Hiram spent the entire evening looking over accounts and papers with Mr. Tenant. His manner was quiet but assiduous. Very useful he made himself. Frequently in the course of the evening he drew from that gentleman well-merited encomiums on his clear head and methodical ideas.
As he was about leaving—it was fully twelve o'clock, and Mr. Tenant had just thanked him for the twentieth time—Hiram ventured to speak again about his property.
'Dear sir, I feel impelled to speak once more to you. Do listen to me. Do not beggar yourself, and then turn yourself out of doors. Permit me to tell you that you can save this house very easily.'
'I know it, Hiram. I know it. Don't think I have forgotten Emma and you. I have thought it all over. Recollect, I don't blame you. I know it is Emma you are thinking about. But, my dear boy, I can't do it—it would not be honest. I can't do it. Never mind, we shall be all the happier for doing right—all the happier, all the happier. I will see you to-morrow. Good night. God bless you.'
They had gradually got to the door, and Hiram, echoing the good night, stepped into the street.
''God bless you,' indeed,' he muttered. 'Soft words butter no parsnips. 'God bless you!' What idle profanity!'
He walked slowly down the street, unconscious that a young face from a window of the second story watched his retreating steps—that a young heart beat painfully as he passed out of sight.
A few moments later Emma's mother entered her room, and found her still at the window.
'Not yet in bed?' she said tenderly. 'I thought you left me because you were too much fatigued to sit up.' She came and put her arms about her daughter's neck and kissed her.