Many thoughts passed in my mind, as I pondered the incidents and conversation of this evening. In looking back upon life, we see the sure progress of causes to effects; and in the effects, the quality of the causes. We no longer wonder at results—the only wonder is, that they were not foreseen. Wise maxims, some of the garnered grains of our fathers' experiences, are scattered through the books we read, and daily fall from the lips of teachers and friends; maxims which, if observed, would lead us to honor and happiness. But who gives them heed? Who makes them the rule of his conduct?

We might wonder less at the blind infatuation with which so many press onward in a course that all the wisdom of the past, as well as all the reason of the present, condemns, if it were possible to rub out our actions, as a child rubs from his slate a wrong sum, and begin the work of life over again. But this cannot be. We weave hourly the web that is to bind us in the future. Our to-days hold the fate of our to-morrows. What we do is done for ever, and in some degree will affect us throughout infinite ages.

"Poor Delia Floyd!" My thought had turned to her as I lay awake, long after the small hours of the morning, busy with incidents and reflections which had completely banished sleep from my eyes. In the strong pity of my heart, I spoke the words aloud.

"What of her?" said Constance, in a tone of surprise. And so intruding thought had kept her awake also!

"Nothing more than usual," I answered. "But I cannot sleep for thinking of her unhappy state, and what she might have been, if obeying her own heart's right impulses, and the reason God gave her, she had accepted a true man, instead of a specious villain for her husband. The scene in Ivy Cottage to-night stands in most remarkable contrast with some things I witnessed at the Allen House before she went out thence a wretched woman for life. She staked everything on a desperate venture, and has lost. God pity her! for there is no help in any human arm. To think of what she is, and what she might have been, is enough to veil her reason in midnight darkness."

"Amen! God pity her!" said Constance. "For truly there is no help for her in mortal arm."



CHAPTER XXVIII.



The conduct of Mr. Wallingford, in regard to the estate which had fallen into his hands, rather puzzled Dewey. He had anticipated an early notification to remove, and, true to his character, had determined to annoy the new owner by vexatious delays. But after the passage of several weeks, in which came to him no intimation that he must give up the possession of his elegant home, he began to wonder what it could mean.

One day, not long after the conversation with Wallingford, mentioned in the last chapter, I met Mr. Dewey in the street. He stopped me and said, in half-sneering way,

"What of our honorable friend? Impatient, I suppose, to see the inside of the Allen House?"

"No," I replied, "he has no wish to disturb you for the present."

"Indeed! You expect me to believe all that, of course."

There was a rudeness in his manner that was offensive; but I did not care to let him see that I noticed it.

"Why should you not believe my remark?" said I. "Is it a new thing in your experience with men to find an individual considerate of another?"

"What do you mean by considerate of another?"

My form of speech touched his pride.

"Mr. Wallingford has manifested towards you a considerate spirit," said I, speaking slowly and distinctly. "It naturally occurs to him that, as you are so pleasantly situated at the Allen House, an early removal therefrom might be anything but desirable. And so he has rested quietly up to this time, leaving a decision as to the period with yourself."

"Humph! Very unselfish, truly!"

His lip curled in disdain.

"If you feel restive under this concession in your favor," said I, putting on a serious manner, "I would suggest independence as a remedy."

He looked at me curiously, yet with a scowling contraction of his brows.

"Independence! What am I to understand by your remark?"

"Simply this, Mr. Dewey. You are in the occupancy of property belonging to Mr. Wallingford, and by his favor. Now, if you cannot receive a kindness at his hands, in the name of all that is manly and independent, put yourself out of the range of obligation."

I was not able to repress a sudden feeling of indignation, and so spoke with warmth and plainness.

"Thank you for your plainness of speech, Doctor," he retorted, drawing himself up in a haughty manner.

"As to removing from the Allen House, I will do that just when it suits my pleasure."

"Mr. Wallingford, you may be assured," said I, "will not show any unseemly impatience, if you do not find it convenient to make an early removal. He knows that it cannot be agreeable for you to give up the home of years, and he is too much of a Christian and a gentleman to do violence to another's feelings, if it can be in any way avoided."

"Pah! I hate cant!"

He threw his head aside in affected disgust.

"We judge men by their actions, not their words," said I. "If a man acts with considerate kindness, is it cant to speak of him in terms of praise? Pardon me, Mr. Dewey, but I think you are letting passion blind you to another's good qualities."

"The subject is disagreeable to me, Doctor. Let us waive it."

"It was introduced by yourself, remember," I replied; "and all that I have said has been in response to your own remarks. This much good has grown from it. You know just how Mr. Wallingford stands towards you, and you can govern yourself according to your own views in the case. And now let me volunteer this piece of advice. Never wantonly give offence to another, for you cannot tell how soon you may find yourself in need of his good services."

Dewey gave me a formal bow, and passed on his way.

About a week afterwards, Judge Bigelow inquired of Wallingford as to when he wished to get possession of the Allen House.

"Whenever Mr. Dewey finds it entirely convenient to remove," was the unhesitating reply.

"Suppose it should not be convenient this fall or winter?"

"Very well. The spring will suit me. I am in no hurry. We are too comfortable in Ivy Cottage to be in any wise impatient for change."

"Then it is your pleasure that Mr. Dewey remain until spring?"

"If such an arrangement is desirable on his part, Judge, it is altogether accordant with my feelings and convenience. Say to him that he has only to consult his own wishes in the case."

"You are kind and considerate, Mr. Wallingford," said the Judge, his manner softening considerably, for there had been a coldness of some years' standing on the part of Judge Bigelow, which more recent events had increased.

"And why should it be otherwise, Judge?" inquired his old student.

"Mr. Dewey has not given you cause for either kindness or consideration."

"It would hurt me more than it would him, were I to foster his unhappy spirit. It is always best, I find, Judge, to be right with myself."

"All men would find it better for themselves, were they to let so fine a sentiment govern their lives," remarked Judge Bigelow, struck by the language of Wallingford.

"It is the only true philosophy," was replied. "If a man is right with himself, he cannot be wrong towards others; though it is possible, as in my case, that other eyes, looking through a densely refracting medium, may see him out of his just position. But he would act very unwisely were he to change his position for all that. He will be seen right in the end."

Judge Bigelow reached out his hand and grasped that of Mr. Wallingford.

"Spoken like a man, Henry! Spoken like a man!" he said, warmly. "I only wish that Ralph had something of your spirit. I have seen you a little out of your right position, I believe; but a closer view is correcting the error."

Wallingford returned the pressure as warmly as it was given, saying, as he did so—

"I am aware, Judge, that you have suffered your mind to fall into a state of prejudice in regard to me. But I am not aware of any thing in my conduct towards you or others, to warrant the feeling. If in any thing I have been brought into opposition, faithfulness to the interests I represented has been the rule of my conduct. I have sought by no trick of law to gain an advantage. The right and the just I have endeavored to pursue, without fear and without favor. Can you give me a better rule for professional or private life?"

"I cannot, Henry," was the earnest reply. "And if all men would so pursue the right and the just, how different would be the result for each, as the sure adjustment of advancing years gave them their true places in the world's observation!"

The Judge spoke in a half—absent way, and with a shade of regret in his tones; Wallingford noted this with a feeling of concern.

"Let us be friends in the future," he added, again offering his hand to Wallingford.

"It will be your fault, not mine, if we are not fast fiends, Judge. I have never forgotten the obligations of my boyhood; and never ceased to regret the alienation you have shown. To have seemed in your eyes ungrateful, has been a source of pain whenever I saw or thought of you."

The two men parted, each feeling better for the interview. A day or two afterwards Wallingford received a note from Judge Bigelow asking him, as a particular favor, to call at his office that evening. He went, of course. The Judge was alone, and received him cordially. But, his countenance soon fell into an expression of more than usual gravity.

"Mr. Wallingford," he said, after the passage of a few casual observations, "I would like to consult you in strict confidence on some matters in which I have become involved. I can trust you, of course?"

"As fully as if the business were my own," was the unhesitating answer.

"So I have believed. The fact is, Henry, I have become so entangled in this cotton mill business with Squire Floyd, Dewey, and others, that I find myself in a maze of bewildering uncertainty. The Squire and Ralph are at loggerheads, and seem to me to be getting matters snarled up. There is no denying the fact that this summary footing of our accounts, as executors, has tended to cripple affairs. We were working up to the full extent of capital invested, and the absence of a hundred thousand dollars—or its representative security—has made financiering a thing of no easy consideration."

"I am afraid, Judge Bigelow," said Wallingford, as the old man paused, "that you are in the hands of one who, to gain his own ends, would sacrifice you without a moment's hesitation."

"Who?"

"You will permit me to speak plainly, Judge."

"Say on. The plain speech of a friend is better than the flatteries of an enemy."

"I have no faith in Ralph Dewey."

The two men looked steadily at each other for some moments.

"Over fifteen years' observation of the man has satisfied me that he possesses neither honor nor humanity. He is your nephew. But that does not signify. We must look at men as they are."

"His movements have not been to my satisfaction for some time," said the Judge; speaking as though conviction had to force itself upon his mind.

"You should canvass all he does with the closest care; and if your property lies in any degree at his mercy, change the relation as quickly as possible."

"Are you not prejudiced against him, Henry?" The Judge spoke in a deprecating tone.

"I believe, sir, that I estimate him at his real value; and I do most earnestly conjure you to set to work at once to disentangle your affairs if seriously involved with his. If you do not, he will beggar you in your old age, which God forbid!"

"I am far from sure that I can disentangle my affairs," said the Judge.

"There is nothing like trying, you know." Wallingford spoke in a tone of encouragement. "And everything may depend on beginning in time. In what way are you involved with him?"

It was some time before Judge Bigelow answered this direct question. He then replied,

"Heavily in the way of endorsements."

"Of his individual paper?"

"Yes. Also of the paper of his firm."

"To an extent beyond your ability to pay if there should be failure on their part?"

"Yes; to three times my ability to pay."

Wallingford dropped his eyes to the floor, and sat for some time. He then looked up into Judge Bigelow's face, and said,

"If that be so, I can see only one way for you."

"Say on."

"Let no more endorsements be given from this day forth."

"How can I suddenly refuse? The thing has been going on for years."

"You can refuse to do wrong on the plea of wrong. If your name gives no real value to a piece of paper, yet accredits it in the eyes of others, it is wrong for you to place your endorsement thereon. Is not this so?"

"I admit the proposition, Henry."

"Very well. The only way to get right, is to start right. And my dear, dear sir! let me implore you to take immediately the first step in a right direction. Standing outside of the charmed circle of temptation as I do, I can see the right way for your feet to walk in better than you can. Oh, sir! Let me be eyes, and hand, and feet for you if need be; and if it is not too late, I will save you from impending ruin."

Wallingford took the old man's hand, and grasped it warmly as he spoke. The Judge was moved by this earnest appeal, coming upon him so unexpectedly; and not only moved, but startled and alarmed by the tenor of what was said.

"The first thing," he remarked, after taking time to get his thoughts clear, "if I accept of your friendly overtures, is for me to lay before you everything just as it is, so that you can see where I stand, and how I stand. Without this, your view of the case would be partial, and your conclusions might not be right."

"That is unquestionably so," Wallingford replied. "And now, Judge, if you wish my friendly aid, confide in me as you would a son or brother. You will find me as true as steel."

A revelation succeeded that filled Mr. Wallingford with painful astonishment. The endorsements of Judge Bigelow, on paper brought to him by Dewey, and of which he took no memorandums, covered, no doubt, from a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars! Then, as to the affairs of the Clinton Bank, of which Judge Bigelow was still the President, he felt a great deal of concern. The Cashier and Mr. Dewey knew far more about the business and condition of the institution than anybody else, and managed it pretty much in their own way. The directors, if not men of straw, might almost as well have been, for all the intelligent control they exercised. As for Judge, Bigelow, the principal duty required of him was to sign his name as President to great sheets of bank bills, the denomination running from one dollar to a thousand. Touching the extent to which these representatives of value were issued, he knew nothing certain. He was shown, at regular periods, a statement wherein the condition of the bank was set forth, and to which he appended his signature. But he had no certain knowledge that the figures were correct. Of the paper under discount over two-thirds was drawn or endorsed by Floyd, Lawson, Lee, & Co.

At the time Judge Bigelow began investing in mill property, he was worth, in productive stocks and real estate, from thirty to forty thousand dollars. He now estimated his wealth at from sixty to eighty thousand dollars; but it was all locked up in the mills.

The result of this first interview between the Judge and Mr. Wallingford was to set the former in a better position to see the character of his responsibilities, and the extreme danger in which he stood. The clear, honest, common sense way in which Wallingford looked at everything, and comprehended everything, surprised his old preceptor; and gave him so much confidence in his judgment and discretion, that he placed himself fully in his hands. And well for him was it that he did so in time.



CHAPTER XXIX.



In accordance with the advice of Mr. Wallingford, the first reactionary movement on the part of Judge Bigelow, was his refusal to endorse any more paper for his nephew, or the firm of which he was a member, on the ground that such endorsements, on his part, were of no real value, considering the large amounts for which he was already responsible, and consequently little better than fraudulent engagements to pay.

A storm between the uncle and nephew was the consequence, and the latter undertook to drive the old gentleman back again into the traces, by threats of terrible disasters to him and all concerned. If Judge Bigelow had stood alone, the nephew would have been too strong for him. But he had a clear-seeing, honest mind to throw light upon his way, and a young and vigorous arm to lean upon in his hour of weakness and trial. And so Ralph Dewey, to his surprise and alarm, found it impossible to bend the Judge from his resolution.

Then followed several weeks, during which time Dewey was flying back and forth between New York and S——, trying to re-adjust the disturbed balance of things. The result was as Mr. Wallingford had anticipated. There was too much at stake for the house of Floyd, Lawson, Lee, & Co., to let matters fail for lack of Judge Bigelow's endorsements. Some other prop must be substituted for this one.

The four months that followed were months of anxious suspense on the part of Judge Bigelow and his true friend, who was standing beside him, though invisible in this thing to all other eyes, firm as a rocky pillar. No more endorsements were given, and the paper bearing his name was by this time nearly all paid.

"Right, so far," said Mr. Wallingford, at the expiration of the time in which most of the paper bearing Judge Bigelow's name reached its maturity. "And now for the next safe move in this difficult game, where the odds are still against us. You must get out of this Bank."

The Judge looked gravely opposed.

"It may awaken suspicion that something is wrong, and create a run upon the Bank, which would be ruin."

"Can you exercise a controlling influence in the position you hold? Can you be true, as President of the Clinton Bank, to the public interest you represent?"

"I cannot. They have made of me an automaton."

"Very well. That settles the question. You cannot honorably hold your place a single day. There is only one safe step, and that is to resign."

"But the loose way in which I held office will be exposed to my successor."

"That is not the question to consider, Judge—but the right. Still, so far as this fear is concerned, don't let it trouble you. The choice of successor will fall upon some one quite as facile to the wishes of Ralph Dewey & Company as you have been."

The good counsels of Mr. Wallingford prevailed. At the next meeting of the Board of Directors, the resignation of Judge Bigelow was presented. Dewey had been notified two days before of what was coming, and was prepared for it. He moved, promptly, that the resignation be accepted. As soon as the motion was carried, he offered the name of Joshua Kling, the present Cashier, for the consideration of the Board, and urged his remarkable fitness. Of course, Mr. Joshua Kling was elected; and his place filled by one of the tellers. To complete the work, strong complimentary resolutions, in which deep regret at the resignation of Judge Bigelow was expressed, were passed by the Board. In the next week's paper, the following notice of this change in the officers of the Bank appeared:

"Resignation of Judge Bigelow.—In consequence of the pressure of professional engagements, our highly esteemed citizen Judge Bigelow, has found it necessary to give up the office of President in the Clinton Bank, which he has held with so much honor to himself since the institution commenced business. He is succeeded by Joshua Kling, Esq., late Cashier; a gentleman peculiarly well-fitted for the position to which he has been elevated. Harvey Weems, the first Teller, takes the place of Cashier. A better selection, it would be impossible to make. From the beginning, the affairs of this Bank have been managed with great prudence, and it is justly regarded as one of the soundest in the State."

"My dear friend," said the grateful Judge, grasping the hand of Wallingford, who called his attention to this notice, "what a world of responsibility you have helped me to cast from my shoulders! I am to-day a happier man than I have been for years. The new President is welcome to all the honor his higher position may reflect upon him."

"The next work in order," remarked the Judge's clear-headed, resolute friend, "is to withdraw your investments from the cotton mills. That will be a slower and more difficult operation; but it must be done, even at a sacrifice. Better have fifty thousand dollars in solid real estate, than a hundred thousand in that concern."

And so this further disentanglement was commenced.

Winter having passed away, Mr. Dewey saw it expedient to retire from the Allen House. By this time nothing more was heard of his Italian Villa. He had something else to occupy his thoughts. As there was no house to be rented in S——, that in any way corresponded with his ideas, he stored his furniture, and took board at the new hotel which had lately been erected.

Mr. Wallingford now made preparations for removing to the old mansion, which was still the handsomest place, by all odds, in our town.

One day, early in the summer, I received a note from Mr. Wallingford, asking me to call around at Ivy Cottage in the evening. At the bottom of the note, was a pencilled line from his wife to Constance, asking the pleasure of seeing her also. We went after tea.

"Come with me to the library, Doctor!" said my excellent friend, soon after our arrival. "I want to have a little talk with you."

So we left the ladies and retired to the library.

"My business with you to-night," said he, as we seated ourselves, facing each other, on opposite sides of the library-table, "is to get at some adjustment of affairs between us, as touching your executorship of the Allen estate. I have asked two or three times for your bills against the estate, but you have always put me off. Mr. Wilkinson, on the contrary, rendered an account for services, which has been allowed and settled."

"The business required so little attention on my part," I replied to this, "that I have never felt that I could, in conscience, render an account. And besides, it was with me so much a labor of love, that I do not wish to mar the pleasure I felt by overlaying it with a compensation."

"No man could possibly feel more deeply your generous good will toward me and mine—manifested from the beginning until now—than I do, Doctor. But I cannot permit the obligation to rest all on one side."

He pulled out a drawer of the library-table, as he said this, and taking therefrom a broad parchment document, laid it down, and while his hand rested upon it continued—

"Anticipating that, as heretofore, I might not be able to get your figures, I have taken the matter into my own hands, and fixed the amount of compensation—subject, of course, to objections on your part, if I have made the award too low. These papers are the title deeds of Ivy Cottage, executed in your favor. There are memories and associations connected with this dear spot, which must for ever be sacred in the hearts of myself and wife; and it would be pain to us to see it desecrated by strangers. In equity and love, then, we pass it over to you and yours; and may God give you as much happiness beneath its roof as we have known."

Surprise kept me silent for some time. But as soon as my thoughts ran free, I answered—

"No—no, Mr. Wallingford. This is fixing the sum entirely beyond a fair estimate. I cannot for a moment—"

He stopped me before I could finish the sentence.

"Doctor!" He spoke with earnestness and deep feeling. "There is no living man to whom I am so heavily indebted as I am to you. Not until after my marriage was I aware that your favorable word, given without qualification, bore me into the confidence of Mrs. Montgomery, and thus opened the way for me to happiness and fortune. My good Blanche has often repeated to me the language you once used in my favor, and which awakened in her mind an interest which gradually deepened into love. My heart moves towards you, Doctor, and you must let its impulses have way in this small matter. Do not feel it as an obligation. That is all on our side. We cannot let Ivy Cottage go entirely out of the family. We wish to have as much property in it as the pilgrim has in Mecca. We must visit it sometimes, and feel always that its chambers are the abodes of peace and love. A kind Providence has given us of this world's goods an abundance. We did not even have to lift our hands to the ripe clusters. They fell into our laps. And now, if, from our plenty, we take a small portion and discharge a debt, will you push aside the offering, and say, No? Doctor, this must not be!"

Again I essayed objection; but all was in vain. Ivy Cottage was to be our pleasant home. When, on returning with Constance, I related to her what had passed between Mr. Wallingford and myself, she was affected to tears.

"If I have ever had a covetous thought," she said, "it has been when I looked at Ivy Cottage. And to think it is to be mine! The sweetest, dearest spot in S——!"

There was no putting aside this good fortune. It came in such a shape, that we could not refuse it without doing violence to the feelings of true-hearted friends. And so, when they removed to their new home, we passed to Ivy Cottage.

The two years that followed were marked by no events of striking interest. The affairs of Judge Bigelow continued to assume a better shape, under the persistent direction of Mr. Wallingford, until every dollar which he had invested in the cotton mills was withdrawn and placed in real estate or sound securities. Long before this there had come an open rupture between the old man and his nephew; but the Judge had seen his real character in so clear a light that friendship was no longer desirable.



CHAPTER XXX.



And now we have come down to the memorable summer and fall of 1857. No gathering clouds, no far-distant, low-voiced thunder gave warning of an approaching storm. The sky was clear, and the sun of prosperity moving onward in his strength, when, suddenly, from the West came a quick flash and an ominous roll of thunder. Men paused, looked at each other, and asked what it meant. Here and there a note of warning was sounded; but, if heeded by any, it came too late. There followed a brief pause, in which people held their breaths. Then came another flash, and another rattling peal. Heavy clouds began to roll up from the horizon; and soon the whole sky was dark. Pale face looked into pale face, and tremulous voices asked as to what was coming. Fear and consternation were in all hearts. It was too late for any to seek refuge or shelter. Ere the startled multitudes had stirred from their first surprised position, the tempest came down in its fury, sweeping, tornado-like, from West to East, and then into one grand gyration circling the whole horizon. Men lost courage, confidence, and hope. They stood still while the storm beat down, and the fearful work of destruction went on.

No commercial disaster like this had ever before visited our country. Houses that stood unmoved through many fierce convulsions went down like brittle reeds, and old Corporations which were thought to be as immovable as the hills tottered and fell, crushing hundreds amid their gigantic ruins.

Among the first to yield was the greatly extended house of Floyd, Lawson, Lee, & Co. The news came up on the wires to S——, with orders to stop the mills and discharge all hands. This was the bursting of the tempest on our town. Mr. Dewey had gone to New York on the first sign of approaching trouble, and his return was looked for anxiously by all with whom he was deeply interested in business. But many days passed and none saw him, or heard from him. Failing to receive any communication, Squire Floyd, who had everything involved, went down to New York. I saw him on the morning of his return. He looked ten years older.

It was soon whispered about that the failure of Floyd, Lawson, Lee, & Co. was a bad one. Then came intimations that Mr. Dewey was not in New York, and that his partners, when questioned about him, gave very unsatisfactory replies.

"Have you any notes of the Clinton Bank, Doctor?" said a friend whom I met in the street. "Because, if you have, take my advice and get rid of them as quickly as possible. A run has commenced, and it's my opinion that the institution will not stand for forty-eight hours."

It stood just forty-eight hours from the date of this prophecy, and then closed its doors, leaving our neighborhood poorer by the disaster over two hundred thousand dollars. There was scarcely a struggle in dying, for the institution had suffered such an exhausting depletion that when its extremity came it passed from existence without a throe. A Receiver was immediately appointed, and the assets examined. These consisted, mainly, of bills receivable under discount, not probably worth now ten cents on the dollar. Three-fourths of this paper was drawn or endorsed by New York firms or individuals, most of whom had already failed. The personal account of Ralph Dewey showed him to be a debtor to the Bank in the sum of nearly a hundred thousand dollars. The President, Joshua Kling, had not been seen since the evening of the day on which the doors of the Clinton Bank were shut, never to be opened for business again. His accounts were all in confusion. The Cashier, who had succeeded him on his elevation to the Presidency of the institution; was a mere creature in his hands; and from his revelations it was plain that robbery had been progressing for some time on a grand scale.

As soon as these disastrous facts became known to the heaviest sufferers in S——, the proper affidavits were made out, and requisitions obtained for both Dewey and Kling, as defaulters and fugitives from justice. The Sheriff of our county, charged with the duty of arrest, proceeded forthwith to New York, and, engaging the services of detectives there, began the search for Dewey, who, it was believed, had not left that city. He was discovered, in a week, after having dexterously eluded pursuit, on the eve of departure for England, disguised, and under an assumed name. His next appearance in S——was as a prisoner in the hands of our Sheriff, who lodged him in jail. Very heavy bonds being required for his appearance at court, there was not found among us any one willing to take the risk, who was qualified to become his surety. And so the wretched man was compelled to lie in prison until the day of trial.

Immediately on his incarceration, he sent for Mr. Wallingford, who visited him without delay. He found him a shrinking, cowed, and frightened culprit; not a man, conscious of rectitude, and therefore firm in bearing, though in a false and dangerous position.

"This is a bad business, Mr. Wallingford," he said, on meeting the lawyer—"a very bad business; and I have sent for you as a professional gentleman of standing and ability, in order to have a consultation in regard to my position—in fact, to place myself wholly in your hands. I must have the best counsel, and therefore take the earliest opportunity to secure your valuable services. Will you undertake my case?"

"That will depend, Mr. Dewey," was answered, "entirely upon how it stands. If you are falsely accused, and can demonstrate to me your innocence, I will defend you to the utmost of my ability, battling your accusers to the last. But if, on the contrary, you cannot show clean hands, I am not the one to undertake your case."

Dewey looked at Mr. Wallingford strangely. He scarcely comprehended him.

"I may have committed mistakes; all men are liable to error," he replied.

"Mistake is one thing, Mr. Dewey, and may be explained; fraud is another thing, and cannot be explained to mean any thing else. What I want you to understand, distinctly, is this: If your connection with the Clinton Bank has been, from the beginning, just and honorable, however much it may now seem to be otherwise, I will undertake your case, and conduct it, I care not through how great difficulties, to a favorable issue. But if it has not been—and you know how it stands—do not commit your fate to me, for I will abandon you the moment I discover that you have been guilty of deliberate wrong to others."

The countenance of Mr. Dewey fell, and he seemed to shudder back into himself. For some time he was silent.

"If there is a foregone conclusion in your mind, that settles the matter," he said, at length, in a disappointed tone.

"All I ask is clear evidence, Mr. Dewey. Foregone conclusions have nothing to do with the matter," replied Mr. Wallingford, "If you know yourself to be innocent, you may trust yourself in my hands; if not, I counsel you to look beyond me to some other man."

"All men are liable to do wrong, Mr. Wallingford; and religion teaches that the door of repentance is open to every one."

"True, but the just punishment of wrong is always needed for a salutary repentance. The contrition that springs from fear of consequences, is not genuine repentance. If you have done wrong, you must take the penalty in some shape, and I am not the man knowingly to stay the just progression of either moral or civil law."

"Will you accept a retaining fee, even if not active in my case?" asked Mr. Dewey.

"No," was the emphatic answer.

A dark, despairing shadow fell over the miserable man's face, and he turned himself away from the only being towards whom he had looked with any hope in this great extremity of his life.

Mr. Wallingford retired with pity in his heart. The spectacle was one of the most painful he had ever witnessed. How was the mighty fallen!—the proud brought low! As he walked from the prison, the Psalmist's striking words passed through his mind—"I have seen the wicked in great power, and spreading himself like a green bay tree; yet he passed away, and lo, he was not."

When the day of trial came, Mr. Wallingford appeared as counsel for the creditors of the Clinton Bank, on the side of the prosecution. He did not show any eagerness to gain his case against the prisoner; but the facts were so strong, and all the links in the chain of evidence so clear, that conviction was inevitable. A series of frauds and robberies was exposed, that filled the community with surprise and indignation; and when the jury, after a brief consultation, brought in a verdict of guilty, the expression of delight was general. Detestation of the man's crimes took away all pity from the common sentiment in regard to him. A sentence of five years' expiation in the State prison closed the career of Ralph Dewey in S——-, and all men said: "The retribution is just."

Squire Floyd lost everything, and narrowly escaped the charge of complicity with Dewey. Nothing but the fact of their known antagonism for some two or three years, turned the public mind in his favor, and enabled him to show that what appeared collusion, was only, so far as he was concerned, fair business operations. With the wreck of his fortune he came very near making also a wreck of his good name. Even as it was, there were some in S——who thought the Squire had, in some things, gone far beyond the rule of strict integrity.

Judge Bigelow, thanks to the timely and resolute intervention of Mr. Wallingford, stood far away from the crashing wrecks, when the storm swept down in fearful devastation. It raged around, but did not touch him; for he was safely sheltered, and beyond its reach.



CHAPTER XXXI.



Two years have passed since these disastrous events; and twenty years since the opening of our story. The causes at work in the beginning, have wrought out their legitimate effects—the tree has ripened its fruits—the harvest has been gathered. The quiet of old times has fallen upon S——. It was only a week ago that steps were taken to set the long silent mills in motion. A company, formed in Boston, has purchased the lower mill, and rented from Mr. Wallingford the upper one, which was built on the Allen estate. Squire Floyd, I learn, is to be the manager here for the company. I am glad of this. Poor man! He was stripped of everything, and has been, for the past two years, in destitute circumstances. How he has contrived to live, is almost a mystery. The elegant house which he had built for himself was taken and sold by creditors, with the furniture, plate, and all things pertaining thereto, and, broken-spirited, he retired to a small tenement on the outskirts of the town, where he has since lived. His unhappy daughter, with her two children, are with him. Her son, old enough to be put to some business, she has placed in a store, where he is earning enough to pay his board; while she and her daughter take in what sewing they can obtain, in order to lessen, as far as possible, the burden of their maintenance. Alas for her that the father of those children should be a convicted felon!

I move about through S——on my round of duties, and daily there comes to me some reminder of the events and changes of twenty years. I see, here and there, a stranded wreck, and think how proudly the vessel spread her white sails in the wind a few short years gone by, freighted with golden hopes. But where are those treasures now? Lost, lost forever in the fathomless sea!

Twenty years ago, and now! As a man soweth, even so shall he reap. Spring time loses itself in luxuriant summer, and autumn follows with the sure result. If the seed has been good, the fruit will be good; but if a man have sown only tares in his fields, he must reap in sorrow and not in joy. There is no exception to the rule. A bramble bush can no more bear grapes, than a selfish and evil life can produce happiness. The one is a natural, and the other a spiritual, impossibility.

A few days ago, as I was riding along on a visit to one of my patients, I met Mr. and Mrs. Wallingford, with two of their children, driving out in their carriage. They stopped, and we were passing a few pleasant words, when there came by two persons, plainly, almost coarsely dressed—a mother and her daughter. Both had bundles in their hands. Over the mother's face a veil was drawn, and as she passed, with evidently quickening steps, she turned herself partly away. The daughter looked at us steadily from her calm blue eyes, in which you saw a shade of sadness, as though already many hopes had failed. Her face was pale and placid, but touched you with its expression of half-concealed suffering, as if, young as she was, some lessons of pain and endurance had already been learned.

"Who are they?" asked Mrs. Wallingford.

"Delia Floyd and her daughter," said I.

No remark was made. If my ears did not deceive me, I heard a faint sigh pass the lips of Mr. Wallingford.

I spoke to my horse, and, bowing mutually, we passed on our ways.

"Twenty years ago, and now!" said I to myself, falling into a sober mood, as thought went back to the sweet, fragrant morning of Delia's life, and I saw it in contrast with this dreary autumn. "If the young would only take a lesson like this to heart!"

In the evening, Mr. Wallingford called to see me.

"I have not been able, all day," said he, "to get the image of that poor woman and her daughter out of my mind. What are their circumstances, Doctor?"

"They live with Squire Floyd," I answered, "and he is very poor. I think Delia and her daughter support themselves by their needles."

"What a fall!" he said, with pity in his tones.

"Yes, it was a sad fall—sad, but salutary, I trust."

"How was she after her separation from Mr. Dewey?"

"Very bitter and rebellious, for a time. His marriage seemed to arouse every evil passion of her nature. I almost shuddered to hear the maledictions she called down upon the head of his wife one day, when she rode by in the elegant equipage of which she had once been the proud owner. She fairly trembled with rage. Since then, the discipline of the inevitable in life has done its better work. She has grown subdued and patient, and is doing all a mother in such narrow circumstances can do for her children."

"What of Dewey's second wife?" asked Mr. Wallingford.

"She has applied for a divorce from him, on the ground that he is a convicted felon; and will get a decree in her favor, without doubt."

"What a history!" he exclaimed. Then, after a pause, he asked—

"Cannot something be done for Mr. Floyd?"

"I have understood," said I, "that the company about to start the mills again have engaged him as manager."

"Is that so? Just what I was thinking," he replied, with animation. "I must look after that matter, and see that it does not fall through."

And he was in this, as in all things, as good as his word. It needed only a favorable intimation from him to decide the company to place their works in the hands of Squire Floyd, who was a man of skill and experience in manufacturing, and one in whose integrity the fullest confidence might be reposed.

A month has passed; and Squire Floyd, engaged at a salary of two thousand dollars a year, is again at the mills, busy in superintending repairs, improvements, and additions. A few more weeks, and the rattle of industry will commence, and the old aspect of things show itself in S——. May the new mill owners be wiser than their predecessors!

Squire Floyd has removed from the poor tenement lately the home of his depressed family, and is back in the pleasant homestead he abandoned years ago, when pride and ambition impelled him to put on a grander exterior. It is understood that the company have bought the house, and rent it to him at a very moderate price. My own impression is, that Mr. Wallingford has more to do in the matter than people imagine. I am strengthened in this view, from the fact of having seen Mrs. Wallingford call at the Squire's twice during the past week. They are in good hands, and I see a better future in store for them.

And now, reader, you have the story I wished to tell. It is full of suggestion to all who are starting forth upon life's perilous journey. Let truth, honor, integrity, and humanity, govern all your actions. Do not make haste to be rich, lest you fall into divers temptations. Keep always close to the right; and always bear in mind that no wrong is ever done that does not, sooner or later, return upon the wrong-doer.

And above all, gentle maiden, be not dazzled by the condition or prospect of any who seek your hand.

Look away, down, deeply into the character, disposition, and quality; and if these are not of good seeming, shun the proffered alliance as you would death. Better, a thousand times, pass through life alone than wed yourself to inevitable misery. So heeding the moralist, you will not, in the harvest time which comes to all, look in despair over your barren fields, but find them golden with Autumn's treasures, that shall fill your granaries and crown your latter days with blessing.

The End.