CHAPTER II.
A patient, plodding man was Charles Evans—a man who had made his own fortune, and was perfectly sure that every man might do the same who chose to mind his own business and keep at work, and not spend money or time. He went to election and voted, and went home without drinking a “brandy-smasher,” or a “whiskey-toddy.” He was a democrat when he had no property to protect, and when he had acquired wealth, he had got in the habit of being a democrat—and his democracy was his religion, his Faith in Human Brotherhood. He immured himself in a living tomb in Wall street all day, and worked half the night at his home in William street, beside. It was here that Edward Evans found him, the evening after his wife’s funeral.
“How are you, Ned?” said Charles, glancing at him to see if he were sober, and then continued to fold and direct letters, seeming a little nervous under the infliction of a visit from his worthless cousin.
“I have been very unfortunate,” said Ned, a good deal troubled how to penetrate his thick-skinned cousin.
“I never knew you otherwise,” said Charles, and he wrote on.
“I mean, I have had the bad fortune to bury my wife.”
“Very good fortune for her,” said his cousin, but he dropped his pen and regarded the weed on Ned’s hat. “I did not notice that you were in mourning. So Fanny is dead. It is a long time since I have seen her. She died of a broken-heart, I suppose, you will allow.”
“She bled to death from her lungs.”
“All the same. Pity it had not been you.”
“I came to see you about the child. She wished me to give her to you.”