute I was, not to offer you a chair! Now do sit down, young lady."

Pet did so, and Uncle Ith resumed:

"The old gentleman was a machinist, I s'pose, for I used to see his shadow on the wall, goin' through the motions of filin', sawin', and hammerin', though I could never guess what he was workin' on. I have known him sometimes to be at this queer business till daylight. For three years the strange old gentleman never missed a night at his work. I fear you are not quite well, young lady. Take a glass of water."

Pet sipped from the proffered glass, and declared that she was much better now,

"One night, about two years ago, I took a look into this room with my spyglass. I generally didn't do it until three or four o'clock in the mornin', when all the other lights in the neighborhood was out. But, on that partickler night, about eleven o'clock, I happened to observe that one of the window curtains which covered the lower sash was left partly undrawn. This had never occurred before, and so I brought my glass to bear on the room at once. A tall gentleman, whose face I had often seen movin' in the room over the top o' the curtain, was just in the act of takin' his departure, which he did without shakin' hands. The old man then went to his place at the other window, and tackled to his work again. He had been at it about twenty minutes, when a bar, or rod, which stuck up above the curtain, and was somehow connected with his work, fell forward with a quick motion, as if it was jerked away. The old man stooped, picked it up, and fixed it in its place again. His face, as well as I could see through my glass in the night time, at that distance, showed a wonderful amount of surprise and astonishment—at the fall of this rod or bar, I s'pose. He then seemed to be filin' on somethin', and afterward stooped down, as if to put it into some part of the machine, or whatever it was. Jest at that minute the Post Office struck, and I put down my glass, and turned my head toward the sound, to catch the district. It struck seven. I jumped to the lever, and started the old bell for seven, too. As I was strikin' the first round, my eyes happened to rest on the strange window again. The old man was not standin' there. The bar, or rod, had fallen out of its place again, I s'posed, and I expected every minute to see the old man appear at the window, and fix it again. But he didn't show himself any more that night—and (which is the curious part of my story) I've never seen him since. Whether he dropped dead from heart disease, I can't guess; but certain I am that he is dead, for—"

Poor Pet here exhibited such signs of faintness, that Bog, who had been leaning against the edge of the window, gazing at the well-known window with a strange fascination, sprang to her side, and instantly bathed her brow with water from Uncle Ith's old pitcher, near at hand. This restored her. "Be calm, dearest," said Bog.

"What—what is the matter with the young lady?" asked Uncle Ith, in great trepidation. "Shall I run for a doctor?"

"No, Uncle Ith; no doctor. But we won't talk any more about this strange room at present. It affects Miss Wilkeson's nerves."

"The shock is past, dear Bog," said she, "and I can bear to hear everything."

"But you must promise to control yoursell, darling," said Bog, tenderly.

"One question, Uncle Ith," said he. "How long a time were your eyes off the room, after the first stroke for the Seventh District?"

"Not more than three seconds."

"And you are sure that there was nobody in the room?"

"Certain; for I must have seen him enter, or go out."

"Then, Uncle Ith, you have cleared up a great mystery."

"What! What mystery?"

"The death of Mr. Minford, the inventor, my old friend, and the protector and guardian of Miss Wilkeson. He lived in that very room! He was at work on a perpetual-motion machine! It was operated, somehow, by weights! It started suddenly, when you saw that rod, or lever, fall to the floor! Mr. Minford put the rod in its place, and made some little improvement in the works! The machine started again at a moment when your eyes were turned away! The rod fell with greater violence, struck the inventor on the head, and killed him! That is the whole story; and stupid we have all been not to have guessed it before."

Nature furnished her own sweet relief to Pet's pent-up emotions. She burst into tears. "Thank Heaven," said she, "it is all plain now!"

Pet had not whispered it to Mrs. Crull, or Bog, or her uncle, or to any other living soul, but the mystery of that awful night had hung over her young mind like a pall, which in vain she had tried to lift.

"What a blockhead I am," cried Uncle Ith, "not to take the papers! If I had only taken the papers, now, I should ha' read all about that affair, and might ha' guessed that the man who was s'posed to be murdered was the man I had seen workin' in that room for three years. Then I should ha' offered myself as a witness, and might ha' thrown some light on the business. I'll 'scribe for a paper to-day, instead of trustin' to hearsay for the news."

"And a very neglectful fellow was I," said Bog, "not to have called here and seen you, after that sad affair. But the truth was, that Pet went to live with her best of friends, Mrs. Crull, and I had no longer a desire to look at the room from your bell tower. In fact," Bog added, with a smile, "the tower has not been quite as interesting for two years past as it used to be. If I had come up here at any time since Mr. Minford's death, I should probably have told you of the supposed murder, and pointed out those windows to you. But—"

"But you forgot all about your old uncle. Ha! I understand. Well, I forgive you, seein' what there was to 'sturb your recollections." Uncle Ith looked affectionately at Pet, who smiled and blushed through her tears.

The old man continued: "I 'member once when we met in the street, about two years ago—"

"I used to come around this way, you must know, Uncle Ith, in order to meet you, two or three times a week."

"I give you credit for that, Bog. You never disowned your poor old uncle. But, as I was sayin', I 'member one time when we met, that you told me somethin' about the murder of somebody of your 'quaintance. But I didn't take no partickler interest in it, because I didn't know any of the parties concerned. And, of course, I didn't dream that poor Mr. Minford was the man I had seen workin' away there for three years. But the main fault is mine, because I don't take the papers. I see, now, that every man ought to take the papers—if only as a duty to his feller man." Uncle Ith coughed, as one who utters a maxim of great moral depth.

It was then agreed, at Bog's suggestion, that Uncle Ith, accompanied by him, should call at Overtop's office, at early business hours (when Uncle Ith was off duty), next day, and consult upon the best course to be adopted to make his testimony public, and set the mystery of Mr. Minford's death forever at rest.

This having been done, Bog and Pet withdrew, and had hardly reached the foot of the tower, when the musical thunder of the great bell announced the constantly reiterated story of a fire in the Seventh—that most combustible of all the city districts.



CHAPTER III.

LOVE CROWNED.

Late on a fair afternoon of May, wedding guests began to assemble at old Van Quintem's house. The old gentleman had been out of society many years; and he improved this happy occasion to bring together his few surviving relatives, and friends of his former business days.

Heavy antique carriages rolled up to the door, with retired merchants and their wives. The retired merchants were of a pattern not altogether extinct in New York, who, at the ages of sixty years and upward, had cleared their skirts of business, and settled down to a calm retrospect of the past, and serene anticipations of the future. They were evidently destined for a good old age, and had fat pocket books to help them through. The proper place to look for this class of retired merchants is on the tax books, and not in public assemblies, or among the Directing Boards of benevolent institutions. They are good, charitable souls; but, having got out of business, they desire to keep out of it literally, leaving to a younger generation the task of managing men and affairs.

A more stylish vehicle deposited at the door a bachelor Bank President, who was not only the old personal friend of the host, but his trusted adviser in business affairs. The parlor of the —— Bank was one of the few places that old Van Quintem still visited in the bustling haunts of the city; and to old Van Quintem's house the bachelor Bank President made monthly pilgrimages of friendship. He was a handsome man of fifty, with long white hair, which matched beautifully with his yet ruddy cheeks, and a figure portly and full of strength. Nobody but himself knew why so eligible a man remained a bachelor.

In a humpbacked chaise drawn by an exemplary horse, there rode a fat and pleasant old gentleman, who was uncomfortably swathed about the neck with a white cravat. He crawled from his narrow coop with the nimbleness of one who is on professional business. He was followed by his wife, a little woman, who was the mother of ten children from two to twenty years of age—just two years apart, and all strongly resembling their father. This fat, pleasant old gentleman was the old-fashioned minister of the old-fashioned church to which Mr. Van Quintem had belonged for forty years. The little woman was his second wife; and there was a first crop of children, who had been safely launched on the world for many years, and were doing extremely well.

The sole surviving relatives of old Van Quintem were three elderly ladies, who, by some contagious fatality, remained unmarried. After pining romantically over their doom for some time, they had settled down to the conviction that they were much happier single than wedded, and that they had escaped a great many dangers and disappointments—which was unquestionably true. It was really pleasant for them to reflect that the snug property which their father left them had not been squandered upon designing husbands, but had been kept, improved, and added to, until it was one of the prettiest estates on Staten Island. These ladies were first cousins of old Van Quintem, and had an odd habit of staying at home. They came to New York always on important business, which could not be transacted by any one else, four times a year; and, on those occasions, paid state visits to old Van Quintem, who reciprocated the civility by calling on them, in a ceremonial way, twice every summer.

Uncle Ith came on foot; and wore his old blue coat with brass buttons, his flowered vest, and shining trousers so awkwardly, that people who did not know him stared at him as at a strange spectacle. People—and they were many—who did know him, stared at him with a still greater surprise, wondering what extraordinary event in his history was about to occur. Uncle Ith felt the additional embarrassment of fame, or notoriety; for an affidavit, prepared by Overtop, giving the full particulars of his observations from the bell tower, had been published in all the city papers that morning. Before noon, Uncle Ith had been waited on by six newspaper reporters, to whom he had furnished particulars of his early life; and had promised to sit for his photograph, for the use of an illustrated weekly, on the following day. For all these reasons, added to his natural modesty, he pulled the door bell with a feeling of profound regret, which was followed by a strange desire to run around the corner. Before this desire could have been gratified, the door was opened by a servant, and Uncle Ith was ushered in.

The anticipated awkwardness of an introduction to old Van Quintem, was prevented by the approach of that gentleman before his name was announced.

"Welcome! welcome!" said he, shaking him by the hand with Dutch fervor. "I know you from Bog's description, you see. Your statement in the morning papers has lifted a load from several hearts, I can tell you. Bog will be delighted to see you. He was beginning to be afraid you would not come. Hallo, Bog!" said, the good old gentleman, shouting up the stairs; "here is Uncle Ith."

The bridegroom bounded down the stairs with boyish impetuosity, looking so fine that Uncle Ith hardly knew him. It was difficult to realize that the ungainly, ignorant boy of a few years back, had become this nice-looking, graceful young gentleman. Thus readily does the rough diamond of a good heart and brain, under the guiding hands of Ambition and Love, take its polish from contact with the world and with society!

"Dear Uncle Ith!" said the bridegroom.

"Happy to see you, Uncle Ith!" exclaimed Fayette Overtop, who, with Marcus Wilkeson and Matthew Maltboy, had been drawn from the second floor at the mention of his name.

Marcus had not before seen Uncle Ith, though he had been thinking of him all day. The publication of the old man's affidavit was an entire surprise to Marcus—Overtop and Maltboy having said nothing to him about it. Other people read the document with interest, because it solved a mystery. But to Marcus it wore the profounder, vastly greater importance of clearing the last shadow of foul suspicion from his name. It may be unnecessary to say, that it also gave rise to learned and interesting, but profitless discussions, in several of the papers, upon the possibilities of perpetual motion—which lasted until the explosion of a steam boiler under the pavement turned every editor to the consideration of steam boilers, their nature and habits, the rights of owners and of the public, and the necessity of stringent legislation for the better management of those subterranean powers of good and evil.

Upon being introduced to Uncle Ith, Marcus gave the old man's hand a warm pressure, but said nothing. But Uncle Ith saw in his eyes an expression of the deepest gratitude, and he knew what it meant; for he had read the report of the inquest at Overtop's office, and there learned, for the first time, the unhappy connection of Marcus Wilkeson with the Minford affair.

Maltboy, who, being one of the appointed groomsmen of the day, was in extraordinary spirits, was profuse in his congratulations to Uncle Ith, and insisted, rather unnecessarily, upon introducing him to the retired merchants and the bachelor Bank President. They had all read his affidavit, and regarded him with undisguised interest.

For a man who has always been a lamb in his shyness and self-depreciation, to find himself suddenly transformed into a lion, is a cause of no little embarrassment. Uncle Ith was so much flustered by all these tokens of popularity, that he could not utter an articulate word, but only mumble, and wipe his heated brow. He wished that the usages of society would permit him to take off his coat, as he did in the bell tower, and be comfortable.

A few more guests arrived, mostly of the ancient order, and a little too much of one sort to please a lover of variety. The advent of Mr. Frump, with all his impulsive occidental peculiarities of character fresh upon him, was a decided relief to the decorous company already assembled in the parlors. In less than ten minutes, he was on terms of off-hand friendship with everybody, and was telling strange stories of Western adventure to a group of eager listeners.

Old Van Quintem received all his guests with that simple cordiality which leaves no doubt of a sincere welcome. The common remark was, "How well you are looking, Mr. Van Quintem!" And it was very true. Few men at seventy could show a figure so straight, cheeks so smooth, and an eye so bright. The unavailing sorrow which tenanted his heart two years before, had gradually disappeared. From the hour that his son fled abashed from his presence, he had not seen or heard of him, and had at last come to regard him as dead—though the old gentleman could not have given a good reason for that singular belief, except that his son had been a constant cause of sorrow and trouble to him when alive. He preferred to think of the lost son not as the ripened villain, but as the innocent child prattling upon its mother's knee. This mental picture filled a select chamber of the old man's memory. But the affection and reverential duty of a son had been supplied by the boy Bog; and, in the virtuous character and filial love of that young man, he saw what the innocent child might have grown to, had all his prayers and tears been answered.

When old Van Quintem's wishes were consulted with regard to the wedding, he had but one favor to ask; and that was, that the ceremony might take place at his house. It was a whimsical idea, he said, but he would like to see his old home gay once more, as it used to be years ago. "Besides," said he, "I am rheumatic, and might not be able to attend the wedding, if held elsewhere."

Mrs. Crull, when she first heard, from the lips of the blushing Pet, that Bog had proposed and been accepted, immediately outlined the plan of a wedding at her house, which should be something unprecedented in point of magnificence. The plan took shape as she thought of it, and she had already settled upon the number of invitations, and the other principal arrangements, when old Van Quintem's wish was mentioned to her. The sacrifice was a great one; and Mrs. Crull would make it only on condition that she should superintend the preparations with the same freedom as at her own house. Old Van Quintem consented to this, only stipulating that he should pay all the bills; and, for over a week before the wedding, Mrs. Crull, assisted by that most buxom and busy of women, Mrs. Frump, had taken tyrannical possession of the dwelling, and made such extraordinary transpositions of the carpets and pictures, and other movable property, that old Van Quintem, on surveying the work of renovation, hardly recognized the house as his own. The only apartment that was not inwardly transformed by these female magicians was the library. To that he clung, conscious that both his services and his advice were of no value.

The house was soon filled with guests—or rather appeared to be filled, for the whole number invited and present was only forty. But forty people, moving about uneasily, and expecting something, look like a hundred or more. Among them were many whose only claim to an invitation was their friendship for the host, or Mrs. Crull, or the bride, and not any mental, moral, or physical excellence which entitles them to mention in this history.

There were two rooms on the second floor, upon which the interest of loungers, male and female, was concentrated.

In one waited the bridegroom, his groomsmen Overtop and Maltboy, Marcus Wilkeson and Wesley Tiffles. They were a happy party, and not at all frightened at the approaching nuptials. Bog—for such his friends always did, should, and will call him—could not have been happier—far from it!—if he had held a sceptre in each hand. Overtop was happy in the contemplation of his marriage with that most sensible of girls, Miss Pillbody, which was set down for the week following. The affair would have come off six months before, but for Miss Pillbody's illness, happening soon after her mother's death. In consequence of this illness, her select school had been given up—never to be revived. Poor Overtop did not know how much he loved her, until he saw how near he came to losing her. She had completely recovered, was ruddy and pretty with new health, and was Pet's first bridesmaid. Overtop thought pleasantly of her, and combed back his intractable cowlick. Matthew Maltboy was happy because he had taken a serious fancy to Miss Trapper, the second bridesmaid, a charming but peculiar girl, and the particular juvenile friend of Mrs. Frump. Matthew had met this young lady two or three times, and had suffered sweetly from her black eyes. Marcus Wilkeson was happy in his contented bachelorhood, in the happiness of his niece and of all around him, and in the clearing up of the "Minford enigma." Wesley Tiffles was happy because happiness was his constitutional disposition, under all circumstances and in all weathers. The arrival of Uncle Ith was the only event that had drawn this good-natured party from their retreat; and those who watched for their reappearance were disappointed.

In the other room, the bride had been dressing for several hours, and was still hard at it, under the immediate supervision of the indefatigable Mrs. Crull, Mrs. Frump, and the two bridesmaids. Only the favored few were admitted to this retreat of mysteries. But they were kindly communicative. They brought back minute reports of the appearance and condition of the bride elect, in the various stages of her enrobement and ornamentation; and there was not a woman in the house who did not, every ten minutes, have the image of Helen Wilkeson stamped on her mind as accurately as the changeful phases of an eclipse on the photographer's plate.

* * * * *

At the soft, calm, mystic, love-making, marrying twilight hour, the bridal party took their stand near the southern end of the great double parlor. The forty guests were grouped before them, an audience without seats.

Pet was pale, and leaned for support on Bog's arm. He stood firm, erect, unblenching, with that instinct of physical strength which one feels when the woman that he loves hangs confidingly on his arm. Fayette Overtop, with his well-known dislike for conventionalism, was thinking how tedious all that formality was, and how much more sensible to be married by an alderman or justice of the peace, privately, in two minutes. Miss Pillbody did not agree with her future husband on this point, and was thinking, at that very moment, what a solemn thing marriage was, and with what ceremonious deliberation it ought to be entered upon. Matthew Maltboy had had great experience as a groomsman, and he speculated with perfect composure on this important question: Whether the gentle tremor of Miss Trapper's hand was caused altogether by the fluttering novelty of her situation, or partly by the love-enkindling contact of their interlocked elbows?

As the six took their chosen positions, and gazed at a particular pattern in the carpet, selected by them at a private rehearsal in the morning, they were the subject of mental comment by the forty guests. The women, looking at the costly dress of the bride, pronounced her beautiful. The men, never noticing her dress, but observing her pale face and heavy eyes, were not vividly impressed with her loveliness. Bog was admired by all, and envied by none to whom his history was known. The old ladies took a mild maternal interest in him, because he was an orphan; and the young ladies thought extremely well of him, because he was a strong, gallant, handsome fellow. Overtop was regarded with curiosity, as the reputed hero of the Slapman scandal. Matthew Maltboy was universally condemned as too fat, and, with that brief criticism, was dismissed. Miss Pillbody was pronounced "a little proud," because she stood straight, with shoulders thrown back, which was her usual attitude. Miss Trapper was admitted to be a very modest and diffident creature, because she had a slight stoop in the back, which was chronic.

Old Van Quintem stood near the wedding party, and recalled, with fond minuteness, the hour when one, about the same age as Pet, and resembling her in the freshness of her youthful beauty, had crowned him with happiness. Mrs. Crull was close by, and looked at the bride, whom she had dressed, with the pride of an artist. Mrs. Frump stood next to her, and shared in the same sentiments. Marcus Wilkeson's appointed place was somewhere in the neighborhood of the bride; but he shrank away to the side of Uncle Ith, who also obstinately clung to the other end of the room.

The venerable clergyman stepped into the centre of the small open space which had been left in front of the bridal party, and uttered a cough, at which signal the buzz of conversation ceased.

The ceremony was very brief and simple—according to the ritual of the Dutch Church—and people were married by it before they knew it. The minister had received, in advance, a fee of unprecedented size, which was, at that moment, lying at the bottom of his wife's pocket, and which that good woman had already spent, in imagination, on a new bonnet for herself, a new hat for the minister, dresses for the girls, books for the boys, and playthings for the baby. If the dimensions of the fee had any effect whatever on the mind of the excellent minister, that effect was to hurry up the ceremony, and make the two one with the least possible delay.

At last the magical, binding words were spoken; and the husband, stooping proudly to the not-averted face of his blushing wife, gave her the first kiss. And at the same instant a little band of musicians, with chosen instruments, secretly stationed in the library, of which the door was now thrown open, struck up Mendelssohn's divine Wedding March. As its jubilant notes floated through the house, the round of congratulations commenced.

Blest Pet! What had she ever done—she thought, so far as giddy happiness would allow her to think—to merit all these kisses (of which her two shy uncles bestowed two), these benedictions, these tears, and, above all, the possession of this noble heart by her side, henceforth to be all her own? The exultant peals of the Wedding March—that highest expression of triumphal love—but faintly interpreted her joy.

The bridegroom received his full share of the universal good wishes. Everybody was pleased with his behavior; and the bachelor Bank President, and other members of the old school of gentlemen, pronounced him a glorious young fellow, a refreshing contrast to the puny, cadaverous youth of the day, and altogether worthy to have flourished thirty years ago. The bridesmaids and groomsmen were not neglected either; and both Miss Pillbody and Miss Trapper thought that the next best thing to getting married, was to assist others in the operation.

As for old Van Quintem, after kissing the bride, and calling Bog his son, and giving both of them his blessing, he had retired from the room to hide the tears of happiness which not even seventy years of this hardening world could keep from his eyes.

For the second time in five minutes, Amos Frump approached Matthew Maltboy, and shook hands with him. "Fat and jolly as ever," said he.

From the first adjective Matthew recoiled; though he tried to justify the propriety of the second by a laugh.

"And I like you—hang me if I don't!" said Mr. Frump, with California bluntness, "because you're fat and jolly. But here's wifey, and I know she wants to say somethin' to you."

"So I do," said Mrs. Frump. "My head was so full of business to-day, that I had quite forgotten it. But you must step aside with me," she added, looking significantly at Miss Trapper.

Matthew stepped aside; and she placed her lips to his ear, and whispered, "What do you think of Miss Trapper?"

"A very pretty girl," said Matthew.

"So she is; and one of the best-hearted creatures that ever lived. A little singular in one respect, perhaps."

"What is that?"

"Oh! she speaks out her mind—that's all. But then you always know where to find her."

"She has not spoken any of it to me, at all events," said Matthew. "I can't get her to talk."

"That's because she's modest. Cultivate her, and you'll find her a splendid girl. Between you and me, I have recommended you to her, and, depend upon it, she will meet you halfway."

"All right," whispered Matthew, gratefully.

Here the full voice of old Van Quintem announced dinner, for which the elderly ladies had been demurely waiting for some time. Two by two the bridal party and the guests marched to the banquet, spread in the long, broad dining room, which was one of the best features of this sturdy, old-fashioned house.

What the bill of fare was; what tunes the band played in the library; what kind things were said to the bride and bridegroom; what compliments were breathed into young female ears, and not rebuked; what vows of love were exchanged; what courteous remarks of the old school were made by the bachelor Bank President; what ancient jokes were passed off by the wits of the party as new; what abominable conundrums were then and there honestly invented; what overwhelming confusion Uncle Ith experienced, when he found himself seated next to a lady who talked loud at him, and how he wished himself at home, one hundred feet from the ground; what complete happiness was felt and expressed by everybody, but especially by old Van Quintem and Marcus Wilkeson; what improbable stories were told by Mr. Frump; what philosophical sayings uttered on the spur of the moment by Fayette Overtop; what slightly impertinent but always amiable remarks advanced by Wesley Tiffles;—all this might be imagined, with a slight mental effort; but not so Matthew Maltboy's new misfortune.

Profiting by Mrs. Frump's friendly suggestion, Matthew had exhausted all his resources of conversation in an effort to interest Miss Trapper. She had listened, and had returned faultlessly proper replies, and had conducted herself so much like all the other young women that Matthew had ever met, that he was puzzled to guess in what respect her singularity consisted. He longed to see a piece of that mind, which, according to Mrs. Frump, she was in the habit of exhibiting to people. He was soon gratified.

Miss Trapper had remarked, that, in a few days, she was going to visit her friends in Chemung County, and would probably remain there three months. It struck Matthew as the right time to make a point.

"Then I shall not see you, Miss Trapper, during all that time!" he said, with a sigh.

Miss Trapper levelled a sharp glance at him, and said, "I suppose not."

The remark was tartly made; but Matthew had noticed that she habitually spoke quick and short.

"Our acquaintance has thus far been very pleasant, Miss Trapper; at least on my side," whispered Matthew. "Must it stop here?"

To which Miss Trapper replied, "I don't know."

Though the observation was not encouraging, it was, on the other hand, not entirely forbidding.

"Since we are to be separated for three months, Miss Trapper, might I solicit the great privilege of corresponding with you occasionally?"

Miss Trapper's thin lips expelled two words, like shot out of a gun: "What for?"

"What for?" echoed the amazed Matthew. "Why—for the pleasure of exchanging our ideas, you know."

"That would be a bore," said Miss Trapper.

"I didn't understand you," said Matthew, distrusting his ears.

"I said it would be a bore—a bore!" returned Miss Trapper, with painful distinctness. "I hate letter writing."

"Oh! ah! Do you?" said Matthew, feebly. "Perhaps you would like some pickled cauliflower, Miss Trapper?"

"Thank you."

Matthew handed the pickled cauliflower to her, and held his tongue, satisfied with what he had seen of Miss Trapper's singularity, and not at all anxious to receive a larger piece of her mind.

"I am doomed to be a bachelor," thought Matthew, with a suppressed groan. But Hope, which attends upon fat and lean men alike, whispered in his mind's ear, "Why not marry a woman as fat as yourself?"

"A capital idea!" thought Matthew "and if there's no other way to find one, I'll advertise for her."

Dinner was protracted to a length that seemed tedious to all but the representatives of the old school. When it did come to an end, the party adjourned to the parlors, where a reasonable time was devoted to conversation and flirtation. At length the musicians, having taken their wedding dinner in their apartment, and drank full bumpers (which, somehow, never interfere with the accuracy of musical performances) to the health of the happy pair, struck up a quadrille, which was at once interpreted by the younger people as a signal for dancing. Two sets were instantly formed, and rattled through with. The Lancers followed, and was liked so much that the musicians were called upon to repeat it three times. The sets had now increased to four, filling the two parlors, and crowding the elderly people to the wall or the hallway. Then, luckily, old Van Quintem bethought himself of the old-fashioned contra-dance, as a contrivance for bringing his contemporaries on their legs. By an extraordinary piece of good fortune, the musicians had learned it, and played it at a silver wedding the week previous.

As the familiar notes, not heard for years, saluted the ears of the bachelor Bank President, he showed the animation of an old war-horse at the sound of the trumpet. "Now is our time," said he.

Moved by common impulse, the members of a past generation rose, and took their places. Old Van Quintem, temporarily forgetting his rheumatism, led off, escorting Mrs. Crull. The bachelor Bank President took charge of a widow, in whose breast he had revived feelings that flourished twenty years before. The retired merchants brought each other's wives upon the floor. Even Uncle Ith came out from his seclusion in a corner, where he had been listening to the sound of his own fire bell, rung by other hands that night, and felt that here, at least, he should make no blunders. The tall, talkative lady, from whom there seemed to be no escape, had fastened on him as a partner. The good clergyman was the only old or middle-aged gentleman who did not take his place in the set, and he looked on and laughed.

The dance commenced, slow at first, then gradually faster. The younger people, when they came to understand the simple movement, fell into the chain couple after couple, until it extended into the hallway, and through it into the parlors again. Everybody was drawn in now, old and young, married and unmarried, the minister and his wife only excepted, and they marked the measure with their heels. Round and round, and faster and faster, went the chain, with its constantly changing links. The musicians, playing the same strains over and over again, became frenzied by the repetition, and doubled the time without knowing it. Legs that had entered slow and stately upon the interminable maze, became, without the knowledge or consent of their owners, nimble and gymnastics.

It was a delightful peculiarity of this wonderful dance, that couples could withdraw without breaking up the figure. The bride and groom, acting upon this privilege, slipped out of the flying circle, and sought, unaccompanied, the solitude of the vine-covered piazza behind the house, there to commune for a moment upon their new-found happiness.

* * * * *

The night was calm. A faint breeze from the south stirred up secret odors in the hearts of dew-covered flowers, and musically sighed through the leaves and vines. The heavens were dark, but unclouded; and, as the lips of the lovers met in one clinging kiss, the host of stars beamed down upon them, and proclaimed an ETERNITY OF LOVE.



CHAPTER IV.

FIVE YEARS.

Five years are an eventful space in the history of blocks, as of men. Within that period, they may be burnt down, blown down, or torn down to make room for grander blocks. In quick-growing American cities, the average life of blocks is less than that of the human generation that tenants them. First wood, then brick, then brownstone or marble—these are the successive forms of block life, before anything like stability is reached. Marble is the only real type of the permanent in American architecture. Nobody pulls down marble.

But five years had made little change in the exterior of our block. It was situated at a point in the city from which the ebb tide of Fashion was slowly receding, and which the flood tide of Trade had not yet touched. There was not a new house on the block, or an old one materially altered. A little paint, and a diligent application of broom and Croton water, had kept the block quite fresh and jaunty. On the south side there were some slight external modifications, in the shape of oblong black signs, fastened near basement doors, and bearing names of doctors. Ten of these signs had been added to the south side within five years. There were only two houses upon that side, now, to which you could come amiss in pursuit of medical advice.

One of these was old Van Quintem's. Five years had passed over the old house and the old man lightly (both had been made to last, and were well taken care of), and gave to them only a mellower and riper look. The old man's long white hair had not commenced falling out; and his cheeks still bloomed with a ruddiness that does not belong to second childhood. He could still read his dear old books—and carefully chosen new ones—without spectacles; though he often preferred to hear them read in a soft, sweet tone, by a dear girl whom he always called Pet, and who would sit for hours at the old man's feet, giving to the noble thoughts of poet, novelist, or philosopher, the added charm of a sympathetic voice. At such times, a fine fellow, who was still known as Bog, would look on and listen, with rapt attention, and the happiest smile on his face. Sometimes these tranquil scenes would be pleasantly broken in upon, and the meaning of the author profitably obscured, by the entrance of a certain little Helen, whom the old man would kiss, and call "Grandpop's sugarp'um," and "Sweety peety." Bog would then catch it up, and toss it aloft, all whirling with curls, laces, and blue ribbons, and would say, "Cud-je-wod-je now, cud-je-wod-je now, cud-je-wod-je now," at each tossing; and the child, with the marvellous instinct of eighteen months, would understand this mysterious dialect, and then would smile through large blue eyes that looked like its mother's.

To this house, Myndert Van Quintem, jr., had never returned; and no authentic intelligence of him had ever come. Fayette Overtop, Esq., while on a professional visit to St. Paul, Minnesota, to settle a large land claim, had heard of a notorious Van Benton, who had kept a gambling house there several years, and was finally killed by a spendthrift whom he had cleaned out of his last cent one night. The best description which he could get of this man, tallied precisely with that of Myndert Van Quintem, jr. But Overtop, with that discretion which was continually enlarging his circle of paying practice, said nothing of this to the old gentleman. Among the reports that Overtop had heard of this Van Benton, was one, that he had forged his father's signature to large amounts in New York city, and had fled to the West, and there changed his name to avoid the arrest and punishment which his father had promised him. Had the old gentleman been informed of this circumstance, he would at once have identified Van Benton as his son; for it was known to him alone, that young Myndert had repeatedly forged his name (evidences of which had been found in the desk where Marcus Wilkeson had often seen the young man busily writing—evidences which the forger had accidentally omitted to burn), and that he had been induced to leave the city through fear that his father would give him up to justice at last. On the memorable night in the milliner's shop in Greenpoint, the young profligate had seen that his father was terribly in earnest, and had quailed in the presence of that outraged and indignant soul.

The second house not ornamented by a doctor's sign, on the south side of the block, was the old tenement building of which Mr. Minford had occupied the upper story, five years before. The tenants had all been changed two or three times; but the "Minford tragedy" was still a current legend among them. Murders, or strange homicides, are fixtures of houses where they occur. Nothing obliterates their memory but tearing down the houses, and building anew—which is the course of treatment that the proprietor was proposing to himself, in consequence of the steady depreciation of rents. Pet never passed that house, or dared to look at it even from a distance.

Bachelors' Hall, on the north side of the block, was still occupied by the three original tenants; and they liked it so well, that they had bought it, and owned it on the Tontine plan—viz., that, upon the death of one of the owners, his share shall go to the survivors.

Five years had improved Marcus Wilkeson's relish for a good book, an after-dinner pipe, and a chat with a friend. It was plain to all his friends—even to those who were happiest in their wedded lives—that Marcus was a great deal better off single than married. His was the genial monkish nature, which thrives best in celibacy.

Every afternoon Marcus visited his white-haired neighbor opposite, and never forgot to take along a toy, or some candy, for his grandniece Helen. He brought these offerings in lieu of baby talk, which he could never master. This fact pointed him out, beyond all question, as a predestined old bachelor.

The general supervision of the house was intrusted to Mrs. Overtop; and most sensibly did she manage it. Knowing that a bar of cast iron is more easily bent than the set habits of men of twenty-five and upward, she attempted no changes in the domestic regulations of the establishment. The three friends found that they had not only all of their old freedom, but a charming female voice to accompany them in their songs, and on the piano or guitar, and a capital fourth hand at whist, and a beautiful reader, and an ever-cheerful companion. "If I could find such a wife, now!" Marcus and Maltboy would say. "But you can't," Overtop would answer. "There's not another like her in this world." There was a little Fayette Overtop, jr., two years old, a great pet of the bachelors, and the far-off husband of little Helen, on the other side of the block.

Matthew Maltboy weighed two hundred and twenty pounds. As associate counsel of Overtop, he made an imposing show in court, which was not fully borne out by his legal attainments. He was always talking of matrimonial intentions—a sure sign that a man never will be married. His last rebuff from Miss Trapper (now the wife of a wealthy tanner and currier) had taught him to keep his flirtations within narrower limits; but he openly professed, and probably believed, that, when he really wanted to marry—without joking, you know—he could take his pick from the wide and varied ranges of female society. He smoked incessantly like a martyr, to reduce his flesh, but no adipose matter ever vanished in that cloud of sacrifice!