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Wilson had about two miles to walk before he reached Mr Carson's house, which was almost in the country. The streets were not yet bustling and busy. The shopmen were lazily taking down the shutters, although it was near eight o'clock; for the day was long enough for the purchases people made in that quarter of the town, while trade was so flat. One or two miserable-looking women were setting off on their day's begging expedition. But there were few people abroad. Mr Carson's was a good house, and furnished with disregard to expense. But, in addition to lavish expenditure, there was much taste shown, and many articles chosen for their beauty and elegance adorned his rooms. As Wilson passed a window which a housemaid had thrown open, he saw pictures and gilding, at which he was tempted to stop and look; but then he thought it would not be respectful. So he hastened on to the kitchen door. The servants seemed very busy with preparations for breakfast; but good-naturedly, though hastily, told him to step in, and they could soon let Mr Carson know he was there. So he was ushered into a kitchen hung round with glittering tins, where a roaring fire burnt merrily, and where numbers of utensils hung round, at whose nature and use Wilson amused himself by guessing. Meanwhile, the servants bustled to and fro; an out-door man-servant came in for orders, and sat down near Wilson. The cook broiled steaks, and the kitchen-maid toasted bread, and boiled eggs.The coffee steamed upon the fire, and altogether the odours were so mixed and appetising, that Wilson began to yearn for food to break his fast, which had lasted since dinner the day before. If the servants had known this, they would have willingly given him meat and bread in abundance; but they were like the rest of us, and not feeling hunger themselves, forgot it was possible another might. So Wilson's craving turned to sickness, while they chatted on, making the kitchen's free and keen remarks upon the parlour.It was agreed that the town must bury him; he had paid to a burial club as long as he could, but by a few weeks' omission, he had forfeited his claim to a sum of money now. Would Mrs Davenport and the little child go home with Mary? The latter brightened up as she urged this plan; but no! where the poor, fondly loved remains were, there would the mourner be; and all that they could do was to make her as comfortable as their funds would allow, and to beg a neighbour to look in and say a word at times. So she was left alone with her dead, and they went to work that had work, and he who had none, took upon him the arrangements for the funeral.Mary had many a scolding from Miss Simmonds that day for her absence of mind. To be sure Miss Simmonds was much put out by Mary's non-appearance in the morning with certain bits of muslin, and shades of silk which were wanted to complete a dress to be worn that night; but it was true enough that Mary did not mind what she was about; she was too busy planning how her old black gown (her best when her mother died) might be sponged, and turned, and lengthened into something like decent mourning for the widow. And when she went home at night (though it was very late, as a sort of retribution for her morning's negligence), she set to work at once, and was so busy and so glad over her task, that she had, every now and then, to check herself in singing merry ditties, which she felt little accorded with the sewing on which she was engaged.

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It is a pretty sight to walk through a street with lighted shops; the gas is so brilliant, the display of goods so much more vividly shown than by day, and of all shops a druggist's looks the most like the tales of our childhood, from Aladdin's garden of enchanted fruits to the charming Rosamond with her purple jar. No such associations h ad Barton; yet he felt the contrast between the well-filled, well-lighted shops and the dim gloomy cellar, and it made him moody that such contrasts should exist. They are the mysterious problem of life to more than him. He wondered if any in all the hurrying crowd had come from such a house of mourning. He thought they all looked joyous, and he was angry with them. But he could not, you cannot, read the lot of those who daily pass you by in the street. How do you know the wild romances of their lives; the trials, the temptations they are even now enduring, resisting, sinking under? You may be elbowed one instant by the girl desperate in her abandonment, laughing in mad merriment with her outward gesture, while her soul is longing for the rest of the dead, and bringing itself to think of the coldflowing river as the only mercy of God remaining to her here. You may pass the criminal, meditating crimes at which you will to-morrow shudder with horror as you read them. You may push against one, humble and unnoticed, the last upon earth, who in heaven will for ever be in the immediate light of God's countenance. Errands of mercy-errands of sin--did you ever think where all the thousands of people you daily meet are bound? Barton's was an errand of mercy; but the thoughts of his heart were touched by sin, by bitter hatred of the happy, whom he, for the time, confounded with the selfish.He reached a druggist's shop, and entered. The druggist (whose smooth manners seemed to have been salved over with his own spermaceti) listened attentively to Barton's description of Davenport's illness; concluded it was typhus fever, very prevalent in that neighbourhood; and proceeded to make up a bottle of medicine, sweet spirits of nitre, or some such innocent potion, very good for slight colds, but utterly powerless to stop, for an instant, the raging fever of the poor man it was intended to relieve. He recommended the same course they had previously determined to adopt, applying the next morning for an infirmary order; and Barton left the shop with comfortable faith in the physic given him; for men of his class, if they believe in physic at all, believe that every description is equally efficacious.Meanwhile, Wilson had done what he could at Davenport's home. He had soothed, and covered the man many a time he had fed and hushed the little child, and spoken tenderly to the woman, who lay still in her weakness and her weariness. He had opened a door, but only for an instant; it led into a back cellar, with a grating instead of a window, down which dropped the moisture from pigsties, and worse abominations. It was not paved; the floor was one mass of bad smelling mud. It had never been used for there was not an article of furniture in it; nor could a human being, much less a pig, have lived there many days. Yet the "back apartment" made a difference in the rent. The Davenports paid threepence more for having two rooms. when he turned round again, he saw the woman suckling the child from her dry, withered breast."Surely the lad is weaned!" exclaimed he, in surprise. "Why, how old is he?""Going on two year," she faintly answered. "But, oh! it keeps him quiet when I've nought else to gi' him, and he'll get a bit of sleep lying there, if he's getten nought beside. We han done our best to gi' the childer food, howe'er we pinched ourselves."

For three years past trade had been getting worse and worse, and the price of provisions higher and higher. This disparity between the amount of the earnings of the working classes and the price of their food, occasioned, in more cases than could well be imagined, disease and death. Whole families went through a gradual starvation. They only wanted a Dante to record their sufferings. And yet even his words would fall short of the awful truth; they could only present an outline of the tremendous facts of the destitution that surrounded thousands upon thousands in the terrible years 1839, 1840, and 1841. Even philanthropists who had studied the subject, were forced to own themselves perplexed in their endeavour to ascertain the real causes of the misery; the whole matter was of so complicated a nature, that it became next to impossible to understand it thoroughly. It need excite no surprise, then, to learn that a bad feeling between working men and the upper classes became very strong in this season of privation. The indigence and sufferings of the operatives induced a suspicion in the minds of many of them, that their legislators, their magistrates, their employers, and even the ministers of religion, were, in general, their oppressors and enemies; and were in league for their prostration and enthralment. The most deplorable and enduring evil that arose out of the period of commercial depression to which I refer, was this feeling of alienation between the different classes of society. It is so impossible to describe, or even faintly to picture, the state of distress which prevailed in the town at that time, that I will not attempt it; and yet I think again that surely, in a Christian land, it was not known even so feebly as words could tell it, or the more happy and fortunate would have thronged with their sympathy and their aid. In many instances the sufferers wept first, and then they cursed. Their vindictive feelings exhibited themselves in rabid politics. And when I hear, as I have heard, of the sufferings and privations of the poor, of provision shops where ha'porths of tea, sugar, butter, and even flour, were sold to accommodate the indigent,--of parents sitting in their clothes by the fireside during the whole night for seven weeks together, in order that their only bed and bedding might be reserved for the use of their large family,--of others sleeping upon the cold hearthstone for weeks in succession, without adequate means of providing themselves with food or fuel (and this in the depth of winter),--of others being compelled to fast for days together, uncheered by any hope of better fortune, living, moreover, or rather starving, in a crowded garret, or damp cellar, and gradually sinking under the pressure of want and despair into a premature grave; and when this has been confirmed by the evidence of their careworn looks, their excited feelings, and their desolate homes,--can I wonder that many of them, in such times of misery and destitution, spoke and acted with ferocious precipitation?

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One Sunday afternoon, about three weeks after that mournful night, Jem Wilson' set out with the ostensible purpose of calling on John Barton. He was dressed in his best, his Sunday suit of course; while his face glittered with the scrubbing he had bestowed on it. His dark black hair had been arranged and re-arranged before the household looking-glass, and in his button-hole he stuck a narcissus (a sweet Nancy is its pretty Lancashire name), hoping it would attract Mary's notice, so that he might have the delight of giving it her.It was a bad beginning of his visit of happiness that Mary saw him some minutes before he came into her father's house. She was sitting at the end of the dresser, with the little window-blind drawn on one side, in order that she might see the passers-by, in the intervals of reading her Bible, which lay open before her. So she watched all the greeting a friend gave Jem; she saw the face of condolence, the sympathetic shake of the hand, and had time to arrange her own face and manner before Jem came in, which he did, as if he had eyes for no one but her father, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire, while he read an old Northern Star, borrowed from a neighbouring public-house.Then he turned to Mary, who, he felt by the sure instinct of love, by which almost his body thought, was present. Her hands were busy adjusting her dress forced and unnecessary movement Jem could not help thinking. Her accost was quiet and friendly, if grave; she felt that she reddened like a rose, and wished she could prevent it, while Jem wondered if her blushes arose from fear, or anger, or love.She was very cunning, I am afraid. She pretended to read diligently, and not to listen to a word that was said, while in fact she heard all sounds, even to Jem's long, deep sighs, which wrung her heart. At last she took up her Bible, and as if their conversation disturbed her, went up-stairs to her little room. And she had scarcely spoken a word to Jem; scarcely looked at him; never noticed his beautiful sweet Nancy, which only awaited her least word of praise to be hers! He did not know--that pang was spared--that in her little dingy bedroom stood a white jug, filled with a luxuriant bunch of early spring roses, making the whole room fragrant and bright. They were the gift of her richer lover. So Jem bad to go on sitting with John Barton, fairly caught in his own trap, and bad to listen to his talk, and answer him as best he might."There's the right stuff in this here 'Star,' and no mistake. Such a right-down piece for short hours.""Well! yo must know I were in th' Infirmary for a fever, and times were rare and bad, and there be good chaps there to a man, while he's wick, whate'er they may be about cutting him up at after. So when I were better o' th' fever, but weak as water, they says to me, says they, 'If yo' can write, you may stay in a week longer, and help our surgeon wi' sorting his papers; and we'll take care yo've your bellyful of meat and drink. Yo'll be twice as strong in a week.' So there wanted but one word to that bargain. So I were set to writing and copying; th' writing I could do well enough, but they'd such queer ways o' spelling, that I'd ne'er been used to, that I'd to look first at th' copy and then at my letters, for all the world like a cock picking up grains o' corn. But one thing startled me e'en then, and I thought I'd make bold to ask the surgeon the meaning o't. I've getten no head for numbers, but this I know, that by far th' greater part o' th' accidents as comed in, happened in th' last two hours o' work, when folk getten tired and careless. Th' surgeon said it were all true, and that he were going to bring that fact to light."

The matter being decided, the party proceeded home, through many half-finished streets, all so like one another, that you might have easily been bewildered and lost your way. Not a step, however, did our friends lose; down this entry, cutting off that corner, until they turned out of one of these innumerable streets into a little paved court, having the backs of houses at the end opposite to the opening, and a gutter running through the middle to carry off household slops, washing suds, etc. The women who lived in the court were busy taking in strings of caps, frocks, and various articles of linen, which hung from side to side, dangling so low, that if our friends had been a few minutes sooner, they would have had to stoop very much, or else the half-wet clothes would have flapped in their faces: but although the evening seemed yet early when they were in the open fields--among the pent-up houses, night, with its mists and its darkness, had already begun to fall.Many greetings were given and exchanged between the Wilsons and these women, for not long ago they had also dwelt in this court.Two rude lads, standing at a disorderly looking house-door, exclaimed, as Mary Barton (the daughter) passed, "Eh, look! Polly Barton's getten a sweetheart."Of course this referred to young Wilson, who stole a look to see how Mary took the idea. He saw her assume the air of a young fury, and to his next speech she answered not a word.Mrs Barton produced the key of the door from her pocket; and on entering the house-place it seemed as if they were in total darkness, except one bright spot, which might be a cat's eye, or might be, what it was, a red-hot fire, smouldering under a large piece of coal, which John Barton immediately applied himself to break up, and the effect instantly produced was warm and glowing light in every corner of the room. To add to this (although tile coarse yellow glare seemed lost in the ruddy glow from the fire), Mrs Barton lighted a dip by sticking it in the fire, and having placed it satisfactorily in a tin candlestick, began to look further about her, on hospitable thoughts intent. The room was tolerably large, and possessed many conveniences. On the right of the door, as you entered, was a longish window, with a broad ledge. On each side of this, hung blue-and-white check curtains, which were now drawn, to shut in the friends met to enjoy themselves. Two geraniums, unpruned and leafy, which stood on the sill, formed a further defence from out-door pryers. In the corner between the window and the fire-side was a cupboard, apparently full of plates and dishes, cups and saucers, and some more nondescript articles, for which one would have fancied their possessors could find no use--such as triangular pieces of glass to save carving knives and forks from dirtying table-cloths. However, it was evident Mrs Barton was proud of her crockery and glass, for she left her cupboard door open, with a glance round of satisfaction and pleasure. On the opposite side to the door and window was the staircase, and two doors; one of which (the nearest to the fire) led into a sort of little back kitchen, where dirty work, such as washing up dishes, might be done, and whose shelves served as larder, and pantry, and store-room, and all. The other door, which was considerably lower, opened into the coal-hole--the slanting closet under the stairs; from which, to the fire-place, there was a gaycoloured piece of oil-cloth laid. The place semed almost crammed with furniture (sure sign of good times among the mills). Beneath the window was a dresser, with three deep drawers. Opposite the fire-place was a table, which I should call a Pembroke, only that it was made of deal, and I cannot tell how far such a name may be applied to such humble material. On it, resting against the wall, was a bright green japanned tea-tray, having a couple of scarlet lovers embracing in the middle. The fire-light danced merrily on this, and really (setting all taste but that of a child's aside) it gave a richness of colouring to that side of the room. It was in some measure propped up by a crimson tea-caddy, also or japan ware. A round table on one branching leg, really for use, stood in the corresponding corner to the cupboard; and, if you can picture all this, with a washy, but clean stencilled pattern on the walls, you can form some idea of John Barton's home.

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The truth was, Mary was dressing herself; yes, to come to poor old Alice's--she thought it worth while to consider what gown she should put on. It was not for Alice, however, you may be pretty sure; no, they knew each other too well. But Mary liked making an impression, and in this it must be owned she was pretty often gratified--and there was this strange girl to consider just now. So she put on her pretty new blue merino, made tight to her throat, her little linen collar and linen cuffs, and sallied forth to impress poor gentle Margaret. She certainly succeeded. Alice, who never thought much about beauty, had never told Margaret how pretty Mary was; and, as she came in half-blushing at her own self-consciousness, Margaret could hardly take her eyes off her, and Mary put down her long black lashes with a sort of dislike of the very observation she had taken such pains to secure. Can you fancy the bustle of Alice to make the tea to our it out, and sweeten it to their liking, to help and help again to clap-bread and bread-and-butter? Can you fancy the delight with which she watched her piled-up clap-bread disappear before the hungry girls, and listened to the praises of her home-remembered dainty?"Why, lass, there's nothing to tell. There was more mouths at home than could be fed. Tom, that's Will's father (you don't know Will, but he's a sailor to foreign parts), had come to Manchester, and sent word what terrible lots of work was to be had, both for lads and lasses. So father sent George first (you know George, well enough, Mary), and then work was scarce out toward Burton, where we lived, and father said I maun try and get a place. And George wrote as how wages were far higher in Manchester than Milnthorpe or Lancaster; and, lasses, I was young and thoughtless, and thought it was a fine thing to go so far from home. So, one day, th' butcher he brings us a letter fra George, to say he'd heard on a place--and I was all agog to go, and father was pleased like; but mother said little, and that little was very quiet. I've often thought she was a bit hurt to see me so ready to go--God forgive me! But she packed up my clothes, and some o' the better end of her own as would fit me, in yon little paper box up there--it's good for nought now, but I would liefer live without fire than break it up to be burnt; and yet it's going on for eighty years old, for she had it when she was a girl, and brought all her clothes in it to father's, when they were married. But, as I was saying, she did not cry, though the tears was often in her eyes; and I seen her looking after me down the 1ane as long as I were in sight, with her hand shading her eyes--and that were the last look I ever had on her."Something about a ship and a lover that should hae been na lover, the ballad was. Well, and near our cottage were rocks. Eh, lasses! ye don't know what rocks are in Manchester! Grey pieces o' stone as large as a house, all covered over wi' mosses of different colours, some yellow, some brown; and the ground beneath them knee-deep in purple heather, smelling sae sweet and fragrant, and the low music of the humming-bee for ever sounding among it. Mother used to send Sally and me out to gather ling and heather for besoms, and it was such pleasant work! We used to come home of an evening loaded so as you could not see us, for all that it was so light to carry. And then mother would make us sit down under the old hawthorn tree (where we used to make our house among the great roots as stood above th' ground), to pick and tie up the heather. It seems all like yesterday, and et it's a long long time agone. Poor sister Sally has been in her grave this forty year and more. But I often wonder if the hawthorn is standing yet, and if the lasses still go to gather heather, as we did many and many a year past and gone. I sicken at heart to see the old spot once again. May be next summer I may set off, if God spares me to see next summer."Why have you never been in all these many years?" asked Mary."Why lass! first one wanted me and then another; and I couldn't go without money either, and I got very poor at times. Tom was a scapegrace, poor fellow, and always wanted help of one kind or another; and his wife (for I think scapegraces are always married long before steady folk) was but a helpless kind of body. She were always ailing, and he were always in trouble; so I had enough to do with my hands, and my money too, for that matter. They died within twelvemonth of each other, leaving one lad (they had had seven, but the Lord had taken six to himself), Will, as I was telling you on; and I took him myself, and left service to make a bit on a home-place for him, and a fine lad he was, the very spit of his father as to looks, only steadier. For he was steady, although nought would serve him but going to sea. I tried all I could to set him again a sailor's life. Says I, 'Folks is as sick as dogs all the time they're at sea. Your own mother telled me (for she came from foreign parts, being a Manx woman) that she'd ha' thanked any one for throwing her into the water.' Nay, I sent him a' the way to Runcorn by th' Duke's canal, that he might know what th' sea were; and I looked to see him come back as white as a sheet wi' vomiting. But the lad went on to Liverpool and saw real ships, and came back more set than ever on being a sailor, and he said as how he had never been sick at all, and thought he could stand the sea pretty well. So I told him he mun do as he liked; and he thanked me and kissed me, for all I was very frabbit with him; and now he's gone to South America, at t'other side of the sun, they tell me.Mary stole a glance at Margaret to see what she thought of Alice's geography; but Margaret looked so quiet and demure, that Mary was in doubt if she were not really ignorant. Not that Mary's knowledge was very profound, but she had seen a terrestrial globe, and knew where to find France and the continents on a map.

Gilder scrupulously followed the directions of the PoliceInspector. Uneasily, he had remained in the library until theallotted time was elapsed. He fidgeted from place to place, hismind heavy with distress under the shadow that threatened toblight the life of his cherished son. Finally, with a sense ofrelief he put out the lights and went to his chamber. But he didnot follow the further directions given him, for he was notminded to go to bed. Instead, he drew the curtains closely tomake sure that no gleam of light could pass them, and then satwith a cigar between his lips, which he did not smoke, thoughfrom time to time he was at pains to light it. His thoughts weremost with his son, and ever as he thought of Dick, his fury waxedagainst the woman who had enmeshed the boy in her plotting forvengeance on himself. And into his thoughts now crept a doubt,one that alarmed his sense of justice. It occurred to him thatthis woman could not have thus nourished a plan for retributionthrough the years unless, indeed, she had been insane, even as hehad claimed--or innocent! The idea was appalling. He could notbear to admit the possibility of having been the involuntaryinflicter of such wrong as to send the girl to prison for anoffense she had not committed. He rejected the suggestion, butit persisted. He knew the clean, wholesome nature of his son.It seemed to him incredible that the boy could have thus givenhis heart to one altogether undeserving. A horrible suspicionthat he had misjudged Mary Turner crept into his brain, and wouldnot out. He fought it with all the strength of him, and that wasmuch, but ever it abode there. He turned for comfort to thethings Burke had said. The woman was a crook, and there was anend of it. Her ruse of spoliation within the law was evidence ofher shrewdness, nothing more.Mary Turner herself, too, was in a condition utterly wretched,and for the same cause--Dick Gilder. That source of the father'ssuffering was hers as well. She had won her ambition of years,revenge on the man who had sent her to prison. And now the joyof it was a torture, for the puppet of her plans, the son, hadsuddenly become the chief thing in her life. She had taken itfor granted that he would leave her after he came to know thather marriage to him was only a device to bring shame on hisfather. Instead, he loved her. That fact seemed the secret ofher distress. He loved her. More, he dared believe, and toassert boldly, that she loved him. Had he acted otherwise, thematter would have been simple enough.... But he loved her, lovedher still, though he knew the shame that had clouded her life,knew the motive that had led her to accept him as a husband.More--by a sublime audacity, he declared that she loved him.There came a thrill in her heart each time she thought ofthat--that she loved him. The idea was monstrous, of course, andyet---- Here, as always, she broke off, a hot flush blazing inher cheeks.... Nevertheless, such curious fancies pursued herthrough the hours. She strove her mightiest to rid herself ofthem, but in vain. Ever they persisted. She sought to oust themby thinking of any one else, of Aggie, of Joe. There at last wassatisfaction. Her interference between the man who had saved herlife and the temptation of the English crook had prevented adangerous venture, which might have meant ruin to the one whomshe esteemed for his devotion to her, if for no other reason. Atleast, she had kept him from the outrageous folly of an ordinaryburglary.

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Whatever had been her first purpose of using him only as aninstrument through which to strike against his father, whatevermight be her present plan of eliminating him from her life in thefuture, he still was sure that she had grown to know a real andlasting affection for himself. He remembered startled glancesfrom the violet eyes, caught unawares, and the music of her voicein rare instants, and these told him that love for him stirred,even though it might as yet be but faintly, in her heart.Out of that fact, he drew an immediate comfort in this period ofhis misery. Nevertheless, his anguish was a racking one. Hegrew older visibly in the night and the day. There creptsuddenly lines of new feeling into his face, and, too, lines ofnew strength. The boy died in that time; the man was born, cameforth in the full of his steadfastness and his courage, and hislove.The father suffered with the son. He was a proud man, intenselygratified over the commanding position to which he had achievedin the commercial world, proud of his business integrity, of hisstanding in the community as a leader, proud of his socialposition, proud most of all of the son whom he so loved. Now,this hideous disaster threatened his pride at every turn--worse,it threatened the one person in the world whom he really loved.Most fathers would have stormed at the boy when pleading failed,would have given commands with harshness, would have menaced therecalcitrant with disinheritance. Edward Gilder did none ofthese things, though his heart was sorely wounded. He loved hisson too much to contemplate making more evil for the lad by anyestrangement between them. Yet he felt that the matter could notsafely be left in the hands of Dick himself. He realized thathis son loved the woman--nor could he wonder much at that. Hiskeen eyes had perceived Mary Turner's graces of form, herloveliness of face. He had apprehended, too, in some measure atleast, the fineness of her mental fiber and the capacities of herheart. Deep within him, denied any outlet, he knew there lurkeda curious, subtle sympathy for the girl in her scheme of revengeagainst himself. Her persistent striving toward the object ofher ambition was something he could understand, since the likething in different guise had been back of his own businesssuccess. He would not let the idea rise to the surface ofconsciousness, for he still refused to believe that Mary Turnerhad suffered at his hand unjustly. He would think of her asnothing else than a vile creature, who had caught his son in thetoils of her beauty and charm, for the purpose of eventuallymaking money out of the intrigue.Gilder, in his library this night, was pacing impatiently to andfro, eagerly listening for the sound of his son's return to thehouse. He had been the guest of honor that night at an importantmeeting of the Civic Committee, and he had spoken with his usualclarity and earnestness in spite of the trouble that beset him.Now, however, the regeneration of the city was far from histhought, and his sole concern was with the regeneration of alife, that of his son, which bade fair to be ruined by the wilesof a wicked woman. He was anxious for the coming of Dick, towhom he would make one more appeal. If that should fail--well,he must use the influences at his command to secure the forcibleparting of the adventuress from his son.The room in which he paced to and fro was of a solid dignity,well fitted to serve as an environment for its owner. It wasvery large, and lofty. There was massiveness in the desk thatstood opposite the hall door, near a window. This particularwindow itself was huge, high, jutting in octagonal, with leadedpanes. In addition, there was a great fireplace set with tiles,around which was woodwork elaborately carved, the fruit ofpatient questing abroad. On the walls were hung some pieces oftapestry, where there were not bookcases. Over the octagonalwindow, too, such draperies fell in stately lines. Now, as themagnate paced back and forth, there was only a gentle light inthe room, from a reading-lamp on his desk. The huge chandelierwas unlighted.... It was even as Gilder, in an increasingirritation over the delay, had thrown himself down on a couchwhich stood just a little way within an alcove, that he heard theouter door open and shut. He sprang up with an ejaculation ofsatisfaction.The father was impressed of a sudden with the fact that, whilethis affair was of supreme import to himself, it was, after all,of still greater significance to his son. To himself, the chiefconcerns were of the worldly kind. To this boy, the vital thingwas something deeper, something of the heart: for, however absurdhis feeling, the truth remained that he loved the woman. Yes, itwas the son's name that Mary Turner had taken, as well as that ofhis father. In the case of the son, she had taken not only hisname, but his very life. Yes, it was, indeed, Dick's tragedy.Whatever he, the father, might feel, the son was, after all, moreaffected. He must suffer more, must lose more, must pay morewith happiness for his folly.Gilder looked at his son with a strange, new respect, but hecould not let the situation go without protest, protest of themost vehement."Dick," he cried, and his big voice was shaken a little by theforce of his emotion; "boy, you are all I have in the world. Youwill have to free yourself from this woman somehow." He stoodvery erect, staring steadfastly out of his clear gray eyes intothose of his son. His heavy face was rigid with feeling; thecoarse mouth bent slightly in a smile of troubled fondness, as headded more softly: "You owe me that much."The son's eyes met his father's freely. There was respect inthem, and affection, but there was something else, too, somethingthe older man recognized as beyond his control. He spokegravely, with a deliberate conviction.

Lest the title should mislead the reader, I hasten to assure him here that I have no dark confessions to make. I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly to distinguish myself from those faultless young gentlemen who generally figure in narratives of this kind, and partly because I really was not a cherub. I may truthfully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, blessed with fine digestive powers, and no hypocrite. I didn't want to be an angel and with the angels stand; I didn't think the missionary tracts presented to me by the Rev. Wibird Hawkins were half so nice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn't send my little pocket-money to the natives of the Feejee Islands, but spent it royally in peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was a real human boy, such as you may meet anywhere in New England, and no more like the impossible boy in a storybook than a sound orange is like one that has been sucked dry. But let us begin at the beginning.Whenever a new scholar came to our school, I used to confront him at recess with the following words: "My name's Tom Bailey; what's your name?" If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands with the new pupil cordially; but if it didn't, I would turn on my heel, for I was particular on this point. Such names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were deadly affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake, and the like, were passwords to my confidence and esteem.Ah me! some of those dear fellows are rather elderly boys by this time -- lawyers, merchants, sea-captains, soldiers, authors, what not? Phil Adams (a special good name that Adams) is consul at Shanghai, where I picture him to myself with his head closely shaved -- he never had too much hair -- and a long pigtail banging down behind. He is married, I hear; and I hope he and she that was Miss Wang Wang are very happy together, sitting cross-legged over their diminutive cups of tea in a skyblue tower hung with bells. It is so I think of him; to me he is henceforth a jewelled mandarin, talking nothing but broken China. Whitcomb is a judge, sedate and wise, with spectacles balanced on the bridge of that remarkable nose which, in former days, was so plentifully sprinkled with freckles that the boys christened him Pepper Whitcomb. Just to think of little Pepper Whitcomb being a judge! What would he do to me now, I wonder, if I were to sing out "Pepper!" some day in court? Fred Langdon is in California, in the native-wine business -- he used to make the best licorice-water I ever tasted! Binny Wallace sleeps in the Old South Burying-Ground; and Jack Harris, too, is dead -- Harris, who commanded us boys, of old, in the famous snow-ball battles of Slatter's Hill. Was it yesterday I saw him at the head of his regiment on its way to join the shattered Army of the Potomac? Not yesterday, but six years ago. It was at the battle of the Seven Pines. Gallant Jack Harris, that never drew rein until he had dashed into the Rebel battery! So they found him -- lying across the enemy's guns.

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Stephen Smith revisited Endelstow Vicarage, agreeably to his promise. He had a genuine artistic reason for coming, though no such reason seemed to be required. Six-and-thirty old seat ends, of exquisite fifteenth-century workmanship, were rapidly decaying in an aisle of the church; and it became politic to make drawings of their worm-eaten contours ere they were battered past recognition in the turmoil of the so-called restoration.He entered the house at sunset, and the world was pleasant again to the two fair-haired ones. A momentary pang of disappointment had, nevertheless, passed through Elfride when she casually discovered that he had not come that minute post-haste from London, but had reached the neighbourhood the previous evening. Surprise would have accompanied the feeling, had she not remembered that several tourists were haunting the coast at this season, and that Stephen might have chosen to do likewise.They did little besides chat that evening, Mr. Swancourt beginning to question his visitor, closely yet paternally, and in good part, on his hopes and prospects from the profession he had embraced. Stephen gave vague answers. The next day it rained. In the evening, when twenty-four hours of Elfride had completely rekindled her admirer's ardour, a game of chess was proposed between them.The game had its value in helping on the developments of their future.Elfride soon perceived that her opponent was but a learner. She next noticed that he had a very odd way of handling the pieces when castling or taking a man. Antecedently she would have supposed that the same performance must be gone through by all players in the same manner; she was taught by his differing action that all ordinary players, who learn the game by sight, unconsciously touch the men in a stereotyped way. This impression of indescribable oddness in Stephen's touch culminated in speech when she saw him, at the taking of one of her bishops, push it aside with the taking man instead of lifting it as a preliminary to the move.The vicar, who had listened with a critical compression of the lips to this school-boy recitation, and by reason of his imperfect hearing had missed the marked realism of Stephen's tone in the English words, now said hesitatingly: 'By the bye, Mr. Smith (I know you'll excuse my curiosity), though your translation was unexceptionably correct and close, you have a way of pronouncing your Latin which to me seems most peculiar. Not that the pronunciation of a dead language is of much importance; yet your accents and quantities have a grotesque sound to my ears. I thought first that you had acquired your way of breathing the vowels from some of the northern colleges; but it cannot be so with the quantities. What I was going to ask was, if your instructor in the classics could possibly have been an Oxford or Cambridge man?'On his part, not on mine. Ah, Henry Knight is one in a thousand! I remember his speaking to me on this very subject of pronunciation. He says that, much to his regret, he sees a time coming when every man will pronounce even the common words of his own tongue as seems right in his own ears, and be thought none the worse for it; that the speaking age is passing away, to make room for the writing age.'Both Elfride and her father had waited attentively to hear Stephen go on to what would have been the most interesting part of the story, namely, what circumstances could have necessitated such an unusual method of education. But no further explanation was volunteered; and they saw, by the young man's manner of concentrating himself upon the chess-board, that he was anxious to drop the subject.

HE was born in Northampton, in the county of Burlington and province of WestNew Jersey, in the Eighth Month, 1720, of religious parents, who instructed himvery early in the principles of the Christian religion as professed by thepeople called Quakers, which he esteemed a blessing to him even in his youngeryears, tending to preserve him from the infection of wicked children. But,through the workings of the enemy and the levity incident to youth, he frequently deviated from those parental precepts, by which he laid a renewedfoundation for repentance that was finally succeeded by a "godly sorrow not tobe repented of"; and so he became acquainted with that sanctifying power whichqualifies for true gospel ministry, into which he was called about the twenty-second year of his age; and by a faithful use of the talents committed to himhe experienced an increase, until he arrived at the state of a father, capableof dividing the word aright to the different states he ministered unto,dispensing milk to babes and meat to those of riper years. Thus he found theefficacy of that power to arise, which, in his own expressions, "prepares thecreature to stand like a trumpet through which the Lord speaks to His people."He was a loving husband, a tender father, and was very humane to every part ofthe creation under his care.His concern for the poor and those in affliction was evident by his visits tothem, whom he frequently relieved by his assistance and charity. He was formany years deeply exercised on account of the poor enslaved Africans, whosecause, as he mentioned, lay almost continually upon him; and he laboured toobtain liberty for those captives both in public and in private, and wasfavoured to see his endeavours crowned with considerable success. He wasparticularly desirous that Friends should not be instrumental to lay burdens onthis oppressed people, but should remember the days of suffering from whichthey had been providentially delivered, that, if times of trouble shouldreturn, no injustice dealt to those in slavery might rise in judgment againstus, but, being clear, we might on such occasions address the Almighty with adegree of confidence for His interposition and relief, being particularlycareful as to himself not to contenance slavery even by the use of thoseconveniences of life which were furnished by their labour.

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At another time he said, "My draught seemed strongest towards the north, andI mentioned in my own Monthly Meeting, that attending the Quarterly Meeting atYork, and being there, looked like home to me."Fifth day night. -- Having repeated consented to take medicine, but withouteffect, the Friend then waiting on him said through distress, "What shall I donow?" He answered with great composure, "Rejoice evermore, and in everythinggive thanks"; but added a little after, "This is something hard to come at."On sixth day morning he broke forth early in supplication on this wise: "OLord, it was Thy power that enabled me to forsake sin in my youth, and I havefelt Thy bruises for disobedience, but as I bowed under them Thou healedst me,continuing a father and a friend; I feel Thy power now, and I beg that in theapproaching trying moment Thou wilt keep my heart steadfast unto Thee." On hisgiving directions to a Friend concerning some little things, she said, "I willtake care, but hope thou wilt live to order them thyself." He replied, "My hopeis in Christ, and though I may seem a little better, a change in the disordermay soon happen, and my little strength be dissolved, and if it so happen Ishall be gathered to my everlasting rest." On her saying she did not doubtthat, but could not help mourning to see so many faithful servants removed atso low a time, he said, "All good cometh from the Lord, whose power is thesame, and He can work as He sees best." The same day he had directions givenabout wrapping his corpse; perceiving a Friend to weep, he said, "I wouldrather thou wouldst guard against weeping for me, my sister; I sorrow not,though I have had some painful conflicts, but now they seem over, and matterswell settled; and I look at the face of my dear Redeemer, for sweet is Hisvoice, and His countenance is comely."First day, 4th of Tenth Month. -- Being very weak and in general difficult tobe understood, he uttered a few words in commemoration of the Lord's goodness,and added, "How tenderly have I been waited on in this time of affliction, inwhich I may say in Job's words, tedious days and 'wearisome nights areappointed to me'; and how many are spending their time and money in vanity andsuperfluities, while thousands and tens of thousands want the necessaries of life, who might be relieved by them, and their distress at such a time as thisin some degree softened by the administering of suitable things."Second day morning. -- The apothecary, who appeared very anxious to help him,being present, he queried about the probability of such a load of matter beingthrown off his weak body; and the apothecary making some remarks implying hethought it might, he spoke with an audible voice on this wise: "My dependenceis on the Lord Jesus, who I trust will forgive my sins, which is all I hopefor; and if it be His will to raise up this body again, I am content; and if todie, I am resigned; but if thou canst not be easy without trying to assistnature, I submit." After this, his throat was so much affected that it was verydifficult for him to speak so as to be understood, and he frequently wrote whenhe wanted anything. About the second hour on fourth day morning he asked forpen and ink, and at several times, with much difficulty, wrote thus: "I believemy being here is in the wisdom of Christ; I know not as to life or death."About a quarter before six the same morning he seemed to fall into an easysleep, which continued about half an hour, when, seeming to awake, he breatheda few times with more difficulty, and expired without sigh, groan, or struggle.