Mark Gildersleeve.

A Novel.

BY JOHN S. SAUZADE.

NEW YORK:
G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers.
LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO.
M.DCCC.LXXIII.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
JOHN S. SAUZADE,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

Stereotyped at the
WOMEN'S PRINTING HOUSE,
56, 58 and 60 Park Street,
New York.

MARK GILDERSLEEVE.

I.

Although of much importance as a manufacturing place, Belton is noted chiefly for the beautiful water-fall to which the town, in fact, owes its existence.

Here the Passaic, interrupted in its placid flow by a rocky barrier, takes an abrupt turn, and plunges in a narrow sheet of foam adown a deep chasm, formed in one of Nature's throes ages ago, and then with wild swirls rushes angrily over a rocky bed, until spent and quiet it skirts the town, and winds away appeased and pellucid—despite the murky drain of dye-houses—through woodlands, fields, and pastures green. Ere reaching the cataract, however, the river is tapped by a canal which serves to feed the flumes that run the many mills of Belton; and through this race-way the diverted waters speed on their busy errand, starting cumbersome overshot, undershot, breast, and turbine wheels into action, that in their turn quicken into life the restless shuttle and whirling spindle.

From the cliff, at the head of the cataract, one may completely overlook the town, a cheerful hive, compactly built, and consisting chiefly of long brick factories, with little belfries, and rows of small white wooden dwellings. The whole is neat and bright; no canopy of coal-smoke obscures the blue sky, and but an occasional tall chimney or jet of vapor is seen, for here steam is dethroned, and the cheaper motor reigns supreme.

The river side, the cliff, the falls, in short the water-power belongs and has belonged for generations to the Obershaw family. In days of yore, when Whitman Obershaw ran a saw-mill, and tilled a clearing hereabout, his worldly possessions, it is safe to say, were not such as to assimilate his chances of salvation to the facility with which a camel can go through a needle's eye, and it was reserved for his son, John Peter Obershaw, to reap the benefit of the accident that had put his ancestors in possession of the site of Belton. And when you consider the present magnitude of the place, its many mills, and the enormous yearly rental of the water-power, you will not be surprised to learn that the costly stone mansion on the cliff, with its imposing front, its beautiful grounds, conservatories, and lodges, is the residence of the Hon. Rufus Heath, son-in-law and heir of John Peter Obershaw, who built it.

There is a mural tablet in the apse of St. Jude's, Belton, inscribed to the memory of

JOHN PETER OBERSHAW,
OF THIS TOWN,
Through whose munificence this Church
WAS ERECTED,
A.D. 1840.
HIS CHRISTIAN VIRTUES ENDEARED HIM TO ALL.

An epitaph which bore out the proverbial reputation of its kind in being essentially a lie—a lie in black and white, for old Obershaw had no Christian or even Pagan virtues to speak of, and was rather disliked by all for a selfish, avaricious, nonagenarian. Perhaps the only commendable act of his life was the erection of the small, but handsome church in question. Yet, even this was looked upon as but the placatory offering of a prudent worldling, about to appear before the final tribunal, and anxious to propitiate the great Judge. Moreover, those who knew the most about it asserted that the church would never have been built, nor a dollar spent towards it, had it not been for Rufus Heath, who, during the last years of his father-in-law's life, had the entire control of the estate, owing to the latter's age and incapacity. Doubtless these assertions were true, for neither dread of God or demon could ever have wrung an unremunerative stiver from old John Peter Obershaw's clutching fist, as he belonged to the orthodox school of misers—the class who live but to accumulate, and find all their pleasure in that sound, wholesome vice which prolongs life, and betrays not to a fool's paradise.

To the last he was steadfast to his idol. For years previous he was confined to his room by paralysis, dead to all affections save love of money, and vegetating in an easy chair stuffed literally with gold; for the senile miser, like a magpie, slyly secreted coin in every nook and corner of his chamber. In this second childhood, it was necessary to quiet him by giving him money to toy with, and musty accounts and deeds, which he pored over with the vacuity of an imbecile. To the end the ruling passion swayed him. At the last moment, when the taper of life was about giving its expiring flicker, he asked his attendant to bring him a surveyor's map of his estate. "And, James, tell ... tell Mr. Heath I want to see him ... see him at once. Must buy Van Slyke's farm if he'll sell it right ... sell it right. But he wants too much ... too much. No ... no ... can't give it. No ... no; haven't ... got the money. Soon as I am well, well ... and strong, I'll go out and have a look at it ... look at it. Soon as I am well, and go out ... go out. But can't 'ford to pay much. No ... no. Van Slyke's farm'll square the addition. But, I can't pay much ... can't 'ford it;" and a nervous twitching of his pale thin lips, as he mumbled to himself, showed teeth still sound, though worn down like an old mastiff's. He was a man of large frame, gaunt, bowed with age, and the dried yellow skin of his face resembled wrinkled parchment. When the map was brought to him, he stared vacantly at it with faded eyes that looked like dull agates, then relapsed into a still slumber with the map gripped in his long, talon-like, bony fingers, as if some one would steal it from him. Aroused by the entrance of his son-in-law, he again mumbled—"Where's the map ... map? Heath, see Van Slyke 'bout the farm and don't let him ... let him cheat me. I ain't quite ... quite so strong now, and ... and they'll cheat me. Ah, they're a close, sharp set.... Soon as I am well I'll go ... I'll go...."

The last words were uttered in a faint whisper; no further sound came from the moving lips; the death film crept over his eyes, and he was gone. He had lasted well and long, for avarice is a powerful antiseptic. The dry heart burns to the socket, and the selfish miser was blessed with an euthanasia that a saint might have envied.

The nearest physician, Dr. Wattletop, was swiftly summoned, only to return discomfited, as he expressed it, by that omnipotent leech who carries his lancet at the end of a snath.

The fall of so heavily laden a body into the great ocean of eternity created, to use a homely simile, an unusual splash, and occasioned no little commotion in Belton.

"Why, sir," said Mr. Madison Mumbie, the eminent paper-maker, addressing Dr. Wattletop, in the agitation of the moment, "Why, sir, Mr. Obershaw's wealth is e-normous! Probably the richest man we had in the State. Yes, sir" (with a sigh), "I regret to say it, we have lost a gentleman, and a Christian, who leaves at least two millions of dollars. Yes, sir, two millions at the lowest calculation—he leaves all of that!"

"Leaves!" repeated the doctor. "Aye, there's the rub. Now, if he could only have taken the two millions with him, there would have been something in it, wouldn't there?"

This view of the case did not strike Mr. Mumbie, who was himself rather inclined to accumulate, as cheerful or encouraging, and he went his way in a meditative mood.

Mr. Mook, the gentlemanly undertaker, in walking twenty rods from the residence of the deceased, was accosted by not less than a dozen anxious inquirers eager to learn the slightest particular relating to the sorrowful event. To whom Mr. Mook, with that mingled air of neatness, despatch, and meek resignation to the decrees of Providence, which characterized him, replied in a serious and very proper way. The information imparted was invariably received by the questioners with expressions of deep interest and sympathy, as if they had lost a near and dear friend. It is sad to add, though, that one individual, George Gildersleeve, the noisiest quidnunc in Belton, was on the contrary rather discourteous and disparaging in his inquiries and comments. George is a man of substance, and proprietor of the Archimedes Works. A burly fellow of middle age, with chest and loins like an ox, coarse mouth, hale complexion, and sandy hair shorn close over an obstinate head. Rich and purse-proud, he proclaims himself a plebeian, and in keeping therewith is generally seen divested of coat and hands in pockets. Thus he appeared in the doorway of his counting-room as Mr. Mook came down the street, and passed the Archimedes Works. Decorous and mournful Mook affected not to see Gildersleeve, dreading him as a bore and button-holder; but the stratagem was futile, and bluff George, hailing the undertaker as "Commodore," brought him—speaking nautically—"to."

"First-class obsequies, sir, have been ordered. Most elegant rosewood casket, new pattern silver handles. Everything in the most rekerchey and approved style. Funeral on Wednesday," Mook replied, in a tone of mild reproof, in answer to Gildersleeve's query as to when he was going to put old Uncle John to bed with a shovel.

Mr. Mook took pride in his profession. He was the inventor and patentee of a burial casket, that for "ease, elegance, and comfort," as he admiringly described it, was equalled by few and surpassed by none.

"Well, well, Commodore"—it was a habit of Gildersleeve's to dub his friends and acquaintances with incongruous titles, whether prompted thereto by affectionate impulses or a peculiar sense of humor, we are not prepared to decide; sufficient to say that the undertaker was invariably addressed as "Commodore" by the master of the Archimedes Works; similarly, Mr. McGoffin, the highly respectable, though illiterate shoe-maker, was styled "Judge;" Dr. Wattletop, "Major," etc., etc.

"Well, well, Commodore," said Gildersleeve, leaving his door-step and planting himself on the sidewalk so as to bar the way and hold the undertaker to converse, "so we go. If the man with the pitchfork don't get old Uncle John, what the deuce is the use of having a man with a pitchfork, eh?"

Mr. Mook coughed behind his hand, and tried to look as if he hadn't heard the remark, as he said, "Great loss to Belton, Mr. Gildersleeve."

"Great loss!" repeated Gildersleeve. "The old cuss! Why, confound him, he drove his only son, Johnny Obershaw, to sea when he was but fourteen years old, by his infernal meanness, and the little monkey was lost overboard less than a month after; and now here's Rufe Heath, that I recklect when he hadn't two coppers to jingle on a tombstone, slips in, bags the whole pool, and puts on more airs than a French barber. Now I'll tell you what it is, Joe Mook, you know me well enough, and you know that I can show as lovely a little pile of rocks as the next man, and you know, too, that I sweat for it. Yes, sir, by the hokey! on this spot (with a flourish towards the works), where my grandfather shod Gineral Washington's horse in a rickety old shanty that you could have capsized with a kick, I began when I was knee-high, with a hide apron on, swinging the sledge and paring hoofs late and early. Yes, sir! late and early, warm or cold, I stuck to it, and no thanks to any one, until you see what I've come to! And is there any airs about me? I think not; and there's many a man in this place that's as proud as a peacock, that I could buy and sell twice over. But I can say this, and you know it, that I've always been, and always intend to be, as independent as a hog on ice. That's me!"

And that was he. For if Mr. George Washington Gildersleeve prided himself on anything, it was on being free from "airs," and independent as a hog on ice—a comparison, it must be confessed, not particularly happy, and that conveyed an entirely unintended impression. However, it came pat to him, and he flung it defiantly in the teeth of the world. Mook had heard those sentiments before, hence he was not vividly impressed by them, nor altogether pleased with the diatribe against his present patrons. Still, he was not prepared for their sakes to remonstrate, and perhaps offend a future customer, for the undertaker, "thankful for past favors," as he stated in his advertisement in the Belton Sentinel, "and soliciting a continuance of the same," seemed to think himself exempt from the common lot of humanity, and set apart to take under all Belton forever. So he gave a non-committal shake of the head, as he contemplated the pavement, and then, profiting by a pause in Gildersleeve's harangue to escape, glided with soft steps away to his avocations.

The funeral was an imposing one. Many of the mills were closed—all, in fact, that could conveniently stop working. The Archimedes Works, though, remained in full blast, as the proprietor, true to his independence, did not feel himself any more called upon to close his shops for old John Peter Obershaw's death, than for that of any other mere acquaintance. Gildersleeve, however, as a concession, was at the interment, with his coat on too, somewhat subdued, perhaps, in tone and demeanor, but keeping up, nevertheless, an animated political discussion with a fellow-citizen as they stood in the churchyard. Nine-tenths of the population of the town gathered to witness the funeral. There had not been so much excitement in the place since the day of the "Grand Triumphal Entrée" of "Peabody's Combination Menagerie and Hippodrome." The people lined the streets through which the procession passed, and filled St. Jude's, where the services were held. No less than three ministers were in attendance, and a bishop extolled the virtues and success of the decedent in a way to persuade the auditors that they mourned a well-spent life. Then the church bell tolled a requiem knell as to the family vault the corpse was borne along, attended by pall-bearers, who had been consistently selected from among the wealthiest acquaintances of the family. The Hon. Rufus Heath followed as chief mourner, with his young daughter; then came his son and daughter-in-law; and lastly, a multitude of relatives and friends.

So passed away this old man, leaving behind a vast fortune, that had brought him but the gambler's joy—but the arid pleasures of the gold glutton, subsisting on the fumes of money; the odorless fumes whose cold astringency withers the emotions, dries the heart, and leaves man with but the instincts of the vulture and fox.

John Peter Obershaw left no children to survive him. His only son, as Gildersleeve had said, was lost at sea, and his daughter, Mrs. Heath, had preceded her father on the long journey years before. As he owed much of the augmentation of his wealth to the judgment, vigilance, and superintendence of his son-in-law, it was not surprising that the estate was found devised to him, the only being who had ever secured the favor and entire confidence of the old miser. Town tattle hinted at "undue influence" and "imbecility." There might have been more in this than idle gossip, but as no one was interested other than the devisee's children in making any investigations, he inherited without opposition. A great accretion of wealth this to Rufus Heath, who stepped thus quietly into the shoes of the late owner of Belton, for that town was in reality little more than an appanage of the Obershaw family. The evidences of this were patent on every side. A walk through the principal street showed you Heath Hall, where political meetings to distract, and balls and concerts to delight, the denizens took place; Obershaw House, a tavern of dimensions vast, where the lodging and dining rooms were too gorgeous to be comfortable, and only the bar commodious and consolatory; the Belton Bank; the Passaic Insurance Company; the Savings Institution, with its bee-hive sign—in all of which Rufus Heath's claim of ownership, or sovereignty, gave further indication of the wealth of the Obershaw estate. In short, you could not turn without being reminded how fortunate and important a man was the present heir, whilom a poor lawyer's clerk and now owner of the truly Pactolian waters of the Falls of the Passaic.

II.

The villa on the cliff would probably have excited but little attention in any country where chateaux or palaces abound, but it was looked upon by the simple people of Belton as a magnificent dwelling. After a stranger or tourist had seen the falls, he was invariably driven by the ciceroning hackman, desirous of lengthening the ride and increasing the fare, to view Mr. Heath's residence, that being considered next in importance as a noteworthy object. It was built of a gray stone, on a site that commanded a fine prospect of the town and of a long stretch of river. There was no attempt to preserve architectural unity in the structure; in fact, it exhibited rather an incongruous medley of orders. The front was partly Italian, with a circular portico supported by slender Ionic columns. The rear was Elizabethan, pieced out with an extension for a picture-gallery; on one side were oriel windows, and the other was flanked by a keep, with turret and embattled parapet, which gave the edifice rather a frowning appearance, as if the host were prepared for any emergency, and could treat visitors with bountiful hospitality, or a narrow cell in the donjon, as he saw fit and felt disposed. The interior was in keeping with this pretentious exterior. A stately staircase led up from a wide entrance hall tessellated with marble tiles, on either side of which were dining and reception rooms. These and the boudoirs and bedchambers were all resplendent with gilt and elegant frescoes. The surrounding grounds, or "park," as they were called, were spacious. There were terraces with marble urns, fountains, velvet lawns, interspersed with brilliant beds of flowers, and rows of shapely evergreens. In short, no expense had been spared to construct a habitation capable of impressing an ordinary beholder with the wealth and importance of the dwellers therein, and if corroborative evidence were needed, the porter at the lodge would carry conviction by referring to the elegant iron railing inclosing the grounds, which he asserted, with emphatic pride, "cost more'n twenty thousand hard, ringing silver dollars! a fortune for any one."

Do not suppose that old John Peter Obershaw was in any way responsible for all this pomp and splendor. Spending money, much less extravagance in any shape, was totally foreign to his habits or tastes; and he had been led into the outlay requisite for all this grandeur insensibly and unwittingly. We say insensibly and unwittingly the more positively, as the aged invalid could not be said to have had any sense or wit of his own, during the last years of his long life, and was completely under the dominion of his son-in-law, who planned and built the villa in accordance with his own ostentatious ideas.

The morning after the late owner of this princely residence had left it for the narrow quarters of a churchyard vault, the new one arose early and descended from his bedroom for a short walk in the fresh morning air. A very handsome man of fifty or so, with a compact figure, keen gray eyes, high receding forehead, slightly bald, and hair prematurely silvered. Perceptible on the firm surface of his pale, close-shorn face, were the lines of decision and shrewdness, and that seal of pride conferred by the possession of wealth and authority—a chilling expression commonly called aristocratic, and which is simply refined vanity. Musing with downcast eyes, hands clasped behind his back, and head uncovered, to and fro on the terrace paced Mr. Heath. Before descending, he had opened the door of his father-in-law's room, and looked in. The huge stuffed arm-chair was still there in its accustomed place, but vacant; the padding ripped up—done to look for secreted coin. His staff lay in one corner, a worn hickory stick, his companion for years,—but the old man was gone. He had been for years but an inert dweller, verging on imbecility, an incumbrance, and yet what a void he had left! How silent and empty the chamber seemed! Mr. Heath closed the door softly, and went gravely down the stairs. He was glad to breathe the refreshing air and feel the sunshine. As he paced, he would occasionally stop and glance over the sloping lawn, and towards the river whose shining current bore thrift to the town and tribute to him. All these possessions were now his, absolutely and entirely his. Without longing for it, he had expected and looked forward to this day. He remembered, when a poor clerk, how he had coveted the wealth of the proprietor of Belton Falls, as he watched him, meanly clad, haggling with some shop-keeper over a few coppers. He remembered his joy when a stroke of luck put him in possession of the capital necessary to carry out a scheme whose consummation had enabled him finally to attain his present position, first, by securing Mr. Obershaw's confidence, and eventually, a less difficult feat (favored as he was by an uncommon share of good looks), the hand and heart of his daughter. And now they were both gone, and he was left loaded with wealth; wealth unmeasured—wealth to flatter every wish and further every ambitious project. The fruit was ripe and had fallen. He bit it, but no luscious juice rushed to the bare papillæ; the taste was insipid and dry as ashes! Every realization is but an after-taste, but this was almost bitter. The morning sun spangled the dewy grass, and darted brightly through the tree boughs. Birds carolled sweetly, and all nature rejoiced, but his spirits seemed to sink under the increased weight of riches, and he felt burdened. For an instant an unaccountable depression seized him, and he hardly heeded a gardener who approached to speak. The man noticed his master's pre-occupation, and waited patiently and respectfully until his attention was drawn towards him. He wanted to know if Mr. Heath would like to look at a beautiful exotic that had just bloomed that morning. Mr. Heath mechanically assented, and followed the gardener to the greenhouse. Usually he was much interested in the fine collection of plants in the conservatory, but now he listened dully to the man's enthusiastic praises of the rare flower, and looked at it with indifference. Without replying to the gardener, he walked away slowly, musing as he went on that sermon so often repeated but never heeded—the vanity of earthly possessions. "Dross, dross, it is so," he soliloquized, "but how long it takes to learn the lesson! How many envy me; how many whose first thought on seeing me, whose first wish, is to be as I am! What a supremely happy and blessed man I must be! Ah, the monks are wise.... But fame—the incense of popular applause—a name to live in future generations; something that the grave cannot extinguish, and death take away, that is the goal to strive for! Aye, ambition is the only passion worthy a master mind."

He re-entered the house and went to his library. The sight of his accustomed work-room seemed to banish the shadow on his countenance. "Blessed—blessed labor, what a balm thou art!" he apostrophized as with a sort of eagerness he threw himself in a chair, seized a pen, and followed a new train of ideas.

A singular fit of despondency this in one basking in the smiles of Fortune, and who had so steadily enjoyed her favors; for the capricious dame had marked Rufus Heath for a favorite long ago by a significant gift plainly indicative of her partiality. This gift, or stroke of luck, was the winning at his start in life of a lottery prize, which sudden affluence, judiciously invested, had led to the splendid culmination now apparent.

Mr. Heath was in his library, a large room adjoining his bedchamber, which also answered the purposes of a study, and was furnished with leathern-covered chairs, and surrounded by closely filled book-cases of polished walnut, surmounted at intervals with marble busts of the giants of intellect. A long table in the centre of the room was covered with maps, manuscripts, and works of reference. At one end Mr. Heath sat intently writing. His early habits of industry he still carried almost to excess. Idleness filched but few moments from him, and by a thorough system he managed to perform an amount of labor that would have been deemed prodigious in a close student. The work that engrossed the most of his time, the opus magnus, was the preparation of a pandect wherein the constitutions, statutes, and enactments of the various States of the Union would be digested and reconciled into one harmonious code of laws. The mere gathering and collating of material for this purpose involved a formidable amount of labor, and when in addition to this we consider that he supervised the accounts of the estate and kept up a voluminous correspondence with statesmen and politicians in all parts of the country, we may imagine that he had but few spare moments.

Behind him on the wall hung the symbol of his weakness—an illuminated achievement intended to represent the arms of the Heath family. Should a visitor's attention be attracted by this heraldic device, the host was only too happy to explain the mystery of crest and quarterings, and to dilate on his lineage, tracing its common origin with that of a distinguished English ducal family. For Rufus Heath, in his heart of hearts, despised a republic and had no faith in the stability of its institutions. His ideal of a government was an oligarchy, with him and his like as oligarchs. Outwardly he professed the stanchest republicanism and devotion to equal rights.

So absorbed had Mr. Heath become in his occupation that he heeded not his daughter as she came to ask him to breakfast. She entered the study softly, and almost timidly, for she held her father in a certain awe and dreaded to disturb him. It was only when she laid her hand lightly on his shoulder that he discovered her presence. "Father, good-morning," said she, seeking to press her lips to his cheek.

"Ah! Miss Edna. Is that you?" he replied, impassively, and slowly disengaging her arm from his neck. "Good-morning. Leave me, child; I will be with you in an instant."

There was no unkindness in the tone, but there was no warmth. The few words that had passed between them revealed enough to indicate to an observant witness the history of a daughter's heart, eager for the affection of a parent insulated from domestic ties by egotistic worldliness.

Mr. Heath laid aside his pen, passed to his chamber, and arranged his toilet preparatory to the morning repast. He then descended the stairs as if a chamberlain preceded him; entered the breakfast-room with a stately nod to those present, and took his seat at the table gravely, and with an apology for his tardiness. After a scrutinizing glance around, a preparatory pause followed, and then, bending low his head, he invoked the Divine blessing. The meals in that family were not at any time those cheerful family gatherings that diversify existence so pleasantly, but serious proceedings, conducted with severe propriety, the head of the house being exceedingly punctilious on that score. On this morning, naturally enough, a greater solemnity prevailed, and the breakfast was passed almost in silence. Mrs. Applegate, a widow, and elder sister of Mr. Heath, presided. She had been installed housekeeper on the death of her brother's wife, and occupied the post at table that should have devolved upon young Mrs. Heath, but that lady was too indifferent, and disinclined to any exertion to fill it. She was a Creole by birth, the daughter of a Yankee machinist who had married the very wealthy widow of a Cuban planter. This machinist, Sam Wolvern, previous to going to the West Indies, had learned his trade in Belton, and after the death of his wife returned there to live. Dying soon after his arrival, he left Mr. Heath sole guardian of the person and fortune of his only child, Mercedita Wolvern. So well did the guardian manage his trust, that he succeeded, in due time, in transferring his ward and her fortune to the custody of his son. This occasioned some unfavorable tattle, but as Mercedita Wolvern, a pale, feeble girl, had no will of her own, it may have been justifiable in somebody else's having one for her, if matters had turned out well. Unfortunately they did not, for her husband, with all the arrogance and vanity, and none of the brains of his sire, was possessed of sundry vices, which rendered him anything but an agreeable life companion. A spoiled boy, indulged and toadied, he easily fell into the snares that beset rich men's sons, and grew up a worthless and dissipated man. His father designed him for the legal profession, but "living like a hermit and working like a horse," was not at all to the taste of young Hopeful. Hence, in the hope that an early marriage might reform him,—to say nothing of the pecuniary advantages of such a match,—his father had given him poor weak Mercedita, and her fortune, to wife. And a wretched connubial existence she had of it, for Jack Heath added drunkenness to his other unamiable traits, and was hardly sober from one day to another. This, of course, created much uneasiness in the father's mind, who naturally hoped that his son would at least perpetuate the family name with dignity, if he were incapable of shedding lustre on it.

"Where is John?" inquired Mr. Heath of his daughter-in-law, as he noticed his son's absence from the table.

"Sleeping, I presume, sir," replied the young wife; "I heard the clock strike one before he came in last night."

"What! again? And last night of all nights!" escaped from the father's lips. Ordinarily his pride prevented him from showing displeasure at his son's misconduct, in the presence of others, but that John should have so far forgotten himself as to indulge in a debauch on the very day of his grandfather's funeral; that he should have gone in his mourning clothes to the town bar-rooms, his usual haunts, and swaggered tipsily along the streets, a spectacle of shame, furnishing food for scandal for a month—for the Heath family were considered in the light of public personages, and every act of theirs was commented on by all Belton—this, all this, touched Mr. Heath keenly. His daughter, who was seated beside him, noticed his clouded brow, and asked him with anxiety, if anything ailed him?

"No, nothing, child," he replied, and turning to the colored servant in attendance bade him summon John at once. Edna, the daughter, had but just returned from boarding-school, where she had spent the greater part of three previous years; hence she knew but little of her brother's habits, and imagined that a lack of respect on his part was all that had disturbed her usually imperturbable father.

It's the old Obershaw blood in him—the coarse tastes which he inherits from his grandfather, reflected Mr. Heath with bitterness. The old man had the same propensity, but avarice smothered it in him. With a sigh he turned toward his daughter for consolation. His looks dwelt on her, and it seemed as if it were the first time he had ever noticed her beauty. How lovely she has grown, thought he. A true Heath—if she were only a boy! Still, why should she not aspire, and reflect honor on me? I shall be Governor of this State, next a foreign mission, an ambassadorship. All she would need is the opportunity. Did ever coronet grace a fairer brow? My daughter a countess or a marchioness—is there anything impossible or improbable in that?

While Mr. Heath was in the midst of his fanciful cogitations, the object of them was eating in a matter-of-fact way, and in utter unconsciousness of the ambitious views she had awakened. Nevertheless, there was everything to justify her father's pride and hopes; for Edna, a girl of seventeen, had a graceful figure, a cheek as delicate as a rose-petal, soft steel-blue eyes with dark lashes and brows, hair the hue of ripe wheat, and that indescribable sweetness of expression in which American maidens surpass all others. Her plain, black dress, relieved only by a white collar and wristbands, did not in the least detract from her appearance, but, on the contrary, enhanced her clear complexion to brilliancy. So her father thought, and his heart swelled with new-born pride in the possession of such a child. There was an unusual tenderness in his voice when he questioned her, "Edna, what are you going to do this morning?"

It was a purposeless question, meant simply to attract her attention towards him.

Edna turned her face towards her father with an inquiring look, for the query was a very unusual one. "I intend to call on Ada Mumbie; I left my crochet-work there on Monday, and am going after it. Have you any errand for me, sir?"

"No, daughter. Crochet-work is certainly important business, and should not be neglected," replied her father with a smile. "I hope, however, you have other and better ways of employing your time."

"I trust so, sir," said Edna.

"I wish, my child, you would adopt the plan of writing me a letter every day, or every other day will do. It matters not how short it may be—a few sentences will suffice. But I want it done as well as you know how, and have you bestow thought upon it. Let it consist of a criticism on some book you have read, or some picture you have seen. For instance, you might begin to write criticisms on the pictures in the gallery in succession, varying them, however, with such opinions of other matters, persons, or objects as may strike your fancy. But what I want are your ideas and none other, expressed in the best language you are capable of. You will do so, will you not?"

"Certainly, father, if it pleases you."

"Well, but I don't want you to do it solely because it pleases me. I want you to acquire a taste for such employment. I was looking over some of your letters from school the other day, and I was very well pleased with the style, but I noticed a lack of thought. True, you are still young, and can hardly be expected to evince much of that, but I want to cultivate your mind in that respect, and now is the time to begin. Bear in mind, skill in epistolary writing is a great accomplishment; especially so in a woman," continued Mr. Heath; then turning to his daughter-in-law he said, "Mercedita, I have an appointment at the bank at ten. I shall be back at eleven. Tell John I shall expect to find him in the library waiting for me at that hour. I have business for him. I want some copying done. Mr. Frisbee has more than he can attend to now;" and Mr. Heath rose to leave. As he opened the door to go out he stopped for a moment, reflectively, with his hand on the knob, "Edna."

"Yes, father," replied the young girl, rising and going towards him.

"When you return from your visit, come up into the library. I shall select some works I wish you to read. Don't fail, my dear;" and Mr. Heath, before leaving, imprinted a light kiss on his daughter's forehead. She received it with an expression of pleased surprise. It was the first time he had ever favored her in that way. So unwonted a demonstration of tenderness on the part of her brother even caused Mrs. Applegate to pause in the act of pouring out her fourth cup of tea, and stare at the scene. "Edna seems to be in favor this morning," she remarked when Mr. Heath had left, "but John, I am afraid, Mercedita, has greatly offended his father, and is very much in disfavor."

"O Mercedita!" added Edna, "do beg him to apologize to father at once, and try and make amends. Just think how troubled father must be at grandfather's death, and that Jack should add to his grief is too bad. Do, please, entreat him, Mercedita, to—"

"I do not pretend to have any influence whatever over John. I might have, if he had any consideration for my feelings; but as I am sure he has never shown the slightest, of what use would my remonstrances or pleadings be? He may follow the path he has chosen without any interference from me," answered the young wife with an affected indifference.

"Father expects him at eleven," said Edna, "and I hope Jack will be punctual. I wouldn't have father continue angry at him for the world. I wonder if James has told him? I'll go and see;" and she hurried off, in her anxiety to reconcile her father and brother.

"I think, Mercedita, if you took John in the right way," said Mrs. Applegate, "you might do a good deal with him. He is as good-hearted a person as ever lived. He's whimsical, to be sure, and perhaps we all indulged him a little too much when he was a boy. I'll not deny that. But then, you know, a little coaxing will go a great ways."

A shrug of the shoulders was the only reply the young wife deigned to make to this advice, and Mrs. Applegate continued: "Now, I've had a good deal of experience in these matters, and I recollect very distinctly, when Mr. Applegate and I were first married, he was as full of whims and notions as could be, and naturally it was a source of trouble in more ways than one to me. Mr. Applegate utterly detested cats for one thing—couldn't bear 'em; indeed, he had such a great detestation of them, that I verily believe it actually affected his system; though, to be sure, he was consumptive, and subject to constant attacks of dyspepsia. I've heard of many such cases. Not long ago I read in the papers an account of some distinguished person—I forget the name, now, though it's a familiar one—let me see, I think it was Alexander the Great, or it might have been Luther, I won't be certain which; but at all events it was some well-known and distinguished person who was thrown into convulsions every time he saw a black rabbit—no, not a black rabbit, but a drawn sword. It was another well-known person who was affected in a similar way by a black rabbit. Now this goes to show—"

What this went to show we are unable to say, for at this point, Mrs. Applegate's instructive, though somewhat irrelevant discourse, was interrupted by the entrance of Jack Heath, who was evidently in no amiable frame of mind, and under the influence, probably, of the whimsical state alluded to by his kinswoman. He took his seat in sulky silence, and then began to scold the waiter. He found fault with everything—the steak was too cold, the eggs too hard, the tea too hot, the toast too dry, etc. The two ladies looked on without venturing a remark. From the dull, sodden look of his eyes, and his carelessly brushed hair, Jack's rest and peace of mind had evidently been badly disturbed. He was large and unduly corpulent for so young a man, being barely two-and-twenty, although he might have passed for ten years older; and on his fat face the freshness of youth had given place to the inflamed flush of the toper. After a few mouthfuls he could contain himself no longer, and vented his spleen in a grumbling tirade. "Seems to me there's a devil of a row here about nothing. Can't have a bit of comfort in this house. Come home tired and want to have my sleep out, and along comes James drumming away at my door as if the house was on fire; says the old man sent him—then Edna, she must come bothering me to get up. Confound it, some of you women are at the bottom of it all, I'll bet. Been complaining to the old man, have you?"

This last was directed with a scowl to his wife, who, without condescending to reply, arose from her chair and wrapping her shawl close about her, swept out of the room indignant, leaving Mrs. Applegate to confront Jack's temper alone.

"A young feller's a fool that gets married," continued Jack, addressing no one in particular.

Mrs. Applegate, feeling this apothegm to be rather a reflection on her sex, and one which ought not to pass unchallenged, ventured a mild qualification. "Well, John, it depends very much whether the fellow, as you call him, is of a domestic disposition or not. Now, there is great difference in people, and especially in married couples. There was Mr. Applegate, for instance; I'm sure no one could have led a happier life, and he often used to say to me, 'My dear—'"

"I say," repeated the nephew, dogmatically, "that a young feller's a fool that gets married. That's all. And he'll find it out sooner or later, I'll bet he does. To have a woman always tied to you, that goes whining around and complaining if a feller comes in late, or has been on a little jamboree with a friend and gets a little set up. I'd rather be hung and be done with it."

"Dear me, John, I wouldn't go on so about it," said his aunt, placatingly. "To be sure I don't ever remember of Mr. Applegate's going on a jam—jamboree, as you call it, as he was always afraid of dampness and night air; but then you must admit that it isn't the pleasantest thing in the world to be wakened out of a sound sleep, or to sit up waiting for some one to come home, particularly if you are anyway delicate; and young people should bear in mind that the easiest way is always the best."

Mrs. Applegate added a few more mollifying sentences of the same general application, until Jack, having by this time finished his breakfast, seemed to be appeased, and remarked in rather more peaceful tones, that he "was off his feed," a statement which might well cause an onlooker to wonder how much provender Jack consumed when he was "on his feed." Then pulling out a case, he struck a match and lit a cigar, remarking as he did so to his aunt: "Old man wants me in the library punctually at eleven, does he? Think I see myself. Not to-day, thank you. If I'm there I guess he'll know it. As the Frenchman said, 'I've got to fry some fish,'" and off he lounged to the stables.

III.

The Hon. Rufus Heath, in requesting his son's attendance in the library that morning, had reckoned without the "Horse-show." For that day was the concluding one of the County Agricultural Fair, which, though held ostensibly in honor of sundry overgrown vegetables and patchwork quilts, derived its principal attraction from the "Grand Exhibition of Blood and other Horses," which terminated it. The exhibition consisted in a number of fast nags showing their points, and competing for prizes on a race-course conveniently near the fair-grounds. To attend these "trials of speed" was far more to John Peter Heath's taste, than to be immured in his father's library copying tedious documents. Hence he did not deliberate long over the paternal mandate, and was soon spinning away comfortably behind his trotting mare to the fair. He stayed there the greater part of the day; swaggering over the grounds with a knowing air; noisily backing horses by bets with stable-men and blacklegs, and losing some of his wife's money which rather soured him, for Jack had a decided streak of stinginess in his character, and disliked extremely to part with money that had not ministered to his selfish gratifications. So, to console himself for his ill-luck, he repaired to a public-house hard by, and cracked bottles of wine with boon companions until the remembrance of his losses supervened, and he became obstreperous; swore he had been cheated; grew abusive; drew off his coat to fight anybody, and but for the interposition of the landlord, might have received a severe pommelling. In this condition he mounted his vehicle to return home. The spirited little mare, having been kept so long waiting at the tavern door, had become restive, and it was with some difficulty that she could be held by the hostler while Jack got into the wagon. He gathered the reins, flung a dime to the man, and the mare released, sped off like an arrow.

The sun was setting as Jack crossed the bridge over the Passaic at the north end of town, and the toll-gatherer noticed that the driver was (as he had often seen him before) in liquor. Jack Heath was not at any time a very pleasing object to look at, and still less so when in his cups, for his tipsiness bore an expression of defiant arrogance that boded no good to intermeddlers. Thus, flown with insolence and wine, along he went, lashing his horse and driving recklessly up the principal street of the town, in utter disregard of the wayfarers, whom he roughly ordered with an oath to get out of his way. Just at that moment a young man, with a slight limp in his gait, was crossing the street, who seemed in no haste to accelerate his pace at Jack Heath's bidding. A well-dressed young fellow he was, of about twenty, with a dash of pretension in his appearance, and a light in his eye that betokened a spirit not likely to brook dictation. Jack, unfortunately, was not in a condition to discriminate, and as he approached the pedestrian, yelled, with a curse, "Ki-hi—cripple! Out of the way, or I'll run over you!" No sooner were these words uttered, than the young man, pale with anger, raised a light cane he carried, and struck fiercely at the horse's head. The nervous animal, frightened at this sudden attack, sprang off sideways, dashing the light jagger against the curb, and sending its occupant headlong to the earth. Such an excitement in the quiet street! The disaster occurred directly opposite McGoffin's "Shoe Emporium," and that honest tradesman ran out, leaving Miss Winter (a highly respectable maiden lady whom he was about measuring for bootees) to expose in her agitation and stockings her somewhat large and bulbous feet to the brutal gaze of a gathering crowd. The colored barber from over the way hastened to the spot with a razor in his hand, followed by a half-shaved client with lathered, face and bib on, and then in quick succession loungers from the "Tanglefoot Saloon" and corner grocery. Meanwhile, the cause of all this trouble, whom we may as well introduce to the reader at once as Mark Gildersleeve, forgot his resentment on seeing the plight of his insulter, and hurried off for a physician, under the impression that; perhaps, Jack Heath was killed. There he lay in the kennel, stunned, with a cut on his sconce and a contemplative crowd about him. Discussions arose as to whether he was dead or dying, and a glass of brandy was put to his lips as a test; it probably being deemed conclusive that if he did not drink, or at least taste the beverage, he must be very nearly in the former condition. As he did neither, his case looked hopeless, and some one suggested removing him to the apothecary's shop; but Mr. Snopple, the photographer, a little fat man who diffused an aroma of collodion about him, protested strenuously, reminding the by-standers that it would be a violation of the law, and render a person liable to prosecution to disturb the body until the coroner came and an inquest was held. Advice not altogether disinterested on the part of Mr. Snopple, who, in his professional zeal, saw at once an excellent opportunity for an effective picture, and did not wish the group disturbed while he hastened off to his studio for a camera. Unfortunately for the advancement of art, before he returned, George Gildersleeve, the ubiquitous, appeared on the scene. Here was a man of action. He took one hand out of its pocket, felt of Jack and pronounced him "right enough," and then addressing the crowd said, "Lay hold here, boys, some of you, and toss him into this cart and get him home. He's hefty."

And "hefty" he was, sure enough, and it took some tugging from strong arms to lift the dead weight of his bulky form into a grocer's cart near at hand, for the racing jagger was badly broken, and the mare had scampered off with the thills.

By this time Mark Gildersleeve had returned with Dr. Wattletop, and the latter accompanied Jack to his home, where the fears of his relatives were speedily allayed by his being pronounced not seriously injured, but uncommonly drunk.

When Dr. Wattletop returned to his domicil he found Mark Gildersleeve awaiting him. "How is he, doctor?" eagerly asked the young man.

"Oh bless you, he'll do. The devil takes care of his own. Born to be hung, you know, and so forth. A simple contusion—plastered it up—he'll be all right when he gets sober. He's just ugly enough, too, to appear worse than he is, and frightened his sweet little sister out of her wits. The others, though, didn't seem to mind it so much, and no wonder. But what makes you so anxious about him? When you came after me, you looked so pale and agitated hopes arose of a profitable patient. They're not so plenty now as they might be, and I welcome them with joy and gratitude," said the doctor, tapping Mark familiarly on the shoulder.

"I feel so relieved, doctor; I was afraid he might be seriously hurt. He provoked me, and I retaliated. Had I noticed or known that he was drunk, perhaps I would not have minded him. He fell so heavily that I feared he might have broken his neck."

"He might, I grant, but he didn't. More's the pity, perhaps, for his friends and family. Especially for that poor wife of his, whom he will certainly kill in time, if he don't kill himself first. But, so you were the one that caused all this row, eh? You didn't say anything about that before. How dared you, rash youth, raise your ire against the heir-apparent? Fear you not the wrath of the prince-regnant? Know ye not that for thrift to follow it is as necessary now, as ever, to fawn to wealth and position? Anchylosis, my boy, invariably affects the pocket, mind that!"

"If it were not for—" began Mark, with a determined look, which he suddenly checked, to add with a quiet smile, "No one knows better than you, doctor, what little store I set by thrift, or any considerations of that kind. I trust my ambition aims higher than that."

"Fresh and admirable adolescence! Roseate age, when the glistening soap-bubble, Fame, hath more charms than substantial shekels! So be it, and well it is so, for without those soft illusions the aridity of existence would be insupportable, the world a desert and life a blank. And now, my boy, while I wash my hands bring out the chess-board. I'll give you a bishop to-night, and unless I am interrupted by some silly biped seeking admittance to this sphere of trouble, or some still sillier one reluctant to leave it, we'll have a snug hour or two of enjoyment. So, votary of Caïssa, to chess—to chess."

Soon the polished dome of the doctor's capacious head, and the curly black pate of the young man, were bent in intense study over the checkered field of mimic battle. In silence passed the moments until a scratching at the door announced a visitor. "Ah, Dagon! Open the door, Mark, and let him in, please," said the doctor.

The young man complied, and a large black Newfoundland dog walked gravely in towards the doctor, and rested his head on his master's knee to be caressed. "True friend—faithful heart! Mark, three winters ago that dog saved my life. I was called out the night of the great snowstorm to go to the Furnaces, and but for Dagon your most obedient wouldn't be here. I've told it you before, I believe, so I'll not repeat the circumstances, but I love to dwell on them. Last spring he drew a child out of the canal; he would allow himself to be cut to pieces for me, and yet they say he has no soul! The Turks say the same of women. Are we any wiser? They say, too, he has no reason. Look at his expressive, sagacious eye. The gibbering idiot has a soul, the vilest miscreant reason; but this noble animal has neither, 'tis said, and man's vanity invents instinct! O man—man, what a conceited fool thou art! Check, eh? Ha! a bold move, my boy."

The doctor's speculations were cut short by a brilliant stroke on the part of his adversary, and as the game is becoming more absorbing, and the players less communicative, we will leave them, to digress a little.

Dr. Basil Wattletop had been an English army-surgeon, and as such had spent much of his time in foreign parts. How he came to drift into Belton, no one knew positively, although there was a legend that he had stopped there one day, on his way from Canada, to view the cataract, and had remained in the town ever since. Be this as it might, there he was and had been for many years, enjoying a lucrative practice, as he doubtless well deserved, for he was a skilful practitioner. An odd-looking man he was, a bachelor of very uncertain age, yet hale and vigorous; in person short and rotund, like the typical Briton of mature years, with thin wisps of brown hair brushed around his bald crown, and large searching dark eyes set in a long, grave, rubicund face. In attire inclined to carelessness, but scrupulous as to polished shoes and immaculate linen, wearing collars perilously starched over a throttling black stock, the buckle and tag of which prominently ornamented his nape. Partial indeed was he to this stock, despite the sway of fashion. In moments of caprice he would replace it by swaddling his short neck in a black cravat of many folds, the knot of which invariably slipped around and under his ear, giving him a losel and dissipated air.

His benevolent disposition had made him popular with the people of Belton, and many a poor body had reason to thank the good physician not only for gratuitous attendance, but for the wherewithal to buy indispensable remedies and comforts. We say had reason to thank him, for they seldom ventured to do so, certainly not a second time, for the doctor was exceedingly impatient of any manifestations of gratitude, and generally received them with a cynical or tart comment.

One weakness the doctor had in common with many of his countrymen—devotion to the social glass and flowing bowl, and when he had indulged over freely he was a changed man. Then his ordinary blandness forsook him, and he became pompous and choleric. He buttoned his coat tightly over his chest, carried his cane under his arm, and gave a defiant cock to his hat. Beware then how you contradicted him; beware how you defended that absurd heresy, homoeopathy; and above all, beware how you disparaged, even in the remotest degree, her Majesty of England, God bless her! as he would add, reverently lifting his hat. His loyalty and pomposity increased in proportion to the depths of his potations, but, whether in rigid obedience to a self-imposed law, or owing to the resistant power of his brain, he never appeared to exceed a certain well-defined limit; and no one had ever seen the doctor overcome, or known him to be in a worse state than that peculiar one indicated by a highly burnished nose, tetchy dignity, and exaggerated self-importance. The doctor was generally in this condition three evenings in the week, beginning at about four o'clock post-meridian, and so far from its being considered prejudicial to the exercise of his professional duties by his patients, many of them religiously believed that his sagacity was keener and skill greater at those times than at others.

The doctor was an enigma to the Belton folk. While they all respected him for his good qualities, many were offended at his sarcasm, puzzled by his paradoxes, or displeased at his oracular utterances. A few even pronounced him an "infidel" and an "atheist." Opinionated George Gildersleeve objected to the doctor's opinionativeness, and rated him a "pig-headed John Bull." As to the charge of atheism, who could have believed it that had ever seen the doctor at service, as he stood reverentially burying his red face in his stiff hat on Sundays in the fifth pew from the chancel, in the middle aisle of St. Jude's?

"Atheist, bosh!" said the doctor; "the old Latin proverb, Ubi tres medici duo athei, is simply nonsensical. Who comes so closely in contact with the mysterious ways of God, and realizes so thoroughly his own ignorance and impotence, as the physician? No—no, a corner of the veil has been uplifted to us, and we stand appalled and humble."

Mark Gildersleeve was almost an adopted son of the old physician, who had taken the youth in affection and proved an invaluable friend to him, chiefly by directing a course of reading and study. A priceless benefit this to Mark, whose advantages for instruction had been slight, for he had lost his parents at an early age, and been left to the care of his half-brother George, or rather to his half-brother's wife. It would have been difficult to find more dissimilar beings than these two brothers. George was the true son of Eben Gildersleeve, the tough old smith who could forge the best horse-shoe in the county; while Mark inherited the character and tastes of his mother, Eben Gildersleeve's second wife, a woman of beauty and delicacy, a rustic Venus mated to a village Vulcan. George was boisterous, given to bully and boast, and hid his purse-pride in an affected contempt for the world's opinion. Mark, on the contrary, was reserved, and rendered morbidly sensitive by a slight lameness resulting from an injury received in childhood—a mere blemish, though, in an otherwise well-knit and graceful form. For all his reserve the lad had a resolute and ambitious spirit. Gifted with quick perception, and a natural aptitude for mathematics, he had become, although almost self-taught, proficient as a mechanical engineer. After a common-school education, his brother, in accordance with the theory that the only road to success was through a diligent use of the flexors and extensors, set him to work in the shops, but it was not long before he was found to be more useful in the draughting room. Young as he was, Mark had introduced some valuable improvements in his brother's works, although that independent fellow was not over-ready to acknowledge it. On the contrary, he rather berated the young man behind his back, for a fop who cared for nothing but dress, or a fool who was occupied with dreams and poetry instead of devoting himself to his business. Mark, it must be admitted, sinned a little in that way, although not to an extent to justify his brother's railings. Full of enthusiasm and high aspirations, he scorned mere money-making, and as he earned enough to satisfy his wants he bestowed no further thought in that direction. This was a source of displeasure to George. "Confound the fellow," he would exclaim in the barber-shop, perhaps, or at Bird's livery stable, "Confound the fellow! he's no slouch, but as smart as they make 'em, and if he'd only stick to his work he'd be a rich man in time. I never had much of a head for figures, but it comes nat'ral to him. If he's a mind to, he can do more work than any other two men you can scare up, and if he aint a-mind, you can't coax or drive him. He'll go off and jingle away by the hour on a piano, like a girl, or play chess or read novels half the night. Why, he's even got a banjo up in his room that he strums away on like a nigger minstrel" (alluding to a Spanish guitar that Mark had bought, probably with the romantic intention of practising seguidillas). "Look at me," George would add as a clincher; "the only music ever I made was with a riveting hammer on a boiler, or a sledge on an anvil, and am I any the worse for it? Not much, I think, and here I am, as independent as a hog on ice! Don't owe a man a dollar in the world, and though I don't roost in as big a house as Rufe Heath or Pop Mumbie up on the hill yonder, they'll take my note at the bank as quick as either of theirs if I should ask it, which I don't, as I pays as I goes; and what's more, I can dust any of 'em on the plank-road any day of the week, with as pretty a pair o' flyers as there is in the State, and if you don't believe it here's the soap to back it for any amount from fifty to five thousand!"

And he would conclude customarily by drawing out a well-stuffed wallet, and slapping it energetically, with a defiant look at the by-standers. That wallet was George's ultimo ratio, and when pushed in an argument, or at loss for a reply, he would flourish it at his opponent, with an offer to wager any sum on the moot-point; a rebutter which, if it did not carry conviction, enabled George to close the issue in a triumphant manner. There was a story current to the effect that he had once startled a tableful of Methodist clergymen, assembled to take tea at Mrs. Gildersleeve's during a conference, by proffering to the decorous men a bet on the correct interpretation of a disputed passage in St. John; but this lacked confirmation, for George, if he had but little respect for any one else, had a great deal for his wife, and as such an act would have shocked her exceedingly, it is not at all likely that it took place.

The sagacious reader has doubtless come to the conclusion that the Gildersleeve family was composed of rather incongruous members, and yet, for one comprising such opposite characters, its harmony was remarkable. They occupied a small two-story dwelling with a flower-garden attached, in a side street, not far from the Archimedes Works. A large, bright brass door-plate bore in very loud letters the name: GILDERSLEEVE—as if there were none other of that name in the universe, or as if this was the Gildersleeve par excellence of all who were fortunate enough to bear that honest patronymic. Aside from this, the residence presented a very quiet and modest appearance. The interior was plainly furnished, but neat as wax. In the little parlor were old-fashioned mahogany chairs and sofas dark with age, but polished, and protected with snowy tidies. In one corner was Mark's piano, and on either side of the chimney-breast hung portraits in oil of Mr. and Mrs. Gildersleeve, taken when they were first married, and looking wooden in port and flat as to perspective, faced on the opposite side by photographic likenesses of the same at a mature age. Then between the windows was a colored photograph of Mr. Gildersleeve in his costume of foreman of a fire company, with red shirt, leathern cap, and trumpet; and still another representing him in his regalia as a Sir Knight of the Sancho Panza Commandery of the Knights of the Golden Fleece. George had a passion for counterfeit presentments of himself, and in the album on the centre-table might have been found a number of others, taken in various attitudes and in various expressions of obstinacy, by that distinguished artist, Alonzo Snopple, Esq., who kept duplicates in his "studio" and never failed to call visitors' attention to them as remarkable pictures of a remarkable self-made man. "Fine head," he would say, "very fine head—rare combination of intellect and force—especially force. Strongly marked lineaments, well adapted for Rembrandt effects. Observe the lights and shadows, that well-defined nose, etc.;" and George seemingly was not indisposed to allow the public every opportunity to familiarize itself with the representation of such a masterpiece of nature in the way of a head. Besides his love of portraiture, he was given to keeping fast trotters and game-cocks, and in the stables at the Works were stalls devoted to a span of the speediest Morgans for the owner's private use, and in the stable yard strutted a certain breed of "orange-piles," whose pugnacious qualities were almost as well known as those of the celebrated fowls of the Derby walk; the dauntless game-cocks, that:

"symbolize their lord."

These animals enabled George to indulge occasionally in a little sportsmanlike relaxation, and spice his toil-earned wealth by a few chance dollars won from fickle fortune.

Mrs. Gildersleeve was an industrious little housekeeper with an equable temper, and an unbounded and unquestioning faith in her husband; scarcely less so, too, in her brother-in-law Mark, whom she had brought up from childhood and looked upon as a son—an affection reciprocated by the young man, who loved her as if she were his mother, and with reason, for she could not have been more devoted had she really stood in that relation to him. The only thing that ever cast a shadow on her uniform serenity and cheerfulness, was the remissness in their religious duties of the two beings the nearest and dearest to her. She had more than once mentioned this subject to the Rev. Samuel Sniffen, and this good man had striven zealously to bring these wayward sheep into the fold, but with small effect; for George Gildersleeve seemed flint, and his brother quicksilver. Nevertheless, Mrs. Gildersleeve had gained ground and progressed so far in her endeavors at reclamation, that her husband invariably accompanied her to meeting every Sabbath morning and afternoon, while Mark escorted her to the evening service, the mornings and afternoons of that sacred day being devoted by the erratic youth to St. Jude's. It was an edifying sight to behold George at meeting. The stolidity with which he received the earnest and vivifying sermons of the Rev. Samuel Sniffen—as if they imparted teachings which the rest of the congregation would do well to heed, but which did not concern him in the least—was the despair of the excellent minister. The hardened sinner had even shown, on frequent occasions, a tendency to nap through exhortations of the most vehement and fervid character. What was to be done with such a soul? The only answer he would vouchsafe to the friendliest and most persuasive counsel was, that his wife was good enough for both of them, and he felt insured as to the future, as she no doubt would have influence enough to "pull him through" in any event. "She'll take care of me, you bet," he would add; "she's good enough to save a half a dozen;" and in this conviction of security nothing could shake him. Brother Sniffen then wisely concluded that as it seemed a hopeless task for the patient to obtain sanctification through faith, he would induce him to try the efficacy of good works, and in this laudable endeavor called upon him constantly for contributions to the support and propagation of the Methodist Episcopal persuasion, and as George always responded liberally to all such requests, he stood well with the good people of that sect, in spite of his stiff-neckedness.

Mark was more tractable. He was willing to do almost anything to please his sister-in-law except, perhaps, giving up his attendance at St. Jude's. And whence, it may be asked, arose this preference in the young man for that particular temple of worship? Did he hunger after the spiritual truth as dispensed by the rector, the Rev. Spencer Abbott? Alas! we fear not. Did he deem his tenor voice an indispensable adjunct to the church choir? Strict truth compels us to say nay. Mrs. Gildersleeve, for her part, attributed his partiality for the Episcopal service to Dr. Wattletop's influence; but the worthy lady's perspicuity was entirely at fault, and the motive that impelled her brother-in-law to such an assiduous attendance at St. Jude's was not any preference for a liturgy, or leaning for the tenets of that church; in fact, we regret to say, it was not any religious conviction whatever, but simply and solely—love! Love for the sweetest profile ever imagined; the profile that he was continually sketching on the draughting sheets or tracing-paper; that distracted him while at work; that drew him to St. Jude's, but drew his attention away from the excellent sermons of the young and worthy rector. And the possessor of that profile was—Edna Heath. She, of course, was attentive to the sermon as good girls always are, and utterly unconscious of the glances directed at her from the organ-loft, where Mark poured forth the pantings of his sighing soul in song. Utterly unconscious, too, of the influence she exerted over that youth's ideas and aspirations; how she had inspired him with vaulting ambition, and given him a corresponding distaste for his calling; how, for her sake, he desired to become famous, and, of all things, to be a poet! In this frame of mind, this fervent exaltation, the church seemed a haven of bliss to him, and his worshipping, we grieve to say, was directed chiefly to the idol who sat in the double pew in the transept nearest to the chancel. All his longing for fame was solely to lay it at her feet, and win not only her favor, but her admiration. He scarcely desired the one without the other; for once she had pitied him, and that pity had left a sting which could only be healed by the salve of admiration. How and when this uneffaced wound was received, we shall divulge in the succeeding chapter.

IV.

Years before, when our young people were children, a juvenile party was given one evening at Mr. Heath's, in honor of his son's birthday. The children's schoolmates were invited, and Mark Gildersleeve among the number. Miss Edna, in white with a big blue sash, was naturally enough an object of much devotion to the young gallants in roundabouts and pumps, who certainly evinced good taste, as the little belle was lovely as delicate bloom, bright eyes, and rich curls could make her. Poor Mark was dismal enough while the dancing was in progress, as his sensitiveness in regard to his lameness, and his Methodist relative's scruples had prevented him from learning that accomplishment; hence, he would have passed but a dull evening, had it not been for Edna, whose kind little heart prompted her to select him as her partner in "Come, Philanders," "Oats, peas, beans, and barley," etc., when those games came on the carpet. This partiality on the part of Miss Edna naturally engendered much jealousy in the breasts of her numerous admirers; and one, a malicious urchin, with the instincts of an Iago, plotted to make Jack Heath his avenger. Jack, an overgrown, lubberly boy, swelling with the importance of his position, and the possession of a gold watch and tail-coat, was diverting himself by teasing the girls and playing tricks on the younger lads. Young Iago suggested having some fun with Mark. Said he, "I will go and get Willie Hull and Mortimer, and we'll all hustle him, eh, Jack?"

"All right," said Jack; "he's a mean sneak, anyway. He thinks himself so smart. He's no business here. Edna sent him an invitation; I wouldn't."

The boys surrounded Mark and jeered him. "Where are your gloves?" inquired Iago, Junior, pointing to Mark's bare hands. The poor boy colored, for the other lads wore white kids, while he had none—an omission due, most likely, to his sister's ignorance of the requirements of fashionable society.

"Oh, what a pooty cravat! Look here, ain't that a pooty one? Don't you wish you had one like it? What lots of money it must have cost, eh?" cried Jack, in affected admiration, as he pulled the boy's rather gaudy neck-tie.

"Let me alone," said Mark, indignantly.

"Suppose I won't," continued Jack, "what are you going to do about it, limpey?"

Stung by this cruel taunt, Mark's eyes flashed, and on the instant he struck his insulter full in the face. Jack, for the moment, was bewildered by this sudden and unexpected attack, but soon recovering himself, rushed at Mark, threw him down, and fell on him. Over they rolled in their struggles, but Jack, being older and heavier, soon had the best of it, and kept the other under. The girls screamed, and Professor Banghoffen sprang from the grand piano to separate the combatants. This was no easy matter for a pursy man, and a kick in the stomach from the writhing legs caused him to recoil, pant, and consider. The colored domestic, however, soon came to his assistance, and between them they succeeded, after much puffing on the part of the professor and the fracture of his spectacles, in stopping the fight. The contestants were not much hurt, but stood glaring at each other with rumpled hair and flushed countenances. The children nearly all blamed Mark, but Edna, greatly to his surprise, took his part with much warmth. She had overheard the provocation, and now stood by him with a very indignant and determined air.

"I've a good mind to tell father, Jack, how you have behaved; I think it is real shameful. Mark is your guest, and it is very—very mean indeed, and real wicked to tease him as you did; and you ought to be thankful in your prayers that you are not lame as he is, and ought to pity him, and be kind to him, instead of teasing him so unkindly."

"You seem very fond of him all of a sudden," sneered Jack; "Guess he must be your beau. Better kiss him, hadn't you?"

At this sally the boys laughed, and Edna, covering her blushing face with her hands, burst into tears and went away sobbing. "You ought (sob) you ought (sob) ought to be ashamed. I'll (sob) I'll go (sob—sob—sob) and tell father (sob, etc.)."

Mark felt as if he could have pitched into Jack with increased vigor; but he refrained from any demonstration, and as this last incident broke up the party, went home with a spark in his bosom that was destined to kindle into a flame.

Mark arose early the next morning, and before going to school stopped to see Dr. Wattletop.

The doctor was still abed, for he had been up nearly all the previous night; nevertheless, he rose cheerfully at the call, broken rest having become a second nature to him, drew on a dressing-gown, and went into his consulting-room, where he found Mark waiting.

"Well, my lad, what is it?" inquired the doctor, who was unacquainted with his visitor.

"Doctor, I am lame, and I want you to cure me," said Mark.

"Lame, eh? How long have you been so, and what caused it?"

"Ever since I was a child. I was knocked down by a runaway horse and run over by a wagon. My ankle was broken, I believe."

"Hum—um. Take off your shoe and stocking. Lie down on that sofa, and let me look at your ankle."

Mark did as he was bid, and the doctor drew up a chair and sat down by him to examine the defective joint. The boy's black eyes were fixed with a searching gaze on the doctor's face, as if to read his thoughts, but there was nothing to be derived from the grave, sphinx-like countenance. The eager, inquisitive look of the lad, however, did not escape the physician's notice.

"What is your name, my boy?" inquired the doctor.

"Mark Gildersleeve, sir."

"Ah, you're Mr. Gildersleeve the iron-master's son, are you?"

"No, sir, his brother."

"His brother, eh! Who attended you when you received the injury?"

"Dr. Pokemore, sir."

"Dr. Pokemore, eh! He is your brother's family physician, is he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who sent you to me?"

"No one, sir. I came myself."

"Why did you not go to Dr. Pokemore?"

"Because he said I could not be cured."

The doctor after some reflection gave a doubtful nod, and said, "If anything can be done it will only be after a painful operation."

"I'll stand anything, doctor, if you will only cure me. You may cut me, or do anything you like, only make me walk like other boys."

The doctor took from a case of surgical instruments a bright bistoury, which he caused to glitter before the boy's eyes, as he felt its edge.

A plucky little fellow, thought the doctor, (struck by the unflinching look of determination in the boy's countenance,) and seems to be in earnest. "You say that you have been this way from infancy; why are you so anxious to be helped now?"

"Because—because—they worry me about it," replied Mark.

"Worry you—that's very unkind. Come, tell me all about it. I suspect there's a little history behind this, and you must make me your confidant."

Led on by the doctor's kind way, Mark exposed the wound his pride had received; related the story of his fight with Jack Heath (omitting, however, any mention of Edna's interference), and again begged the doctor to remove the impediment in his walk, asserting his willingness to submit to any operation, however painful, that might be deemed necessary to effect the object. Pleased with the boy's frankness and resolution, and desirous to help him, the doctor again examined the maimed ankle. A slow, fixed pursing of his lips expressed doubt, and the boy's countenance fell. There was a glimpse of hope, though, in the doctor's words, who told Mark that although he could not say anything encouraging now, he would talk the matter over with his (Mark's) brother, "And if he is willing, I will take you to New York with me, where we can consult the best skill, and if there be a probability of helping you, it shall be done."

A fine head, thought the doctor, passing his hand over Mark's broad forehead; there should be something there. "Stop a bit, Mark; what do you intend to be when you grow up, my boy?"

"I don't know, sir."

"What would you like to be, then?"

"I'd like," replied Mark, after some hesitation, "I think—I'd like to be a hero."

"A hero, eh! Come, that's modest and laudable. But what kind of a hero, pray?"

"Like—like Jack Sheppard."

"Jack Sheppard, umph! Why so?" said the doctor, rather surprised at this example and selection.

"Oh he was such a smart, brave fellow! They couldn't keep him in prison," replied Mark, wagging his head in admiration.

"But didn't he drive his poor mother crazy by his conduct, or something of that sort?" inquired the doctor. "That wasn't brave or smart, I take it, but rather mean and contemptible for a hero, wasn't it?"

"Yes, that was mean and bad," echoed Mark, reflectively; "I think I'd rather be a Crusader."

"Better, much better. But where did you hear of Jack Sheppard?"

"Jerry Cook lent me the book, and I am reading it."

"Fond of reading, Mark?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, tell me what you have read."

"I've read 'The Three Spaniards,' and 'Rinaldo Rinaldini,' 'Illustrious Highwaymen,' 'Three-fingered Jack,' and—"

"I see—I see. Now, my boy, as you are fond of reading, I'll lend you a book to read that's worth all the books that were ever written, except, perhaps, the plays of Shakespeare. It is called 'The Adventures of the Ingenious Knight, Don Quixote of La Mancha.' Now, after you have read it, I'll lend you the plays of William Shakespeare, and after you have read those, you will have read the very best product of human intellect in the way of fiction. I do not expect that you will understand those books fully; it may take you all your life to do that, but if you can get but an idea of their contents, or rather, acquire but a taste for them, it will be sufficient for the present."

Mark thanked the doctor, and trudged away, delighted, with the Don Quixote under his arm. This was the beginning of an intimacy, and close friendship between the two. As he had promised, Dr. Wattletop took the boy, with his brother's consent, to New York, and consulted the best chirurgical authority on his case; but, as the doctor had feared, without being able to obtain any encouragement as to the possibility of relieving him from the imperfection in his gait. Mark, for a time, was greatly disappointed at this result; but finally this feeling wore away, and grateful for all the kindness shown to him by the doctor, became attached to him, and was never more happy than when able to reciprocate with some slight service. The doctor's slender stock of literature was soon devoured by the boy, but as the books were choice, they bore re-reading and study. They consisted chiefly of poetry and a few standard novels. Histories there were none, the doctor in regard to these being of Walpole's opinion, "Lies, my boy, lies, mere records of men's prejudices and self-glorification. Sound, wholesome truth is found in a good poem or noble novel."

Thus did Mark imbibe his taste for the ideal, and thus was his mental growth fashioned by the eccentric physician. His moral training, too, was not overlooked by this teacher, but the code inculcated was a simple one, and merely this: "Be just. There is but one virtue—justice," asserted Dr. Wattletop; "men resort to makeshifts, such as generosity, or charity, but they are but confessions of their shortcomings in respect to justice. If men were not unjust, there would be no need of generosity, or charity, and forgiveness would be either uncalled for, or a crime."

There was doubtless a deal of the stoic in these teachings, but it was on such philosophy that Mark was nourished.

As for his boyish passion for Edna Heath, that grew apace, but accompanied with the bitter remembrance that the sympathy she had shown him was prompted simply by commiseration. He was made none the less unhappy also, by noticing that since the eventful party Edna was not as cordial as formerly, but inclined to be distant; for the little beauty thought, perhaps, that she had been too pointed in her sympathy and desired, like older maidens, to set matters aright by an excess of reserve in the future. Very soon after this, however, she was sent to a seminary at Burlington, and during an interval of several years made but short and infrequent visits home. In this way the intercourse between the two gradually became less familiar, until now, Edna having attained young lady-hood, it was formal, and restricted to what is called a bowing acquaintance. Mark finally imagined he detected an intention on her part to repel him, and met it by assuming an attitude of corresponding hauteur. Still, the secret passion burned within his breast with steady fervor. It was his greatest joy to see her, although he never did so without those bitter words recurring to him: You ought to be thankful you are not lame as he is, and ought to pity him. Each word a thorn pressed to the quick! Meaning to be kind, how cruel she had been! How much sharper those words had stung than the mean taunt of her brother! that he could forgive and forget, for it came from one he despised, but could he ever forgive or forget the wound inflicted by her expressions of pity? Nothing but a complete and voluntary retraction on her part could compensate for that, and he resolved to toil with energy, and patience—to strain nerve and brain—to undergo, and brave everything until he had achieved distinction enough to excite her admiration, and wonder that she could ever have deemed him an object of compassion. Ridiculous, self-tormenting resolutions these will appear to common sense; yet were they but the natural impulses of a proud, sensitive, and we may add rather conceited youth, full of the illusions of life, and pushing every sentiment to extremes.

V.

Now that the intelligent reader is better acquainted with our hero's history and aspirations, he will at once conceive that Mark was rather alarmed for more reasons than one at the possible consequences of his second altercation with John Peter Heath, as related in a previous chapter.

Dr. Wattletop had relieved his fears in relation to any serious injury's resulting to the brother; but, reflected Mark, what will the sister think of it, and how has the affair been represented to her? Most likely, I am held up as a ruffian, who brutally and causelessly assailed her brother. Shall I submit, and let the future explain, or had I better seek an interview, and set myself right? I must do it, and I'll do it at once, was his decision—a decision he arrived at the more readily, as it afforded him an excellent pretext to see and converse with the object of his secret and constant adoration. But, on consideration, fearing that such a step might be misinterpreted, he concluded reluctantly to address himself to her father, and offer a frank explanation of the occurrence. It required an effort to come to this decision, for Mark dreaded Mr. Heath's patronizing politeness, and invariably avoided meeting him. But he conquered his repugnance on reflecting that that gentleman was fortunate enough to be Edna's father, and, moreover, that there was a likelihood of meeting and conversing with that young lady in compensation. In view of the latter probability, he prepared himself by making a more than usual neat and careful toilet, and by the time he was ready to start, his thoughts were far more occupied with Miss Edna's eyes, than with her brother's broken head. Off he started for the "Cliff," but soon his courage failed him, as he imagined the reception he was likely to meet with. Twice or thrice he stopped, hesitated, and only continued after much cogitation. Resolutely he walked past the gate-lodge, and up the avenue that led to the house. He rang the bell with a thumping heart. It was the first time he had crossed that threshold since he had been to Jack Heath's birthday party, and he remembered the colored servant who now ushered him into a reception room, as the same one—with a gray poll now, however—who had assisted the pianist in stopping the fight on that memorable occasion. Mark sent his name up to Mr. Heath, with the wish to be allowed a few moments' conversation with him. That gentleman, evidently, was in no haste to see his visitor, for he kept him waiting a long time. Meanwhile, Mark amused himself by staring at the pictures on the wall, and looking over some books that lay on the pier-table, when he heard light tripping footsteps coming towards him, and, turning suddenly, beheld Edna standing in the doorway in a startled attitude—a charming picture of a surprised maiden, lithe figure poised forward, with slightly parted lips, and fine, large eyes opened in full wonder. "Oh, I beg pardon—excuse me, I thought it was father;" and advancing, she added in a frank, pleasant way, "Why, this is Mark Gildersleeve."

All the blood in Mark's body rushed to his face as he bowed and explained, rather awkwardly, that he had called to see her father.

"I'll go and call him," said Edna; but as she was about leaving the room, Mark arrested her with an eager exclamation, "Stay, Miss Heath; do not leave yet, I beseech you. One moment—I beg of you—Pray tell me, is your brother severely hurt?"

"Not seriously so. He slept quite soundly last night. He very fortunately escaped any great harm. His horse ran away with him—upset the wagon he was riding in, and he fell—"

"I know it all, Miss Heath. It was my fault."

"Your fault," repeated Edna with surprise.

"My fault, I regret to say. But please forgive me. I came to explain and apologize. Your brother provoked me, and I was carried away by anger. Had the consequences been serious, I should never have forgiven myself. I am sorry—very sorry, Miss Heath. You were so kind as to take my part on a former occasion, when we were children. I have never forgotten it. (Edna colored at the reminder.) Please do so again. I know you are too just and too kind to blame me, if you knew all the circumstances."

Edna, who knew nothing of Mark's share in the misadventure, was much mystified by his appeal, and rather confused by his demeanor; for emboldened by the opportunity, the young man had advanced towards her in a supplicatory attitude, while his gaze expressed far more of admiration than contrition. She stood with a light blush tinting her features, not knowing how to receive so demonstrative an address, when, fortunately, the appearance of her father permitted her to withdraw, and caused her admirer suddenly to subdue his rather dramatic manner.

"This is—Mr. George Gildersleeve's brother, if I am not mistaken," quoth Mr. Heath with, easy condescension, and extending a finger to Mark.

"Yes, sir," replied the young man. "I came to inquire about your son, feeling it my duty to do so."

"Better this morning—much better, in fact."

"So I was glad to learn from Miss Heath. It is but proper that I should tell you, sir, that I was unfortunately the cause of the accident," said Mark.

"Indeed—indeed," said Mr. Heath loftily, "I wasn't aware."

This was a fib, for he knew all about the affair, and that his son had been the aggressor.

"I came," continued Mark, "to offer any explanation that might be required, or to do anything in my power to—"

"None is needed, sir; none is needed. The matter is fortunately of no consequence," interrupted Mr. Heath, who was not desirous of discussing the unpleasant event, for he was vexed and somewhat ashamed at this fresh exhibition of his son's misconduct. "I am obliged to you for calling, and can safely say, that my son has no grave injury whatever—none whatever."

Mr. Heath had not asked his visitor to be seated, and as he paused in a significant way after every sentence he uttered, Mark took the hint and his departure.

Seldom had Mark been so happy as after this visit. The effect of the frigid, almost discourteous reception given him by the father, was completely effaced by his short but delightful interview with the daughter. To be near her, and to converse with her, was compensation enough for any annoyance. Moreover, he had discovered to his joy, that while he had fancied himself almost forgotten and unthought of, she had on the contrary recognized him as an old friend, and even remembered the occasion, long since passed, when she had assumed with childish frankness the part of his ally and defender. The bitter side of that incident faded away for the moment, and his happiness was unalloyed. He cared little for the opinion of father or brother. Marriage with Miss Heath had not yet entered the scope of his aspirations. His aim was to acquire her close friendship, and above all her esteem and admiration. For this he resolved to live and strive. A modest ambition truly, but might not friendship, esteem, and admiration blossom into love? And to that complexion also, were not Edna's feelings, insensibly perhaps, tending? For it was not from any sense of displeasure that she withdrew so summarily from Mark's presence; on the contrary, she carried away a very agreeable impression of him; so much so, that his pleading face involuntarily presented itself to her repeatedly during the day. "I never before noticed," thought she, "how much better looking Mark Gildersleeve has grown to be. He certainly has beautiful eyes—so very expressive, and such pleasing manners, and there is something so gentlemanly and refined about him too." Evidently, the hoodwinked archer-boy had sped a shaft in her direction.

Mark, certainly, had made the most of his opportunity. Casting aside all his usual reserve, he had thrown as much eloquence and magnetism as he could, in a pair of black eyes that proved to be not ineffective. At least the ice was broken. But after the first moment of elation had passed, came the disturbing idea of the obstacles he might have to encounter in the way of future success. As has been mentioned, he only desired such as he might win through personal distinction. Doubtless there was a large share of vanity in this determination; but vanity was the weak side of the Gildersleeves, half-redeemed, though, in Mark, as it never manifested itself in any offensive way. In social standing, he was not considered the equal of Miss Heath; for in our republic, gradations in society are as sharply defined as elsewhere, with the difference that with us wealth more frequently draws the line. Mark understood this, but such was his contempt for mere money-getting, that the enthusiastic youth, would even have preferred to resign any attempt to gain Miss Heath's favor, if to accomplish it the acquisition of wealth were necessary. His estimate of the young lady's character, however, was too high to admit for a moment of the supposition that she could in any way be influenced by mercenary motives. No money could buy what he aspired to possess—to wit, her admiration. Fame alone could win that; and were this the age of chivalry, how eagerly would he don casque, mount the barbed steed, and tilt his way to death or distinction! But in this prosaic age few paths are open to ambitious youth. He was a draughtsman—an engineer. Howsoever eminent one might become in that profession, it still remained a commonplace one. He did not think Edna had any especial admiration for Brunel, or Stephenson, or even Watt. In his calling genius itself could hardly efface the stains of labor, and obtain the consideration accorded to mediocrity in the genteel professions. In medicine, or law, one might with far more facility attain celebrity; but he had no taste for those vocations. He had dabbled with paint, and executed some very indifferent daubs, until in disgust he had thrown away the palette and brush. Then the versatile youth had coquetted with Euterpe, and practised on every instrument, from the harmonica to the organ. In vocal music he was more successful; but poesy, the art of all arts, was the one he longed to cultivate and excel in. He loved the poets, and believed himself animated with a spark of their celestial fire. If genius were patience, why might one not become by constant effort, if not a Shakespeare, say a Keats, or a Tennyson? Phrenologists taught that every faculty could be modified, and its power increased by exercise. Knatchbull, a foreman in the Works, who had been a Chartist in his own country, and possessed a remarkable head, told him that he had succeeded, under the advice of a phrenologist, in so changing his character that plaster casts of his cranium taken at different periods showed corresponding modifications in the prominences. This practical example of what persistence might do was encouraging; and so Mark, stung by some stray bee from Mount Hymettus, wrote quires of plain verses, which he thought very fine and destined to stir the world of letters, but which were simply transpositions of ideas and similes of the master poets with which his mind was saturated.

Could poets have been made other than by the hand of Nature, Mark would certainly have become one, for he strove with an indefatigable ardor that nothing could dampen to succeed; but the divine afflatus so charily bestowed was lacking, and he thrummed the lyre without evoking strains immortal. What phrenzy and foolscap were wasted—what moonlight walks indulged in, and sylvan groves haunted, to meditate and seek inspiration! How often he sauntered around the margin of the Passaic, watching the leap of the cataract and rise of its snowy mist, as its low thunder lulled him into delicious day dreams. Far into the night would he linger reclining against the bole of some tree, gazing with straining eyes towards Mr. Heath's villa, whose gray walls loomed in the moonlight like a feudal castle, to catch, perhaps, a glimpse of a shadow that might appear occasionally behind the curtains of a lighted room that he knew to be Edna's. Often had the faint sound of music or mirth, that reached him from the open drawing-room windows, filled him with envy and jealousy, as he thought of the Rev. Spencer Abbott and young Mumbie, who were constant visitors at the villa. Then, dismally homeward would he wend his way, go to his room, and spend the silent watches of the night racking his brains to commit his thoughts to paper. Quires, nay reams, were covered with superfine tropes and metaphors, as he strove to coin words that the world would not willingly let die. He ventured to show his lucubrations to Dr. Wattletop, but the reception they met with was neither flattering nor even encouraging. "My dear boy, drop all this," was the advice given. "Not only are you wasting precious time, but your taste and mind are becoming vitiated by the namby-pamby trash of modern rhymesters. If you must plagiarize, do it from Pope, or Milton, or Gray. Study them, or the master Shakespeare. Remember, as Coleridge said, poetry must be either music or sense, and I cannot say there is much of either in your verses. Get at the kernel. But after all, the study for a poetically inclined youth is medicine, singular as that may seem to you. If the desire be to awaken sublime ideas, investigate the abstruse problem of life. Follow the noblest calling, the art of healing, and seek to penetrate the arcana of Nature. I wish I could induce you to become one of us. Our profession greatly needs ardent and intelligent recruits, else we shall be overrun with quacks in every shape. Look at the frightful progress of that modern humbug, homoeopathy. There is no error, however absurd, but will find supporters and disciples, and nowhere can there be a nobler field for the exercise of the highest talent than in combating and routing those egregious and pernicious pretenders to science, who, with the absurd brocard, that 'like cures like,' impose on the simple and gullible. Now I am anything but illiberal—if anything, I err on the opposite side. Whatever my convictions may be, I am willing to give a patient hearing and investigation to any theory or system bearing a show of probability, that is advanced in a truthful, earnest, and humble spirit. I do not forget that alchemy was the mother of chemistry, and astrology of astronomy; that Harvey met with bigoted opposition, and in short that it becomes the seeker to be humble; but when I see a fellow like this Keene here—this hatchet-faced Yankee from Connecticut, who probably a year ago was peddling wooden clocks, going around Belton with his ridiculous pellets, and presuming to be a physician, I am provoked beyond endurance, and feel sometimes as if I could give the fellow a horse-whipping. Well, well, the fools are not all dead yet."

"I hope, doctor, you don't class me among them," said crestfallen Mark, with a feeble smile.

"No—no—my dear boy," replied the doctor, patting his protégé affectionately on the shoulder. "Not by any means. I was merely alluding to the facility with which the generous public is gulled. As for you, Mark, I think there is the stuff in you for something, if not for a bard. I dislike to see you chasing jack-o'-lanterns. Think of it; there are but a certain quantity of poetic ideas, and they have all been thought out and put into English words long ago. Fresh attempts result only in tricking them out in fantastic dresses, and with poor effect. Modern critics may sneer at the old favorites, but what have your rhymesters of to-day produced equal to the 'Universal Prayer,' 'Gray's Elegy,' or 'The Deserted Village'? No, no, lad; love the old poets, from Homer down, but don't attempt to soar with them to the empyrean. Stay with us on terra firma; invent a new cut-off, or condenser, and let anapest, dactyl, and trochee alone."

This advice was not relished by Mark, and like most distasteful advice, was not followed; if anything, it proved a spur to his literary exertions. Occasionally his effusions found their way into print, and shone in the Literary column of the Belton Sentinel, accompanied by a notice from the editor, who alluded to the talent of his young fellow-townsman in terms of unmeasured praise. Said that influential sheet on the appearance of The Broken Abacus:

"In spite of a press of matter, we determined to make room, in our issue of to-day, for another poem from the pen of our gifted young poet, Mark Gildersleeve, which will be found on the third page. The favor with which the 'Withered Chaplet' and 'The Spear of Ithuriel' were received, encourage us to print the present verses. They are hexameters, and remind us in their flowing rhythm of the earlier efforts of Longfellow, while in gorgeousness of imagery and luxuriance of diction, they equal some of the finest passages in Keats. Altogether, we congratulate Mr. Gildersleeve on this exquisite production, whose symmetry and polished beauty can only be fitly compared to a capital of Pentelican marble from the chisel of Phidias."

Dr. Wattletop, though, said "Bosh" to this, when he read it, and it could not be denied that he was a competent critic. He, also, had trod the primrose path of literature in leisure moments, not as a poet, but as an occasional contributor of essays to magazines and reviews. There was a literary club in Belton, composed of young men who loved to indulge in debates and other intellectual gymnastics. Mark, as might be supposed, was an active member, and, indeed, at one time president of this association. Besides deciding the momentous topics of "Whether men of thought, or men of action, have done the most for civilization," or "Whether the execution of Mary Queen of Scots was justifiable or not," and other questions of similar perplexity, the society gave lectures, or rather lectures were given, to quote the posters, under their auspices, during the winter months. At their solicitation, Dr. Wattletop was induced to prepare and deliver a lecture on "Eccentricity," a theme which he was well qualified, at least from experience, to treat of. He diversified it with many humorous anecdotes of Porson and Abernethy, and it met with much applause, and elicited very flattering encomiums from the Belton Sentinel. So successful, indeed, was it, that efforts were made to have the doctor repeat it in neighboring towns, but he excused himself on the plea of want of time. Then proffers of money were made to induce him to comply; this only served to incense him, and an indignant refusal was the result. He was inclined to blame Mark a little in his displeasure.

"Mark, you rascal, all this is your fault. I never would have given that confounded lecture but for you. It ill becomes a man of my years and profession to waste the time he owes to his patients, in relating stale jests to a grinning audience. I don't know what I could have been thinking of. In future, spin your nonsense as much as you like, my boy, but don't ask me to join you—at my age, too! My remnant of life is too short, and time has become too precious to me, to be squandered in that way."

As well in that way, and better than in another he was prone to; and unfortunately, he was getting rather too much on his hands, just then, of the article he deemed so precious. For Keene, the hatchet-faced homoeopath, had relieved the doctor of a vast deal of practice, and left him with overmuch unemployed time on his hands. Dr. Wattletop explained the increasing popularity of the heterodox practitioner in this wise: "The infernal quack seduces the children with his sugar-plums, and the mothers are silly enough to yield to their preferences; once introduced in the family, of course it is pleasanter, if one needs physic, to appease the conscience with a make-believe medicine than to take a bitter though wholesome remedy. How are you to meet this folly and weakness? Between these sugar-plums, and water-drenching, and clairvoyant cures, the profession, I say, is going to the devil—yes, sir, going to the devil! Come, Dagon, let's be off, old boy;" and with his dog jogging beside him he would betake himself to a walk, which, after a circuit of a mile or so, invariably terminated not to the infernal regions, as one would naturally infer, but to what the Belton "Band of Hope" would have designated as half way to it, viz.: "The Shades." This was a little tavern at the far end of the town, kept by an Englishman, and frequented solely by "old-country" people (of whom there were many among the mill-hands), who resorted thither to indulge in Welsh rarebits and old ale. You ascended a few steps, pushed open a swing-door, and found yourself facing a little bar attached to a small quiet room with a sanded floor. There were wire screens in the windows on the street, and the walls were ornamented with fine engravings of the All England Eleven, the Cambridgeshire Hunt, and portraits of Nelson, Wellington, and Queen Victoria. The host was a "Brummagem" man, suspected, from his blunted nose, of having been a pugilist, but as he was a surly man of uncommunicative disposition, the suspicion had never been verified. There were a half-dozen tables in the room, and at a particular one in a corner Dr. Wattletop took his place, and Dagon his (beneath the table), with undeviating method, about three days in the week, unless prevented by professional duties. Mutely, then, the blunt-nosed man brought a beaker of gin and sugar, and the Albion, or Illustrated London News to the doctor, who in silence consumed the gin and perused the paper, his interest in the latter centring in the "Gazette," whose announcement that Major Pipeclay was promoted, vice Colonel Sabretasche retired, or that the ——th Foot were ordered to Bermuda, or that some old chum had gone to his long home, recalled recollections of by-gone days, and furnished food for reflection. After the third beaker he laid aside the paper, and was now become intensely grave and imposing, sitting bolt upright with his cane between his knees, and gazing in a very uncompromising way into vacancy. The scot settled without exchanging a word, the doctor buttoned his coat tightly, grasped his cane firmly, and sternly began his return homeward. His way led the length of Main Street, and seldom was any one bold enough to accost him then.

Once, at such a time, Mr. Mumbie crossed his path (it was shortly after the delivery of the doctor's lecture on Eccentricity), and ventured to greet him with a smile and extended hand: "Good-day, doctor."

"Sir to you," replied the doctor, halting in a military attitude.

"Fine afternoon, doctor."

"Very fine indeed, sir. Ha! very fine."

"Doctor, you'd hardly believe it, but to-day is my birthday," said Mr. Mumbie, assuming a triumphant air as if he were imparting a surprising piece of news.

"I see no reason to doubt it," replied the doctor, curtly.

"Yes, sir, that is so," rejoined Mr. Mumbie with decision; "I'm a much older man, let me tell you, than you take me for."

Dr. Wattletop looked as if he were prepared to take Mr. Mumbie for any age whatever, for that gentleman presented what might be styled an anachronistic appearance. He was a large man, offering at first view a protuberant expanse of waistcoat, supported by somewhat unstable legs. His head was an oblong one, covered with a curly glossy brown wig, that contrasted singularly with thick gray eyebrows, and dyed whiskers on flabby cheeks flanked by two large ears.

"Yes, sir," repeated Mr. Mumbie, "I'm a much older man than you take me for. You know Mrs. Mumbie is much my junior, and that I never made up my mind to marry until late in life—that accounts for it."

"Accounts for what?" inquired the doctor, beginning to be bored.

"Accounts for the—the discrepancy I spoke of. Now, here's a knife," and Mr. Mumbie drew from his pocket a jack-knife, the bone-handle of which was yellow with age, "here's a knife that I have carried about with me since I was a boy. It was given to me as a birthday present. Just notice the date I scratched on the handle—Nov. 16th, 1814. Just think of that. I've carried it for going on fifty years—yes, sir, fifty years. I doubt if there's many men, or in fact any man, can say as much; and what changes have taken place since then! But I'm a man of strong local attachments. I had an umbrella, doctor, when I was first married that I had used steadily for twenty-six years—think of that! I suppose I would have had it yet, but Mrs. Mumbie, unfortunately, was prejudiced against that umbrella, and one day it disappeared. I never saw it again." This was said solemnly, and Mr. Mumbie looked as if he were about to pay the tribute of a tear to the manes of the departed umbrella.

The doctor's patience becoming weary, he was about to turn on his heel to leave, when Mr. Mumbie resumed:

"Doctor, I ought to thank you for the pleasure you afforded me the other evening. I haven't had such a treat in a long time. 'Pears to me you might make lots o' money going about delivering that lecture. It was capital. You did get off some of the funniest anecdotes I ever heard, and I assure you I was really very much entertained."

"Entertained, sir! Dammit, sir, do you take me for a mountebank?" exclaimed the doctor, swelling with rising indignation.

It required very many apologies and explanations on Mr. Mumbie's part to allay the ire of the physician, who continued, after parting with his interlocutor, to mutter to himself as he went along: "Entertained him! Am I, Basil Wattletop, a buffoon? Does he attempt to patronize me? The insolence of these Yankee upstarts is really something perfectly amazing! It's almost beyond belief." Unfortunately, his dignity that day was destined to be subjected to further ruffling, for as he neared the Archimedes Works he caught sight of the proprietor thereof, who was lounging as usual on the door-step of his "office," with his hands in his pockets. No man, we will venture to say, that kept his hands as often pocketed, ever earned so much money as George Gildersleeve; but if his hands were idle, his eyes were busy and everywhere. A more vigilant pair of optics never lodged in a human head. "Now, that fellow," soliloquized the doctor, alluding to George, "has sense enough to know that he springs from the lees. He don't attempt to ape his betters or to patronize them, and his rudeness and ignorance are far less offensive than the insufferable pretensions of that snob Mumbie—um—um."

"Hold up, Major," broke in George, hailing the doctor stentoriously. "Step over here a moment. Foreman of my finishing-shop split his thumb to-day in a lathe, and I want you to look at it."

The doctor was in doubts whether to respond to an appeal so unceremoniously conveyed. He decided, however, after a short debate with himself, to cross over to the counting-room and examine the injured man. The hurt being dressed and pronounced but a slight affair, he was about to leave when George Gildersleeve must needs engage him in a discussion, which gradually drifted into the delicate subject of the comparative merits of Englishmen and Americans. At this time there were sputterings in Congress, and in the newspapers, in regard to a fresh "outrage" perpetrated by the navy of Great Britain on our flag, and the general expression was that we were not "going to stand it."

George for his part certainly was not, and said so plainly: "Look here, Major, do you see that?" (pointing to an old horse-shoe nailed over the fire-place.) "Right here was my grandfather's forge, and right about here's where he shod Gineral Washington's horse just awhile afore he fought the great battle of Trenton, and that's one of the cast-off shoes, and I wouldn't take a thousand dollars for it. Well, sir, the man that rode that horse that my grandfather shod, flaxed you Englishmen out of your boots; and I tell you we've plenty more that can do it now, and they'll do it again, if you Johnny Bulls don't behave yourselves; now mind."

Dr. Wattletop, being in that condition when he was excessively patriotic, prejudiced, and punctilious, was so utterly dumbfounded by this tirade, that for a moment apoplexy was imminent. Luckily, contempt supervened, and with a smile of scorn and withering irony, he repeated, "Washington—Trenton—great battle of Trenton, I believe you said? Do you seriously call that a battle? Why, my man, do you know what a battle is? At the so-called battle of Trenton the total loss, according to your historians, and their statements are evidently grossly exaggerated—the total loss in killed on both sides amounted to five-and-twenty, including a drummer, who received a black eye in the shindy; five-and-twenty killed! all told—all told!"

George Gildersleeve shook his head incredulously at this statement, and the doctor continued: "Now, if you will take the trouble to instruct yourself a bit, you will find out what Englishmen can do. Read, for instance, an account of the battle of Waterloo. Talk of Homeric heroes! What's Achilles and the well-greaved Greeks to the Iron Duke and the Guards?—what's Ajax Telamon to Shaw the Life-guardsman? tell me that—tell me that?" Shaw the Life-guardsman was the doctor's favorite hero, and he never failed, when the occasion offered, to bring him in as the compeer of all the paladins of old, from Hector to Roland.

"Ah! there was fighting such as the world ne'er saw before," continued the doctor, kindling with enthusiasm. "Not the famous Macedonian phalanx nor the Roman legion held their ground so stoutly as the squares of British linesmen when the steel-clad squadrons of cuirassiers broke against them in vain."

"That was all very well when you fought them Frenchmen and Greeks. But when you tackled us, you found a different sort of people to deal with, I reckon. Old Put, and Jackson, and Gineral Scott, were too much for you, old man," returned George, with a shake of the head that ought to have settled matters.

Dr. Wattletop's nose glowed with a fiercer heat, and if looks could have scorched a man, Gildersleeve would have shrivelled on the spot; but the chances are that even the glances of that pleasant dame Medusa would have fallen harmless on the pachydermatous master of the Archimedes Works.

"Why, confound it, man, you talk like an ass. Should her Gracious Majesty, the Queen of England, ever deign to notice the vaporings of your politicians, and take it into her head to resent them, she'd send the Channel fleet over here and knock your blasted country into flinders in no time, and dammit, I wish she would!" and with that volley the doctor turned on his heel, and left abruptly, to work off his choler by an additional tramp of a mile or two.

"How are you to convince a pig-headed, obstinate man like that?" said George, turning to his book-keeper. "He's so prejudiced that he won't listen to reason, and must have his own way."

VI.

While all the efforts of man, long-repeated, to change the baser metals into gold have proved futile, it is no less certain that gold, in revenge, has been successful in transmuting man. The power of its moral alchemy is seen in individuals like Rufus Heath. Poor, he would have remained a fawning toady, but wealth transformed him into a haughty, arrogant aristocrat at heart. No Somerset or Rohan was ever more so. Starting in life without other capital than a moderate education, tact, and industry, his first aim was to acquire wealth. His tastes were luxurious and refined, and to gratify them wealth was necessary. So to succeed he was plastic and serviceable to his employers, and assiduous in courting useful friends. A good name is a great stepping-stone, and to secure this he was correct and respectable in his conduct and demeanor. "Correctness," in fact, was his religion and code of morality. Of course, right and wrong were relative terms, and it was not to be expected that any one should live up to the exact letter of the law. A margin was allowable.

Nevertheless, decorum and all outward observances were due to society, and indispensable. Acting on this principle, there was no more popular and respected young man at twenty-one, in Belton, than Rufus Heath, nor one with brighter prospects. Counsellor Hull, his patron, declared that the young lawyer promised to be an ornament to the profession; and when the Counsellor was called to the bench, Rufus Heath succeeded to his practice. Exempt from gross vices, and gifted with an elastic conscience, the thriving lawyer successfully pursued his calling, until his marriage with Miss Obershaw crowned his pecuniary prosperity. Now the influence of riches made itself manifest, and it almost seemed as if the precious metals had been injected into his veins. He stiffened, became cold and imperturbable, laid aside his urbanity, and his ill-concealed pride and contempt for the less prosperous betrayed itself. And now that he had tasted all the joys that affluence can give, and tasted them unto satiety, he craved the flattering unction of distinction. Ambition was now his god. He was a politician, but a successful one only so far as he had been assisted by his wealth and family connections. He owed it to these powerful auxiliaries that he had spent a term in Congress. But he had gained no prominence there. He lacked oratorical ability, and without it, it is scarcely possible to attain eminence in a republic. His daintiness, moreover, caused him to recoil from contact with the masses, and though he strove to overcome this repugnance when the occasion called for it, he had never entirely succeeded. Perseverance, intrigue, and a lavish expenditure of money, were the means he relied on to ascend the first steps of political preferment. Once fairly launched as a public man, he doubted not his ability to make his way and mark as a statesman or a diplomat. To become Governor of his State was his present aim, and he had laid his plans to secure the nomination from his party as a candidate at the next election. To this end a host of emissaries, with money at command, were at work throughout the State. The Belton Sentinel, the organ in the county of Mr. Heath's party, advocated his interest with tremendous energy, persistency, and abundance of adjectives. Finnegass, the editor, was a poor printer, whose shop, presses, types, and all were mortgaged to Rufus Heath. This well-known fact furnished an unfailing quantity of sarcasm to the Passaic County Argus, the opposition sheet, that invariably alluded to Finnegass as the "minion" or "serf," either "pampered" or "truckling," of the "aristocrat on the cliff." These amenities were treated by the editor of the Sentinel with complete indifference, until once (stung into retorting by some particularly sharp gibe) he referred to the Argus as an "obscure sheet of no circulation, edited by a low, ignorant felon." Obscurity and "no circulation" were accusations too atrocious to be borne, and the editor of the Argus flung them back, with indignation, in the teeth of his defamer. This brought out sworn statements of copies issued by the two presses, and much evidence on both sides was published; for the rival editors were ready to go to any lengths to exculpate their respective papers from so heinous a charge as obscurity or want of "circulation." As for the personalities, they were treated as mild banter, tending to enliven the canvass, and stimulate partisans.

At this time, to quote the after-words of the Belton Sentinel, "the horizon of political affairs was darkening, and the clouds that confined the storm destined to shake the fabric of our Union to its foundation, were gathering ominously." The different parties were in a ferment. The Whigs no longer existed—they had given way to an organization originated by the Free-Soilers, and styling themselves Republicans. There were, however, a large number of old Whigs wedded to their prejudices, with a distaste for affiliation with the Democrats and a greater repugnance to a party tainted in any degree with Abolitionism, who looked upon the new movement as an ephemeral ebullition. These individuals, calling themselves "Conservatives," imagined that it required but an effort on their part to still the waters of political strife, and decided to constitute themselves "bulwarks," and "arks of safety." Among these was the Hon. Rufus Heath. Like all men of his stamp, he was utterly opposed to any disturbance of the established order of things. He was perfectly well satisfied with them as they were. As for radicals or reformers, he hated their very name. Such people sprang from the vulgar herd, and were only bent on mischief. His ideal of a proper government was a constitutional monarchy supported by an oligarchy of wealth, and to this form he believed the republic was gradually tending. He was not unobservant of the increasing prestige of birth. Position in the army, navy, or state was gradually tending to perpetuate itself in certain families. The bearers of historic names wielded a certain influence, which increased with time, and would eventually and under certain circumstances crystallize into decided power. Here were the germs of an oligarchy, which needed but a law of entail to perfect itself and institute a class of hereditary legislators, or house of peers—the bulwark indispensable against the agrarianism inherent in a democratic form of government.

In order to exchange views on the condition of the body-politic, and devise means to combat the evil influences then prevailing (to say nothing of advancing his own personal plans), Mr. Heath took advantage of the presence in the vicinity of a statesman who had occupied a very exalted position in the commonwealth, to ask him to meet at dinner sundry other influential and distinguished citizens, and confer on the important subjects in question.

The preliminary step was to send for Mr. Mumbie. Mr. Heath had an imperial way of summoning people to him, and his mandates were generally obeyed with alacrity—always so when addressed to his good old neighbor and toady, Mumbie; who, although suffering from an attack of rheumatic gout, hobbled as quickly as his swollen feet would permit him, in prompt response to the call.

"Mumbie," said Mr. Heath, "I suppose you have heard that there is a great deal of talk about my running for Governor at the next election?"

Mr. Mumbie had not heard of it, nor had any one else; but he looked and nodded as if it were a familiar and constant topic of conversation with everybody.

"Well, I have not yet made up my mind whether I will consent to run or not. However, that is neither here nor there at present, nor what I wanted to see and talk with you about. Senator Rangle is your brother's wife's cousin, I believe, and you are on a familiar footing with him, are you not?"

"Yes, sir," said Mumbie, listening attentively.

"So I thought. Now Rangle and I are not on the very best of terms. He accuses me, I believe, of having used my influence against him in the Legislature, when he sought a renomination—said I wanted the place myself, and so forth. He is mistaken in that. However, I am willing to pass it over, as this is a time when personal feeling should not interfere to prevent men from acting in accord on vital questions of state. Here is the point. I have asked ex-President —— to meet Judge Hull at dinner Thursday week. Several other prominent gentlemen will be present, and matters of importance may be discussed. Now, Mumbie, you can assist me in this way: call on Rangle, state to him that as my friend you regret that there should be any divergence of opinion between us; that from your personal knowledge I have never held any but the highest opinion of him; and so on. You might then introduce the subject of the proposed dinner, and state that you know that I would be pleased to have him make one of the company. On your report, if everything is satisfactory, I can forward him a formal invitation. Now, my dear Mumbie, you will help me in this little matter, and I can rely on your discretion, I know."

"Certainly, Mr. Heath, certainly. I shall be delighted to undertake the job;" and Mr. Mumbie hastened off, big with the importance of his mission, and happy as if he had received an order for ten thousand reams of foolscap, paid for in advance. His task was an easy one. The senator was flattered by Mr. Heath's advances, and in no way averse to partake of his dinners, whose celebrity had reached him; moreover, in no way disinclined to forego the opportunity of meeting ex-President ——, whose political star seemed to glimmer forth again in the ascendant.

It is almost superfluous to mention, that the dinner was all that could be expected, for whatever Mr. Heath's other qualities may have been, good taste he unquestionably possessed, and in the important matter of dinner-giving he was behind no one. And when it is considered how important a part that art has displayed in diplomacy, it could not be denied that his aspirations to shine in that career were not by any means presumptuous. An opinion, it is safe to say, that would have been heartily indorsed by all who were fortunate enough to partake of the memorable repast. Perhaps a little less starched ceremony on the part of the host would not have been amiss; still, that was more than compensated by the quality of the menu. As usual on such extraordinary occasions, an eminent chef from the metropolis directed the culinary operations, and many bottles of old South Side Madeira and choice Hermitage, that had lain for years in dusty racks, were brought to light, and decanted for the delectation of appreciative palates; such a palate, for instance, as a Chief Justice of great legal acumen and good digestion, or a portly ex-Federal dignitary possesses, or even that of a dainty young High-Church ecclesiastic full of zeal and sentiment, like Spencer Abbott. What a fine dinner it was, to be sure! Rather formal and cold, it is true, in the drawing-rooms as the host was receiving his guests. Mrs. Applegate was flushed and fidgety amid such illustrious visitors, and Mr. Mumbie was ill at ease in his capacious white waistcoat, tight gloves, and freshly dyed whiskers. Such grand company impressed him immensely, and for fear of lapsus linguæ, he restricted himself to monosyllabic replies. The Chief Justice, being hungry, was somewhat surly until dinner was announced, when he ponderously and feebly toddled into the dining-room in advance of the other guests, and regardless of Mr. Heath's intention to have him lead Mrs. Applegate in. This duty therefore devolved on the ex-Federal dignitary, who did it with much courtly grace. How well the host presided, and how elegant he appeared! His stately white neck-tie and glossy gray locks were arranged with a precision that was mathematical, and with his small elegant white hands he looked as if he were descended from a long line of partridge-fed ancestors. A worthy pendant, indeed, to the ex-Federal dignitary, whose proudest boast was that he had been complimented by a queen as the most elegant American gentleman she had ever seen. What a contrast the two presented to Judge Hull, with his fell of white hair streaming over his massive head and bent shoulders, his beetling sable brows shading a pair of cavernous eyes, and who always looked as if he were on the bench administering inexorable justice. He certainly did to the dinner, and it was with difficulty that he could be drawn out by the host, and made to enlighten the company with bits of prodigious wisdom. Finnegass, the editor of the Sentinel, who occupied a seat at the farther end of the table, and expected to gather material for a brilliant leader from the table-talk of the assembled sages, was greatly disappointed at the commonplace style of the conversation.

"Heath, this soup's not so bad," quoth the Judge during a short breathing spell; "I'll take another plateful. What do you call it? Potage à la Reine. Ha—queen-pottage, eh? Well-named, verily. A man might well sell his birthright for a mess of such, and not be a fool either."

"Touching the late proceedings in Congress, Judge," edged in Mr. Heath, "you cannot have failed to notice how the breach is gradually widening. There seems to be a disposition on the part of certain members to push matters to extremes, and bring about a rupture at any cost. Don't you think, that an expression of opinion—a decided expression on the part of the higher classes—the respectable and influential part of the community, would go far to—to—"

"This can be arranged and must be," replied the Judge, addressing his plate dogmatically. "The hot-heads of both parties must be made to listen to reason, and the conservative element of the country should at once take the reins. By the bye, this white Burgundy is the same I've tasted here before, is it not? Yquem, you said? A good wine—a very good wine. The field has been left entirely too much to the fanatics of the East and the fire-eaters of the South, and to stop the current of demagogism which threatens to overwhelm us, we need the best efforts of sound sagacious statesmen like our friend here."

The friend referred to by the Judge's fork was the ex-Federal dignitary, who bowed an acknowledgment of the flattering allusion, and with a little deprecatory wave of the hand replied, "No doubt—no doubt, Judge, you are quite right. All that is necessary is to bring the best men of the country together to concerted action, and the matter can be settled without any difficulty. But if we hold aloof—if the great legal lights, such gentlemen as yourself or our friend Mr. Heath; or the heads of finance, as represented by our friend on my left, Mr. Bawbee; or the masterminds of the manufacturing and industrial interests, such as our friend Mr. Mumbie; in short, if the intellect and wealth and respectability of the nation do not interfere, and continue to permit men like Sumner and Seward to persist in their incendiary leadership, we may—I say it without hesitation and with great regret—we may expect any catastrophe."

Mr. Mumbie, who had been listening with awe and attention to the words of the great men in whose presence he was, reddened with modest confusion on being designated as a master-mind. He had never taken exactly that view of himself, but on reflection, concluded it to be an eminently fit and proper one, and felt that the world had much to answer for in having so greatly underrated him hitherto. "I quite agree with you. I do indeed, sir. Your remarks are very correct, sir; very correct indeed, I assure you, sir," spoke he, feeling that he ought to say something to keep up his reputation of a master-mind.

Finnegass, the editor, emboldened by generous wine, ventured to remark: "In my article in last Monday's Sentinel, I alluded to this very subject, and put it in rather forcible terms to the—" But he was cut short by the Judge, who, being at leisure between courses, resumed his harangue: "The proper way to settle this trouble is very simple. It can be arranged with very little difficulty. I am quite confident of that, and speak advisedly. All that is necessary is a conference of the patriotic intellects from all sections North and South, East and West, to restore harmony to the councils of our country. Of course, forbearance is indispensable, and a spirit of conciliation should preside over all deliberations, and—this paté has the appearance of being very fine—very fine. I'll take some more of the truffles."

"I wrote an article which created—" again attempted Finnegass.

"Mr. Bawbee, a glass of wine with you, if you please," said the host, adroitly checking the editor, and nodding gracefully to the financier. Mr. Bawbee was a Western banker, of Scotch birth, who had made no end of pelf by starting banks and issuing paper money. He took the floor, figuratively speaking, and predicted the dismemberment of the Union. Mr. Bawbee being a shrewd, hard-headed Scot, had an opinion of his own. "It'll never do in the world, Judge. The matter has gone too far. Mark my words, gentlemen, you'll see the States divided into three confederacies, and that within two years. I know the sentiments and temper of the Western people, and if the South secedes, which it doubtless will, the West will sever their connection with the East. In my section they deem their interests more closely identified with those of the South, than with the manufacturing East, and will never permit the mouth of the Mississippi, their great natural highway, to pass into the control of a foreign people, hence it is not improbable that in certain eventualities they would join hands with the South; but I am inclined to believe, as I mentioned at first, that the upshot will be a division into three confederations, and perhaps, as the Pacific States grow in importance, into four."

"Tut—tut, Mr. Bawbee," interrupted Mr. Justice Hull, "all those minor differences and territorial jealousies can be reconciled. As I have before stated, a well-selected conference could settle the vexed question in a short time. Get the right men together, and I have, no doubt as to the result."

The Judge was inclined to be impatient of other people's opinions when they clashed with his own, and was always the Sir Oracle of his circle.

The Rev. Spencer Abbott, who was not greatly interested in the questions of state discussed by the other guests, diverted himself in dulcet small-talk with his fair neighbor, the daughter of the house. In spite of an evident desire to please, he was apparently unsuccessful, for Miss Edna showed signs of weariness by an occasional pouting of her delicate lips, and seemed much relieved when the cloth being drawn, enabled her and her aunt, who were the only ladies present, to retire to the drawing-room. Poor Abbott would gladly have joined them, for he was dreadfully bored by Finnegass, who, exalted by wine and in default of any other listener, attached himself to the clergyman, and treated him to choice extracts from stirring leaders, until it was only by steady sips of coffee and a supreme effort of will, that Abbott refrained from lapsing into slumber.

At length Rangle came to the rescue, and merriment prevailed; for that eminent senator, ignoring the weighty topics under discussion, proved a perfect cornucopia of jokes and funny anecdotes, and actually drew a smile from the grim old Judge.

By this time Mr. Mumbie had recovered his self-possession, and grown bold and garrulous. He ventured to occupy a vacant chair next to the ex-President (that had been set apart for John Heath who had not condescended to appear), and informed that dignitary that he (Mumbie) was a much older man than any one would take him for. As the ex-President, on being asked, failed to guess Mr. Mumbie's age, Mr. Mumbie imparted the information, triumphantly adding that Mrs. Mumbie was very much his junior, as he had married late in life. "Here's a knife," continued he, drawing forth the bone-handled jack-knife, "that I have carried steadily, sir, steadily for over fifty years. Now I don't think there are many such instances on record. My local attachments are very strong. It's a peculiarity in our family which—"

"Between ourselves, and what is said here will of course go no farther," said Mr. Heath, with a sharp glance at Mr. Mumbie, "had we not better take some preliminary steps at once, in regard to the matter we have been discussing? I think we are all of one opinion on the subject. With your permission, Judge, I would suggest that you and Senator Rangle should by all means go as delegates from this State. Our friend Mr. —— ought of course to represent New York. Then I have thought that perhaps Crittenden would be of all men the most proper to lead the delegation from his section. In fact, I have already written him on the subject, and will send for a copy of my letter and read it to you."

"Not now, Heath; I'll listen to it some other time," said Judge Hull.

"Very well, I merely wished to show that I have approached him in a cautious way, and in a manner that I do not doubt will meet with your approval. Now, how does the selection of delegates strike you? I mean, of course, as far as I have gone?"

"Well—well. I'll think of it—what liqueur is that?"

The Judge did think of it, and the conference was held, as we all know. The Judge, the ex-Federal dignitary, and Senator Rangle, were all there, and in company with other conservative gentlemen tried to stop the Niagara flood of progress with bulrushes. But the tide that was destined to sweep away the last relic of barbarism in our country, was rising fast, and the conservative brooms that were striving to stem it were flourished in vain.

Meanwhile Judge Hull took another chasse-café of cognac, to fortify himself against the night air, and looking at his watch, directed his carriage to be called, and rather unceremoniously departed. The Rev. Spencer Abbott slipped away to join the ladies in the drawing-room, while the other guests accompanied the host to the picture-gallery. After the ex-Federal dignitary, Senator Rangle, and Mr. Bawbee had retired to their respective bedchambers for the night, Mr. Heath remained closeted with Finnegass in the library, while the former concocted an article (the editor being incapacitated by the dinner from any intellectual effort for the time being), to appear in the next issue of the Belton Sentinel, and which he expected would create a marked sensation. This article, a lengthy and portentous leader, was prefaced by the following:

"We are gratified to announce that a movement of very great and general importance to the public, in relation to the present crisis of political affairs, is in progress; the particulars of which having been communicated to us in confidence, we do not feel at liberty to impart."

This statement having stimulated the reader's curiosity and attention to a proper degree, the writer, after a few paragraphs, relented from his stoical secrecy, and with generous confidence divulged the fact that he had been invited to be present—

"at an informal meeting of distinguished citizens, among whom were ex-President ——, Senator Rangle, Chief Justice Hull, Andrew Bawbee, Esq., the wealthy and influential Western banker, M. Mumbie, Esq., and several other gentlemen scarcely less eminent, held at the residence of our esteemed fellow-townsman, Hon. Rufus Heath, to deliberate and take into consideration the critical situation of our country. This assemblage, comprising, as it did, some of the greatest minds of the country, and men conspicuous for their ability in all the higher walks of life—the bench, the bar, the clergy, statecraft, finance, and the manufacturing interest being all represented—were enabled to bring to the consideration of the topic before them that mature reflection, and careful, dispassionate deliberation, which are the fruits only of rare sagacity and profound wisdom. Good faith forbids us to say more, and we have no desire to be premature, but we think we may venture to add, that it was decided to hold, at an early day, a grand National council, to sit at some central point, and to be composed of delegates from every section of the Union. We will not pursue the subject further at present, but we cannot refrain from observing that, the fact that these gentlemen, whose names are synonyms for all that is great, wise, and patriotic, should devote their energies to devise means to avert the storm that threatens the safety of the ship of state, is one of the most hopeful signs that an era of concord is at hand, when sectionalism, radicalism, and demagogism in every shape and form, will meet a merited doom, and be banished forever from the Legislative halls of a free, united, and prosperous people.

"It is but just to state that the idea and inception of this proposed National conference, which will doubtless mark an epoch in our country's history, is due to our fellow-citizen, Hon. Rufus Heath, whom the spontaneous and united voice of the people has designated as the next occupant of the gubernatorial chair of this State. When we see such evidences of enlightened patriotism, such an unselfish love of country on the part of a gentleman whose wealth and position are a sufficient guarantee that he is actuated by no desire for personal aggrandizement or ambitious motive, we do not wonder that his countrymen, without distinction of party, turn instinctively towards him as the proper leader and councillor in this hour of trial, when, if ever, sound statesmanship and disinterested devotion to the welfare of the whole country are needed. And while we know that it will be no easy matter to prevail upon Mr. Heath to run for the office, and that he would, with extreme reluctance, give up his retirement and important occupations, and could only be moved by a strong sense of duty to again enter the arena of public life, we feel that the people have the right to ask him, in this exigency, to so far sacrifice his personal interests and inclinations, and yield to their wishes, by accepting a post which he, of all others, is best fitted, to fill—that of Governor of the State of New Jersey."

This article had the good fortune to attract the notice of the metropolitan sheets, who commented on the purposes of the ex-Federal dignitary and his friends in various terms. The radical press poked facetiousness at the venerable statesmen; called them fossils; and compared them to the famous tailors of Tooley Street; but whose fault was it that the great Peace Congress resulted in unsuccess, and that the well-meant efforts of its members were fruitless? Whose, but that of those perverse spirits who would not recognize the fact that "Canaan was cursed," and that it was flying in the face of Providence and against Holy Writ, to meddle with his cursedness in any way?

VII.

Mr. Heath was very well satisfied with the result of his dinner-party. It had enabled him to appear in the light of a leading and prominent public man. He could in the future refer to the views he had propounded on that occasion, as the origin of the memorable "Peace Congress," whereby the demon of discord was banished forever from the councils of the nation, and the North and South were reconciled to remain perpetually locked in a fraternal embrace. Then the opportune time would follow when his great work, the "Federal Code," would be accepted by an admiring people as a complement to the Constitution, and an additional band to unite indissolubly the fasces of the Union. The prospect was brilliant and flattering, and dizzy eminences of fame bewildered him. But there was much to be done. It was the hour for action, and with fervent enthusiasm he set to work. He opened a correspondence with every prominent public man in the country, every prominent conservative man of course, on the necessity of casting aloof from old organizations and framing one better adapted to meet the exigencies of the period.

The crisis was imminent, and prompt measures to avert the peril were imperative. A movement had been inaugurated, of which ex-President —— was at the head, which required the adhesion of every true lover of his country, etc., etc. This was about the burden of every despatch, and Mr. Frisbee, Mr. Heath's secretary, was almost distracted with the increased amount of writing and multiplicity of letters. Meanwhile Mr. Heath did not slacken in his efforts to obtain the candidature for Governor. He wrote numerous articles for the Sentinel, of like tenor to the one we have quoted, in advocacy of his claim to the nomination, and wherein, likewise, he showed no desire to emulate the violet. Senator Rangle, who had been much flattered by Mr. Heath's advances, was appealed to and promised his aid. John Peter, whose peculiar temperament was decidedly antipathetic to labors at the desk, was made serviceable in a different way. He was the go-between at primary elections and nominating convention, to fee agents and distribute largess. His chief mission, however, was to court popularity in Belton and the adjoining towns; for it will be remembered that the Hon. Rufus Heath, despite many munificent benefactions and public-spirited acts, was anything but a favorite with his neighbors. No amount of generosity on his part could countervail the effects of his ill-concealed airs of superiority, and patronizing suavity towards them, and wounded self-esteem never forgets nor forgives. Mr. Heath was unaware of the prevalence of this feeling against him, and his instructions to his son were intended simply to placate his open and avowed opponents. In particular was he anxious to conciliate George Gildersleeve. That individual, to be sure, was, as he expressed it, a "dyed-in-the-wool" Democrat, but Mr. Heath argued that at the forthcoming election old issues would be in a great measure abandoned, and he hoped, if not able to obtain Gildersleeve's support, to at least secure his neutrality. George, in truth, would have been a powerful auxiliary, for apart from the large number of men in his employment, who all liked him as a fair and liberal "boss," his bluff, hail-fellow ways won the hearts of the hard-handed everywhere; and he could control more votes than any other man in the county. No wonder, then, that John Peter suddenly became very deferential to him when he met him at Hank Bird's livery stable; no wonder that he solicited George's opinion on the merits of a new trotter, and even came down to the Archimedes Works for a social chat, where, meeting Mark, he actually shook hands with him, offered a cigar, and inquired in a pleasant way how he was "getting along." So astounded was Mark at these unexpected amenities, that he did not know how to take them; but his surprise over, he replied with equal friendliness, not being one to harbor resentment when a show of placation was made—especially when it came from Edna Heath's brother. So the two young men had a pleasant smoke together, recalled reminiscences of their school days; of old Pugwash, who kept the academy, and of the great conspiracy in which Jack was the ringleader, to thrash old Pugwash, when the boys signed a round-robin (an awful compact), with red ink in lieu of blood, that fluid—although the proper one to have used under the circumstances—not being readily procurable; and how old Pugwash, getting hold of the round-robin, turned the tables on the conspirators by flogging them one and all soundly. These and many similar incidents were talked over until all constraint wore off, and when they separated, Mark felt convinced that he had greatly misjudged Jack Heath, and was much pleased at the reconciliation. He told his sister-in-law that evening, when relating the circumstance of their meeting, that Jack was as good-hearted a fellow at bottom as ever lived, the only trouble with him being his inclination to drink.

"Dear, dear, what a pity!" said Mrs. Gildersleeve, whose sympathies were instantly aroused. "I've noticed signs of it for some time, and feel so sorry for him. He has grown so fleshy for a young man, and his face is always so flaming red. Such a beautiful complexion as he used to have, too, when a boy—and to think that it is all owing to this dreadful, dreadful habit of drinking! If he would only consent to join our Band of Hope. Don't you think, Mark, you might persuade him to join? or do you think it would be better to have Brother Close speak to him on the subject first?"

Mark shook his head dubiously at these suggestions, as if he mistrusted his ability or that of the entire Band of Hope, to say nothing of Brother Close, to induce Jack Heath to falter in his devotion to strong waters.

"I'm afraid it's inherited, sister Margaret," said he. "They say he had a grand-uncle who died from the effects of drink, and that his grandfather, old Mr. Obershaw, had a great propensity that way, and that the only thing that saved him was his stinginess. Much as he loved liquor, he loved money more, and seldom drank it except at somebody else's expense."

"Well, my child, let us not judge lest we be judged. Old Mr. Obershaw no doubt did a great many good deeds that we know nothing about, and as he is now in the hands of One who is all-wise and merciful, it does not become us to pass judgment on his memory. I don't see why it is that people are so censorious; I should think that after all the money that Mr. Obershaw spent in building that church and endowing it, that every sensible person would be convinced that he was a Christian, and I'm sure no one could find fault with the way in which the money he saved is being used, for there is not an institution, or a society, or object of any kind, that the Heaths don't give to."

"That may all be, sister Margaret, and it's very praiseworthy, no doubt. All I said, or meant to say, was that I didn't think Jack Heath was so much to blame for drinking, as he inherited the propensity from his grandfather, who they say had the reputation of being a hard drinker."

"Well, I suppose we shall all have to answer for ourselves," replied Mrs. Gildersleeve, reflectively. "And very likely it's his misfortune and not his fault."

The worthy lady's capacity for forgiveness and charity was unbounded; far more ready, too, to defend than to censure, and she doubtless would have had a good word for Satan himself, had his sable majesty been captured and arraigned for judgment.

VIII.

Month after month passed away, and Mark had not dared to repeat his visit at the Cliff. Gladly would he have done so, however, could he have found any plausible pretext. One important point, however, was gained. He had learned that Edna Heath was not the inaccessible princess he had imagined; and moreover, enjoyed the extreme gratification of knowing, or rather feeling, that she was aware of his existence—that she actually remembered, and even noticed him, when he met her at the church-porch on Sundays. These opportunities were almost the only ones he had of seeing her, but the smile and bow with which she recognized him were enough to fill his heart with pleasure during the intervening week. Occasionally when at work he would hear the well-known din of the Heath equipage dashing up Main Street in all the pomp of its domestics in drab liveries, and Dalmatian dogs, and his pulse would quicken, if through his window he caught a momentary glimpse of Edna among the occupants of the vehicle. He failed not to take his evening strolls towards the Cliff; to pass and repass the huge iron gates that seemed to bar him from his dearest hopes; and to linger about, indulging in all those absurd, preposterous fancies that addle the pates of all true lovers.

Summer came, and Edna went off with the Mumbies on a long tour through the White Mountains and Canada. During her absence, how desolate and dreary the world seemed to Mark! Belton became unbearable, and he wandered about its streets in a frame of mind compared to which Marius' feelings amid the ruins of Carthage were bliss. It was in one of these melancholy fits that he composed his elegiac stanzas, entitled Love's Coronach, and commencing with these lugubrious lines:

Shadows from the pluméd pall,
Enwrap my soul in woe,
My life, my hope, my all
Is gone! And every poignant throe
etc., etc., etc.

But when she returned, the world seemed to recover its glory, life its spice, and he was happy in being near her, even if he did not see her. When autumn came, and the grove near the Falls and the maples along the river road were gorgeous with brilliant hues, Mark took long walks along the Passaic-side, chiefly to meet Miss Heath, who rode often on horseback, and went dashing along at a pace that the groom in attendance had difficulty in keeping up with. She always found time, however, to acknowledge Mark's salute, as he stood staring in respectful admiration at the lithe, graceful figure, so smart in dark riding habit, small white collar and blue silk cravat. He was selfish enough to wish at those times that her horse would bolt over the bank into the river, or do something that would give him a chance to rescue her life at the peril of his own, and so prove his devotion. Fortunately, perhaps, for the young lady, no such opportunity occurred, and our hero was obliged to content himself with less demonstrative worship and vent his passion in scribbling poetic numbers.

The shortened days and inclement weather of winter curtailed Mark's rambles, and his evenings were spent with his piano and books at home, or with his briar-wood pipe and chess at Dr. Wattletop's.

One evening as he sat down to tea in the little basement dining-room, his sister-in-law, with a significant smile, laid an elegant envelope by the side of his plate. "There, Mark," said she, "there is something that will please you, I've no doubt."

He opened the envelope with a little trepidation, and found it to contain, as he had half-suspected, an engraved request from Miss Heath, for the pleasure of his company at "The Cliff," on a certain evening.

"When it came this afternoon," said Mrs. Gildersleeve, "I was in such a flutter. Bridget was out to see her sick sister, and I was washing the dinner things when the bell rang. I just took time to dry my hands and ran to the door, for I expected as much as could be that it was one of the men from the Works that your brother said he would send to fix the grate, and I was so confused when I saw it was a stranger—the young man with a cockade on his hat that follows Miss Heath when she goes out horseback riding—I don't know whether you have ever noticed him or not?"

Mark said he thought he had; and his brother remarked that it was another of those English liveried flunkeys that that old aristocrat, Rufe Heath, had imported to demoralize our democratic institutions.

"George," said Mrs. Gildersleeve, reproachfully, "you shouldn't talk in that way, my dear. Mr. Heath does a great deal of good—a great deal; and as for the young man, I'm sure he was very respectful and well-behaved, indeed. I don't know, though, what he must have thought, for I must have looked very untidy, and I was so confused and flushed that I never once thought of asking him whether he would walk in and sit down, which wasn't a bit polite or hospitable on my part. I hope, Mark, you will accept this invitation, for you should certainly go out in society more than you do. I do wish you had been with us the other evening at Mrs. Sniffen's tea-party. I don't know when I have had such a delightful time. Bishop White was there, and the new minister who has been stationed lately at the Furnaces—the Rev. Mr. Rousemup. His wife has a beautiful voice, and she sang 'Plunged in a Gulf of Dark Despair' so sweetly, that I'm sure there couldn't have been a dry eye present. I know you would have enjoyed it. But lately you have taken to staying in your room too much; you seem to have given up the Debating Society altogether and never go anywhere, except it is to Dr. Wattletop's, and I must confess that I don't half like it. The doctor, to be sure, is one of the kindest and best souls in the world, but he has such very queer notions. They even go so far as to say that he is a freethinker. Now I would be very sorry to believe that of any one; but he says such very strange things, if the reports are true, and Brother Close told me that Mrs. Slocum told him, that her nephew, James Cudlipp, said that when he lived at old Mrs. Bradbury's, and her brother died, he heard the doctor with his own ears say at the funeral, that when people became more civilized, they would burn the remains of the dead and preserve their ashes in marble urns, instead of burying them in the earth. Now, I do think such an idea as that is shocking and perfectly dreadful."

"Well, Maggie," put in her husband, as he buttered a fresh biscuit, "every man to his trade. Dr. Wattletop ain't no dominie, and don't pretend to be, but his head's level on physic, and he's no slouch of a sawbones, either. When he cut off Sammy Tooker's leg I timed him, and he had it all done clean in ten minutes and fourteen seconds by my stop-watch, and Sammy's brother said it was the best job of the kind he ever saw done; and he ought to know, being a butcher himself. Why, Pokemore, that you think is the greatest doctor in the world, I'll bet would have taken hours to do it, and made a botch of it after all. The only fault I have to find with Wattletop is, that he's such a pig-headed John Bull."

Mark ventured a few words in defence of his friend the doctor, and endeavored to allay the rising apprehensions of Mrs. Gildersleeve in regard to his imbibing any unwholesome opinions from the eccentric physician.

"Now, Mark," continued Mrs. Gildersleeve, "I do hope you will spruce up, and make yourself as agreeable as possible at Miss Heath's party. I'll say this for her, that there isn't a nicer, sweeter, or more charitable girl in all Belton than she is. Mrs. Sniffen says that she never calls upon her for any contribution for any object whatever, but what she gets all and more than she asks for; and I do believe she supplies every sick person and funeral in the town with hot-house grapes and flowers. Then she's so very lady-like too. Dear me, if I were a young man—well, I should think you'd feel very much pleased at this invitation, especially as you never took any pains to make yourself agreeable to the family. But then, to be sure, Edna Heath is kind to every one, and I do believe that every man, woman, and child in Belton loves her."

Mark felt as if he could not see the necessity for that, and, if it were so, as if the population of the town had audaciously conspired to infringe on his province.

His brother, as he rose from table, also proffered advice on the subject, "If you can hang up your hat in that house, Mark, you're made for life. She'll have more dollars than you can shake a stick at, or know what to do with. Never mind the old man; there's a good deal of nonsense in Rufe Heath's airs, and he's mild as milk if he finds you aint anyway awed. Keep a stiff upper lip—don't be cowed, and you're bound to win. Whatever you do, though, be independent—independent as a hog on ice, and they'll like you all the better for it. That's my advice. Time I was off to the Lodge."

Mrs. Gildersleeve did not entirely approve of her husband's way of putting it, and observed, "As to what your brother says, Mark, about Miss Heath's fortune, or her father's fortune, I know you never would be actuated by any motives in regard to that. Miss Heath, I'm sure, will be a treasure and prize to any man even if she never has a penny in the world."

"Very likely," said Mark, affecting indifference. "Miss Heath is certainly a very pleasant and refined young lady."

"Indeed, she is," said Mrs. Gildersleeve, emphatically, "and more than that, a very good young lady."

Mark's gratification at receiving the invitation was instantly dampened, when he reflected that he could not avail of it without exposing himself to unfavorable comparison in the eyes of one whom he was most desirous of pleasing. The old feeling of false shame, the morbid sensitiveness in regard to his lameness, revived; and he dreaded to challenge criticism in an assemblage where he longed to shine. Hence it was with a sharp pang of mortified vanity and disappointment that he set about writing a "regret," alleging as an excuse for not being able to accept Miss Heath's invitation, the conventional fib, a prior engagement. Twice he wrote such a missive, and each time tore it up when in the struggle between sense and self-love the former gained the ascendancy; but in the end that exaggerated self-importance which leads us to believe the rest of the world vastly interested in our haps and mishaps, our appearance and position—this infatuation triumphed, and the "regret" was despatched.