One morning Mr. Stillinghast was sitting alone in his counting-room, when Michael, the porter, came in, and informed him that a man wished to speak to him.
"Tell him to come in," he replied, moodily.
"Here he is, sir," said Michael, returning in a few minutes with a man, who had a saw slung over his arm.
"What is your business with me?" said Mr. Stillinghast.
"And didn't your honor sind afther me?"
"I never heard of you in my life before," he stormed.
"And then, sir, you may blame the ommadhauns that sent me; for, by this and by that, they tould me at the wood-yard, foreninst, that your honor was inquiring for me," replied the man, slinging his saw up over his shoulder.
"At the wood-yard? I remember; but it is too late, now—it makes no difference," said Mr. Stillinghast, speaking slowly, and frowning.
"I'd have come before, only the day afther the young lady took me to saw wood for the ould nagur, I got the pleurisy, and didn't lave my bed these five weeks," said the man, lingering about the door.
"Come in here, and close the door," said Mr. Stillinghast, while his stern, forbidding countenance wore a strange look of anxiety; "do you remember the young lady; and can you direct me to the place where you sawed the wood?"