| PAGE | |
| CHAPTER I. | [3] |
| CHAPTER II. | [11] |
| CHAPTER III. | [23] |
| CHAPTER IV. | [34] |
| CHAPTER V. | [46] |
| CHAPTER VI. | [61] |
| CHAPTER VII. | [73] |
| CHAPTER VIII. | [88] |
| CHAPTER IX. | [97] |
| CHAPTER X. | [111] |
| CHAPTER XI. | [119] |
| CHAPTER XII. | [136] |
| CHAPTER XIII. | [142] |
| CHAPTER XIV. | [156] |
| CHAPTER XV. | [169] |
| CHAPTER XVI. | [176] |
| CHAPTER XVII. | [189] |
| CHAPTER XVIII. | [198] |
| CHAPTER XIX. | [206] |
| CHAPTER XX. | [211] |
| CHAPTER XXI. | [227] |
| CHAPTER XXII. | [236] |
| CHAPTER XXIII. | [243] |
| CHAPTER XXIV. | [250] |
| CHAPTER XXV. | [258] |
| CHAPTER XXVI. | [265] |
| CHAPTER XXVII. | [273] |
| CHAPTER XXVIII. | [278] |
| CHAPTER XXIX. | [283] |
| CHAPTER XXX. | [286] |
Harry Fenimore’s
principles.
CHAPTER I.
Outside the city limits the country was glowing with garnet and gold, but within the boundary of walls and pavements, only here and there a solitary tree, or a vine trailing over a balcony, showed what October had been doing, and now the short autumn twilight was drawing its gray veil over even those. But nothing daunted, and as if determined to keep up for itself, the city began to sparkle here and there with an illumination of its own, and gas-lights began to gleam from one window after another, giving for the moment before the blinds were drawn, a free chance for a peep at the evening just beginning inside.
The light flashed from the windows of two houses at the same instant. One stood quite toward the outer limits of the city, and though its inmates and its furnishings were poor enough, it had a broad outlook over all the brilliant glory of the country round about, while a great old butternut-tree, knotted and gnarled by many a year, scattered its leaves in a golden shower over the roof and down the long yard leading to the road. The other fronted on one of the fashionable avenues of the city, where the square of grass before each door was only large enough for a single shrub, or a garden vase but inside, ivies twining fresh and green upon the walls, a conservatory window full of flowers, and the pleasant warmth of the crackling fire in the grate, seemed to balance the gayety of life outside, and make things very nearly equal again.
Whether the advantage was really on the side of the queer rambling old house under the butternut-tree, or belonged to himself, sitting in the ivied library of the brown stone front, Hal Fenimore was quite too busy to decide, as the servant reached his torch up to the chandelier, and with one burst after another the gas rushed to meet it, and the room flashed into a sudden burst of light.
“That’s good,” he exclaimed, as it flooded down upon the table where with elbows firmly planted, and his hands pushed through his hair, he had been impatiently waiting for his companion, Tom Haggarty, to make the next move in their game.