THE DISINHERITED.
MY next door neighbor's name was Jotham Jenks. This was all I knew about him, until the circumstance I am about to tell you occurred.
One evening I had seated myself by my fire, and had taken up an evening paper with which to occupy my time, until an acquaintance of mine, who I momentarily expected, should arrive. It was December,—cold, blustering, and by no means an agreeable time to be out of doors, or away from a good fire. Such being the state of affairs, as far as weather was concerned, I began to think I should not see my friend that night, when a smart rap upon the outer door, half a dozen times repeated, prevented me from further speculation.
Why did n't he ring?-there was a bell. It must have been a stranger, else he would have used it.
Presently a servant came with the information that a stranger was at the door with a carriage, and wished my immediate presence.
"Request him to walk in," said I.
"He cannot wait a moment," answered the servant;—"he wishes you to put on your hat and coat, and go with him."
"Where?"
"He did not say."
This was a strange interruption,—strange that a man, a stranger, in fact, should call for me to go out with him on such a night; but I mustered courage, and went out to meet him. I don't know what induced me so readily to grant his request; but out I went, hatted, coated and booted. As I approached, I heard the falling of steps, and the voice of the coachman requesting me to hurry. Reaching the carriage, I looked in and beheld Jotham Jenks. In I jumped, and before I was seated the carriage was moving.