t is not to be supposed, because nothing has been said of intervening days, that the events recorded in the last two chapters followed each other in quick succession. In reality, when Theodore Mallery bought his first suit of ready-made clothing he had been but a very short time in his new place of business, but when the perilous railroad carriage drive was taken with the Hastings' carriage he had been Mr. Stephens' confidential clerk for three years, and was as much trusted and as promptly obeyed as was Mr. Stephens himself. He allowed a reasonable length of time to elapse after that momentous drive, and then one evening availed himself of Dora Hastings' cordial invitation to call. This was an attempt which he had never made before. Although he had gone somewhat into society since that memorable first evening at his pastor's house, yet the society in which he had grown most familiar, namely: that connected with his beloved church and Sabbath-school, was not the society in which Miss Hastings more generally mingled. This and her frequent and prolonged absences from the city, combined, perhaps, with other and minor causes, were the reasons why they had not again met socially; and, beyond an occasional bow as they passed each other in the church aisle, they had been as strangers to each other; this until the dangerous ride taken together. Then, as I said, after a little Theodore rang at the Hastings' mansion, had a peep of Dora sitting at the window, a peep of Mr. Hastings composedly pacing the length of the room, and after waiting what seemed to him an unreasonably long time for answer to his card, was courteously informed that the family were "not at home!" This was the great man's gratitude for the preservation of his daughter's life! He was grateful—was willing to make the young man his coachman, and to pay him in money; but he was not willing to receive him in his parlor on an equal social footing, for who knew better than he from what depths of poverty and degradation the young upstart had sprung! Theodore did not look very grave; he even laughed as he turned and ran lightly down the granite steps; and he was pleased but not surprised when a few days thereafter he met Dora on the square, and she stopped and frankly and distinctly disclaimed any complicity in her father's uncourteous act, or sympathy with his feelings. And there once more the matter dropped.
On this evening, four weeks after the call, Theodore was walking rather rapidly toward his home; he had been spending the evening with Jim McPherson; the old stand had been enlarged and beautified, until now it was a very marvel of taste and elegance. Jim had evidently found his level or his hight. Theodore still retained his interest in the business, and guided it skillfully by a word of advice now and then. This evening of which I speak had been an eventful one. After a running commentary on the business in general, and the business of that day in particular, the talk had turned into another channel, and went on after this fashion:
"Do you know you are a kind of a standing marvel to me?" Theodore questioned.
"No," answered Jim, laughing. "Hadn't an idea of such a thing. I knew that you had been a walking marvel to me ever since I first laid eyes on you at the Euclid House; but I thought I was a commonplace kind of an individual who astonished nobody. Enlighten me."
"Why," said Theodore, "you're such a square out-and-out honorable business man; as particular to be honest in trifles as in greater sums; as careful to render just exactly every man his due as it is possible to be."
"And that surprises you, does it? Much obliged." And Jim spoke in a laughing tone, but with a bright flush on his face.
"No, the marvel doesn't come in there," his companion had returned with gravity; "but in the fact that one so particular with his fellow-man should ignore or forget the obligations under which he is bound to render account for every day's work in the sight of God."
"How do you know that I do forget?"
"Because I know you to be so honest and honorable, that if you gave this matter thought and weight, its reasonableness would so press itself upon you that you would not even try to shake it off."