"Why you should learn to think of these things without so much terror, Jane," he said, in a voice full of tenderness, but still sad, as if some unconquerable presentiment were overshadowing him.

"No—no—I cannot! Talk of something else, John; the little girl, we have forgotten her."

The husband and wife both looked toward the couch. Mary had half risen, and with her elbow resting on the pillow, was regarding them intently with her large and glittering eyes.

"We have disturbed her!" said Jane Chester. "How wide wake she is," and she went up to the couch.

"I could not help listening," said the child, falling back on the pillow as Jane came up. "Besides I want to say something. I can sew very nicely, and wash dishes, and sweep, and a great many other things—if you will only let me stay!"

"You shall stay—now go to sleep—you shall stay. Is it not so, John?" said Mrs. Chester turning to her husband.

"Yes," said Chester, "the child shall stay with us; let her go to sleep."

They all slept sweetly that night; Chester, his wife, little Isabel, and the orphan, and such dreams as they had—such soft, bright dreams. Could you have seen them slumbering beneath the humble roof, smiling tranquilly on their pillows, you might have fancied that those little rooms were swarming with invisible angels—spirits from paradise that had come down to make a little heaven of the poor man's home. Indeed, I am not quite sure that the idea would have been all fancy—for Charity, that brightest spirit of heaven, was there, and what a glorious troop she always brings in her train. Talk of flinging your bread upon the waters, waiting for it to be cast up after many days—why the very joy of casting the bread you have earned with your own strength upon the bright waves of humanity, is reward enough for the true heart.



CHAPTER V.

THE MAYOR AND THE ALDERMAN.

A smooth and subtle man was he— Of crafty heart and Christian mien; His wisdom—cheating sophistry, Flung o'er his sins a mocking sheen.

Chester had business with the Chief of Police, and about nine o'clock the next morning, after his adventure with the orphan, he passed into the Park, through the south entrance, on his way to the Chief's office. At the same moment, his Honor the Mayor came through a gate near the corner of Chambers street, and walked with calm and stately deliberation toward the City Hall. Nothing could have been more precise or perfect than the outward man, which his honor exhibited to the gaze of his constituents. Neatly-fitting boots, square toed, and of the most elaborate manufacture, encased his feet. Not a speck defiled their high polish; the very dust and mud which introduces itself cosily into the habiliments of your common, warm hearted men, seemed to shrink away chilled and repulsed by the immaculate coldness that clung like an atmosphere around the Mayor of New York. The nap of his hat lay shining and smooth as satin; so deeply and thoroughly was it brushed down into the stock, that it seemed as if a whirlwind would have failed to ripple the fur. His black coat, his satin vest and plaited linen presented a glossy and spotless surface to the winter sun. His black gloves—in New York we have a great many public funerals, and the city supplies mourning gloves to the Common Council—his black gloves were neatly buttoned, and above them lay his snow-white wristbands, folded carefully over the cuffs of his coat, and his right hand grasped a prudish-looking cane which seemed part and parcel of the man.

A sublime picture of official dignity was the Mayor as he crossed the Park that morning. An expression of bland courtesy lay upon his features; all the proprieties of life were elaborated in his slightest movement. Nothing, save heart and principle, was lacking that could ensure popularity; but this deficiency, if it does not render a man absolutely unpopular, chills all enthusiasm regarding him.

A man must possess fire in himself before he can kindle up the electricity that thrills the great popular heart. With all his propriety—with all his silky and subtle efforts, our Mayor was generally regarded with indifference. He was neither loved nor hated sufficiently for the populace to know or care much about him. Oily Gammon himself could not have presented a more perfect surface to the people. Still this man could hate like an Indian and sting like a viper. You would not have doubted that, had you seen him when he first encountered Chester in the Park. There was a glitter in his eye which you could not have, mistaken. During the moment when he saw Chester turning an angle of the City Hall, this flash came and went, leaving his face unmoved as before, only that he almost smiled as the policeman drew near.

"And how is your little charge this morning?" inquired his honor, pausing in the walk where it curves to the back entrance of the City Hall. "Better, I hope?"

"Oh, yes, sir, much better," answered Chester with generous warmth. "I thank your honor for inquiring."

"I suppose you are going to the Alms House Commissioner," rejoined the Mayor, glancing toward the old building which ran along Chambers street, where many of the public offices were held; "she will be well cared for at Bellevue."

Chester blushed as if he were confessing some fraud, and answered with embarrassment that the little girl would remain with him, at least for the present.

The Mayor looked perfectly satisfied with the answer, bowed and walked forward. On his way up the steps and along the lobby, he occasionally saluted some lawyer that plunged by him with a load of calf-bound volumes pressed ostentatiously under his arm, and paused once or twice to exchange words with a street inspector or petty official, who formed the small wires of his political machinery.

The Mayor spent half an hour in his private office, closeted with his chief clerk, who had been busy over night preparing a speech which his honor was to deliver before some distinguished city guest the next day. In these matters the chief magistrate proved rather hard to please, as he was fond of high-sounding words and poetical ideas, but found them very difficult to commit to memory.

In this case the clerk had done wonders, and taking a copy for study, his honor disposed himself in the great easy-chair of his private room, with the manuscript before him, as if profoundly occupied with some intricate law opinion, and commenced the arduous task of committing the ideas of a better cultivated mind to his own sterile brain. While he was thus occupied, a man entered with a good-humored, blustering air, and threw himself into a seat by the fire, carelessly shaking the Mayor's hand as he passed, as if quite certain of a good reception at all times.

"Busy making out a new veto case, I dare say?" observed the visitor, glancing at the sheet of manuscript which his honor held.

The Mayor folded up his unlearned speech, and turning quietly in his seat, dropped into a desultory conversation with this man about city matters, talking in a circle, and gradually drawing toward the subject which he had at heart, till it seemed to drop in quite by accident.

"Speaking of policemen," said the Mayor, "there is a man in our ward, Alderman, whom I have heard of very often, lately, a tall, gentlemanly sort of a fellow—Chester, I think that is his name. Do you happen to know anything about him?"

"Chester—Chester—yes, I should think so. A fellow that reads like a minister and writes like a clerk; he is a perfect nuisance in the ward. You have no idea what mischief he does with his gentlemanly airs."

"What! a strong politician is he?"

"I hardly know; but he is not one of us, that is certain."

"It is due to the party—the fellow ought to be removed," said the Mayor. "I wonder some one has never preferred charges against him."

"Plenty of our people have been lying in wait for him, but he is not to be trapped; he understands all the rules, and lives up to them. Never drinks—is always respectful—appears on his beat punctual as a clock. In short, it is a hopeless case."

"Then it must be a very singular one," said the Mayor, with a meaning smile. "Is there no good friend of your own who would be glad of the situation?"

"Oh, yes—one to whom I have made a half promise, but we can get no hold on this Chester, he will baffle us, depend on it."

"Perhaps not. Let your friend, who is waiting for the situation, continue vigilant. If he is keen-sighted, his evidence will have weight with me."

Our Alderman looked hard at the Mayor, somewhat doubtful if he understood the whole meaning conveyed, more in the glance than in the words of that honorable gentleman, who saw his perplexity and spoke again.

"You know, my dear friend, how far I would strain a point to serve you, but there must be some evidence—something, however slight, you understand—which can be readily obtained against any man."

The Mayor saw by the smile that disturbed the lip of his friend, that he was at length thoroughly understood.

"You know that there is no appeal from my decision," he added, with a smile, "and I decide alone!"

"I comprehend," replied the Alderman, standing up and rubbing his palms pleasantly together. "This is very kind of you, very kind, indeed. I shall not forget it."

"I think your friend may be sure of his situation," was the amiable reply; "you know it is our duty to watch these people well. I think your friend may deem himself secure."

"No doubt of it, now that we have a friend at court."

"Oh, not a word of that," said the Mayor, lifting his hand reprovingly, "everything must be in order, according to rule, you know."

The Mayor smiled, while his friend laughed outright, repeating to himself between each chuckle—"Oh, yes, according to rule, according to rule;" and eager to undertake his new enterprise, the elated Alderman took his leave, walking through the outer room with an exaggeration of his previous blustering importance, that quite astonished the clerks.

The Mayor looked after him with a bland smile, but when the worthy official was out of sight, the smile glided into a contemptuous sneer, and he muttered to himself—"The pompous blockhead, he is so easily cajoled that one scarcely feels a pleasure in using him."

With these characteristic words the noble-hearted magistrate betook himself to the manuscript again, certain that the wire he had pulled, would never cease to vibrate till poor Chester was ruined.



CHAPTER VI.

THE DRAM SHOP PLOT

The stars hang burning in the skies, The earth gives back their diamond light, Where like a radiant bride it lies Reposing in that glorious night.

Again the night was intensely cold. There had been a storm of sleet and rain during two whole days, and now came on a keen frost, sheeting the pavements, the trees and the housetops with ice.

Chester was pacing his rounds, as on the first night when we presented him to the reader. Sometimes he paused to remark the delicate tracery of ice that hung in fretted masses over the gutters, or was frozen in waves along the curb-stones, or looked upwards to the tall trees that seemed absolutely dripping with light, as the moonbeams streamed over them, while the gas from the street lanterns sent up golden gleams through the lower branches and along the glittering trunks.

Intensely cold as the night was, Chester could not resist that exquisite sense of the beautiful, which objects so novel and picturesque were sure to excite in his imaginative mind. There was something so purely ideal in those massive branches, stripped of leaves and laden down with crystalline spray, while the wind swayed them heavily about, and the moonlight flooded them through and through, that even a duller man than Chester must have paused to admire.

Through the glittering arcade—for along the rich man's district the trees grew thick and high—Chester could see the bright winter stars shining, and the deep blue Heavens slumbering afar off, while with folded arms and eyes uplifted he paced along the street, forgetful, for the time, that the night was so cold, or that his own frame was yet too feeble for unnecessary exposure.

In going to the poor man's district, Chester was obliged to pass one of those majestic old elms which our forefathers planted, still to be found here and there scattered over the great city. This elm stood on a corner, and beneath its great pendent branches a small dram-shop desecrated the soil which gave nourishment to the brave old forest tree. This was the squalid object that fell upon Chester's gaze as he glanced reluctantly from those long pendent branches, flashing and shivering as it were with a fruitage of diamonds, to the dull and dirty windows.

The dram-shop seemed to be full, for he could see the shadows of several men passing to and fro behind the murky windows, and when the door opened to let out a woman, who passed him with a small pitcher in her hand, he saw that many others were left within the building. There was something startling in the contrast between the sublime beauty of the sky and the vice hovel underneath, and Chester stopped to gaze on it, pondering in his thoughts how it was that men, upright and honorable in other things, should ever become so lost to all sense of humanity, as to legalize the vicious traffic which this old elm, rising so nobly and so free against the sky, was obliged to shelter.

As these thoughts occupied his mind, two men came out of the store, arm in arm, and passed the place where he was standing. One of the men looked keenly at him as he went by, but Chester scarcely observed him, and remained as before, with his mind wholly engrossed.

"It is he!" said one of the men to his companion, "and looking toward the corner, as if it would not be a hard job to get him in."

"Hush! he will hear you," replied the other. "Let us walk round the block and go in from the other street; he will not know us again!"

"If we could but get him in for once, just long enough to taste one glass, that would settle his business," was the rejoinder. "Move slower, and let us talk it over. Jones will go in with us through thick and thin, for the fellow has hurt his business more than a little, reformed a great many of his best customers, and persuaded others to be off. We shall find Jones ready for anything."

The two men walked forward, feeling their way along the slippery sidewalk, and conversing earnestly until they reached the dram-shop again.

Chester was still there, pondering the ideas of blended pleasure and pain, which the scene had presented to him with unusual force that evening. The dram-shop had opened two or three times while he was standing there, and when the two men passed in he saw without closely observing them.

At length, he was about to move forward, when the shop, that had been up to that time remarkably quiet, became a scene of some strange tumult. Three or four persons left abruptly, and the sound of loud, angry voices reached him through the door whenever it was flung open to allow persons to pass out. After a few minutes there came running across the street a little boy, who seemed quite breathless with haste and terror.

"Oh! you are a policeman, sir; I am so glad, pray come with me!" he cried, seizing hold of Chester's coat. "They are quarreling—two men are quarreling in there, and one of them has a knife drawn."

Chester hastened across the street, for the angry voices were becoming louder, and there really seemed to be some danger threatened. He entered the store, and to his surprise, found only two persons present, besides the owner, who stood back of a little imitation marble counter with his arms folded, evidently enjoying a scene of altercation that was carried on, it appeared, with some effort between his guests; for as one of the men was thrown back against the counter in the scuffle, he merely circled two or three half empty decanters with his arm, and laughingly told them not to interfere with their best friends; then throwing half his weight upon the counter again, he seemed to enter heart and soul into the dispute.

"There, there," said the owner, rising as Chester came in, "we have had enough of this—here is the police. Give up, give up, both of you. Shake hands and take a drink—that is the way to settle these little matters. Come, Mr. Policeman, help me to pacify these two hot-heads; what do you say to my recommendation, brandy and water all round?"

"That would be the last thing that I should recommend," said Chester, speaking in his usual bland and gentlemanly manner. "These two persons, I doubt not, will listen to the reason without firing up their blood with more strong drink."

"With more strong drink!" cried one of the men, laughing rudely as he cast his antagonist carelessly from him; "why we haven't had a drop yet. It was thirst, sheer thirst that made us both so savage. Come, Smith, here is my hand. Let us drink and make up."

The man thus addressed rose from the cask against which he had been thrown, and suddenly took the offered hand of his antagonist.

Chester saw that the quarrel, if it ever had been serious, was now at an end, and turned to leave the store; but Jones, the owner, followed him with an anxious face, and whispered that it was only fear of the police that had so suddenly quieted the men, and besought him not to withdraw till they were ready to leave the establishment. Chester turned back; both the place and company were repugnant to him, but it was his duty to remain, and he sat down regarding the two men as they drank at the counter, boisterously knocking their glasses together in token of renewed fellowship.

"Come, Mr. Policeman, take a glass," said Smith, who all the while had been the most noisy. "You look pale as a ghost," and the man took a glass half full of brandy and brought it to the stove by which Chester had drawn his chair.

Chester did indeed look pale, for coming out of the clear night into a room heated to suffocation by a close stove, and redolent with the mingled fumes of tobacco smoke and alcohol, the atmosphere oppressed him with a sickening sensation; his head began to reel, and he sat unsteadily in his chair. Thus oppressed, he reached forth his hand and lifted the glass to his lips. The scent of its contents, however, warned him; he arose without tasting the brandy, and placed it on the counter. Just then two or three persons came in from the street. Jones and Smith exchanged triumphant glances, and Chester sat down again, supporting his forehead upon one hand, sickened with the heat, and becoming each moment more pallid.

"Come," said Smith, at length addressing his companion, "let us go now, we can soon find a place where gentlemen can settle their disputes without being hunted down by the police!" and the two went out.

Jones hastily came round the counter and addressed Chester.

"They will get up a street fight," he said, with great apparent anxiety. "Had you not better follow them?"

Chester arose with difficulty and left the store, scarcely conscious of his own movements, for he was still faint from the changed atmosphere. But the cold air revived him, and he walked on beneath the old elm, passing the two men, who stood on the curb-stone leaning against its trunk, apparently in excited conversation. The pavement all around was one glaze of ice, and Chester was obliged to guard his footsteps with great care, as he moved slowly forward. As he came near the two men, one of them put forth his foot, and Chester fell forward with a faint cry, striking his temples against the curb stone with a violence that sent the broken ice in a shower over his head.

"Halloo! here is a fallen star," cried Smith, lifting his voice. The dram-shop was flung open at the sound, and its owner came forth followed by several persons who had entered the place just as Chester left it.

They found the policeman stretched on the ice with the two men, who had been the cause of his mishap, bending over him with that jeering expression in their words and features, with which the coarse-minded usually meet accidents which result from intoxication.

Chester was much hurt, but he had lost no blood, so the bystanders turned away with a laugh, and he was left to the mercy of those two evil men.



CHAPTER VII.

THE BIRTH-DAY FESTIVAL.

Her soul was full of tender thought, Ardent and strong but gentle, too, Like gems, in purest gold o'er wrought, Or flowers that banquet on the dew. Love seemed more holy in her heart, Than human passions ever are; She took from Heaven its purest part, And found on earth its sweetest care.

It was Chester's birth-day, always a season of bright joy in his little household. He had entirely recovered from the ill-effects of his fall upon the ice. The little stranger, instead of being a burden upon his narrow resources, became quite a help and comfort to them. She had now been three weeks in the family, industrious as a bee, meekly cheerful, and with a sort of homely sweetness in her manner that won affection without effort. Never boisterous or obtrusive in her desire to please she moved about the house like some meek and good spirit, acting, not speaking, the soft gratitude with which her little heart was brimming over. You could see it in her large and humid eyes. You could feel it in the quick joy that came and went over her face, when any one asked a service of her. She seemed perfectly possessed of that most lovely of all earthly feelings, human gratitude; yet she uttered but few words, and was always too busy for extreme sadness.

Occupation, occupation!—what a glorious thing it is for the human heart. Those who work hard seldom yield themselves entirely up to fancied or real sorrow. When grief sits down, folds its hands, and mournfully feeds upon its own tears, weaving the dim shadows, that a little exertion might sweep away, into a funeral pall, the strong spirit is shorn of its might, and sorrow becomes our master. When troubles flow upon you, dark and heavy, toil not with the waves—wrestle not with the torrent!—rather seek, by occupation, to divert the dark waters that threaten to overwhelm you, into a thousand channels which the duties of life always present. Before you dream of it, those waters will fertilize the present, and give birth to fresh flowers that may brighten the future—flowers that will become pure and holy, in the sunshine which penetrates to the path of duty, in spite of every obstacle. Grief, after all, is but a selfish feeling, and most selfish is the man who yields himself to the indulgence of any passion which brings no joy to his fellow man.

If little Mary Fuller did not reason thus—poor thing, she was only twelve years old—she felt thus, and a good heart is, after all, your best philosopher.

She was grateful, and that sweet feeling is, in itself, almost a happiness. So, in her meekness and her industry, this little girl might have shamed the fortitude of many a stout man, for there are no sufferings so sharp as those that sting our childhood, and hers, both of soul and body, had been bitter indeed.

It would have done your heart good to witness the pleasant bustle going on in the policeman's dwelling on his birth-day. Mary Fuller entered into the preparations with delightful spirit. There was the kitchen table, spread out with currants and raisins, and boxes of sugar, and plates of butter—and there was Mrs. Chester, with the sleeves of her calico dress rolled up from her white arms, and her slender hands, all snowy with the flour she was measuring out in a tea-cup, while her sweet smiling lips were in motion as she counted off each cupful, now of sugar, now of fruit, and now of butter for the birth-day cake. There was little Isabel beating up eggs in a great China bowl, and laughing as she shook back her curls, that threatened every moment to drop into the snowy froth.

Down on a little seat by the stove, crouched Mary Fuller, with her lap full of black currants, looking so mild and tranquil as she gathered up the fruit, and allowed it to flow from one thin hand to the other, blowing away the dust with her mournful little mouth, and lifting up her eyes to Mrs. Chester now and then, with a look of such quiet and trusting affection.

And now Mrs. Chester lifted up the bright tin-pan half full of golden and fruit-studded paste between both her hands, with a satisfied and happy look. Mary Fuller quietly opened the stove door, and the precious cake was soon browning over, and rising in a soft cone, almost to the top of the oven. Every other instant Isabel would take a peep in, and thus fill the room with luscious fragrance, and Mary was full of curiosity, for the composition of a cake like that was quite a miracle to her, poor thing!

Then Mrs. Chester could not quite conceal her anxiety that Isabel might interrupt the baking by constantly opening the door. In short, you have no idea what an interest was felt in that birth-day cake. It kept them quite anxious and animated for a full hour.

Then all this suspense was followed by such delighted exclamations when the cake came out, done to a turn, so high, so delicately brown, and with a light golden fissure breaking through the warm swell, like the furrow in a hill-side, betraying the perfect lightness and spongy perfection at the centre—altogether, the whole thing was quite a household picture, a pleasant domestic scene, full of spirit and happiness.

But this was only a preliminary of the day's work. There was the frosting to put on, and there was a pair of plump little pullets waiting to be stuffed, and so many things to be done, that with bringing out little round wooden boxes and bright tin pans, and forks and spoons, and putting them up again, everything was kept in a state of pleasant excitement the whole day.

At nightfall it was perfectly surprising, the bower that lovely housewife and her children had made of the room. The muslin curtains were bordered with wreaths of evergreens; festoons of hemlock and feathery pine tufts fell along the snow-white wall. On a little shelf under the window, stood a bird cage sheltered by a miniature forest of tea-roses and ivy geraniums. The golden feathers of its inmate gleamed out beautifully from among the leaves and crimson flowers; for the genial warmth seemed to have brought all the buds into blossom at once, and there was a perfect flush of them among the glossy and deep green leaves.

As if quite conscious that there was a birth-day developing in all these cheerful preparations, the bird was in a joyous state of excitement, and seemed to enter, with all its little musical soul, into the spirit of the thing. Instead of going sleepily to his perch as the sun went down, he kept chirping about, hopping hither and thither, flinging off the husks from his seed on the bottom of the cage, or standing on his perch with his head on one side, and eyeing the tea roses askance, as if questioning them regarding this unusual commotion. Then, as if satisfied with the blushing silence of the flowers, he would hop upon his perch and break into a gush of song that made the leaves around him tremble again, having, to all appearances, made up his birdly mind not to give up before midnight at the furthest.

Now everything was ready, save some petty arrangements of the table-top which were in a state of progression.

Mary Fuller, arrayed in a Marino dress, almost as good as new, and with her hair neatly braided, was busy with Isabel's curls, rolling their glossy blackness delightedly around her finger, and dropping them in shining masses over those dimpled shoulders, with far more exulting pride than the little beauty felt herself.

She was a lovely creature, that fair Isabel, more beautiful from contrast with the sallow child that bent over her. The pretty pink frock looped back from those snowy shoulders, with knots of ribbon, her embroidered pantalets peeping from beneath it, and those dainty little slippers on her feet—altogether, the two girls made a charming picture. The Canary stopped singing to watch them, giving out a chirp of admiration now and then, as if he approved of the whole thing, but did not care to make a scene about it.

At last, Mrs. Chester came forth, her cheeks all in a glow of blushes, for she was rather shy of appearing before her children in that pretty, white-muslin dress, fastened over the bosom with bows of pink ribbon, and with a belt of the same color girding her waist.

The girls started up with exclamations of delight, for this dress took them by surprise, and in order to get clear of her awkwardness, Mrs. Chester kissed them both, while the bird went off in a fit of musical enthusiasm quite astounding, hopping frantically about his cage and throwing off gushes of song till his golden throat seemed ready to burst with a flood of melody.

Mary Fuller stood, after the first outbreak of admiration, looking wistfully from her benefactress to the crimson roses. Her keen sense of the beautiful was excited.

"May I?" she said, softly bending down one of the crimson flowers.

Mrs. Chester smiled, and Mary broke off the half-open blossom.

"Please let me put it in."

Again Mrs. Chester smiled, and sat down in her rocking chair, while Mary placed the rose among the snowy folds on her bosom, and Isabel hovered near, admiring the effect.

"Isn't she beautiful!" exclaimed Mary, gently exultant, standing back to enjoy the contrast of the crimson leaves and the white muslin.

"Isn't she?" cried Isabel, in all the flush of her young beauty, "Isn't she, my own, dear, pretty mother?" and she held up her arms for an embrace.

Mary sighed very gently, for she thought of her mother.

And now four crystal lamps were lighted, two upon the mantel-piece, and two before the looking-glass, which of course made four by reflection, and a splendid illumination all this light made among the roses and evergreens.

There was nothing more to arrange, so Mrs. Chester returned to her rocking-chair. Isabel hung about her, sometimes with an arm around her neck, sometimes playing with the folds of her dress. After a little hesitation, Mary drew her stool to the other side and sat there, smiling softly and with her eyes brimful of contentment, as Mrs. Chester laid one hand kindly upon her head, while with the other she caressed the beautiful Isabel. Thus forming a group that might have served our inimitable Terry for a picture of Charity, Mrs. Chester waited for her company.

And for what company was all this preparation made?

In the third story of the house lived a poor artist, whose eyesight had become so dim, that he was only capable of doing the very coarsest work. Sometimes a theatrical scene, or a rude transparency gave him temporary support; but the little that he was able to do in this way could not have kept him free from debt, humble as his mode of life was, had he not possessed some other means of subsistence. His family consisted of an only son, apparently not more than eleven or twelve years of age. He was some years older than that, but the extreme sensitiveness of his character and ill health gave unusual delicacy to his appearance. A distant relative of the artist lived with these two as a housekeeper, and by her needle managed to contribute something toward the general support. The widow was not yet an old woman, but loneliness and poverty had exhausted the little cheerfulness of character that she once possessed. So pale and weary with toil, she lived on, centering all the hopes and energies of her dull life in the artist and his motherless boy, the object of his especial love.

This old man—this worn, tried woman, whose toil was so constant, and whose amusements were so few—and the delicate boy—these were the guests that Mrs. Chester expected. Even in her amusements she loved to blend the exquisite joy of charity. With every dainty prepared that day, she had given some gentle thought of the rare pleasure that it would bring to the old man and his family.

In the lower story of the house there was also a family, to whom Mrs. Chester had extended her invitation. It was her wish that every one sheltered under the roof with her husband should be as joyous and happy as she was; but she entertained serious doubts whether this invitation would be accepted.

The man in the attic sometimes went an errand or carried in a load of wood, thus cheerfully earning a few shillings for the family at home. The man on the first floor kept a small thread-needle establishment. The difference was considerable, and the aristocratic pride of the man who sold needles, might revolt at the idea of sitting at the same table with the man who carried in wood.

Misgivings on this subject gave a slight shade of anxiety to Mrs. Chester's sweet countenance, as she sat waiting for her guests. She could just hear the two chickens that lay cosily, wing to wing, in the oven, simmering in their warm nest. The potatoes in a sauce-pan in front of the stove were slowly lifting up the lid and pouring their steam about the edges; and everything promised so well that she began to feel quite anxious that none of her invited guests should be absent.

There really was some cause for apprehension, for the thread-needle man stationed before the parlor grate below was that moment holding conjugal council with a tall, dark-featured woman, on the very subject which cast the one little shadow over Mrs. Chester's expectations. Dear to him, as the apple of his eye, was the pride of his station; but then the needle-merchant had members of the corporeal frame, petted and prompted till it was difficult to resist them. He loved his dignity much, but dignity was, after all, an abstraction, while in a good supper there was something substantial. He had returned home fully resolved not to accept Mrs. Chester's invitation, and in this his tall wife reluctantly concurred, though a black silk dress and a gay cap fluttering with straw-colored ribbons, revealed very plainly that her own inclinations had pointed the other way.

The Chesters were pleasant people, and she felt that it would be rather tantalizing to sit down stairs alone all the evening, while they enjoyed themselves heart and soul above.

When aristocracy is a matter of opinion, not of power, every man of course feels compelled to guard his claim to position with peculiar watchfulness; so with a benign conviction that he and his taller half had made a laudable sacrifice for the good of society, the little needle-merchant and his wife sat down together over a weak cup of tea, feeling rather miserable and disconsolate. They had no children; and a social evening away from home now and then, was a relief to the conjugal tete-a-tetes, which will sometimes become a little tiresome when married people have nothing but themselves to talk about.

While the worthy needle-merchant and his wife were sitting at the table the outer door opened, and a light, quick footstep sounded along the hall and ascended the stairs, seemingly two steps at a time. There was something so buoyant and cheerful in this springing footstep, that it quite aroused the needle-merchant, who got up and opening the door carefully, peeped into the hall.

"It is Chester just coming home," he said, thrusting his rosy face through the opening. "How happy the fellow looks. Hark! here comes his wife to meet him all in white—upon my word she is a handsome woman—and here is the little girl bounding forward with her arms out—and, and—really, my dear, it is refreshing to hear a kiss like that."

Here the little man turned ardently back, and standing on his toes made a fruitless attempt to reach the tall lady's face with his little pursed-up mouth, which his better half resented with great dignity. "There, they have gone in now," continued the little man, going sheepishly to the door again. "They cannot have closed the door though—Laura—Laura! come here, is not this tantalizing?—turkey or chickens, one or the other, I stake my reputation upon it, and—hot—reeking with gravy and brown as a chestnut, nothing less could send forth this delicious scent. What do you say, Laura? Speak the word and I am half a mind to go up, notwithstanding the wood carrier!"

"You know he does other things. I dare say it is not often that he stoops to this!" said the wife brightening up and beginning to arrange her cap before the glass.

"Probably not—besides he really is a gentlemanly old fellow enough. I dare say he would not presume upon it if we did sit down with him for once."

"Not in the least," replied the wife, fastening a cameo pin, as large as the palm of her hand into the worked collar which she had just arranged about her neck. "It will be our fault if he does! You know it is easy to keep up a certain reserve, even at the same table!"

"Certainly—certainly—my dear, as you say, we can be with them and not of them. Just hand out my satin stock from that drawer and give my coat a dash with the hand brush!" and inhaling a deep breath, the little man reluctantly closed the door and began a hasty and vigorous toilet.

You never in your life saw a finer-looking fellow than Chester was that night as he kissed his wife, gave the beautiful Isabel a toss in the air, and patted little Mary on the head, all in the same minute.

"Why Jane, what a winter bower you have made of the room," he cried, his eyes sparkling with delight and surprise as he glanced at the evergreens, whose soft shadows were trembling like pencil-work on the walls. Why the very Canary seems all in a flutter of delight! Cake too, frosted like a snow-bank, and—here he opened the stove door, "have you been among the fairies, wife! I for one cannot tell where you raised the money for all this?"

"Oh, yes, we have been among the fairies, haven't we, little Mary," cried Mrs. Chester, delighted with her husband's spirits, "the Jew fairies that give out collars to stitch, and cloth caps to make."

Nothing but a tear breaking through the happy flash of John Chester's eyes, could have rendered them so full of joyous tenderness.

"And so you have done all this for me. You and the poor little angel? Why you must have worked night and day!—and Isabel, what portion of the work has my lady-bird done?" added the happy man, sitting down and placing the child on his knee.

"Oh, she has done a great deal!" said Mary in a low but eager voice, creeping to Chester's side. "You have no idea how very handy she is about the house, has he, Mrs. Chester?"

Mrs. Chester laughed and shook her head; but further than this she had no time to speak, for that moment the old man from up stairs came in, looking quite neat and gentlemanly in his black silk cravat, and his darned and well-brushed coat. He led by the hand a tall delicate boy with light brown hair and sad blue eyes; a smile seemed struggling with a look of habitual pain on his face. He sat down and glanced around, greeting Mary with a wan smile. The widow followed; her dress was poverty-stricken but very neat, and upon her face was a look of patient endurance, indescribably touching.

"I have invited them to supper," whispered Mrs. Chester to her husband. "They came so soon I had no time to tell you. The people down stairs, I expect them, too."

Chester comprehended it all in an instant. You would have thought by the way he placed chairs and shook hands with his guests, that he had been expecting them with the utmost impatience. His manner brought a cordial smile to the old man's lips, and even the face of the widow brightened with a pleasant glow.

"Let Joseph sit here," said Mary Fuller, rising from her stool with moist eyes, as she saw a spasm of pain pass over the lad's face. "Perhaps he would rather stay by me."

The boy lifted his blue eyes to her face, and his heart yearned toward one who bore such traces of having suffered like himself.

"I should be glad to sit by her," he said, appealing to his father. "She knows what it is."

The next instant his delicate hand was clasped within hers, and Mary was soothing him in a low voice that sounded like the whisper of an angel.

The table was spread, and the young fowls, plump with a rich load of dressing, were placed upon it.

These were supported by a fine oyster pie, plates of vegetables, blood red beets, and the greenest pickles, with a dish of cranberry sauce, while a bunch of golden green celery curled in crisp masses over the crystal goblet that occupied the centre of the table. The little candle-stand on one side, supported the fruit cake, all one crust of snowy sugar, with the most delicate little green wreath lying around the edge. Over all this the four lamps shed their light, which the looking-glass did its best to multiply. Indeed, nothing could be more perfect than the whole arrangement, except it might be the fullness of content which sparkled and shone over the face of everyone present.

Just as the company were all standing—for each guest had resigned a chair, which was placed by the table—the needle-merchant and his wife made their advent, arm in arm, all pompous with a sense of personal importance, and looking stiffly condescending as they bowed to the old gentleman and the widow.

But it was quite astonishing how soon the bustle of sitting down to supper, the cheerful faces and the fragrant steam that rose from the plump pullet as Chester thrust his fork into its bosom, seemed to soften down and carry off all their superfluous dignity. Before the little needle-merchant knew it, he found himself quite interested in the old man at his elbow, for after the ladies, Chester had helped the artist first, and on his plate was a choice morsel of the chicken's liver which made the little merchant's mouth water.

Now what does the old gentleman do but hand over this plate, with a bow, to his next neighbor, and so handsomely, too, that it was quite impossible for the little man to resist good fellowship a moment longer? As the coveted morsel melted away in his mouth, the pride fled from his heart, and in less than three minutes he was the most natural and happy person at the table. It was delightful to hear him complimenting Mrs. Chester, while he helped the children good naturedly, as if he had been the father of a large and uproarious family for years! Indeed, he was quite surprised at it himself afterward, but just then it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

There was room enough for all. There was pleasure for all. Even the suffering boy had sunshine in his eyes and smiles upon his mouth, as he lifted that delicate face to his widow friend; and for the first time in months, her pale cheeks grew red, and she met the boy's glance with a smile that did not threaten to be quenched in tears the next instant.

Mrs. Chester luxuriated in all this happiness as a flower brightens in the sunshine. She seemed to grow more beautiful every moment; the needle-merchant told her so. Chester only laughed, and his own wife did not frown, but glanced complacently down to her cameo breast-pin, feeling confident that there she could defy competition.

The supper was over, the table cleared away, and around the bright stove they all gathered in a circle, chatting, laughing and telling stories. Here the old artist's talent came in play, and he made even the tall lady shake with merriment behind her broad cameo; and the gentle boy who had crept close to Mary Fuller again, was absolutely heard to laugh aloud, while Mary's smile was softer and sweeter than Isabel's shouts of merriment.

"I say," whispered Joseph to Mary Fuller, "how happy and bright father is—wouldn't it be pleasant if we could do something to make all the rest happy as he does?"

"But we don't know how, like him," answered Mary.

"I am worse than that, it makes people sad to look at me, but you have done something, I dare say, to help make them happy?"

"I helped get the supper and make that," said Mary, pointing to the birth-day cake which still lay glistening white beneath its wreath of evergreens.

"Ah, that was a great deal for you. Now what if I try a little? Bend down your head. I have a violin up stairs. Father bought it for me new year's day. It did not cost much, but there is music in it, and I have learned to play a little. Now I will just steal away and bring it down without letting them see me. Won't it astonish them to hear the music burst up all at once from our corner?"

The boy's eyes sparkled, and he seemed quite animated with his little plot.

"That will be pleasant," replied Mary, equally delighted with the idea. "Let me go! Where shall I find the violin?"

"In the corner cupboard—there is a little fire-light—you will not miss it," answered the lad, smiling gratefully.

Mary stole away and soon returned with the violin. She contrived to reach the boy without being seen, and the two sat close together, while he noiselessly tried the strings and fixed the bow.

There was a momentary hush in the conversation.

"Now!" whispered Mary, "now!"

The boy drew his bow, and such a burst of music poured from the strings, that even Mary started with astonishment.

"Ha, my son!" said the artist, "that was well thought of! now do your best!"

The boy answered only with a smile, but his slender fingers flew up and down on the strings, the bow flashed across them like lightning, and the apartment rung with music.

Spite of all its good resolutions, the Canary bird had gone to sleep, with its head under one wing, but with the first note of music it was all in a flutter of delight, and set up an opposition to the violin that threatened to rend its quivering little form in twain.

Isabel, light and graceful as the bird, sprang from her seat and began to waltz about the room, her curls floating in the air, and her cheeks bright as a ripe peach. She looked like a fairy excited by the music.

"Come, what if we all get up a dance?" said Chester, approaching the needle-merchant's wife.

She looked at her husband.

"A capital idea!" cried the little man, all in a glow, seizing upon the hand of the widow.

"Indeed, I—I—my dancing days are over," faltered the widow, half withdrawing her hand, but looking provokingly irresolute.

"Oh, aunty, let me see you dance once, only this once!" cried the boy, breaking the strain of his music.

The widow turned a look of tenderness upon her charge, and with a blush on her cheek was led to the floor.

"They want another couple—who will dance with me?" said Mrs. Chester, casting a smiling challenge at the old gentleman.

"Oh, father, do," cried the boy, "see, they cannot get along without you."

"I shall put you all out—I haven't taken a step in twenty years," pleaded the old man.

"Never mind, we will teach you—we will all teach you—so come along," broke from half a dozen voices, and Mrs. Chester laughingly took the old man captive, leading him to the floor with a look of playful triumph.

Isabel, after a vain effort to persuade Mary to join her, took a side by herself, quite capable of dancing enough for two at least.

Then the violin sent forth an air that kindled the blood even in that old man's veins. The dancers put themselves in motion—right and left—ladies' chain. It went off admirably. The old man was rather stiff and awkward at first, but the young folks soon broke him in and he turned, now the little girls then Mrs. Chester, and then the tall lady with the cameo; true she was on the side, but then the old gentleman was not particular, and his ladies' chain became rather an intricate affair at last, he added so many superfluous links to it.

But nothing could daunt him after he once got into the spirit of it, and he went through the whole like an old hero; the only difficulty was, he never knew when to stop.

Just in the height of the dance, when the needle-merchant was all in a glow, balancing to every lady, and getting up a sort of extemporaneous affair, made from old remembrances of "The Cheat" and "The Virginia Reel," the whole company stopped short, and he exclaimed—

"Bless my soul!"

And drawing forth a red silk handkerchief, he made a motion, as if his forehead wanted dusting.

"Bless my soul!" he repeated, "Laura, my dear, have the goodness to look, my love."

Mrs. Peters turned, and spite of her cameo defences, blushed guiltily.

"Dear me, my nephew, Frederick Farnham, who would have expected this?" she exclaimed, instantly assuming her dignity, and gliding from among the dancers.

"I couldn't help it, Aunt Peters, I know it is very impertinent for me to follow you up here, but how could you expect me to stay down yonder, with the floor trembling over head, and that violin—? I beg your pardon, sir," continued young Farnham, addressing Chester, "but the fact is, everything was so gloomy down stairs, and so brilliant; up here besides you left the door open as if you'd made up your mind to tempt a fellow into committing an impertinence."

"Don't think of it, there's no intrusion—my wife has found a birth-day, and is making the most of it," answered Chester, advancing toward the door with his hand frankly extended.

The youth stepped forward, and the light fell upon his face. His eyes lighted up splendidly as they fell on Chester.

"What, my fine fellow, is it you?" he said, with a dash of young Americanism that was only frank, not assuming, while Chester exclaimed—

"I'm glad to see you—heartily glad to see you—come in, come in."

"Allow me," said Mrs. Peters, with a stately wave of the hand, "Mr. Chester, allow me to present Mr. Frederick Farnham, my nephew, and only son of the Mayor of New York—Mrs. Chester, Mr. Farnham."

"Never mind all about that, aunt," said the boy, blushing at his pompous introduction, "this gentleman and I have met before—he knows my father."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Peters, coming out from his retirement, "I am delighted to hear it; nothing but this was wanting, my dear Chester. I'm charmed to have been found enjoying your hospitality. Laura, my dear, we are both charmed; my brother-in-law, the mayor, will be charmed also—in short, Fred, we are having a charming time of it."

"I'm sure of it," answered Fred Farnham, pressing his uncle, and looking earnestly at Mary Fuller till his face became quite serious, then, turning to Chester, he said in a low voice, "so you keep the poor girl; I'm glad of it—that was what brought me here."

No one had observed the artist while this interruption took place; but as the youth stepped into the light and spoke, a vertigo seized upon the old man, and staggering back to the wall he leaned against it, pale and with a wild expression in his eyes. When Mrs. Peters proclaimed the lad's name this strange agitation subsided somewhat and took a shade of sadness, as if some train of thought had been aroused that weighed down his spirits. He seemed to forget that his partner waited, and sat down by the window, sighing heavily.

Mrs. Chester remarked this forgetfulness, and with a graceful smile invited young Farnham to take the place which the old man had abandoned. Fred smiled his assent, and the dance went on again; but just as the young musician began to play, there came a knock at the street door. Isabel ran down to open it, and came back with a letter in her hand.

"It is for you, papa," she said, holding up the letter.

"Very well, put it on the mantel-piece. Some direction from the captain or chief, I suppose," said Chester. "Come, Isabel, take your place."

The little girl ran to her partner, and the dancing commenced again.

During this interruption, young Farnham happened to come close up to the artist, and he was struck by the earnest gaze which the old man fixed on him. Some strange magnetic influence was in the glance, for it thrilled him from head to foot. He was seized with an unaccountable desire to hear the old man speak, but all his natural self-command forsook him. He could not find the courage to utter a word. Those dark, earnest eyes seemed to have taken away his strength.

Joseph saw the strange pallor that had come upon his father's face, and, laying down his violin, crossed the room.

"What is the matter, are you ill, father?" he inquired in his usual low voice, "or is it only the light? I thought you looked pale across the room."

The artist cast quick wild glances from his son to young Farnham. At last he drew a heavy breath, and turned with a bewildered air to his son.

"What did you ask, Joseph?"

"Are you in pain? What is the matter, father?" repeated the lad.

"Nothing—no; I—I am not used to this, you know," faltered the old man. "Do not mind me, I am well."

Joseph went away, but cast wistful glances at his father over his violin. According to the unaccountable desire that had seized him, young Farnham heard the old man's voice. It ran through his veins with a glow, as if he had drained a glass of old wine, and it was some moments before he felt the thrill leave his nerves. Joseph took up his violin, but anxiety had depressed him, and his music lost its cheerfulness.

The dancers took their places, but Fred Farnham still lingered by the artist. Another strange impulse seized him. He obeyed it and touched the hand that lay upon the old man's knee.

The artist started, lifted his eyes and a smile broke over his face.

"Excuse me," said the youth deprecatingly, "I did not intend it."

Still the artist kept his eyes upon the boy, without speaking, but the smile grew sad as he gazed; and when Fred turned to go away, the hand he had touched was held eagerly forth.

"Don't—don't leave me yet," said the old man in a low, pathetic voice.

"I will come back again," said the youth gently. "I could not help it if I wished."

Again the old man smiled, and, bowing his head, allowed the youth to regain his partner.

When the set broke up it was to assemble round the fruitcake, which was cut up by Chester in broad, liberal slices, and then, after another dance, and a plaintive song from the widow, Chester's birth-day party broke up, leaving him alone with the family.

The old artist waited at the head of the stairs, and young Farnham, who had remained a moment to speak with Chester, found him leaning against the banisters as he came out.

"Good night," said the young lad with gentle respect, pausing in hope of being addressed.

The artist took the extended hand, and held it between his, without speaking. Fred felt those old hands tremble.

"Shall I never see you again?" inquired the artist.

"Will you let me come and see you?" asked the lad joyfully.

"Come, come! it will be like the break of day after a dark night."

"I will come," said the youth earnestly.

Still the artist kept the boy's hand in his clasp. At length he bent forward and kissed the lad upon his forehead.

"God bless you—the God of Heaven bless you!" he said in a low, solemn voice, and the old man glided away through the dark hall, leaving Frederick strongly affected by the interview.

With all her cheerfulness, Mrs. Chester was a little weary after her guests departed, and leaned against the mantel-piece, longing to sink into the rocking-chair which the old man had just abandoned.

Chester approached his wife, and saw the letter lying at her elbow. A moment of unaccountable dread came over him, but taking the note in his hand he broke the seal. Mrs. Chester was looking at him as he read the letter, she saw his face turn pale, then his eyes began to flash.

"What is it! what evil news does the letter bring?" she faltered out, for his countenance frightened her.

Chester crushed the letter in his hand.

"I thought that man would follow me!" he said bitterly—"that cold-blooded, relentless Mayor!"

"What has he done? Do not keep me in this terrible suspense, Chester," said the anxious woman.

"I am ordered to appear before him to answer a charge of drunkenness," replied Chester, forcing himself to speak calmly, though the huskiness of his voice betrayed the fierce struggle which the effort cost him.

"Drunkenness! you!" and a smile of proud scorn swept over the features of that noble young wife.

"Let us go to rest," said Chester, taking her hand. "Let us try and forget this letter!"

"We were so happy only half an hour since!" said Jane Chester, placing her hand in that of her husband, and they disappeared in the little bedroom.

"But for me, but for me, this had not been!" murmured poor little Mary Fuller, cowering down by the stove and locking both little hands over her forehead. "Oh, if I could help it now. If I had never rung at that cruel man's door. What shall I do—what can I do!"

"Come, Mary—come roll up my hair—mother has forgotten it," said Isabel, standing in the closet door where the two girls slept together, and yawning heavily—for the child was weary with coming sleep. "What a splendid night we have had—only I am so tired!"

Mary arose meekly, and sitting down on the bed, began to arrange Isabel for the night. The eyes of the little beauty were heavy, and she did not observe the tearful depression that hung over her patient friend. But during all that night, the beautiful eyes of Isabel alone in that humble dwelling, were visited with sleep. It was a weary, weary night for Chester and his wife; but most unhappy of all, was the poor child whom their charity had warmed into life.



CHAPTER VIII.

CHESTER'S TRIAL.

In his dusty web the spider lay— All bloated and black was he, And he watched his victim pass that way, With a quiver of horrid glee!

A few mornings before the little birth-day party described in our last chapter, two men were seen to enter the Mayor's office, accompanied by the Alderman, whom we have seen closeted with him before. The Mayor was alone in his private room, and the Alderman left his two companions in the outer office, while he held a moment's private conversation with his honor. There was a sort of boisterous exultation in the Alderman's manner, which rather displeased the Mayor, who looked upon the exhibition of any feeling as a weakness, but he received his friend with his usual bland smile, and requested him to be seated.

The Alderman drew his leather-cushioned seat close to the Mayor, and laid his broad red hand on his honor's knee.

"They are here—both the witnesses are here ready to enter a complaint—I told you they were just the men to nail this Chester?"

"Here!" said the Mayor, "my friend—my good fellow—you should not have brought the witnesses here. In all these doubtful cases—do you understand?—I never receive a direct complaint. It must come through the Chief of Police. This one especially. He must call upon me officially to act!"

"The chief!" exclaimed the Alderman, in dismay, "why Chester is one of his especial pets. It will never do to entrust the business with him."

"Oh! have no fear. His duty forces him to present the complaint, when once entered, before him. Further than that, he has no power, no voice in the matter. It rests by law with the Mayor alone. He is judge—juror. He is the law in these cases, you know."

"Then you think we may venture the case with the chief?" said the Alderman, still doubtful. "He will do all in his power to save Chester, I am certain."

"But he has no power! He has no right even to hear the evidence, unless I desire it. His interference is a mere form—but it has a good appearance—half these fellows know nothing about the law, and when we break them it casts some of the odium on him. It gives him an appearance of responsibility, but not a particle of power. Take your witnesses to the chief—to the chief, my dear fellow, and leave the rest to me—to the law."

The Alderman rejoined his witnesses, and went to the chief's office. From that office, twenty-four hours after, was sent the letter which Chester received on the night of his birth-day.

The day of trial came. Within the railing of the chief's office sat his honor, the Mayor, calmly shaving down the point of a pencil, which he tried from time to time on a sheet of paper that lay on the desk before him. At his elbow was the clerk, with a quire of foolscap neatly arranged, and holding a pen idly in his hand.

In a little room back of the office sat the Chief of Police—his portly person filling the circumference of a comfortable office chair, and his jovial, good-humored countenance somewhat clouded with anxiety for the fate of the noble young man on trial, for he had learned both to love and respect the accused. His presence was evidently annoying to his honor, who dreaded the shrewd observation, the keen knowledge of men and things which would be brought to bear on the examination. He would rather have encountered the whole bar of New York, than the sharp, but apparently careless scrutiny of this one man. But there sat the chief just within the shadow of his private closet, the star of office glittering on his broad chest, linked to his garments by a chain of massive gold. The walls behind him were garnished with heavy oaken clubs, highly polished hand-cuffs and iron shackles, with various other grim insignia of his office.

In vain the Mayor moved restlessly in his chair. In vain he turned his cold and repelling look toward the immovable chief. You might have seen a covert smile now and then gleam in the eyes of that obstinate functionary, but otherwise he seemed profoundly unconscious that his presence was in the least disagreeable. The Mayor did not venture upon the unprecedented step of requiring him to withdraw, so after a good deal of meaningless delay, the trial went on.

Chester stood without the railing which encircled the Mayor and his clerk. His air was firm, his countenance calm, and almost haughty. He awaited the proceedings with quiet indignation. Behind him stood the two men whom he had followed from the dram-shop on the night of his fall, and in a corner of the office sat Jones, the liquor dealer, with two or three persons entirely unknown to Chester.

The Mayor lifted his eyes, but they glanced beyond Chester. With all his coolness he had not the nerve to look directly into the proud and searching eyes bent so calmly on him.

"Is your counsel here, Mr. Chester?" inquired his honor.

"I am here, needing no other counsel, if I am to have a fair trial," replied Chester, firmly.

"I hope you do not doubt that your trial will be a fair one!" said the Mayor, sharpening his pencil afresh, for he wanted some occupation for both eyes and hands.

Chester smiled with so much reproachful scorn, that the Mayor felt it without turning his glance that way.

"I am waiting," said Chester, "for proof of the charges that have been preferred against me!"

At a sign from the Mayor, the man Smith came forward and was placed under oath. Chester's eyes were upon him as he touched the book, and the man turned visibly pale. But in his false oath—for the man perjured himself in the first sentence—he gained more courage.

"Chester," he said, "had entered the dram-shop, where he and his friend"—here the man pointed to his accomplice—"were quietly passing an hour before going to fulfill an engagement. Here he spent perhaps half an hour, drinking brandy-and-water by the stove. They had noticed him particularly, knowing it to be against the law for policemen to indulge in drinking while on duty. The witness went out with his companion, leaving Chester by the stove, evidently much affected by what he had drank. As he and his companion stood beneath an old tree that grew in front of the liquor store, Chester came forth, reeling in his walk, and after a vain effort to maintain his foothold, fell upon the pavement wholly intoxicated. Several other persons saw him in this position, but the witness and his friend led him home, and consigned him to the care of his wife."

It was a plausible perjury, and several innocent persons came forward to strengthen it. They had seen Chester down upon the ice, and had been told that he was intoxicated; so in good faith, and with no intention of wrong, they corroborated the treacherous story that was to destroy a good name.

Chester stood by as this story was artfully strengthened by the sweet-toned and subtle questionings of the Mayor. His face was very pale, and he trembled from head to foot with honest and stern anger—nay, he felt something of horror, something unselfish, in analyzing the cold-blooded craft, and unflinching perjury that had been brought to bear upon him. There was absolute sublimity in his pale silence, as he allowed witness after witness to pass from the box unchallenged—unquestioned. And all this foul perjury the clerk registered down, and the Alderman who had arranged the charges stood by to hear.

Then Chester was called upon for his defence. He stood upright, grasping the railing with his right hand. His voice was low and deep-toned as a bell; it made the Mayor start with its clear, searching accents. He told the truth, the simple, natural truth, as it has been given to the reader, but with eloquence, and energy which the pen has no power to describe.

"That man," he said, turning as he stood, and pointing his finger at the perjured Smith, "that man—let him step forward and tell the story he has sworn to, with his face lifted to mine, eye to eye, with the man he accuses. If he can do this, I ask no other defence. Let him say who it is that has instigated him to heap this foul wrong upon an innocent man, what is to be his reward—whose deeper and more subtle enmity he is working out! Let him but speak these things with his eye looking into mine, and I am content."

The craven thus addressed, did look in Chester's eyes as a bird gazes upon the eye of a serpent; he could not do otherwise—his face, his very mouth were white; he trembled from head to foot. Conscience tugging at his evil heart, had well-nigh dragged forth the truth, but the cold, low voice of the Mayor, drove it back again, even from his pallid lips.

"The witness has told his story under oath—others have substantiated it. You had the right to question him then. There is no reason why he should undergo a second examination."

This speech had its desired effect. Smith drew a deep breath, and putting on an air of dogged bravado, looked round at his companions like a mastiff who had been just rescued from a fight that threatened to destroy him. The Mayor fell to sharpening his pencil again, and the Alderman made an effort to open a little gate in the corner of the railing, and would have approached his honor. But the constraining look with which his attempt to open the gate was received by that prudent functionary, checked him. The Mayor felt that any appearance of understanding even with the Alderman, might be perilous, while the Chief sat regarding the proceedings with such real interest and apparent unconcern.

"And have you nothing else to offer—no witnesses?" said the Mayor, addressing Chester.

"None!" answered Chester, wiping the drops from his forehead. "I have told the truth; if that is not believed all the witnesses on earth would be of no avail."

Then came from an outer chamber, grated by the iron door of a cell where chance prisoners were sometimes locked, and hung with gilded stars, and firemen's banners, a young figure diminutive, and of pale and sickly features.

"Mary, my poor child!" said Chester, but she only lifted her large eyes to his an instant, and going up to the railing held to it with her hand.

"May I be sworn as those men have been?" she said, addressing the startled Mayor in the same sweet tones that had claimed his compassion months before.

"You! what can you know of the matter?" said his honor sharply, and almost thrown off his guard.

"Not much, but something I do know," answered the child meekly. "May I speak?"

"But you are too young—how old are you?" cried the Mayor, hoping to have found a legal reason for sending away the obtrusive little imp, as he called the child in his heart.

"I am twelve, sir—just twelve."

The Mayor cast an uneasy glance at the Chief's closet and then at the child.

"Sir," said Chester, "I do not know what this poor child desires to say, but it is my wish that she be heard."

"If she is offered as a witness there is no disputing her right to speak," replied his honor, but with a disturbed countenance, and taking a little worn Bible, marked with a broad cross from the desk before him, his honor held it toward the child.

She took the Bible between both her hands and pressed her lips reverently upon it.

"Now," said the Mayor, "what do you wish to say?"

"It was so still out yonder that I could not help but hear—poor Mrs. Chester was very anxious, and I thought perhaps some one might give me good news to carry home."

"This has nothing to do with the matter, child."

"I know," replied the little girl, meeting the Mayor's rebuff with her usual humility. "But I thought perhaps you might ask how I came by the door. Well, sir, I heard what these men said about Mr. Chester. I knew their voices, sir, for I have heard them before, on the night they were talking about, as they stood under the great elm tree waiting for Mr. Chester to come out."

"The great elm tree—and how came you there, Mary?" exclaimed Chester, greatly surprised by the child's appearance.

"Do you remember, sir, that you were complaining and quite ill that night before you went out? Mrs. Chester felt very anxious about him, sir," continued the child, reminded that it was her duty to address the Mayor. "We sat up together sewing, and after he went out I saw the tears come into Mrs. Chester's eyes, and once or twice they fell upon her work. She was crying because her husband—oh, if you only knew how good he is—was obliged to go out in such bitter cold weather, when his cough was coming on again. I saw what she was fretting about, and so as he had been too ill to eat supper, I asked her to let me make a cup of warm coffee and carry it out to him on his beat. She would not let me make the coffee, but the idea pleased her and she made it herself, and poured it into a little covered pitcher, while I put on a hood and shawl. I knew the way, sir, and was not in the least afraid of the night or anything else, for the stars were out and nobody ever thinks of harming a little girl like me. Some pity, and some laugh; but I am never afraid of real harm even in the night. I said this to Mrs. Chester, for she did not like to have me go out alone. She kissed me and said I might go, for God was sure to take care of me anywhere. Well, sir, I went on, up one street and down another very slow, for the ice was slippery. Then I saw Mr. Chester standing on a corner and looking toward the windows of a store, over which was a great elm tree all dripping with ice. I knew him by the way he stood and by his star which shone in the moonlight. Just as I was crossing over the street, with my pitcher of coffee, I saw a little boy come out from under the tree and speak to Mr. Chester, who ran over and went into the store.

"I knew that Mr. Chester would not stay long in that place, and so crept close up to the trunk of the tree, on the shady side, and holding the coffee under my shawl, to keep it warm, waited for him to come out. There had been some noise in the store, as if people were quarrelling, but all that died away, and then two men came out and stopped by the tree where I was standing. I kept still as a mouse, and pressed close up to the dark side, for the men were laughing, and I was afraid they might laugh at me if I came into the light. I heard every word that they said, sir, but did not know the meaning of it till now.

"'We have got him at last—Jones saw him take the brandy,' said one.

"'Yes, but he did not drink it; Jones cannot say that.' It was another voice that made this answer, sir.

"'But he will say that or anything else likely to get this fellow out of the way—and so must you, and so will I;' answered the loudest voice again.

"Just then Mr. Chester came out of the store. He looked very pale, but I thought it was only the moonlight striking on him through the ice that hung all over the elm tree.

"'Now!' said one of the men, 'now have your foot ready if he comes this way.'

"Mr. Chester did come that way, sir, walking carefully on the ice. But for the men I should have gone up to him at once. I did not like to let them see me, and so waited a little, meaning to follow him when they were gone, and give him the coffee. He passed close by us and fell. I heard the men laugh low—so low just as he came up. I heard them call out, and saw other people come up.

"They lifted him from the ice—these two men—and held his face up to the cold air. I thought that he was dead, his face shone so white, and it seemed as if the thought hardened me into ice. I could not speak nor move. Everything went dark around me. I felt the coffee-pitcher slip from my hand and break upon the stones, but could not even try to save it. He had been so kind to me—there was only one thought come to me through the cold—they would take him home to his wife, dead. I knew it would break her heart, and still I could not move. When I did get a little strength, those two men were going down the street, and Mr. Chester walked between them. I followed after, but the fright had made me weak, and my eyes were so full of tears that I could only see them moving before me like people in a fog.

"Just before I reached the house, two men—the same who had gone home with Mr. Chester—went by me, walking very fast and laughing. I knew them by the laugh, for they gave me no time to look up. I hoped by that to find Mr. Chester not so badly hurt as he seemed. This gave me strength, and I got home sooner than I should have done. When I went in Mr. Chester sat by the fire trembling like a leaf, and his wife stood over him bathing his head, paler than I ever saw her before or since!"

The little girl paused here, her eyes fell, and the eager look died on her face, for she saw that cold, sneering smile, peculiar to the Mayor, drawing down his upper lip—and it struck a chill to her heart.

"Did you see the faces of those men—can you point them out again?" questioned the Mayor.

"I did not see their faces plain enough to know them again, but by the voice of that man," and she pointed toward Smith, "I am sure he was one of them!"

"And this is all you know!" said the Mayor.

"It is all!" was the faint reply. "It is all!" and the child crept to the side of Chester, and put her hand in his.

He pressed that little hand, looked down kindly upon her, and then her tears began to flow.

The Mayor arose.

"We have heard the evidence," he said, "and it has been carefully written down. In a few days, or weeks at farthest, the case shall be decided—it requires consideration; it requires a patient review of the evidence. Until the decision, Mr. Chester, you are suspended, without pay."

The Mayor ended his speech with a gentle bend of the head, and prepared to withdraw. The clerk rolled up his minutes and the witnesses went out, anxious to quit a scene that had been more exciting than they expected.

Chester stood alone in the office, holding little Mary by the hand, when the Chief came out from his closet, looking very grave, but with much friendly sympathy in his manner. He wrung Chester's hand, and uttered a few cheering words. Chester could not speak. His firm lips began to quiver, and throwing himself upon a chair, he cast his arms over the railing, his face fell upon them, and the proud, wronged man sobbed like a child.

What all the coldness and falsehood of his enemies had failed to do, was accomplished by a few words of unaffected sympathy. These alone had power to wring tears from his firm manhood, and Chester led his little protege home with a heavy heart, and a heavy, heavy heart was that which met his with its wild throb of anguish, as he entered the home where his wife sat weeping, and watching for him.



CHAPTER IX.

POVERTY, SICKNESS AND DEATH.

How little would there be of grief or want If love and honesty held away on earth! The demon poverty, so grim and gaunt, But for injustice never need have birth! Give room and wages for the poor man's toil, And thus the fiend ye weaken and despoil.

During six long weeks did the Mayor of New York keep Chester in suspense, and all that time the heart-stricken man had no means of support, save that derived from the labor of his wife. Day and night that gentle woman sat toiling at her needle, the smile upon her lip chasing the tear from her eye. Her sympathy was all given to the husband of her choice. She was grieved and indignant at the wrong that had been done to him. She was a generous and feminine woman, but her sense of justice was powerful, and her feelings of condemnation strong against any man who could violate the bonds of common equity which should bind neighbor to neighbor.

With that keen intuitive sense that belongs to thoughtful womanhood, her conviction settled at once on the man from whom her husband had received his deepest wrong. Great love gave her almost the power of divination, and with all his craft, the Mayor failed to deceive one pure-hearted and clear-minded woman. She knew that he was her husband's enemy, and—blame her not, reader, till you have suffered similar wrongs—her gentle soul rose up against this man; she could not think of him without an indignant glow of heart and cheek. She could not hear his name without a thrill of dislike. She saw her husband's cheek grow paler each day; she saw his firm step grow weaker and weaker. In the night-time his hollow cough would start her from the brief slumber into which she had fallen. Then would the form of this, his unprovoked and relentless enemy, rise before her mind, and her soul turned shuddering from the image.

I know that it is a Christian duty to forgive—that when a bad man smites one defenceless cheek, we are taught to offer the other to his upraised hand. But the Lord of Heaven and earth promises no forgiveness of transgression unless it is followed by repentance; and where God himself draws the strict line between Justice and Mercy, let no merely human being be censured for withholding forgiveness to an unrepented wrong. Forgiveness to injuries for which atonement is offered is a duty, and a sweet one to the noble of heart. But without repentance—that soul offering of the sinful—let no man hope to receive from his fellow what Divine Justice withholds. While we leave vengeance to the Lord, let His great wisdom decide upon the duties of forgiveness also!

And so with an aching heart Mrs. Chester saw her husband sinking before her. His spirit remained firm but sorrowful; the shadow lay upon it; but his body, being the weaker, gave way, and continued suspense was devouring his strength like a demon. Chester knew that any day he might be called up before that man, branded with the drunkard's infamy, and cast forth with a sullied character and broken health to the mercies of humanity. This thought clung around him night and day, deepening his cough, hollowing out his eyes, and visibly bowing down his stately form.

Still Mrs. Chester worked on, and by her side, calm and sweet in her beautiful gratitude, might always be seen the little Mary, toiling also, for the mere pittance that supplied the family with food. They had nothing left for rent—nothing for the thousand little wants that are constantly arising in a household. These two noble females could earn food and nothing more; so after a time gaunt poverty came with the rent-day, and stood before them face to face, darkening the door with his eternal presence. Then Jane Chester began to tremble—one by one she gave up to the fiend her little household treasures—her work-box—her table—every personal trinket, and at last her bed. The poverty fiend took them all, still crying for more, till she had nothing to give. Notwithstanding all this, Jane Chester was hopeful; she would not think that their bright days had wholly departed. Her husband must be acquitted—he would recover then, and conquer the disease that anxiety had brought upon him. She said these things again and again—little Mary listened with tears in her eyes, and Chester would turn away his head or look upon her with a mournful smile.

At last, when suspense had eaten into his very life, Chester was summoned before the Mayor. Excitement gave him unnatural strength that day, and he obeyed the summons, nerved to meet his fate.

His honor received him alone, in the Chief's office. A look of friendly commiseration was on his face, and he took Chester's hand with a gentle pressure.

"I have sent for you," he said, relinquishing the burning hand he had taken, and motioning Chester to be seated—"I have sent for you as a friend, to advise and counsel you."

Chester bent his head, but did not speak. He sat down, however, for his limbs trembled with weakness.

"I have put off the decision in your case longer than usual," resumed the Mayor, playing with a pen that lay on the desk before him, "because I was in hopes that something might come up to change the aspect of things. It is a very painful case, Mr. Chester, and I wish the responsibility rested somewhere else—but the evidence was conclusive. You heard it all—several persons testified to the same thing—no facts have appeared since, and as a sworn Magistrate, I must do my duty."

Chester did not speak, his cheek and lips grew a shade paler than disease had left them, and he bent his large eyes, glittering with fever and excitement, full upon the Mayor.

There was something in the glance of those eyes that made the Chief Magistrate sit uneasily on his leather cushion. He betook himself to making all kinds of incongruous marks upon a sheet of paper that lay before him.

"I shall be compelled to break you," resumed his honor. "With the evidence, I could not answer to my constituents, were I to act otherwise; but there is a way, and it was for this I sent for you—there is a way by which the disgrace may be avoided. If you could make up your mind to resign now, on the score of ill-health, for instance—you really do look anything but robust—all the disgrace of expulsion would be got over at once, and I should be saved a very painful task."

Chester arose, gently and firmly, the blood-red hectic flushed back to his cheek, and his eyes grew painfully brilliant.

"You can disgrace me, sir; you can ruin me if you choose, I know that you have the power—that, against the very letter and spirit of our institutions, the breath of one man is potent to decide upon the fate of nine hundred of his fellow men—I know that the accused has no appeal from your decision if you decide unfairly—no redress from injustice should you be unjust. Knowing all this—knowing that, save in the magnitude of his power to do wrong, the autocrat of all the Russias possesses no authority more absolute than the citizens of New York have given to you, a single man, and a citizen like themselves—I say, knowing all this, and feeling in my own person all the injustice and all the peril it brings upon the individual, I will not, by my own act, give strength or color, for one instant, to the injustice you meditate. I will not resign—with my last breath I will protest, fruitlessly as I know, against the cruel fraud that has been practiced upon me."

The Mayor dropped his pen. For once in his life, the blood did rush into that immovable face—save around the upper lip, which grew white, as it contracted beneath the nostril, that began to dilate faintly, as anger got the master over his colder feelings. He turned his eyes unsteadily, from object to object, casting only furtive glances at the face of his victim.