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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Daisy's Necklace, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Daisy's Necklace
+       And What Came of It
+
+Author: Thomas Bailey Aldrich
+
+Release Date: December 13, 2009 [EBook #30668]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAISY'S NECKLACE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Garcia, Woodie4 and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  DAISY'S NECKLACE:
+  And What Came of It.
+
+  (A LITERARY EPISODE.)
+
+
+  BY
+
+  T. B. ALDRICH.
+
+
+    The little dogs and all,
+  ........ see, they bark at me!
+
+                     KING LEAR.
+
+
+  NEW-YORK:
+  DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU STREET.
+  CINCINNATI: H. W. DERBY & CO.
+
+  1857.
+
+
+  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856,
+  BY DERBY & JACKSON,
+  in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
+  Southern District of New-York.
+
+
+  TO
+  C. L. F.,
+  THE NOBLE MERCHANT AND THE GOOD FRIEND,
+  THIS BURLESQUE OF THINGS IN GENERAL,
+  IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.
+
+
+
+
+  CONTENTS.
+
+
+  PROLOGUE.
+
+  CHAPTER I.
+
+  THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS.
+
+  The House by the Sea--The Round Window--God's eyes in Flowers--The
+  Day-Dreamers--A Picture--An Angel--Old Nanny--On the Sea-Shore--
+  Shell-Hunting--Bell's Freak and Mortimer's Dream--Asleep.
+
+  CHAPTER II.
+
+  THE DEAD HOPE.
+
+  Time's Changes--Fall-down Castles--Little Bell waiting--When will
+  Father come Home?--Little Bell weary--What the Sea said--Nevermore.
+
+  CHAPTER III.
+
+  SOUL-LAND.
+
+  Autumn and Winter--By the Fireside--Where little Bell is going--Nanny
+  sings about Chloe--Bell reads a poem--The flight of an Angel--The
+  Funeral--The good Parson--The two Grave-stones.
+
+  CHAPTER IV.
+
+  A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY.
+
+  Down Town--Messrs. Flint & Snarle--Tim, the Office Boy, and the pale
+  Book-keeper--The Escritoire--The Purloined Package--Mr. Flint goes
+  Home--Midnight--Miss Daisy Snarle--The Poor Author.
+
+  CHAPTER V.
+
+  DAISY SNARLE.
+
+  Sunday morning--Harvey Snarle and Mortimer--A Tale of Sorrow--The
+  Snow-child--Mortimer takes Daisy's hand--Snarle's death.
+
+  CHAPTER VI.
+
+  THE PHANTOM AT SEA.
+
+  A Storm in the Tropics--The Lone Ship--The Man at the Wheel--How
+  he sang strange Songs--The Apparition--The drifting Bark.
+
+  CHAPTER VII.
+
+  IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN.
+
+  Mr. Flint sips _vino d'oro_--The Stranger--The Letter--Mr. Flint
+  Outwitted--Mr. Flint's Photograph--The Madman's Story--The Wrecked
+  Soul--How Mr. Flint is troubled by his Conscience, and dreams of a
+  Pair of Eyes.
+
+  CHAPTER VIII.
+
+  MR. FLINT IS PERFECTLY ASTONISHED, AND MORTIMER HAS A VISION.
+
+  The Light Heart--A Scene--The Sunny Heart--A Dream of Little
+  Bell--A Hint.
+
+  CHAPTER IX.
+
+  DAISY AND THE NECKLACE.
+
+  Our _petite_ Heroine--How she talked to the Poets--The Morocco
+  Case--Daisy's Eyes make Pictures--Tears, idle Tears!
+
+  CHAPTER X.
+
+  ST. AGNES' EVE.
+
+  The Old Year--St. Agnes--Keats' Poem--The Circlet of Pearls--A
+  Cloud--The Promise--Mrs. Snarle continues her Knitting.
+
+  CHAPTER XI.
+
+  MORTIMER HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GREAT PUBLISHER, AND MR. FLINT
+  MAKES A DISCOVERY.
+
+  H. H. Hardwill, Publisher--Criminal Literature--Alliterative
+  Titles--Goldwood--Poor Authors--A Heaven for them in the
+  Perspective--Flint's Discovery, and the Horns of his Dilemma.
+
+  CHAPTER XII.
+
+  WHAT DAISY DID.
+
+  The Arrest--Doubt and Love--Daisy and the Necklace--The Search--The
+  Heart of Daisy Snarle.
+
+  CHAPTER XIII.
+
+  IN THE TOMBS.
+
+  The Author's Summer Residence--The Egyptian Prison--Without and
+  Within--A Picture--Sunshine in shadow--Joe Wilkes and his unique
+  Proposal--Gloomy Prospects--The Face at the Cell-window.
+
+  CHAPTER XIV.
+
+  A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING.
+
+  The Strange Visit--The Lawyer--Walters and Mr. Flint--The Clouds--A
+  Strip of Sunshine--Mortimer.
+
+  CHAPTER XV.
+
+  IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES.
+
+  A Picture--The Lawyer's Note--Mr. Hardwill once more--The Scene at the
+  Law Office--Mr. Flint _Hors du Combat_--Face to Face.
+
+  CHAPTER XVI.
+
+  THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA.
+
+  Clap-trap--John Flint--The Old House--Joe Wilkes--Strephon and
+  Chloe--Tim enjoying himself--Edward Walters and Little Bell--A Last
+  Word
+
+  EPILOGUE.
+
+
+
+
+TO THE
+
+UNFORTUNATE READER.
+
+
+In this little Extravaganza, I have done just what I intended.
+
+I have attempted to describe, in an auto-biographical sort of way, a
+well-meaning, but somewhat vain young gentleman, who, having flirted
+desperately with the Magazines, takes it into his silly head to write a
+novel, all the chapters of which are laid before the reader, with some
+running criticism by T. James Barescythe, Esquire, the book-noticer of "The
+Morning Glory," ("a journal devoted to the Fine Arts and the Amelioration
+of all Mankind,") and the type of a certain class which need not be
+distinctly specified for recognition. I have endeavored to make the novel
+of my literary hero such a one as a young man with fine taste and crude
+talent might produce; and I think I have succeeded. It is certainly
+sufficiently unfinished.
+
+In drawing the character of Barescythe, the point of my quill may have
+pierced a friend; and if you ask, like Ludovico,
+
+    "What shall be said of thee?"
+
+I shall answer, like Othello,
+
+                            "Why, anything:
+    An honorable murderer, if you will;
+    For nought I did in hate, but all in honor."
+
+The only audacious thing I have done is the writing of this preface. If
+there is anything more stupid than a "preface," it is a book-critic. If
+anything _could_ be more stupid than a book-critic, it would be a preface.
+But, thank heaven, there is not. In saying this, I refer to a particular
+critic; for I would not, for the sake of a tenth edition, malign in such a
+wholesale manner those capital good fellows of the press--those _verbal
+accoucheurs_ who are so pleasantly officious at the birth of each new
+genius. Not I. I have
+
+    "A fellow-feeling"
+
+and a love for them, which would seem like a bid for their good nature, if
+expressed here.
+
+I have put my name on the title-page of this trifle from principle. My
+pen-children are all mine, and I cannot think of disowning one, though it
+may happen to be born hump-backed. But I beg of you, gentlest of
+unfortunate readers, not to take DAISY'S NECKLACE as a serious exponent of
+my skill at story-telling. It is _not_ printed at the "urgent request of
+numerous friends"--I am so fortunate as not to have many--but a seductive
+little argument in the shape of a _cheque_ is the sole cause of its present
+form; otherwise, I should be content to let it die an easy death in the
+columns of the journal which first had the temerity to publish it. If the
+world could always know, as it may in this case, why a book is printed, it
+would look with kindlier eyes on dullness bound in muslin. It would say,
+with honest Sancho Panza: "Let us not look the gift-horse in the mouth."
+
+When the sunshine of this dear old world has reddened the wine in my
+heart--melted down its sparkles to a creamy flavor, I will give you a
+richer draught--mayhap a beaker of Hippocrene.
+
+Till then, may God's blessing be on us both, though neither of us deserve
+it.
+
+CLINTON PLACE, 1856.
+
+
+
+
+PROLOGUE.
+
+    _It hath beene sayed, and it seemeth soe untoe me, that ye man who
+    writes a booke maist have much vanitie and vexation of spirite._
+
+                                                 YE TWO POORE AUTHORS.
+
+PROLOGUE.
+
+
+"Mrs. Muggins!"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"Say that I am sick. Say I am dead--buried--out of town. In short, say
+anything you will; but deny my existence to every one who calls, with the
+exception of Mr. Barescythe."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"I am going to write a novel, Mrs. Muggins!"
+
+That lady did not exhibit much emotion.
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+And Mrs. Muggins ambled out of the room-door, to which she had been
+summoned by some peremptory appeals of my bell. I was somewhat shocked at
+the cool manner with which Mrs. Muggins received the literary intelligence;
+but she, poor, simple soul, did not know that my greatness was a-ripening.
+
+"Some of these days," said I to myself, turning toward the window, "some of
+these days, mayhap a hundred years hence, as the stranger passes through
+Washington Parade Ground, this house--wrinkled and old then--will be
+pointed out to his wonder-loving eyes as the one in which my novel was
+written; and the curious stranger will cut his name on the walls of the
+room which I never occupied, and carry away a slice of the door-step!"
+
+I immediately fell in love with this fascinating thought, and followed it
+up.
+
+The slender trees which now inhabit the Parade Ground had grown
+immensely--the trunks of some were three feet in diameter, and around them
+all was a massive iron railing. The brick and brownstone houses on Waverly
+Place and Fourth-street had long been removed, and huge edifices with
+cast-iron fronts supplanted them. I looked in vain for the little
+drug-store on the corner with its red and green bottles, and the
+fruit-man's below with its show of yellow bananas and sour oranges. The
+University, dimly seen through the interlacing branches, was a classic
+ruin.
+
+Everything was changed and new.
+
+All the old land-marks were gone, save the Parade Ground, and one quaint
+old house facing Mac Dougal-street: the which house was propped up with
+beams, for, long and long ago, before "the memory of the oldest inhabitant"
+even, an author, a sweet quiet man, once wrote a famous book there, and the
+world of 1956 would preserve the very floors he trod on!
+
+And so I sat there by my window in the autumnal sunshine, and watched the
+golden clouds as the wind blew them against the square white turrets of the
+University, which peered above the trees.
+
+Ah, Mrs. Muggins, thought I, though you only said "yes, sir," when I spoke
+of my novel--though your name is carved in solid brass on the hall-door,
+yet you will be forgotten like a rain that fell a thousand years ago, when
+_my_ name, only stamped with printer's ink, on ephemeral slips of paper, is
+a household word.
+
+So I came to pity Mrs. Muggins, and harbored no ill feelings toward the
+simple creature who was so speedily to be gathered under the dusty wings of
+oblivion. I wondered how she could be cheerful. I wondered if she ever
+thought of being "dead and forgotten," and if it troubled her.
+
+Lost in the aromatic fumes of a regalia, I sat waiting the advent of my
+friend Barescythe--Barry for short--to whom I had addressed a laconic
+note, begging him to visit me at my rooms without delay.
+
+I like Barescythe.
+
+He is conceited, but that's a small fault with genius. His idea of
+literature does not exactly chime with mine, for he believes that there
+have been no novels, to speak of, since Scott's, and little poetry since
+Pope's. But, aside from this, he is a noble fellow; he carries his heart,
+like a falcon, on his hand, where everybody can see it. Barry is fond of
+wine--but that's a failing _not_ peculiar to genius, and _not_ confined to
+book-critics. He is a trifle rough in speech, not always the thing in
+manners; but "the elements so mix in him"--that I have a great mind to
+finish that excellent quotation.
+
+I heard his familiar step on the stairs, and a second afterwards he kicked
+open my room-door with his characteristic disregard of ceremony.
+
+"Ralph," said he, with some anxiety, "what's up?"
+
+"Sit down!"
+
+"Are you sick?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Are you going to be?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Then why, in the name of the many-headed Hydra, did you send me such an
+article as this? Read it."
+
+The note ran as follows:
+
+  _"Mac Dougal-street,_
+  _"June 30, 18--._
+
+  "DEAR BARRY,--
+
+     "Come and see me without delay. I have got a--
+
+                          "Eternally,
+                                           "RALPH."
+
+"O, yes!" said I, laughing; "I left out a word. I meant to have said, 'I
+have got an idea.'"
+
+"Humph! I thought it was a colic."
+
+Mr. Barescythe had left a host of editorial duties in the middle and
+busiest time of the day, expecting to find me lying at the point of death,
+and was quite out of humor because I was not.
+
+There is something extremely human in Barescythe.
+
+"Criticus," I spoke as deliberately as the subject would allow, "I am going
+to write a novel."
+
+This unfortunate avowal was the rose-leaf which caused the cup of his
+indignation to overflow.
+
+"If it had been a case of cholera," commenced Barescythe, with visible
+emotion, "or the measles, or the croup, or the chicken-pox--if you had
+broken your thigh, spine, or neck, I wouldn't have complained. But a
+_novel_--"
+
+And Barry began whistling wildly,
+
+[Illustration: Musical score]
+
+as he invariably does when annoyed. After using up a variety of popular
+airs, the shadow of his good-humor returned to him.
+
+"Ralph," he said, taking my hand, "I have a great respect for you. I don't
+know why, to be frank, but I have. I like your little song of--what do you
+call it?--in Putnam's Monthly, and your prose sketches in the
+Knickerbocker; but don't be a fool, Ralph!"
+
+With which piece of friendly advice, he put on his brown felt hat, drew it
+over his brows, and stalked out of the room, with
+
+         "A countenance more
+    In sorrow than in anger,"
+
+like Mr. Hamlet's father.
+
+I saw no more of Barescythe for two weeks.
+
+The summer months flew away.
+
+The nights were growing longer. The air had a vein of sparkling cold in it;
+at every gust the trees in the Parade Ground shook down golden ingots; and
+the grass-plots, and the graveled walks, and the marble bowl of the
+fountain, were paved with emerald and amethyst--a mosaic flooring of tinted
+leaves. The clouds were haggard faces, and the wind wailed like a broken
+heart. Indeed,
+
+    "The melancholy days had come,
+    The saddest of the year,"
+
+and Mrs. Muggins had made a fire in my grate!
+
+Blessings on him who invented fire-places! A poor day-dreamer's benediction
+go with him! The world in the grate! I have watched its fantastic palaces
+and crimson inhabitants--dipped my pen, as it were, into its stained
+rivers, and written their grotesqueness! Dizzy bridges, feudal castles,
+great yawning caves, and red-hot gnomes, are to be found in the grate;
+mimic volcanos, and ships that sail into sparry grottos, and delicate
+fire-shells with pink and blue lips!
+
+Crash!
+
+The coals sink down, and new figures are born, like the transient pictures
+in a kaleidescope. So it came to pass that I dozed over the metempsychosis
+of my fire-world, and commenced the novel.
+
+Give me crisp winter days for writing, and the long snowy nights for dreamy
+slumber.
+
+O antique humorist, quaint-mouthed Sancho Panza! with you, I say,
+"Blessings on the man who invented sleep!" Sleep, pleasant sleep!--that
+little airy nothing on the eyelids!--that little spell of thought which
+comes from no place and goes nowhere!--which comes upon us silently and
+splendidly, like a falling star, and trails its golden fancies on our
+waking hours. Sleep for the young--fresh, dewy sleep! Sleep for the sick!
+Sleep for the weary and disconsolate--sweet dreams and sweet forgetfulness
+for _them_! Smooth the white hairs of the old; place thy invisible fingers
+on their lips; close their eyes gently, gently. Sleep, and let them pass
+into nothingness!
+
+In a dreamy mood, half awake and half asleep, I filled sheet after sheet
+with my curious back-handed chirography. The white feathery snow came down
+cygnet-soft, and I wrote. I heard the wind ditties in the chimney, the
+merry wrangling of sleigh-bells, the sonorous clash of fire-bells, and the
+manuscript grew under my pen, as if by magic. I came to love the nurslings
+of my fancy as no one else will. I liked the cold, cynical features of Mr.
+Flint, with his undertaker's aspect; the child-spirit, Bell; Daisy Snarle's
+eyes; the heart-broken old sailor; the pale book-keeper; Tim, the office
+boy; Mr. Hardwill, the great publisher; Joe Wilkes, and all of them!
+
+Mrs. Muggins occasionally looked in on me.
+
+Mrs. Muggins' regard for me was increasing. She never left the coal-scuttle
+on the stairs for my benefit, as she used to; she was eternally hearing my
+bell ring when it didn't, and answering it so promptly when it did, that I
+began to think that she lived night and day just outside my door.
+
+Pleasant Mrs. Muggins!
+
+I tried not to feel elated at these little widowy attentions; but _los
+hombres son mortales_.
+
+She handed me my coffee with a motherly tenderness that was perfectly
+touching. She looked at me with the eyes of Solicitude, and spoke with the
+lips of culminating Respect; and once, in a burst of confidence, she told
+me that she had six orphan sons, who were "sealurs."
+
+_My_ respect increased for Mrs. Muggins. My novel might run through only
+one edition, but she,--she had six editions of herself afloat! And I
+thought that, after all, a woman like her who had produced a half a dozen
+Neptunes, founded perhaps a half a dozen races, was rendering more service
+to this apple-like globe, than one poor devil of an author prolifically
+pregnant with indifferent books.
+
+I spoke to Barescythe about it, and it was pleasant to have him coincide
+with me once.
+
+It is an agreeable fact, that
+
+    "The world goes up and the world goes down,
+    And the sunshine follows the rain."
+
+The new year was four months old. The flowers were teething: the tiny
+robins were able to go alone, and above the breezy hum of many thousand
+voices, above the monotonous and ocean-like jar of omnibus wheels, I could
+hear the babbling of hyaline rills in pleasant woodland places! I could not
+see the silver threads of water winding in and out among the cool young
+grass; I could not guess where they were; but through the city smoke, over
+the dingy chimney-tops, they spake to me with kindly voices!
+
+I knew that daisies were fulling in sunny meadows, and that the dandelion
+trailed its gold by the dusty road-sides: for
+
+    "The delicate-footed Spring was come."
+
+I knew it by the geranium at my window. It had put forth two sickly leaves.
+Two sickly leaves for me, and the world alive with vernal things! Spring,
+thou Queen of the Twelve! Dainty, dewy Spring--
+
+    "Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
+    On heaped-up flowers,"
+
+when I write of thee! Thy breath is the amber sunshine, and thy
+foot-prints are violets! Hide Winter in thy mantle: crown his cold brow
+with mignionette: hang morning-glories on his icicles: keep him from me
+forever!
+
+    "For winter maketh the light heart sad,
+    And thou--thou makest the sad heart gay!"
+
+"Barry," said I, "the sunshine has taken me by the hand, to lead me into a
+sweet New-England village. There is my manuscript. Read it, if you can,
+condemn it, if you will, and tell me what you think of it when I return."
+
+That awful critic put DAISY'S NECKLACE under his arm, and walked away--a
+victim to friendship, a literary Damon of the Nineteenth Century.
+
+
+
+
+I.
+
+    _As children gathering pebbles on the shore._
+
+                                          MILTON.
+
+    _No daintie flower or herbe that growes on grownd,
+    No arborett with painted blossomes drest
+    And smelling sweete, but there it might be found
+    To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al around._
+
+                                              EDMUND SPENCER.
+
+I.
+
+THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS.
+
+    _The House by the Sea--the Round Window--God's Eyes in Flowers--the
+    Day-Dreamers--A Picture--An Angel--Old Nanny--On the
+    Sea-Shore--Shell-Hunting--Bell's Freak and Mortimer's Dream--Asleep._
+
+
+Imagine, if you will, one of the quaintest old country mansions that was
+ever built--a big-chimneyed, antique-gabled, time-browned old pile, and you
+have a picture of the Ivyton House as it was in summers gone by.
+
+The pillars of the porch were not to be seen for the fragrant vines which
+clambered over them; lip-tempting grapes purpled[A] on the southern gable
+of the house, and the full, bright cherries clustered thicker than stars
+among the leaves. The walks of the garden were white with pebbles brought
+from the sea-shore; the dewy clover-beds, on each side, lay red with
+luscious strawberries, as if some one had sprinkled drops of fire over
+them; and among the larches and the cherry trees there was a salt sea-smell
+pleasantly mingled with the breathing of wild roses.
+
+A large, round window in one of the gables looked toward the ocean--a fine
+place for a summer view, or to watch, of a gusty afternoon, the billows as
+they swell and break in long waving battalions on the beach.
+
+One evening near the end of summer, two children were sitting at this
+circular window. Ten Aprils had half ripened them. The boy had dark hair,
+and a touch of sunlight in his darker eyes. The girl was light and
+delicate--with a face of spiritual beauty, dream-like, heavenly, like the
+pictures of the Madonna which genius has hung on the chapel walls of the
+Old World.
+
+"Bell," said the boy, "we never grow weary of looking at the sea."
+
+"No; because while we are watching, we think that father may be coming home
+to us across its bosom; and we count the waves as if they were moments. We
+like to see them roll away, and feel that time grows shorter between father
+and us."
+
+"Yes, that is so," he replied; "but then, we love night almost as much as
+the sea."
+
+"That is because we have a Father in heaven as well as one at sea," and the
+girl shaded her angel face with a dainty little hand.
+
+"And we love the sunbeams and the flowers, Bell!"
+
+"We do, indeed!" cried Bell, and the sunshine nestled among her curls. "We
+do, indeed! because God, like the good fairy in our story-book, comes in
+sunlight, or hides in flowers; and he reveals himself in ever so many ways,
+to all who love him."
+
+"Hides in flowers," repeated the boy, musingly; "I never thought of that.
+Then, perhaps--only perhaps--the dew-drops which I showed you last night in
+the white japonica were God's eyes!"
+
+"May be so," returned Bell, simply.
+
+They were two strange children--nature, and, perhaps, circumstances had
+made them so. They were born and had always lived in the old house. Their
+mother was in heaven, and their father was one of those who go down to the
+sea in ships. With no one to teach them, save the old house-keeper Nanny,
+their minds had taken odd turns and conceits; they had grown up old people
+in a hundred ways.
+
+The roar of the winds and the sea had been in their ears from infancy. In
+the summer months they wandered late on the sandy beaches, or slept with
+the silent sunshine under the cherry trees. They had grown up with nature,
+and nature beat in them like another heart. She had imbued them with her
+richer and tenderer moods.
+
+Bell was the wildest and strangest of the two. She was one of those �rial
+little creatures who, somehow or other, get into this world sometimes--it
+must be by slipping through the fingers of the angels, for they seem
+strangely out of place, and I am sure that they are missed somewhere! They
+never stay long! They come to earth and sometimes ripen for heaven in a
+twelve month! The sweetest flowers are those that die in the spring-time:
+they touch the world with beauty, and are gone, before a ruder breath than
+that of God scatters their perfume. Bell was a _Gipsy angel_--one of those
+who wander, for awhile, outside the walls of heaven, in the shady pastures
+and by-ways of the world.
+
+"Mortimer," said Bell, after a long silence, "how nice it is to sit here
+and watch the bits of sails coming and going--coming and going, never
+weary! I wonder how long we have sat at this window and watched the white
+specks? I wonder if it will always be so; if you and I will still be here,
+loving the sea and stars, when our heads are as white as Nanny's?"
+
+"No!" cried the boy, impetuously. "I am going out into the broad, deep
+world, and write books full of wonderful thought, like the Arabian Nights!"
+
+And he repeated it, the broad, deep world! Ah, child! what have such
+dreamers as you to do in the broad, deep world--the wonderful, restless
+sea, where men cast the net of thought and bring up pebbles?
+
+"I would like that, Mort!" cried Bell, clapping her hands. "But then, what
+a grand place this would be to write them in! You can have your desk by the
+open window here; and when your eyes are tired, you can rest them on the
+sea. And I will be _so_ quiet--as gentle as pussy, even, and do nothing but
+make pens for you all the time. Wouldn't that be fine?"
+
+"Yes! and father should go no more away in ships. He might have a yacht to
+leap over the surge in, to sail around all those little islands and in the
+green bays; but never go off to sea. The books I am going to write will
+bring us money enough."
+
+So the little castle-builders talked until the sun had melted into the
+waves, and twilight, like a pilgrim that had been resting by the roadside,
+rose up from the beach, and came slowly toward the old house.
+
+Mortimer, who had been gazing dreamily at the beach--which grew fainter and
+fainter, till it seemed like a white thread running through the selvage of
+blue drapery--turned his eyes on Bell.
+
+"Bell," said he, quietly, "as you sit there in the shadows, with your
+beautiful hair folded over your forehead, you look like an angel!"
+
+"Do I?"
+
+"I can put my hand on your neck, yet you seem far away from me."
+
+"Come, rest your head in my lap, Mort," said the girl, tenderly, "and I
+will tell you of a real true angel who once came into this world."
+
+The chestnut locks of the boy looked darker against her white dress, as
+Bell bent over him, and commenced, in a low, silvery voice, an old angel
+legend. She was in the midst of a strange description of Paradise, when a
+tremulous voice came up the stairway--
+
+"Come to tea, children!"
+
+Then the two looked at each other curiously. It was so odd to be called to
+tea, and they in Heaven! It was a long step from Paradise to the
+supper-table; but the dream was shattered. Bell laughed. Then they closed
+the window, and descended to the room below, where Nanny had prepared the
+evening meal of snowy bread and milk, and ripe purple whortleberries. It
+was very queer to see the three sitting at table--to see homely-looking,
+but kind-hearted Nanny, between the two children, like a twilight between
+two pleasant mornings.
+
+When supper was over, and while Nanny was washing the tea-things, the
+children went down to the beach, shell hunting. The white moon stood
+directly over the sea, and the waves were full of silvery arrows, as if
+Diana had scattered them from her quiver. Mortimer's eyes drank in the
+sight, as they had a thousand times before, for Nature is ever new to her
+lovers. In the measured roll of the sea, he heard the diapason of a grand
+poem, and the far-off thunder, heard now and then, was the chorus of the
+gods.
+
+But Heaven rapt the heart of little Bell! The waves fell on her finer ear
+like subtlest music; to her they were harps, and the fingers of angels were
+touching them, while the thunder was "God walking overhead!"
+
+They wandered along the sands, picking up curious shells and cream-white
+pebbles, dashed with red or clouded with mazarine. Bell would hold them up
+to her ear, and listen to the "little whispers," as she called them; but
+the boy would skim them along the wave-tips, and shout when some great
+billow caught one, and hurled it back scornfully at his feet.
+
+Bell saw a ridge of rocks which looked like the back of a whale, running
+out some distance into the sea, where the water was whiter and leaped
+higher than anywhere else; and soon her dainty feet picked a way over the
+jagged rocks. The boy was about to send a light shell skipping through the
+surf, when his glance caught Bell standing on the highest jut of the ledge,
+the wind lifting her long hair and the folds of her dress.
+
+"Bell! Bell!"
+
+"The stars are in the sea, brother," she replied, "and the winds are wild
+here."
+
+"Bell! Bell!"
+
+"I cannot come to you. I fear to walk over the rocks again! But it is
+beautiful here, and I am not afraid!"
+
+"Ah, Bell!" he spoke sadly, "that's what I dreamt. I thought that there was
+a gulf between us, and when I called, 'Bell! Bell!' you answered, '_I
+cannot come to you, brother; but you can come to me!_' O, Bell--sister
+Bell! as you love me, come back. I tremble when you look so like an angel.
+Come to me, sister."
+
+Mortimer ran out on the slender bridge of stone and led Bell back by the
+hand. After a little while they heard Nanny calling them to come home.
+
+The children occupied a small chamber over the front door. A scented vine
+clomb all about the window, and taught the ruddy sun at morning to throw a
+subdued light into the room; and it broke the orange stream of sunset. At
+night the dreamers from their bed could see the stars hanging like fruit
+among its cloudy leaves.
+
+When Bell and Mortimer came up from the sea-beach, the moonlight, breaking
+through this leafy lattice, made the chamber as that of Abon Ben
+Adhem--"like a lily in bloom." Nanny brought a lamp, and kissed them
+good-night.
+
+"O, we don't want a lamp all this moon!" cried Bell.
+
+The boy sat half undressed at the window. "Bell loves moonlight like a
+fairy," he said.
+
+Bell's robe fell to her knees in snowy folds, and she stood like a _petite_
+Venus rising from the froth. Then brother and sister braided their voices
+in a simple prayer to Our Father in Heaven. They prayed for kind old Nanny,
+and for one on the wide sea.
+
+"When will father come home?" asked Bell, for the hundredth time that day.
+
+"It will not be long now. When the boughs of the cherry trees are an inch
+deep with ice, and the logs crackle in the fire-place--then he will come.
+Let us go to sleep, and dream of him."
+
+And thus, hand in hand, the two went in to Dream-land--
+
+         The world of Sleep,
+         The beautiful old World!
+    The dreamy Palestine of pilgrim Thought!
+    The Lotus Garden, where the soul may lie
+    Lost in elysium, while the music moan
+    Of some unearthly river, faintly caught,
+    Seems like the whispering of Angels, blown
+    Upon �olian harp-strings! And we change
+    Into a seeming something that is not!
+
+
+
+
+II.
+
+    _Ah, yes! with joy the April rain
+    Thrills nature's breast; but mine with pain
+    Sigheth: "He will not come again!"_
+
+                               ALBERT LAIGHTON.
+
+II.
+
+THE DEAD HOPE.
+
+_Time's Changes--Fall-down Castles--Little Bell Waiting--When will Father
+Come Home?--Little Bell Weary--What the Sea said--Never more._
+
+
+Longfellow beautifully asks in Hyperion, "What is Time, but the shadow of
+the hour-hand on a dial-plate?"
+
+The flowers of the earth and the hearts of men are dial-plates. The shadows
+coming and going on them are the hour-hands; when a flower fades, or a
+heart ceases to beat, it is only a weight run down. The whole universe is
+but one immense time-piece, throbbing with innumerable wheels, heavy with
+weights, and wearing itself away! Desire is a restless pendulum, one end
+linked to the heart, and the other pointing downward!
+
+A year had added another link to that chain which stretches through
+eternity. A year! Battles lost and won: nations in mourning for their dead:
+ships gone down at sea; and new paths worn to graveyards!
+
+O, for the castles that blow down in a year!
+
+But time fell gently on the inmates of the Old House. The trees and vines
+were a little larger; and winter had somewhat browned the gables. Bell was
+paler and more beautiful, and Mortimer was still the same dreamer.
+
+There was a question which haunted the Old House. It was heard in the
+garden, at "the round window," and on the stair.
+
+"When will father come home?"
+
+The months flew away, like carrier doves, with memories beneath their
+wings.
+
+"When will father come home?"
+
+And the question was asked again and again, till the little lips and heart
+of Bell grew weary. Then she folded her hands, and said:
+
+"He will never come!"
+
+Her blue eyes became more dreamy, and her slight form--so very
+slight--glided about the house. She would listen to the sea. Once she said,
+"Never more!" and the sea repeated it with a human voice. In the still
+night she asked,--
+
+"When will father come home?"
+
+"Never more," said the sea--and she heard it through the open
+window--"Never more!"
+
+She waited, and the months went by.
+
+Was the child Bell the only one in this world waiting?
+
+Who has not some hope at sea? Who has not waited, and watched, and grown
+weary?
+
+Who has not a question in his heart, to which a low spirit-voice replies:
+
+"Never more!"
+
+
+
+
+III.
+
+    _I saw our little Gertrude die:
+    She left off breathing, and no more
+    I smoothed the pillow beneath her head.
+    She was more beautiful than before,
+    Like violets faded were her eyes;
+    By this we knew that she was dead!
+    Through the open window looked the skies
+    Into the chamber where she lay,
+    And the wind was like the sound of wings,
+    As if Angels came to bear her away._
+
+                           THE GOLDEN LEGEND.
+
+III.
+
+SOUL-LAND.
+
+_Autumn and Winter--By the Fireside--Where little Bell is going--Nanny
+sings about Cloe--Bell reads a Poem--The flight of an Angel--The
+Funeral--The good Parson--The two Grave-stones._
+
+
+It was autumn. The wind, with its chilly fingers, picked off the sere
+leaves, and made mounds of them in the garden walks. The boom of the sea
+was heavier, and the pale moon fell oftener on stormy waves than in the
+summer months. Change and decay had come over the face of Earth even as
+they come over the features of one dead. In woods and hollow places vines
+lay rotting, and venturesome buds that dared to bloom on the hem of winter;
+and the winds made wail over the graves of last year's flowers.
+
+Then Winter came--Winter, with its beard of snow--Winter, with its frosty
+breath and icy fingers, turning everything to pearl. The wind whistled odd
+tunes down the chimney; the plum-tree brushed against the house, and the
+hail played a merry tattoo on the window-glass. How the logs blazed in the
+sitting room!
+
+Bell did not leave her room _now_.
+
+Her fairy foot-steps were never heard tripping, nor her voice vibrating
+through the entry in some sweet song. She scarcely ever looked out at the
+window--all was dreary there; besides, she fancied that the wind "looked at
+her." It was in her armchair by the antique fire-place that she was most
+comfortable. She never wearied of watching the pictured tiles; and one,
+representing the infant Christ in the manger, was her favorite. There she
+sat from sunny morn until shadowy twilight, with her delicate hands crossed
+on her lap, while Mortimer read to her. Sometimes she would fix her large,
+thoughtful eyes on the fantastic grouping of the embers at her feet, and
+then she did not hear him reading.
+
+She was wandering in Soul-land.
+
+Heaven's gates are open when the world's are shut. The gates of this world
+were closing on Bell, and her feet were hesitating at the threshold of
+Heaven, waiting only for the mystic word to enter!
+
+Very beautiful Bell was. Her perfect soul could not hide itself in the
+pale, spiritual face. It was visible in her thought and in her eyes. There
+was a world of tender meaning in her smile. The Angel of Patience had
+folded her in its wings, and she was meek, holy. As Mortimer sat by her
+before the evening lamps were lighted, and watched the curious pictures
+which the flickering drift-wood painted on the walls, he knew that she
+could not last till the violets came again. She spoke so gently of death,
+the bridge which spans the darkness between us and Heaven--so softened its
+dark, dreadful outlines, that it seemed as beautiful as a path of flowers
+to the boy and Nanny.
+
+"Death," said Bell one day, "is a folding of the hands to sleep. How quiet
+is death! There is no more yearning, no more waiting in the grave. It comes
+to me pleasantly, the thought that I shall lie under the daisies, God's
+daisies! and the robins will sing over me in the trees. Everything is so
+holy in the church-yard--the moss on the walls, the willows, and the long
+grass that moves in the wind!"
+
+Poor Nanny tried to hum one of her old ditties about Cloe and her lover;
+then suddenly she found something interesting at the window. But it would
+not do. The tears would come, and she knelt down by Bell's side, and
+Bell's little hand fell like a strip of white moonlight on Nanny's hair.
+
+"We shall miss you, darling!" sobbed Mortimer.
+
+"At first, won't you?" and Bell smiled, and who knows what sights she saw
+in the illumined fire-place? Were they pictures of Heaven, little Bell?
+
+"What shall I read to you, pet?" asked Mortimer one morning. She had been
+prattling for an hour in her wise, child-like way, and was more than
+usually bright.
+
+"You shall not read to me at all," replied Bell, chirpingly, "but sit at my
+feet, and _I_ will read to you."
+
+She took a slip of paper from her work-basket, and her voice ran along the
+sweetest lines that the sweetest poet ever wrote. They are from Alfred
+Tennyson's "May Queen."
+
+    "I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,
+    There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet;
+
+    But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,
+    And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.
+
+    All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call;
+    It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
+
+    The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
+    And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul.
+
+    For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;
+    I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;
+
+    With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resigned,
+    And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.
+
+    I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed,
+    And then did something speak to me--I know not what was said;
+
+    For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
+    And up the valley came again the music on the wind.
+
+    But you were sleeping; and I said, 'It's not for them: its mine,'
+    And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign;
+
+    And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,
+    Then seemed to go right up to Heaven, and die among the stars.
+
+    So now I think my time is near--I trust it is. I know
+    The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go;
+
+    And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day,
+    But, Effie, you must comfort _her_ when I am past away;
+
+    And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret--
+    There's many worthier than I would make him happy yet;--
+
+    If I had lived--I cannot tell--I might have been his wife;
+    But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.
+
+    Oh look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;
+    He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know;
+
+    And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine--
+    Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.
+
+    O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done,
+    The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun--
+
+    To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast--
+    And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest!"
+
+When Bell had finished reading, she took Mortimer's hand in her own.
+
+"I shall not die until the violet comes--the beautiful violet, with its
+clouded bell!"
+
+March melted into April--the month of tears! Then came blossoming May, and
+still Bell lingered, like a strain of music so sweet that the echoes will
+not let it die.
+
+One morning in June, the sun with noiseless feet came creeping into the
+room--and Bell was dying. Mortimer was telling her of some sea-side walk,
+when the unseen angel came between them. Bell's voice went from her, her
+heart grew chilly, and she knew that it was death. The boy did not notice
+the change; but when her hand lay cold in his, he looked up with fear. He
+saw her beautiful eyes looking heavenward, and those smiles which wreathe
+the lips of the young after death--the sunset of smiles.
+
+"Bell! Bell! Bell!"
+
+But she did not hear him.
+
+The viewless spirits of flowers came through the open window into the quiet
+room; and the winds, which made the curtains tremble, gently lifted the
+tresses of the sleeping angel. Then the chiming of village bells came and
+went in pulses of soft sound. How musical they were that morning! How the
+robins showered their silvery notes, like rain-drops among the leaves!
+There was holy life in everything--the lilac-scented atmosphere, the
+brooks, the grass, and the flowers that lay budding on the bosom of
+delicious June! And thus it was, in the exquisite spring-time, that the
+hand of death led little Bell into Soul-land.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+One afternoon, the blinds were turned down: not a ray of light stole
+through them, only the spicy air. There was something solemn stalking in
+the entries, and all through the house. It seemed as if there was a corpse
+in every room.
+
+The way the chairs were placed, the darkened parlor, the faded flowers on
+the mantel-piece, and the brooding silence said it--said that Bell was
+dead!
+
+Yes! In the little parlor she lay, in her white shroud. Bell? No; it was
+_not_ Bell. It was only the beautiful robe which her spirit in its flight
+had cast aside!
+
+There was a moving of feet to and fro. Gradually, the room became full of
+forms. The village parson stood among them. His hair had the white touch of
+age, and his heart knew the chastening hand of God. "Exceeding peace" was
+written on his meek face. He lifted up his soul on the arms of prayer. He
+spoke of the dead, whose life had been as pure as a new snow. He spoke
+cheerfully and tenderly, and sometimes smiled, for his
+
+    "Faith was large in Time,
+    And that which shapes it to some perfect end."
+
+He had drank at the fountain of God's word; his soul had been refreshed,
+and his were not the lips to preach the doctrine of an endless wail. He
+knew that there are many mansions in our Father's house; and he said that
+Bell was happier there than here. He glanced back upon her infant days, and
+ran along the various threads of her life, to the moment death disentangled
+them from the world. "This little one in her shroud," he said, "is an
+eloquent sermon. She passed through the dark valley without fear; and sits,
+like Mary, at the feet of our Saviour." Of this life, he said: "It is but
+an imperfect prelude to the next." Of death: "It is only a brief sleep:
+some sunny morning we shall wake up with the child Bell, and find ourselves
+in Heaven!"
+
+The coffin was closed, and the train passed through the gravelled walk.
+
+Then came that dull, heavy sound of earth falling on the coffin-lid, which
+makes one's heart throb. Did you ever hear it?
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+When Bell had been a year in Heaven, a plain head-stone was placed over
+Nanny. She lingered only a little while after her darling. She folded her
+arms and fell asleep one summer twilight, and never again opened her kind
+old eyes on this world. Age had weakened her frame, and the parting of soul
+and body was only the severing of a fragile cord.
+
+Mortimer did not remain long in the old house; its light and pleasantness
+had passed away. The little stock of money which his father had left
+previous to his last voyage, was exhausted; he could earn nothing in the
+village. His early dream of the great city came over him again. He yearned
+for its ceaseless excitement, its grandeur--he never thought of its misery,
+its sin and pollution. Through the length of one July night he lay awake in
+bed, while his eyes were like kaleidoscopes, taking a thousand arabesque
+forms and fancies. Toward morning he fell asleep, having built some
+fall-down castles in the air. The next day he took a last, lingering look
+at the old rooms; a last ramble on the sea-shore; he sat an hour under the
+braided branches of the cherry trees, gave a parting look at the white caps
+of the sea, and turned his eyes to the city in the dim distance--the great
+city-ocean, with no one to point out to him its sunken reefs, its
+quicksands, and maelstroms.
+
+Next to Bell's grave he placed a simple tablet to the memory of his father.
+
+"This sod does not enfold him," said Mortimer to himself; "but it will be
+pleasant for me to think, when I am far away, that their names are near
+together."
+
+So he left them in the quiet church-yard at Ivyton--left them sleeping
+among the thick musk-roses, in the warm sunshine; and the same berylline
+moss was creeping over the two mounds. One head-stone said "LITTLE BELL,"
+and the other:
+
+  SACRED
+  TO THE MEMORY
+  OF
+  OUR FATHER,
+  LOST AT SEA,
+  18--.
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+    _The Almighty Dollar._
+
+                             WASHINGTON IRVING.
+
+    _The age is dull and mean. Men creep,
+    Not walk; with blood too pale and tame
+    To pay the debt they owe to shame;
+    Buy cheap, sell dear; eat, drink, and sleep
+    Down-pillowed, deaf to moaning want;
+    Pay tithes for soul-insurance; keep
+    Six days to Mammon, one to Cant._
+
+                                J. G. WHITTIER.
+
+    _Every one is as God made him, and oftentimes
+    A great deal worse._
+
+                           MIGUEL DE CERVANTES.
+
+IV.
+
+A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY.
+
+    _Down Town--Messrs. Flint & Snarle--Tim, the Office Boy, and the pale
+    Book-Keeper--The Escritoire--The Purloined Package--Mr. Flint goes
+    Home--Midnight--Miss Daisy Snarle--The Poor Author._
+
+
+In one of those thousand and one vein-like streets which cross and recross
+the mercantile heart of Gotham, is situated a red brick edifice, which,
+like the beggar who solicits your charity in the Park, has seen better
+days.
+
+In the time of our Knickerbocker sires, it was an aristocratic dwelling
+fronting on a fashionable street, and "Jeems," in green livery, opened the
+hall door. The street was a quiet, orderly street in those days--a certain
+air of conscious respectability hung about it. Sometimes a private
+cabriolet rolled augustly along; and of summer evenings the city beaux,
+with extraordinary shoe-buckles, might have been seen promenading the
+grass-fringed sidewalks. To-day it is a miasmatic, miserable, muddy
+thoroughfare. Your ears are startled by the "Extray 'rival of the 'Rabia,"
+and the omnibuses dash through the little confined street with a perfect
+madness. Instead of the white-kidded, be-ruffled gallants of Eld, you meet
+a hurrying throng of pale, anxious faces, with tare, tret and speculation
+in their eyes.
+
+It is a business street, for Mammon has banished Fashion to the golden
+precincts of Fifth Avenue. The green of Jeems' livery is, like himself,
+invisible. He has departed this life--gone, like Hiawatha, to the Land of
+the Hereafter--to the land of spirits, where we can conceive him to be in
+his element; but he has a "town residence" in an obscure graveyard, with
+his name and "recommendation" on a stone door-plate. His mundane superiors
+are reclining beneath the shadow of St. Paul's steeple, where they are
+regaled with some delectable music (if you would only think so) from the
+balcony of the Museum opposite, and have the combined benefit of Barnum's
+scenic-artist and the Drummond light.
+
+The massive door-plate, and highly polished, distorted knocker, no longer
+grace the oaken panels of number 85; but a republican sign over the
+family-looking doorway tells you that "the front room, second floor," is
+occupied by Messrs. Flint & Snarle. After passing up a flight of broad,
+uncarpeted stairs, you again see the name of that respectable firm painted
+on a light of ground glass set in the office door. Once on the other side
+of that threshold, you breathe mercantile air. There have been so many
+brain-trying interest calculations worked out on those high desks, that the
+very atmosphere, figuratively speaking, is mathematical.
+
+The sign should not read Flint & Snarle, for Snarle has been dead six
+months, and it is not pleasant to contemplate a name without an owner--it
+is not to every one, but Mr. Flint likes to read the sign, and think that
+Snarle is dead. He was the reverse of Flint, and that his name should have
+been _Snarle_ at all is odd, for in life he was the quintessence of
+quietness, and the oil of good nature. But Flint is well named; he is
+chalcedony at heart. Nobody says this, but everybody knows it. Nell, the
+pretty match-girl, who sells her wares in Wall-street, never approaches
+him, nor the newsboys; and blind men, with sagacious, half-fed dogs, steer
+clear of him by instinct. _He_ doesn't tolerate paupers, and Italian
+hand-organs with monkey accompaniments--not he.
+
+The man who has not as much money as the surviving senior of Flint &
+Snarle, is a dog--in Flint's distinguished estimation. His God is not that
+divine Presence, whose thought
+
+           "Shaped the world,
+    And laid it in the sunbeams."
+
+Flint's God is Gold.--
+
+    "Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
+    Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
+    Molten, graven, hammered and rolled;
+    Heavy to get, and light to hold;
+    Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold;
+    Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled;
+    Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old
+    To the very verge of the church-yard mould;
+    Price of many a crime untold:
+    Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!"
+
+Flint is about fifty-three years of age; but if you could forget his gray
+hair, and look only at those small, piercing black eyes, you would hardly
+think him forty. His black dress-coat is buttoned around his somewhat
+attenuated form, and he wears a stiff white cravat because it looks
+religious. In this respect, and perhaps in others, you will find Flint's
+prototype on every corner--people who look religious, if religion can be
+associated with the aspect of an undertaker.
+
+It is Monday morning.
+
+Mr. Flint sits in his private office reading the letters. There is a window
+cut in the wall, and he glances through it now and then, eyeing the
+book-keeper as if the poor careworn fellow were making false entries. On a
+high consumptive-looking stool sits the office boy, filing away answered
+letters and sundry bills paid. The stool seems so high and the boy so
+small, that he at once suggests some one occupying a dangerous position--at
+a mast-head or on the golden ball of a church-steeple. For thus risking his
+life, he receives "thirty dollars per year, _and_ clothing." We like to
+have forgotten that. The said clothing consists of one white cravat full of
+hinges, and a dilapidated coat, twelve sizes too large for him, his widowed
+mother supplying the deficiency.
+
+Save the monotonous ticking of a thick-set, croupy clock, and the nervous
+scratching of pens, not a sound is heard.
+
+Mr. Flint in deep thought, with his thumbs lost in the arm-holes of a white
+vest, paces up and down his limited sanctum, just as a thoughtful-eyed,
+velvet-mouthed leopard walks its confined cage, only waiting for a chance
+to put its paws on somebody. The stool on which the boy is sitting is a
+rickety concern, and its creakings annoy Mr. Flint, who comes out, and
+looks over the orphan's shoulder. If his lynx eyes discover a document
+incorrectly filed, he pinches the delinquent's ears, till he (the orphan)
+is as red in the face as an August sunset. Mr. Flint chuckles when he gets
+back to his desk, and seems to enjoy it immensely, for he drums out an
+exhilarating dead march with his long, wiry fingers on the cover of the
+letter-book. The pale book-keeper--his hair and eyes are darker than when
+we first saw him sitting with little Bell at "the round window" in the Old
+House--continues to write assiduously; and the orphan thinks that he hears
+fire-bells, his ears ring so.
+
+He's an unfortunate atom of humanity, that office-boy. He was never young.
+He never passed through the degrading cycles of infancy--never had any
+marbles or hoops: _his_ limbs were never ignominiously confined by those
+"triangular arrangements" incidental to babyhood. At five, when other
+children are bumping their heads over steep stairs, he smoked cinnamon
+segars, and was a precocious, astute little villain at seven. For
+thirty-six months he folded books for Harper & Brothers, and at the
+advanced age of ten years three months, was bound over to the tender
+mercies of Flint & Snarle for "thirty dollars per year _and_ clothing," (so
+the indentures read;) but as he is charged with all the inkstands
+demolished during the term, and one gross of imaginary lead pencils, he
+generally has about twenty-five dollars to his credit on the 1st of
+January, which Flint generously offers to keep for him at four per cent.
+interest, and which offer the ungrateful orphan "firmly but respectfully"
+declines.
+
+"Mortimer!" cries Mr. Flint, in a quick, snarly voice from the inner
+office.
+
+The book-keeper lays down the pen which he has just dipped in the ink, and
+disappears in the little room. Mr. Flint is turning over the leaves of the
+invoice book.
+
+"In thirteen pages there are no less than two blots and five erasures. You
+have grown careless in your penmanship lately;" and Mr. Flint closes the
+book with a report like that of a pocket-pistol, and opens it again. One
+would suppose the office-boy to be shot directly through the heart; but he
+survives, and is attacked with a wonderful fit of industry.
+
+"Do you write in your sleep?" inquires Mr. Flint, with a quiet insolence.
+
+Mortimer thinks how often he has toiled over those same pages at hours when
+he should have been sleeping--hours taken from his life. But he makes no
+reply. He only bites his lips, and lets his eyes flash. Suddenly a thought
+strikes him, and, bending over Mr. Flint's shoulder, as if to examine more
+closely his careless chirography, he takes a small key from an open drawer
+in the _escritoire_ behind him, and drops it into his vest-pocket. After
+receiving a petulant reprimand, Mortimer returns to his desk; and again
+that weary, weary pen scratches over the paper.
+
+After the bank deposit is made up, and Mr. Flint looks over the bill-book,
+and startles the orphan from a state of semi-somnolency, he goes on
+'Change. He is no sooner out, than Mortimer throws Tim a bit of silver
+coin.
+
+"Get some apples for yourself, Tim."
+
+Tim (he's small of his age) slides down from the high stool with agility,
+while his two eyes look like interrogation points. He is wondering at this
+sudden outbreak of munificence, for though "Mr. Mortimer" always had a kind
+word for Tim, and tried to extricate him from the web of mistakes which Tim
+was forever spinning around himself, yet Tim never knew him to come down
+with the "block tin" before, as he eloquently expressed it; and he looks at
+Mortimer all the time he is getting his cap, and pauses a moment at the
+door to see if he doesn't repent.
+
+When Tim's feet cease sounding on the stairs, Mortimer goes into the back
+office, and with the key which he had taken from the drawer, unlocks a
+small iron hand-safe. His trembling fingers turn over package after
+package; at last he finds one which seems to be the object of his search.
+This he hastily conceals in the bosom of his coat. After carefully
+re-locking the safe, he approaches the _escritoire_ to return the purloined
+key, but to his dismay he finds the drawer locked. The one above it,
+however, is unfastened. Drawing this out, he places the key in its right
+compartment.
+
+Mortimer, in searching for the paper which he has hidden in his bosom, had
+removed several others from the safe; but in his nervousness he had
+neglected to replace a small morocco case. He discovers his negligence, and
+hears foot-falls on the stairs at the same moment. There is no time to
+re-open the chest: he wraps the case in his handkerchief, and resumes his
+place at the desk.
+
+Tim returns munching the remains of a gigantic apple, and bearing about him
+a convicting smell of peanuts. Suddenly Mr. Flint enters, and Tim is
+necessitated to swallow the core of his russet without that usual
+preparatory mastication which nature's kindly law suggests. Mr. Flint has
+made a capital bargain on 'Change, and his face is lighted up with a smile,
+if fancy can coax such an expression into one. It looks like a gas-light in
+an undertaker's window.
+
+It is five o'clock. Mr. Flint goes home to doze over a diminutive glass of
+sherry. He holds it up between his eyes and the light, smiling to see the
+liquid jewels, and wishes that they were real rubies. Flint! they are red
+tears, and not jewels which glisten in your glass, for you crushed the
+poor, and took advantage of the unfortunate to buy this pleasant blood
+which pulses in your brittle chalice!
+
+That night he thought of a pair of blue, innocent eyes which once looked
+pleadingly in his--of two tiny arms that were once wound fondly around his
+neck. Those eyes haunted him into the misty realm of dreams, where myriads
+of little arms were stretched out to him; and he turned restlessly on his
+pillow. Ah, Flint, there is an invisible and powerful spirit in the heart
+of every man that _will_ speak. It whispers to the criminal in his cell;
+and the downy pillows and sumptuous drapery around the couch of Wealth
+cannot keep it away at midnight.
+
+There is not a house but has its skeleton. There is a ghastly one in
+Flint's.
+
+The silvery lips in Trinity steeple chime the hour of eleven; St. Paul's
+catch it up, and hosts of belfrys toss the hour to and fro like a
+shuttle-cork. Then the goblin bells hush themselves to sleep again in their
+dizzy nests, murmuring, murmuring!--and the pen of the pale book-keeper
+keeps time with the ticking of the office time-piece.
+
+It is nearly twelve o'clock when he reaches the door of a common two-story
+house in Marion-street. The door is opened before he can turn the bolt with
+his night-key, and the whitest possible little hand presses his. He draws
+it within his own, and places his arm around the daintiest little waist
+that ever submitted to the operation. Then the two enter the front parlor,
+where the dim light falls on Mortimer and a beautiful girl on the verge of
+womanhood. She looks into his face, and his lips touch a tress of chestnut
+hair which has fallen over his shoulder.
+
+"You are very pale. Have you been unwell to-day?"
+
+"No, Daisy," and he bends down and kisses her.
+
+"Why do you persist in sitting up for me? I shall scold if you spoil your
+cheeks. Kiss me, Daisy."
+
+The girl pouts, and declares she won't, as she coquettishly twines her arms
+around his neck, and Mortimer has such a kiss as all Flint's bank stock
+could not buy him--a pure, earnest kiss. He was rich, poor in the world's
+eye, richer than Flint, with his corpulent money bags, God pity him!
+
+They sit a long while without speaking. Mortimer breaks the silence.
+
+"We are very poor, Daisy."
+
+"Yes, but happy."
+
+"Sometimes. To-night I am not; I am weary of this daily toiling. The world
+is not a workshop to wear out souls in. Man has perverted its use. Life,
+and thought, and brain, are but crucibles to smelt gold in. Nobleness is
+made the slave of avarice, just as a pure stream is taught to turn a
+mill-wheel and become foul and muddied. The rich are scornful, and the poor
+sorrowful. O, Daisy, such things should not be! My heart beats when I think
+how poorly you and your mother are living."
+
+"O, how much we owe you, Mortimer! you are selling your life for us. From
+morning till night, day after day, you have been our slave. Poor, dear
+Mortimer, how can we thank you? We can only give you love and prayers. You
+will not let me help you. Last night, when you found me embroidering a
+collar, a bit of work which Mrs. Potiphar had kindly given me, you
+pleasantly cut it in pieces with your pen-knife, and then pawned your gold
+pencil to pay for ruining Mrs. Potiphar's muslin--too proud to have me
+work!"
+
+"Why will you pain me, darling? I was complaining for others, not myself. I
+do not toil as thousands do. I am impulsive and irascible, and do not mean
+all I say. I am ungrateful; my heart should be full of gratitude to-night,
+for the cloud which has hung over me the last six months has shown its
+silver lining."
+
+"What do you mean?" cries Daisy.
+
+"Do you know that you are an heiress?" asks Mortimer, gaily.
+
+Daisy laughs at the idea, and mockingly says, "Yes."
+
+"An heiress to a good name, Daisy! which is better than purple, and linen,
+and fine gold."
+
+Daisy looks mystified, but forbears to question him, for he complains of
+sleep. The lovers part at the head of the stairs. Mortimer, on reaching his
+room, draws a paper from his bosom; he weeps over it, reads it again and
+again; then he holds it in the flame of a candle. When the ashes have
+fallen at his feet, he exclaims:
+
+"I have kept my promise, Harvey Snarle! Peace to your memory!"
+
+From a writing-desk in a corner of the room he takes a pile of manuscript,
+and weary as he is, adds several pages to it. The dream of his boyhood has
+grown with him--that delightful dream of authorship! How this
+will-o'-the-wisp of the brain entices one into mental fogs! How it coaxes
+and pets one, cheats and ruins one! And so that appalling pile of
+closely-written manuscript is Mortimer's romance? Wasted hours and wasted
+thought--who would buy or read it?
+
+A down-town clock strikes the hour of two so gently, that it sounds like
+the tinkling of sheep-bells coming through the misty twilight air from the
+green meadows. With which felicitous simile we will give our hero a little
+sleep, after having kept him up two hours after midnight.
+
+Slumber touches his eyelids gently; but Daisy lies awake for hours; at
+last, falling into a trouble sleep, she dreams that she is an heiress.
+
+Oh, Daisy Snarle!
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+    _The bitter cups of Death are mixed,
+    And we must drink and drink again._
+
+                         R. H. STODDARD.
+
+V.
+
+DAISY SNARLE.
+
+    _Sunday Morning--Harvey Snarle and Mortimer--A Tale of Sorrow--The
+    Snow-child--Mortimer takes Daisy's hand--Snarle's death._
+
+
+Six months previous to the commencement of the last chapter, Mr. Harvey
+Snarle lay dying, slowly, in a front room of the little house in
+Marion-street.
+
+It was Sunday morning.
+
+The church bells were ringing--speaking with musical lips to "ye goode
+folk," and chiming a sermon to the pomp and pride of the city. As Mortimer
+sat by the window, the houses opposite melted before his vision; and again
+he saw the old homestead buried in a world of leaves--heard the lapping of
+the sea, and a pleasant chime of bells from the humble church at Ivytown.
+And more beautiful than all, was a child with clouds of golden hair,
+wandering up and down the sea-shore.
+
+"Mortimer?" said the sick man.
+
+Then the dream melted, and the common-looking brick buildings came back
+again.
+
+"The doctor thought I could not live?" said the man, inquiringly.
+
+"He thought there was little hope," replied Mortimer. "But doctors are not
+fortune-tellers," he added, cheerfully.
+
+"I feel that he is right--little hope. Where is Daisy?"
+
+"She has lain down for a moment. Shall I call her?"
+
+"Wearied! Poor angel; she watched me last night. I did not sleep much. I
+closed my eyes, and she smiled to think that I was slumbering quietly. No;
+do not call her."
+
+After a pause, the sick man said:
+
+"Wet my lips, I have something to tell you."
+
+Mortimer moistened his feverish lips, and sat on the bed-side.
+
+"It comes over me," said the consumptive.
+
+"What? That pain?"
+
+"No; my life. There is something drearier than death in the world."
+
+"Sometimes life," thought Mortimer, half aloud.
+
+The sick man looked at him.
+
+"Why did you say that?"
+
+"I thought it. Life is a bitter gift sometimes. An ambition or a passion
+possess us, flatters and mocks us. Death is not so dreary a thing as life
+then."
+
+"He felt that."
+
+"Who?"
+
+"The devil."
+
+"His mind is wandering," murmured Mortimer--"wandering."
+
+"It isn't," said Snarle, slowly. "A passion, a love, made Flint's life
+bitter."
+
+"Flint! Did he ever love anything but gold?"
+
+"Yes; but it was long ago! We are cousins. We were schoolmates and friends,
+sharing our boyish sports and troubles with that confiding friendship which
+leaves us in our teens. We lived together. I can see the old white frame
+house at Hampton Falls!" and the man passed his emaciated hand over his
+eyes, as if to wipe out some unpleasant picture. "A niece of my father's
+came to spend a winter with us. Young men's thoughts run to love. I could
+but love her, she was so beautiful and good; and while she did a thousand
+kind things to win my affection, she took a strange aversion to my cousin
+Flint, who grew rude and impetuous. We were married. But long before that,
+Flint packed up his little trunk, and, without a word of farewell, left us
+one night for a neighboring city. Years went by, and from time to time
+tidings reached us of his prosperity and growing wealth. We were proud of
+his industry, and thought of him kindly. We, too, were prospering. But the
+tide of our fortune changed. My father's affairs and mine became
+complicated. He died, and the farm was sold. One day I stood at Flint's
+office door, and asked for employment. Evil day! better for me if I had
+toiled in the fields from morning till night, wringing a reluctant
+livelihood from the earth, which is even more human than Flint. Wet my
+lips, boy, and come near to me, that I may tell you how I became his slave;
+softly, so the air may not hear me."
+
+Mortimer drew nearer to him.
+
+"It was a hard winter for the poor. My darling wife was suffering from the
+mere want of proper medicines and food. I asked Flint for a little more
+than the pitiable salary which he allowed me. He smiled, and said that I
+was extravagant. We had not clothes enough to shield us from the cold! I
+told him that my wife was sick; and he replied, bitterly, 'poor men should
+not have wives.' Wet my lips again. Can you love me, boy, after what I
+shall tell you? I forged a check for a trivial amount!" and Snarle's voice
+sunk to a hoarse whisper. "Can you love me?"
+
+"Can I love you?" cried Mortimer. He could not see the sick man for his
+tears. "Can I forget all your kindness. Years ago, when I was a mere child,
+toiling early and late in Flint's office, did you not take me to your home,
+a poor hope-broken boy? Have I not grown up with Daisy, like your own
+child? Not love you?"
+
+Mortimer laid his face on the same pillow with the sick man's.
+
+"I was not sent to prison," continued Snarle, with a shudder; "only my own
+mind, and soul, and actions were prisoners. I was Flint's! Flint owned me!
+That little paper which he guards so carefully is the title-deed. O,
+Mortimer, as you hold my memory dear, destroy that paper--tear it, burn it,
+trample it out of the world!"
+
+With these words Snarle sank back upon the pillow, from which he had half
+risen. He went on speaking in a lower tone:
+
+"I have suffered so much that I am sure God will forgive me. Never let the
+world know--never let my wife and Daisy know that I was a----"
+
+"O, I will promise you, dear father," cried Mortimer, before he could
+finish the dreadful word. "I will destroy the paper, though twenty Flints
+guarded it. The man who steals a loaf of bread for famishing lips, is not
+such a criminal in God's sight as he who steals a million times its value
+by _law_ to feed his avarice. Think no more of it. The angel who records in
+his book, has written a hundred good deeds over that unfortunate one. The
+world's frown is not God's frown, and His heart is open when man's is
+barred with unforgiveness."
+
+"Thank you, thank you," said Snarle, brightening up a little. "Your words
+give me comfort. I have not much more to tell. Flint took me into the firm,
+but I was the same slave. I worked, and worked, and the reapings were his.
+You have seen it--you know it. And this was his revenge. His wounded love
+and pride have wrecked themselves on me. He has never crossed the threshold
+of our door--never laid his eyes on my wife since the time when we were
+thoughtless boys together. O, how cruel he has been to me! Evening after
+evening, in midwinter, he has made me bring the last editions of the
+_Express_ to his house, and never asked me in!"
+
+This was said with such a ludicrous expression, that Mortimer would have
+laughed if it had been anybody but poor Snarle. Exhausted with talking, the
+sick man sank into a quiet slumber.
+
+Mortimer sat by his bed-side for an hour, watching the change of
+expressions in the sleeper's face--the shadow of his dreams coming and
+going! Then his head drooped upon his bosom, and he slept so soundly that
+he did not know that Daisy came in the room, and stood beside him, looking
+in his face with her fond, quiet eyes.
+
+When he awoke, one long dark shadow from the houses opposite slanted into
+the apartment.
+
+Snarle was looking at him.
+
+"I have been asleep," said Snarle, "and have had such pleasant thoughts
+that it is painful to find myself in this poor little world again. Ah, me,
+what will wife and Daisy do in it all alone?"
+
+"Not alone," said Mortimer. "I will watch over them--love them." Then,
+after a pause: "Father, I love Daisy--I would make her my wife."
+
+"Ah, I wished that; but I did not think it:" and Snarle paused a moment.
+"Have you told Daisy so?"
+
+"Yes--but----"
+
+"Well," said Snarle, waiting.
+
+"But she does not love me; and that is why I said love would make life
+bitter."
+
+"Perhaps she does."
+
+"No."
+
+"What did Daisy say?"
+
+"She said there were clouds in the morning of her life--(these were her own
+words)--which had no sunshine in them. Then she called me brother and
+kissed me, and told me that I must never think of her as my wife. She would
+be my sister always. And when I speak to her of this, she turns away or
+hums a pleasant air to mock me."
+
+"She is not our child, Mortimer."
+
+"What?"
+
+"No, I am not wandering," said Snarle, in reply to Mortimer's look. "She is
+not our child. We adopted her under strange circumstances. I have not told
+you this before. Daisy did not wish me to; but it is right that you should
+know it now. Sit nearer to me."
+
+Mortimer obeyed mechanically.
+
+"One stormy night we were sitting, my wife and I, in the room below. I
+remember as if it were yesterday, how the wind slammed the window-blinds,
+and blew out the street-lamps. It was just a year ago that night we lost
+our little Maye, and we were very sad. We sat in silence, while without the
+storm increased. The hail and snow dashed against the window-panes, and
+down the chimney. Every now and then the wind lulled, and everything was
+still."
+
+Heaven knows why Mr. Snarle ceased speaking just then; but he did, and
+seemed lost in reverie.
+
+"What was I saying?"
+
+"You were speaking of the storm."
+
+"Yes, yes. It was in one of those pauses of the wind that we heard a low
+sob under our windows. We did not heed it at first, for sometimes a storm
+moans like a human voice. It came again so distinctly as to leave no doubt.
+I opened the hall-door, and groped about in the snow. When I returned to
+the sitting-room, I held little Daisy in my arms. She was no larger than
+our Maye who died--our little three-year-old. The child was half frozen,
+and nothing but a coarse cloak thrown over her night-dress, had saved her
+from perishing. I reported the circumstance at the police-station, but such
+things were of too common occurrence to excite much interest. Weeks passed,
+and then months, and no one answered the advertisements. At last we had
+learned to love the child so dearly, that we dreaded the thought of parting
+with it. I asked and obtained permission to adopt the pet, and so Daisy
+became ours. She is very proud, and the mystery of her birth troubles her;
+and this----"
+
+Before Snarle could finish the sentence, Daisy herself opened the room
+door, and came tripping up to the bed-side.
+
+Mortimer took her hand very quietly.
+
+"Daisy," he said, "I love you."
+
+Daisy hid her face in the pillow.
+
+"He has told me everything, and I love you, Daisy!"
+
+Daisy looked up with the tears and sunshine of April in her eyes.
+
+"Do you love me?" he asked.
+
+The girl was silent for a moment, then a sweet little "yes" budded on her
+lips.
+
+Then Mortimer kissed Daisy, and poor Snarle died happy; for that evening
+his life-stream ebbed with the tide, and mingled with that ocean which is
+forever and forever.
+
+                            REQUIESCAT IN PACE.
+
+
+
+
+VI.
+
+    _A lone ship sailing on the sea:
+    Before the north 'twas driven like a cloud;
+    High on the poop a man sat mournfully:
+    The wind was whistling through mast and shroud,
+    And to the whistling wind thus did he sing aloud._
+
+                                    SMITH'S "BARBARA."
+
+VI.
+
+THE PHANTOM AT SEA.
+
+    _A Storm in the Tropics--The Lone Ship--The Man at the Wheel--How he
+    sang strange Songs--The Apparition--The Drifting Bark._
+
+
+The blood-red sun had gone down into the Atlantic. Faint purple streaks
+streamed up the western horizon, like the fingers of some great shadowy
+hand clutching at the world.
+
+Huge masses of dark, agate-looking clouds were gathering in the zenith, and
+the heavy, close atmosphere told the coming of a storm. Now and then the
+snaky lightning darted across the heavens and coiled itself away in a
+cloud.
+
+A lone ship stood almost motionless in the twilight.
+
+The sails were close-reefed. Here and there on the forecastle were groups
+of lazy-looking seamen; and a man walked the quarter-deck, glancing
+anxiously aloft. The sea was as smooth as a mirror, and that dreadful
+stillness was in the air which so often preludes a terrific storm in the
+tropics. A rumbling was heard in the sky like the sound of distant
+artillery, or heavy bodies of water falling from immense heights.
+
+Then the surface of the sea was broken by mimic waves tipped with froth,
+and the vast expanse seemed like a prairie in a snow fall.
+
+The lightning became more frequent and vivid, and the thunder seemed
+breaking on the very topmasts of the vessel. Then the starless night sunk
+down on the ocean, and the sea raved in the gathering darkness. The storm
+was at its height: the wind,
+
+    "Through unseen sluices of the air,"
+
+tore the shrouds to strings, and bent the dizzy, tapering masts till they
+threatened to snap. But the bark bore bravely through it, while the huge
+waves seemed bearing her down to those coral labyrinths, where nothing goes
+
+    "But doth suffer a sea-change
+    Into something rich and strange."
+
+The thunder sent forth peal after peal, and the heaven was like "a looming
+bastion fringed with fire." On through the slanting rain sped the ship,
+creaking and groaning, with its ribs warped and its great oaken spine
+trembling. The sailors on deck clung to the bulwarks; and below not a soul
+could sleep, for the thunder and the creaking of cordage filled their ears.
+
+At midnight the storm abated; but the sea still ran dangerously high, and
+the wind sobbed through the rigging mournfully. The heaven was spangled
+with tremulous stars, and at the horizon the clouds hung down in gossamer
+folds--God's robe trailing in the sea!
+
+Toward morning the waves grew suddenly calm, as if they had again heard
+that voice which of old said, "Peace, be still!" There was no one above
+decks, save the man at the wheel, who ever and anon muttered to himself, or
+hummed bits of poetry. He was a man in the mellow of life, in the Indian
+summer of manhood, which comes a little while before one falls "into the
+sere and yellow leaf." Once he must have been eminently handsome; but there
+were furrows on his intellectual forehead not traced by time's fingers. His
+eyes were peculiarly wild and restless.
+
+The slightest tinge of red fringed the East, and as the man watched it
+grow deeper and deeper, he sang snatches of those odd sea-songs which
+Shakespeare scatters through his plays:
+
+    "The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,
+      The gunner and his mate,
+    Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian and Margary,
+      But none of us cared for Kate.
+    For she had a tongue with a twang,
+    Would cry to a sailor, go hang!
+      She loved not the savor of tar or of pitch,--
+    Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!"
+
+Then his sonorous voice rang out these quaint words to the night:
+
+    "Full fathom five thy father lies:
+      Of his bones are coral made:
+    Those are pearls that were his eyes:
+      Nothing of him that doth fade--"
+
+He abruptly broke off, and commenced:
+
+    "Break, break, break
+      On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
+    And I would that my tongue could utter
+      The thoughts that arise in me.
+
+    O, well for the fisherman's boy,
+      That he shouts with his sister at play!
+    O, well for the sailor lad,
+      That he sings in his boat on the bay!
+
+    And the stately ships go on,
+      To the haven under the hill;
+    But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand,
+      And the sound of a voice that is still!
+
+    Break, break, break,
+      At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
+    But the tender grace of a day that is dead
+      Will never come back to me."
+
+Suddenly he paused, while a paleness like death overspread his face; the
+spokes of the wheel slipped from his hold, and he called for help; but the
+wind went moaning through the shrouds, and drowned his voice. The sea
+moaned and the ship drifted with the wind.
+
+"It comes again!" he cried; "the graveyard face! Go! I cannot bear those
+sad, reproachful eyes--those arms outstretched, asking mercy! Send foul
+fiends to torture me, and make my dreams hideous nightmares, but not this
+beautiful form to mock me with its purity, and kill me with its mild
+reproach. It has gone. But it will come again! It steals on me in the awful
+hours of night, when the air seems supernatural, and the mind is accessible
+to fear. It stood by my hammock last night; my conscious soul looked
+through my closed eyelids, and sleep felt its dreadful presence. If it
+comes again I will throw myself into the sea! Hush!" he whispered, "it
+stands by the cabin door, so pale! so pale! Come not near me, pensive
+ghost. Give me help, somebody! help! help!"
+
+He sunk down by the wheel.
+
+The stars, at the approach of morning, had grown as white as pond-lilies,
+and the wind had died away; but the same moan came up from the sea. On in
+the morning twilight drifted the ship for an hour, without a helmsman, save
+that unseen hand which guides all things--which balances with equal love
+and tenderness a dew-drop or a world.
+
+
+
+
+VII.
+
+    _I was not always a man of woe._
+
+                       WALTER SCOTT.
+
+VII.
+
+IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN.
+
+    _Mr. Flint sips vino d'oro--The Stranger--The Letter--Mr. Flint
+    Outwitted--Mr. Flint's Photograph--The Madman's Story--The wrecked
+    Soul--How Mr. Flint is troubled by his Conscience, and dreams of a
+    Pair of Eyes._
+
+
+The same night on which Mortimer was writing in the books of Flint &
+Snarle, Mr. Flint sat in the library of his bachelor home, sipping a glass
+of _vino d'oro_; and as the bells of Trinity Church fell faintly on his
+ear, he drew a massive gold watch from his fob, and, patting it
+complacently on the back, scrutinized its face as if he would look it out
+of countenance. Then he yawned a couple of times and thought of bed.
+
+"There's a gintleman without, sur," said Michel, putting his comical head
+in at the library door, "there's a gintleman without, sur," and he
+emphasized the 'gintleman.'
+
+"What sort of a person, Michel?"
+
+"A very quare one indade. 'Is Mr. Flint in?' sez he. 'He is sur,' sez I. 'I
+want to see him,' sez he. 'Your kard, sur,' sez I. He stared at me a minit,
+and laughed. Then, sez he, without the least riverence for your worship,
+'Give this _to owld Flint_!'" And Michel, exploding with laughter, handed
+Flint a knave of clubs very much soiled.
+
+"Michel!" said Mr. Flint, drawing himself up to his full altitude, "kick
+him down the steps!"
+
+"Thanks!" said a voice directly behind Michel, who had retreated to the
+doorway. The voice was so near and unexpected that Michel's crisp hair
+stood on end with fright.
+
+The door was thrown wide open, and a fine looking man, with the bearing of
+a sailor, stood between them. Mr. Flint turned as white as his immaculate
+shirt-bosom; and Michel, whose love of fun had got the better of his scare,
+regarded the intruder with a quizzical, inquiring air, peculiarly Irish.
+
+"Michel," said Mr. Flint, "you may go."
+
+That gentleman, not expecting such an order, hesitated.
+
+"Yes, sur."
+
+"Michel," said the stranger, "your master speaks to you."
+
+"Sure I heard him, sur."
+
+Michel left the room and carefully closed the door after him; but Flint,
+who knew his inquiring proclivities, opened it suddenly, and found Michel
+on all fours with his ear to the key-hole. The door was opened so
+unexpectedly that the listener did not discover the fact for the space of
+ten seconds. When he looked up and beheld his master, the intense
+expression of his face was superbly ludicrous. To say that he shot to the
+subterranean regions of the kitchen like a flash of lightning, does not
+border on fiction.
+
+The man laughed--it was a low, peculiar laugh, sadder than some men's
+tears.
+
+"Flint!"
+
+"Well."
+
+"Are you glad to see me?" and the man repeated his laugh.
+
+"No: you are a devil!"
+
+"I have been away three years, as I promised you."
+
+"Well, what do you want?"
+
+"Money."
+
+"Have I ever seen you when you did not?"
+
+"No, Flint, you never did. But you saw me once when I had an unstained
+soul--when I could have looked up to Heaven and said, 'I am poor, Father,
+but I am honest.' Have you enough money to pay for a lost soul? Oh Flint,
+I am a wrecked man! If it had only been murder--if I had killed _a man_ in
+the heat of passion--but a poor innocent babe in the cold snow! The child!
+the little babe! Ah, Flint, I never see the white snow coming down but I
+think of it. Those eyes are always with me. They follow me out to sea. They
+haunt me in the long watches. One night, when a storm had torn our rigging
+to tatters, and we heard the breakers on the lee-shore, I saw her standing
+by the binnacle light, and, so help me Heaven! she had grown to be a woman.
+I fainted at the wheel. You heard of the shipwreck. How could a ship keep
+clear of the rocks and the helmsman in a trance? Forty souls went down,
+down! Hist! who said that? Not I. No, not I! I am a maniac!"
+
+"Don't go on that way," pleaded Flint, giving uneasy looks toward the door,
+which he regretted having locked.
+
+"Why?"
+
+"It is not pleasant."
+
+"What isn't?"
+
+"Your eyes--your words. What can I do for you?"
+
+The man's excitement lulled for a moment. He replied, carelessly:
+
+"I am not a chameleon; I cannot live on air; I can earn no money. The
+elements are against me--storms and shipwrecks follow me.... I have not
+found him yet," he said, abruptly.
+
+"Who?"
+
+"My boy."
+
+Flint turned aside his head, and laughed quietly.
+
+"I am tired of searching for him," said the man, sorrowfully. "I am not
+going to sea any more." After a pause--"I wish to live among the fishermen
+off Nantucket. You ask me what I want?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"I want two or three hundred dollars to fit up a fishing-smack. Give me
+this, and I will not trouble you again. God knows I don't want to look on
+your face!"
+
+"And the letter--will you give me the letter?"
+
+"Yes; when I take the money."
+
+The man drew from his bosom several letters, and selected one more worn and
+crumpled than the rest.
+
+Flint's eyes fed upon it.
+
+"Of course," said Flint, "I have not such an amount in the house. I have a
+hundred dollars up stairs, and will give you a check for the remainder.
+Will that do?"
+
+"No and yes; but get the money, and I'll see."
+
+Flint left him alone. From a safe in his bed-chamber he took a small bag
+of gold, and caressed it for a moment very much as one's grandmother would
+a pet cat; then he filled up a check, and called Michel.
+
+"Run to the police station, Michel, and tell Captain L.----to send me
+three or four men."
+
+Michel shot down stairs, and his master followed him leisurely, patting the
+gold-bag lovingly at every other step.
+
+"Does he think," said Flint's visitor to himself, as the library door
+closed--"_can_ he think I would part with this paper? He, so full of
+worldly shrewdness, so simple?"
+
+After awhile the door opened.
+
+"There!" gasped Flint, placing the bag on the table before the man; "the
+letter! the letter!"
+
+The stranger carelessly threw a rumpled paper toward Flint, who grasped it
+convulsively. His hand touched a bell-rope, and before the bell had ceased
+tinkling, a heavy measured tramp came through the entry. Four policemen
+entered the room in single file, with Michel behind them making comical
+efforts to keep step.
+
+"Arrest him!" cried Flint, hoarse with passion and triumph, "he has
+extorted money from me!"
+
+"Flint," said the man, walking toward him, "you know that's a lie!"
+
+Mr. Flint retreated behind the policeman.
+
+"This person," he cried, "is a stranger to me; he forced his way into my
+house and has threatened my life. Arrest him quickly, for he is no doubt
+armed!"
+
+"Gentlemen," said the stranger, turning to the officers, "Mr. Flint, I
+fear, has given you useless trouble. Michel, more glasses!"
+
+At this, that astonished individual went off like a rocket.
+
+"For the love you bear your good name, Mr. Flint", he continued, "look at
+the paper which you so innocently put in your pocket."
+
+An idea struck Flint, which caused him to turn pale. He tore open the
+letter; but it was not the one for which he would have given half his
+fortune. Oh! sagacious, wily, clear-sighted Mr. Flint!
+
+"You had better tell these gentlemen that you have made a mistake, Flint.
+But, before they go, they must have a glass of wine."
+
+Michel had failed to appear with the extra glasses; but the want of them
+was elegantly supplied by three silver goblets which stood on the
+_beaufait_. And poor, collapsed Flint! he could only bid the officers go,
+with a wave of his hand.
+
+They were alone.
+
+The sailor, with a scornful curl in his lip, stood by the chair of the
+merchant, whose dejected countenance, taken in connection with his white
+cravat, was delightfully comical.
+
+"Flint," commenced the man, "your verdancy is refreshing. Your sweet and
+child-like simplicity is like a draught of your old wine--it's rare, it's
+rare."
+
+If anything touched Flint, it was sarcasm. He stood in dread of ridicule,
+as most men do whose foibles and vices deserve lashing.
+
+"Edward Walters!" he cried, springing to his feet, "you have outwitted me.
+Well, you are a knave; it is your pride to be one. Your companions will
+shout to-night, in some obscure den of this city, as you tell them of your
+ingenuity, and you will be a hero among----"
+
+"Stop, John Flint! For sixteen years to-night my life has been as pure as a
+child's. The vices of passion and avarice have not touched me. I have borne
+a sorrow in my heart which shrunk instinctively from sin. During these
+years I have been poor, very poor." The man paused. "There is a link lost
+somewhere in my life--was I an age in a madhouse? Let it go. I have loved
+my fellow-man; I have lingered at the hammock of a sick mess-mate, and
+closed his eyes kindly when he died; I have spoken words of cheer when my
+heart was bitterness. I do not say this boastfully, for God's eyes are
+upon us all. I have done these things to atone for the one great sin of my
+life, which has stalked through memory like a plague. John Flint, I have
+had the misfortune to know you for twenty years, and during that time you
+never have, to my knowledge, performed a single act worthy of being
+remembered. You have a narrow, malicious mind; you have been tyrannical
+when you should have been generous; you have been the devil's emissary
+under the cant of religion. You call Jesus master, but you crucify him
+daily! There is your photograph, John Flint!"
+
+"You flatter me," remarked that personage, sarcastically; "but go on."
+
+"It is seldom that a rich man has the truth spoken to him plainly--the poor
+man hears it often enough. Consider yourself favored. You have called me a
+knave. I will draw some pictures, and I wish you to look at them:
+
+"Many years ago, a seafaring man who had just lost his ship in which his
+little fortune had been invested, returned to this city sick at heart, and
+weak from a wound which he had received in the wreck. He had battled many a
+year against misfortune, and his utmost exertions had barely found bread
+for his children. He owed money to a heartless and exacting man. He stood
+before his creditor and said, 'I am beggared, but I will work for you.'
+The merchant replied, 'Come to my house to-night, and I will find means by
+which this debt can be liquidated.' The sailor expected reproaches and hard
+words; so he was surprised at the softness of this speech, and his heart
+was full of gratitude.
+
+"That night he sat in the parlor of the merchant, who plied him with rare
+wines, until his mind went from him. Then he made a proposal to the sailor,
+who, if he had had his senses, would have felled him to the floor. The
+merchant had been appointed guardian to a motherless babe, which his
+brother, dying, begged him to love and educate. His ship on the sea, and
+the bales of merchandize in his warehouses, were not enough to feed his
+hungry avarice. He needs must have the little inheritance of the babe.
+Well, while he was speaking, making artful pictures in the eyes of his
+drugged dupe, the child ran into the room, and twined her arms around the
+neck of him who should have worshiped her. But he coldly unclasped the
+little hands and pushed her from him. John Flint, when that man, on
+Judgment Day, shall cringe before the throne of God, the Evil Angel will
+trample him down!"
+
+Flint was as white as the marble mantel-piece on which he leaned. Edward
+Walters stood a short distance in front of him; his eyes were fixed, and he
+spoke like one who sees what he is describing.
+
+"Then the man--the merchant--wrapped the child in the sailor's cloak. In a
+few minutes the sailor stood in the stormy street, with a frightened little
+heart throbbing against his own. The cutting sleet and snow beat in his
+face, and the wine made a veil before his eyes. It was a fearful night. Not
+a human form was to be seen; the street lamps were blown out, and the poor
+mariner drifted to and fro like a deserted ship. He had become mad; the
+strange events had eaten into his brain. He wrapped the babe closer in his
+cloak, and placed her in a doorway, out of the cold. He wandered from
+street to street, then he sank down in the snow. When his senses came to
+him he had been in a madhouse--God, how many years! Was it ten? The June
+wind broke through the barred window; it touched his forehead, and it was
+like a human hand rousing one from a dreamless sleep. One evening soon
+after, he stood before the merchant, who was sipping his choice cordials,
+as you were to-night, Flint, and the sailor asked for the child. The man
+replied: 'The child is dead; you left it in the cold, and it died, or you
+threw it into the river. I saw a body at the dead-house, weeks afterward,
+which looked like the child. You committed murder; it was your own act.
+Suppose you were to be hung for it!' Have I a good memory, John Flint?"
+
+And the man turned his wild eyes on Mr. Flint, who gave no other evidence
+of not being a statue than a slight tremor of his upper lip.
+
+"What did the madman say to the merchant? He took the cool, calculating
+villain by the throat, and cried, 'Write me out, in your round, clerkly
+hand, a full avowal of your guilt in this matter, or I'll strangle you!'
+The merchant knew he would, so he wrote this document with trembling
+fingers, and he signed it JOHN FLINT!"
+
+Then the sailor drew from his pocket an old stained letter, and held it up
+to the light. He looked at it sadly, and then his mind seemed to wander off
+through a gloomy mist of memories, for his eyes grew gentle and dreamy.
+
+He spoke softly, almost tenderly:
+
+"John Flint, you never saw me weep. Look at me, then. I am thinking of an
+old country-house which stood in a cluster of trees near a sea-shore. It
+once held everything that was dear to me--my children. Three years ago I
+stood with my hand on the gate, and looked into the little garden. It had
+gone to waste; the wind had beaten down the flower frames; the honeysuckle
+vines were running wild, and there was the moss of ten years' growth on the
+broken chimney-pots. The rain had washed the paint off the house, and the
+windows were boarded up. There was something in the ruin and stillness of
+the place which spoke to me. Twilight added a gloomy background to the
+picture. I broke the rusty fastenings of a side door, and entered the
+deserted building. It may have been fancy, but I saw two forms wandering
+from room to room, and through the darkened entries; now they would pause,
+as if listening for foot-steps, then they would move on again, sorrowfully,
+sorrowfully. In the bedroom over the front door, I saw the shadow of a
+little coffin! _She_ used to sleep there. Where were my children? Where was
+trustful old Nanny, that she did not come to me? The house was full of
+strange shadows, and I fled from it. I did not dare go to the village hard
+by. There were too many who might have known me. I sat down in the quiet
+church-yard where my wife had slept many a long year. I sat by a little
+mound on which a wreath of flowers had been laid--nothing remained of them
+but stems and the rotting string that had bound them. It had a peaceful
+look, the grave, and I wished that I had died when my mound would not have
+been made longer than the one at my side. What did the simple head-stone
+say? It said: 'LITTLE BELL!'--that was all!"
+
+The sailor grasped Flint's arm.
+
+"Only little Bell!--that was all. But it was all the world to me! What a
+tale it told! What a tale of weary waiting, and despair, and death! Did
+her little heart wait for me! Did she sicken and die when I did not come to
+her? Aye, it said all this and more. And my boy--was he living? was he
+searching for me? No, not searching, for close by my child's grave, a white
+stone had these words carved on it:" and the man repeated them slowly,
+
+  SACRED
+  TO THE MEMORY
+  OF
+  OUR FATHER,
+  LOST AT SEA.
+
+"Not lost at sea," he said, almost inaudibly, "but lost! Ah, I could have
+died in that quiet place, with the moonlight on me! But I was startled from
+my grief by the shouts of some men on the roadside, and I turned and fled.
+Have you looked at the picture, John Flint?"
+
+He spoke so mournfully, that Flint raised his little, sharp eyes, which all
+this time had been fixed on the carpet; but he made no reply.
+
+"I'll have none of your gold, man. I was weak to want it. Give it to the
+poor. The shining round pieces may fall like sunlight into some wretched
+home. To me they are like drops of blood!"
+
+And he pushed the gold from him, and went to the window. He saw the dim
+eyes of Heaven looking down through the mist--heard the murmurs of the city
+dying away, and the calm of night entered his soul.
+
+"May you be a better man when we meet again," he said, turning to Flint.
+
+"But the letter," cried Flint, fearfully, "you won't----"
+
+The sailor's lips curled, and something of his former severity returned.
+
+"Take off your sanctimonious cravat," he answered, "wrap charity around you
+like a robe, that you may be pleasing in God's sight. You sent some gold to
+convert the Hindoos--the papers said so. Why, man! there is a Heathen Land
+at your door-step! John Flint, good night!"
+
+The merchant stood alone.
+
+The night wind swayed the heavy curtains to and fro, and half extinguished
+the brilliant jets of gas. He threw himself into a chair, and a vision of
+the Past rose up before him--the terrible Past. The ghosts of dead years
+haunted his brain, and remorse sat on his heart, boding and mysterious,
+like the Raven of the sweet poet--
+
+    "That unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
+    Followed fast, and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore!"
+
+That night, as we have said, he dreamt of two blue, innocent eyes, which
+once looked confidingly in his--of two infant arms which encircled his
+neck. Those eyes haunted him into the realm of sleep, where myriads of
+little arms were stretched out to him, and he turned restlessly on his
+pillow!
+
+
+
+
+VIII.
+
+    _He trudged along, unknowing what he sought,
+    And whistled as he went, for want of thought._
+
+                                           DRYDEN.
+
+VIII.
+
+MR. FLINT IS PERFECTLY ASTONISHED, AND MORTIMER HAS A VISION.
+
+    _The Light Heart--A Scene--The Sunny Heart--A Dream of Little Bell--A
+    Hint._
+
+
+Now that Mortimer Walters had destroyed the record of poor Snarle's guilt,
+he determined to be no longer a subject of Flint's authority. He had
+watched for months for an opportunity to become possessed of the forged
+cheque; and it was with a heart as light as a singing bird's that he
+tripped up the office stairs an hour before his time the next morning.
+
+Tim was sweeping out.
+
+Sleep had left no cobwebs in his young eyes; but when he saw Mortimer throw
+open the office door, humming a light-hearted air, he rubbed his eyelids
+with the sleeve of his dusty coat, as if it were a question in his mind
+whether or not he was dreaming.
+
+"My last day here!" said Mortimer gaily to himself. "Weary, tiresome old
+books! my soul has grown sick over you for the last time."
+
+He brushed the dust from off the dull-looking ledger, and went to work.
+"Won't I astonish him?" he thought, looking up; and he laughed so
+pleasantly that Tim, who was sweeping the rubbish into a dust-pan,
+suspended operations, and expressed his surprise in a somewhat dubious
+ejaculation:
+
+"I vum!"
+
+When Mr. Flint came in, he saw the same tall form bending over the
+accustomed desk that had met his eyes every morning for the last ten years;
+but he did not see the heart that was leaping with new life. And when, in
+his usual snarly way, he gave Mortimer orders to make up certain invoices,
+which would have employed the clerk till midnight, he opened a brief
+conversation which ended in his utter amazement.
+
+"You will render Bowen & Cleet their account current, and make up the pork
+sale; it has been standing open long enough. And," added Mr. Flint, "fill
+up bills of lading for the D. D. coffee."
+
+"I don't think I will," was the quiet reply.
+
+Mr. Flint did not believe his ears.
+
+"Mr. Walters!"
+
+"Mr. Flint."
+
+"You will fill up those bills of lading immediately."
+
+"I won't!" plumply.
+
+This caused Mr. Flint to sink in a chair with astonishment; and Mortimer
+went on writing.
+
+"Did you say that you wouldn't?" asked Mr. Flint, looking at him.
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"You did!"
+
+"My year," said Mortimer, leisurely, "expires to-day, and with it, I am
+happy to state, my connection with Flint & Snarle."
+
+Mr. Flint hunted twenty seconds for his lost voice.
+
+"You insolent----"
+
+"Sir!" cried Mortimer, turning to him abruptly, "until now I have borne
+your tyranny with meekness. We are no longer employer and clerk. We are man
+and man, with the advantage on my side. If you apply an insulting epithet
+to me, I shall pull your ears!"
+
+O Tim, how you rubbed your hands, you little villain! How your limbs seemed
+to be receiving a series of galvanic shocks from an invisible battery! How
+your eyes sparkled, and your proclivity for fight got uppermost, till you
+cried out, "Pitch into him, old boy!"
+
+"Go!" hissed Flint, through his closed teeth; "go!" that was all the word
+he could master.
+
+Mortimer passed out of the office.
+
+The genial sunshine slid from the house-tops, and fell under his feet; a
+thousand airy forms walked with him, and he felt their presence, though he
+could not see them.
+
+He wandered through the Park. April had breathed on the cold ground, and
+the green grass was springing up to welcome her. The leaves were unfolding
+themselves, and the air was full of spring. The fountain had thrown off its
+icy manacles, and leaped up with a sense of freedom.
+
+His dreamy eyes saw it all. The black shadows had fallen from him; he had
+left them with Flint; and a bright day had dawned within him and without
+him. Everything was tinged with iridescent light, for he looked at the
+world, as it were, through dew-drops. Happy morning--happy life! when one
+can put aside the trailing vines of painful memory, and let the warm
+sunshine of Heaven find its way into the heart.
+
+In this sunny mood he turned his way homeward. He passed Mrs. Snarle on the
+stairs with a smile; he heard Daisy singing in the sitting-room; and he sat
+himself down in the yellow light which streamed through the window of his
+bedroom, making a hundred golden fancies on the worn carpet:
+
+    "The shadows of the coming flowers!
+    The phantoms of forget-me-nots,
+    And roses red and sweet!"
+
+His eyes made pictures; his fancy inverted the hour-glass of his life, and
+the old sands ran back! He floated down the stream of time, instead of
+onward.
+
+The sunshine grew deeper and broader, and filled the little room. Then it
+became condensed and brighter. Gradually it moulded itself into form, and
+little Bell, in her golden ringlets, stood at the side of Mortimer. Her
+white hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up--not in surprise, but
+with tenderness--with the air of a man who can gaze with unclouded eyes
+into the spiritual world and lose himself.
+
+"I knew you were near," he said, dreamily. "I thought you would come. You
+have something to tell me. What is it, my little Bell? Thus you stood at my
+side, thus you looked into my eyes, the day on which I told Daisy that I
+loved her. Thus you come to me whenever the current of my life changes, to
+love and advise me. What is it, Bell--dainty little Bell?"
+
+A sunny lip rested on his for a moment.
+
+"Be strong!" said little Bell.
+
+A cloud of sunlight floated around Mortimer, slipped down at his feet, and
+lost itself in the orange stream which flooded the window.
+
+"He is dreaming of Bell," said Daisy, as she bent over him--"dreaming of
+lost Bell!"
+
+And she closed the door after her softly.
+
+Then Mortimer's vision of sister Bell was a dream? Perhaps it was not.
+Perhaps this real world is linked more closely to the invisible sphere than
+in our guesses. It may be an angel's hand which touches our cheek, when we
+think that it is only the breeze. _�Quien sabe?_ Who can say that in sleep
+we do not touch hands with the spirits of another world--the angels of
+hereafter? And what may death be but an intellectual dream!--Who knows?
+
+Nobody knows. "But," suggests the gentle reader, "suppose you dispense with
+your Hamlet-like philosophy, and go on with your story, like the pleasant
+author that you are, instead of putting us to sleep, as you have your
+hero."
+
+Reader, the hint was merited.
+
+
+
+
+IX.
+
+    "_My eyes make pictures when they are shut._"
+
+                                       COLERIDGE.
+
+IX.
+
+DAISY AND THE NECKLACE.
+
+    _Our petite Heroine--How she talked to the Poets--The Morocco
+    Case--Daisy's Eyes make Pictures--Tears, idle Tears!_
+
+
+Mortimer was still sleeping an "azure-lidded sleep," as Keats has it, when
+Daisy again came softly to the door.
+
+A pretty little woman was Daisy Snarle.
+
+She had one of those faces which you sometimes pass in the street and
+remember afterward, ever connecting it with some exquisite picture, or, if
+you happen to be in a poetical mood, a dainty bit of music. That face was
+very sweet in the coquettish red and white "kiss-me-quick" which used to
+shade it sunny mornings, when Daisy went to market--a very beautiful face
+when she looked up earnestly--a very holy face when she sat thoughtfully
+in her room at twilight. Her hair was dark chestnut, and she wore it in one
+heavy braid over her forehead. Her eyes were so gentle and saucy by turns
+that I could never tell whether they were gray or hazel; but her smile was
+frank, her laugh musical, and her whole presence so purely womanly, that
+one could not but be better for knowing her. Yet Daisy was not faultless.
+She had a wild little will of her own--none the worse for that, however.
+She could put her foot down--and a sweet little foot it was!--a temptation
+of a foot, cased in a tight boot--high in the instep, and arched like the
+proud neck of an Arabian mare, or the eye-brows of a Georgian girl. And
+then the heel of said boot!--But I daren't trust myself further.
+
+Daisy stood looking at Mortimer with her fond, thoughtful eyes. Soon she
+grew tired of this, and, placing a stool by his chair, sat down and
+commenced sewing. From time to time she looked up from her work and smiled
+quietly.
+
+"How he sleeps!" said Daisy, with a low laugh. "Will he be cross if I
+disturb him?"--and she laughed again. "I wonder," she said, at length, "if
+a tiny song would awaken him?"
+
+So she sang in a gentle voice those touching lines of Barry Cornwall,
+commencing with--
+
+    "Touch us gently, Father Time!
+    As we glide adown the stream."
+
+She sang them bewitchingly. The music must have stolen into Mortimer's
+dream, for he slept a quieter sleep than before. Miss Daisy did not like
+that, and pouted quite prettily, and shook her finger at him.
+
+"O, how tiresome you are!" she said. Then she sewed for ten minutes quite
+steadily.
+
+"I guess I'll arrange your books, Rip Van Winkle! and when you wake up, a
+half century hence, you won't know them, they'll be in such good order!"
+
+And facetious Miss Daisy broke out in such a wild, merry laugh, that an
+early robin, perched on a tree beside the window, ceased chirping, and
+listened to her.
+
+Her fingers grew very busy with Mortimer's books. Having dusted them
+carefully, she commenced to place them in an old black-walnut book-case,
+which must have had an antique look fifty years ago. And Daisy went on
+laughing and talking to herself in a most comical manner.
+
+"Here, Mr. Theocritus!" she cried, taking up that venerable poet, and
+placing him upside down, "I'll just set you on your head for absorbing all
+that stupid boy's attention one live-long evening, when I wanted to chat
+with him."
+
+An author is supposed to know everything about his characters; but I cannot
+tell why Daisy placed Mortimer's poet in such an uncomfortable position,
+unless she thought that the blood might run into the head of Mr.
+Theocritus, and cause him to be taken off with a brain fever!
+
+"And you, Mr. Byron," Daisy continued, "you're a very wicked young fellow!
+and I won't let you sit next to Mrs. Hemans!" so she placed Plutarch
+between them. "But you and Shelly," Daisy said, resting her hand on Keats,
+"you are different sort of persons; you are too earnest and beautiful to be
+impure; and you shall sit side by side between L. E. L. and our own Alice
+Cary. And Chatterton! poor boy Chatterton! I'll place you in that shadowy
+corner of the book-case, where the sunshine never comes!"
+
+So Daisy made merry or sad, as the case might be, over her lover's few
+volumes; and when she had arranged them to suit her capricious self, she
+kissed her hand to Tom Hood, and locked them all--poets, romancers, and
+historians--in the black, sombre old book-case.
+
+Our friend Daisy was in one of those playful, half-childish moods, which
+came upon her not unfrequently.
+
+Now she looked around the room for some other piece of useful mischief to
+do. She would turn over Mortimer's papers. Ah, what made her blush and
+laugh so prettily then? It was only a sheet of note-paper, on which
+Mortimer, in a dreamy moment, had written her name innumerable times--for
+know, good world, that true love takes the silliest ways to express itself.
+
+Now she was curious.
+
+She stood thoughtfully, with a small morocco case in her hand. The reader
+has seen it once in Flint's office. An undefined feeling stole over her;
+and it was some time before she thought of opening the case. She did so,
+however, and took from it a pearl necklace of rare design and workmanship.
+The necklace was in three parts, linked together by exquisitely carved
+clasps, from the largest of which hung a
+
+[Illustration: Cross]
+
+composed of smaller and more costly pearls.
+
+"How beautiful!" and she grew more thoughtful. Something within her
+recognized the jewels. It was not her sight, it was not her touch, but an
+intuitive something which is finer and subtler than either.
+
+"I have seen this somewhere--somewhere," she said; "but where?"
+
+And she closed her eyes, as if the sunlight blinded some timid memory that
+was stealing through her brain. Her fancy painted pictures of strange
+places and things. Now she saw a country-house, among cool, quiet trees;
+then a man dying--some one she loved--but who? Now she was in a large city,
+and heard the rumbling of wheels and confused voices. Now the snow was
+coming down, flake after flake, and everything was white; then it was
+night--dark, stormy, and dreadful--and she was cold, bitter cold! Some one
+had left her in the white, clinging snow, and she was freezing!
+
+Daisy opened her eyes. The snow and wind were gone, and April's sunny
+breath blew shadows through the open window. The house, the death, the
+storm--how were they connected with the string of pearls? And Daisy held
+the necklace on her finger-tips and wondered.
+
+"Somewhere, somewhere--but where?"
+
+Daisy could not tell where.
+
+"I may have seen one like it," Daisy thought. "Perhaps this was Bell's, and
+these stones may have rested many a time on her little neck. I wish I had
+known Bell!"
+
+With this she placed the necklace in the case again, and tears gathered in
+her eyes, she knew not why.
+
+    "Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean."
+
+She laid the box in the place where she had found it, and thought she would
+not speak to Mortimer of the necklace; he might be displeased to have her
+touch it.
+
+Her gaiety had given place to sadness, and when she knelt by Mortimer's
+chair she could not help sobbing. Mortimer awoke and bent over her.
+
+"What, weeping, Daisy?"
+
+
+
+
+X.
+
+    _Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
+      And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
+    Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
+    And tread softly and speak low,
+      For the old year lies a-dying.
+        Old year, you must not die:
+          You came to us so readily,
+          You lived with us so steadily,
+        Old year you must not die.
+    He lieth still: he doth not move:
+      He will not see the dawn of day,
+    He hath no other life above.
+    He gave me a friend and a true love,
+      And the new year will take 'em away.
+        Old year, you must not go:
+          So long as you have been with us,
+          Such joy as you have seen with us,
+        Old year, you shall not go.
+    He frothed his bumpers to the brim:
+      A jollier year we shall not see;
+    But though his eyes are waxing dim,
+    And though his foes speak ill of him,
+      He was a friend to me.
+        Old year, you shall not die:
+          We did so laugh and cry with you,
+          I've half a mind to die with you,
+        Old year, if you must die._
+
+                            ALFRED TENNYSON.
+
+X.
+
+ST. AGNES' EVE.
+
+    _The Old Year--St. Agnes--Keats' Poem--The Circlet of Pearls--A
+    Cloud--The Promise--Mrs. Snarle continues her Knitting._
+
+
+The Old Year had just gone by--the dear, sad Old Year! He died in the
+blustering wind, out in the cold! He lay down in the shadows, moaned, and
+died! Something has gone with thee, Old Year, which will never come again:
+kind words, sweet smiles, warm lips--ah, no, they will never come again!
+Hold them near your heart for love of us, Old Year! They came with you,
+they went with you! _Kyrie eleyson!_
+
+"I wish you could tarry with us," said Mortimer. "You were kind to us,
+merry and sad with us." And he repeated the lines,
+
+    "Old year, you shall not die:
+      We did so laugh and cry with you,
+      I've half a mind to die with you,
+    Old year, if you must die."
+
+"To-night, Daisy, will be St. Agnes' Eve, and if I sell my prose sketch to
+Filberty's Magazine, I'll be in a good humor to read you Keats' poem."
+
+Since leaving Mr. Flint's employ, Mortimer had entirely supported himself
+with his pen. His piquant paragraphs and touching verses over the signature
+of "Il Penseroso," had attracted some attention; and he found but little
+difficulty in disposing of his articles, at starving prices, it is true;
+but he bore up, seeing a brighter time ahead. He had been so occupied in
+writing short stories and essays, that his romance, which lacked but one
+chapter of completion, was still unfinished.
+
+Filberty's Magazine paid him so generously for the "prose article," that he
+could afford to devote himself to a task which did not promise immediate
+profit. He completed the novel at sundown that day; and after supper Daisy
+reminded him of his promise to read Keats' "Eve of St. Agnes."
+
+"I sometimes think," said Mortimer, as good Mrs. Snarle seated herself in a
+low rocking-chair, preparatory to a dose, while Daisy sat on a stool at
+his feet, "I sometimes think that this poem is the most exquisite
+definition of one phase of poetry in our language. Musical rhythm, imperial
+words, gorgeous color and luxurious conceit, seem to have culminated in it.
+And the story itself is so touching that it would be poetical even if
+narrated in the plainest prose. How surpassingly beautiful is it, then,
+worked out with all the richness of that sweetest poet, who, in intricate
+verbal music and dreamy imagery, stands almost alone!"
+
+Mrs. Snarle's head was inclined on one side, and the whole pos� of her form
+was one of profound attention.
+
+She was fast asleep.
+
+The busy knitting-needles were placid in her motionless fingers; and Pinky,
+the kitten, was 'spinning a yarn' on her own account from the ball in Mrs.
+Snarle's lap.
+
+"Who was St. Agnes?" asked Daisy.
+
+"She was a saint who suffered martyrdom for her religious views during the
+persecution of the Christians in the reign of the Emperor Diocletian. But
+let us read the poem, which will make her more immortal than her heroism."
+
+Mortimer opened the book, and his voice touched the verse with new music
+for Daisy's ears. Now his tones would be low and sad, as he read of the
+old Beadsman, who told his beads in the cold night air,
+
+                   "While his frosted breath,
+    Like pious incense from a censer old,
+    Seemed taking flight for heaven."
+
+Then his voice grew as tender as a lover's, when he came to the place where
+Porphyro, concealed, beholds Madeline as she disrobes:
+
+    "Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
+    Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
+    Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
+    Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees."
+
+"How few poets know how to handle color!" said Mortimer. "Azure, red,
+orange, and all poetic hues are mixed up in their pictures like a shattered
+rain-bow! But how artist-like is Keats! His famous window scene has not
+been surpassed:
+
+    "A casement high and triple-arched there was,
+    All garlanded with carven imageries
+    Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
+    And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
+    _Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes_,
+    _As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings_;
+    And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
+    _And twilight saints and dim emblazonings_,
+    _A shielded 'scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings_.
+
+    "Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
+    And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
+    As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon:
+    _Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together pressed_,
+    _And on her silver cross soft amethyst_,
+    _And on her hair a glory, like a saint_:
+    She seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed,
+    Save wings, for heaven!"
+
+"Is it not exquisite?" asked Mortimer, looking in Daisy's face.
+
+She nodded assent.
+
+Mortimer fixed his eyes on a pearl necklace which gently clasped the girl's
+neck, and started. The cross undulated on her bosom, which rose and fell
+like two full white roses in the wind.
+
+"Where did you get that?" and Mortimer laid his hand on her arm nervously.
+
+"It was a freak," said Daisy, blushing. "Are you angry?"
+
+"Not angry, Daisy."
+
+"But you look so."
+
+"Do I? I am not. I grow unhappy when I see that necklace."
+
+"It was Bell's, then?"
+
+"Yes--no--don't ask me, Daisy."
+
+"Why?"
+
+A shadow came over Mortimer's face.
+
+That morning Daisy had been tempted to open the morocco case, and a desire
+to clasp the white necklace on her neck became irresistible. Something drew
+her to it, and the same feeling of mystery and longing which stole on her
+when she first held the circlet in her hand while Mortimer was sleeping,
+overpowered her. Almost unconsciously she fastened the gold clasp, and when
+the little cross sunk down on her bosom, her heart grew lighter, and she
+went over the house singing like a canary. She wore it the whole day,
+pausing at times in her household duties to admire the pearls. After a
+while she forgot its existence, and her intention to replace it before
+Mortimer returned.
+
+When Mortimer's eye caught sight of the necklace, Daisy was much
+embarrassed, for she could, in no intelligible way, account for having
+taken it. Mortimer was equally pained. He had unwillingly become possessed
+of the ornament, and saw no means by which he could return it to Mr. Flint
+without acknowledging that he had also taken the _check_. He dreaded to
+make so humiliating a confession, and, perhaps, he stood a little in fear
+of Mr. Flint's anger. The circumstance had caused him many moments of
+anxiety, and an unpleasant thought came to him, as he saw the purloined
+necklace on Daisy's innocent bosom.
+
+"But you _are_ angry?" said Daisy, looking up with dimmed eyes.
+
+"No, pet."
+
+"Then you will kiss me?" said Daisy, in a most winning way.
+
+Mortimer did what most every one would have done "in the premises"--an act
+which was quite sufficient to make one break that part of the commandment
+which refers to envy. Surely a man would be inhuman not to, having once
+seen Daisy Snarle!
+
+"I am not angry, but pained; I cannot tell you why. I wish you to promise
+me something."
+
+"I will. What is it?"
+
+"That you will not doubt me, whatever may occur in connection with this
+necklace--that you will love me, though I may be unable to explain
+condemning circumstances, or dispel the doubts of others."
+
+"I promise that. But how strange," thought Daisy. "I am sorry that I was so
+childish as to take the necklace. Put it away, Mortimer, and forget that I
+did so."
+
+Mortimer's cheerfulness returned, and he commenced reading the poem at the
+place where he had interrupted himself. Just as he finished the last verse,
+telling how, ages long ago,
+
+  "The lovers fled away into the storm,"
+
+Mrs. Snarle awoke with a jerk, and went to knitting as though she had been
+doing nothing else the whole evening--a harmless subterfuge peculiar to old
+people.
+
+
+
+
+XI.
+
+    _Of making many books there is no end._
+
+                     ECCLESIASTES XII., 12.
+
+XI.
+
+MORTIMER HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GREAT PUBLISHER, AND MR. FLINT MAKES A
+DISCOVERY.
+
+    _H. H. Hardwill, Publisher--Criminal Literature--Alliterative
+    Titles--Goldwood--Poor Authors--A Heaven for them in the
+    Perspective--Flint's Discovery, and the Horns of his Dilemma._
+
+
+Mortimer looked up and read the sign--"H. H. Hardwill, Publisher." His
+heart half-failed him, and he stood looking in the large, book-filled
+window, with that romance which was to startle the literary world folded
+quietly under his arm, like any common paper. What kind of a man is Mr.
+Hardwill? he thought. Is he a large man, with a heavy watch-chain, or a
+thin, sky-rockety piece of humanity, dressed in black, and tipped off with
+red hair? Was he a cold, cast-iron man, like Flint? or a simple, sorrowful
+one, like Snarle that was? But this last idea melted of itself. How could
+the famous publisher resemble the poor, unobtrusive Snarle? He, Mr.
+Hardwill, who received notes from the great Hiawatha, and hob-nobbed with
+Knickerbocker Irving; he, who owned a phial of yellow sand, which had been
+taken from a scorching desert with an unpronounceable name, and presented
+to him by the Oriental Bayard; he, who chatted with genial Mr.
+Sparrow-grass--God bless him!--(Sparrow-grass,) and joked with Orpheus
+Stoddard,--he like simple Snarle? Pooh!
+
+"Is Mr. Hardwill in?" asked Mortimer. He came near adding, "the great
+publisher."
+
+The clerk, to whom his eyes looked, said he believed he was, and went on
+calling off from a slip of paper:
+
+"'Murdered Milkmaid,' two copies; 'Bloody Hatchet,' twelve copies; 'The
+Seducer's Victim,' thirty copies; 'The Young Mother,' five copies; 'The
+Deranged Daughter,' seven copies; 'Hifiluten and _other_ poems,' one copy."
+
+"Can I speak with him?" ventured Mortimer, as the clerk, who was calling
+off the _criminal literature_, paused for breath.
+
+"'The Merry Maniacs,' ten copies--Yes, sir; but he's engaged. Wait awhile,"
+continued the clerk, as Mortimer turned to go. "'The Wizard of Wehawkin,'
+six copies; 'The Phantom of Philadelphia,' twelve copies, etc., etc."
+
+So our author seated himself on a case of books, and looked at the wall of
+volumes which encompassed him. Somehow or another, it suggested the Great
+Wall of China and the Cordilleras. He could give no reason why. No more can
+I. Perhaps he felt that light literature, paradoxical as it may seem, is
+always heavy, and so his mind ran on the prodigious freaks of man and
+nature.
+
+After the clerk had finished calling off from the slip of paper, that
+promising young gentleman suddenly discovered that Mr. Hardwill was _not_
+engaged, and offered to conduct our friend into his august presence.
+Mortimer gathered up his heart, as it were, and his loosened manuscript at
+the same moment--"Her heart and morning broke together!"--and followed the
+clerk through an avenue of literature, to a snug inner office--that
+literary Sebastopol, which is forever being stormed by seedy poets and
+their allies, historians, romancers, and strong-minded Eves.
+
+Could it be possible?
+
+Was that middle-sized, dark-eyed, light-haired, pleasant-looking man the
+Napoleon of publishers? However, there was something shrewd in his dark
+eye, or rather eyes--for he had two of them--and a certain expression of
+the mouth, which seemed full of dealings with the world.
+
+"Is this Mr. Hardwill?" asked Mortimer.
+
+"Yes, sir. Will you be seated?"
+
+"I have a romance," commenced Mortimer, with hesitation, "which I would
+offer you for publication. I have written it carefully, and I think it
+possesses several new features----"
+
+Here his voice broke down, for he felt those dark, scrutinizing eyes in his
+face; besides, the intense attention with which he was listened to
+disconcerted him. Mr. Hardwill came to his relief.
+
+"What is the title of your book?"
+
+"It is called 'Goldwood.'"
+
+"That is not happy."
+
+"No?"
+
+"No," said Mr. Hardwill, "it should be something striking--something to
+catch the eye in an advertisement. For instance, the--the----"
+
+"Frantic Father," suggested Mortimer, quietly; and he gazed at the carpet
+to keep from smiling.
+
+Mr. Hardwill eyed him, and displayed his white teeth. There was a little
+satire in our author's remark which pleased Mr. H., who could not be hired
+to read the spasmodic books which he published. It was policy in him to
+cater for that largest class of readers whose tastes are morbid or
+inflamed, and he did so.
+
+Mortimer had thrown aside his timidity. He gave a concise sketch of the
+plot, touching here and there on some supposed-to-be felicitous incident,
+and grew so autorially eloquent over his romance, that the careful Mr.
+Hardwill requested Mortimer to leave his manuscript with him, saying:
+
+"I cannot give you much hope. I have more books ready for press than I can
+well attend to. If you will call on me the latter part of next week, you
+shall have my decision."
+
+With these words, spoken in an off-hand, business-like way, Mr. Hardwill
+made a bow, which said, as kindly as such a thing _can_ be said, "You
+needn't stay any longer."
+
+Mortimer returned his bland smile frankly, and retired, though he would
+fain have called Mr. Hardwill's attention to that delightful and exciting
+scene in which Mr. Adine St. Clair meets Arabella Clementina after an
+estrangement of two weeks! but he didn't. He again threaded his way through
+the labyrinth of literature, and the last sound which fell on his ear, as
+he turned from the book-store into the street, was,
+
+"'The Ruined Cigar Girl,' twenty copies!"
+
+"What on earth could anybody want of a 'Ruined Cigar Girl,' or a 'Young
+Mother?'" and Mortimer laughed outright.
+
+The wand of Prospero is neither more cunning nor more powerful than the pen
+of a well bred author. It creates something out of nothing, (more
+frequently nothing out of something), changes time, place, and human
+nature; it lifts up the blue roofing of ocean, and gives you a glimpse of
+fish-life; and deeper still, shows you the coral forests of the Naiads, and
+their aquatic palaces. It draws back the curtain of cloud-land, and feeds
+your fancy with forms that never have been, and never will be; summons
+spirits from the air, and gives melodious voices to all vernal things.
+
+Pleasant magician that waves this wand! what curious people are walking in
+the chambers of your brain! What dreams are yours, and what cruel cuts this
+real world sometimes gives you! You have no right to be here, poor devil!
+You are somewhat misplanted; you belong to some sphere between earth and
+heaven, and not very near either. That such a place is provided for you I
+am certain. There it is that all your books will run through countless
+editions; there it is you can afford to hire some one to write your
+autograph for besieging admirers, and feed, as you should,
+
+    "On the roses, and lay in the lilies of life."
+
+But I was speaking of pen-magic. It is not my present mood to do anything
+fantastical in that way. I only wish to give you a sight of Mr. Flint, as
+he appeared one afternoon some months after Mortimer had left his office.
+He was standing in that inner-room of his counting-house to which I have
+introduced the reader. I change my mind--he was not standing. He had just
+thrown himself into a chair, in which he did not seem at all easy.
+
+I take peculiar delight in placing Mr. Flint in uncomfortable positions.
+
+He was surprised, alarmed, and angry. He missed the forged check and the
+morocco case which he had watched so many years. That they had been
+purloined, he could not doubt, and his keen thought fell on Mortimer. The
+loss of the check troubled him; he liked to look at it occasionally, for
+Snarle's sake; but the necklace--that gave him strange alarm.
+
+"Snake!" he hissed, "you have crawled into my affairs, and I'll tread on
+you--tread on you and kill you! You stole the check to save Snarle's name;
+and the necklace--why did you steal that? Was it valuable? Yes, that is it.
+I'll grind you in the dust. I'll put you in a prison, and let your
+brainless father look at you through the bars!"
+
+This humane idea caused Mr. Flint to rub his dry hands, and chuckle
+violently.
+
+"But"--here Mr. Flint's countenance fell. "If I do this, won't Walters ruin
+me with that unfortunate letter? O, I was a fool to write it; yet he would
+have murdered me if I had not."
+
+And Mr. Flint thought and thought.
+
+To obtain the letter was impossible. Walters might have left the city; even
+if he had not, there was a method in his madness which Flint knew he could
+not circumvent. He could not lose such a chance of crushing Mortimer as
+presented itself; and yet to attempt it while Walters had possession of the
+letter was unwise.
+
+Mr. Flint was in a brown study.
+
+He walked up and down his sanctum solemnly, neglecting to watch Tim and the
+book-keeper who had succeeded Mortimer. An half hour passed, and still he
+continued his walk and reverie, without any visible intention of stopping.
+His face lights up; he rubs his knuckles with ecstacy. He has got it! got
+it at last. He will have Mortimer arrested; he will have Mortimer's name
+suppressed, or give the newspapers a fictitious one. This will shield him
+from Walters, whose heart he will wring some of these days. Ah! that will
+be revenge.
+
+It may strike the ingenious reader as strange that Mortimer, having charge
+of Flint & Snarle's books, never came across his father's name. This would
+have been the case, and somewhat interfered with our novel, if Mortimer,
+when he applied for a clerkship with the firm, had not given Mr. Flint all
+the particulars of his life. For reasons best known to himself, Mr. Flint
+took every opportunity to strengthen Mortimer in the belief of his father's
+death, and every precaution to keep Walters from meeting him. Once, indeed,
+they stood face to face in the office; but, taking into consideration the
+number of years they had been separated, and the circumstances under which
+they met, it would have been most strange if a recognition had taken place.
+As to Mr. Snarle, being profoundly ignorant of Mortimer's early history, he
+could throw no light on Mortimer's mind; and everything worked to Flint's
+satisfaction. Every circumstance seemed to mould itself to his will.
+
+There is an evil spirit, and a very powerful one, that holds the wires
+which move some of us puppets. The good are made to take the humblest seats
+in the world's Synagogue, and the wily and the evil-hearted are clothed in
+purple, fed on honey, and throned in the highest places. There will be a
+surprising revolution some of these times.
+
+As Mr. Sparrow-grass would say, a revolution is "a good thing to have in
+the country."
+
+
+
+
+XII.
+
+    _Why, true, her heart was all humanity,
+    Her soul all God's; in spirit and in form,
+    Like fair. Her cheek had the pale, pearly pink
+    Of sea-shells, the world's sweetest tint, as though
+    She lived, one-half might deem, on roses sopped
+    In silver dew; she spoke as with the voice
+    Of spheral harmony which greets the soul,
+    When, at the hour of death, the saved one knows
+    His sister angel's near: her eye was as
+    The golden pane the setting sun doth just
+    Imblaze, which shows, till heaven comes down again,
+    All other lights but grades of gloom; her dark,
+    Long rolling locks were as a stream the slave
+    Might search for gold, and searching find._
+
+                                                FESTUS.
+
+XII.
+
+WHAT DAISY DID.
+
+    _The Arrest--Doubt and Love--Daisy and the Necklace--The Search--The
+    heart of Daisy Snarle._
+
+
+In an upper room of a miserable, dingy house which faced the spot where the
+old Brewery used to stand, Edward Walters sat one January evening reading
+the _Express_. There was one paragraph among the city items which he had
+read several times, and each reading seemed to strengthen a determination
+which had, at the first perusal, grown up with him.
+
+"Right or wrong, I'll do it!"
+
+With which words he folded the paper, and placed it in his pocket.
+
+Daisy, too, read the paragraph that night, and the blood rushed into her
+cheeks, then left them very pale.
+
+It was simply a police report--such as you read over your morning coffee,
+without thinking how many hearts may be broken by the sight of that little
+cluster of worn-out type. A young man, no name given, recently a clerk in
+the house of Messrs. Flint & Snarle, had been arrested on the charge of
+stealing a case of jewels from his employers.
+
+Daisy, with dry eyes, read it again and again. Dark doubt and trusting love
+were at conflict for a moment; for doubt had pride for its ally, and love
+was only love. But the woman conquered. Mortimer, who had been arrested
+early in the forenoon, found means to send Daisy a note, in which he simply
+said--"I am charged with stealing the necklace, but I am as guiltless of
+the crime as you, Daisy."
+
+Mrs. Snarle came in the room while our little heroine held the note in her
+hand.
+
+"Mother," said Daisy, averting her head, "Mortimer will not come home
+to-night."
+
+With this she threw the note into the fire, and left Mrs. Snarle alone,
+before the good lady asked any questions.
+
+"That's very odd!" soliloquized Mrs. Snarle, briefly.
+
+"You tell me that you are innocent," said Daisy, looking at a small
+portrait of Mortimer which hung over the fire-place--"I do not question, I
+only believe you!"
+
+And then Daisy did a very strange thing, and yet it was very like Daisy.
+She untied the brown ribbon which bound her dark lengths of hair, allowing
+them to fall over her shoulders; then she braided the string of pearls with
+her tresses, and brought the whole in a beautiful band over her forehead.
+And she looked like a little queen with this coronal of jet and pearl
+shading her brows.
+
+Daisy next picked the jewel-case to pieces, and threw the minute shreds
+into the street. This was scarcely done, when the door-bell rang
+impatiently.
+
+The girl peeped from the window.
+
+The two men at the door-step were not to be mistaken. Daisy's fingers
+trembled as she undid the fastenings of the door.
+
+"We have orders to search this house, miss," said one of the officers,
+touching the vizor of his cap respectfully.
+
+Daisy choked down a sob, and led them with an unnatural calmness from room
+to room.
+
+Every place in the little house was investigated, but in vain; no necklace
+was to be found. Yet twice the breath of one of the searchers fell on the
+pearls in Daisy's hair. The two officers left the house in evident chagrin.
+
+When they had gone, the girl sat on the stairs and sobbed.
+
+Happily for her wishes, Mrs. Snarle had been absent during the search; and
+thus far had been kept in ignorance of Mortimer's disgrace. But Daisy could
+not hope to keep it a secret from her long, for they both would probably be
+summoned as witnesses in open court. The thought of giving evidence against
+Mortimer went through Daisy's heart like an intense pain. It terrified her,
+and her warm little heart was floating on tears all day.
+
+The cloud which had fallen on her seemed to have no silver lining; all was
+cold, black and sunless. But there is no mortal wound to which some unseen
+angel does not bring a balm--
+
+    "There are gains for all our losses!"
+
+Daisy remembered Mortimer's words: _"Promise that you will not doubt me,
+whatever may occur in connection with this necklace--that you will love
+me, though I may be unable to explain condemning circumstances, or dispel
+the doubts of others_"--and the words came to her freighted with such hope
+and tenderness, that her sleep that night was deep and refreshing. Doubt
+had folded its wings in the heart of Daisy Snarle.
+
+
+
+
+XIII.
+
+  LUDWICK.--_Now here's a man half ruined by ill luck,
+    As true a man as breathes the summer air._
+
+  LAUNCELOT.--_Ill luck, erratic jade! but yesterday
+    She might have made him king!_
+
+                                             OLD PLAY.
+
+XIII.
+
+IN THE TOMBS.
+
+    _The Author's Summer Residence--The Egyptian Prison--Without and
+    Within--A Picture--Sunshine in Shadow--Joe Wilkes and his unique
+    Proposal--Gloomy Prospects--The face at the cell-window._
+
+
+There is not a pleasanter place in the world for a summer residence than
+Blackwell's Island! The chief edifices are substantial, and the grounds are
+laid out with exceeding care. The water-scape is delightfully invigorating,
+and the sojourners at this watering-place are not of that transient class
+which one finds at Nahant, Newport, and other pet resorts. Indeed, it is
+usual to spend from six to eight months on the "Island," and one has the
+advantage of contracting friendships which are not severed at the first
+approach of the "cold term"--for the particulars of which "cold term," see
+that funny old _savant_ of Brooklyn Heights, who has a facetious way of
+telling us that it has been raining, after the shower is over.--Bless him!
+
+Such institutions as "Blackwell's Island" are godsends to the _literati_. A
+poor devil of an author, who has a refined taste for suburban air, but
+whose finances preclude his dreaming of Nahant, has only to mix himself up
+in a street fight, or some other interesting city episode, to be entitled
+to a country-seat at the expense of his grateful admirers! Owing to a
+little oversight on his part, the author of this veracious history took a
+passage for "Blackwell's Island" a trifle earlier in the season than he had
+anticipated; and it is at that delightful region these pages are indited.
+
+But the Tombs--heaven save us from that!
+
+There are many pleasanter places in New-York than the Tombs; for that
+clumsy piece of Egyptian architecture--its dingy marble walls, its
+nail-studded doors and sickening atmosphere--is uncommonly disagreeable as
+a dwelling. Many startling tragedies have been enacted there--scenes of
+eternal farewells and lawful murders. I could not count on my fingers the
+number of men who have entered its iron gates full of life, and come out
+cold, still and dreadful!
+
+It was here that Mortimer was brought.
+
+Within, all was sombre and repulsive. Without, there was hum of voices, and
+the frosty rails which ran in front of the prison creaked dismally as the
+heavy freight cars passed over them; but these sounds of life were not
+heard inside.
+
+The cell of Mortimer and its occupants, the morning after his arrest,
+presented a scene of gloomy picturesqueness.
+
+Through a grated window, some six feet from the stone floor, a strip of
+sunshine came and went, falling on Mortimer, who leaned thoughtfully
+against the damp wall. The room, if we may call it one, was devoid of
+furniture, with the exception of a low iron bedstead, whose straw-stuffed
+mattress and ragged coverlid suggested anything but sleep. Daisy Snarle was
+standing with downcast eyes near the door which a few minutes before had
+closed on its creaking hinges, and outside of which the jailor stood
+listening.
+
+The long, dark lashes were resting on her cheek; the pearls of the
+necklace, which gleamed here and there in the queenly braid, looked whiter
+by contrast with Daisy's chestnut hair. In one hand she had gathered the
+folds of her shawl, the other hung negligently at her side. From beneath
+the skirt of her simple dress, peeped one of the loveliest feet ever seen,
+and her whole attitude was unconsciously exquisite. She had just ceased
+speaking, and the faintest possible tinge of crimson was on her cheeks.
+
+"Daisy, you are one of God's good angels, or you would never have come to
+me in this repulsive place."
+
+Daisy's eyes were still bent on the floor.
+
+"Speak to me again, Daisy," said Mortimer, taking her hand. "Your voice
+gives me heart, and your words make me forget everything but you."
+
+Daisy lifted her dreamy hands, and said, softly:--"They could not find it."
+
+"Could not find what, Daisy?"
+
+"The necklace," said Daisy, smiling.
+
+"No," she continued, in a low, musical voice, "they searched in all the
+rooms, in all the trunks--turned over your papers and mother's
+work-basket--but they could not find it."
+
+And Daisy smiled again.
+
+"Where was it, Daisy?"
+
+"Here!"
+
+And Daisy, smiling all the while, lifted Mortimer's hand in hers, and
+placed it on the braid of hair.
+
+Mortimer started.
+
+"O, Daisy! Daisy! why did you do that?"
+
+The little foot tapped gently on the stone floor.
+
+"Because," said Daisy, dropping her eyes, "because, when I read your note
+yesterday, I doubted you for a moment: but when I looked at the portrait in
+your room, I believed you; and I hid the necklace in my hair, and came to
+ask your pardon."
+
+"Let any misfortune come to me, darling!" said Mortimer, touched with this
+ingenious act, "let come what will, I am strong! As sure as little Bell
+looks down from Heaven, you do not wear a stolen necklace. How it came into
+my hands I cannot tell, without wronging the dead. But, Daisy, it was
+imprudent for you to run this risk."
+
+"Oh, no; they hunted for something hidden, and could not see what was
+before their eyes," replied Daisy, giving a quick, low laugh, and then she
+grew thoughtful again.
+
+"But if they _had_ seen it, Daisy?"
+
+"Well."
+
+"You would have been implicated in this unhappy affair to your certain
+ruin, without benefiting me. You must leave the necklace here."
+
+"But I won't!"
+
+This time the pretty little foot was set firmly on the flagging.
+
+The jailor, who had been an attentive listener to the foregoing
+conversation, thrust his hands into the capacious pockets of his overcoat
+with the bearing of a man who is completely satisfied.
+
+"I knowed it," he said, emphatically; "the boy is misfortunate somehow, and
+the young girl's a trump--_she_ is. Lord help 'em! But time's up, and I
+must stop their talk."
+
+With this the man tapped on the door. Mortimer held Daisy in his arms for a
+moment, and then sat down on the bed.
+
+Daisy was gone, and it seemed as if the sunlight had gone with her, the
+cell grew so gloomy to the prisoner.
+
+"Young man," said the jailor, with a solemn look, "the young lady is very
+unprudent to go circumventing round with that necklace twisted up on the
+top ov her skull--_she_ is."
+
+Mortimer groaned.
+
+"You heard all, then, and you will betray us!"
+
+"Part ov what you say _is_ true," returned the man, bluntly, "and part
+isn't. I heard yer talk, but my name _isn't_ Joe Wilkes ef I blow on yer!"
+
+Mortimer looked at the ruddy, honest face of Joe Wilkes, and gave him his
+hand.
+
+"I believe you, my good man."
+
+That individual appeared to be turning something over in his mind which
+refused to be turned over.
+
+"Them keys, young man," he said at length, drawing forth from his pocket a
+bunch weighing some four pounds, "opens the door at the end ov the passage,
+and this one opens the street gate; now jist take that bit ov wood and bang
+me on one side ov my hed--not savagely, you know, but jist enough to
+flatten me, and make me look stunned--like----"
+
+At this novel proposition Mortimer broke into a loud laugh, but Mr. Wilkes
+was in earnest, and insisted on being "flattened."
+
+"I couldn't think of it, Mr. Wilkes!" cried Mortimer, weak with laughter;
+"I couldn't strike you systematically; I should be certain to demolish your
+head."
+
+And Mr. Wilkes retired, perforce, with the air of an injured man.
+
+Mortimer sat on the edge of the bed reflecting on the strange chain of
+circumstances which had placed him in his present position, and boldly
+facing the fact of how little chance he had of escaping Mr. Flint's malice.
+The excitement attending his arrest had passed away, and the reality of his
+utter helplessness came full upon him. For himself he dreaded little, for
+no punishment for a supposed crime, however disgraceful, could make him
+guilty; but a prolonged imprisonment would leave Daisy and Mrs. Snarle
+without means of support. This caused him more anxiety than the thought of
+any suffering attendant on his conviction.
+
+More than this troubled him. It was Daisy's devotion. He had, indeed,
+wished her to believe him innocent, but his generous mind revolted at
+holding her to promises made in happier moments. He could not make Daisy
+his wife while a blemish remained on his honor; and the circumstances
+relative to the forged check, with which the reader is conversant, he could
+not think of revealing, for Snarle's dying words haunted him strangely.
+
+While Mortimer was thus meditating, two hands grasped the iron bars of the
+window, which was directly opposite the bed, and a moment afterwards a
+man's head threw a shadow into the cell.
+
+Mortimer, absorbed in thought, had failed to notice it.
+
+The first expression of the face was that of mere curiosity; this was
+followed by a startled look, and then an intense emotion distorted the
+features. The face grew deathly pale, and the eyeballs glowed into the
+cell, more resembling those of a wild-cat than a human being's.
+
+A deep groan came from the window, and the head disappeared
+instantaneously.
+
+Mortimer looked up and glanced around the narrow room suspiciously, and
+then smiled to think how his fancy had cheated him.
+
+The face was Edward Walters.
+
+
+
+
+XIV.
+
+    _Where more is meant than meets the ear._
+
+                                IL PENSEROSO.
+
+XIV.
+
+A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING.
+
+    _The Strange Visit--The Lawyer--Walter and Mr. Flint--The Clouds--A
+    Strip of Sunshine--Mortimer._
+
+
+About two hours after the incident related at the close of our last
+chapter, Edward Walters stepped from the door of Mrs. Snarle's house,
+waving his hand kindly to Daisy, who stood on the steps, and watched him
+till he turned out of Marion-street.
+
+But we must turn back a little.
+
+After leaving the Tombs, our friend went in search of Mortimer's residence,
+actuated by an impulse which he neither attempted to control nor
+understand--an impulse like that which had prompted him to visit the
+prison. He was led into the little parlor by Mrs. Snarle, to whom he
+represented himself as one deeply interested in the misfortunes of
+Mortimer, and desirous of assisting him. His own astonishment surpassed
+that of Mrs. Snarle, when he found her entirely ignorant of the arrest.
+While he was speaking, and Mrs. Snarle--who stood with her hand on the back
+of a chair, from which she had just risen--was regarding him with a vacant
+stare, Daisy stepped into the room, without knowing that it was occupied.
+
+Edward Walters ceased speaking, and fixed his eyes on what, to him, seemed
+an apparition. He had seen that pale, pensive face in his dreams for years.
+It had followed him out to sea, and in far lands where he sought to avoid
+it. He arose from the sofa, and approached Daisy with hesitating steps, as
+if he were afraid she would vanish into thin air before he reached her.
+Daisy shrunk from him, and looked inquiringly at her mother. Walters laid
+his hand on the girl's arm.
+
+"Sometimes," he said, looking her full in the eyes--"sometimes the mind
+wanders back to childhood, and we have visions of pleasant fields and
+familiar places. Something we had forgotten comes back to us in
+shadow--voices, faces, incidents! Did you ever see a snow-storm in your
+thought?"
+
+Daisy started as if in sudden pain.
+
+Walters watched the effect of his question with unconcealed emotion.
+
+"Yes," said Daisy, lifting up her eyes wonderingly.
+
+"I knew it," said the man, abstractedly, taking Daisy's hand.
+
+The girl drew back in fear, and Mrs. Snarle stepped between them.
+
+"My words seem strange, lady; but I knew her when she was a babe."
+
+And he turned his frank face to Daisy.
+
+"What do you know of me?" cried Daisy, grasping his arm eagerly.
+
+"Everything."
+
+"O, sir, do not deal in mystery! If you know aught of this child's life, in
+mercy speak!" and Mrs. Snarle caught his hand.
+
+"I can tell nothing now."
+
+And with this he abruptly put on his hat, strode into the hall and out of
+the front door, waving his hand to Daisy, who, as we have said, stood on
+the steps, and watched him till he was out of sight.
+
+We will leave Mrs. Snarle and Daisy to their astonishment, and follow on
+the quick foot-steps of our marine friend, to whom that day seemed crowded
+with wonderful events.
+
+It did not take long for Walters to reach Wall-street, where he
+disappeared in one of those many law offices which fringe that somewhat
+suspected and much-abused locality. On the door through which Mr. Walters
+passed was a tin sign, bearing, in gilt letters,
+
+[Illustration: J. G. BURBANK, _Attorney at Law._]
+
+What transpired between him and that gentleman we will leave to the
+surmises of the reader. After being closeted for an hour in a room whose
+only furniture consisted of one or two green baize-covered tables, piled
+with papers, and a book-case crowded with solid-looking volumes, our friend
+turned his thoughtful face toward the office of Messrs. Flint & Snarle.
+
+Mr. Flint looked up from his writing, and found Edward Walters quietly
+seated beside him. They had not met since the interview we described at Mr.
+Flint's house; and the captain's presence at the present time was not a
+thing to be desired by Mr. Flint. The visit looked ominous. Whatever doubts
+he entertained respecting its object were immediately dispelled.
+
+"I read the arrest in yesterday's paper," said Walters.
+
+Flint, with an effort, went on writing.
+
+"And this morning I visited the boy in his cell."
+
+"Well!" cried Flint, nervously.
+
+"And I found my son, John Flint!"
+
+Mr. Flint found himself cornered, and, like a rat or any small animal, he
+grew cowardly desperate.
+
+"You found a thief, sir--a miserable thief."
+
+We will do Mr. Flint the justice to say that he considered Mortimer in that
+light.
+
+"I am not sure of that," was the calm reply. "A man may be in prison, and
+yet be no felon; and I should doubt the guilt of any man whom _you_
+persecuted. But I did not come here to quarrel. The boy is my son, and he
+must be released."
+
+"_Must_ be, Mr. Walters!"
+
+"I think I said so."
+
+Flint regarded him with his cold, cynical smile.
+
+"John Flint, there is nothing I would not do to serve the boy. There is
+nothing I will not do to crush you if you persist in convicting him. I do
+not know that he is innocent--I do not know that he is worthy of my love. I
+only know that he is my child."
+
+There was an agony in the tone with which these words were spoken that was
+music to Mr. Flint. He smiled that undertaker's smile of his.
+
+"The law must take its course," he said. "It is impossible to stop
+_that_."
+
+"Not so. The examination takes place this afternoon. If you do not appear
+against him, Mortimer will be discharged. You have forgotten that I have
+_the letter_."
+
+"Stop!" cried Flint, as Walters turned to the door, and he assumed his
+usual, fawning, hypocritical air.
+
+"If I do as you wish, what then?"
+
+"You shall have the letter."
+
+"What assurance have I of that?"
+
+"My word."
+
+"Is that all?" said Flint. "Would you take mine, in such a case?"
+
+"No," replied Walters, with delightful candor. "Your word is worthless.
+Mine was never broken. Do we understand each other?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"There must be another stipulation."
+
+"What is it?"
+
+"You are not to mention my name to Mortimer. He does not know of my
+existence."
+
+"I shall not be likely to meet him," returned Flint, a little surprised. "I
+thought you had seen him."
+
+"I did--through the bars of his cell."
+
+And Mr. Flint was left alone in no enviable state of mind. So absorbed was
+he in his disappointment, that Tim several times that afternoon whistled
+snatches from "Poor Dog Tray," with impunity.
+
+The twilight came stealing into the room in which Mrs. Snarle and Daisy
+were sitting. The food on the supper table remained untouched. Neither of
+them had spoken for the last half hour; the twilight grew denser and
+denser, and the shadows on their faces deepened. Daisy had told her mother
+all--the search of the officers for the necklace, her visit to the Tombs,
+and Mortimer's protestation of innocence. Mrs. Snarle never doubted it for
+a moment; but she saw how strong their evidence might be against him.
+
+"God only knows how it will end, Daisy."
+
+"As God wills it, mother!"
+
+As these words were said, a shadow fell across the entry, and a pair of
+arms was thrown tenderly around Daisy's neck.
+
+"Mortimer!"
+
+
+
+
+XV.
+
+    QUIN.--_Is all our company here?_
+
+            MID-SUMMER'S NIGHT DREAM.
+
+XV.
+
+IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES.
+
+    _A Picture--The Lawyer's Note--Mr. Hardwill once more--The Scene at
+    the Law Office--Mr. Flint Hors du Combat--Face to Face._
+
+
+"Mortimer!"
+
+That was all Daisy said.
+
+The candles were lighted, the dim, sad twilight driven out of the room, and
+a happy trio sat around the supper table. Mrs. Snarle smoothed her silk
+apron complacently; Daisy's eyes and smiles were full of silent happiness;
+and Mortimer, in watching the variations of her face, all so charming,
+forgot the misfortunes which had so recently threatened him.
+
+Daisy gave Mortimer an account of the unknown's strange visit; and,
+inexplicable to himself, Mortimer connected it in some way with his
+unexpected release.
+
+Soon after Mrs. Snarle had retired, the lovers sat in the little room,
+which was only lighted by a pleasant fire in the grate. Wavering fingers of
+flame drew grotesque pictures on the papered walls; then a thin puff of
+smoke would break the enchantment, and the fire-light tracery fled into the
+shadows of the room.
+
+It was a delicate picture.
+
+Mortimer was sitting at Daisy's feet, playing with the fingers of a very
+diminutive and dainty hand; Daisy was bending over him; and as the glow
+from the fire came and went in their eyes, one could see that a long brown
+tress of Daisy's hair rested on Mortimer's.
+
+What if their lips touched?
+
+"O!" cried Daisy, drawing back, "a note was left here this afternoon, while
+you were in----"
+
+"The Tombs," finished Mortimer, smiling.
+
+"Yes," replied Daisy. "I was afraid to open it, though."
+
+"Were you?"
+
+"Yes," she said, laughing. "I thought it might be from that charming young
+lady whom you assisted to cross Broadway last month; and of whom you speak
+so pleasantly when I am the least bit out of humor."
+
+And the girl looked at him quizzically with her impudent eyes.
+
+Mortimer, by kneeling close to the fire, was enabled to read the note.
+
+"That is strange--read it, Daisy."
+
+Daisy read:
+
+  "SIR,--By calling at my office, No. ---- Wall-street, to-morrow, at
+  4 P. M., you will learn something of importance. It is necessary that
+  Mrs. Snarle and her daughter should accompany you.
+
+                                       "Respectfully,
+                                              "J. C. BURBANK,
+                                                   "_Attorney at Law._"
+
+About the same hour that evening, Mr. Flint received a communication of
+similar import, after reading which, he said:
+
+"Hum!" and thrust the note into his vest-pocket.
+
+Hum, indeed, Mr. Flint. There was something in store for you.
+
+The next morning Mortimer bethought himself of his "Romance," and directed
+his steps toward the sanctum of Mr. Hardwill.
+
+He found that gentleman talking with three new geniuses in pantelets, who
+were attempting to convince the great Pub of his mistake in refusing to
+"bring out" a pregnant-looking manuscript which the authoress was holding
+in her hand with a tenderness that was touching to behold.
+
+When they had retired, Mr. Hardwill extended his hand to Mortimer.
+
+"Sharp young man," he said, displaying his white teeth. "You didn't wish to
+appear anxious about your book; I was on the point of sending for you. You
+were to have called on me three days since. Well, sir, I like the story."
+
+Mortimer bowed.
+
+"Did you read it all, sir?"
+
+"I? Not a line of it," returned Mr. Hardwill. "I never look at anything but
+the size of the manuscript."
+
+"Then you buy by the _weight_," said Mortimer, smiling.
+
+"Not precisely. I never publish anything of less than four hundred pages.
+As to weight, I sometimes find a MS. of the right size altogether too
+heavy; but yours is not, my reader says."
+
+"Your reader, sir?"
+
+"Yes, I am a mere business man," quoth Mr. Hardwill, explanatorily. "I
+seldom read my publications. I merely sell them--sometimes I don't do
+_that_. I have a reader who looks over sizeable MSS., and I abide by his
+judgment."
+
+"Ah!"
+
+"He is a man of fine scholarship and literary attainments."
+
+Mr. Hardwill might have added--"and has the sway of 'The Morning Rabid' and
+'The Evening Twilight,'" but he did not.
+
+Arrangements were made to publish "Goldwood," with the euphonious and
+"striking title" of "Picklebeet Papers." Now, whether "Picklebeet" was a
+vegetable in vinegar, or the name of some charming country-place, I cannot
+say; but "Picklebeet," whatever it was, had as much to do with the contents
+of the book as the biography of my reader's grandmother.
+
+On what terms the "Picklebeet Papers" were published, concern neither the
+reader nor myself; but, while remarking, _en passant_, that the book, owing
+to some extraordinary freak on the part of the public, never went to a
+"second edition," we will fix the hands of the city clock to suit
+ourselves.
+
+It is 4 P. M.
+
+Without further preamble, we will lead the reader (mine, not Mr.
+Hardwill's) to Mr. Burbank's law office, at which place the threads of our
+story become somewhat disentangled. We are not sorry at this, (we doubt if
+the reader is,) for there is a satisfaction in rounding off a plot--in
+coming to the last page, where the author can write "FINIS"--which no one
+but a scribbler may know. But this pleasure is not a little touched with
+regret, as he sweeps the carefully-moved images from the chess-board of his
+brain, and tells you in those five letters that the game is finished.
+
+The personages in the law office are not strangers to us, if we except the
+lawyer.
+
+Mrs. Snarle and Daisy, with their veils down, are sitting in the back part
+of the room, and Mortimer stands behind them, speaking in a low voice to
+Daisy.
+
+Edward Walters is seated at a desk, the screen around which prevents him
+from being observed by the first-described group.
+
+Mr. Burbank, a dark-eyed, large-mouthed man, occupies a table in the centre
+of the apartment, near which is a chair for Mr. Flint, who has not yet made
+his appearance.
+
+This was the position of the parties on Mr. Flint's entrance.
+
+The merchant gave the lawyer three bony fingers, bestowed a stiff,
+surprised bow on Mortimer, and glanced suspiciously around him, evidently
+not liking the company he was in.
+
+Mr. Flint glanced inquiringly at the lawyer.
+
+"As all the parties concerned in this meeting are present," commenced the
+devotee of Blackstone, "I will at once proceed to business. You are too
+much of a business man, Mr. Flint, to require a prelude to interrogations
+which will explain themselves."
+
+Mr. Flint looked very doubtful.
+
+The lawyer ran his fingers through a crop of shaggy hair with professional
+dignity.
+
+"It is something over twenty years since your brother, Henry Flint, died,
+is it not?"
+
+The merchant nodded.
+
+"He left no heirs--I believe," continued the lawyer, with a delightful
+appearance of hesitation.
+
+"He left one child," said Flint, nervously. Mr. Flint did not like the turn
+which the conversation was taking.
+
+"Ah, yes! A daughter, if I remember correctly. Let me see, Maude Flint was
+the name."
+
+(This slight dialogue caused Daisy's breath to come and go quickly.)
+
+"Maude Flint!" she whispered hastily to Mortimer. "Listen! M. F.,--the
+initials in the necklace!"
+
+"I drew up the will at the time," said Mr. Burbank, thoughtfully; "but my
+memory has been tasked with more important things."
+
+He turned abruptly to Mr. Flint.
+
+"What became of this child--Maude?"
+
+"Died," returned Flint, briefly, with an uncomfortable air.
+
+"And the property----?"
+
+"Came to me--the child having no other relative," said Flint, rallying.
+
+The lawyer was silent for a moment.
+
+"Now, Mr. Flint, suppose I should tell you that your brother's child is
+still living, what would you say?"
+
+"I should say, sir," cried the startled merchant, springing to his feet, "I
+should say, sir, that it was a lie! I see through it all. This is a
+miserable conspiracy to force money from me. Your plot, sir, is
+transparent, and I see that snaky individual crawling at the bottom of it."
+He pointed at Mortimer. "But it won't do!" he thundered, "it _won't_ do!"
+
+"Of course it won't for you to get in a passion. The man who gets into a
+passion," continued Mr. Burbank, philosophically, "never acts with
+judgment. And what is the use, Mr. Flint? I am acquainted with all the
+circumstances of the child's disappearance; indeed, I have a full account
+of them in your own handwriting."
+
+Mr. Flint turned white.
+
+"This letter, which I shall give you by and by," said the man of law,
+"divulges a plot of villainy which heaven happily thought fit to prostrate;
+and I'll prove the truth of what I say."
+
+And the lawyer motioned for Daisy to approach him.
+
+She did so, mechanically.
+
+"This lady," said Mr. Burbank, smiling blandly, "is my first witness. Will
+you raise your veil?"
+
+Daisy complied with the request, and looked Mr. Flint in the face. Flint
+turned his eyes on her with such earnestness that she shrunk back. Then he
+staggered to a chair, and exclaimed involuntarily:
+
+"So help me God, it is Henry's child!"
+
+Edward Walters rested his hands on the desk, and looked over the baize
+screen.
+
+Mortimer stepped to Daisy's side.
+
+"This necklace," he said, in a trembling voice, "I return to the owner. It
+was my misfortune to take it by mistake, and it is happiness to return it
+to one who does not require any proof of my innocence."
+
+Daisy pressed his hand.
+
+"Let me go!" exclaimed Mr. Flint.
+
+"Presently, Mr. Flint. You must first witness the _denouement_ of our
+little drama."
+
+With this the lawyer turned to Mortimer, and handed him a paper.
+
+"What this fails to explain relative to your father, you must seek from his
+own lips."
+
+"My father!--his lips!"--repeated Mortimer, bewildered.
+
+He opened the paper.
+
+"My father! where is he?"
+
+"Mortimer!" cried Walters, pushing aside the screen.
+
+And they stood face to face.
+
+
+
+
+XVI.
+
+    _Our revels now are ended: these our actors,
+    As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
+    Are melted into air, thin air:
+    And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
+    The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
+    The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
+    Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
+    And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
+    Leave not a rack behind!_
+
+                                      SHAKESPEARE.
+
+XVI.
+
+THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA.
+
+    _Clap-Trap--John Flint--The Old House by the Sea--Joe Wilkes--Strephon
+    and Chloe--Tim Enjoying Himself--Edward Walters and Little Bell--A
+    Last Word._
+
+
+It is an artistic little weakness we scribblers have of seducing our
+dramatis person� into _tableaux vivants_, and deserting them abruptly. In a
+story of this kind, which depends rather on action than fine writing for
+interest, this species of autorial clap-trap is very effective, if cleverly
+done. So we will make no excuse for leaving _nuestros amigos_ at the
+lawyer's office, and drawing a green curtain, as it were, on the actors of
+this humble comedy.
+
+Some six years are supposed to have elapsed since the drop-scene fell on
+our last act.
+
+From this out our story is rather a pantomime than a play. We give pictures
+and figures, instead of dialogues and soliloquies. Will the reader follow
+us?
+
+I.
+
+Time has not touched Mr. Flint gently. His hair is grayer, his step more
+feeble, and his eyes have a lack-lustre look. His cravat is whiter and
+stiffer, if possible, than ever; and he looks more religious. God grant
+that he is so. But we doubt it. For to such as he, nor April, with its
+purple-mouthed violets, nor red ripe summer, with its wealth of roses, nor
+the rich fruit-harvest of autumnal suns, bring wisdom's goodness. The
+various months teach him no lesson. Let him go. He came like a shadow into
+our plot, so let him depart. He is not a myth, however, but flesh and blood
+mortality; and though we have only outlined his weakness--his love of gold,
+his cold, intriguing spirit--yet the sketch is such that, if he looks at
+it, he will have the felicity of seeing himself as others see him!
+
+II.
+
+It is a day in June, an hour before sunset. The lanes leading to an old
+house situated between Ivyton and the sea, are fringed with pink peach
+blossoms, and the air is freighted with their odors. The violets, with dew
+in their azure eyes, peep from every possible nook; and those sweet peris
+of the summer wood, wild roses, are grouping everywhere. Surely Titania has
+been in this spot, breathing exquisite beauty upon the flowers, or,
+perhaps, Flora's dainty self. The blue-bells, these yellow-chaliced
+butter-cups, are fit haunts for fairies, and, perchance, wild Puck, or
+Prospero's good Ariel has been slumbering in them. But let us draw near to
+the fine old house which stands in this new Eden. It was here that we first
+met the little castle-builders--the child Bell and Mortimer. The place is
+not changed much. The same emerald waves break on the white beach; the same
+cherry-trees are spreading their green tresses, and the simple church-yard
+sleeps, as it used, in sunshine and shadow.
+
+The house has been newly painted, and the fresh green blinds make one feel
+a sense of shade and coolness. The garden in front has been re-made with a
+careful eye to its old beauties. The white pebbled walks, the strawberry
+and clover beds, the globes of pansies, and the clambering honeysuckle
+vines, are all as they were years ago. Even the groups of wild roses, by
+the door, bud and bloom as if the autumn winds had never beaten them down.
+
+We shall accuse the reader with having a bad memory, if he does not
+recognise Joe Wilkes in the stalwart form and honest face of the gardener,
+who occupies himself with tying up a refractory vine, which persists in
+running wild over the new summer-house. It is he, indeed--the whilome
+jailor of the Tombs, who has laid aside his ponderous prison-keys, and
+taken up the shovel and the hoe.
+
+III.
+
+Two persons are standing at the "round window," where Bell and her brother
+used to linger, dreamily, in the twilights of long ago. The rays of the
+setting sun glance over the waves, and fall on the faces of Mortimer and
+Daisy--Daisy Snarle no more, but little Maude Walters. Their honey-moon has
+been of six years' duration, and to such as they, that sweet moon of
+tenderness never wanes, but runs from full to full--never new and never
+old! Strephon woos Chloe as of yore. The lover, as in some antique picture,
+is ever kneeling at the feet of his mistress, and she, through the
+gathering of years, looks down on him with the olden tenderness and the
+April blushes of womanhood! To such as they, life plays on a dulcimer. The
+golden age is not dead to them. They see the shepherd Daphnis seated on the
+slopes of �tna, and hear him pipe to the nymph Eschenais. This "bank-note
+world," to them, is Arcady, and their lives are sweet and simple as
+pastoral hymns!
+
+But we, the author of this MS., are growing pastoral ourselves, and Heaven
+forbid that we should venture into a field which one of our poets has
+recently brought into disrepute by his indifferent blank verse.
+
+Mortimer, leaning on the sill of the window, is looking at Daisy, who
+stands a little in the background, with that kissable white hand of hers
+shading the sun from as dangerous a pair of black eyes as ever looked "no"
+when they meant "yes." She is watching a speck of a boat, which is dancing
+up and down on the waves like a cork. Mortimer has just brought a telescope
+to bear on the distant object, and we, with that lack of good-breeding
+which has characterized all romancers from time immemorial, will look over
+his shoulder. The delighted occupant of the boat is that audacious fellow,
+Tim, who has taken a trip up to Ivyton from the great city, to spend a week
+with "Mr. Mortimer." It may be well to say that Tim--Timothy Jones, Esq.,
+Mr. Reader--has ceased to have a proclivity for the "machine;" and
+now-a-days, the City Hall alarm bell never disturbs his equanimity. Indeed,
+he is so metamorphosed by time and a respectable tailor, that the gentle
+reader stands in some danger of not recognizing him at all. Hence the
+above formal introduction. Just notice the set of those cream-colored
+pants, falling without a wrinkle over those mirror-like patent leathers,
+and the graceful curve of that Shanghai over the hips! Just notice! And
+more than all, that incipient _moustach�_, which only the utmost
+perseverance on the part of Tim and _Mr. Phalon_ has coaxed out into
+mundane existence!
+
+The writer of this veritable history has a great mind to drown Tim for his
+impudence; but as that young gentleman has a good situation in a
+Front-street commission-house, he refrains, for a capsize a mile from land
+would considerably interfere with Young America's prospects.
+
+IV.
+
+CAPTAIN EDWARD WALTERS sits on the door-step of the old house; and through
+a curtain of honeysuckle vines, which he draws aside, is watching the
+fawn-like motions of
+
+    "A six years loss to Paradise!"
+
+Is it little Bell come back again? It is very like her. Walters thinks so,
+as the child runs from flower to flower like a golden-belted bee, and a
+mist comes over his fine eyes, and he can scarcely see his grandchild for
+tears.
+
+His lips move, and perhaps he is saying: "Little Bell! Little Bell!"
+
+And he thinks of the angel whom he left years ago, playing on the
+_partarr�_, in front of the gate. He hears her clear, crystal laugh, and
+sees her golden ringlets floating among the flowers, and cannot tell if
+they be curls or sunshine!
+
+The child in the garden resembles the dead Bell as one white lily does
+another. She has the same wavy tresses, shading the same dreamy eyes, with
+their longing, languid expression. Her form has the _abandon_ of childhood,
+with a certain shadow of dignity that is charming. She is very fragile and
+spiritual; and it seems to us as if Heaven, in moulding the child, had
+hesitated whether to make her an Angel or a Flower, and so gave her the
+better parts of each!
+
+Let us take one more look at her sweet young face--
+
+    "A thing of beauty is a joy forever!
+    Its loveliness increases; it will never
+    Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
+    A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
+    Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing."
+
+Little Bell holds an armful of lilacs against her bosom; and, with her eyes
+running over with childish merriment, trips toward the house; but two arms
+stretching out from the vines catch her. She utters a pretty scream, and
+then sits quietly on Walters' knee. He kisses her laughingly; but his face
+grows serious as his eyes fall on a string of almond-shaped pearls which
+encircle the child's delicate neck; on the innocent white bosom lies a
+
+[Illustration: Cross]
+
+It is DAISY'S NECKLACE; that is WHAT CAME OF IT; and here, gentle reader,
+is
+
+    THE END OF THE CHAIN.
+
+
+
+
+EPILOGUE.
+
+    DON SEBASTIAN.--_You have no plot._
+
+    FABRICIO.--_But such characters! and every one is as true
+    as truth: copied right off from nature._
+
+    DON SEBASTIAN.--_Badly done, sir Poet._
+
+                                                LOPE DE VEGA.
+
+EPILOGUE.
+
+
+"What a mournful glory falls upon the October woods! It seems as if a
+broken rain-bow were strained through a sieve of gray clouds, and sprinkled
+over the crisp leaves. Ochre, vermillion, dappled russet, and all rare
+tintings! And then the wind that rushes so gloriously through the
+woodlands, bearing with it a rich, earthy smell, and scattering the purple
+wealth, the hoarded gold of the autumnal days! Pleasant Forest, with your
+oaken harps! Pleasant little Town, lying quietly in sunshine and
+moonlight--how sad I was to leave ye! Pleasant River, that stealest up from
+the sea, past the fort and into the old weather-beaten seaport
+town--crawling lazily among the rotting piers of deserted wharves, then
+gliding off through the shaky bridge, squirming and curveting into a world
+of greenery, like a great serpent with an emerald back! And the girls!
+Village belles, rustic flirts--eyes, lips, shady curls, white hands, little
+feet, enchanting pouts--ah, me!
+
+    "Pleasant it was when woods were green,
+    And winds were soft and low--"
+
+This rhapsodical soliloquy was interrupted one fine October morning, two
+days after my return from the sea-side, by a voice there was no mistaking.
+It was Barescythe, who startled Mrs. Muggins with the following pertinent
+inquiry:
+
+"Prolific producer of sea-prodigies, is Ralph at home?"
+
+I could not see Mrs. Muggins' face, for that good soul was standing at the
+foot of the stairs; but I knew her feelings were injured, and I hastened
+out of my room to prevent any verbal combat that might ensue.
+
+MRS. MUGGINS, (_after a long silence, and with some asperity_)--"What,
+sir?"
+
+BARESCYTHE, (_petulantly_)--"Is Ralph in, Sycorax?"
+
+What reply the "relick" of Joshua Muggins might have made to this
+interrogation, is only to be imagined; for I immediately "discovered"
+myself, to use a theatrical phrase, and led my solemn friend from hostile
+ground.
+
+"My dear Barry," said I, after greeting him cordially, "you shouldn't--"
+
+"Shouldn't what?"
+
+"Call Mrs. Muggins names."
+
+"Sycorax? She deserved it. Women are Cleopatras until they are thirty, then
+they are old witches with broomstick propensities! Don't interrupt me.
+Don't speak to me."
+
+I choked down a panegyric on Woman, for I knew that Barry was thinking of a
+cold, heartless piece of femininity that, years and years ago, forgot her
+troth to an honest man, and ran away with a moustache and twenty-four gilt
+buttons. I could never see why he regretted it, for Mrs. Captain Mary
+O'Donehugh never stopped growing till she could turn down a two hundred
+weight; and she looks anything but interesting, with her long file of
+little O'Donehughs--nascent captains and middies in the bud!
+
+I knew that Barescythe was not in a mood to be critically just, yet, for
+the sake of turning his thoughts into different channels, I glanced
+significantly at the MS. under his arm.
+
+"My Novel," I ventured.
+
+"Like the man in the play," said Barescythe, "the world should ask somebody
+to write it down an ass!"
+
+With which, he threw the manuscript on the table before me.
+
+His remark was uttered with such an air of logic, that I nodded assent, for
+I never disagree with logicians.
+
+"The world is wide-mouthed, long-eared, and stupid--it will probably like
+that affair of yours, though I doubt if the book sells."
+
+And Barry pointed to the curled up novel on the table.
+
+I bowed with, "I hope it will."
+
+"The world," he continued, "that gave Milton �10 for _Paradise Lost_, ought
+surely to be in ecstacies over DAISY'S NECKLACE."
+
+"Barry," said I, somewhat nettled, "is it my good nature, or your lack of
+it, that seduces you into saying such disagreeable things?"
+
+"Neither, Ralph, for I no more lack good nature than you possess it. But we
+won't quarrel. I am sore because the day of great books has gone by! Once
+we could boast of giant minds: we have only pigmies now."
+
+"But let them speak, Barry. There may be some among us that are not for a
+day. Who foresaw in the strolling player, in the wild, thoughtless Will
+Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon, the Dramatist of all time? Your pet
+Homer was a mendicant. Legions of our best poets were not acknowledged,
+until the brain that thought, was worn out, the hand that toiled, cold, and
+the lips that murmured, patient forever!
+
+    'So angels walked unknown on earth,
+    But when they flew were recognized!'
+
+What if my poor story is stale and flat beside the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Sir
+Walter Scott's genius? Barry, there is a little bird in our New-England
+woods known only by its pleasant chirp; yet who would break its amber bill
+because the nightingales in eastern lands warble so deliciously?"
+
+Barry laughed.
+
+"There you come, Ralph, with your bird-conceits! You flap the wings of some
+thread-bare metaphor in my face, and I cannot see for the feathers! You are
+not a man to argue with. Poetical men never are: they make up in sentiment
+what they lack in sense; and very often it happens that a bit of poetry is
+more than a match for a piece of logic. 'No more of that, Hal, an' thou
+lovest me.' Your book is a miserable one. All your voluble ingenuity
+cannot controvert _that_."
+
+Barry's better nature had slipped out of him for a moment into the
+sunshine, like a turtle's head; but it slipped back again, and the speech
+that commenced with a laugh ended with a snarl.
+
+"It shows," he said, rumpling the manuscript with a careless hand, "a want
+of Art. The construction of the tale is crude: the characters are all old
+friends with new names--broken down stage-horses with new harnesses--and
+the prose throughout is uneven. How can it be otherwise, since it is only
+an intolerable echo of Hood, Dickens, and Charles Reade? Your want of
+artistic genius is shown in taking three chapters to elaborate "little
+Bell," who has no kind of influence in working out the plot, and who dies
+conveniently at Chapter III. Your imitative proclivities are prominent in
+the chapter headed 'A Few Specimens of Humanity.' Was ever anything more
+like the author of 'The Old Curiosity Shop?' Your short, jerky sentences
+are modeled after Reade's 'Peg Woffington,' and 'Christie Johnstone,' or
+any of Dumas' thefts. As to the plot, _that_ is altogether too improbable
+and silly for serious criticism. And then the title, 'Daisy's
+Necklace'--'Betsy's Garter!'"
+
+"Ah, Barry, this is only Fadladeen and Feramorz over again! Do you
+remember that after all the strictures of the eastern _savant_, Feramorz
+turned out to be not only a Poet but a Prince? I could take you to be
+'Blackwood' slashing an American book, rather than a Yankee editor looking
+over a friend's virgin novel. You are like all critics, Barry. They ignore
+what might please them greatly if they had not their critical behavior on,
+and grow savage over that part of an author which they should speedily
+forget--like a dog on a country highway, that turns up his cold nose at the
+delicate hedge-blossoms, and growls over a decayed bone! So you find
+nothing to admire in my sixteen chapters?"
+
+"Not much."
+
+"Then say a good word for that little."
+
+"There are some lines, Ralph, some whole paragraphs, may be, that would be
+very fine in a poem; but in an every-day novel they are strikingly out of
+place. Your jewels, (heart-jewels I suppose you call 'em,) seem to me like
+diamonds on the bosom of a calicoed and untidy chambermaid. That
+sentimental chapter with 'The Dead Hope' caption, is quite as good as your
+blank verse, and I would wager a copy of Griswold's 'Poets of America,'
+against a doubtful three-cent piece, that you wrote it in rhyme--it's not
+very difficult, you know, to turn your poetry into prose. You needn't
+stare. In a word, your book is as tame as a sick kitten--I hate kittens:
+there's something diabolical in a yellow cat!"
+
+I nipped a smile in the bud, and said, quietly:
+
+"I intended to write a tame, simple domestic story. The facts are garnered
+from my own experience, and--"
+
+"Garnered from your maternal grandparent, Ralph! Very much I believe it.
+Very much anybody will. It's a wonder to me that you didn't call the book
+'Heart-life by an Anatomy'!"
+
+"I will acknowledge, Barescythe, that I have not done my best in this
+affair. 'Yet consider,' as Fabricio says in the play, ''twas done at a
+sitting: a single sitting, by all the saints! I will do better when I have
+those pistoles, and may use time.' Local tales of this school have been
+popular. I wrote mine to sell."
+
+"But it won't."
+
+"Why?"
+
+"Let's see. How many 'sunsets' have you in the book?"
+
+"Not many, I think."
+
+"That was an oversight. There should be one at the end of each
+chapter--twenty 'sunsets' at least. Then you have no seduction."
+
+"A seduction?" horrified.
+
+"Of course. What modern novel is complete without one? It gives a spicy
+flavor to the story. People of propriety like it. Prim ladies of an
+uncertain age always 'dote' on the gallant, gay Lothario, and wish that he
+wasn't so _very_ wicked!"
+
+And Barry raised his eye-brows, and broke out in such a clear, bell-like,
+canorous laugh--so contagious in its merriment, that I joined him; and I
+fancied I heard Mrs. Muggins beating a hasty retreat down the front stairs.
+It seems improbable to me that Mrs. Muggins had been listening at the
+key-hole of my door--respectable Mrs. Muggins.
+
+"Then, sir," said Barry, re-assuming his mock-serious air, "there should be
+a dreadful duel, in which the hero is shot in his hyacinthine curls, falls
+mortally wounded, dripping all over with gory blood, and is borne to his
+ladye-love on a shutter! You have none of these fine points. Then the names
+of your characters are absurdly commonplace. Mortimer Walters should be
+Montaldo St. Clare: Daisy Snarle, (how plebeian!) should be Gertrude
+Flemming: John Flint, Clarence Lester, and so on to the end of the text.
+How Mrs. Mac Elegant will turn up her celestial nose at a book written all
+about common people!"
+
+"Mrs. Mac Elegant be shot!" I exclaimed. I used to be sweet on Mrs. Mac
+Elegant, and Barescythe has a disagreeable way of referring to that
+delicate fact. "It was not for such as she I wrote. I sought to touch that
+finer pulse of humanity which throbs the wide world over. The sequel will
+prove whether or not I have failed."
+
+Barry laughed at my ill-concealed chagrin.
+
+"Barry," said I, carelessly, meditating a bit of revenge, and unfolding at
+the same time a copy of the 'Morning Glory,' "did you write the book
+criticisms in to-day's paper?"
+
+"Yes," returned Barry, coloring slightly.
+
+"They are very fine."
+
+Barry's blood went up to his forehead.
+
+"So consistent," I continued, "with what you have been saying. I have
+neither read '_The Scavenger's Daughter_,' nor '_The Life of Obadiah
+Zecariah Jinkings_;' but, judging from the opinion here expressed, I take
+them to be immortal works. I could never be led to think so by reading the
+extracts you have made from the volumes, for the prose is badly
+constructed. Indeed, Barry, here's a sentence which lacks a personal
+pronoun and a verb."
+
+"I see what you are aiming at," replied Barescythe, sharply. "You twit me
+with praising these books so extravagantly. I grant you that worse trash
+was never in type, (DAISY is not printed yet, you know,) but will you
+allow me to ask you a question?"
+
+"_Si usted gusta_, my dear fellow."
+
+"Do you think that Gabriel Ravel, at Niblo's, turns spasmodic summersets on
+a chalked rope for the sake of any peculiar pleasure derived therefrom?"
+
+"Why, Barry, I can scarcely imagine anything more unpleasant than to be
+turned upside down, fifteen feet from maternal earth, with an undeniable
+chance of breaking one's neck, on a four-inch rope. But why do you ask?"
+
+"M. Ravel distorts himself for a salary, and no questions asked. I do the
+same. I throw literary summersets for a golden consideration. It is a very
+simple arrangement"--here Barescythe drew a diagram on the palm of his
+hand--"Messrs. Printem & Sellem (my thumb) give us, 'The Morning Glory,'
+(my forefinger) costly advertisements, and I, Barescythe, (the little
+finger) am expected to laud all the books they publish."
+
+Out of respect to Barescythe, I restrained my laughter.
+
+He went on, with a ruthful face:
+
+"Here is '_The Life of Jinkings_'--the life of a puppy!--an individual of
+whom nobody ever heard till now, a very clever, harmless, good man _in his
+way_, no doubt,--the big gun of a little village, but no more worthy of a
+biography than a printer's devil!"
+
+With which words, Barescythe hit an imaginary Mr. Jinkings in the stomach
+with evident satisfaction.
+
+"Yet I am called upon to tell the world that this individual, this what do
+you call him?--Jinkings--is one of the luminaries of the age, a mental
+Hercules, a new Prometheus--the clown! Why on earth did his friends want to
+resurrectionize the insipid incidents of this man's milk-and-water
+existence! If he made a speech on the introduction of a 'Town-pump,' or
+delivered an essay at the 'Bell Tavern'--it was very kind of him, to be
+sure: but why not bury his bad English with him in the country church-yard?
+I wish they had, for I am expected to say that ten thousand copies of the
+'work' have been sold, when I know that only five hundred were printed; or
+else Messrs. Printem & Sellem withdraw their advertisements, in which case
+my occupation's gone! And this '_Scavenger's Daughter_'--a book written by
+a sentimental schoolgirl, and smelling of bread-and-butter--see how I have
+plastered it all over with panegyric!"
+
+"And so, Barry," I said, with some malice, "you wantingly abuse _my_ book,
+because I cannot injure _you_ pecuniarily."
+
+"Perhaps I do," growled Barescythe. "It is a relief to say an honest thing
+now and then; but wait, Ralph, till I start _The Weekly Critique_, then
+look out for honest, slashing criticism. No longer hedged in by the
+interests and timidity of 'the proprietors,' I shall handle books for
+themselves, and not their advertisements--
+
+    'Friendly to all, save caitiffs foul and wrong,
+    But stern to guard the Holy Land of Song.'"
+
+"What a comment is this on American criticism! O, Barry, it is such men as
+you, with fine taste and fine talent, who bring literature into disrepute.
+Your genius gives you responsible places in the world of letters, and how
+you wrong the trust!"
+
+"Thank you," returned Barescythe, coldly, "you blend flattery and insult so
+ingeniously, that I hesitate whether to give you the assurance of my
+distinguished consideration, or knock you down."
+
+"Either you please, Barry. I have spoken quite as honestly, if not so
+bluntly as you; and I regret that I have so little to say in favor of your
+inconsistent criticism. I am sorry you dislike my novel, but--"
+
+I looked toward the chair in which Barescythe had been sitting.
+
+He was gone.
+
+I was not surprised, for Barry does few things "after the manner of men,"
+and a ceremonious departure is something he never dreams of. I sat and
+thought of what had been said. I wondered if we were the dregs of time, the
+worthless leaves of trees that had borne their fruit--if there were none
+among us,
+
+    "Like some of the simple great ones gone
+    Forever and ever by!"
+
+And lastly, I wondered if any of our city papers had such a critical
+appendage as T. J. Barescythe.
+
+                                  =?=
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It is pleasant to have your friend Mr. Smith pat you patronisingly on the
+back, and say, "My dear fellow, when is your book coming out?"
+
+Of course, you send Mrs. Smith a copy after that--and all Mrs. Smith's
+relations.
+
+"DAISY'S NECKLACE" is nearly ready. The following advertisement, which I
+cut from "The Evening Looking Glass" of last Thursday, illustrates the
+manner in which "my publishers," Messrs. Printem & Sellem, make their
+literary announcements:
+
+    "_We have in Press, and shall publish in the course of a few days, a
+    New Work of rare merit, entitled_--
+
+                              DAISY'S NECKLACE,
+                            And what came of it.
+
+    A THRILLING NOVEL, SURPASING, in pathos and quiet satire, the most
+    felicitous efforts of Dickens!!
+
+                                     PRINTEM & SELLEM,
+                                                      _Publishers_."
+
+That was rather modest and pleasant; but it is pleasanter than all to have
+an early copy of your book placed on the breakfast-table, unexpectedly,
+some sunshiny morning--to behold, for the first time, the darling of your
+meditation in a suit of embossed muslin. How your heart turns over--if you
+are not used to the thing. How you make pauses between your coffee and
+muffins, to admire the clear typography, the luxurious paper, the gold
+letters on the back!
+
+Messrs. Printem & Sellem sent me two out-of-town papers, containing notices
+of "DAISY." These notices were solicited by advance copies of the work, for
+the purpose of being used in the publication advertisement. It is curious
+to remark how great minds will differ.
+
+    [_From the Blundertown Journal._]
+
+    "NEW PUBLICATIONS.
+
+    "DAISY'S NECKLACE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. _New-York: Printem and
+    Sellem._
+
+    THIS production is an emanation from the culminating mind of glorious
+    genius! Nothing like it has been produced in this century. It
+    possesses all the fine elements of Dickens' novels, without any of
+    their numerous defects. Its scope, its pathos, and wit, is[B] beyond
+    all praise. Our Britannic brethren will no longer ask, 'Who reads an
+    American book?' For we can reply, 'The World!'
+
+    "We learn, from good authority, that the publishers have received
+    orders for twenty thousand copies of the work, in advance of its
+    publication. We have no doubt of it; for 'Daisy's Necklace' will shed
+    new lustre on the name of American Literature! Envious authors will
+    abuse the work. As the immortal Goethe says, '_De gustibus non est
+    disputandum!_' Our rush of advertisements prevents us from making
+    voluminous extracts from the novel; this, however, would be useless,
+    as _everybody_ will read it for _themselves_.
+
+    "Orders addressed to HIGGINS & CO., of this town, will be promptly
+    filled."
+
+I should take the editor of the "Blundertown Journal" to be a man of
+cultured taste, appreciative and discriminating. The second review was not
+quite so "favorable," and can scarcely be called "a first-rate notice."
+
+    [_From the Frogpond Gazette._]
+
+    "DAISY'S NECKLACE" is the silly title of an absurd novel about to be
+    issued by Printem & Sellem, of New-York. From the fact that the
+    author's name is withheld from the title-page, we infer that he had
+    _some_ friends--some few who were not wholly willing that he should
+    make a donkey of himself. We have read a great deal of trash in our
+    day; but 'Daisy's Necklace' is the king of all vapid
+    novels,--sentimental in sentiment, flaccid in fiction, and entirely
+    intolerable from beginning to end. The first forty pages put us to
+    sleep. We advise all druggists to keep the book for sale,--as an
+    _anodyne_.
+
+    "The binding is good, and that is all the praise we can give so
+    contemptible an abortion. A reading public that tolerates a novel like
+    this, must be made up of very good-natured persons--assinine in
+    temperament, and mentally obtuse.
+
+    "This 'work,' we presume, is written by that much-abused and prolific
+    myth--'a young gentleman of this city,' distinguished, _of course_. We
+    believe that he writes all of Printem & Sellem's books. At all events,
+    those enterprising gentlemen always have 'a startling novel' in
+    press, from his immortal pen. What a long string of sins these
+    gentlemen have to answer for! What a commotion there would be among
+    the shelves of their book-store, if dead authors could come back and
+    reclaim stolen property! If the shade of _Lindley Murray_ could stalk
+    among them!
+
+    "For our part, we had rather see the Hudson River Railroad's list of
+    'dead and wounded,' than Printem & Sellem's list of 'Popular
+    Publications!' But it is consoling to know that books like 'Daisy's
+    Necklace,' in spite of 'purchased puffery,' find their level at last
+    as linings for portmanteaus and third-rate trunks. We shall make
+    cigar-lighters of our copy, and thank the stars that we were not born
+    a book-making genius!"
+
+Not a line quoted to prove the justice of the unstrained censure! I could
+not account for the malignant personality of this _critique_, until Barry
+informed me that my publishers never advertised their books in the columns
+of the "Frogpond Gazette." This, of course, explained it. I only wish I had
+the stubborn editor of the "Frogpond" at arm's length, I would try the
+consistency of his ears.
+
+I was somewhat astonished, the next day, to find how ingeniously Messrs.
+Printem & Sellem made the adverse criticism subservient to their interests.
+
+My lucubration was out.
+
+The "Post" said so; the "Morning Rabid" said it; the "Evening
+Looking-Glass" said it; and a host of small fry echoed the important fact.
+I unfolded "The Rabid," and beheld the following advertisement:
+
+    "PUBLISHED THIS DAY,
+    _A Novel of Unprecedented Power, entitled_,
+
+    DAISY'S NECKLACE,
+    AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
+
+    THE 'FROGPOND GAZETTE,' (high authority), in a long review of this
+    work says: '_Daisy's Necklace is the King of all Novels_.'
+
+    'The Blundertown Journal' (also high authority) remarks:
+
+    '_This Book is an emanation from the culminating mind of glorious
+    genius!_'
+
+    '_Nothing like it has been produced in this century!_'
+
+    '_It has all the fine elements of Dickens' Novels, without any of
+    their numerous defects!_'
+
+    Our first edition (20,000 copies) is exhausted, and we beg our friends
+    to have patience for a few days.
+
+    WANTED, 4,000 Agents to sell the above work!!
+
+                                             PRINTEM & SELLEM,
+                                                       _Publishers_."
+
+"Four thousand agents!" quoth Barry, looking over my shoulder; "I rather
+think it would take _forty_ thousand to sell an edition of 'DAISY!'"
+
+I laughed at my irate friend, and, igniting a fresh regalia, crossed my
+feet on the mantel-piece, and remarked, composedly,
+
+"Now for the Critics!"
+
+FINIS.
+
+
+
+
+ERRATUM.
+
+The Greek of my book-making genius, Ralph ---- Esq., seems decidedly rusty.
+He has evidently given his lexicon an icy shoulder. Will the intellectual
+and erudite reader substitute _kyrie eleyson_ for _kyrie elyson_ on page
+131?
+
+
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[A] Mr. Barescythe, with his characteristic word-catching spirit, wishes to
+know if grapes and cherries are ripe at one and the same time in
+New-England.
+
+[B] Barescythe says, that the wrong verb used in this paragraph is what
+editors call "a typographical error."
+
+
+
+
+  +----------------------------------------------------------------------+
+  | Transcriber's Note.                                                  |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Italics have been indicated in this text version by underscores      |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | The following changes have been carried out:--                       |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Page 22  comma changed to period.                                    |
+  |          'gently, gently. Sleep,'                                    |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Page 60. 'distroted' to 'distorted'                                  |
+  |          'highly polished, distorted knocker'                        |
+  |                                                                      |
+  |          'kided' to 'kidded'                                         |
+  |          'white-kidded, be-ruffled gallants'                         |
+  |                                                                      |
+  |          Incorrectly positioned parenthesis moved from before        |
+  |          the phrase 'the Museum opposite' to what appears to         |
+  |          be a more logical position at the begining of the phrase    |
+  |          'if you would only'                                         |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Page 98. 'Snarle' to 'Flint'                                         |
+  |          '"Don't go on that way," pleaded Flint,'                    |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Page 133. 'rythm' to 'rhythm'                                        |
+  |           'Musical rhythm'                                           |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Page 198. 'woes' to 'woos'                                           |
+  |           'Strephon woos Chloe as of yore'                           |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Page 209. 'Shakspeare' to 'Shakespeare'                              |
+  |           'thoughtless Will Shakespeare'                             |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Unusual spelling has been retained as in the original publication    |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Erratum.  This has been carried out in the text.                     |
+  |                                                                      |
+  +----------------------------------------------------------------------+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Daisy's Necklace, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
+
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+      The Project Gutenberg eBook of Daisy's Necklace: And What Came of It, by T. B. Aldrich.
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Daisy's Necklace, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Daisy's Necklace
+       And What Came of It
+
+Author: Thomas Bailey Aldrich
+
+Release Date: December 13, 2009 [EBook #30668]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAISY'S NECKLACE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Garcia, Woodie4 and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+<h1>DAISY'S NECKLACE:</h1>
+
+<h3>And What Came of It.</h3>
+
+<h5>(A LITERARY EPISODE.)</h5>
+
+<h4>BY</h4>
+
+<h3>T. B. ALDRICH.<br /><br /><br /></h3>
+
+<hr style="width: 15%;" />
+
+<center>  The little dogs and all,<br />
+........ see, they bark at me!</center>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 55%;"><span class="smcap">King Lear.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 15%;" />
+
+
+
+
+<center>NEW-YORK:<br />
+DERBY &amp; JACKSON, 119 NASSAU STREET.<br />
+<span class="smcap">Cincinnati: H. W. Derby &amp; Co.</span><br />
+1857.<br /><br /><br /><br /></center>
+
+
+
+
+<center>Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856,<br />
+<span class="smcap">By Derby &amp; Jackson,</span><br />
+in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the<br />
+Southern District of New-York.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></center>
+
+
+
+
+<center>TO<br />
+<br />
+C. L. F.,<br />
+<br />
+<span class="smcap">The Noble Merchant And The Good Friend,<br />
+<br />
+This Burlesque Of Things In General,<br />
+<br />
+Is Respectfully Inscribed.</span><br /></center>
+
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>
+
+
+<p><a href="#PROLOGUE">PROLOGUE.</a><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#I">I</a>.</p>
+
+<p>THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS.</p>
+
+<p>The House by the Sea&mdash;The Round Window&mdash;God's eyes in Flowers&mdash;The
+Day-Dreamers&mdash;A Picture&mdash;An Angel&mdash;Old Nanny&mdash;On the Sea-Shore&mdash;
+Shell-Hunting&mdash;Bell's Freak and Mortimer's Dream&mdash;Asleep.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#II">II</a>.</p>
+
+<p>THE DEAD HOPE.</p>
+
+<p>Time's Changes&mdash;Fall-down Castles&mdash;Little Bell waiting&mdash;When will Father
+come Home?&mdash;Little Bell weary&mdash;What the Sea said&mdash;Nevermore.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#III">III</a>.</p>
+
+<p>SOUL-LAND.</p>
+
+<p>Autumn and Winter&mdash;By the Fireside&mdash;Where little Bell is going&mdash;Nanny sings
+about Chloe&mdash;Bell reads a poem&mdash;The flight of an Angel&mdash;The Funeral&mdash;The
+good Parson&mdash;The two Grave-stones.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[Pg vi]</a></span><br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#IV">IV</a>.</p>
+
+<p>A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY.</p>
+
+<p>Down Town&mdash;Messrs. Flint &amp; Snarle&mdash;Tim, the Office Boy, and the pale
+Book-keeper&mdash;The Escritoire&mdash;The Purloined Package&mdash;Mr. Flint goes
+Home&mdash;Midnight&mdash;Miss Daisy Snarle&mdash;The Poor Author.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#V">V</a>.</p>
+
+<p>DAISY SNARLE.</p>
+
+<p>Sunday morning&mdash;Harvey Snarle and Mortimer&mdash;A Tale of Sorrow&mdash;The
+Snow-child&mdash;Mortimer takes Daisy's hand&mdash;Snarle's death.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#VI">VI</a>.</p>
+
+<p>THE PHANTOM AT SEA.</p>
+
+<p>A Storm in the Tropics&mdash;The Lone Ship&mdash;The Man at the Wheel&mdash;How he sang
+strange Songs&mdash;The Apparition&mdash;The drifting Bark.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#VII">VII</a>.</p>
+
+<p>IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Flint sips <i>vino d'oro</i>&mdash;The Stranger&mdash;The Letter&mdash;Mr. Flint
+Outwitted&mdash;Mr. Flint's Photograph&mdash;The Madman's Story&mdash;The Wrecked
+Soul&mdash;How Mr. Flint is troubled by his Conscience, and dreams of a Pair of
+Eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span><br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#VIII">VIII</a>.</p>
+
+<p>MR. FLINT IS PERFECTLY ASTONISHED, AND MORTIMER HAS A VISION.</p>
+
+<p>The Light Heart&mdash;A Scene&mdash;The Sunny Heart&mdash;A Dream of Little Bell&mdash;A Hint.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#IX">IX</a>.</p>
+
+<p>DAISY AND THE NECKLACE.</p>
+
+<p>Our <i>petite</i> Heroine&mdash;How she talked to the Poets&mdash;The Morocco
+Case&mdash;Daisy's Eyes make Pictures&mdash;Tears, idle Tears!<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#X">X</a>.</p>
+
+<p>ST. AGNES' EVE.</p>
+
+<p>The Old Year&mdash;St. Agnes&mdash;Keats' Poem&mdash;The Circlet of Pearls&mdash;A Cloud&mdash;The
+Promise&mdash;Mrs. Snarle continues her Knitting.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#XI">XI</a>.</p>
+
+<p>MORTIMER HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GREAT PUBLISHER, AND MR. FLINT MAKES A
+DISCOVERY.</p>
+
+<p>H. H. Hardwill, Publisher&mdash;Criminal Literature&mdash;Alliterative
+Titles&mdash;Goldwood&mdash;Poor Authors&mdash;A Heaven for them in the
+Perspective&mdash;Flint's Discovery, and the Horns of his Dilemma.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#XII">XII</a>.</p>
+
+<p>WHAT DAISY DID.</p>
+
+<p>The Arrest&mdash;Doubt and Love&mdash;Daisy and the Necklace&mdash;The Search&mdash;The Heart
+of Daisy Snarle.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</a></span><br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#XIII">XIII</a>.</p>
+
+<p>IN THE TOMBS.</p>
+
+<p>The Author's Summer Residence&mdash;The Egyptian Prison&mdash;Without and Within&mdash;A
+Picture&mdash;Sunshine in shadow&mdash;Joe Wilkes and his unique Proposal&mdash;Gloomy
+Prospects&mdash;The Face at the Cell-window.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#XIV">XIV</a>.</p>
+
+<p>A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING.</p>
+
+<p>The Strange Visit&mdash;The Lawyer&mdash;Walters and Mr. Flint&mdash;The Clouds&mdash;A Strip
+of Sunshine&mdash;Mortimer.<br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#XV">XV</a>.</p>
+
+<p>IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES.</p>
+
+<p>A Picture&mdash;The Lawyer's Note&mdash;Mr. Hardwill once more&mdash;The Scene at the Law
+Office&mdash;Mr. Flint <i>Hors du Combat</i>&mdash;Face to Face.<br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>CHAPTER <a href="#XVI">XVI</a>.</p>
+
+<p>THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA.</p>
+
+<p>Clap-trap&mdash;John Flint&mdash;The Old House&mdash;Joe Wilkes&mdash;Strephon and Chloe&mdash;Tim
+enjoying himself&mdash;Edward Walters and Little Bell&mdash;A Last Word.<br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p><a href="#EPILOGUE">EPILOGUE.</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+
+<h4>TO THE</h4>
+
+<h3>UNFORTUNATE READER.</h3>
+
+
+<p>In this little Extravaganza, I have done just what I intended.</p>
+
+<p>I have attempted to describe, in an auto-biographical sort of way, a
+well-meaning, but somewhat vain young gentleman, who, having flirted
+desperately with the Magazines, takes it into his silly head to write a
+novel, all the chapters of which are laid before the reader, with some
+running criticism by T. James Barescythe, Esquire, the book-noticer of "The
+Morning Glory," ("a journal devoted to the Fine Arts and the Amelioration
+of all Mankind,") and the type of a certain class which need not be
+distinctly specified for recognition. I have endeavored to make the novel
+of my literary hero such a one as a young man with fine taste and crude
+talent might produce; and I think I have succeeded. It is certainly
+sufficiently unfinished.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>In drawing the character of Barescythe, the point of my quill may have
+pierced a friend; and if you ask, like Ludovico,</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;">"What shall be said of thee?"<br /></p>
+
+<p>I shall answer, like Othello,</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i15">"Why, anything:<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">An honorable murderer, if you will;<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">For nought I did in hate, but all in honor."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>The only audacious thing I have done is the writing of this preface. If
+there is anything more stupid than a "preface," it is a book-critic. If
+anything <i>could</i> be more stupid than a book-critic, it would be a preface.
+But, thank heaven, there is not. In saying this, I refer to a particular
+critic; for I would not, for the sake of a tenth edition, malign in such a
+wholesale manner those capital good fellows of the press&mdash;those <i>verbal
+accoucheurs</i> who are so pleasantly officious at the birth of each new
+genius. Not I. I have</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;">"A fellow-feeling"<br /></p>
+
+<p>and a love for them, which would seem like a bid for their good nature, if
+expressed here.</p>
+
+<p>I have put my name on the title-page of this trifle from principle. My
+pen-children are all mine,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> and I cannot think of disowning one, though it
+may happen to be born hump-backed. But I beg of you, gentlest of
+unfortunate readers, not to take <span class="smcap">Daisy's Necklace</span> as a serious exponent of
+my skill at story-telling. It is <i>not</i> printed at the "urgent request of
+numerous friends"&mdash;I am so fortunate as not to have many&mdash;but a seductive
+little argument in the shape of a <i>cheque</i> is the sole cause of its present
+form; otherwise, I should be content to let it die an easy death in the
+columns of the journal which first had the temerity to publish it. If the
+world could always know, as it may in this case, why a book is printed, it
+would look with kindlier eyes on dullness bound in muslin. It would say,
+with honest Sancho Panza: "Let us not look the gift-horse in the mouth."</p>
+
+<p>When the sunshine of this dear old world has reddened the wine in my
+heart&mdash;melted down its sparkles to a creamy flavor, I will give you a
+richer draught&mdash;mayhap a beaker of Hippocrene.</p>
+
+<p>Till then, may God's blessing be on us both, though neither of us deserve
+it.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Clinton Place, 1856.</span><br /></p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2>PROLOGUE.</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p>
+
+<blockquote><p><i>It hath beene sayed, and it seemeth soe untoe me, that ye man who
+writes a booke maist have much vanitie and vexation of spirite.</i></p></blockquote>
+
+<p class="citation"><span class="smcap">Ye Two Poore Authors.</span><br /></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="PROLOGUE" id="PROLOGUE"></a>PROLOGUE.</h2>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Muggins!"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"Say that I am sick. Say I am dead&mdash;buried&mdash;out of town. In short, say
+anything you will; but deny my existence to every one who calls, with the
+exception of Mr. Barescythe."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"I am going to write a novel, Mrs. Muggins!"</p>
+
+<p>That lady did not exhibit much emotion.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
+
+<p>And Mrs. Muggins ambled out of the room-door, to which she had been
+summoned by some peremptory appeals of my bell. I was somewhat shocked at
+the cool manner with which Mrs. Muggins received the literary intelligence;
+but she, poor,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> simple soul, did not know that my greatness was a-ripening.</p>
+
+<p>"Some of these days," said I to myself, turning toward the window, "some of
+these days, mayhap a hundred years hence, as the stranger passes through
+Washington Parade Ground, this house&mdash;wrinkled and old then&mdash;will be
+pointed out to his wonder-loving eyes as the one in which my novel was
+written; and the curious stranger will cut his name on the walls of the
+room which I never occupied, and carry away a slice of the door-step!"</p>
+
+<p>I immediately fell in love with this fascinating thought, and followed it
+up.</p>
+
+<p>The slender trees which now inhabit the Parade Ground had grown
+immensely&mdash;the trunks of some were three feet in diameter, and around them
+all was a massive iron railing. The brick and brownstone houses on Waverly
+Place and Fourth-street had long been removed, and huge edifices with
+cast-iron fronts supplanted them. I looked in vain for the little
+drug-store on the corner with its red and green bottles, and the
+fruit-man's below with its show of yellow bananas and sour oranges. The
+University, dimly seen through the interlacing branches, was a classic
+ruin.</p>
+
+<p>Everything was changed and new.</p>
+
+<p>All the old land-marks were gone, save the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> Parade Ground, and one quaint
+old house facing Mac Dougal-street: the which house was propped up with
+beams, for, long and long ago, before "the memory of the oldest inhabitant"
+even, an author, a sweet quiet man, once wrote a famous book there, and the
+world of 1956 would preserve the very floors he trod on!</p>
+
+<p>And so I sat there by my window in the autumnal sunshine, and watched the
+golden clouds as the wind blew them against the square white turrets of the
+University, which peered above the trees.</p>
+
+<p>Ah, Mrs. Muggins, thought I, though you only said "yes, sir," when I spoke
+of my novel&mdash;though your name is carved in solid brass on the hall-door,
+yet you will be forgotten like a rain that fell a thousand years ago, when
+<i>my</i> name, only stamped with printer's ink, on ephemeral slips of paper, is
+a household word.</p>
+
+<p>So I came to pity Mrs. Muggins, and harbored no ill feelings toward the
+simple creature who was so speedily to be gathered under the dusty wings of
+oblivion. I wondered how she could be cheerful. I wondered if she ever
+thought of being "dead and forgotten," and if it troubled her.</p>
+
+<p>Lost in the aromatic fumes of a regalia, I sat waiting the advent of my
+friend Barescythe&mdash;Barry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> for short&mdash;to whom I had addressed a laconic
+note, begging him to visit me at my rooms without delay.</p>
+
+<p>I like Barescythe.</p>
+
+<p>He is conceited, but that's a small fault with genius. His idea of
+literature does not exactly chime with mine, for he believes that there
+have been no novels, to speak of, since Scott's, and little poetry since
+Pope's. But, aside from this, he is a noble fellow; he carries his heart,
+like a falcon, on his hand, where everybody can see it. Barry is fond of
+wine&mdash;but that's a failing <i>not</i> peculiar to genius, and <i>not</i> confined to
+book-critics. He is a trifle rough in speech, not always the thing in
+manners; but "the elements so mix in him"&mdash;that I have a great mind to
+finish that excellent quotation.</p>
+
+<p>I heard his familiar step on the stairs, and a second afterwards he kicked
+open my room-door with his characteristic disregard of ceremony.</p>
+
+<p>"Ralph," said he, with some anxiety, "what's up?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sit down!"</p>
+
+<p>"Are you sick?"</p>
+
+<p>"No."</p>
+
+<p>"Are you going to be?"</p>
+
+<p>"No."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Then why, in the name of the many-headed Hydra, did you send me such an
+article as this? Read it."</p>
+
+<p>The note ran as follows:<br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 55%;"><i>"Mac Dougal-street,</i><br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 65%;"><i>"June 30, 18&mdash;.</i><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">"Dear Barry,&mdash;</span><br /></p>
+
+<p>���"Come and see me without delay. I have got a&mdash;</p>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;">"Eternally,<br />
+<br /></p>
+<p style="margin-left: 70%;"><span class="smcap">"Ralph."</span><br /><br /></p>
+
+<p>"O, yes!" said I, laughing; "I left out a word. I meant to have said, 'I
+have got an idea.'"</p>
+
+<p>"Humph! I thought it was a colic."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Barescythe had left a host of editorial duties in the middle and
+busiest time of the day, expecting to find me lying at the point of death,
+and was quite out of humor because I was not.</p>
+
+<p>There is something extremely human in Barescythe.</p>
+
+<p>"Criticus," I spoke as deliberately as the subject would allow, "I am going
+to write a novel."</p>
+
+<p>This unfortunate avowal was the rose-leaf which caused the cup of his
+indignation to overflow.</p>
+
+<p>"If it had been a case of cholera," commenced<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> Barescythe, with visible
+emotion, "or the measles, or the croup, or the chicken-pox&mdash;if you had
+broken your thigh, spine, or neck, I wouldn't have complained. But a
+<i>novel</i>&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>And Barry began whistling wildly,</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
+<img src="images/p020.png" width="500" height="72" alt="" title="Line of music" />
+</div>
+
+<p>as he invariably does when annoyed. After using up a variety of popular
+airs, the shadow of his good-humor returned to him.</p>
+
+<p>"Ralph," he said, taking my hand, "I have a great respect for you. I don't
+know why, to be frank, but I have. I like your little song of&mdash;what do you
+call it?&mdash;in Putnam's Monthly, and your prose sketches in the
+Knickerbocker; but don't be a fool, Ralph!"</p>
+
+<p>With which piece of friendly advice, he put on his brown felt hat, drew it
+over his brows, and stalked out of the room, with</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i15">"A countenance more<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">In sorrow than in anger,"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>like Mr. Hamlet's father.</p>
+
+<p>I saw no more of Barescythe for two weeks.</p>
+
+<p>The summer months flew away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The nights were growing longer. The air had a vein of sparkling cold in it;
+at every gust the trees in the Parade Ground shook down golden ingots; and
+the grass-plots, and the graveled walks, and the marble bowl of the
+fountain, were paved with emerald and amethyst&mdash;a mosaic flooring of tinted
+leaves. The clouds were haggard faces, and the wind wailed like a broken
+heart. Indeed,</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"The melancholy days had come,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">The saddest of the year,"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>and Mrs. Muggins had made a fire in my grate!</p>
+
+<p>Blessings on him who invented fire-places! A poor day-dreamer's benediction
+go with him! The world in the grate! I have watched its fantastic palaces
+and crimson inhabitants&mdash;dipped my pen, as it were, into its stained
+rivers, and written their grotesqueness! Dizzy bridges, feudal castles,
+great yawning caves, and red-hot gnomes, are to be found in the grate;
+mimic volcanos, and ships that sail into sparry grottos, and delicate
+fire-shells with pink and blue lips!</p>
+
+<p>Crash!</p>
+
+<p>The coals sink down, and new figures are born, like the transient pictures
+in a kaleidescope. So it came to pass that I dozed over the metempsychosis
+of my fire-world, and commenced the novel.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Give me crisp winter days for writing, and the long snowy nights for dreamy
+slumber.</p>
+
+<p>O antique humorist, quaint-mouthed Sancho Panza! with you, I say,
+"Blessings on the man who invented sleep!" Sleep, pleasant sleep!&mdash;that
+little airy nothing on the eyelids!&mdash;that little spell of thought which
+comes from no place and goes nowhere!&mdash;which comes upon us silently and
+splendidly, like a falling star, and trails its golden fancies on our
+waking hours. Sleep for the young&mdash;fresh, dewy sleep! Sleep for the sick!
+Sleep for the weary and disconsolate&mdash;sweet dreams and sweet forgetfulness
+for <i>them</i>! Smooth the white hairs of the old; place thy invisible fingers
+on their lips; close their eyes gently, gently. Sleep, and let them pass
+into nothingness!</p>
+
+<p>In a dreamy mood, half awake and half asleep, I filled sheet after sheet
+with my curious back-handed chirography. The white feathery snow came down
+cygnet-soft, and I wrote. I heard the wind ditties in the chimney, the
+merry wrangling of sleigh-bells, the sonorous clash of fire-bells, and the
+manuscript grew under my pen, as if by magic. I came to love the nurslings
+of my fancy as no one else will. I liked the cold, cynical features of Mr.
+Flint, with his undertaker's aspect; the child-spirit, Bell; Daisy Snarle's
+eyes; the heart-broken old sailor; the pale<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> book-keeper; Tim, the office
+boy; Mr. Hardwill, the great publisher; Joe Wilkes, and all of them!</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Muggins occasionally looked in on me.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Muggins' regard for me was increasing. She never left the coal-scuttle
+on the stairs for my benefit, as she used to; she was eternally hearing my
+bell ring when it didn't, and answering it so promptly when it did, that I
+began to think that she lived night and day just outside my door.</p>
+
+<p>Pleasant Mrs. Muggins!</p>
+
+<p>I tried not to feel elated at these little widowy attentions; but <i>los
+hombres son mortales</i>.</p>
+
+<p>She handed me my coffee with a motherly tenderness that was perfectly
+touching. She looked at me with the eyes of Solicitude, and spoke with the
+lips of culminating Respect; and once, in a burst of confidence, she told
+me that she had six orphan sons, who were "sealurs."</p>
+
+<p><i>My</i> respect increased for Mrs. Muggins. My novel might run through only
+one edition, but she,&mdash;she had six editions of herself afloat! And I
+thought that, after all, a woman like her who had produced a half a dozen
+Neptunes, founded perhaps a half a dozen races, was rendering more service
+to this apple-like globe, than one poor devil of an author prolifically
+pregnant with indifferent books.</p>
+
+<p>I spoke to Barescythe about it, and it was pleasant to have him coincide
+with me once.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>It is an agreeable fact, that</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"The world goes up and the world goes down,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">And the sunshine follows the rain."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>The new year was four months old. The flowers were teething: the tiny
+robins were able to go alone, and above the breezy hum of many thousand
+voices, above the monotonous and ocean-like jar of omnibus wheels, I could
+hear the babbling of hyaline rills in pleasant woodland places! I could not
+see the silver threads of water winding in and out among the cool young
+grass; I could not guess where they were; but through the city smoke, over
+the dingy chimney-tops, they spake to me with kindly voices!</p>
+
+<p>I knew that daisies were fulling in sunny meadows, and that the dandelion
+trailed its gold by the dusty road-sides: for</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"The delicate-footed Spring was come."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>I knew it by the geranium at my window. It had put forth two sickly leaves.
+Two sickly leaves for me, and the world alive with vernal things! Spring,
+thou Queen of the Twelve! Dainty, dewy Spring&mdash;</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"Give me a golden pen, and let me lean<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">On heaped-up flowers,"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>when I write of thee! Thy breath is the amber<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> sunshine, and thy
+foot-prints are violets! Hide Winter in thy mantle: crown his cold brow
+with mignionette: hang morning-glories on his icicles: keep him from me
+forever!</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"For winter maketh the light heart sad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">And thou&mdash;thou makest the sad heart gay!"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>"Barry," said I, "the sunshine has taken me by the hand, to lead me into a
+sweet New-England village. There is my manuscript. Read it, if you can,
+condemn it, if you will, and tell me what you think of it when I return."</p>
+
+<p>That awful critic put <span class="smcap">Daisy's Necklace</span> under his arm, and walked away&mdash;a
+victim to friendship, a literary Damon of the Nineteenth Century.<br /></p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2>I.</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10"><i>As children gathering pebbles on the shore.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="citation"><span class="smcap">Milton.</span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10"><i>No daintie flower or herbe that growes on grownd,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>No arborett with painted blossomes drest</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>And smelling sweete, but there it might be found</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al around.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="citation"><span class="smcap">Edmund Spencer.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I.</h2>
+
+<h4>THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS.</h4>
+
+<blockquote><p><i>The House by the Sea&mdash;the Round Window&mdash;God's Eyes in Flowers&mdash;the
+Day-Dreamers&mdash;A Picture&mdash;An Angel&mdash;Old Nanny&mdash;On the
+Sea-Shore&mdash;Shell-Hunting&mdash;Bell's Freak and Mortimer's Dream&mdash;Asleep.</i></p></blockquote>
+
+
+<p>Imagine, if you will, one of the quaintest old country mansions that was
+ever built&mdash;a big-chimneyed, antique-gabled, time-browned old pile, and you
+have a picture of the Ivyton House as it was in summers gone by.</p>
+
+<p>The pillars of the porch were not to be seen for the fragrant vines which
+clambered over them; lip-tempting grapes purpled<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> on the southern gable
+of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> the house, and the full, bright cherries clustered thicker than stars
+among the leaves. The walks of the garden were white with pebbles brought
+from the sea-shore; the dewy clover-beds, on each side, lay red with
+luscious strawberries, as if some one had sprinkled drops of fire over
+them; and among the larches and the cherry trees there was a salt sea-smell
+pleasantly mingled with the breathing of wild roses.</p>
+
+<p>A large, round window in one of the gables looked toward the ocean&mdash;a fine
+place for a summer view, or to watch, of a gusty afternoon, the billows as
+they swell and break in long waving battalions on the beach.</p>
+
+<p>One evening near the end of summer, two children were sitting at this
+circular window. Ten Aprils had half ripened them. The boy had dark hair,
+and a touch of sunlight in his darker eyes. The girl was light and
+delicate&mdash;with a face of spiritual beauty, dream-like, heavenly, like the
+pictures of the Madonna which genius has hung on the chapel walls of the
+Old World.</p>
+
+<p>"Bell," said the boy, "we never grow weary of looking at the sea."</p>
+
+<p>"No; because while we are watching, we think that father may be coming home
+to us across its bosom; and we count the waves as if they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> moments. We
+like to see them roll away, and feel that time grows shorter between father
+and us."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, that is so," he replied; "but then, we love night almost as much as
+the sea."</p>
+
+<p>"That is because we have a Father in heaven as well as one at sea," and the
+girl shaded her angel face with a dainty little hand.</p>
+
+<p>"And we love the sunbeams and the flowers, Bell!"</p>
+
+<p>"We do, indeed!" cried Bell, and the sunshine nestled among her curls. "We
+do, indeed! because God, like the good fairy in our story-book, comes in
+sunlight, or hides in flowers; and he reveals himself in ever so many ways,
+to all who love him."</p>
+
+<p>"Hides in flowers," repeated the boy, musingly; "I never thought of that.
+Then, perhaps&mdash;only perhaps&mdash;the dew-drops which I showed you last night in
+the white japonica were God's eyes!"</p>
+
+<p>"May be so," returned Bell, simply.</p>
+
+<p>They were two strange children&mdash;nature, and, perhaps, circumstances had
+made them so. They were born and had always lived in the old house. Their
+mother was in heaven, and their father was one of those who go down to the
+sea in ships. With no one to teach them, save the old house-keeper Nanny,
+their minds had taken odd turns<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> and conceits; they had grown up old people
+in a hundred ways.</p>
+
+<p>The roar of the winds and the sea had been in their ears from infancy. In
+the summer months they wandered late on the sandy beaches, or slept with
+the silent sunshine under the cherry trees. They had grown up with nature,
+and nature beat in them like another heart. She had imbued them with her
+richer and tenderer moods.</p>
+
+<p>Bell was the wildest and strangest of the two. She was one of those �rial
+little creatures who, somehow or other, get into this world sometimes&mdash;it
+must be by slipping through the fingers of the angels, for they seem
+strangely out of place, and I am sure that they are missed somewhere! They
+never stay long! They come to earth and sometimes ripen for heaven in a
+twelve month! The sweetest flowers are those that die in the spring-time:
+they touch the world with beauty, and are gone, before a ruder breath than
+that of God scatters their perfume. Bell was a <i>Gipsy angel</i>&mdash;one of those
+who wander, for awhile, outside the walls of heaven, in the shady pastures
+and by-ways of the world.</p>
+
+<p>"Mortimer," said Bell, after a long silence, "how nice it is to sit here
+and watch the bits of sails coming and going&mdash;coming and going, never
+weary!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> I wonder how long we have sat at this window and watched the white
+specks? I wonder if it will always be so; if you and I will still be here,
+loving the sea and stars, when our heads are as white as Nanny's?"</p>
+
+<p>"No!" cried the boy, impetuously. "I am going out into the broad, deep
+world, and write books full of wonderful thought, like the Arabian Nights!"</p>
+
+<p>And he repeated it, the broad, deep world! Ah, child! what have such
+dreamers as you to do in the broad, deep world&mdash;the wonderful, restless
+sea, where men cast the net of thought and bring up pebbles?</p>
+
+<p>"I would like that, Mort!" cried Bell, clapping her hands. "But then, what
+a grand place this would be to write them in! You can have your desk by the
+open window here; and when your eyes are tired, you can rest them on the
+sea. And I will be <i>so</i> quiet&mdash;as gentle as pussy, even, and do nothing but
+make pens for you all the time. Wouldn't that be fine?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes! and father should go no more away in ships. He might have a yacht to
+leap over the surge in, to sail around all those little islands and in the
+green bays; but never go off to sea. The books I am going to write will
+bring us money enough."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>So the little castle-builders talked until the sun had melted into the
+waves, and twilight, like a pilgrim that had been resting by the roadside,
+rose up from the beach, and came slowly toward the old house.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer, who had been gazing dreamily at the beach&mdash;which grew fainter and
+fainter, till it seemed like a white thread running through the selvage of
+blue drapery&mdash;turned his eyes on Bell.</p>
+
+<p>"Bell," said he, quietly, "as you sit there in the shadows, with your
+beautiful hair folded over your forehead, you look like an angel!"</p>
+
+<p>"Do I?"</p>
+
+<p>"I can put my hand on your neck, yet you seem far away from me."</p>
+
+<p>"Come, rest your head in my lap, Mort," said the girl, tenderly, "and I
+will tell you of a real true angel who once came into this world."</p>
+
+<p>The chestnut locks of the boy looked darker against her white dress, as
+Bell bent over him, and commenced, in a low, silvery voice, an old angel
+legend. She was in the midst of a strange description of Paradise, when a
+tremulous voice came up the stairway&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Come to tea, children!"</p>
+
+<p>Then the two looked at each other curiously. It was so odd to be called to
+tea, and they in Heaven!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> It was a long step from Paradise to the
+supper-table; but the dream was shattered. Bell laughed. Then they closed
+the window, and descended to the room below, where Nanny had prepared the
+evening meal of snowy bread and milk, and ripe purple whortleberries. It
+was very queer to see the three sitting at table&mdash;to see homely-looking,
+but kind-hearted Nanny, between the two children, like a twilight between
+two pleasant mornings.</p>
+
+<p>When supper was over, and while Nanny was washing the tea-things, the
+children went down to the beach, shell hunting. The white moon stood
+directly over the sea, and the waves were full of silvery arrows, as if
+Diana had scattered them from her quiver. Mortimer's eyes drank in the
+sight, as they had a thousand times before, for Nature is ever new to her
+lovers. In the measured roll of the sea, he heard the diapason of a grand
+poem, and the far-off thunder, heard now and then, was the chorus of the
+gods.</p>
+
+<p>But Heaven rapt the heart of little Bell! The waves fell on her finer ear
+like subtlest music; to her they were harps, and the fingers of angels were
+touching them, while the thunder was "God walking overhead!"</p>
+
+<p>They wandered along the sands, picking up curious shells and cream-white
+pebbles, dashed with red or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> clouded with mazarine. Bell would hold them up
+to her ear, and listen to the "little whispers," as she called them; but
+the boy would skim them along the wave-tips, and shout when some great
+billow caught one, and hurled it back scornfully at his feet.</p>
+
+<p>Bell saw a ridge of rocks which looked like the back of a whale, running
+out some distance into the sea, where the water was whiter and leaped
+higher than anywhere else; and soon her dainty feet picked a way over the
+jagged rocks. The boy was about to send a light shell skipping through the
+surf, when his glance caught Bell standing on the highest jut of the ledge,
+the wind lifting her long hair and the folds of her dress.</p>
+
+<p>"Bell! Bell!"</p>
+
+<p>"The stars are in the sea, brother," she replied, "and the winds are wild
+here."</p>
+
+<p>"Bell! Bell!"</p>
+
+<p>"I cannot come to you. I fear to walk over the rocks again! But it is
+beautiful here, and I am not afraid!"</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, Bell!" he spoke sadly, "that's what I dreamt. I thought that there was
+a gulf between us, and when I called, 'Bell! Bell!' you answered, '<i>I
+cannot come to you, brother; but you can come to me!</i>' O, Bell&mdash;sister
+Bell! as you love me, come back. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> tremble when you look so like an angel.
+Come to me, sister."</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer ran out on the slender bridge of stone and led Bell back by the
+hand. After a little while they heard Nanny calling them to come home.</p>
+
+<p>The children occupied a small chamber over the front door. A scented vine
+clomb all about the window, and taught the ruddy sun at morning to throw a
+subdued light into the room; and it broke the orange stream of sunset. At
+night the dreamers from their bed could see the stars hanging like fruit
+among its cloudy leaves.</p>
+
+<p>When Bell and Mortimer came up from the sea-beach, the moonlight, breaking
+through this leafy lattice, made the chamber as that of Abon Ben
+Adhem&mdash;"like a lily in bloom." Nanny brought a lamp, and kissed them
+good-night.</p>
+
+<p>"O, we don't want a lamp all this moon!" cried Bell.</p>
+
+<p>The boy sat half undressed at the window. "Bell loves moonlight like a
+fairy," he said.</p>
+
+<p>Bell's robe fell to her knees in snowy folds, and she stood like a <i>petite</i>
+Venus rising from the froth. Then brother and sister braided their voices
+in a simple prayer to Our Father in Heaven. They prayed for kind old Nanny,
+and for one on the wide sea.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"When will father come home?" asked Bell, for the hundredth time that day.</p>
+
+<p>"It will not be long now. When the boughs of the cherry trees are an inch
+deep with ice, and the logs crackle in the fire-place&mdash;then he will come.
+Let us go to sleep, and dream of him."</p>
+
+<p>And thus, hand in hand, the two went in to Dream-land&mdash;</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i15">The world of Sleep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i15">The beautiful old World!<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">The dreamy Palestine of pilgrim Thought!<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">The Lotus Garden, where the soul may lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Lost in elysium, while the music moan<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Of some unearthly river, faintly caught,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Seems like the whispering of Angels, blown<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Upon �olian harp-strings! And we change<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Into a seeming something that is not!<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p><br /><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2>II.</h2>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10"><i>Ah, yes! with joy the April rain</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Thrills nature's breast; but mine with pain</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Sigheth: "He will not come again!"</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 55%;"><span class="smcap">Albert Laighton.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II.</h2>
+
+<h4>THE DEAD HOPE.</h4>
+
+<p><i>Time's Changes&mdash;Fall-down Castles&mdash;Little Bell Waiting&mdash;When will Father
+Come Home?&mdash;Little Bell Weary&mdash;What the Sea said&mdash;Never more.</i></p>
+
+
+<p>Longfellow beautifully asks in Hyperion, "What is Time, but the shadow of
+the hour-hand on a dial-plate?"</p>
+
+<p>The flowers of the earth and the hearts of men are dial-plates. The shadows
+coming and going on them are the hour-hands; when a flower fades, or a
+heart ceases to beat, it is only a weight run down. The whole universe is
+but one immense time-piece, throbbing with innumerable wheels, heavy with
+weights, and wearing itself away! Desire is a restless pendulum, one end
+linked to the heart, and the other pointing downward!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>A year had added another link to that chain which stretches through
+eternity. A year! Battles lost and won: nations in mourning for their dead:
+ships gone down at sea; and new paths worn to graveyards!</p>
+
+<p>O, for the castles that blow down in a year!</p>
+
+<p>But time fell gently on the inmates of the Old House. The trees and vines
+were a little larger; and winter had somewhat browned the gables. Bell was
+paler and more beautiful, and Mortimer was still the same dreamer.</p>
+
+<p>There was a question which haunted the Old House. It was heard in the
+garden, at "the round window," and on the stair.</p>
+
+<p>"When will father come home?"</p>
+
+<p>The months flew away, like carrier doves, with memories beneath their
+wings.</p>
+
+<p>"When will father come home?"</p>
+
+<p>And the question was asked again and again, till the little lips and heart
+of Bell grew weary. Then she folded her hands, and said:</p>
+
+<p>"He will never come!"</p>
+
+<p>Her blue eyes became more dreamy, and her slight form&mdash;so very
+slight&mdash;glided about the house. She would listen to the sea. Once she said,
+"Never more!" and the sea repeated it with a human voice. In the still
+night she asked,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"When will father come home?"</p>
+
+<p>"Never more," said the sea&mdash;and she heard it through the open
+window&mdash;"Never more!"</p>
+
+<p>She waited, and the months went by.</p>
+
+<p>Was the child Bell the only one in this world waiting?</p>
+
+<p>Who has not some hope at sea? Who has not waited, and watched, and grown
+weary?</p>
+
+<p>Who has not a question in his heart, to which a low spirit-voice replies:</p>
+
+<p>"Never more!"</p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>III.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10"><i>I saw our little Gertrude die:</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>She left off breathing, and no more</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>I smoothed the pillow beneath her head.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>She was more beautiful than before,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Like violets faded were her eyes;</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>By this we knew that she was dead!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Through the open window looked the skies</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Into the chamber where she lay,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>And the wind was like the sound of wings,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>As if Angels came to bear her away.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 55%;"><span class="smcap">The Golden Legend.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III.</h2>
+
+<h4>SOUL-LAND.</h4>
+
+<p><i>Autumn and Winter&mdash;By the Fireside&mdash;Where little Bell is going&mdash;Nanny
+sings about Cloe&mdash;Bell reads a Poem&mdash;The flight of an Angel&mdash;The
+Funeral&mdash;The good Parson&mdash;The two Grave-stones.</i></p>
+
+
+<p>It was autumn. The wind, with its chilly fingers, picked off the sere
+leaves, and made mounds of them in the garden walks. The boom of the sea
+was heavier, and the pale moon fell oftener on stormy waves than in the
+summer months. Change and decay had come over the face of Earth even as
+they come over the features of one dead. In woods and hollow places vines
+lay rotting, and venturesome buds that dared to bloom on the hem of winter;
+and the winds made wail over the graves of last year's flowers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Then Winter came&mdash;Winter, with its beard of snow&mdash;Winter, with its frosty
+breath and icy fingers, turning everything to pearl. The wind whistled odd
+tunes down the chimney; the plum-tree brushed against the house, and the
+hail played a merry tattoo on the window-glass. How the logs blazed in the
+sitting room!</p>
+
+<p>Bell did not leave her room <i>now</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Her fairy foot-steps were never heard tripping, nor her voice vibrating
+through the entry in some sweet song. She scarcely ever looked out at the
+window&mdash;all was dreary there; besides, she fancied that the wind "looked at
+her." It was in her armchair by the antique fire-place that she was most
+comfortable. She never wearied of watching the pictured tiles; and one,
+representing the infant Christ in the manger, was her favorite. There she
+sat from sunny morn until shadowy twilight, with her delicate hands crossed
+on her lap, while Mortimer read to her. Sometimes she would fix her large,
+thoughtful eyes on the fantastic grouping of the embers at her feet, and
+then she did not hear him reading.</p>
+
+<p>She was wandering in Soul-land.</p>
+
+<p>Heaven's gates are open when the world's are shut. The gates of this world
+were closing on Bell, and her feet were hesitating at the threshold of
+Heaven, waiting only for the mystic word to enter!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Very beautiful Bell was. Her perfect soul could not hide itself in the
+pale, spiritual face. It was visible in her thought and in her eyes. There
+was a world of tender meaning in her smile. The Angel of Patience had
+folded her in its wings, and she was meek, holy. As Mortimer sat by her
+before the evening lamps were lighted, and watched the curious pictures
+which the flickering drift-wood painted on the walls, he knew that she
+could not last till the violets came again. She spoke so gently of death,
+the bridge which spans the darkness between us and Heaven&mdash;so softened its
+dark, dreadful outlines, that it seemed as beautiful as a path of flowers
+to the boy and Nanny.</p>
+
+<p>"Death," said Bell one day, "is a folding of the hands to sleep. How quiet
+is death! There is no more yearning, no more waiting in the grave. It comes
+to me pleasantly, the thought that I shall lie under the daisies, God's
+daisies! and the robins will sing over me in the trees. Everything is so
+holy in the church-yard&mdash;the moss on the walls, the willows, and the long
+grass that moves in the wind!"</p>
+
+<p>Poor Nanny tried to hum one of her old ditties about Cloe and her lover;
+then suddenly she found something interesting at the window. But it would
+not do. The tears would come, and she knelt down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> by Bell's side, and
+Bell's little hand fell like a strip of white moonlight on Nanny's hair.</p>
+
+<p>"We shall miss you, darling!" sobbed Mortimer.</p>
+
+<p>"At first, won't you?" and Bell smiled, and who knows what sights she saw
+in the illumined fire-place? Were they pictures of Heaven, little Bell?</p>
+
+<p>"What shall I read to you, pet?" asked Mortimer one morning. She had been
+prattling for an hour in her wise, child-like way, and was more than
+usually bright.</p>
+
+<p>"You shall not read to me at all," replied Bell, chirpingly, "but sit at my
+feet, and <i>I</i> will read to you."</p>
+
+<p>She took a slip of paper from her work-basket, and her voice ran along the
+sweetest lines that the sweetest poet ever wrote. They are from Alfred
+Tennyson's "May Queen."</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">"I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call;<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resigned,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">And then did something speak to me&mdash;I know not what was said;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">And up the valley came again the music on the wind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">But you were sleeping; and I said, 'It's not for them: its mine,'<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">Then seemed to go right up to Heaven, and die among the stars.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">So now I think my time is near&mdash;I trust it is. I know<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">But, Effie, you must comfort <i>her</i> when I am past away;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">There's many worthier than I would make him happy yet;&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">If I had lived&mdash;I cannot tell&mdash;I might have been his wife;<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">Oh look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i8">To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest!"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>When Bell had finished reading, she took Mortimer's hand in her own.</p>
+
+<p>"I shall not die until the violet comes&mdash;the beautiful violet, with its
+clouded bell!"</p>
+
+<p>March melted into April&mdash;the month of tears! Then came blossoming May, and
+still Bell lingered, like a strain of music so sweet that the echoes will
+not let it die.</p>
+
+<p>One morning in June, the sun with noiseless feet came creeping into the
+room&mdash;and Bell was dying. Mortimer was telling her of some sea-side walk,
+when the unseen angel came between them. Bell's voice went from her, her
+heart grew chilly, and she knew that it was death. The boy did not notice
+the change; but when her hand lay cold in his, he looked up with fear. He
+saw her beautiful eyes looking heavenward, and those smiles which wreathe
+the lips of the young after death&mdash;the sunset of smiles.</p>
+
+<p>"Bell! Bell! Bell!"</p>
+
+<p>But she did not hear him.</p>
+
+<p>The viewless spirits of flowers came through the open window into the quiet
+room; and the winds,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> which made the curtains tremble, gently lifted the
+tresses of the sleeping angel. Then the chiming of village bells came and
+went in pulses of soft sound. How musical they were that morning! How the
+robins showered their silvery notes, like rain-drops among the leaves!
+There was holy life in everything&mdash;the lilac-scented atmosphere, the
+brooks, the grass, and the flowers that lay budding on the bosom of
+delicious June! And thus it was, in the exquisite spring-time, that the
+hand of death led little Bell into Soul-land.</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+
+<p>One afternoon, the blinds were turned down: not a ray of light stole
+through them, only the spicy air. There was something solemn stalking in
+the entries, and all through the house. It seemed as if there was a corpse
+in every room.</p>
+
+<p>The way the chairs were placed, the darkened parlor, the faded flowers on
+the mantel-piece, and the brooding silence said it&mdash;said that Bell was
+dead!</p>
+
+<p>Yes! In the little parlor she lay, in her white shroud. Bell? No; it was
+<i>not</i> Bell. It was only the beautiful robe which her spirit in its flight
+had cast aside!</p>
+
+<p>There was a moving of feet to and fro. Gradu<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>ally, the room became full of
+forms. The village parson stood among them. His hair had the white touch of
+age, and his heart knew the chastening hand of God. "Exceeding peace" was
+written on his meek face. He lifted up his soul on the arms of prayer. He
+spoke of the dead, whose life had been as pure as a new snow. He spoke
+cheerfully and tenderly, and sometimes smiled, for his</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"Faith was large in Time,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">And that which shapes it to some perfect end."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>He had drank at the fountain of God's word; his soul had been refreshed,
+and his were not the lips to preach the doctrine of an endless wail. He
+knew that there are many mansions in our Father's house; and he said that
+Bell was happier there than here. He glanced back upon her infant days, and
+ran along the various threads of her life, to the moment death disentangled
+them from the world. "This little one in her shroud," he said, "is an
+eloquent sermon. She passed through the dark valley without fear; and sits,
+like Mary, at the feet of our Saviour." Of this life, he said: "It is but
+an imperfect prelude to the next." Of death: "It is only a brief sleep:
+some sunny morning we shall wake up with the child Bell, and find ourselves
+in Heaven!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The coffin was closed, and the train passed through the gravelled walk.</p>
+
+<p>Then came that dull, heavy sound of earth falling on the coffin-lid, which
+makes one's heart throb. Did you ever hear it?</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+
+<p>When Bell had been a year in Heaven, a plain head-stone was placed over
+Nanny. She lingered only a little while after her darling. She folded her
+arms and fell asleep one summer twilight, and never again opened her kind
+old eyes on this world. Age had weakened her frame, and the parting of soul
+and body was only the severing of a fragile cord.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer did not remain long in the old house; its light and pleasantness
+had passed away. The little stock of money which his father had left
+previous to his last voyage, was exhausted; he could earn nothing in the
+village. His early dream of the great city came over him again. He yearned
+for its ceaseless excitement, its grandeur&mdash;he never thought of its misery,
+its sin and pollution. Through the length of one July night he lay awake in
+bed, while his eyes were like kaleidoscopes, taking a thousand arabesque
+forms and fancies. Toward morning he fell asleep, having built some
+fall-down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> castles in the air. The next day he took a last, lingering look
+at the old rooms; a last ramble on the sea-shore; he sat an hour under the
+braided branches of the cherry trees, gave a parting look at the white caps
+of the sea, and turned his eyes to the city in the dim distance&mdash;the great
+city-ocean, with no one to point out to him its sunken reefs, its
+quicksands, and maelstroms.</p>
+
+<p>Next to Bell's grave he placed a simple tablet to the memory of his father.</p>
+
+<p>"This sod does not enfold him," said Mortimer to himself; "but it will be
+pleasant for me to think, when I am far away, that their names are near
+together."</p>
+
+<p>So he left them in the quiet church-yard at Ivyton&mdash;left them sleeping
+among the thick musk-roses, in the warm sunshine; and the same berylline
+moss was creeping over the two mounds. One head-stone said "<span class="smcap">Little Bell</span>,"
+and the other:</p>
+
+
+<center>    SACRED<br />
+TO THE MEMORY<br />
+OF<br />
+OUR FATHER,<br />
+LOST AT SEA,<br />
+18&mdash;.<br /></center>
+
+<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>IV.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 40%;"><i>The Almighty Dollar.</i><br />
+<br /></p>
+<p style="margin-left: 65%;"><span class="smcap">Washington Irving.</span><br />
+<br /><br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 33%;"><i>The age is dull and mean. Men creep,<br />
+Not walk; with blood too pale and tame<br />
+To pay the debt they owe to shame;<br />
+Buy cheap, sell dear; eat, drink, and sleep<br />
+Down-pillowed, deaf to moaning want;<br />
+Pay tithes for soul-insurance; keep<br />
+Six days to Mammon, one to Cant.</i><br />
+<br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 65%;"><span class="smcap">J. G. Whittier.</span><br />
+<br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 33%;"><i>Every one is as God made him, and oftentimes<br />
+A great deal worse.</i><br />
+<br /></p>
+<p style="margin-left: 65%;"><span class="smcap">Miguel De Cervantes.</span><br /></p>
+
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV.</h2>
+
+<h4>A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY.</h4>
+
+<blockquote><p><i>Down Town&mdash;Messrs. Flint &amp; Snarle&mdash;Tim, the Office Boy, and the pale
+Book-Keeper&mdash;The Escritoire&mdash;The Purloined Package&mdash;Mr. Flint goes
+Home&mdash;Midnight&mdash;Miss Daisy Snarle&mdash;The Poor Author.</i></p></blockquote>
+
+
+<p>In one of those thousand and one vein-like streets which cross and recross
+the mercantile heart of Gotham, is situated a red brick edifice, which,
+like the beggar who solicits your charity in the Park, has seen better
+days.</p>
+
+<p>In the time of our Knickerbocker sires, it was an aristocratic dwelling
+fronting on a fashionable street, and "Jeems," in green livery, opened the
+hall door. The street was a quiet, orderly street in those days&mdash;a certain
+air of conscious respectability hung about it. Sometimes a private
+cabriolet rolled augustly along; and of summer evenings the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> city beaux,
+with extraordinary shoe-buckles, might have been seen promenading the
+grass-fringed sidewalks. To-day it is a miasmatic, miserable, muddy
+thoroughfare. Your ears are startled by the "Extray 'rival of the 'Rabia,"
+and the omnibuses dash through the little confined street with a perfect
+madness. Instead of the white-kidded, be-ruffled gallants of Eld, you meet
+a hurrying throng of pale, anxious faces, with tare, tret and speculation
+in their eyes.</p>
+
+<p>It is a business street, for Mammon has banished Fashion to the golden
+precincts of Fifth Avenue. The green of Jeems' livery is, like himself,
+invisible. He has departed this life&mdash;gone, like Hiawatha, to the Land of
+the Hereafter&mdash;to the land of spirits, where we can conceive him to be in
+his element; but he has a "town residence" in an obscure graveyard, with
+his name and "recommendation" on a stone door-plate. His mundane superiors
+are reclining beneath the shadow of St. Paul's steeple, where they are
+regaled with some delectable music (if you would only think so) from the
+balcony of the Museum opposite, and have the combined benefit of Barnum's
+scenic-artist and the Drummond light.</p>
+
+<p>The massive door-plate, and highly polished, distorted knocker, no longer
+grace the oaken panels of number 85; but a republican sign over the
+fam<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span>ily-looking doorway tells you that "the front room, second floor," is
+occupied by Messrs. Flint &amp; Snarle. After passing up a flight of broad,
+uncarpeted stairs, you again see the name of that respectable firm painted
+on a light of ground glass set in the office door. Once on the other side
+of that threshold, you breathe mercantile air. There have been so many
+brain-trying interest calculations worked out on those high desks, that the
+very atmosphere, figuratively speaking, is mathematical.</p>
+
+<p>The sign should not read Flint &amp; Snarle, for Snarle has been dead six
+months, and it is not pleasant to contemplate a name without an owner&mdash;it
+is not to every one, but Mr. Flint likes to read the sign, and think that
+Snarle is dead. He was the reverse of Flint, and that his name should have
+been <i>Snarle</i> at all is odd, for in life he was the quintessence of
+quietness, and the oil of good nature. But Flint is well named; he is
+chalcedony at heart. Nobody says this, but everybody knows it. Nell, the
+pretty match-girl, who sells her wares in Wall-street, never approaches
+him, nor the newsboys; and blind men, with sagacious, half-fed dogs, steer
+clear of him by instinct. <i>He</i> doesn't tolerate paupers, and Italian
+hand-organs with monkey accompaniments&mdash;not he.</p>
+
+<p>The man who has not as much money as the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> surviving senior of Flint &amp;
+Snarle, is a dog&mdash;in Flint's distinguished estimation. His God is not that
+divine Presence, whose thought<br /><br /></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i15">"Shaped the world,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">And laid it in the sunbeams."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+
+<p>Flint's God is Gold.&mdash;</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Bright and yellow, hard and cold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Molten, graven, hammered and rolled;<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Heavy to get, and light to hold;<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold;<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled;<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">To the very verge of the church-yard mould;<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Price of many a crime untold:<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+
+<p>Flint is about fifty-three years of age; but if you could forget his gray
+hair, and look only at those small, piercing black eyes, you would hardly
+think him forty. His black dress-coat is buttoned around his somewhat
+attenuated form, and he wears a stiff white cravat because it looks
+religious. In this respect, and perhaps in others, you will find Flint's
+prototype on every corner&mdash;people who look religious, if religion can be
+associated with the aspect of an undertaker.</p>
+
+<p>It is Monday morning.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Mr. Flint sits in his private office reading the letters. There is a window
+cut in the wall, and he glances through it now and then, eyeing the
+book-keeper as if the poor careworn fellow were making false entries. On a
+high consumptive-looking stool sits the office boy, filing away answered
+letters and sundry bills paid. The stool seems so high and the boy so
+small, that he at once suggests some one occupying a dangerous position&mdash;at
+a mast-head or on the golden ball of a church-steeple. For thus risking his
+life, he receives "thirty dollars per year, <i>and</i> clothing." We like to
+have forgotten that. The said clothing consists of one white cravat full of
+hinges, and a dilapidated coat, twelve sizes too large for him, his widowed
+mother supplying the deficiency.</p>
+
+<p>Save the monotonous ticking of a thick-set, croupy clock, and the nervous
+scratching of pens, not a sound is heard.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Flint in deep thought, with his thumbs lost in the arm-holes of a white
+vest, paces up and down his limited sanctum, just as a thoughtful-eyed,
+velvet-mouthed leopard walks its confined cage, only waiting for a chance
+to put its paws on somebody. The stool on which the boy is sitting is a
+rickety concern, and its creakings annoy Mr. Flint, who comes out, and
+looks over the orphan's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> shoulder. If his lynx eyes discover a document
+incorrectly filed, he pinches the delinquent's ears, till he (the orphan)
+is as red in the face as an August sunset. Mr. Flint chuckles when he gets
+back to his desk, and seems to enjoy it immensely, for he drums out an
+exhilarating dead march with his long, wiry fingers on the cover of the
+letter-book. The pale book-keeper&mdash;his hair and eyes are darker than when
+we first saw him sitting with little Bell at "the round window" in the Old
+House&mdash;continues to write assiduously; and the orphan thinks that he hears
+fire-bells, his ears ring so.</p>
+
+<p>He's an unfortunate atom of humanity, that office-boy. He was never young.
+He never passed through the degrading cycles of infancy&mdash;never had any
+marbles or hoops: <i>his</i> limbs were never ignominiously confined by those
+"triangular arrangements" incidental to babyhood. At five, when other
+children are bumping their heads over steep stairs, he smoked cinnamon
+segars, and was a precocious, astute little villain at seven. For
+thirty-six months he folded books for Harper &amp; Brothers, and at the
+advanced age of ten years three months, was bound over to the tender
+mercies of Flint &amp; Snarle for "thirty dollars per year <i>and</i> clothing," (so
+the indentures read;) but as he is charged with all the inkstands
+demolished during the term, and one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> gross of imaginary lead pencils, he
+generally has about twenty-five dollars to his credit on the 1st of
+January, which Flint generously offers to keep for him at four per cent.
+interest, and which offer the ungrateful orphan "firmly but respectfully"
+declines.</p>
+
+<p>"Mortimer!" cries Mr. Flint, in a quick, snarly voice from the inner
+office.</p>
+
+<p>The book-keeper lays down the pen which he has just dipped in the ink, and
+disappears in the little room. Mr. Flint is turning over the leaves of the
+invoice book.</p>
+
+<p>"In thirteen pages there are no less than two blots and five erasures. You
+have grown careless in your penmanship lately;" and Mr. Flint closes the
+book with a report like that of a pocket-pistol, and opens it again. One
+would suppose the office-boy to be shot directly through the heart; but he
+survives, and is attacked with a wonderful fit of industry.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you write in your sleep?" inquires Mr. Flint, with a quiet insolence.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer thinks how often he has toiled over those same pages at hours when
+he should have been sleeping&mdash;hours taken from his life. But he makes no
+reply. He only bites his lips, and lets his eyes flash. Suddenly a thought
+strikes him, and, bending over Mr. Flint's shoulder, as if to examine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> more
+closely his careless chirography, he takes a small key from an open drawer
+in the <i>escritoire</i> behind him, and drops it into his vest-pocket. After
+receiving a petulant reprimand, Mortimer returns to his desk; and again
+that weary, weary pen scratches over the paper.</p>
+
+<p>After the bank deposit is made up, and Mr. Flint looks over the bill-book,
+and startles the orphan from a state of semi-somnolency, he goes on
+'Change. He is no sooner out, than Mortimer throws Tim a bit of silver
+coin.</p>
+
+<p>"Get some apples for yourself, Tim."</p>
+
+<p>Tim (he's small of his age) slides down from the high stool with agility,
+while his two eyes look like interrogation points. He is wondering at this
+sudden outbreak of munificence, for though "Mr. Mortimer" always had a kind
+word for Tim, and tried to extricate him from the web of mistakes which Tim
+was forever spinning around himself, yet Tim never knew him to come down
+with the "block tin" before, as he eloquently expressed it; and he looks at
+Mortimer all the time he is getting his cap, and pauses a moment at the
+door to see if he doesn't repent.</p>
+
+<p>When Tim's feet cease sounding on the stairs, Mortimer goes into the back
+office, and with the key which he had taken from the drawer, unlocks<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> a
+small iron hand-safe. His trembling fingers turn over package after
+package; at last he finds one which seems to be the object of his search.
+This he hastily conceals in the bosom of his coat. After carefully
+re-locking the safe, he approaches the <i>escritoire</i> to return the purloined
+key, but to his dismay he finds the drawer locked. The one above it,
+however, is unfastened. Drawing this out, he places the key in its right
+compartment.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer, in searching for the paper which he has hidden in his bosom, had
+removed several others from the safe; but in his nervousness he had
+neglected to replace a small morocco case. He discovers his negligence, and
+hears foot-falls on the stairs at the same moment. There is no time to
+re-open the chest: he wraps the case in his handkerchief, and resumes his
+place at the desk.</p>
+
+<p>Tim returns munching the remains of a gigantic apple, and bearing about him
+a convicting smell of peanuts. Suddenly Mr. Flint enters, and Tim is
+necessitated to swallow the core of his russet without that usual
+preparatory mastication which nature's kindly law suggests. Mr. Flint has
+made a capital bargain on 'Change, and his face is lighted up with a smile,
+if fancy can coax such an expression into one. It looks like a gas-light in
+an undertaker's window.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>It is five o'clock. Mr. Flint goes home to doze over a diminutive glass of
+sherry. He holds it up between his eyes and the light, smiling to see the
+liquid jewels, and wishes that they were real rubies. Flint! they are red
+tears, and not jewels which glisten in your glass, for you crushed the
+poor, and took advantage of the unfortunate to buy this pleasant blood
+which pulses in your brittle chalice!</p>
+
+<p>That night he thought of a pair of blue, innocent eyes which once looked
+pleadingly in his&mdash;of two tiny arms that were once wound fondly around his
+neck. Those eyes haunted him into the misty realm of dreams, where myriads
+of little arms were stretched out to him; and he turned restlessly on his
+pillow. Ah, Flint, there is an invisible and powerful spirit in the heart
+of every man that <i>will</i> speak. It whispers to the criminal in his cell;
+and the downy pillows and sumptuous drapery around the couch of Wealth
+cannot keep it away at midnight.</p>
+
+<p>There is not a house but has its skeleton. There is a ghastly one in
+Flint's.</p>
+
+<p>The silvery lips in Trinity steeple chime the hour of eleven; St. Paul's
+catch it up, and hosts of belfrys toss the hour to and fro like a
+shuttle-cork. Then the goblin bells hush themselves to sleep again in their
+dizzy nests, murmuring, murmuring!&mdash;and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> the pen of the pale book-keeper
+keeps time with the ticking of the office time-piece.</p>
+
+<p>It is nearly twelve o'clock when he reaches the door of a common two-story
+house in Marion-street. The door is opened before he can turn the bolt with
+his night-key, and the whitest possible little hand presses his. He draws
+it within his own, and places his arm around the daintiest little waist
+that ever submitted to the operation. Then the two enter the front parlor,
+where the dim light falls on Mortimer and a beautiful girl on the verge of
+womanhood. She looks into his face, and his lips touch a tress of chestnut
+hair which has fallen over his shoulder.</p>
+
+<p>"You are very pale. Have you been unwell to-day?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, Daisy," and he bends down and kisses her.</p>
+
+<p>"Why do you persist in sitting up for me? I shall scold if you spoil your
+cheeks. Kiss me, Daisy."</p>
+
+<p>The girl pouts, and declares she won't, as she coquettishly twines her arms
+around his neck, and Mortimer has such a kiss as all Flint's bank stock
+could not buy him&mdash;a pure, earnest kiss. He was rich, poor in the world's
+eye, richer than Flint, with his corpulent money bags, God pity him!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>They sit a long while without speaking. Mortimer breaks the silence.</p>
+
+<p>"We are very poor, Daisy."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, but happy."</p>
+
+<p>"Sometimes. To-night I am not; I am weary of this daily toiling. The world
+is not a workshop to wear out souls in. Man has perverted its use. Life,
+and thought, and brain, are but crucibles to smelt gold in. Nobleness is
+made the slave of avarice, just as a pure stream is taught to turn a
+mill-wheel and become foul and muddied. The rich are scornful, and the poor
+sorrowful. O, Daisy, such things should not be! My heart beats when I think
+how poorly you and your mother are living."</p>
+
+<p>"O, how much we owe you, Mortimer! you are selling your life for us. From
+morning till night, day after day, you have been our slave. Poor, dear
+Mortimer, how can we thank you? We can only give you love and prayers. You
+will not let me help you. Last night, when you found me embroidering a
+collar, a bit of work which Mrs. Potiphar had kindly given me, you
+pleasantly cut it in pieces with your pen-knife, and then pawned your gold
+pencil to pay for ruining Mrs. Potiphar's muslin&mdash;too proud to have me
+work!"</p>
+
+<p>"Why will you pain me, darling? I was complaining for others, not myself. I
+do not toil as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> thousands do. I am impulsive and irascible, and do not mean
+all I say. I am ungrateful; my heart should be full of gratitude to-night,
+for the cloud which has hung over me the last six months has shown its
+silver lining."</p>
+
+<p>"What do you mean?" cries Daisy.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you know that you are an heiress?" asks Mortimer, gaily.</p>
+
+<p>Daisy laughs at the idea, and mockingly says, "Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"An heiress to a good name, Daisy! which is better than purple, and linen,
+and fine gold."</p>
+
+<p>Daisy looks mystified, but forbears to question him, for he complains of
+sleep. The lovers part at the head of the stairs. Mortimer, on reaching his
+room, draws a paper from his bosom; he weeps over it, reads it again and
+again; then he holds it in the flame of a candle. When the ashes have
+fallen at his feet, he exclaims:</p>
+
+<p>"I have kept my promise, Harvey Snarle! Peace to your memory!"</p>
+
+<p>From a writing-desk in a corner of the room he takes a pile of manuscript,
+and weary as he is, adds several pages to it. The dream of his boyhood has
+grown with him&mdash;that delightful dream of authorship! How this
+will-o'-the-wisp of the brain entices one into mental fogs! How it coaxes
+and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> pets one, cheats and ruins one! And so that appalling pile of
+closely-written manuscript is Mortimer's romance? Wasted hours and wasted
+thought&mdash;who would buy or read it?</p>
+
+<p>A down-town clock strikes the hour of two so gently, that it sounds like
+the tinkling of sheep-bells coming through the misty twilight air from the
+green meadows. With which felicitous simile we will give our hero a little
+sleep, after having kept him up two hours after midnight.</p>
+
+<p>Slumber touches his eyelids gently; but Daisy lies awake for hours; at
+last, falling into a trouble sleep, she dreams that she is an heiress.</p>
+
+<p>Oh, Daisy Snarle!<br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>V.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;"><i>The bitter cups of Death are mixed,<br />
+And we must drink and drink again.</i><br />
+<br /></p>
+<p style="margin-left: 60%;"><span class="smcap">R. H. Stoddard.</span><br />
+</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V.</h2>
+
+<h4>DAISY SNARLE.</h4>
+
+<p><i>Sunday Morning&mdash;Harvey Snarle and Mortimer&mdash;A Tale of Sorrow&mdash;The
+Snow-child&mdash;Mortimer takes Daisy's hand&mdash;Snarle's death.</i></p>
+
+
+<p>Six months previous to the commencement of the last chapter, Mr. Harvey
+Snarle lay dying, slowly, in a front room of the little house in
+Marion-street.</p>
+
+<p>It was Sunday morning.</p>
+
+<p>The church bells were ringing&mdash;speaking with musical lips to "ye goode
+folk," and chiming a sermon to the pomp and pride of the city. As Mortimer
+sat by the window, the houses opposite melted before his vision; and again
+he saw the old homestead buried in a world of leaves&mdash;heard the lapping of
+the sea, and a pleasant chime of bells from the humble church at Ivytown.
+And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> more beautiful than all, was a child with clouds of golden hair,
+wandering up and down the sea-shore.</p>
+
+<p>"Mortimer?" said the sick man.</p>
+
+<p>Then the dream melted, and the common-looking brick buildings came back
+again.</p>
+
+<p>"The doctor thought I could not live?" said the man, inquiringly.</p>
+
+<p>"He thought there was little hope," replied Mortimer. "But doctors are not
+fortune-tellers," he added, cheerfully.</p>
+
+<p>"I feel that he is right&mdash;little hope. Where is Daisy?"</p>
+
+<p>"She has lain down for a moment. Shall I call her?"</p>
+
+<p>"Wearied! Poor angel; she watched me last night. I did not sleep much. I
+closed my eyes, and she smiled to think that I was slumbering quietly. No;
+do not call her."</p>
+
+<p>After a pause, the sick man said:</p>
+
+<p>"Wet my lips, I have something to tell you."</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer moistened his feverish lips, and sat on the bed-side.</p>
+
+<p>"It comes over me," said the consumptive.</p>
+
+<p>"What? That pain?"</p>
+
+<p>"No; my life. There is something drearier than death in the world."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Sometimes life," thought Mortimer, half aloud.</p>
+
+<p>The sick man looked at him.</p>
+
+<p>"Why did you say that?"</p>
+
+<p>"I thought it. Life is a bitter gift sometimes. An ambition or a passion
+possess us, flatters and mocks us. Death is not so dreary a thing as life
+then."</p>
+
+<p>"He felt that."</p>
+
+<p>"Who?"</p>
+
+<p>"The devil."</p>
+
+<p>"His mind is wandering," murmured Mortimer&mdash;"wandering."</p>
+
+<p>"It isn't," said Snarle, slowly. "A passion, a love, made Flint's life
+bitter."</p>
+
+<p>"Flint! Did he ever love anything but gold?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes; but it was long ago! We are cousins. We were schoolmates and friends,
+sharing our boyish sports and troubles with that confiding friendship which
+leaves us in our teens. We lived together. I can see the old white frame
+house at Hampton Falls!" and the man passed his emaciated hand over his
+eyes, as if to wipe out some unpleasant picture. "A niece of my father's
+came to spend a winter with us. Young men's thoughts run to love. I could
+but love her, she was so beautiful and good; and while she did a thousand
+kind things to win my affection, she took a strange aversion to my cousin
+Flint, who grew rude and impetuous. We were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> married. But long before that,
+Flint packed up his little trunk, and, without a word of farewell, left us
+one night for a neighboring city. Years went by, and from time to time
+tidings reached us of his prosperity and growing wealth. We were proud of
+his industry, and thought of him kindly. We, too, were prospering. But the
+tide of our fortune changed. My father's affairs and mine became
+complicated. He died, and the farm was sold. One day I stood at Flint's
+office door, and asked for employment. Evil day! better for me if I had
+toiled in the fields from morning till night, wringing a reluctant
+livelihood from the earth, which is even more human than Flint. Wet my
+lips, boy, and come near to me, that I may tell you how I became his slave;
+softly, so the air may not hear me."</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer drew nearer to him.</p>
+
+<p>"It was a hard winter for the poor. My darling wife was suffering from the
+mere want of proper medicines and food. I asked Flint for a little more
+than the pitiable salary which he allowed me. He smiled, and said that I
+was extravagant. We had not clothes enough to shield us from the cold! I
+told him that my wife was sick; and he replied, bitterly, 'poor men should
+not have wives.' Wet my lips again. Can you love me, boy, after what I
+shall tell you? I forged a check for a trivial<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> amount!" and Snarle's voice
+sunk to a hoarse whisper. "Can you love me?"</p>
+
+<p>"Can I love you?" cried Mortimer. He could not see the sick man for his
+tears. "Can I forget all your kindness. Years ago, when I was a mere child,
+toiling early and late in Flint's office, did you not take me to your home,
+a poor hope-broken boy? Have I not grown up with Daisy, like your own
+child? Not love you?"</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer laid his face on the same pillow with the sick man's.</p>
+
+<p>"I was not sent to prison," continued Snarle, with a shudder; "only my own
+mind, and soul, and actions were prisoners. I was Flint's! Flint owned me!
+That little paper which he guards so carefully is the title-deed. O,
+Mortimer, as you hold my memory dear, destroy that paper&mdash;tear it, burn it,
+trample it out of the world!"</p>
+
+<p>With these words Snarle sank back upon the pillow, from which he had half
+risen. He went on speaking in a lower tone:</p>
+
+<p>"I have suffered so much that I am sure God will forgive me. Never let the
+world know&mdash;never let my wife and Daisy know that I was a&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"O, I will promise you, dear father," cried Mortimer, before he could
+finish the dreadful word. "I will destroy the paper, though twenty Flints
+guarded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> it. The man who steals a loaf of bread for famishing lips, is not
+such a criminal in God's sight as he who steals a million times its value
+by <i>law</i> to feed his avarice. Think no more of it. The angel who records in
+his book, has written a hundred good deeds over that unfortunate one. The
+world's frown is not God's frown, and His heart is open when man's is
+barred with unforgiveness."</p>
+
+<p>"Thank you, thank you," said Snarle, brightening up a little. "Your words
+give me comfort. I have not much more to tell. Flint took me into the firm,
+but I was the same slave. I worked, and worked, and the reapings were his.
+You have seen it&mdash;you know it. And this was his revenge. His wounded love
+and pride have wrecked themselves on me. He has never crossed the threshold
+of our door&mdash;never laid his eyes on my wife since the time when we were
+thoughtless boys together. O, how cruel he has been to me! Evening after
+evening, in midwinter, he has made me bring the last editions of the
+<i>Express</i> to his house, and never asked me in!"</p>
+
+<p>This was said with such a ludicrous expression, that Mortimer would have
+laughed if it had been anybody but poor Snarle. Exhausted with talking, the
+sick man sank into a quiet slumber.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer sat by his bed-side for an hour, watching the change of
+expressions in the sleeper's face<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> &mdash;the shadow of his dreams coming and
+going! Then his head drooped upon his bosom, and he slept so soundly that
+he did not know that Daisy came in the room, and stood beside him, looking
+in his face with her fond, quiet eyes.</p>
+
+<p>When he awoke, one long dark shadow from the houses opposite slanted into
+the apartment.</p>
+
+<p>Snarle was looking at him.</p>
+
+<p>"I have been asleep," said Snarle, "and have had such pleasant thoughts
+that it is painful to find myself in this poor little world again. Ah, me,
+what will wife and Daisy do in it all alone?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not alone," said Mortimer. "I will watch over them&mdash;love them." Then,
+after a pause: "Father, I love Daisy&mdash;I would make her my wife."</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, I wished that; but I did not think it:" and Snarle paused a moment.
+"Have you told Daisy so?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes&mdash;but&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Well," said Snarle, waiting.</p>
+
+<p>"But she does not love me; and that is why I said love would make life
+bitter."</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps she does."</p>
+
+<p>"No."</p>
+
+<p>"What did Daisy say?"</p>
+
+<p>"She said there were clouds in the morning of her life&mdash;(these were her own
+words)&mdash;which had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> no sunshine in them. Then she called me brother and
+kissed me, and told me that I must never think of her as my wife. She would
+be my sister always. And when I speak to her of this, she turns away or
+hums a pleasant air to mock me."</p>
+
+<p>"She is not our child, Mortimer."</p>
+
+<p>"What?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, I am not wandering," said Snarle, in reply to Mortimer's look. "She is
+not our child. We adopted her under strange circumstances. I have not told
+you this before. Daisy did not wish me to; but it is right that you should
+know it now. Sit nearer to me."</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer obeyed mechanically.</p>
+
+<p>"One stormy night we were sitting, my wife and I, in the room below. I
+remember as if it were yesterday, how the wind slammed the window-blinds,
+and blew out the street-lamps. It was just a year ago that night we lost
+our little Maye, and we were very sad. We sat in silence, while without the
+storm increased. The hail and snow dashed against the window-panes, and
+down the chimney. Every now and then the wind lulled, and everything was
+still."</p>
+
+<p>Heaven knows why Mr. Snarle ceased speaking just then; but he did, and
+seemed lost in reverie.</p>
+
+<p>"What was I saying?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"You were speaking of the storm."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, yes. It was in one of those pauses of the wind that we heard a low
+sob under our windows. We did not heed it at first, for sometimes a storm
+moans like a human voice. It came again so distinctly as to leave no doubt.
+I opened the hall-door, and groped about in the snow. When I returned to
+the sitting-room, I held little Daisy in my arms. She was no larger than
+our Maye who died&mdash;our little three-year-old. The child was half frozen,
+and nothing but a coarse cloak thrown over her night-dress, had saved her
+from perishing. I reported the circumstance at the police-station, but such
+things were of too common occurrence to excite much interest. Weeks passed,
+and then months, and no one answered the advertisements. At last we had
+learned to love the child so dearly, that we dreaded the thought of parting
+with it. I asked and obtained permission to adopt the pet, and so Daisy
+became ours. She is very proud, and the mystery of her birth troubles her;
+and this&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>Before Snarle could finish the sentence, Daisy herself opened the room
+door, and came tripping up to the bed-side.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer took her hand very quietly.</p>
+
+<p>"Daisy," he said, "I love you."</p>
+
+<p>Daisy hid her face in the pillow.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"He has told me everything, and I love you, Daisy!"</p>
+
+<p>Daisy looked up with the tears and sunshine of April in her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you love me?" he asked.</p>
+
+<p>The girl was silent for a moment, then a sweet little "yes" budded on her
+lips.</p>
+
+<p>Then Mortimer kissed Daisy, and poor Snarle died happy; for that evening
+his life-stream ebbed with the tide, and mingled with that ocean which is
+forever and forever.<br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<h5>REQUIESCAT IN PACE.<br /><br /><br /><br /></h5>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>VI.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 30%;"><i>A lone ship sailing on the sea:<br />
+Before the north 'twas driven like a cloud;<br />
+High on the poop a man sat mournfully:<br />
+The wind was whistling through mast and shroud,<br />
+And to the whistling wind thus did he sing aloud.</i><br />
+<br /></p>
+<p style="margin-left: 60%;"><span class="smcap">Smith's "Barbara."</span><br /></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI.</h2>
+
+<h4>THE PHANTOM AT SEA.</h4>
+
+<p><i>A Storm in the Tropics&mdash;The Lone Ship&mdash;The Man at the Wheel&mdash;How he sang
+strange Songs&mdash;The Apparition&mdash;The Drifting Bark.</i></p>
+
+
+<p>The blood-red sun had gone down into the Atlantic. Faint purple streaks
+streamed up the western horizon, like the fingers of some great shadowy
+hand clutching at the world.</p>
+
+<p>Huge masses of dark, agate-looking clouds were gathering in the zenith, and
+the heavy, close atmosphere told the coming of a storm. Now and then the
+snaky lightning darted across the heavens and coiled itself away in a
+cloud.</p>
+
+<p>A lone ship stood almost motionless in the twilight.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The sails were close-reefed. Here and there on the forecastle were groups
+of lazy-looking seamen; and a man walked the quarter-deck, glancing
+anxiously aloft. The sea was as smooth as a mirror, and that dreadful
+stillness was in the air which so often preludes a terrific storm in the
+tropics. A rumbling was heard in the sky like the sound of distant
+artillery, or heavy bodies of water falling from immense heights.</p>
+
+<p>Then the surface of the sea was broken by mimic waves tipped with froth,
+and the vast expanse seemed like a prairie in a snow fall.</p>
+
+<p>The lightning became more frequent and vivid, and the thunder seemed
+breaking on the very topmasts of the vessel. Then the starless night sunk
+down on the ocean, and the sea raved in the gathering darkness. The storm
+was at its height: the wind,</p>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;">"Through unseen sluices of the air,"<br /></p>
+
+
+<p>tore the shrouds to strings, and bent the dizzy, tapering masts till they
+threatened to snap. But the bark bore bravely through it, while the huge
+waves seemed bearing her down to those coral labyrinths, where nothing goes</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;">
+"But doth suffer a sea-change<br />
+Into something rich and strange."<br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The thunder sent forth peal after peal, and the heaven was like "a looming
+bastion fringed with fire." On through the slanting rain sped the ship,
+creaking and groaning, with its ribs warped and its great oaken spine
+trembling. The sailors on deck clung to the bulwarks; and below not a soul
+could sleep, for the thunder and the creaking of cordage filled their ears.</p>
+
+<p>At midnight the storm abated; but the sea still ran dangerously high, and
+the wind sobbed through the rigging mournfully. The heaven was spangled
+with tremulous stars, and at the horizon the clouds hung down in gossamer
+folds&mdash;God's robe trailing in the sea!</p>
+
+<p>Toward morning the waves grew suddenly calm, as if they had again heard
+that voice which of old said, "Peace, be still!" There was no one above
+decks, save the man at the wheel, who ever and anon muttered to himself, or
+hummed bits of poetry. He was a man in the mellow of life, in the Indian
+summer of manhood, which comes a little while before one falls "into the
+sere and yellow leaf." Once he must have been eminently handsome; but there
+were furrows on his intellectual forehead not traced by time's fingers. His
+eyes were peculiarly wild and restless.</p>
+
+<p>The slightest tinge of red fringed the East, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> as the man watched it
+grow deeper and deeper, he sang snatches of those odd sea-songs which
+Shakespeare scatters through his plays:<br /><br /></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">The gunner and his mate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian and Margary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">But none of us cared for Kate.<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">For she had a tongue with a twang,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Would cry to a sailor, go hang!<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">She loved not the savor of tar or of pitch,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>Then his sonorous voice rang out these quaint words to the night:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"Full fathom five thy father lies:<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">Of his bones are coral made:<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Those are pearls that were his eyes:<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">Nothing of him that doth fade&mdash;"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>He abruptly broke off, and commenced:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"Break, break, break<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">And I would that my tongue could utter<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">The thoughts that arise in me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">O, well for the fisherman's boy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">That he shouts with his sister at play!<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">O, well for the sailor lad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">That he sings in his boat on the bay!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">And the stately ships go on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">To the haven under the hill;<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">And the sound of a voice that is still!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">Break, break, break,<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">But the tender grace of a day that is dead<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">Will never come back to me."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+
+<p>Suddenly he paused, while a paleness like death overspread his face; the
+spokes of the wheel slipped from his hold, and he called for help; but the
+wind went moaning through the shrouds, and drowned his voice. The sea
+moaned and the ship drifted with the wind.</p>
+
+<p>"It comes again!" he cried; "the graveyard face! Go! I cannot bear those
+sad, reproachful eyes&mdash;those arms outstretched, asking mercy! Send foul
+fiends to torture me, and make my dreams hideous nightmares, but not this
+beautiful form to mock me with its purity, and kill me with its mild
+reproach. It has gone. But it will come again! It steals on me in the awful
+hours of night, when the air seems supernatural, and the mind is accessible
+to fear. It stood by my hammock last night; my conscious soul looked
+through my closed eyelids, and sleep felt its dreadful presence. If it
+comes again I will throw myself into the sea! Hush!" he whispered,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> "it
+stands by the cabin door, so pale! so pale! Come not near me, pensive
+ghost. Give me help, somebody! help! help!"</p>
+
+<p>He sunk down by the wheel.</p>
+
+<p>The stars, at the approach of morning, had grown as white as pond-lilies,
+and the wind had died away; but the same moan came up from the sea. On in
+the morning twilight drifted the ship for an hour, without a helmsman, save
+that unseen hand which guides all things&mdash;which balances with equal love
+and tenderness a dew-drop or a world.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>VII.</h3>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;"><i>I was not always a man of woe.</i><br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 55%;"><span class="smcap">Walter Scott.</span><br /></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII.</h2>
+
+<h4>IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN.</h4>
+
+<blockquote><p><i>Mr. Flint sips vino d'oro&mdash;The Stranger&mdash;The Letter&mdash;Mr. Flint
+Outwitted&mdash;Mr. Flint's Photograph&mdash;The Madman's Story&mdash;The wrecked
+Soul&mdash;How Mr. Flint is troubled by his Conscience, and dreams of a
+Pair of Eyes.</i></p></blockquote>
+
+<p>The same night on which Mortimer was writing in the books of Flint &amp;
+Snarle, Mr. Flint sat in the library of his bachelor home, sipping a glass
+of <i>vino d'oro</i>; and as the bells of Trinity Church fell faintly on his
+ear, he drew a massive gold watch from his fob, and, patting it
+complacently on the back, scrutinized its face as if he would look it out
+of countenance. Then he yawned a couple of times and thought of bed.</p>
+
+<p>"There's a gintleman without, sur," said Michel, putting his comical head
+in at the library door,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> "there's a gintleman without, sur," and he
+emphasized the 'gintleman.'</p>
+
+<p>"What sort of a person, Michel?"</p>
+
+<p>"A very quare one indade. 'Is Mr. Flint in?' sez he. 'He is sur,' sez I. 'I
+want to see him,' sez he. 'Your kard, sur,' sez I. He stared at me a minit,
+and laughed. Then, sez he, without the least riverence for your worship,
+'Give this <i>to owld Flint</i>!'" And Michel, exploding with laughter, handed
+Flint a knave of clubs very much soiled.</p>
+
+<p>"Michel!" said Mr. Flint, drawing himself up to his full altitude, "kick
+him down the steps!"</p>
+
+<p>"Thanks!" said a voice directly behind Michel, who had retreated to the
+doorway. The voice was so near and unexpected that Michel's crisp hair
+stood on end with fright.</p>
+
+<p>The door was thrown wide open, and a fine looking man, with the bearing of
+a sailor, stood between them. Mr. Flint turned as white as his immaculate
+shirt-bosom; and Michel, whose love of fun had got the better of his scare,
+regarded the intruder with a quizzical, inquiring air, peculiarly Irish.</p>
+
+<p>"Michel," said Mr. Flint, "you may go."</p>
+
+<p>That gentleman, not expecting such an order, hesitated.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sur."</p>
+
+<p>"Michel," said the stranger, "your master speaks to you."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Sure I heard him, sur."</p>
+
+<p>Michel left the room and carefully closed the door after him; but Flint,
+who knew his inquiring proclivities, opened it suddenly, and found Michel
+on all fours with his ear to the key-hole. The door was opened so
+unexpectedly that the listener did not discover the fact for the space of
+ten seconds. When he looked up and beheld his master, the intense
+expression of his face was superbly ludicrous. To say that he shot to the
+subterranean regions of the kitchen like a flash of lightning, does not
+border on fiction.</p>
+
+<p>The man laughed&mdash;it was a low, peculiar laugh, sadder than some men's
+tears.</p>
+
+<p>"Flint!"</p>
+
+<p>"Well."</p>
+
+<p>"Are you glad to see me?" and the man repeated his laugh.</p>
+
+<p>"No: you are a devil!"</p>
+
+<p>"I have been away three years, as I promised you."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, what do you want?"</p>
+
+<p>"Money."</p>
+
+<p>"Have I ever seen you when you did not?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, Flint, you never did. But you saw me once when I had an unstained
+soul&mdash;when I could have looked up to Heaven and said, 'I am poor, Father,
+but I am honest.' Have you enough<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> money to pay for a lost soul? Oh Flint,
+I am a wrecked man! If it had only been murder&mdash;if I had killed <i>a man</i> in
+the heat of passion&mdash;but a poor innocent babe in the cold snow! The child!
+the little babe! Ah, Flint, I never see the white snow coming down but I
+think of it. Those eyes are always with me. They follow me out to sea. They
+haunt me in the long watches. One night, when a storm had torn our rigging
+to tatters, and we heard the breakers on the lee-shore, I saw her standing
+by the binnacle light, and, so help me Heaven! she had grown to be a woman.
+I fainted at the wheel. You heard of the shipwreck. How could a ship keep
+clear of the rocks and the helmsman in a trance? Forty souls went down,
+down! Hist! who said that? Not I. No, not I! I am a maniac!"</p>
+
+<p>"Don't go on that way," pleaded Flint, giving uneasy looks toward the door,
+which he regretted having locked.</p>
+
+<p>"Why?"</p>
+
+<p>"It is not pleasant."</p>
+
+<p>"What isn't?"</p>
+
+<p>"Your eyes&mdash;your words. What can I do for you?"</p>
+
+<p>The man's excitement lulled for a moment. He replied, carelessly:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"I am not a chameleon; I cannot live on air; I can earn no money. The
+elements are against me&mdash;storms and shipwrecks follow me.... I have not
+found him yet," he said, abruptly.</p>
+
+<p>"Who?"</p>
+
+<p>"My boy."</p>
+
+<p>Flint turned aside his head, and laughed quietly.</p>
+
+<p>"I am tired of searching for him," said the man, sorrowfully. "I am not
+going to sea any more." After a pause&mdash;"I wish to live among the fishermen
+off Nantucket. You ask me what I want?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"I want two or three hundred dollars to fit up a fishing-smack. Give me
+this, and I will not trouble you again. God knows I don't want to look on
+your face!"</p>
+
+<p>"And the letter&mdash;will you give me the letter?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes; when I take the money."</p>
+
+<p>The man drew from his bosom several letters, and selected one more worn and
+crumpled than the rest.</p>
+
+<p>Flint's eyes fed upon it.</p>
+
+<p>"Of course," said Flint, "I have not such an amount in the house. I have a
+hundred dollars up stairs, and will give you a check for the remainder.
+Will that do?"</p>
+
+<p>"No and yes; but get the money, and I'll see."</p>
+
+<p>Flint left him alone. From a safe in his bed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>-chamber he took a small bag
+of gold, and caressed it for a moment very much as one's grandmother would
+a pet cat; then he filled up a check, and called Michel.</p>
+
+<p>"Run to the police station, Michel, and tell Captain L.&mdash;&mdash; to send me
+three or four men."</p>
+
+<p>Michel shot down stairs, and his master followed him leisurely, patting the
+gold-bag lovingly at every other step.</p>
+
+<p>"Does he think," said Flint's visitor to himself, as the library door
+closed&mdash;"<i>can</i> he think I would part with this paper? He, so full of
+worldly shrewdness, so simple?"</p>
+
+<p>After awhile the door opened.</p>
+
+<p>"There!" gasped Flint, placing the bag on the table before the man; "the
+letter! the letter!"</p>
+
+<p>The stranger carelessly threw a rumpled paper toward Flint, who grasped it
+convulsively. His hand touched a bell-rope, and before the bell had ceased
+tinkling, a heavy measured tramp came through the entry. Four policemen
+entered the room in single file, with Michel behind them making comical
+efforts to keep step.</p>
+
+<p>"Arrest him!" cried Flint, hoarse with passion and triumph, "he has
+extorted money from me!"</p>
+
+<p>"Flint," said the man, walking toward him, "you know that's a lie!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Mr. Flint retreated behind the policeman.</p>
+
+<p>"This person," he cried, "is a stranger to me; he forced his way into my
+house and has threatened my life. Arrest him quickly, for he is no doubt
+armed!"</p>
+
+<p>"Gentlemen," said the stranger, turning to the officers, "Mr. Flint, I
+fear, has given you useless trouble. Michel, more glasses!"</p>
+
+<p>At this, that astonished individual went off like a rocket.</p>
+
+<p>"For the love you bear your good name, Mr. Flint", he continued, "look at
+the paper which you so innocently put in your pocket."</p>
+
+<p>An idea struck Flint, which caused him to turn pale. He tore open the
+letter; but it was not the one for which he would have given half his
+fortune. Oh! sagacious, wily, clear-sighted Mr. Flint!</p>
+
+<p>"You had better tell these gentlemen that you have made a mistake, Flint.
+But, before they go, they must have a glass of wine."</p>
+
+<p>Michel had failed to appear with the extra glasses; but the want of them
+was elegantly supplied by three silver goblets which stood on the
+<i>beaufait</i>. And poor, collapsed Flint! he could only bid the officers go,
+with a wave of his hand.</p>
+
+<p>They were alone.</p>
+
+<p>The sailor, with a scornful curl in his lip, stood by the chair of the
+merchant, whose dejected counte<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>nance, taken in connection with his white
+cravat, was delightfully comical.</p>
+
+<p>"Flint," commenced the man, "your verdancy is refreshing. Your sweet and
+child-like simplicity is like a draught of your old wine&mdash;it's rare, it's
+rare."</p>
+
+<p>If anything touched Flint, it was sarcasm. He stood in dread of ridicule,
+as most men do whose foibles and vices deserve lashing.</p>
+
+<p>"Edward Walters!" he cried, springing to his feet, "you have outwitted me.
+Well, you are a knave; it is your pride to be one. Your companions will
+shout to-night, in some obscure den of this city, as you tell them of your
+ingenuity, and you will be a hero among&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Stop, John Flint! For sixteen years to-night my life has been as pure as a
+child's. The vices of passion and avarice have not touched me. I have borne
+a sorrow in my heart which shrunk instinctively from sin. During these
+years I have been poor, very poor." The man paused. "There is a link lost
+somewhere in my life&mdash;was I an age in a madhouse? Let it go. I have loved
+my fellow-man; I have lingered at the hammock of a sick mess-mate, and
+closed his eyes kindly when he died; I have spoken words of cheer when my
+heart was bitterness. I do not say this boastfully, for God's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> eyes are
+upon us all. I have done these things to atone for the one great sin of my
+life, which has stalked through memory like a plague. John Flint, I have
+had the misfortune to know you for twenty years, and during that time you
+never have, to my knowledge, performed a single act worthy of being
+remembered. You have a narrow, malicious mind; you have been tyrannical
+when you should have been generous; you have been the devil's emissary
+under the cant of religion. You call Jesus master, but you crucify him
+daily! There is your photograph, John Flint!"</p>
+
+<p>"You flatter me," remarked that personage, sarcastically; "but go on."</p>
+
+<p>"It is seldom that a rich man has the truth spoken to him plainly&mdash;the poor
+man hears it often enough. Consider yourself favored. You have called me a
+knave. I will draw some pictures, and I wish you to look at them:</p>
+
+<p>"Many years ago, a seafaring man who had just lost his ship in which his
+little fortune had been invested, returned to this city sick at heart, and
+weak from a wound which he had received in the wreck. He had battled many a
+year against misfortune, and his utmost exertions had barely found bread
+for his children. He owed money to a heartless and exacting man. He stood
+before his creditor and said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> 'I am beggared, but I will work for you.'
+The merchant replied, 'Come to my house to-night, and I will find means by
+which this debt can be liquidated.' The sailor expected reproaches and hard
+words; so he was surprised at the softness of this speech, and his heart
+was full of gratitude.</p>
+
+<p>"That night he sat in the parlor of the merchant, who plied him with rare
+wines, until his mind went from him. Then he made a proposal to the sailor,
+who, if he had had his senses, would have felled him to the floor. The
+merchant had been appointed guardian to a motherless babe, which his
+brother, dying, begged him to love and educate. His ship on the sea, and
+the bales of merchandize in his warehouses, were not enough to feed his
+hungry avarice. He needs must have the little inheritance of the babe.
+Well, while he was speaking, making artful pictures in the eyes of his
+drugged dupe, the child ran into the room, and twined her arms around the
+neck of him who should have worshiped her. But he coldly unclasped the
+little hands and pushed her from him. John Flint, when that man, on
+Judgment Day, shall cringe before the throne of God, the Evil Angel will
+trample him down!"</p>
+
+<p>Flint was as white as the marble mantel-piece on which he leaned. Edward
+Walters stood a short distance in front of him; his eyes were fixed, and he
+spoke like one who sees what he is describing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Then the man&mdash;the merchant&mdash;wrapped the child in the sailor's cloak. In a
+few minutes the sailor stood in the stormy street, with a frightened little
+heart throbbing against his own. The cutting sleet and snow beat in his
+face, and the wine made a veil before his eyes. It was a fearful night. Not
+a human form was to be seen; the street lamps were blown out, and the poor
+mariner drifted to and fro like a deserted ship. He had become mad; the
+strange events had eaten into his brain. He wrapped the babe closer in his
+cloak, and placed her in a doorway, out of the cold. He wandered from
+street to street, then he sank down in the snow. When his senses came to
+him he had been in a madhouse&mdash;God, how many years! Was it ten? The June
+wind broke through the barred window; it touched his forehead, and it was
+like a human hand rousing one from a dreamless sleep. One evening soon
+after, he stood before the merchant, who was sipping his choice cordials,
+as you were to-night, Flint, and the sailor asked for the child. The man
+replied: 'The child is dead; you left it in the cold, and it died, or you
+threw it into the river. I saw a body at the dead-house, weeks afterward,
+which looked like the child. You committed murder; it was your own act.
+Suppose you were to be hung for it!' Have I a good memory, John Flint?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>And the man turned his wild eyes on Mr. Flint, who gave no other evidence
+of not being a statue than a slight tremor of his upper lip.</p>
+
+<p>"What did the madman say to the merchant? He took the cool, calculating
+villain by the throat, and cried, 'Write me out, in your round, clerkly
+hand, a full avowal of your guilt in this matter, or I'll strangle you!'
+The merchant knew he would, so he wrote this document with trembling
+fingers, and he signed it <span class="smcap">John Flint</span>!"</p>
+
+<p>Then the sailor drew from his pocket an old stained letter, and held it up
+to the light. He looked at it sadly, and then his mind seemed to wander off
+through a gloomy mist of memories, for his eyes grew gentle and dreamy.</p>
+
+<p>He spoke softly, almost tenderly:</p>
+
+<p>"John Flint, you never saw me weep. Look at me, then. I am thinking of an
+old country-house which stood in a cluster of trees near a sea-shore. It
+once held everything that was dear to me&mdash;my children. Three years ago I
+stood with my hand on the gate, and looked into the little garden. It had
+gone to waste; the wind had beaten down the flower frames; the honeysuckle
+vines were running wild, and there was the moss of ten years' growth on the
+broken chimney-pots. The rain had washed the paint off the house, and the
+windows were boarded up. There was something in the ruin and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> stillness of
+the place which spoke to me. Twilight added a gloomy background to the
+picture. I broke the rusty fastenings of a side door, and entered the
+deserted building. It may have been fancy, but I saw two forms wandering
+from room to room, and through the darkened entries; now they would pause,
+as if listening for foot-steps, then they would move on again, sorrowfully,
+sorrowfully. In the bedroom over the front door, I saw the shadow of a
+little coffin! <i>She</i> used to sleep there. Where were my children? Where was
+trustful old Nanny, that she did not come to me? The house was full of
+strange shadows, and I fled from it. I did not dare go to the village hard
+by. There were too many who might have known me. I sat down in the quiet
+church-yard where my wife had slept many a long year. I sat by a little
+mound on which a wreath of flowers had been laid&mdash;nothing remained of them
+but stems and the rotting string that had bound them. It had a peaceful
+look, the grave, and I wished that I had died when my mound would not have
+been made longer than the one at my side. What did the simple head-stone
+say? It said: '<span class="smcap">Little Bell</span>!'&mdash;that was all!"</p>
+
+<p>The sailor grasped Flint's arm.</p>
+
+<p>"Only little Bell!&mdash;that was all. But it was all the world to me! What a
+tale it told! What a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> tale of weary waiting, and despair, and death! Did
+her little heart wait for me! Did she sicken and die when I did not come to
+her? Aye, it said all this and more. And my boy&mdash;was he living? was he
+searching for me? No, not searching, for close by my child's grave, a white
+stone had these words carved on it:" and the man repeated them slowly,<br /><br /></p>
+
+<center>
+    SACRED<br />
+TO THE MEMORY<br />
+OF<br />
+OUR FATHER,<br />
+LOST AT SEA.<br /><br />
+</center>
+
+<p>"Not lost at sea," he said, almost inaudibly, "but lost! Ah, I could have
+died in that quiet place, with the moonlight on me! But I was startled from
+my grief by the shouts of some men on the roadside, and I turned and fled.
+Have you looked at the picture, John Flint?"</p>
+
+<p>He spoke so mournfully, that Flint raised his little, sharp eyes, which all
+this time had been fixed on the carpet; but he made no reply.</p>
+
+<p>"I'll have none of your gold, man. I was weak to want it. Give it to the
+poor. The shining round pieces may fall like sunlight into some wretched
+home. To me they are like drops of blood!"</p>
+
+<p>And he pushed the gold from him, and went to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> the window. He saw the dim
+eyes of Heaven looking down through the mist&mdash;heard the murmurs of the city
+dying away, and the calm of night entered his soul.</p>
+
+<p>"May you be a better man when we meet again," he said, turning to Flint.</p>
+
+<p>"But the letter," cried Flint, fearfully, "you won't&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>The sailor's lips curled, and something of his former severity returned.</p>
+
+<p>"Take off your sanctimonious cravat," he answered, "wrap charity around you
+like a robe, that you may be pleasing in God's sight. You sent some gold to
+convert the Hindoos&mdash;the papers said so. Why, man! there is a Heathen Land
+at your door-step! John Flint, good night!"</p>
+
+<p>The merchant stood alone.</p>
+
+<p>The night wind swayed the heavy curtains to and fro, and half extinguished
+the brilliant jets of gas. He threw himself into a chair, and a vision of
+the Past rose up before him&mdash;the terrible Past. The ghosts of dead years
+haunted his brain, and remorse sat on his heart, boding and mysterious,
+like the Raven of the sweet poet&mdash;</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"That unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Followed fast, and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore!"<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></div></div>
+
+<p>That night, as we have said, he dreamt of two blue, innocent eyes, which
+once looked confidingly in his&mdash;of two infant arms which encircled his
+neck. Those eyes haunted him into the realm of sleep, where myriads of
+little arms were stretched out to him, and he turned restlessly on his
+pillow!<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>VIII.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 30%;"><i>He trudged along, unknowing what he sought,<br />
+And whistled as he went, for want of thought.</i><br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 65%;"><span class="smcap">Dryden.</span><br /></p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII.</h2>
+
+<h4>MR. FLINT IS PERFECTLY ASTONISHED, AND MORTIMER HAS A VISION.</h4>
+
+<blockquote><p><i>The Light Heart&mdash;A Scene&mdash;The Sunny Heart&mdash;A Dream of Little Bell&mdash;A
+Hint.</i></p></blockquote>
+
+
+<p>Now that Mortimer Walters had destroyed the record of poor Snarle's guilt,
+he determined to be no longer a subject of Flint's authority. He had
+watched for months for an opportunity to become possessed of the forged
+cheque; and it was with a heart as light as a singing bird's that he
+tripped up the office stairs an hour before his time the next morning.</p>
+
+<p>Tim was sweeping out.</p>
+
+<p>Sleep had left no cobwebs in his young eyes; but when he saw Mortimer throw
+open the office door, humming a light-hearted air, he rubbed his eyelids
+with the sleeve of his dusty coat, as if it were a question in his mind
+whether or not he was dreaming.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"My last day here!" said Mortimer gaily to himself. "Weary, tiresome old
+books! my soul has grown sick over you for the last time."</p>
+
+<p>He brushed the dust from off the dull-looking ledger, and went to work.
+"Won't I astonish him?" he thought, looking up; and he laughed so
+pleasantly that Tim, who was sweeping the rubbish into a dust-pan,
+suspended operations, and expressed his surprise in a somewhat dubious
+ejaculation:</p>
+
+<p>"I vum!"</p>
+
+<p>When Mr. Flint came in, he saw the same tall form bending over the
+accustomed desk that had met his eyes every morning for the last ten years;
+but he did not see the heart that was leaping with new life. And when, in
+his usual snarly way, he gave Mortimer orders to make up certain invoices,
+which would have employed the clerk till midnight, he opened a brief
+conversation which ended in his utter amazement.</p>
+
+<p>"You will render Bowen &amp; Cleet their account current, and make up the pork
+sale; it has been standing open long enough. And," added Mr. Flint, "fill
+up bills of lading for the D. D. coffee."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think I will," was the quiet reply.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Flint did not believe his ears.</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Walters!"</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Flint."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"You will fill up those bills of lading immediately."</p>
+
+<p>"I won't!" plumply.</p>
+
+<p>This caused Mr. Flint to sink in a chair with astonishment; and Mortimer
+went on writing.</p>
+
+<p>"Did you say that you wouldn't?" asked Mr. Flint, looking at him.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"You did!"</p>
+
+<p>"My year," said Mortimer, leisurely, "expires to-day, and with it, I am
+happy to state, my connection with Flint &amp; Snarle."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Flint hunted twenty seconds for his lost voice.</p>
+
+<p>"You insolent&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Sir!" cried Mortimer, turning to him abruptly, "until now I have borne
+your tyranny with meekness. We are no longer employer and clerk. We are man
+and man, with the advantage on my side. If you apply an insulting epithet
+to me, I shall pull your ears!"</p>
+
+<p>O Tim, how you rubbed your hands, you little villain! How your limbs seemed
+to be receiving a series of galvanic shocks from an invisible battery! How
+your eyes sparkled, and your proclivity for fight got uppermost, till you
+cried out, "Pitch into him, old boy!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Go!" hissed Flint, through his closed teeth; "go!" that was all the word
+he could master.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer passed out of the office.</p>
+
+<p>The genial sunshine slid from the house-tops, and fell under his feet; a
+thousand airy forms walked with him, and he felt their presence, though he
+could not see them.</p>
+
+<p>He wandered through the Park. April had breathed on the cold ground, and
+the green grass was springing up to welcome her. The leaves were unfolding
+themselves, and the air was full of spring. The fountain had thrown off its
+icy manacles, and leaped up with a sense of freedom.</p>
+
+<p>His dreamy eyes saw it all. The black shadows had fallen from him; he had
+left them with Flint; and a bright day had dawned within him and without
+him. Everything was tinged with iridescent light, for he looked at the
+world, as it were, through dew-drops. Happy morning&mdash;happy life! when one
+can put aside the trailing vines of painful memory, and let the warm
+sunshine of Heaven find its way into the heart.</p>
+
+<p>In this sunny mood he turned his way homeward. He passed Mrs. Snarle on the
+stairs with a smile; he heard Daisy singing in the sitting-room; and he sat
+himself down in the yellow light<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> which streamed through the window of his
+bedroom, making a hundred golden fancies on the worn carpet:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"The shadows of the coming flowers!<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">The phantoms of forget-me-nots,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">And roses red and sweet!"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>His eyes made pictures; his fancy inverted the hour-glass of his life, and
+the old sands ran back! He floated down the stream of time, instead of
+onward.</p>
+
+<p>The sunshine grew deeper and broader, and filled the little room. Then it
+became condensed and brighter. Gradually it moulded itself into form, and
+little Bell, in her golden ringlets, stood at the side of Mortimer. Her
+white hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up&mdash;not in surprise, but
+with tenderness&mdash;with the air of a man who can gaze with unclouded eyes
+into the spiritual world and lose himself.</p>
+
+<p>"I knew you were near," he said, dreamily. "I thought you would come. You
+have something to tell me. What is it, my little Bell? Thus you stood at my
+side, thus you looked into my eyes, the day on which I told Daisy that I
+loved her. Thus you come to me whenever the current of my life changes, to
+love and advise me. What is it, Bell&mdash;dainty little Bell?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>A sunny lip rested on his for a moment.</p>
+
+<p>"Be strong!" said little Bell.</p>
+
+<p>A cloud of sunlight floated around Mortimer, slipped down at his feet, and
+lost itself in the orange stream which flooded the window.</p>
+
+<p>"He is dreaming of Bell," said Daisy, as she bent over him&mdash;"dreaming of
+lost Bell!"</p>
+
+<p>And she closed the door after her softly.</p>
+
+<p>Then Mortimer's vision of sister Bell was a dream? Perhaps it was not.
+Perhaps this real world is linked more closely to the invisible sphere than
+in our guesses. It may be an angel's hand which touches our cheek, when we
+think that it is only the breeze. <i>�Quien sabe?</i> Who can say that in sleep
+we do not touch hands with the spirits of another world&mdash;the angels of
+hereafter? And what may death be but an intellectual dream!&mdash;Who knows?</p>
+
+<p>Nobody knows. "But," suggests the gentle reader, "suppose you dispense with
+your Hamlet-like philosophy, and go on with your story, like the pleasant
+author that you are, instead of putting us to sleep, as you have your
+hero."</p>
+
+<p>Reader, the hint was merited.<br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>IX.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 30%;">"<i>My eyes make pictures when they are shut.</i>"<br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 65%;"><span class="smcap">Coleridge.</span><br /></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX.</h2>
+
+<h4>DAISY AND THE NECKLACE.</h4>
+
+<blockquote><p><i>Our petite Heroine&mdash;How she talked to the Poets&mdash;The Morocco
+Case&mdash;Daisy's Eyes make Pictures&mdash;Tears, idle Tears!</i></p></blockquote>
+
+
+<p>Mortimer was still sleeping an "azure-lidded sleep," as Keats has it, when
+Daisy again came softly to the door.</p>
+
+<p>A pretty little woman was Daisy Snarle.</p>
+
+<p>She had one of those faces which you sometimes pass in the street and
+remember afterward, ever connecting it with some exquisite picture, or, if
+you happen to be in a poetical mood, a dainty bit of music. That face was
+very sweet in the coquettish red and white "kiss-me-quick" which used to
+shade it sunny mornings, when Daisy went to market&mdash;a very beautiful face
+when she looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> up earnestly&mdash;a very holy face when she sat thoughtfully
+in her room at twilight. Her hair was dark chestnut, and she wore it in one
+heavy braid over her forehead. Her eyes were so gentle and saucy by turns
+that I could never tell whether they were gray or hazel; but her smile was
+frank, her laugh musical, and her whole presence so purely womanly, that
+one could not but be better for knowing her. Yet Daisy was not faultless.
+She had a wild little will of her own&mdash;none the worse for that, however.
+She could put her foot down&mdash;and a sweet little foot it was!&mdash;a temptation
+of a foot, cased in a tight boot&mdash;high in the instep, and arched like the
+proud neck of an Arabian mare, or the eye-brows of a Georgian girl. And
+then the heel of said boot!&mdash;But I daren't trust myself further.</p>
+
+<p>Daisy stood looking at Mortimer with her fond, thoughtful eyes. Soon she
+grew tired of this, and, placing a stool by his chair, sat down and
+commenced sewing. From time to time she looked up from her work and smiled
+quietly.</p>
+
+<p>"How he sleeps!" said Daisy, with a low laugh. "Will he be cross if I
+disturb him?"&mdash;and she laughed again. "I wonder," she said, at length, "if
+a tiny song would awaken him?"</p>
+
+<p>So she sang in a gentle voice those touching lines of Barry Cornwall,
+commencing with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"Touch us gently, Father Time!<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">As we glide adown the stream."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>She sang them bewitchingly. The music must have stolen into Mortimer's
+dream, for he slept a quieter sleep than before. Miss Daisy did not like
+that, and pouted quite prettily, and shook her finger at him.</p>
+
+<p>"O, how tiresome you are!" she said. Then she sewed for ten minutes quite
+steadily.</p>
+
+<p>"I guess I'll arrange your books, Rip Van Winkle! and when you wake up, a
+half century hence, you won't know them, they'll be in such good order!"</p>
+
+<p>And facetious Miss Daisy broke out in such a wild, merry laugh, that an
+early robin, perched on a tree beside the window, ceased chirping, and
+listened to her.</p>
+
+<p>Her fingers grew very busy with Mortimer's books. Having dusted them
+carefully, she commenced to place them in an old black-walnut book-case,
+which must have had an antique look fifty years ago. And Daisy went on
+laughing and talking to herself in a most comical manner.</p>
+
+<p>"Here, Mr. Theocritus!" she cried, taking up that venerable poet, and
+placing him upside down, "I'll just set you on your head for absorbing all
+that stupid boy's attention one live-long evening, when I wanted to chat
+with him."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>An author is supposed to know everything about his characters; but I cannot
+tell why Daisy placed Mortimer's poet in such an uncomfortable position,
+unless she thought that the blood might run into the head of Mr.
+Theocritus, and cause him to be taken off with a brain fever!</p>
+
+<p>"And you, Mr. Byron," Daisy continued, "you're a very wicked young fellow!
+and I won't let you sit next to Mrs. Hemans!" so she placed Plutarch
+between them. "But you and Shelly," Daisy said, resting her hand on Keats,
+"you are different sort of persons; you are too earnest and beautiful to be
+impure; and you shall sit side by side between L. E. L. and our own Alice
+Cary. And Chatterton! poor boy Chatterton! I'll place you in that shadowy
+corner of the book-case, where the sunshine never comes!"</p>
+
+<p>So Daisy made merry or sad, as the case might be, over her lover's few
+volumes; and when she had arranged them to suit her capricious self, she
+kissed her hand to Tom Hood, and locked them all&mdash;poets, romancers, and
+historians&mdash;in the black, sombre old book-case.</p>
+
+<p>Our friend Daisy was in one of those playful, half-childish moods, which
+came upon her not unfrequently.</p>
+
+<p>Now she looked around the room for some other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> piece of useful mischief to
+do. She would turn over Mortimer's papers. Ah, what made her blush and
+laugh so prettily then? It was only a sheet of note-paper, on which
+Mortimer, in a dreamy moment, had written her name innumerable times&mdash;for
+know, good world, that true love takes the silliest ways to express itself.</p>
+
+<p>Now she was curious.</p>
+
+<p>She stood thoughtfully, with a small morocco case in her hand. The reader
+has seen it once in Flint's office. An undefined feeling stole over her;
+and it was some time before she thought of opening the case. She did so,
+however, and took from it a pearl necklace of rare design and workmanship.
+The necklace was in three parts, linked together by exquisitely carved
+clasps, from the largest of which hung a<br /><br /></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 140px;">
+<img src="images/p125.png" width="140" height="200" alt="Cross" title="Cross" />
+<br /><br /></div>
+
+<p>composed of smaller and more costly pearls.</p>
+
+<p>"How beautiful!" and she grew more thoughtful. Something within her
+recognized the jewels. It was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> not her sight, it was not her touch, but an
+intuitive something which is finer and subtler than either.</p>
+
+<p>"I have seen this somewhere&mdash;somewhere," she said; "but where?"</p>
+
+<p>And she closed her eyes, as if the sunlight blinded some timid memory that
+was stealing through her brain. Her fancy painted pictures of strange
+places and things. Now she saw a country-house, among cool, quiet trees;
+then a man dying&mdash;some one she loved&mdash;but who? Now she was in a large city,
+and heard the rumbling of wheels and confused voices. Now the snow was
+coming down, flake after flake, and everything was white; then it was
+night&mdash;dark, stormy, and dreadful&mdash;and she was cold, bitter cold! Some one
+had left her in the white, clinging snow, and she was freezing!</p>
+
+<p>Daisy opened her eyes. The snow and wind were gone, and April's sunny
+breath blew shadows through the open window. The house, the death, the
+storm&mdash;how were they connected with the string of pearls? And Daisy held
+the necklace on her finger-tips and wondered.</p>
+
+<p>"Somewhere, somewhere&mdash;but where?"</p>
+
+<p>Daisy could not tell where.</p>
+
+<p>"I may have seen one like it," Daisy thought. "Perhaps this was Bell's, and
+these stones may<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> have rested many a time on her little neck. I wish I had
+known Bell!"</p>
+
+<p>With this she placed the necklace in the case again, and tears gathered in
+her eyes, she knew not why.</p>
+
+<p>
+"Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean."<br />
+</p>
+
+<p>She laid the box in the place where she had found it, and thought she would
+not speak to Mortimer of the necklace; he might be displeased to have her
+touch it.</p>
+
+<p>Her gaiety had given place to sadness, and when she knelt by Mortimer's
+chair she could not help sobbing. Mortimer awoke and bent over her.</p>
+
+<p>"What, weeping, Daisy?"<br /><br /></p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>X.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10"><i>Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>And the winter winds are wearily sighing:</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>And tread softly and speak low,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>For the old year lies a-dying.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>Old year, you must not die:</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i16"><i>You came to us so readily,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i16"><i>You lived with us so steadily,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>Old year you must not die.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>He lieth still: he doth not move:</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>He will not see the dawn of day,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>He hath no other life above.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>He gave me a friend and a true love,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>And the new year will take 'em away.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>Old year, you must not go:</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i16"><i>So long as you have been with us,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i16"><i>Such joy as you have seen with us,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>Old year, you shall not go.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>He frothed his bumpers to the brim:</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>A jollier year we shall not see;</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>But though his eyes are waxing dim,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>And though his foes speak ill of him,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i12"><i>He was a friend to me.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>Old year, you shall not die:</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i16"><i>We did so laugh and cry with you,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i16"><i>I've half a mind to die with you,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i14"><i>Old year, if you must die.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 60%;"><span class="smcap">Alfred Tennyson.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="X" id="X"></a>X.</h2>
+
+<h4>ST. AGNES' EVE.</h4>
+
+<blockquote><p><i>The Old Year&mdash;St. Agnes&mdash;Keats' Poem&mdash;The Circlet of Pearls&mdash;A
+Cloud&mdash;The Promise&mdash;Mrs. Snarle continues her Knitting.</i></p></blockquote>
+
+
+<p>The Old Year had just gone by&mdash;the dear, sad Old Year! He died in the
+blustering wind, out in the cold! He lay down in the shadows, moaned, and
+died! Something has gone with thee, Old Year, which will never come again:
+kind words, sweet smiles, warm lips&mdash;ah, no, they will never come again!
+Hold them near your heart for love of us, Old Year! They came with you,
+they went with you! <i>Kyrie eleyson!</i></p>
+
+<p>"I wish you could tarry with us," said Morti<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span>mer. "You were kind to us,
+merry and sad with us." And he repeated the lines,</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"Old year, you shall not die:<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">We did so laugh and cry with you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i12">I've half a mind to die with you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Old year, if you must die."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>"To-night, Daisy, will be St. Agnes' Eve, and if I sell my prose sketch to
+Filberty's Magazine, I'll be in a good humor to read you Keats' poem."</p>
+
+<p>Since leaving Mr. Flint's employ, Mortimer had entirely supported himself
+with his pen. His piquant paragraphs and touching verses over the signature
+of "Il Penseroso," had attracted some attention; and he found but little
+difficulty in disposing of his articles, at starving prices, it is true;
+but he bore up, seeing a brighter time ahead. He had been so occupied in
+writing short stories and essays, that his romance, which lacked but one
+chapter of completion, was still unfinished.</p>
+
+<p>Filberty's Magazine paid him so generously for the "prose article," that he
+could afford to devote himself to a task which did not promise immediate
+profit. He completed the novel at sundown that day; and after supper Daisy
+reminded him of his promise to read Keats' "Eve of St. Agnes."</p>
+
+<p>"I sometimes think," said Mortimer, as good Mrs. Snarle seated herself in a
+low rocking-chair, pre<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>paratory to a dose, while Daisy sat on a stool at
+his feet, "I sometimes think that this poem is the most exquisite
+definition of one phase of poetry in our language. Musical rhythm, imperial
+words, gorgeous color and luxurious conceit, seem to have culminated in it.
+And the story itself is so touching that it would be poetical even if
+narrated in the plainest prose. How surpassingly beautiful is it, then,
+worked out with all the richness of that sweetest poet, who, in intricate
+verbal music and dreamy imagery, stands almost alone!"</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Snarle's head was inclined on one side, and the whole pos� of her form
+was one of profound attention.</p>
+
+<p>She was fast asleep.</p>
+
+<p>The busy knitting-needles were placid in her motionless fingers; and Pinky,
+the kitten, was 'spinning a yarn' on her own account from the ball in Mrs.
+Snarle's lap.</p>
+
+<p>"Who was St. Agnes?" asked Daisy.</p>
+
+<p>"She was a saint who suffered martyrdom for her religious views during the
+persecution of the Christians in the reign of the Emperor Diocletian. But
+let us read the poem, which will make her more immortal than her heroism."</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer opened the book, and his voice touched the verse with new music
+for Daisy's ears. Now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> his tones would be low and sad, as he read of the
+old Beadsman, who told his beads in the cold night air,</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i24">"While his frosted breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Like pious incense from a censer old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Seemed taking flight for heaven."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>Then his voice grew as tender as a lover's, when he came to the place where
+Porphyro, concealed, beholds Madeline as she disrobes:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>"How few poets know how to handle color!" said Mortimer. "Azure, red,
+orange, and all poetic hues are mixed up in their pictures like a shattered
+rain-bow! But how artist-like is Keats! His famous window scene has not
+been surpassed:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"A casement high and triple-arched there was,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">All garlanded with carven imageries<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">And diamonded with panes of quaint device,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>And twilight saints and dim emblazonings</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>A shielded 'scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span><br /></span>
+<span class="i10">As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon:<br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together pressed</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>And on her silver cross soft amethyst</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>And on her hair a glory, like a saint</i>:<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">She seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Save wings, for heaven!"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>"Is it not exquisite?" asked Mortimer, looking in Daisy's face.</p>
+
+<p>She nodded assent.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer fixed his eyes on a pearl necklace which gently clasped the girl's
+neck, and started. The cross undulated on her bosom, which rose and fell
+like two full white roses in the wind.</p>
+
+<p>"Where did you get that?" and Mortimer laid his hand on her arm nervously.</p>
+
+<p>"It was a freak," said Daisy, blushing. "Are you angry?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not angry, Daisy."</p>
+
+<p>"But you look so."</p>
+
+<p>"Do I? I am not. I grow unhappy when I see that necklace."</p>
+
+<p>"It was Bell's, then?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes&mdash;no&mdash;don't ask me, Daisy."</p>
+
+<p>"Why?"</p>
+
+<p>A shadow came over Mortimer's face.</p>
+
+<p>That morning Daisy had been tempted to open the morocco case, and a desire
+to clasp the white necklace on her neck became irresistible. Something drew
+her to it, and the same feeling of mys<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span>tery and longing which stole on her
+when she first held the circlet in her hand while Mortimer was sleeping,
+overpowered her. Almost unconsciously she fastened the gold clasp, and when
+the little cross sunk down on her bosom, her heart grew lighter, and she
+went over the house singing like a canary. She wore it the whole day,
+pausing at times in her household duties to admire the pearls. After a
+while she forgot its existence, and her intention to replace it before
+Mortimer returned.</p>
+
+<p>When Mortimer's eye caught sight of the necklace, Daisy was much
+embarrassed, for she could, in no intelligible way, account for having
+taken it. Mortimer was equally pained. He had unwillingly become possessed
+of the ornament, and saw no means by which he could return it to Mr. Flint
+without acknowledging that he had also taken the <i>check</i>. He dreaded to
+make so humiliating a confession, and, perhaps, he stood a little in fear
+of Mr. Flint's anger. The circumstance had caused him many moments of
+anxiety, and an unpleasant thought came to him, as he saw the purloined
+necklace on Daisy's innocent bosom.</p>
+
+<p>"But you <i>are</i> angry?" said Daisy, looking up with dimmed eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"No, pet."</p>
+
+<p>"Then you will kiss me?" said Daisy, in a most winning way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Mortimer did what most every one would have done "in the premises"&mdash;an act
+which was quite sufficient to make one break that part of the commandment
+which refers to envy. Surely a man would be inhuman not to, having once
+seen Daisy Snarle!</p>
+
+<p>"I am not angry, but pained; I cannot tell you why. I wish you to promise
+me something."</p>
+
+<p>"I will. What is it?"</p>
+
+<p>"That you will not doubt me, whatever may occur in connection with this
+necklace&mdash;that you will love me, though I may be unable to explain
+condemning circumstances, or dispel the doubts of others."</p>
+
+<p>"I promise that. But how strange," thought Daisy. "I am sorry that I was so
+childish as to take the necklace. Put it away, Mortimer, and forget that I
+did so."</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer's cheerfulness returned, and he commenced reading the poem at the
+place where he had interrupted himself. Just as he finished the last verse,
+telling how, ages long ago,</p>
+
+<p>
+"The lovers fled away into the storm,"<br />
+</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Snarle awoke with a jerk, and went to knitting as though she had been
+doing nothing else the whole evening&mdash;a harmless subterfuge peculiar to old
+people.</p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>XI.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 30%;"><i>Of making many books there is no end.</i><br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 50%;"><span class="smcap">Ecclesiastes xii., 12.</span><br /></p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="XI" id="XI"></a>XI.</h2>
+
+<h4>MORTIMER HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GREAT PUBLISHER, AND MR. FLINT MAKES A
+DISCOVERY.</h4>
+
+<blockquote><p><i>H. H. Hardwill, Publisher&mdash;Criminal Literature&mdash;Alliterative
+Titles&mdash;Goldwood&mdash;Poor Authors&mdash;A Heaven for them in the
+Perspective&mdash;Flint's Discovery, and the Horns of his Dilemma.</i></p></blockquote>
+
+
+<p>Mortimer looked up and read the sign&mdash;"H. H. Hardwill, Publisher." His
+heart half-failed him, and he stood looking in the large, book-filled
+window, with that romance which was to startle the literary world folded
+quietly under his arm, like any common paper. What kind of a man is Mr.
+Hardwill? he thought. Is he a large man, with a heavy watch-chain, or a
+thin, sky-rockety piece of humanity, dressed in black, and tipped off with
+red hair? Was he a cold, cast-iron man, like Flint? or a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> simple, sorrowful
+one, like Snarle that was? But this last idea melted of itself. How could
+the famous publisher resemble the poor, unobtrusive Snarle? He, Mr.
+Hardwill, who received notes from the great Hiawatha, and hob-nobbed with
+Knickerbocker Irving; he, who owned a phial of yellow sand, which had been
+taken from a scorching desert with an unpronounceable name, and presented
+to him by the Oriental Bayard; he, who chatted with genial Mr.
+Sparrow-grass&mdash;God bless him!&mdash;(Sparrow-grass,) and joked with Orpheus
+Stoddard,&mdash;he like simple Snarle? Pooh!</p>
+
+<p>"Is Mr. Hardwill in?" asked Mortimer. He came near adding, "the great
+publisher."</p>
+
+<p>The clerk, to whom his eyes looked, said he believed he was, and went on
+calling off from a slip of paper:</p>
+
+<p>"'Murdered Milkmaid,' two copies; 'Bloody Hatchet,' twelve copies; 'The
+Seducer's Victim,' thirty copies; 'The Young Mother,' five copies; 'The
+Deranged Daughter,' seven copies; 'Hifiluten and <i>other</i> poems,' one copy."</p>
+
+<p>"Can I speak with him?" ventured Mortimer, as the clerk, who was calling
+off the <i>criminal literature</i>, paused for breath.</p>
+
+<p>"'The Merry Maniacs,' ten copies&mdash;Yes, sir; but he's engaged. Wait awhile,"
+continued the clerk, as Mortimer turned to go. "'The Wizard of Wehaw<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>kin,'
+six copies; 'The Phantom of Philadelphia,' twelve copies, etc., etc."</p>
+
+<p>So our author seated himself on a case of books, and looked at the wall of
+volumes which encompassed him. Somehow or another, it suggested the Great
+Wall of China and the Cordilleras. He could give no reason why. No more can
+I. Perhaps he felt that light literature, paradoxical as it may seem, is
+always heavy, and so his mind ran on the prodigious freaks of man and
+nature.</p>
+
+<p>After the clerk had finished calling off from the slip of paper, that
+promising young gentleman suddenly discovered that Mr. Hardwill was <i>not</i>
+engaged, and offered to conduct our friend into his august presence.
+Mortimer gathered up his heart, as it were, and his loosened manuscript at
+the same moment&mdash;"Her heart and morning broke together!"&mdash;and followed the
+clerk through an avenue of literature, to a snug inner office&mdash;that
+literary Sebastopol, which is forever being stormed by seedy poets and
+their allies, historians, romancers, and strong-minded Eves.</p>
+
+<p>Could it be possible?</p>
+
+<p>Was that middle-sized, dark-eyed, light-haired, pleasant-looking man the
+Napoleon of publishers? However, there was something shrewd in his dark
+eye, or rather eyes&mdash;for he had two of them&mdash;and a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> certain expression of
+the mouth, which seemed full of dealings with the world.</p>
+
+<p>"Is this Mr. Hardwill?" asked Mortimer.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir. Will you be seated?"</p>
+
+<p>"I have a romance," commenced Mortimer, with hesitation, "which I would
+offer you for publication. I have written it carefully, and I think it
+possesses several new features&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>Here his voice broke down, for he felt those dark, scrutinizing eyes in his
+face; besides, the intense attention with which he was listened to
+disconcerted him. Mr. Hardwill came to his relief.</p>
+
+<p>"What is the title of your book?"</p>
+
+<p>"It is called 'Goldwood.'"</p>
+
+<p>"That is not happy."</p>
+
+<p>"No?"</p>
+
+<p>"No," said Mr. Hardwill, "it should be something striking&mdash;something to
+catch the eye in an advertisement. For instance, the&mdash;the&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Frantic Father," suggested Mortimer, quietly; and he gazed at the carpet
+to keep from smiling.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Hardwill eyed him, and displayed his white teeth. There was a little
+satire in our author's remark which pleased Mr. H., who could not be hired
+to read the spasmodic books which he published. It was policy in him to
+cater for that largest class of readers whose tastes are morbid or
+inflamed, and he did so.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Mortimer had thrown aside his timidity. He gave a concise sketch of the
+plot, touching here and there on some supposed-to-be felicitous incident,
+and grew so autorially eloquent over his romance, that the careful Mr.
+Hardwill requested Mortimer to leave his manuscript with him, saying:</p>
+
+<p>"I cannot give you much hope. I have more books ready for press than I can
+well attend to. If you will call on me the latter part of next week, you
+shall have my decision."</p>
+
+<p>With these words, spoken in an off-hand, business-like way, Mr. Hardwill
+made a bow, which said, as kindly as such a thing <i>can</i> be said, "You
+needn't stay any longer."</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer returned his bland smile frankly, and retired, though he would
+fain have called Mr. Hardwill's attention to that delightful and exciting
+scene in which Mr. Adine St. Clair meets Arabella Clementina after an
+estrangement of two weeks! but he didn't. He again threaded his way through
+the labyrinth of literature, and the last sound which fell on his ear, as
+he turned from the book-store into the street, was,</p>
+
+<p>"'The Ruined Cigar Girl,' twenty copies!"</p>
+
+<p>"What on earth could anybody want of a 'Ruined Cigar Girl,' or a 'Young
+Mother?'" and Mortimer laughed outright.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The wand of Prospero is neither more cunning nor more powerful than the pen
+of a well bred author. It creates something out of nothing, (more
+frequently nothing out of something), changes time, place, and human
+nature; it lifts up the blue roofing of ocean, and gives you a glimpse of
+fish-life; and deeper still, shows you the coral forests of the Naiads, and
+their aquatic palaces. It draws back the curtain of cloud-land, and feeds
+your fancy with forms that never have been, and never will be; summons
+spirits from the air, and gives melodious voices to all vernal things.</p>
+
+<p>Pleasant magician that waves this wand! what curious people are walking in
+the chambers of your brain! What dreams are yours, and what cruel cuts this
+real world sometimes gives you! You have no right to be here, poor devil!
+You are somewhat misplanted; you belong to some sphere between earth and
+heaven, and not very near either. That such a place is provided for you I
+am certain. There it is that all your books will run through countless
+editions; there it is you can afford to hire some one to write your
+autograph for besieging admirers, and feed, as you should,</p>
+
+<p>
+"On the roses, and lay in the lilies of life."<br />
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>But I was speaking of pen-magic. It is not my present mood to do anything
+fantastical in that way. I only wish to give you a sight of Mr. Flint, as
+he appeared one afternoon some months after Mortimer had left his office.
+He was standing in that inner-room of his counting-house to which I have
+introduced the reader. I change my mind&mdash;he was not standing. He had just
+thrown himself into a chair, in which he did not seem at all easy.</p>
+
+<p>I take peculiar delight in placing Mr. Flint in uncomfortable positions.</p>
+
+<p>He was surprised, alarmed, and angry. He missed the forged check and the
+morocco case which he had watched so many years. That they had been
+purloined, he could not doubt, and his keen thought fell on Mortimer. The
+loss of the check troubled him; he liked to look at it occasionally, for
+Snarle's sake; but the necklace&mdash;that gave him strange alarm.</p>
+
+<p>"Snake!" he hissed, "you have crawled into my affairs, and I'll tread on
+you&mdash;tread on you and kill you! You stole the check to save Snarle's name;
+and the necklace&mdash;why did you steal that? Was it valuable? Yes, that is it.
+I'll grind you in the dust. I'll put you in a prison, and let your
+brainless father look at you through the bars!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>This humane idea caused Mr. Flint to rub his dry hands, and chuckle
+violently.</p>
+
+<p>"But"&mdash;here Mr. Flint's countenance fell. "If I do this, won't Walters ruin
+me with that unfortunate letter? O, I was a fool to write it; yet he would
+have murdered me if I had not."</p>
+
+<p>And Mr. Flint thought and thought.</p>
+
+<p>To obtain the letter was impossible. Walters might have left the city; even
+if he had not, there was a method in his madness which Flint knew he could
+not circumvent. He could not lose such a chance of crushing Mortimer as
+presented itself; and yet to attempt it while Walters had possession of the
+letter was unwise.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Flint was in a brown study.</p>
+
+<p>He walked up and down his sanctum solemnly, neglecting to watch Tim and the
+book-keeper who had succeeded Mortimer. An half hour passed, and still he
+continued his walk and reverie, without any visible intention of stopping.
+His face lights up; he rubs his knuckles with ecstacy. He has got it! got
+it at last. He will have Mortimer arrested; he will have Mortimer's name
+suppressed, or give the newspapers a fictitious one. This will shield him
+from Walters, whose heart he will wring some of these days. Ah! that will
+be revenge.</p>
+
+<p>It may strike the ingenious reader as strange that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> Mortimer, having charge
+of Flint &amp; Snarle's books, never came across his father's name. This would
+have been the case, and somewhat interfered with our novel, if Mortimer,
+when he applied for a clerkship with the firm, had not given Mr. Flint all
+the particulars of his life. For reasons best known to himself, Mr. Flint
+took every opportunity to strengthen Mortimer in the belief of his father's
+death, and every precaution to keep Walters from meeting him. Once, indeed,
+they stood face to face in the office; but, taking into consideration the
+number of years they had been separated, and the circumstances under which
+they met, it would have been most strange if a recognition had taken place.
+As to Mr. Snarle, being profoundly ignorant of Mortimer's early history, he
+could throw no light on Mortimer's mind; and everything worked to Flint's
+satisfaction. Every circumstance seemed to mould itself to his will.</p>
+
+<p>There is an evil spirit, and a very powerful one, that holds the wires
+which move some of us puppets. The good are made to take the humblest seats
+in the world's Synagogue, and the wily and the evil-hearted are clothed in
+purple, fed on honey, and throned in the highest places. There will be a
+surprising revolution some of these times.</p>
+
+<p>As Mr. Sparrow-grass would say, a revolution is "a good thing to have in
+the country."<br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>XII.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10"><i>Why, true, her heart was all humanity,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Her soul all God's; in spirit and in form,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Like fair. Her cheek had the pale, pearly pink</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Of sea-shells, the world's sweetest tint, as though</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>She lived, one-half might deem, on roses sopped</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>In silver dew; she spoke as with the voice</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Of spheral harmony which greets the soul,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>When, at the hour of death, the saved one knows</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>His sister angel's near: her eye was as</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>The golden pane the setting sun doth just</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Imblaze, which shows, till heaven comes down again,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>All other lights but grades of gloom; her dark,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Long rolling locks were as a stream the slave</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i10"><i>Might search for gold, and searching find.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 65%;"><span class="smcap">Festus.</span></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="XII" id="XII"></a>XII.</h2>
+
+<h4>WHAT DAISY DID.</h4>
+
+<blockquote><p><i>The Arrest&mdash;Doubt and Love&mdash;Daisy and the Necklace&mdash;The Search&mdash;The
+heart of Daisy Snarle.</i></p></blockquote>
+
+
+<p>In an upper room of a miserable, dingy house which faced the spot where the
+old Brewery used to stand, Edward Walters sat one January evening reading
+the <i>Express</i>. There was one paragraph among the city items which he had
+read several times, and each reading seemed to strengthen a determination
+which had, at the first perusal, grown up with him.</p>
+
+<p>"Right or wrong, I'll do it!"</p>
+
+<p>With which words he folded the paper, and placed it in his pocket.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Daisy, too, read the paragraph that night, and the blood rushed into her
+cheeks, then left them very pale.</p>
+
+<p>It was simply a police report&mdash;such as you read over your morning coffee,
+without thinking how many hearts may be broken by the sight of that little
+cluster of worn-out type. A young man, no name given, recently a clerk in
+the house of Messrs. Flint &amp; Snarle, had been arrested on the charge of
+stealing a case of jewels from his employers.</p>
+
+<p>Daisy, with dry eyes, read it again and again. Dark doubt and trusting love
+were at conflict for a moment; for doubt had pride for its ally, and love
+was only love. But the woman conquered. Mortimer, who had been arrested
+early in the forenoon, found means to send Daisy a note, in which he simply
+said&mdash;"I am charged with stealing the necklace, but I am as guiltless of
+the crime as you, Daisy."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Snarle came in the room while our little heroine held the note in her
+hand.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother," said Daisy, averting her head, "Mortimer will not come home
+to-night."</p>
+
+<p>With this she threw the note into the fire, and left Mrs. Snarle alone,
+before the good lady asked any questions.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"That's very odd!" soliloquized Mrs. Snarle, briefly.</p>
+
+<p>"You tell me that you are innocent," said Daisy, looking at a small
+portrait of Mortimer which hung over the fire-place&mdash;"I do not question, I
+only believe you!"</p>
+
+<p>And then Daisy did a very strange thing, and yet it was very like Daisy.
+She untied the brown ribbon which bound her dark lengths of hair, allowing
+them to fall over her shoulders; then she braided the string of pearls with
+her tresses, and brought the whole in a beautiful band over her forehead.
+And she looked like a little queen with this coronal of jet and pearl
+shading her brows.</p>
+
+<p>Daisy next picked the jewel-case to pieces, and threw the minute shreds
+into the street. This was scarcely done, when the door-bell rang
+impatiently.</p>
+
+<p>The girl peeped from the window.</p>
+
+<p>The two men at the door-step were not to be mistaken. Daisy's fingers
+trembled as she undid the fastenings of the door.</p>
+
+<p>"We have orders to search this house, miss," said one of the officers,
+touching the vizor of his cap respectfully.</p>
+
+<p>Daisy choked down a sob, and led them with an unnatural calmness from room
+to room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Every place in the little house was investigated, but in vain; no necklace
+was to be found. Yet twice the breath of one of the searchers fell on the
+pearls in Daisy's hair. The two officers left the house in evident chagrin.</p>
+
+<p>When they had gone, the girl sat on the stairs and sobbed.</p>
+
+<p>Happily for her wishes, Mrs. Snarle had been absent during the search; and
+thus far had been kept in ignorance of Mortimer's disgrace. But Daisy could
+not hope to keep it a secret from her long, for they both would probably be
+summoned as witnesses in open court. The thought of giving evidence against
+Mortimer went through Daisy's heart like an intense pain. It terrified her,
+and her warm little heart was floating on tears all day.</p>
+
+<p>The cloud which had fallen on her seemed to have no silver lining; all was
+cold, black and sunless. But there is no mortal wound to which some unseen
+angel does not bring a balm&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>
+"There are gains for all our losses!"<br />
+</p>
+
+<p>Daisy remembered Mortimer's words: <i>"Promise that you will not doubt me,
+whatever may occur in connection with this necklace&mdash;that you will love
+me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> though I may be unable to explain condemning circumstances, or dispel
+the doubts of others</i>"&mdash;and the words came to her freighted with such hope
+and tenderness, that her sleep that night was deep and refreshing. Doubt
+had folded its wings in the heart of Daisy Snarle.<br /></p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>XIII.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 27%;"><span class="smcap">Ludwick.</span>&mdash;<i>Now here's a man half ruined by ill luck,</i><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>As true a man as breathes the summer air.</i></span><br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 27%;"><span class="smcap">Launcelot.</span>&mdash;<i>Ill luck, erratic jade! but yesterday</i><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>She might have made him king!</i></span><br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 65%;"><span class="smcap">Old Play.</span><br /></p>
+
+
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a>XIII.</h2>
+
+<h4>IN THE TOMBS.</h4>
+
+<blockquote><p><i>The Author's Summer Residence&mdash;The Egyptian Prison&mdash;Without and
+Within&mdash;A Picture&mdash;Sunshine in Shadow&mdash;Joe Wilkes and his unique
+Proposal&mdash;Gloomy Prospects&mdash;The face at the cell-window.</i></p></blockquote>
+
+
+<p>There is not a pleasanter place in the world for a summer residence than
+Blackwell's Island! The chief edifices are substantial, and the grounds are
+laid out with exceeding care. The water-scape is delightfully invigorating,
+and the sojourners at this watering-place are not of that transient class
+which one finds at Nahant, Newport, and other pet resorts. Indeed, it is
+usual to spend from six to eight months on the "Island," and one has the
+advantage of contracting friendships which are not severed at the first
+approach of the "cold term"&mdash;for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> particulars of which "cold term," see
+that funny old <i>savant</i> of Brooklyn Heights, who has a facetious way of
+telling us that it has been raining, after the shower is over.&mdash;Bless him!</p>
+
+<p>Such institutions as "Blackwell's Island" are godsends to the <i>literati</i>. A
+poor devil of an author, who has a refined taste for suburban air, but
+whose finances preclude his dreaming of Nahant, has only to mix himself up
+in a street fight, or some other interesting city episode, to be entitled
+to a country-seat at the expense of his grateful admirers! Owing to a
+little oversight on his part, the author of this veracious history took a
+passage for "Blackwell's Island" a trifle earlier in the season than he had
+anticipated; and it is at that delightful region these pages are indited.</p>
+
+<p>But the Tombs&mdash;heaven save us from that!</p>
+
+<p>There are many pleasanter places in New-York than the Tombs; for that
+clumsy piece of Egyptian architecture&mdash;its dingy marble walls, its
+nail-studded doors and sickening atmosphere&mdash;is uncommonly disagreeable as
+a dwelling. Many startling tragedies have been enacted there&mdash;scenes of
+eternal farewells and lawful murders. I could not count on my fingers the
+number of men who have entered its iron gates full of life, and come out
+cold, still and dreadful!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>It was here that Mortimer was brought.</p>
+
+<p>Within, all was sombre and repulsive. Without, there was hum of voices, and
+the frosty rails which ran in front of the prison creaked dismally as the
+heavy freight cars passed over them; but these sounds of life were not
+heard inside.</p>
+
+<p>The cell of Mortimer and its occupants, the morning after his arrest,
+presented a scene of gloomy picturesqueness.</p>
+
+<p>Through a grated window, some six feet from the stone floor, a strip of
+sunshine came and went, falling on Mortimer, who leaned thoughtfully
+against the damp wall. The room, if we may call it one, was devoid of
+furniture, with the exception of a low iron bedstead, whose straw-stuffed
+mattress and ragged coverlid suggested anything but sleep. Daisy Snarle was
+standing with downcast eyes near the door which a few minutes before had
+closed on its creaking hinges, and outside of which the jailor stood
+listening.</p>
+
+<p>The long, dark lashes were resting on her cheek; the pearls of the
+necklace, which gleamed here and there in the queenly braid, looked whiter
+by contrast with Daisy's chestnut hair. In one hand she had gathered the
+folds of her shawl, the other hung negligently at her side. From beneath
+the skirt of her simple dress, peeped one of the loveliest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> feet ever seen,
+and her whole attitude was unconsciously exquisite. She had just ceased
+speaking, and the faintest possible tinge of crimson was on her cheeks.</p>
+
+<p>"Daisy, you are one of God's good angels, or you would never have come to
+me in this repulsive place."</p>
+
+<p>Daisy's eyes were still bent on the floor.</p>
+
+<p>"Speak to me again, Daisy," said Mortimer, taking her hand. "Your voice
+gives me heart, and your words make me forget everything but you."</p>
+
+<p>Daisy lifted her dreamy hands, and said, softly:&mdash;"They could not find it."</p>
+
+<p>"Could not find what, Daisy?"</p>
+
+<p>"The necklace," said Daisy, smiling.</p>
+
+<p>"No," she continued, in a low, musical voice, "they searched in all the
+rooms, in all the trunks&mdash;turned over your papers and mother's
+work-basket&mdash;but they could not find it."</p>
+
+<p>And Daisy smiled again.</p>
+
+<p>"Where was it, Daisy?"</p>
+
+<p>"Here!"</p>
+
+<p>And Daisy, smiling all the while, lifted Mortimer's hand in hers, and
+placed it on the braid of hair.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer started.</p>
+
+<p>"O, Daisy! Daisy! why did you do that?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The little foot tapped gently on the stone floor.</p>
+
+<p>"Because," said Daisy, dropping her eyes, "because, when I read your note
+yesterday, I doubted you for a moment: but when I looked at the portrait in
+your room, I believed you; and I hid the necklace in my hair, and came to
+ask your pardon."</p>
+
+<p>"Let any misfortune come to me, darling!" said Mortimer, touched with this
+ingenious act, "let come what will, I am strong! As sure as little Bell
+looks down from Heaven, you do not wear a stolen necklace. How it came into
+my hands I cannot tell, without wronging the dead. But, Daisy, it was
+imprudent for you to run this risk."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, no; they hunted for something hidden, and could not see what was
+before their eyes," replied Daisy, giving a quick, low laugh, and then she
+grew thoughtful again.</p>
+
+<p>"But if they <i>had</i> seen it, Daisy?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well."</p>
+
+<p>"You would have been implicated in this unhappy affair to your certain
+ruin, without benefiting me. You must leave the necklace here."</p>
+
+<p>"But I won't!"</p>
+
+<p>This time the pretty little foot was set firmly on the flagging.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The jailor, who had been an attentive listener to the foregoing
+conversation, thrust his hands into the capacious pockets of his overcoat
+with the bearing of a man who is completely satisfied.</p>
+
+<p>"I knowed it," he said, emphatically; "the boy is misfortunate somehow, and
+the young girl's a trump&mdash;<i>she</i> is. Lord help 'em! But time's up, and I
+must stop their talk."</p>
+
+<p>With this the man tapped on the door. Mortimer held Daisy in his arms for a
+moment, and then sat down on the bed.</p>
+
+<p>Daisy was gone, and it seemed as if the sunlight had gone with her, the
+cell grew so gloomy to the prisoner.</p>
+
+<p>"Young man," said the jailor, with a solemn look, "the young lady is very
+unprudent to go circumventing round with that necklace twisted up on the
+top ov her skull&mdash;<i>she</i> is."</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer groaned.</p>
+
+<p>"You heard all, then, and you will betray us!"</p>
+
+<p>"Part ov what you say <i>is</i> true," returned the man, bluntly, "and part
+isn't. I heard yer talk, but my name <i>isn't</i> Joe Wilkes ef I blow on yer!"</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer looked at the ruddy, honest face of Joe Wilkes, and gave him his
+hand.</p>
+
+<p>"I believe you, my good man."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>That individual appeared to be turning something over in his mind which
+refused to be turned over.</p>
+
+<p>"Them keys, young man," he said at length, drawing forth from his pocket a
+bunch weighing some four pounds, "opens the door at the end ov the passage,
+and this one opens the street gate; now jist take that bit ov wood and bang
+me on one side ov my hed&mdash;not savagely, you know, but jist enough to
+flatten me, and make me look stunned&mdash;like&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>At this novel proposition Mortimer broke into a loud laugh, but Mr. Wilkes
+was in earnest, and insisted on being "flattened."</p>
+
+<p>"I couldn't think of it, Mr. Wilkes!" cried Mortimer, weak with laughter;
+"I couldn't strike you systematically; I should be certain to demolish your
+head."</p>
+
+<p>And Mr. Wilkes retired, perforce, with the air of an injured man.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer sat on the edge of the bed reflecting on the strange chain of
+circumstances which had placed him in his present position, and boldly
+facing the fact of how little chance he had of escaping Mr. Flint's malice.
+The excitement attending his arrest had passed away, and the reality of his
+utter helplessness came full upon him. For himself he dreaded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> little, for
+no punishment for a supposed crime, however disgraceful, could make him
+guilty; but a prolonged imprisonment would leave Daisy and Mrs. Snarle
+without means of support. This caused him more anxiety than the thought of
+any suffering attendant on his conviction.</p>
+
+<p>More than this troubled him. It was Daisy's devotion. He had, indeed,
+wished her to believe him innocent, but his generous mind revolted at
+holding her to promises made in happier moments. He could not make Daisy
+his wife while a blemish remained on his honor; and the circumstances
+relative to the forged check, with which the reader is conversant, he could
+not think of revealing, for Snarle's dying words haunted him strangely.</p>
+
+<p>While Mortimer was thus meditating, two hands grasped the iron bars of the
+window, which was directly opposite the bed, and a moment afterwards a
+man's head threw a shadow into the cell.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer, absorbed in thought, had failed to notice it.</p>
+
+<p>The first expression of the face was that of mere curiosity; this was
+followed by a startled look, and then an intense emotion distorted the
+features. The face grew deathly pale, and the eyeballs glowed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> into the
+cell, more resembling those of a wild-cat than a human being's.</p>
+
+<p>A deep groan came from the window, and the head disappeared
+instantaneously.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer looked up and glanced around the narrow room suspiciously, and
+then smiled to think how his fancy had cheated him.</p>
+
+<p>The face was Edward Walters.4348</p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>XIV.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 30%;"><i>Where more is meant than meets the ear.</i><br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 58%;"><span class="smcap">Il Penseroso.</span><br /></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a>XIV.</h2>
+
+<h4>A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING.</h4>
+
+<blockquote><p><i>The Strange Visit&mdash;The Lawyer&mdash;Walter and Mr. Flint&mdash;The Clouds&mdash;A
+Strip of Sunshine&mdash;Mortimer.</i></p></blockquote>
+
+
+<p>About two hours after the incident related at the close of our last
+chapter, Edward Walters stepped from the door of Mrs. Snarle's house,
+waving his hand kindly to Daisy, who stood on the steps, and watched him
+till he turned out of Marion-street.</p>
+
+<p>But we must turn back a little.</p>
+
+<p>After leaving the Tombs, our friend went in search of Mortimer's residence,
+actuated by an impulse which he neither attempted to control nor
+understand&mdash;an impulse like that which had prompted him to visit the
+prison. He was led into the little parlor by Mrs. Snarle, to whom he
+represented<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> himself as one deeply interested in the misfortunes of
+Mortimer, and desirous of assisting him. His own astonishment surpassed
+that of Mrs. Snarle, when he found her entirely ignorant of the arrest.
+While he was speaking, and Mrs. Snarle&mdash;who stood with her hand on the back
+of a chair, from which she had just risen&mdash;was regarding him with a vacant
+stare, Daisy stepped into the room, without knowing that it was occupied.</p>
+
+<p>Edward Walters ceased speaking, and fixed his eyes on what, to him, seemed
+an apparition. He had seen that pale, pensive face in his dreams for years.
+It had followed him out to sea, and in far lands where he sought to avoid
+it. He arose from the sofa, and approached Daisy with hesitating steps, as
+if he were afraid she would vanish into thin air before he reached her.
+Daisy shrunk from him, and looked inquiringly at her mother. Walters laid
+his hand on the girl's arm.</p>
+
+<p>"Sometimes," he said, looking her full in the eyes&mdash;"sometimes the mind
+wanders back to childhood, and we have visions of pleasant fields and
+familiar places. Something we had forgotten comes back to us in
+shadow&mdash;voices, faces, incidents! Did you ever see a snow-storm in your
+thought?"</p>
+
+<p>Daisy started as if in sudden pain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Walters watched the effect of his question with unconcealed emotion.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," said Daisy, lifting up her eyes wonderingly.</p>
+
+<p>"I knew it," said the man, abstractedly, taking Daisy's hand.</p>
+
+<p>The girl drew back in fear, and Mrs. Snarle stepped between them.</p>
+
+<p>"My words seem strange, lady; but I knew her when she was a babe."</p>
+
+<p>And he turned his frank face to Daisy.</p>
+
+<p>"What do you know of me?" cried Daisy, grasping his arm eagerly.</p>
+
+<p>"Everything."</p>
+
+<p>"O, sir, do not deal in mystery! If you know aught of this child's life, in
+mercy speak!" and Mrs. Snarle caught his hand.</p>
+
+<p>"I can tell nothing now."</p>
+
+<p>And with this he abruptly put on his hat, strode into the hall and out of
+the front door, waving his hand to Daisy, who, as we have said, stood on
+the steps, and watched him till he was out of sight.</p>
+
+<p>We will leave Mrs. Snarle and Daisy to their astonishment, and follow on
+the quick foot-steps of our marine friend, to whom that day seemed crowded
+with wonderful events.</p>
+
+<p>It did not take long for Walters to reach Wall-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>street, where he
+disappeared in one of those many law offices which fringe that somewhat
+suspected and much-abused locality. On the door through which Mr. Walters
+passed was a tin sign, bearing, in gilt letters,</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/p176.png" width="400" height="77" alt="J. G. Burbank, Attorney at Law." title="J. G. Burbank, Attorney at Law." />
+</div>
+
+<p>What transpired between him and that gentleman we will leave to the
+surmises of the reader. After being closeted for an hour in a room whose
+only furniture consisted of one or two green baize-covered tables, piled
+with papers, and a book-case crowded with solid-looking volumes, our friend
+turned his thoughtful face toward the office of Messrs. Flint &amp; Snarle.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Flint looked up from his writing, and found Edward Walters quietly
+seated beside him. They had not met since the interview we described at Mr.
+Flint's house; and the captain's presence at the present time was not a
+thing to be desired by Mr. Flint. The visit looked ominous. Whatever doubts
+he entertained respecting its object were immediately dispelled.</p>
+
+<p>"I read the arrest in yesterday's paper," said Walters.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Flint, with an effort, went on writing.</p>
+
+<p>"And this morning I visited the boy in his cell."</p>
+
+<p>"Well!" cried Flint, nervously.</p>
+
+<p>"And I found my son, John Flint!"</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Flint found himself cornered, and, like a rat or any small animal, he
+grew cowardly desperate.</p>
+
+<p>"You found a thief, sir&mdash;a miserable thief."</p>
+
+<p>We will do Mr. Flint the justice to say that he considered Mortimer in that
+light.</p>
+
+<p>"I am not sure of that," was the calm reply. "A man may be in prison, and
+yet be no felon; and I should doubt the guilt of any man whom <i>you</i>
+persecuted. But I did not come here to quarrel. The boy is my son, and he
+must be released."</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Must</i> be, Mr. Walters!"</p>
+
+<p>"I think I said so."</p>
+
+<p>Flint regarded him with his cold, cynical smile.</p>
+
+<p>"John Flint, there is nothing I would not do to serve the boy. There is
+nothing I will not do to crush you if you persist in convicting him. I do
+not know that he is innocent&mdash;I do not know that he is worthy of my love. I
+only know that he is my child."</p>
+
+<p>There was an agony in the tone with which these words were spoken that was
+music to Mr. Flint. He smiled that undertaker's smile of his.</p>
+
+<p>"The law must take its course," he said. "It is impossible to stop
+<i>that</i>."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Not so. The examination takes place this afternoon. If you do not appear
+against him, Mortimer will be discharged. You have forgotten that I have
+<i>the letter</i>."</p>
+
+<p>"Stop!" cried Flint, as Walters turned to the door, and he assumed his
+usual, fawning, hypocritical air.</p>
+
+<p>"If I do as you wish, what then?"</p>
+
+<p>"You shall have the letter."</p>
+
+<p>"What assurance have I of that?"</p>
+
+<p>"My word."</p>
+
+<p>"Is that all?" said Flint. "Would you take mine, in such a case?"</p>
+
+<p>"No," replied Walters, with delightful candor. "Your word is worthless.
+Mine was never broken. Do we understand each other?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"There must be another stipulation."</p>
+
+<p>"What is it?"</p>
+
+<p>"You are not to mention my name to Mortimer. He does not know of my
+existence."</p>
+
+<p>"I shall not be likely to meet him," returned Flint, a little surprised. "I
+thought you had seen him."</p>
+
+<p>"I did&mdash;through the bars of his cell."</p>
+
+<p>And Mr. Flint was left alone in no enviable state of mind. So absorbed was
+he in his disappointment, that Tim several times that afternoon whistled
+snatches from "Poor Dog Tray," with impunity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The twilight came stealing into the room in which Mrs. Snarle and Daisy
+were sitting. The food on the supper table remained untouched. Neither of
+them had spoken for the last half hour; the twilight grew denser and
+denser, and the shadows on their faces deepened. Daisy had told her mother
+all&mdash;the search of the officers for the necklace, her visit to the Tombs,
+and Mortimer's protestation of innocence. Mrs. Snarle never doubted it for
+a moment; but she saw how strong their evidence might be against him.</p>
+
+<p>"God only knows how it will end, Daisy."</p>
+
+<p>"As God wills it, mother!"</p>
+
+<p>As these words were said, a shadow fell across the entry, and a pair of
+arms was thrown tenderly around Daisy's neck.</p>
+
+<p>"Mortimer!"<br /></p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>XV.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;"><span class="smcap">Quin.</span>&mdash;<i>Is all our company here?</i><br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 60%;"><span class="smcap">Mid-summer's Night Dream.</span><br /></p>
+
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="XV" id="XV"></a>XV.</h2>
+
+<h4>IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES.</h4>
+
+<blockquote><p><i>A Picture&mdash;The Lawyer's Note&mdash;Mr. Hardwill once more&mdash;The Scene at
+the Law Office&mdash;Mr. Flint Hors du Combat&mdash;Face to Face.</i></p></blockquote>
+
+
+<p>"Mortimer!"</p>
+
+<p>That was all Daisy said.</p>
+
+<p>The candles were lighted, the dim, sad twilight driven out of the room, and
+a happy trio sat around the supper table. Mrs. Snarle smoothed her silk
+apron complacently; Daisy's eyes and smiles were full of silent happiness;
+and Mortimer, in watching the variations of her face, all so charming,
+forgot the misfortunes which had so recently threatened him.</p>
+
+<p>Daisy gave Mortimer an account of the unknown's strange visit; and,
+inexplicable to himself, Morti<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>mer connected it in some way with his
+unexpected release.</p>
+
+<p>Soon after Mrs. Snarle had retired, the lovers sat in the little room,
+which was only lighted by a pleasant fire in the grate. Wavering fingers of
+flame drew grotesque pictures on the papered walls; then a thin puff of
+smoke would break the enchantment, and the fire-light tracery fled into the
+shadows of the room.</p>
+
+<p>It was a delicate picture.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer was sitting at Daisy's feet, playing with the fingers of a very
+diminutive and dainty hand; Daisy was bending over him; and as the glow
+from the fire came and went in their eyes, one could see that a long brown
+tress of Daisy's hair rested on Mortimer's.</p>
+
+<p>What if their lips touched?</p>
+
+<p>"O!" cried Daisy, drawing back, "a note was left here this afternoon, while
+you were in &mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"The Tombs," finished Mortimer, smiling.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," replied Daisy. "I was afraid to open it, though."</p>
+
+<p>"Were you?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," she said, laughing. "I thought it might be from that charming young
+lady whom you assisted to cross Broadway last month; and of whom you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> speak
+so pleasantly when I am the least bit out of humor."</p>
+
+<p>And the girl looked at him quizzically with her impudent eyes.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer, by kneeling close to the fire, was enabled to read the note.</p>
+
+<p>"That is strange&mdash;read it, Daisy."</p>
+
+<p>Daisy read:</p>
+
+<blockquote><p>"<span class="smcap">Sir</span>,&mdash;By calling at my office, No.&mdash;&mdash; Wall-street, to-morrow, at 4
+<span class="smcap">p. m.</span>, you will learn something of importance. It is necessary that
+Mrs. Snarle and her daughter should accompany you.</p>
+</blockquote>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 45%;">"Respectfully,<br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 60%;">"<span class="smcap">J. C. Burbank</span>,<br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 70%;">"<i>Attorney at Law.</i>"<br /><br /></p>
+
+<p>About the same hour that evening, Mr. Flint received a communication of
+similar import, after reading which, he said:</p>
+
+<p>"Hum!" and thrust the note into his vest-pocket.</p>
+
+<p>Hum, indeed, Mr. Flint. There was something in store for you.</p>
+
+<p>The next morning Mortimer bethought himself of his "Romance," and directed
+his steps toward the sanctum of Mr. Hardwill.</p>
+
+<p>He found that gentleman talking with three new<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> geniuses in pantelets, who
+were attempting to convince the great Pub of his mistake in refusing to
+"bring out" a pregnant-looking manuscript which the authoress was holding
+in her hand with a tenderness that was touching to behold.</p>
+
+<p>When they had retired, Mr. Hardwill extended his hand to Mortimer.</p>
+
+<p>"Sharp young man," he said, displaying his white teeth. "You didn't wish to
+appear anxious about your book; I was on the point of sending for you. You
+were to have called on me three days since. Well, sir, I like the story."</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer bowed.</p>
+
+<p>"Did you read it all, sir?"</p>
+
+<p>"I? Not a line of it," returned Mr. Hardwill. "I never look at anything but
+the size of the manuscript."</p>
+
+<p>"Then you buy by the <i>weight</i>," said Mortimer, smiling.</p>
+
+<p>"Not precisely. I never publish anything of less than four hundred pages.
+As to weight, I sometimes find a MS. of the right size altogether too
+heavy; but yours is not, my reader says."</p>
+
+<p>"Your reader, sir?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I am a mere business man," quoth Mr. Hardwill, explanatorily. "I
+seldom read my publications. I merely sell them&mdash;sometimes I don't do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span>
+<i>that</i>. I have a reader who looks over sizeable MSS., and I abide by his
+judgment."</p>
+
+<p>"Ah!"</p>
+
+<p>"He is a man of fine scholarship and literary attainments."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Hardwill might have added&mdash;"and has the sway of 'The Morning Rabid' and
+'The Evening Twilight,'" but he did not.</p>
+
+<p>Arrangements were made to publish "Goldwood," with the euphonious and
+"striking title" of "Picklebeet Papers." Now, whether "Picklebeet" was a
+vegetable in vinegar, or the name of some charming country-place, I cannot
+say; but "Picklebeet," whatever it was, had as much to do with the contents
+of the book as the biography of my reader's grandmother.</p>
+
+<p>On what terms the "Picklebeet Papers" were published, concern neither the
+reader nor myself; but, while remarking, <i>en passant</i>, that the book, owing
+to some extraordinary freak on the part of the public, never went to a
+"second edition," we will fix the hands of the city clock to suit
+ourselves.</p>
+
+<p>It is 4 <span class="smcap">p. m.</span></p>
+
+<p>Without further preamble, we will lead the reader (mine, not Mr.
+Hardwill's) to Mr. Burbank's law office, at which place the threads of our
+story become somewhat disentangled. We are not sorry at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> this, (we doubt if
+the reader is,) for there is a satisfaction in rounding off a plot&mdash;in
+coming to the last page, where the author can write "<span class="smcap">Finis</span>"&mdash;which no one
+but a scribbler may know. But this pleasure is not a little touched with
+regret, as he sweeps the carefully-moved images from the chess-board of his
+brain, and tells you in those five letters that the game is finished.</p>
+
+<p>The personages in the law office are not strangers to us, if we except the
+lawyer.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Snarle and Daisy, with their veils down, are sitting in the back part
+of the room, and Mortimer stands behind them, speaking in a low voice to
+Daisy.</p>
+
+<p>Edward Walters is seated at a desk, the screen around which prevents him
+from being observed by the first-described group.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Burbank, a dark-eyed, large-mouthed man, occupies a table in the centre
+of the apartment, near which is a chair for Mr. Flint, who has not yet made
+his appearance.</p>
+
+<p>This was the position of the parties on Mr. Flint's entrance.</p>
+
+<p>The merchant gave the lawyer three bony fingers, bestowed a stiff,
+surprised bow on Mortimer, and glanced suspiciously around him, evidently
+not liking the company he was in.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Mr. Flint glanced inquiringly at the lawyer.</p>
+
+<p>"As all the parties concerned in this meeting are present," commenced the
+devotee of Blackstone, "I will at once proceed to business. You are too
+much of a business man, Mr. Flint, to require a prelude to interrogations
+which will explain themselves."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Flint looked very doubtful.</p>
+
+<p>The lawyer ran his fingers through a crop of shaggy hair with professional
+dignity.</p>
+
+<p>"It is something over twenty years since your brother, Henry Flint, died,
+is it not?"</p>
+
+<p>The merchant nodded.</p>
+
+<p>"He left no heirs&mdash;I believe," continued the lawyer, with a delightful
+appearance of hesitation.</p>
+
+<p>"He left one child," said Flint, nervously. Mr. Flint did not like the turn
+which the conversation was taking.</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, yes! A daughter, if I remember correctly. Let me see, Maude Flint was
+the name."</p>
+
+<p>(This slight dialogue caused Daisy's breath to come and go quickly.)</p>
+
+<p>"Maude Flint!" she whispered hastily to Mortimer. "Listen! M. F.,&mdash;the
+initials in the necklace!"</p>
+
+<p>"I drew up the will at the time," said Mr. Burbank, thoughtfully; "but my
+memory has been tasked with more important things."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>He turned abruptly to Mr. Flint.</p>
+
+<p>"What became of this child&mdash;Maude?"</p>
+
+<p>"Died," returned Flint, briefly, with an uncomfortable air.</p>
+
+<p>"And the property&mdash;&mdash;?"</p>
+
+<p>"Came to me&mdash;the child having no other relative," said Flint, rallying.</p>
+
+<p>The lawyer was silent for a moment.</p>
+
+<p>"Now, Mr. Flint, suppose I should tell you that your brother's child is
+still living, what would you say?"</p>
+
+<p>"I should say, sir," cried the startled merchant, springing to his feet, "I
+should say, sir, that it was a lie! I see through it all. This is a
+miserable conspiracy to force money from me. Your plot, sir, is
+transparent, and I see that snaky individual crawling at the bottom of it."
+He pointed at Mortimer. "But it won't do!" he thundered, "it <i>won't</i> do!"</p>
+
+<p>"Of course it won't for you to get in a passion. The man who gets into a
+passion," continued Mr. Burbank, philosophically, "never acts with
+judgment. And what is the use, Mr. Flint? I am acquainted with all the
+circumstances of the child's disappearance; indeed, I have a full account
+of them in your own handwriting."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Flint turned white.</p>
+
+<p>"This letter, which I shall give you by and by,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> said the man of law,
+"divulges a plot of villainy which heaven happily thought fit to prostrate;
+and I'll prove the truth of what I say."</p>
+
+<p>And the lawyer motioned for Daisy to approach him.</p>
+
+<p>She did so, mechanically.</p>
+
+<p>"This lady," said Mr. Burbank, smiling blandly, "is my first witness. Will
+you raise your veil?"</p>
+
+<p>Daisy complied with the request, and looked Mr. Flint in the face. Flint
+turned his eyes on her with such earnestness that she shrunk back. Then he
+staggered to a chair, and exclaimed involuntarily:</p>
+
+<p>"So help me God, it is Henry's child!"</p>
+
+<p>Edward Walters rested his hands on the desk, and looked over the baize
+screen.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer stepped to Daisy's side.</p>
+
+<p>"This necklace," he said, in a trembling voice, "I return to the owner. It
+was my misfortune to take it by mistake, and it is happiness to return it
+to one who does not require any proof of my innocence."</p>
+
+<p>Daisy pressed his hand.</p>
+
+<p>"Let me go!" exclaimed Mr. Flint.</p>
+
+<p>"Presently, Mr. Flint. You must first witness the <i>denouement</i> of our
+little drama."</p>
+
+<p>With this the lawyer turned to Mortimer, and handed him a paper.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"What this fails to explain relative to your father, you must seek from his
+own lips."</p>
+
+<p>"My father!&mdash;his lips!"&mdash;repeated Mortimer, bewildered.</p>
+
+<p>He opened the paper.</p>
+
+<p>"My father! where is he?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mortimer!" cried Walters, pushing aside the screen.</p>
+
+<p>And they stood face to face.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>XVI.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 30%;">
+<i>Our revels now are ended: these our actors,<br />
+As I foretold you, were all spirits, and<br />
+Are melted into air, thin air:<br />
+And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,<br />
+The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,<br />
+The solemn temples, the great globe itself,<br />
+Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,<br />
+And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,<br />
+Leave not a rack behind!</i><br />
+<br /></p>
+<p style="margin-left: 60%;"><span class="smcap">Shakespeare.</span><br /></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="XVI" id="XVI"></a>XVI.</h2>
+
+<h4>THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA.</h4>
+
+<blockquote><p><i>Clap-Trap&mdash;John Flint&mdash;The Old House by the Sea&mdash;Joe Wilkes&mdash;Strephon
+and Chloe&mdash;Tim Enjoying Himself&mdash;Edward Walters and Little Bell&mdash;A
+Last Word.</i></p></blockquote>
+
+
+<p>It is an artistic little weakness we scribblers have of seducing our
+dramatis person� into <i>tableaux vivants</i>, and deserting them abruptly. In a
+story of this kind, which depends rather on action than fine writing for
+interest, this species of autorial clap-trap is very effective, if cleverly
+done. So we will make no excuse for leaving <i>nuestros amigos</i> at the
+lawyer's office, and drawing a green curtain, as it were, on the actors of
+this humble comedy.</p>
+
+<p>Some six years are supposed to have elapsed since the drop-scene fell on
+our last act.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>From this out our story is rather a pantomime than a play. We give pictures
+and figures, instead of dialogues and soliloquies. Will the reader follow
+us?</p>
+
+
+<h4>I.</h4>
+
+<p>Time has not touched Mr. Flint gently. His hair is grayer, his step more
+feeble, and his eyes have a lack-lustre look. His cravat is whiter and
+stiffer, if possible, than ever; and he looks more religious. God grant
+that he is so. But we doubt it. For to such as he, nor April, with its
+purple-mouthed violets, nor red ripe summer, with its wealth of roses, nor
+the rich fruit-harvest of autumnal suns, bring wisdom's goodness. The
+various months teach him no lesson. Let him go. He came like a shadow into
+our plot, so let him depart. He is not a myth, however, but flesh and blood
+mortality; and though we have only outlined his weakness&mdash;his love of gold,
+his cold, intriguing spirit&mdash;yet the sketch is such that, if he looks at
+it, he will have the felicity of seeing himself as others see him!</p>
+
+
+<h4>II.</h4>
+
+<p>It is a day in June, an hour before sunset. The lanes leading to an old
+house situated between Ivyton and the sea, are fringed with pink peach
+blossoms,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> and the air is freighted with their odors. The violets, with dew
+in their azure eyes, peep from every possible nook; and those sweet peris
+of the summer wood, wild roses, are grouping everywhere. Surely Titania has
+been in this spot, breathing exquisite beauty upon the flowers, or,
+perhaps, Flora's dainty self. The blue-bells, these yellow-chaliced
+butter-cups, are fit haunts for fairies, and, perchance, wild Puck, or
+Prospero's good Ariel has been slumbering in them. But let us draw near to
+the fine old house which stands in this new Eden. It was here that we first
+met the little castle-builders&mdash;the child Bell and Mortimer. The place is
+not changed much. The same emerald waves break on the white beach; the same
+cherry-trees are spreading their green tresses, and the simple church-yard
+sleeps, as it used, in sunshine and shadow.</p>
+
+<p>The house has been newly painted, and the fresh green blinds make one feel
+a sense of shade and coolness. The garden in front has been re-made with a
+careful eye to its old beauties. The white pebbled walks, the strawberry
+and clover beds, the globes of pansies, and the clambering honeysuckle
+vines, are all as they were years ago. Even the groups of wild roses, by
+the door, bud and bloom as if the autumn winds had never beaten them down.</p>
+
+<p>We shall accuse the reader with having a bad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> memory, if he does not
+recognise Joe Wilkes in the stalwart form and honest face of the gardener,
+who occupies himself with tying up a refractory vine, which persists in
+running wild over the new summer-house. It is he, indeed&mdash;the whilome
+jailor of the Tombs, who has laid aside his ponderous prison-keys, and
+taken up the shovel and the hoe.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III.</h4>
+
+<p>Two persons are standing at the "round window," where Bell and her brother
+used to linger, dreamily, in the twilights of long ago. The rays of the
+setting sun glance over the waves, and fall on the faces of Mortimer and
+Daisy&mdash;Daisy Snarle no more, but little Maude Walters. Their honey-moon has
+been of six years' duration, and to such as they, that sweet moon of
+tenderness never wanes, but runs from full to full&mdash;never new and never
+old! Strephon woos Chloe as of yore. The lover, as in some antique picture,
+is ever kneeling at the feet of his mistress, and she, through the
+gathering of years, looks down on him with the olden tenderness and the
+April blushes of womanhood! To such as they, life plays on a dulcimer. The
+golden age is not dead to them. They see the shepherd Daphnis seated on the
+slopes of �tna, and hear him pipe to the nymph Eschenais. This "bank-note
+world," to them, is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> Arcady, and their lives are sweet and simple as
+pastoral hymns!</p>
+
+<p>But we, the author of this MS., are growing pastoral ourselves, and Heaven
+forbid that we should venture into a field which one of our poets has
+recently brought into disrepute by his indifferent blank verse.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer, leaning on the sill of the window, is looking at Daisy, who
+stands a little in the background, with that kissable white hand of hers
+shading the sun from as dangerous a pair of black eyes as ever looked "no"
+when they meant "yes." She is watching a speck of a boat, which is dancing
+up and down on the waves like a cork. Mortimer has just brought a telescope
+to bear on the distant object, and we, with that lack of good-breeding
+which has characterized all romancers from time immemorial, will look over
+his shoulder. The delighted occupant of the boat is that audacious fellow,
+Tim, who has taken a trip up to Ivyton from the great city, to spend a week
+with "Mr. Mortimer." It may be well to say that Tim&mdash;Timothy Jones, Esq.,
+Mr. Reader&mdash;has ceased to have a proclivity for the "machine;" and
+now-a-days, the City Hall alarm bell never disturbs his equanimity. Indeed,
+he is so metamorphosed by time and a respectable tailor, that the gentle
+reader stands in some danger of not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> recognizing him at all. Hence the
+above formal introduction. Just notice the set of those cream-colored
+pants, falling without a wrinkle over those mirror-like patent leathers,
+and the graceful curve of that Shanghai over the hips! Just notice! And
+more than all, that incipient <i>moustach�</i>, which only the utmost
+perseverance on the part of Tim and <i>Mr. Phalon</i> has coaxed out into
+mundane existence!</p>
+
+<p>The writer of this veritable history has a great mind to drown Tim for his
+impudence; but as that young gentleman has a good situation in a
+Front-street commission-house, he refrains, for a capsize a mile from land
+would considerably interfere with Young America's prospects.</p>
+
+
+<h4>IV.</h4>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Captain Edward Walters</span> sits on the door-step of the old house; and through
+a curtain of honeysuckle vines, which he draws aside, is watching the
+fawn-like motions of</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;">"A six years loss to Paradise!"<br /></p>
+
+<p>Is it little Bell come back again? It is very like her. Walters thinks so,
+as the child runs from flower to flower like a golden-belted bee, and a
+mist comes over his fine eyes, and he can scarcely see his grandchild for
+tears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>His lips move, and perhaps he is saying: "Little Bell! Little Bell!"</p>
+
+<p>And he thinks of the angel whom he left years ago, playing on the
+<i>partarr�</i>, in front of the gate. He hears her clear, crystal laugh, and
+sees her golden ringlets floating among the flowers, and cannot tell if
+they be curls or sunshine!</p>
+
+<p>The child in the garden resembles the dead Bell as one white lily does
+another. She has the same wavy tresses, shading the same dreamy eyes, with
+their longing, languid expression. Her form has the <i>abandon</i> of childhood,
+with a certain shadow of dignity that is charming. She is very fragile and
+spiritual; and it seems to us as if Heaven, in moulding the child, had
+hesitated whether to make her an Angel or a Flower, and so gave her the
+better parts of each!</p>
+
+<p>Let us take one more look at her sweet young face&mdash;</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"A thing of beauty is a joy forever!<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Its loveliness increases; it will never<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Pass into nothingness; but still will keep<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">A bower quiet for us, and a sleep<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing."<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>Little Bell holds an armful of lilacs against her bosom; and, with her eyes
+running over with childish merriment, trips toward the house; but two arms<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span>
+stretching out from the vines catch her. She utters a pretty scream, and
+then sits quietly on Walters' knee. He kisses her laughingly; but his face
+grows serious as his eyes fall on a string of almond-shaped pearls which
+encircle the child's delicate neck; on the innocent white bosom lies a</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 140px;">
+<img src="images/p202.png" width="140" height="200" alt="Cross" title="Cross" />
+</div>
+
+<p><br /></p>
+
+<p>It is <span class="smcap">Daisy's Necklace</span>; that is <span class="smcap">What Came of it</span>; and here, gentle reader,
+is</p>
+
+<h4><span class="smcap">The End of the Chain.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /></h4>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>EPILOGUE.</h3>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 30%;"><span class="smcap">Don Sebastian.</span>&mdash;<i>You have no plot.</i><br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 30%;"><span class="smcap">Fabricio.</span>&mdash;<i>But such characters! and every one is as true<br />
+as truth: copied right off from nature.</i><br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 30%;"><span class="smcap">Don Sebastian.</span>&mdash;<i>Badly done, sir Poet.</i><br /></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 60%;"><span class="smcap">Lope de Vega.</span><br /></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<h2><a name="EPILOGUE" id="EPILOGUE"></a>EPILOGUE.</h2>
+
+
+<p>"What a mournful glory falls upon the October woods! It seems as if a
+broken rain-bow were strained through a sieve of gray clouds, and sprinkled
+over the crisp leaves. Ochre, vermillion, dappled russet, and all rare
+tintings! And then the wind that rushes so gloriously through the
+woodlands, bearing with it a rich, earthy smell, and scattering the purple
+wealth, the hoarded gold of the autumnal days! Pleasant Forest, with your
+oaken harps! Pleasant little Town, lying quietly in sunshine and
+moonlight&mdash;how sad I was to leave ye! Pleasant River, that stealest up from
+the sea, past the fort<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> and into the old weather-beaten seaport
+town&mdash;crawling lazily among the rotting piers of deserted wharves, then
+gliding off through the shaky bridge, squirming and curveting into a world
+of greenery, like a great serpent with an emerald back! And the girls!
+Village belles, rustic flirts&mdash;eyes, lips, shady curls, white hands, little
+feet, enchanting pouts&mdash;ah, me!</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"Pleasant it was when woods were green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">And winds were soft and low&mdash;"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>This rhapsodical soliloquy was interrupted one fine October morning, two
+days after my return from the sea-side, by a voice there was no mistaking.
+It was Barescythe, who startled Mrs. Muggins with the following pertinent
+inquiry:</p>
+
+<p>"Prolific producer of sea-prodigies, is Ralph at home?"</p>
+
+<p>I could not see Mrs. Muggins' face, for that good soul was standing at the
+foot of the stairs; but I knew her feelings were injured, and I hastened
+out of my room to prevent any verbal combat that might ensue.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Muggins</span>, (<i>after a long silence, and with some asperity</i>)&mdash;"What,
+sir?"</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Barescythe</span>, (<i>petulantly</i>)&mdash;"Is Ralph in, Sycorax?"</p>
+
+<p>What reply the "relick" of Joshua Muggins might<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> have made to this
+interrogation, is only to be imagined; for I immediately "discovered"
+myself, to use a theatrical phrase, and led my solemn friend from hostile
+ground.</p>
+
+<p>"My dear Barry," said I, after greeting him cordially, "you shouldn't&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Shouldn't what?"</p>
+
+<p>"Call Mrs. Muggins names."</p>
+
+<p>"Sycorax? She deserved it. Women are Cleopatras until they are thirty, then
+they are old witches with broomstick propensities! Don't interrupt me.
+Don't speak to me."</p>
+
+<p>I choked down a panegyric on Woman, for I knew that Barry was thinking of a
+cold, heartless piece of femininity that, years and years ago, forgot her
+troth to an honest man, and ran away with a moustache and twenty-four gilt
+buttons. I could never see why he regretted it, for Mrs. Captain Mary
+O'Donehugh never stopped growing till she could turn down a two hundred
+weight; and she looks anything but interesting, with her long file of
+little O'Donehughs&mdash;nascent captains and middies in the bud!</p>
+
+<p>I knew that Barescythe was not in a mood to be critically just, yet, for
+the sake of turning his thoughts into different channels, I glanced
+significantly at the MS. under his arm.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"My Novel," I ventured.</p>
+
+<p>"Like the man in the play," said Barescythe, "the world should ask somebody
+to write it down an ass!"</p>
+
+<p>With which, he threw the manuscript on the table before me.</p>
+
+<p>His remark was uttered with such an air of logic, that I nodded assent, for
+I never disagree with logicians.</p>
+
+<p>"The world is wide-mouthed, long-eared, and stupid&mdash;it will probably like
+that affair of yours, though I doubt if the book sells."</p>
+
+<p>And Barry pointed to the curled up novel on the table.</p>
+
+<p>I bowed with, "I hope it will."</p>
+
+<p>"The world," he continued, "that gave Milton �10 for <i>Paradise Lost</i>, ought
+surely to be in ecstacies over <span class="smcap">Daisy's Necklace</span>."</p>
+
+<p>"Barry," said I, somewhat nettled, "is it my good nature, or your lack of
+it, that seduces you into saying such disagreeable things?"</p>
+
+<p>"Neither, Ralph, for I no more lack good nature than you possess it. But we
+won't quarrel. I am sore because the day of great books has gone by! Once
+we could boast of giant minds: we have only pigmies now."</p>
+
+<p>"But let them speak, Barry. There may be some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> among us that are not for a
+day. Who foresaw in the strolling player, in the wild, thoughtless Will
+Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon, the Dramatist of all time? Your pet
+Homer was a mendicant. Legions of our best poets were not acknowledged,
+until the brain that thought, was worn out, the hand that toiled, cold, and
+the lips that murmured, patient forever!</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">'So angels walked unknown on earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">But when they flew were recognized!'<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>What if my poor story is stale and flat beside the <i>chef-d'&oelig;uvre</i> of Sir
+Walter Scott's genius? Barry, there is a little bird in our New-England
+woods known only by its pleasant chirp; yet who would break its amber bill
+because the nightingales in eastern lands warble so deliciously?"</p>
+
+<p>Barry laughed.</p>
+
+<p>"There you come, Ralph, with your bird-conceits! You flap the wings of some
+thread-bare metaphor in my face, and I cannot see for the feathers! You are
+not a man to argue with. Poetical men never are: they make up in sentiment
+what they lack in sense; and very often it happens that a bit of poetry is
+more than a match for a piece of logic. 'No more of that, Hal, an' thou
+lovest me.' Your book<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> is a miserable one. All your voluble ingenuity
+cannot controvert <i>that</i>."</p>
+
+<p>Barry's better nature had slipped out of him for a moment into the
+sunshine, like a turtle's head; but it slipped back again, and the speech
+that commenced with a laugh ended with a snarl.</p>
+
+<p>"It shows," he said, rumpling the manuscript with a careless hand, "a want
+of Art. The construction of the tale is crude: the characters are all old
+friends with new names&mdash;broken down stage-horses with new harnesses&mdash;and
+the prose throughout is uneven. How can it be otherwise, since it is only
+an intolerable echo of Hood, Dickens, and Charles Reade? Your want of
+artistic genius is shown in taking three chapters to elaborate "little
+Bell," who has no kind of influence in working out the plot, and who dies
+conveniently at Chapter III. Your imitative proclivities are prominent in
+the chapter headed 'A Few Specimens of Humanity.' Was ever anything more
+like the author of 'The Old Curiosity Shop?' Your short, jerky sentences
+are modeled after Reade's 'Peg Woffington,' and 'Christie Johnstone,' or
+any of Dumas' thefts. As to the plot, <i>that</i> is altogether too improbable
+and silly for serious criticism. And then the title, 'Daisy's
+Necklace'&mdash;'Betsy's Garter!'"</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, Barry, this is only Fadladeen and Feramorz<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> over again! Do you
+remember that after all the strictures of the eastern <i>savant</i>, Feramorz
+turned out to be not only a Poet but a Prince? I could take you to be
+'Blackwood' slashing an American book, rather than a Yankee editor looking
+over a friend's virgin novel. You are like all critics, Barry. They ignore
+what might please them greatly if they had not their critical behavior on,
+and grow savage over that part of an author which they should speedily
+forget&mdash;like a dog on a country highway, that turns up his cold nose at the
+delicate hedge-blossoms, and growls over a decayed bone! So you find
+nothing to admire in my sixteen chapters?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not much."</p>
+
+<p>"Then say a good word for that little."</p>
+
+<p>"There are some lines, Ralph, some whole paragraphs, may be, that would be
+very fine in a poem; but in an every-day novel they are strikingly out of
+place. Your jewels, (heart-jewels I suppose you call 'em,) seem to me like
+diamonds on the bosom of a calicoed and untidy chambermaid. That
+sentimental chapter with 'The Dead Hope' caption, is quite as good as your
+blank verse, and I would wager a copy of Griswold's 'Poets of America,'
+against a doubtful three-cent piece, that you wrote it in rhyme&mdash;it's not
+very difficult, you know, to turn your poetry into prose. You needn't
+stare.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> In a word, your book is as tame as a sick kitten&mdash;I hate kittens:
+there's something diabolical in a yellow cat!"</p>
+
+<p>I nipped a smile in the bud, and said, quietly:</p>
+
+<p>"I intended to write a tame, simple domestic story. The facts are garnered
+from my own experience, and&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Garnered from your maternal grandparent, Ralph! Very much I believe it.
+Very much anybody will. It's a wonder to me that you didn't call the book
+'Heart-life by an Anatomy'!"</p>
+
+<p>"I will acknowledge, Barescythe, that I have not done my best in this
+affair. 'Yet consider,' as Fabricio says in the play, ''twas done at a
+sitting: a single sitting, by all the saints! I will do better when I have
+those pistoles, and may use time.' Local tales of this school have been
+popular. I wrote mine to sell."</p>
+
+<p>"But it won't."</p>
+
+<p>"Why?"</p>
+
+<p>"Let's see. How many 'sunsets' have you in the book?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not many, I think."</p>
+
+<p>"That was an oversight. There should be one at the end of each
+chapter&mdash;twenty 'sunsets' at least. Then you have no seduction."</p>
+
+<p>"A seduction?" horrified.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Of course. What modern novel is complete without one? It gives a spicy
+flavor to the story. People of propriety like it. Prim ladies of an
+uncertain age always 'dote' on the gallant, gay Lothario, and wish that he
+wasn't so <i>very</i> wicked!"</p>
+
+<p>And Barry raised his eye-brows, and broke out in such a clear, bell-like,
+canorous laugh&mdash;so contagious in its merriment, that I joined him; and I
+fancied I heard Mrs. Muggins beating a hasty retreat down the front stairs.
+It seems improbable to me that Mrs. Muggins had been listening at the
+key-hole of my door&mdash;respectable Mrs. Muggins.</p>
+
+<p>"Then, sir," said Barry, re-assuming his mock-serious air, "there should be
+a dreadful duel, in which the hero is shot in his hyacinthine curls, falls
+mortally wounded, dripping all over with gory blood, and is borne to his
+ladye-love on a shutter! You have none of these fine points. Then the names
+of your characters are absurdly commonplace. Mortimer Walters should be
+Montaldo St. Clare: Daisy Snarle, (how plebeian!) should be Gertrude
+Flemming: John Flint, Clarence Lester, and so on to the end of the text.
+How Mrs. Mac Elegant will turn up her celestial nose at a book written all
+about common people!"</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Mac Elegant be shot!" I exclaimed. I used to be sweet on Mrs. Mac
+Elegant, and Bare<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>scythe has a disagreeable way of referring to that
+delicate fact. "It was not for such as she I wrote. I sought to touch that
+finer pulse of humanity which throbs the wide world over. The sequel will
+prove whether or not I have failed."</p>
+
+<p>Barry laughed at my ill-concealed chagrin.</p>
+
+<p>"Barry," said I, carelessly, meditating a bit of revenge, and unfolding at
+the same time a copy of the 'Morning Glory,' "did you write the book
+criticisms in to-day's paper?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," returned Barry, coloring slightly.</p>
+
+<p>"They are very fine."</p>
+
+<p>Barry's blood went up to his forehead.</p>
+
+<p>"So consistent," I continued, "with what you have been saying. I have
+neither read '<i>The Scavenger's Daughter</i>,' nor '<i>The Life of Obadiah
+Zecariah Jinkings</i>;' but, judging from the opinion here expressed, I take
+them to be immortal works. I could never be led to think so by reading the
+extracts you have made from the volumes, for the prose is badly
+constructed. Indeed, Barry, here's a sentence which lacks a personal
+pronoun and a verb."</p>
+
+<p>"I see what you are aiming at," replied Barescythe, sharply. "You twit me
+with praising these books so extravagantly. I grant you that worse trash
+was never in type, (<span class="smcap">Daisy</span> is not printed yet,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> you know,) but will you
+allow me to ask you a question?"</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Si usted gusta</i>, my dear fellow."</p>
+
+<p>"Do you think that Gabriel Ravel, at Niblo's, turns spasmodic summersets on
+a chalked rope for the sake of any peculiar pleasure derived therefrom?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why, Barry, I can scarcely imagine anything more unpleasant than to be
+turned upside down, fifteen feet from maternal earth, with an undeniable
+chance of breaking one's neck, on a four-inch rope. But why do you ask?"</p>
+
+<p>"M. Ravel distorts himself for a salary, and no questions asked. I do the
+same. I throw literary summersets for a golden consideration. It is a very
+simple arrangement"&mdash;here Barescythe drew a diagram on the palm of his
+hand&mdash;"Messrs. Printem &amp; Sellem (my thumb) give us, 'The Morning Glory,'
+(my forefinger) costly advertisements, and I, Barescythe, (the little
+finger) am expected to laud all the books they publish."</p>
+
+<p>Out of respect to Barescythe, I restrained my laughter.</p>
+
+<p>He went on, with a ruthful face:</p>
+
+<p>"Here is '<i>The Life of Jinkings</i>'&mdash;the life of a puppy!&mdash;an individual of
+whom nobody ever heard till now, a very clever, harmless, good man <i>in his
+way</i>, no doubt,&mdash;the big gun of a little village, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> no more worthy of a
+biography than a printer's devil!"</p>
+
+<p>With which words, Barescythe hit an imaginary Mr. Jinkings in the stomach
+with evident satisfaction.</p>
+
+<p>"Yet I am called upon to tell the world that this individual, this what do
+you call him?&mdash;Jinkings&mdash;is one of the luminaries of the age, a mental
+Hercules, a new Prometheus&mdash;the clown! Why on earth did his friends want to
+resurrectionize the insipid incidents of this man's milk-and-water
+existence! If he made a speech on the introduction of a 'Town-pump,' or
+delivered an essay at the 'Bell Tavern'&mdash;it was very kind of him, to be
+sure: but why not bury his bad English with him in the country church-yard?
+I wish they had, for I am expected to say that ten thousand copies of the
+'work' have been sold, when I know that only five hundred were printed; or
+else Messrs. Printem &amp; Sellem withdraw their advertisements, in which case
+my occupation's gone! And this '<i>Scavenger's Daughter</i>'&mdash;a book written by
+a sentimental schoolgirl, and smelling of bread-and-butter&mdash;see how I have
+plastered it all over with panegyric!"</p>
+
+<p>"And so, Barry," I said, with some malice, "you wantingly abuse <i>my</i> book,
+because I cannot injure <i>you</i> pecuniarily."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps I do," growled Barescythe. "It is a relief to say an honest thing
+now and then; but wait, Ralph, till I start <i>The Weekly Critique</i>, then
+look out for honest, slashing criticism. No longer hedged in by the
+interests and timidity of 'the proprietors,' I shall handle books for
+themselves, and not their advertisements&mdash;</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">'Friendly to all, save caitiffs foul and wrong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">But stern to guard the Holy Land of Song.'"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>"What a comment is this on American criticism! O, Barry, it is such men as
+you, with fine taste and fine talent, who bring literature into disrepute.
+Your genius gives you responsible places in the world of letters, and how
+you wrong the trust!"</p>
+
+<p>"Thank you," returned Barescythe, coldly, "you blend flattery and insult so
+ingeniously, that I hesitate whether to give you the assurance of my
+distinguished consideration, or knock you down."</p>
+
+<p>"Either you please, Barry. I have spoken quite as honestly, if not so
+bluntly as you; and I regret that I have so little to say in favor of your
+inconsistent criticism. I am sorry you dislike my novel, but&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>I looked toward the chair in which Barescythe had been sitting.</p>
+
+<p>He was gone.</p>
+
+<p>I was not surprised, for Barry does few things<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> "after the manner of men,"
+and a ceremonious departure is something he never dreams of. I sat and
+thought of what had been said. I wondered if we were the dregs of time, the
+worthless leaves of trees that had borne their fruit&mdash;if there were none
+among us,</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i10">"Like some of the simple great ones gone<br /></span>
+<span class="i10">Forever and ever by!"<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>And lastly, I wondered if any of our city papers had such a critical
+appendage as T. J. Barescythe.</p>
+
+<h1>?</h1>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 45%;" />
+
+<p>It is pleasant to have your friend Mr. Smith pat you patronisingly on the
+back, and say, "My dear fellow, when is your book coming out?"</p>
+
+<p>Of course, you send Mrs. Smith a copy after that&mdash;and all Mrs. Smith's
+relations.</p>
+
+<p>"<span class="smcap">Daisy's Necklace</span>" is nearly ready. The following advertisement, which I
+cut from "The Evening Looking Glass" of last Thursday, illustrates the
+manner in which "my publishers," Messrs. Printem &amp; Sellem, make their
+literary announcements:</p>
+
+
+     <center>"<i>We have in Press, and shall publish in the<br /> course of a few days, a
+     New Work<br /> of rare merit, entitled</i>--</center>
+
+     <h4>DAISY'S NECKLACE,</h4>
+
+     <h5>And what came of it</h5>
+
+     <center>A THRILLING NOVEL, SURPASING,<br /> in pathos and quiet satire,<br /> the most
+     felicitous efforts of Dickens!!</center>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 45%;"><span class="smcap">PRINTEM &amp; SELLEM</span>,</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 60%;"><i>Publishers</i>."</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>That was rather modest and pleasant; but it is pleasanter than all to have
+an early copy of your book placed on the breakfast-table, unexpectedly,
+some sunshiny morning&mdash;to behold, for the first time, the darling of your
+meditation in a suit of embossed muslin. How your heart turns over&mdash;if you
+are not used to the thing. How you make pauses between your coffee and
+muffins, to admire the clear typography, the luxurious paper, the gold
+letters on the back!</p>
+
+<p>Messrs. Printem &amp; Sellem sent me two out-of-town papers, containing notices
+of "<span class="smcap">Daisy</span>." These notices were solicited by advance copies of the work, for
+the purpose of being used in the publication advertisement. It is curious
+to remark how great minds will differ.</p>
+
+
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 37%;">[<i>From the Blundertown Journal.</i>]</p>
+
+<h4>"NEW PUBLICATIONS.</h4>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;">"<span class="smcap">Daisy's Necklace, and what came<br /> of it</span>. <i>New-York: Printem and<br />
+Sellem.</i></p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;"><span class="smcap">This</span> production is an emanation<br /> from the culminating mind of glorious<br />
+genius! Nothing like it has been produced<br /> in this century. It
+possesses all<br /> the fine elements of Dickens' novels,<br /> without any of
+their numerous defects.<br /><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> Its scope, its pathos, and wit, is<a name="FNanchor_B_2" id="FNanchor_B_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_B_2" class="fnanchor">[B]</a><br /> beyond
+all praise. Our Britannic brethren<br /> will no longer ask, 'Who reads<br /> an
+American book?' For we can reply,<br /> 'The World!'</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;">"We learn, from good authority, that<br /> the publishers have received
+orders for<br /> twenty thousand copies of the work, in<br /> advance of its
+publication. We have no<br /> doubt of it; for 'Daisy's Necklace' will<br /> shed
+new lustre on the name of American<br /> Literature! Envious authors will<br />
+abuse the work. As the immortal Goethe<br /> says, '<i>De gustibus non est
+disputandum!<br /> </i>' Our rush of advertisements prevents<br /> us from making
+voluminous<br /> extracts from the novel; this, however,<br /> would be useless,
+as <i>everybody</i> will<br /> read it for <i>themselves</i>.</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;">"Orders addressed to <span class="smcap">Higgins &amp; Co.</span>,<br /> of this town, will be promptly
+filled."</p>
+
+<p>I should take the editor of the "Blundertown Journal" to be a man of
+cultured taste, appreciative and discriminating. The second review was not
+quite so "favorable," and can scarcely be called "a first-rate notice."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span></p>
+
+<center>[<i>From the Frogpond Gazette.</i>]</center>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;">"<span class="smcap">Daisy's Necklace</span>" is the silly<br /> title of an absurd novel about to be<br />
+issued by Printem &amp; Sellem, of<br /> New-York. From the fact that the
+author's<br /> name is withheld from the title-page,<br /> we infer that he had
+<i>some</i> friends&mdash;<br />some few who were not wholly willing<br /> that he should
+make a donkey of<br /> himself. We have read a great deal of<br /> trash in our
+day; but 'Daisy's Necklace'<br /> is the king of all vapid
+novels,<br />&mdash;sentimental in sentiment, flaccid in<br /> fiction, and entirely
+intolerable from<br /> beginning to end. The first forty pages<br /> put us to
+sleep. We advise all druggists<br /> to keep the book for sale,&mdash;as an<br />
+<i>anodyne</i>.</p>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;">"The binding is good, and that is<br /> all the praise we can give so
+contemptible<br /> an abortion. A reading public<br /> that tolerates a novel like
+this, must be<br /> made up of very good-natured persons&mdash;<br />assinine in
+temperament, and mentally<br /> obtuse.</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;">"This 'work,' we presume, is written<br /> by that much-abused and prolific
+myth<br />&mdash;'a young gentleman of this city,'<br /> distinguished, <i>of course</i>. We
+believe<br /> that he writes all of Printem &amp; Sellem's<br /> books. At all events,
+those enterpris<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span>ing<br /> gentlemen always have 'a startling<br /> novel' in
+press, from his immortal<br /> pen. What a long string of sins<br /> these
+gentlemen have to answer for!<br /> What a commotion there would be<br /> among
+the shelves of their book-store,<br /> if dead authors could come back and<br />
+reclaim stolen property! If the shade<br /> of <i>Lindley Murray</i> could stalk
+among them!</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;">"For our part, we had rather see<br /> the Hudson River Railroad's list of<br />
+'dead and wounded,' than Printem &amp;<br /> Sellem's list of 'Popular
+Publications!'<br /> But it is consoling to know that books<br /> like 'Daisy's
+Necklace,' in spite of<br /> 'purchased puffery,' find their level at last<br />
+as linings for portmanteaus and third-rate<br /> trunks. We shall make
+cigar-lighters<br /> of our copy, and thank the stars<br /> that we were not born
+a book-making<br /> genius!"</p>
+
+<p>Not a line quoted to prove the justice of the unstrained censure! I could
+not account for the malignant personality of this <i>critique</i>, until Barry
+informed me that my publishers never advertised their books in the columns
+of the "Frogpond Gazette." This, of course, explained it. I only wish I had
+the stubborn editor of the "Frogpond" at arm's length, I would try the
+consistency of his ears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>I was somewhat astonished, the next day, to find how ingeniously Messrs.
+Printem &amp; Sellem made the adverse criticism subservient to their interests.</p>
+
+<p>My lucubration was out.</p>
+
+<p>The "Post" said so; the "Morning Rabid" said it; the "Evening
+Looking-Glass" said it; and a host of small fry echoed the important fact.
+I unfolded "The Rabid," and beheld the following advertisement:<br /></p>
+
+<center>"PUBLISHED THIS DAY,<br /><br />
+
+<i>A Novel of Unprecedented Power, entitled</i>,<br /><br />
+
+DAISY'S NECKLACE,<br /><br />
+
+AND WHAT CAME OF IT.<br /><br /></center>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 35%;">THE 'FROGPOND GAZETTE,'<br /> (high authority), in a long review<br /> of this
+work says: '<i>Daisy's Necklace<br /> is the King of all Novels</i>.'<br /><br />
+'The Blundertown Journal' (also<br /> high authority) remarks:<br /><br />
+'<i>This Book is an emanation from the<br /> culminating mind of glorious
+genius!</i>'<br /><br />
+'<i>Nothing like it has been produced<br /> in this century!</i>'<br /><br />
+'<i>It has all the fine elements of<br /> Dickens' Novels, without any of
+their<br /> numerous defects!</i>'<br /><br /><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span>
+Our first edition (20,000 copies) is<br /> exhausted, and we beg our friends
+to<br /> have patience for a few days.<br /><br />
+WANTED, 4,000 Agents to sell the<br /> above work!!</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 50%;"><span class="smcap">Printem &amp; Sellem</span>,</p>
+<p style="margin-left: 55%;"><i>Publishers</i>."<br /></p>
+
+<p>"Four thousand agents!" quoth Barry, looking over my shoulder; "I rather
+think it would take <i>forty</i> thousand to sell an edition of '<span class="smcap">Daisy</span>!'"</p>
+
+<p>I laughed at my irate friend, and, igniting a fresh regalia, crossed my
+feet on the mantel-piece, and remarked, composedly,</p>
+
+<p>"Now for the Critics!"</p>
+
+<center><span class="smcap">FINIS.</span></center>
+
+<p>�<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+<center>ERRATUM.</center>
+
+
+<p>The Greek of my book-making genius, Ralph&mdash;&mdash; Esq., seems decidedly rusty.
+He has evidently given his lexicon an icy shoulder. Will the intellectual
+and erudite reader substitute <i>kyrie eleyson</i> for <i>kyrie elyson</i> on page
+131?</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span><br /><br /><br /></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> Mr. Barescythe, with his characteristic word-catching spirit,
+wishes to know if grapes and cherries are ripe at one and the same time in
+New-England.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_B_2" id="Footnote_B_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_B_2"><span class="label">[B]</span></a> Barescythe says, that the wrong verb used in this paragraph is
+what editors call "a typographical error."</p></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+
+<div class="tnote">
+
+<h3>Transcriber's Note</h3>
+
+The following changes have been carried out:-- <br />
+                                         <br />
+   Page 22. comma changed to period.<br />
+           ����������������'gently, gently. Sleep,'<br /><br />
+
+   Page 60. 'distroted' to 'distorted'    <br />
+           ���������������� 'highly polished, distorted knocker'   <br />
+                                    <br />
+           ���������������� 'kided' to 'kidded'   <br />
+      �������������     ���'white-kidded, be-ruffled gallants' <br />
+                                                <br />
+         �����������������   Incorrectly positioned parenthesis moved from before <br />
+           ����������������� the phrase 'the Museum opposite' to what appears to  <br />
+           ����������������� be a more logical position at the begining of the phrase<br />
+           ����������������� 'if you would only' <br />
+                                 <br /><br />
+  Page 98. 'Snarle' to 'Flint'    <br />
+�����������������'"Don't go on that way," pleaded Flint,'<br />
+                              <br />
+  Page 133. 'rythm' to 'rhythm'<br />
+�������������������'Musical rhythm'   <br />
+                            <br />
+  Page 198. 'woes' to 'woos'    <br />
+�������������������'Strephon woos Chloe as of yore'<br />
+                                      <br />
+  Page 209. 'Shakspeare' to 'Shakespeare' <br />
+�������������������'thoughtless Will Shakespeare' <br />
+                                              <br />
+
+  Unusual spelling has been retained as in the original publication<br /><br />
+
+  Erratum.  ���This has been carried out in the text. <br />
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Daisy's Necklace, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
+
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+</pre>
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+</body>
+</html>
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Daisy's Necklace, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Daisy's Necklace
+       And What Came of It
+
+Author: Thomas Bailey Aldrich
+
+Release Date: December 13, 2009 [EBook #30668]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAISY'S NECKLACE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Garcia, Woodie4 and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  DAISY'S NECKLACE:
+  And What Came of It.
+
+  (A LITERARY EPISODE.)
+
+
+  BY
+
+  T. B. ALDRICH.
+
+
+    The little dogs and all,
+  ........ see, they bark at me!
+
+                     KING LEAR.
+
+
+  NEW-YORK:
+  DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU STREET.
+  CINCINNATI: H. W. DERBY & CO.
+
+  1857.
+
+
+  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856,
+  BY DERBY & JACKSON,
+  in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
+  Southern District of New-York.
+
+
+  TO
+  C. L. F.,
+  THE NOBLE MERCHANT AND THE GOOD FRIEND,
+  THIS BURLESQUE OF THINGS IN GENERAL,
+  IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.
+
+
+
+
+  CONTENTS.
+
+
+  PROLOGUE.
+
+  CHAPTER I.
+
+  THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS.
+
+  The House by the Sea--The Round Window--God's eyes in Flowers--The
+  Day-Dreamers--A Picture--An Angel--Old Nanny--On the Sea-Shore--
+  Shell-Hunting--Bell's Freak and Mortimer's Dream--Asleep.
+
+  CHAPTER II.
+
+  THE DEAD HOPE.
+
+  Time's Changes--Fall-down Castles--Little Bell waiting--When will
+  Father come Home?--Little Bell weary--What the Sea said--Nevermore.
+
+  CHAPTER III.
+
+  SOUL-LAND.
+
+  Autumn and Winter--By the Fireside--Where little Bell is going--Nanny
+  sings about Chloe--Bell reads a poem--The flight of an Angel--The
+  Funeral--The good Parson--The two Grave-stones.
+
+  CHAPTER IV.
+
+  A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY.
+
+  Down Town--Messrs. Flint & Snarle--Tim, the Office Boy, and the pale
+  Book-keeper--The Escritoire--The Purloined Package--Mr. Flint goes
+  Home--Midnight--Miss Daisy Snarle--The Poor Author.
+
+  CHAPTER V.
+
+  DAISY SNARLE.
+
+  Sunday morning--Harvey Snarle and Mortimer--A Tale of Sorrow--The
+  Snow-child--Mortimer takes Daisy's hand--Snarle's death.
+
+  CHAPTER VI.
+
+  THE PHANTOM AT SEA.
+
+  A Storm in the Tropics--The Lone Ship--The Man at the Wheel--How
+  he sang strange Songs--The Apparition--The drifting Bark.
+
+  CHAPTER VII.
+
+  IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN.
+
+  Mr. Flint sips _vino d'oro_--The Stranger--The Letter--Mr. Flint
+  Outwitted--Mr. Flint's Photograph--The Madman's Story--The Wrecked
+  Soul--How Mr. Flint is troubled by his Conscience, and dreams of a
+  Pair of Eyes.
+
+  CHAPTER VIII.
+
+  MR. FLINT IS PERFECTLY ASTONISHED, AND MORTIMER HAS A VISION.
+
+  The Light Heart--A Scene--The Sunny Heart--A Dream of Little
+  Bell--A Hint.
+
+  CHAPTER IX.
+
+  DAISY AND THE NECKLACE.
+
+  Our _petite_ Heroine--How she talked to the Poets--The Morocco
+  Case--Daisy's Eyes make Pictures--Tears, idle Tears!
+
+  CHAPTER X.
+
+  ST. AGNES' EVE.
+
+  The Old Year--St. Agnes--Keats' Poem--The Circlet of Pearls--A
+  Cloud--The Promise--Mrs. Snarle continues her Knitting.
+
+  CHAPTER XI.
+
+  MORTIMER HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GREAT PUBLISHER, AND MR. FLINT
+  MAKES A DISCOVERY.
+
+  H. H. Hardwill, Publisher--Criminal Literature--Alliterative
+  Titles--Goldwood--Poor Authors--A Heaven for them in the
+  Perspective--Flint's Discovery, and the Horns of his Dilemma.
+
+  CHAPTER XII.
+
+  WHAT DAISY DID.
+
+  The Arrest--Doubt and Love--Daisy and the Necklace--The Search--The
+  Heart of Daisy Snarle.
+
+  CHAPTER XIII.
+
+  IN THE TOMBS.
+
+  The Author's Summer Residence--The Egyptian Prison--Without and
+  Within--A Picture--Sunshine in shadow--Joe Wilkes and his unique
+  Proposal--Gloomy Prospects--The Face at the Cell-window.
+
+  CHAPTER XIV.
+
+  A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING.
+
+  The Strange Visit--The Lawyer--Walters and Mr. Flint--The Clouds--A
+  Strip of Sunshine--Mortimer.
+
+  CHAPTER XV.
+
+  IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES.
+
+  A Picture--The Lawyer's Note--Mr. Hardwill once more--The Scene at the
+  Law Office--Mr. Flint _Hors du Combat_--Face to Face.
+
+  CHAPTER XVI.
+
+  THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA.
+
+  Clap-trap--John Flint--The Old House--Joe Wilkes--Strephon and
+  Chloe--Tim enjoying himself--Edward Walters and Little Bell--A Last
+  Word
+
+  EPILOGUE.
+
+
+
+
+TO THE
+
+UNFORTUNATE READER.
+
+
+In this little Extravaganza, I have done just what I intended.
+
+I have attempted to describe, in an auto-biographical sort of way, a
+well-meaning, but somewhat vain young gentleman, who, having flirted
+desperately with the Magazines, takes it into his silly head to write a
+novel, all the chapters of which are laid before the reader, with some
+running criticism by T. James Barescythe, Esquire, the book-noticer of "The
+Morning Glory," ("a journal devoted to the Fine Arts and the Amelioration
+of all Mankind,") and the type of a certain class which need not be
+distinctly specified for recognition. I have endeavored to make the novel
+of my literary hero such a one as a young man with fine taste and crude
+talent might produce; and I think I have succeeded. It is certainly
+sufficiently unfinished.
+
+In drawing the character of Barescythe, the point of my quill may have
+pierced a friend; and if you ask, like Ludovico,
+
+    "What shall be said of thee?"
+
+I shall answer, like Othello,
+
+                            "Why, anything:
+    An honorable murderer, if you will;
+    For nought I did in hate, but all in honor."
+
+The only audacious thing I have done is the writing of this preface. If
+there is anything more stupid than a "preface," it is a book-critic. If
+anything _could_ be more stupid than a book-critic, it would be a preface.
+But, thank heaven, there is not. In saying this, I refer to a particular
+critic; for I would not, for the sake of a tenth edition, malign in such a
+wholesale manner those capital good fellows of the press--those _verbal
+accoucheurs_ who are so pleasantly officious at the birth of each new
+genius. Not I. I have
+
+    "A fellow-feeling"
+
+and a love for them, which would seem like a bid for their good nature, if
+expressed here.
+
+I have put my name on the title-page of this trifle from principle. My
+pen-children are all mine, and I cannot think of disowning one, though it
+may happen to be born hump-backed. But I beg of you, gentlest of
+unfortunate readers, not to take DAISY'S NECKLACE as a serious exponent of
+my skill at story-telling. It is _not_ printed at the "urgent request of
+numerous friends"--I am so fortunate as not to have many--but a seductive
+little argument in the shape of a _cheque_ is the sole cause of its present
+form; otherwise, I should be content to let it die an easy death in the
+columns of the journal which first had the temerity to publish it. If the
+world could always know, as it may in this case, why a book is printed, it
+would look with kindlier eyes on dullness bound in muslin. It would say,
+with honest Sancho Panza: "Let us not look the gift-horse in the mouth."
+
+When the sunshine of this dear old world has reddened the wine in my
+heart--melted down its sparkles to a creamy flavor, I will give you a
+richer draught--mayhap a beaker of Hippocrene.
+
+Till then, may God's blessing be on us both, though neither of us deserve
+it.
+
+CLINTON PLACE, 1856.
+
+
+
+
+PROLOGUE.
+
+    _It hath beene sayed, and it seemeth soe untoe me, that ye man who
+    writes a booke maist have much vanitie and vexation of spirite._
+
+                                                 YE TWO POORE AUTHORS.
+
+PROLOGUE.
+
+
+"Mrs. Muggins!"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"Say that I am sick. Say I am dead--buried--out of town. In short, say
+anything you will; but deny my existence to every one who calls, with the
+exception of Mr. Barescythe."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"I am going to write a novel, Mrs. Muggins!"
+
+That lady did not exhibit much emotion.
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+And Mrs. Muggins ambled out of the room-door, to which she had been
+summoned by some peremptory appeals of my bell. I was somewhat shocked at
+the cool manner with which Mrs. Muggins received the literary intelligence;
+but she, poor, simple soul, did not know that my greatness was a-ripening.
+
+"Some of these days," said I to myself, turning toward the window, "some of
+these days, mayhap a hundred years hence, as the stranger passes through
+Washington Parade Ground, this house--wrinkled and old then--will be
+pointed out to his wonder-loving eyes as the one in which my novel was
+written; and the curious stranger will cut his name on the walls of the
+room which I never occupied, and carry away a slice of the door-step!"
+
+I immediately fell in love with this fascinating thought, and followed it
+up.
+
+The slender trees which now inhabit the Parade Ground had grown
+immensely--the trunks of some were three feet in diameter, and around them
+all was a massive iron railing. The brick and brownstone houses on Waverly
+Place and Fourth-street had long been removed, and huge edifices with
+cast-iron fronts supplanted them. I looked in vain for the little
+drug-store on the corner with its red and green bottles, and the
+fruit-man's below with its show of yellow bananas and sour oranges. The
+University, dimly seen through the interlacing branches, was a classic
+ruin.
+
+Everything was changed and new.
+
+All the old land-marks were gone, save the Parade Ground, and one quaint
+old house facing Mac Dougal-street: the which house was propped up with
+beams, for, long and long ago, before "the memory of the oldest inhabitant"
+even, an author, a sweet quiet man, once wrote a famous book there, and the
+world of 1956 would preserve the very floors he trod on!
+
+And so I sat there by my window in the autumnal sunshine, and watched the
+golden clouds as the wind blew them against the square white turrets of the
+University, which peered above the trees.
+
+Ah, Mrs. Muggins, thought I, though you only said "yes, sir," when I spoke
+of my novel--though your name is carved in solid brass on the hall-door,
+yet you will be forgotten like a rain that fell a thousand years ago, when
+_my_ name, only stamped with printer's ink, on ephemeral slips of paper, is
+a household word.
+
+So I came to pity Mrs. Muggins, and harbored no ill feelings toward the
+simple creature who was so speedily to be gathered under the dusty wings of
+oblivion. I wondered how she could be cheerful. I wondered if she ever
+thought of being "dead and forgotten," and if it troubled her.
+
+Lost in the aromatic fumes of a regalia, I sat waiting the advent of my
+friend Barescythe--Barry for short--to whom I had addressed a laconic
+note, begging him to visit me at my rooms without delay.
+
+I like Barescythe.
+
+He is conceited, but that's a small fault with genius. His idea of
+literature does not exactly chime with mine, for he believes that there
+have been no novels, to speak of, since Scott's, and little poetry since
+Pope's. But, aside from this, he is a noble fellow; he carries his heart,
+like a falcon, on his hand, where everybody can see it. Barry is fond of
+wine--but that's a failing _not_ peculiar to genius, and _not_ confined to
+book-critics. He is a trifle rough in speech, not always the thing in
+manners; but "the elements so mix in him"--that I have a great mind to
+finish that excellent quotation.
+
+I heard his familiar step on the stairs, and a second afterwards he kicked
+open my room-door with his characteristic disregard of ceremony.
+
+"Ralph," said he, with some anxiety, "what's up?"
+
+"Sit down!"
+
+"Are you sick?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Are you going to be?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Then why, in the name of the many-headed Hydra, did you send me such an
+article as this? Read it."
+
+The note ran as follows:
+
+  _"Mac Dougal-street,_
+  _"June 30, 18--._
+
+  "DEAR BARRY,--
+
+     "Come and see me without delay. I have got a--
+
+                          "Eternally,
+                                           "RALPH."
+
+"O, yes!" said I, laughing; "I left out a word. I meant to have said, 'I
+have got an idea.'"
+
+"Humph! I thought it was a colic."
+
+Mr. Barescythe had left a host of editorial duties in the middle and
+busiest time of the day, expecting to find me lying at the point of death,
+and was quite out of humor because I was not.
+
+There is something extremely human in Barescythe.
+
+"Criticus," I spoke as deliberately as the subject would allow, "I am going
+to write a novel."
+
+This unfortunate avowal was the rose-leaf which caused the cup of his
+indignation to overflow.
+
+"If it had been a case of cholera," commenced Barescythe, with visible
+emotion, "or the measles, or the croup, or the chicken-pox--if you had
+broken your thigh, spine, or neck, I wouldn't have complained. But a
+_novel_--"
+
+And Barry began whistling wildly,
+
+[Illustration: Musical score]
+
+as he invariably does when annoyed. After using up a variety of popular
+airs, the shadow of his good-humor returned to him.
+
+"Ralph," he said, taking my hand, "I have a great respect for you. I don't
+know why, to be frank, but I have. I like your little song of--what do you
+call it?--in Putnam's Monthly, and your prose sketches in the
+Knickerbocker; but don't be a fool, Ralph!"
+
+With which piece of friendly advice, he put on his brown felt hat, drew it
+over his brows, and stalked out of the room, with
+
+         "A countenance more
+    In sorrow than in anger,"
+
+like Mr. Hamlet's father.
+
+I saw no more of Barescythe for two weeks.
+
+The summer months flew away.
+
+The nights were growing longer. The air had a vein of sparkling cold in it;
+at every gust the trees in the Parade Ground shook down golden ingots; and
+the grass-plots, and the graveled walks, and the marble bowl of the
+fountain, were paved with emerald and amethyst--a mosaic flooring of tinted
+leaves. The clouds were haggard faces, and the wind wailed like a broken
+heart. Indeed,
+
+    "The melancholy days had come,
+    The saddest of the year,"
+
+and Mrs. Muggins had made a fire in my grate!
+
+Blessings on him who invented fire-places! A poor day-dreamer's benediction
+go with him! The world in the grate! I have watched its fantastic palaces
+and crimson inhabitants--dipped my pen, as it were, into its stained
+rivers, and written their grotesqueness! Dizzy bridges, feudal castles,
+great yawning caves, and red-hot gnomes, are to be found in the grate;
+mimic volcanos, and ships that sail into sparry grottos, and delicate
+fire-shells with pink and blue lips!
+
+Crash!
+
+The coals sink down, and new figures are born, like the transient pictures
+in a kaleidescope. So it came to pass that I dozed over the metempsychosis
+of my fire-world, and commenced the novel.
+
+Give me crisp winter days for writing, and the long snowy nights for dreamy
+slumber.
+
+O antique humorist, quaint-mouthed Sancho Panza! with you, I say,
+"Blessings on the man who invented sleep!" Sleep, pleasant sleep!--that
+little airy nothing on the eyelids!--that little spell of thought which
+comes from no place and goes nowhere!--which comes upon us silently and
+splendidly, like a falling star, and trails its golden fancies on our
+waking hours. Sleep for the young--fresh, dewy sleep! Sleep for the sick!
+Sleep for the weary and disconsolate--sweet dreams and sweet forgetfulness
+for _them_! Smooth the white hairs of the old; place thy invisible fingers
+on their lips; close their eyes gently, gently. Sleep, and let them pass
+into nothingness!
+
+In a dreamy mood, half awake and half asleep, I filled sheet after sheet
+with my curious back-handed chirography. The white feathery snow came down
+cygnet-soft, and I wrote. I heard the wind ditties in the chimney, the
+merry wrangling of sleigh-bells, the sonorous clash of fire-bells, and the
+manuscript grew under my pen, as if by magic. I came to love the nurslings
+of my fancy as no one else will. I liked the cold, cynical features of Mr.
+Flint, with his undertaker's aspect; the child-spirit, Bell; Daisy Snarle's
+eyes; the heart-broken old sailor; the pale book-keeper; Tim, the office
+boy; Mr. Hardwill, the great publisher; Joe Wilkes, and all of them!
+
+Mrs. Muggins occasionally looked in on me.
+
+Mrs. Muggins' regard for me was increasing. She never left the coal-scuttle
+on the stairs for my benefit, as she used to; she was eternally hearing my
+bell ring when it didn't, and answering it so promptly when it did, that I
+began to think that she lived night and day just outside my door.
+
+Pleasant Mrs. Muggins!
+
+I tried not to feel elated at these little widowy attentions; but _los
+hombres son mortales_.
+
+She handed me my coffee with a motherly tenderness that was perfectly
+touching. She looked at me with the eyes of Solicitude, and spoke with the
+lips of culminating Respect; and once, in a burst of confidence, she told
+me that she had six orphan sons, who were "sealurs."
+
+_My_ respect increased for Mrs. Muggins. My novel might run through only
+one edition, but she,--she had six editions of herself afloat! And I
+thought that, after all, a woman like her who had produced a half a dozen
+Neptunes, founded perhaps a half a dozen races, was rendering more service
+to this apple-like globe, than one poor devil of an author prolifically
+pregnant with indifferent books.
+
+I spoke to Barescythe about it, and it was pleasant to have him coincide
+with me once.
+
+It is an agreeable fact, that
+
+    "The world goes up and the world goes down,
+    And the sunshine follows the rain."
+
+The new year was four months old. The flowers were teething: the tiny
+robins were able to go alone, and above the breezy hum of many thousand
+voices, above the monotonous and ocean-like jar of omnibus wheels, I could
+hear the babbling of hyaline rills in pleasant woodland places! I could not
+see the silver threads of water winding in and out among the cool young
+grass; I could not guess where they were; but through the city smoke, over
+the dingy chimney-tops, they spake to me with kindly voices!
+
+I knew that daisies were fulling in sunny meadows, and that the dandelion
+trailed its gold by the dusty road-sides: for
+
+    "The delicate-footed Spring was come."
+
+I knew it by the geranium at my window. It had put forth two sickly leaves.
+Two sickly leaves for me, and the world alive with vernal things! Spring,
+thou Queen of the Twelve! Dainty, dewy Spring--
+
+    "Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
+    On heaped-up flowers,"
+
+when I write of thee! Thy breath is the amber sunshine, and thy
+foot-prints are violets! Hide Winter in thy mantle: crown his cold brow
+with mignionette: hang morning-glories on his icicles: keep him from me
+forever!
+
+    "For winter maketh the light heart sad,
+    And thou--thou makest the sad heart gay!"
+
+"Barry," said I, "the sunshine has taken me by the hand, to lead me into a
+sweet New-England village. There is my manuscript. Read it, if you can,
+condemn it, if you will, and tell me what you think of it when I return."
+
+That awful critic put DAISY'S NECKLACE under his arm, and walked away--a
+victim to friendship, a literary Damon of the Nineteenth Century.
+
+
+
+
+I.
+
+    _As children gathering pebbles on the shore._
+
+                                          MILTON.
+
+    _No daintie flower or herbe that growes on grownd,
+    No arborett with painted blossomes drest
+    And smelling sweete, but there it might be found
+    To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al around._
+
+                                              EDMUND SPENCER.
+
+I.
+
+THE LITTLE CASTLE-BUILDERS.
+
+    _The House by the Sea--the Round Window--God's Eyes in Flowers--the
+    Day-Dreamers--A Picture--An Angel--Old Nanny--On the
+    Sea-Shore--Shell-Hunting--Bell's Freak and Mortimer's Dream--Asleep._
+
+
+Imagine, if you will, one of the quaintest old country mansions that was
+ever built--a big-chimneyed, antique-gabled, time-browned old pile, and you
+have a picture of the Ivyton House as it was in summers gone by.
+
+The pillars of the porch were not to be seen for the fragrant vines which
+clambered over them; lip-tempting grapes purpled[A] on the southern gable
+of the house, and the full, bright cherries clustered thicker than stars
+among the leaves. The walks of the garden were white with pebbles brought
+from the sea-shore; the dewy clover-beds, on each side, lay red with
+luscious strawberries, as if some one had sprinkled drops of fire over
+them; and among the larches and the cherry trees there was a salt sea-smell
+pleasantly mingled with the breathing of wild roses.
+
+A large, round window in one of the gables looked toward the ocean--a fine
+place for a summer view, or to watch, of a gusty afternoon, the billows as
+they swell and break in long waving battalions on the beach.
+
+One evening near the end of summer, two children were sitting at this
+circular window. Ten Aprils had half ripened them. The boy had dark hair,
+and a touch of sunlight in his darker eyes. The girl was light and
+delicate--with a face of spiritual beauty, dream-like, heavenly, like the
+pictures of the Madonna which genius has hung on the chapel walls of the
+Old World.
+
+"Bell," said the boy, "we never grow weary of looking at the sea."
+
+"No; because while we are watching, we think that father may be coming home
+to us across its bosom; and we count the waves as if they were moments. We
+like to see them roll away, and feel that time grows shorter between father
+and us."
+
+"Yes, that is so," he replied; "but then, we love night almost as much as
+the sea."
+
+"That is because we have a Father in heaven as well as one at sea," and the
+girl shaded her angel face with a dainty little hand.
+
+"And we love the sunbeams and the flowers, Bell!"
+
+"We do, indeed!" cried Bell, and the sunshine nestled among her curls. "We
+do, indeed! because God, like the good fairy in our story-book, comes in
+sunlight, or hides in flowers; and he reveals himself in ever so many ways,
+to all who love him."
+
+"Hides in flowers," repeated the boy, musingly; "I never thought of that.
+Then, perhaps--only perhaps--the dew-drops which I showed you last night in
+the white japonica were God's eyes!"
+
+"May be so," returned Bell, simply.
+
+They were two strange children--nature, and, perhaps, circumstances had
+made them so. They were born and had always lived in the old house. Their
+mother was in heaven, and their father was one of those who go down to the
+sea in ships. With no one to teach them, save the old house-keeper Nanny,
+their minds had taken odd turns and conceits; they had grown up old people
+in a hundred ways.
+
+The roar of the winds and the sea had been in their ears from infancy. In
+the summer months they wandered late on the sandy beaches, or slept with
+the silent sunshine under the cherry trees. They had grown up with nature,
+and nature beat in them like another heart. She had imbued them with her
+richer and tenderer moods.
+
+Bell was the wildest and strangest of the two. She was one of those aerial
+little creatures who, somehow or other, get into this world sometimes--it
+must be by slipping through the fingers of the angels, for they seem
+strangely out of place, and I am sure that they are missed somewhere! They
+never stay long! They come to earth and sometimes ripen for heaven in a
+twelve month! The sweetest flowers are those that die in the spring-time:
+they touch the world with beauty, and are gone, before a ruder breath than
+that of God scatters their perfume. Bell was a _Gipsy angel_--one of those
+who wander, for awhile, outside the walls of heaven, in the shady pastures
+and by-ways of the world.
+
+"Mortimer," said Bell, after a long silence, "how nice it is to sit here
+and watch the bits of sails coming and going--coming and going, never
+weary! I wonder how long we have sat at this window and watched the white
+specks? I wonder if it will always be so; if you and I will still be here,
+loving the sea and stars, when our heads are as white as Nanny's?"
+
+"No!" cried the boy, impetuously. "I am going out into the broad, deep
+world, and write books full of wonderful thought, like the Arabian Nights!"
+
+And he repeated it, the broad, deep world! Ah, child! what have such
+dreamers as you to do in the broad, deep world--the wonderful, restless
+sea, where men cast the net of thought and bring up pebbles?
+
+"I would like that, Mort!" cried Bell, clapping her hands. "But then, what
+a grand place this would be to write them in! You can have your desk by the
+open window here; and when your eyes are tired, you can rest them on the
+sea. And I will be _so_ quiet--as gentle as pussy, even, and do nothing but
+make pens for you all the time. Wouldn't that be fine?"
+
+"Yes! and father should go no more away in ships. He might have a yacht to
+leap over the surge in, to sail around all those little islands and in the
+green bays; but never go off to sea. The books I am going to write will
+bring us money enough."
+
+So the little castle-builders talked until the sun had melted into the
+waves, and twilight, like a pilgrim that had been resting by the roadside,
+rose up from the beach, and came slowly toward the old house.
+
+Mortimer, who had been gazing dreamily at the beach--which grew fainter and
+fainter, till it seemed like a white thread running through the selvage of
+blue drapery--turned his eyes on Bell.
+
+"Bell," said he, quietly, "as you sit there in the shadows, with your
+beautiful hair folded over your forehead, you look like an angel!"
+
+"Do I?"
+
+"I can put my hand on your neck, yet you seem far away from me."
+
+"Come, rest your head in my lap, Mort," said the girl, tenderly, "and I
+will tell you of a real true angel who once came into this world."
+
+The chestnut locks of the boy looked darker against her white dress, as
+Bell bent over him, and commenced, in a low, silvery voice, an old angel
+legend. She was in the midst of a strange description of Paradise, when a
+tremulous voice came up the stairway--
+
+"Come to tea, children!"
+
+Then the two looked at each other curiously. It was so odd to be called to
+tea, and they in Heaven! It was a long step from Paradise to the
+supper-table; but the dream was shattered. Bell laughed. Then they closed
+the window, and descended to the room below, where Nanny had prepared the
+evening meal of snowy bread and milk, and ripe purple whortleberries. It
+was very queer to see the three sitting at table--to see homely-looking,
+but kind-hearted Nanny, between the two children, like a twilight between
+two pleasant mornings.
+
+When supper was over, and while Nanny was washing the tea-things, the
+children went down to the beach, shell hunting. The white moon stood
+directly over the sea, and the waves were full of silvery arrows, as if
+Diana had scattered them from her quiver. Mortimer's eyes drank in the
+sight, as they had a thousand times before, for Nature is ever new to her
+lovers. In the measured roll of the sea, he heard the diapason of a grand
+poem, and the far-off thunder, heard now and then, was the chorus of the
+gods.
+
+But Heaven rapt the heart of little Bell! The waves fell on her finer ear
+like subtlest music; to her they were harps, and the fingers of angels were
+touching them, while the thunder was "God walking overhead!"
+
+They wandered along the sands, picking up curious shells and cream-white
+pebbles, dashed with red or clouded with mazarine. Bell would hold them up
+to her ear, and listen to the "little whispers," as she called them; but
+the boy would skim them along the wave-tips, and shout when some great
+billow caught one, and hurled it back scornfully at his feet.
+
+Bell saw a ridge of rocks which looked like the back of a whale, running
+out some distance into the sea, where the water was whiter and leaped
+higher than anywhere else; and soon her dainty feet picked a way over the
+jagged rocks. The boy was about to send a light shell skipping through the
+surf, when his glance caught Bell standing on the highest jut of the ledge,
+the wind lifting her long hair and the folds of her dress.
+
+"Bell! Bell!"
+
+"The stars are in the sea, brother," she replied, "and the winds are wild
+here."
+
+"Bell! Bell!"
+
+"I cannot come to you. I fear to walk over the rocks again! But it is
+beautiful here, and I am not afraid!"
+
+"Ah, Bell!" he spoke sadly, "that's what I dreamt. I thought that there was
+a gulf between us, and when I called, 'Bell! Bell!' you answered, '_I
+cannot come to you, brother; but you can come to me!_' O, Bell--sister
+Bell! as you love me, come back. I tremble when you look so like an angel.
+Come to me, sister."
+
+Mortimer ran out on the slender bridge of stone and led Bell back by the
+hand. After a little while they heard Nanny calling them to come home.
+
+The children occupied a small chamber over the front door. A scented vine
+clomb all about the window, and taught the ruddy sun at morning to throw a
+subdued light into the room; and it broke the orange stream of sunset. At
+night the dreamers from their bed could see the stars hanging like fruit
+among its cloudy leaves.
+
+When Bell and Mortimer came up from the sea-beach, the moonlight, breaking
+through this leafy lattice, made the chamber as that of Abon Ben
+Adhem--"like a lily in bloom." Nanny brought a lamp, and kissed them
+good-night.
+
+"O, we don't want a lamp all this moon!" cried Bell.
+
+The boy sat half undressed at the window. "Bell loves moonlight like a
+fairy," he said.
+
+Bell's robe fell to her knees in snowy folds, and she stood like a _petite_
+Venus rising from the froth. Then brother and sister braided their voices
+in a simple prayer to Our Father in Heaven. They prayed for kind old Nanny,
+and for one on the wide sea.
+
+"When will father come home?" asked Bell, for the hundredth time that day.
+
+"It will not be long now. When the boughs of the cherry trees are an inch
+deep with ice, and the logs crackle in the fire-place--then he will come.
+Let us go to sleep, and dream of him."
+
+And thus, hand in hand, the two went in to Dream-land--
+
+         The world of Sleep,
+         The beautiful old World!
+    The dreamy Palestine of pilgrim Thought!
+    The Lotus Garden, where the soul may lie
+    Lost in elysium, while the music moan
+    Of some unearthly river, faintly caught,
+    Seems like the whispering of Angels, blown
+    Upon aeolian harp-strings! And we change
+    Into a seeming something that is not!
+
+
+
+
+II.
+
+    _Ah, yes! with joy the April rain
+    Thrills nature's breast; but mine with pain
+    Sigheth: "He will not come again!"_
+
+                               ALBERT LAIGHTON.
+
+II.
+
+THE DEAD HOPE.
+
+_Time's Changes--Fall-down Castles--Little Bell Waiting--When will Father
+Come Home?--Little Bell Weary--What the Sea said--Never more._
+
+
+Longfellow beautifully asks in Hyperion, "What is Time, but the shadow of
+the hour-hand on a dial-plate?"
+
+The flowers of the earth and the hearts of men are dial-plates. The shadows
+coming and going on them are the hour-hands; when a flower fades, or a
+heart ceases to beat, it is only a weight run down. The whole universe is
+but one immense time-piece, throbbing with innumerable wheels, heavy with
+weights, and wearing itself away! Desire is a restless pendulum, one end
+linked to the heart, and the other pointing downward!
+
+A year had added another link to that chain which stretches through
+eternity. A year! Battles lost and won: nations in mourning for their dead:
+ships gone down at sea; and new paths worn to graveyards!
+
+O, for the castles that blow down in a year!
+
+But time fell gently on the inmates of the Old House. The trees and vines
+were a little larger; and winter had somewhat browned the gables. Bell was
+paler and more beautiful, and Mortimer was still the same dreamer.
+
+There was a question which haunted the Old House. It was heard in the
+garden, at "the round window," and on the stair.
+
+"When will father come home?"
+
+The months flew away, like carrier doves, with memories beneath their
+wings.
+
+"When will father come home?"
+
+And the question was asked again and again, till the little lips and heart
+of Bell grew weary. Then she folded her hands, and said:
+
+"He will never come!"
+
+Her blue eyes became more dreamy, and her slight form--so very
+slight--glided about the house. She would listen to the sea. Once she said,
+"Never more!" and the sea repeated it with a human voice. In the still
+night she asked,--
+
+"When will father come home?"
+
+"Never more," said the sea--and she heard it through the open
+window--"Never more!"
+
+She waited, and the months went by.
+
+Was the child Bell the only one in this world waiting?
+
+Who has not some hope at sea? Who has not waited, and watched, and grown
+weary?
+
+Who has not a question in his heart, to which a low spirit-voice replies:
+
+"Never more!"
+
+
+
+
+III.
+
+    _I saw our little Gertrude die:
+    She left off breathing, and no more
+    I smoothed the pillow beneath her head.
+    She was more beautiful than before,
+    Like violets faded were her eyes;
+    By this we knew that she was dead!
+    Through the open window looked the skies
+    Into the chamber where she lay,
+    And the wind was like the sound of wings,
+    As if Angels came to bear her away._
+
+                           THE GOLDEN LEGEND.
+
+III.
+
+SOUL-LAND.
+
+_Autumn and Winter--By the Fireside--Where little Bell is going--Nanny
+sings about Cloe--Bell reads a Poem--The flight of an Angel--The
+Funeral--The good Parson--The two Grave-stones._
+
+
+It was autumn. The wind, with its chilly fingers, picked off the sere
+leaves, and made mounds of them in the garden walks. The boom of the sea
+was heavier, and the pale moon fell oftener on stormy waves than in the
+summer months. Change and decay had come over the face of Earth even as
+they come over the features of one dead. In woods and hollow places vines
+lay rotting, and venturesome buds that dared to bloom on the hem of winter;
+and the winds made wail over the graves of last year's flowers.
+
+Then Winter came--Winter, with its beard of snow--Winter, with its frosty
+breath and icy fingers, turning everything to pearl. The wind whistled odd
+tunes down the chimney; the plum-tree brushed against the house, and the
+hail played a merry tattoo on the window-glass. How the logs blazed in the
+sitting room!
+
+Bell did not leave her room _now_.
+
+Her fairy foot-steps were never heard tripping, nor her voice vibrating
+through the entry in some sweet song. She scarcely ever looked out at the
+window--all was dreary there; besides, she fancied that the wind "looked at
+her." It was in her armchair by the antique fire-place that she was most
+comfortable. She never wearied of watching the pictured tiles; and one,
+representing the infant Christ in the manger, was her favorite. There she
+sat from sunny morn until shadowy twilight, with her delicate hands crossed
+on her lap, while Mortimer read to her. Sometimes she would fix her large,
+thoughtful eyes on the fantastic grouping of the embers at her feet, and
+then she did not hear him reading.
+
+She was wandering in Soul-land.
+
+Heaven's gates are open when the world's are shut. The gates of this world
+were closing on Bell, and her feet were hesitating at the threshold of
+Heaven, waiting only for the mystic word to enter!
+
+Very beautiful Bell was. Her perfect soul could not hide itself in the
+pale, spiritual face. It was visible in her thought and in her eyes. There
+was a world of tender meaning in her smile. The Angel of Patience had
+folded her in its wings, and she was meek, holy. As Mortimer sat by her
+before the evening lamps were lighted, and watched the curious pictures
+which the flickering drift-wood painted on the walls, he knew that she
+could not last till the violets came again. She spoke so gently of death,
+the bridge which spans the darkness between us and Heaven--so softened its
+dark, dreadful outlines, that it seemed as beautiful as a path of flowers
+to the boy and Nanny.
+
+"Death," said Bell one day, "is a folding of the hands to sleep. How quiet
+is death! There is no more yearning, no more waiting in the grave. It comes
+to me pleasantly, the thought that I shall lie under the daisies, God's
+daisies! and the robins will sing over me in the trees. Everything is so
+holy in the church-yard--the moss on the walls, the willows, and the long
+grass that moves in the wind!"
+
+Poor Nanny tried to hum one of her old ditties about Cloe and her lover;
+then suddenly she found something interesting at the window. But it would
+not do. The tears would come, and she knelt down by Bell's side, and
+Bell's little hand fell like a strip of white moonlight on Nanny's hair.
+
+"We shall miss you, darling!" sobbed Mortimer.
+
+"At first, won't you?" and Bell smiled, and who knows what sights she saw
+in the illumined fire-place? Were they pictures of Heaven, little Bell?
+
+"What shall I read to you, pet?" asked Mortimer one morning. She had been
+prattling for an hour in her wise, child-like way, and was more than
+usually bright.
+
+"You shall not read to me at all," replied Bell, chirpingly, "but sit at my
+feet, and _I_ will read to you."
+
+She took a slip of paper from her work-basket, and her voice ran along the
+sweetest lines that the sweetest poet ever wrote. They are from Alfred
+Tennyson's "May Queen."
+
+    "I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,
+    There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet;
+
+    But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,
+    And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.
+
+    All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call;
+    It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
+
+    The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
+    And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul.
+
+    For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;
+    I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;
+
+    With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resigned,
+    And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.
+
+    I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed,
+    And then did something speak to me--I know not what was said;
+
+    For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
+    And up the valley came again the music on the wind.
+
+    But you were sleeping; and I said, 'It's not for them: its mine,'
+    And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign;
+
+    And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,
+    Then seemed to go right up to Heaven, and die among the stars.
+
+    So now I think my time is near--I trust it is. I know
+    The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go;
+
+    And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day,
+    But, Effie, you must comfort _her_ when I am past away;
+
+    And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret--
+    There's many worthier than I would make him happy yet;--
+
+    If I had lived--I cannot tell--I might have been his wife;
+    But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.
+
+    Oh look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;
+    He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know;
+
+    And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine--
+    Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.
+
+    O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done,
+    The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun--
+
+    To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast--
+    And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest!"
+
+When Bell had finished reading, she took Mortimer's hand in her own.
+
+"I shall not die until the violet comes--the beautiful violet, with its
+clouded bell!"
+
+March melted into April--the month of tears! Then came blossoming May, and
+still Bell lingered, like a strain of music so sweet that the echoes will
+not let it die.
+
+One morning in June, the sun with noiseless feet came creeping into the
+room--and Bell was dying. Mortimer was telling her of some sea-side walk,
+when the unseen angel came between them. Bell's voice went from her, her
+heart grew chilly, and she knew that it was death. The boy did not notice
+the change; but when her hand lay cold in his, he looked up with fear. He
+saw her beautiful eyes looking heavenward, and those smiles which wreathe
+the lips of the young after death--the sunset of smiles.
+
+"Bell! Bell! Bell!"
+
+But she did not hear him.
+
+The viewless spirits of flowers came through the open window into the quiet
+room; and the winds, which made the curtains tremble, gently lifted the
+tresses of the sleeping angel. Then the chiming of village bells came and
+went in pulses of soft sound. How musical they were that morning! How the
+robins showered their silvery notes, like rain-drops among the leaves!
+There was holy life in everything--the lilac-scented atmosphere, the
+brooks, the grass, and the flowers that lay budding on the bosom of
+delicious June! And thus it was, in the exquisite spring-time, that the
+hand of death led little Bell into Soul-land.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+One afternoon, the blinds were turned down: not a ray of light stole
+through them, only the spicy air. There was something solemn stalking in
+the entries, and all through the house. It seemed as if there was a corpse
+in every room.
+
+The way the chairs were placed, the darkened parlor, the faded flowers on
+the mantel-piece, and the brooding silence said it--said that Bell was
+dead!
+
+Yes! In the little parlor she lay, in her white shroud. Bell? No; it was
+_not_ Bell. It was only the beautiful robe which her spirit in its flight
+had cast aside!
+
+There was a moving of feet to and fro. Gradually, the room became full of
+forms. The village parson stood among them. His hair had the white touch of
+age, and his heart knew the chastening hand of God. "Exceeding peace" was
+written on his meek face. He lifted up his soul on the arms of prayer. He
+spoke of the dead, whose life had been as pure as a new snow. He spoke
+cheerfully and tenderly, and sometimes smiled, for his
+
+    "Faith was large in Time,
+    And that which shapes it to some perfect end."
+
+He had drank at the fountain of God's word; his soul had been refreshed,
+and his were not the lips to preach the doctrine of an endless wail. He
+knew that there are many mansions in our Father's house; and he said that
+Bell was happier there than here. He glanced back upon her infant days, and
+ran along the various threads of her life, to the moment death disentangled
+them from the world. "This little one in her shroud," he said, "is an
+eloquent sermon. She passed through the dark valley without fear; and sits,
+like Mary, at the feet of our Saviour." Of this life, he said: "It is but
+an imperfect prelude to the next." Of death: "It is only a brief sleep:
+some sunny morning we shall wake up with the child Bell, and find ourselves
+in Heaven!"
+
+The coffin was closed, and the train passed through the gravelled walk.
+
+Then came that dull, heavy sound of earth falling on the coffin-lid, which
+makes one's heart throb. Did you ever hear it?
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+When Bell had been a year in Heaven, a plain head-stone was placed over
+Nanny. She lingered only a little while after her darling. She folded her
+arms and fell asleep one summer twilight, and never again opened her kind
+old eyes on this world. Age had weakened her frame, and the parting of soul
+and body was only the severing of a fragile cord.
+
+Mortimer did not remain long in the old house; its light and pleasantness
+had passed away. The little stock of money which his father had left
+previous to his last voyage, was exhausted; he could earn nothing in the
+village. His early dream of the great city came over him again. He yearned
+for its ceaseless excitement, its grandeur--he never thought of its misery,
+its sin and pollution. Through the length of one July night he lay awake in
+bed, while his eyes were like kaleidoscopes, taking a thousand arabesque
+forms and fancies. Toward morning he fell asleep, having built some
+fall-down castles in the air. The next day he took a last, lingering look
+at the old rooms; a last ramble on the sea-shore; he sat an hour under the
+braided branches of the cherry trees, gave a parting look at the white caps
+of the sea, and turned his eyes to the city in the dim distance--the great
+city-ocean, with no one to point out to him its sunken reefs, its
+quicksands, and maelstroms.
+
+Next to Bell's grave he placed a simple tablet to the memory of his father.
+
+"This sod does not enfold him," said Mortimer to himself; "but it will be
+pleasant for me to think, when I am far away, that their names are near
+together."
+
+So he left them in the quiet church-yard at Ivyton--left them sleeping
+among the thick musk-roses, in the warm sunshine; and the same berylline
+moss was creeping over the two mounds. One head-stone said "LITTLE BELL,"
+and the other:
+
+  SACRED
+  TO THE MEMORY
+  OF
+  OUR FATHER,
+  LOST AT SEA,
+  18--.
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+    _The Almighty Dollar._
+
+                             WASHINGTON IRVING.
+
+    _The age is dull and mean. Men creep,
+    Not walk; with blood too pale and tame
+    To pay the debt they owe to shame;
+    Buy cheap, sell dear; eat, drink, and sleep
+    Down-pillowed, deaf to moaning want;
+    Pay tithes for soul-insurance; keep
+    Six days to Mammon, one to Cant._
+
+                                J. G. WHITTIER.
+
+    _Every one is as God made him, and oftentimes
+    A great deal worse._
+
+                           MIGUEL DE CERVANTES.
+
+IV.
+
+A FEW SPECIMENS OF HUMANITY.
+
+    _Down Town--Messrs. Flint & Snarle--Tim, the Office Boy, and the pale
+    Book-Keeper--The Escritoire--The Purloined Package--Mr. Flint goes
+    Home--Midnight--Miss Daisy Snarle--The Poor Author._
+
+
+In one of those thousand and one vein-like streets which cross and recross
+the mercantile heart of Gotham, is situated a red brick edifice, which,
+like the beggar who solicits your charity in the Park, has seen better
+days.
+
+In the time of our Knickerbocker sires, it was an aristocratic dwelling
+fronting on a fashionable street, and "Jeems," in green livery, opened the
+hall door. The street was a quiet, orderly street in those days--a certain
+air of conscious respectability hung about it. Sometimes a private
+cabriolet rolled augustly along; and of summer evenings the city beaux,
+with extraordinary shoe-buckles, might have been seen promenading the
+grass-fringed sidewalks. To-day it is a miasmatic, miserable, muddy
+thoroughfare. Your ears are startled by the "Extray 'rival of the 'Rabia,"
+and the omnibuses dash through the little confined street with a perfect
+madness. Instead of the white-kidded, be-ruffled gallants of Eld, you meet
+a hurrying throng of pale, anxious faces, with tare, tret and speculation
+in their eyes.
+
+It is a business street, for Mammon has banished Fashion to the golden
+precincts of Fifth Avenue. The green of Jeems' livery is, like himself,
+invisible. He has departed this life--gone, like Hiawatha, to the Land of
+the Hereafter--to the land of spirits, where we can conceive him to be in
+his element; but he has a "town residence" in an obscure graveyard, with
+his name and "recommendation" on a stone door-plate. His mundane superiors
+are reclining beneath the shadow of St. Paul's steeple, where they are
+regaled with some delectable music (if you would only think so) from the
+balcony of the Museum opposite, and have the combined benefit of Barnum's
+scenic-artist and the Drummond light.
+
+The massive door-plate, and highly polished, distorted knocker, no longer
+grace the oaken panels of number 85; but a republican sign over the
+family-looking doorway tells you that "the front room, second floor," is
+occupied by Messrs. Flint & Snarle. After passing up a flight of broad,
+uncarpeted stairs, you again see the name of that respectable firm painted
+on a light of ground glass set in the office door. Once on the other side
+of that threshold, you breathe mercantile air. There have been so many
+brain-trying interest calculations worked out on those high desks, that the
+very atmosphere, figuratively speaking, is mathematical.
+
+The sign should not read Flint & Snarle, for Snarle has been dead six
+months, and it is not pleasant to contemplate a name without an owner--it
+is not to every one, but Mr. Flint likes to read the sign, and think that
+Snarle is dead. He was the reverse of Flint, and that his name should have
+been _Snarle_ at all is odd, for in life he was the quintessence of
+quietness, and the oil of good nature. But Flint is well named; he is
+chalcedony at heart. Nobody says this, but everybody knows it. Nell, the
+pretty match-girl, who sells her wares in Wall-street, never approaches
+him, nor the newsboys; and blind men, with sagacious, half-fed dogs, steer
+clear of him by instinct. _He_ doesn't tolerate paupers, and Italian
+hand-organs with monkey accompaniments--not he.
+
+The man who has not as much money as the surviving senior of Flint &
+Snarle, is a dog--in Flint's distinguished estimation. His God is not that
+divine Presence, whose thought
+
+           "Shaped the world,
+    And laid it in the sunbeams."
+
+Flint's God is Gold.--
+
+    "Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
+    Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
+    Molten, graven, hammered and rolled;
+    Heavy to get, and light to hold;
+    Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold;
+    Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled;
+    Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old
+    To the very verge of the church-yard mould;
+    Price of many a crime untold:
+    Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!"
+
+Flint is about fifty-three years of age; but if you could forget his gray
+hair, and look only at those small, piercing black eyes, you would hardly
+think him forty. His black dress-coat is buttoned around his somewhat
+attenuated form, and he wears a stiff white cravat because it looks
+religious. In this respect, and perhaps in others, you will find Flint's
+prototype on every corner--people who look religious, if religion can be
+associated with the aspect of an undertaker.
+
+It is Monday morning.
+
+Mr. Flint sits in his private office reading the letters. There is a window
+cut in the wall, and he glances through it now and then, eyeing the
+book-keeper as if the poor careworn fellow were making false entries. On a
+high consumptive-looking stool sits the office boy, filing away answered
+letters and sundry bills paid. The stool seems so high and the boy so
+small, that he at once suggests some one occupying a dangerous position--at
+a mast-head or on the golden ball of a church-steeple. For thus risking his
+life, he receives "thirty dollars per year, _and_ clothing." We like to
+have forgotten that. The said clothing consists of one white cravat full of
+hinges, and a dilapidated coat, twelve sizes too large for him, his widowed
+mother supplying the deficiency.
+
+Save the monotonous ticking of a thick-set, croupy clock, and the nervous
+scratching of pens, not a sound is heard.
+
+Mr. Flint in deep thought, with his thumbs lost in the arm-holes of a white
+vest, paces up and down his limited sanctum, just as a thoughtful-eyed,
+velvet-mouthed leopard walks its confined cage, only waiting for a chance
+to put its paws on somebody. The stool on which the boy is sitting is a
+rickety concern, and its creakings annoy Mr. Flint, who comes out, and
+looks over the orphan's shoulder. If his lynx eyes discover a document
+incorrectly filed, he pinches the delinquent's ears, till he (the orphan)
+is as red in the face as an August sunset. Mr. Flint chuckles when he gets
+back to his desk, and seems to enjoy it immensely, for he drums out an
+exhilarating dead march with his long, wiry fingers on the cover of the
+letter-book. The pale book-keeper--his hair and eyes are darker than when
+we first saw him sitting with little Bell at "the round window" in the Old
+House--continues to write assiduously; and the orphan thinks that he hears
+fire-bells, his ears ring so.
+
+He's an unfortunate atom of humanity, that office-boy. He was never young.
+He never passed through the degrading cycles of infancy--never had any
+marbles or hoops: _his_ limbs were never ignominiously confined by those
+"triangular arrangements" incidental to babyhood. At five, when other
+children are bumping their heads over steep stairs, he smoked cinnamon
+segars, and was a precocious, astute little villain at seven. For
+thirty-six months he folded books for Harper & Brothers, and at the
+advanced age of ten years three months, was bound over to the tender
+mercies of Flint & Snarle for "thirty dollars per year _and_ clothing," (so
+the indentures read;) but as he is charged with all the inkstands
+demolished during the term, and one gross of imaginary lead pencils, he
+generally has about twenty-five dollars to his credit on the 1st of
+January, which Flint generously offers to keep for him at four per cent.
+interest, and which offer the ungrateful orphan "firmly but respectfully"
+declines.
+
+"Mortimer!" cries Mr. Flint, in a quick, snarly voice from the inner
+office.
+
+The book-keeper lays down the pen which he has just dipped in the ink, and
+disappears in the little room. Mr. Flint is turning over the leaves of the
+invoice book.
+
+"In thirteen pages there are no less than two blots and five erasures. You
+have grown careless in your penmanship lately;" and Mr. Flint closes the
+book with a report like that of a pocket-pistol, and opens it again. One
+would suppose the office-boy to be shot directly through the heart; but he
+survives, and is attacked with a wonderful fit of industry.
+
+"Do you write in your sleep?" inquires Mr. Flint, with a quiet insolence.
+
+Mortimer thinks how often he has toiled over those same pages at hours when
+he should have been sleeping--hours taken from his life. But he makes no
+reply. He only bites his lips, and lets his eyes flash. Suddenly a thought
+strikes him, and, bending over Mr. Flint's shoulder, as if to examine more
+closely his careless chirography, he takes a small key from an open drawer
+in the _escritoire_ behind him, and drops it into his vest-pocket. After
+receiving a petulant reprimand, Mortimer returns to his desk; and again
+that weary, weary pen scratches over the paper.
+
+After the bank deposit is made up, and Mr. Flint looks over the bill-book,
+and startles the orphan from a state of semi-somnolency, he goes on
+'Change. He is no sooner out, than Mortimer throws Tim a bit of silver
+coin.
+
+"Get some apples for yourself, Tim."
+
+Tim (he's small of his age) slides down from the high stool with agility,
+while his two eyes look like interrogation points. He is wondering at this
+sudden outbreak of munificence, for though "Mr. Mortimer" always had a kind
+word for Tim, and tried to extricate him from the web of mistakes which Tim
+was forever spinning around himself, yet Tim never knew him to come down
+with the "block tin" before, as he eloquently expressed it; and he looks at
+Mortimer all the time he is getting his cap, and pauses a moment at the
+door to see if he doesn't repent.
+
+When Tim's feet cease sounding on the stairs, Mortimer goes into the back
+office, and with the key which he had taken from the drawer, unlocks a
+small iron hand-safe. His trembling fingers turn over package after
+package; at last he finds one which seems to be the object of his search.
+This he hastily conceals in the bosom of his coat. After carefully
+re-locking the safe, he approaches the _escritoire_ to return the purloined
+key, but to his dismay he finds the drawer locked. The one above it,
+however, is unfastened. Drawing this out, he places the key in its right
+compartment.
+
+Mortimer, in searching for the paper which he has hidden in his bosom, had
+removed several others from the safe; but in his nervousness he had
+neglected to replace a small morocco case. He discovers his negligence, and
+hears foot-falls on the stairs at the same moment. There is no time to
+re-open the chest: he wraps the case in his handkerchief, and resumes his
+place at the desk.
+
+Tim returns munching the remains of a gigantic apple, and bearing about him
+a convicting smell of peanuts. Suddenly Mr. Flint enters, and Tim is
+necessitated to swallow the core of his russet without that usual
+preparatory mastication which nature's kindly law suggests. Mr. Flint has
+made a capital bargain on 'Change, and his face is lighted up with a smile,
+if fancy can coax such an expression into one. It looks like a gas-light in
+an undertaker's window.
+
+It is five o'clock. Mr. Flint goes home to doze over a diminutive glass of
+sherry. He holds it up between his eyes and the light, smiling to see the
+liquid jewels, and wishes that they were real rubies. Flint! they are red
+tears, and not jewels which glisten in your glass, for you crushed the
+poor, and took advantage of the unfortunate to buy this pleasant blood
+which pulses in your brittle chalice!
+
+That night he thought of a pair of blue, innocent eyes which once looked
+pleadingly in his--of two tiny arms that were once wound fondly around his
+neck. Those eyes haunted him into the misty realm of dreams, where myriads
+of little arms were stretched out to him; and he turned restlessly on his
+pillow. Ah, Flint, there is an invisible and powerful spirit in the heart
+of every man that _will_ speak. It whispers to the criminal in his cell;
+and the downy pillows and sumptuous drapery around the couch of Wealth
+cannot keep it away at midnight.
+
+There is not a house but has its skeleton. There is a ghastly one in
+Flint's.
+
+The silvery lips in Trinity steeple chime the hour of eleven; St. Paul's
+catch it up, and hosts of belfrys toss the hour to and fro like a
+shuttle-cork. Then the goblin bells hush themselves to sleep again in their
+dizzy nests, murmuring, murmuring!--and the pen of the pale book-keeper
+keeps time with the ticking of the office time-piece.
+
+It is nearly twelve o'clock when he reaches the door of a common two-story
+house in Marion-street. The door is opened before he can turn the bolt with
+his night-key, and the whitest possible little hand presses his. He draws
+it within his own, and places his arm around the daintiest little waist
+that ever submitted to the operation. Then the two enter the front parlor,
+where the dim light falls on Mortimer and a beautiful girl on the verge of
+womanhood. She looks into his face, and his lips touch a tress of chestnut
+hair which has fallen over his shoulder.
+
+"You are very pale. Have you been unwell to-day?"
+
+"No, Daisy," and he bends down and kisses her.
+
+"Why do you persist in sitting up for me? I shall scold if you spoil your
+cheeks. Kiss me, Daisy."
+
+The girl pouts, and declares she won't, as she coquettishly twines her arms
+around his neck, and Mortimer has such a kiss as all Flint's bank stock
+could not buy him--a pure, earnest kiss. He was rich, poor in the world's
+eye, richer than Flint, with his corpulent money bags, God pity him!
+
+They sit a long while without speaking. Mortimer breaks the silence.
+
+"We are very poor, Daisy."
+
+"Yes, but happy."
+
+"Sometimes. To-night I am not; I am weary of this daily toiling. The world
+is not a workshop to wear out souls in. Man has perverted its use. Life,
+and thought, and brain, are but crucibles to smelt gold in. Nobleness is
+made the slave of avarice, just as a pure stream is taught to turn a
+mill-wheel and become foul and muddied. The rich are scornful, and the poor
+sorrowful. O, Daisy, such things should not be! My heart beats when I think
+how poorly you and your mother are living."
+
+"O, how much we owe you, Mortimer! you are selling your life for us. From
+morning till night, day after day, you have been our slave. Poor, dear
+Mortimer, how can we thank you? We can only give you love and prayers. You
+will not let me help you. Last night, when you found me embroidering a
+collar, a bit of work which Mrs. Potiphar had kindly given me, you
+pleasantly cut it in pieces with your pen-knife, and then pawned your gold
+pencil to pay for ruining Mrs. Potiphar's muslin--too proud to have me
+work!"
+
+"Why will you pain me, darling? I was complaining for others, not myself. I
+do not toil as thousands do. I am impulsive and irascible, and do not mean
+all I say. I am ungrateful; my heart should be full of gratitude to-night,
+for the cloud which has hung over me the last six months has shown its
+silver lining."
+
+"What do you mean?" cries Daisy.
+
+"Do you know that you are an heiress?" asks Mortimer, gaily.
+
+Daisy laughs at the idea, and mockingly says, "Yes."
+
+"An heiress to a good name, Daisy! which is better than purple, and linen,
+and fine gold."
+
+Daisy looks mystified, but forbears to question him, for he complains of
+sleep. The lovers part at the head of the stairs. Mortimer, on reaching his
+room, draws a paper from his bosom; he weeps over it, reads it again and
+again; then he holds it in the flame of a candle. When the ashes have
+fallen at his feet, he exclaims:
+
+"I have kept my promise, Harvey Snarle! Peace to your memory!"
+
+From a writing-desk in a corner of the room he takes a pile of manuscript,
+and weary as he is, adds several pages to it. The dream of his boyhood has
+grown with him--that delightful dream of authorship! How this
+will-o'-the-wisp of the brain entices one into mental fogs! How it coaxes
+and pets one, cheats and ruins one! And so that appalling pile of
+closely-written manuscript is Mortimer's romance? Wasted hours and wasted
+thought--who would buy or read it?
+
+A down-town clock strikes the hour of two so gently, that it sounds like
+the tinkling of sheep-bells coming through the misty twilight air from the
+green meadows. With which felicitous simile we will give our hero a little
+sleep, after having kept him up two hours after midnight.
+
+Slumber touches his eyelids gently; but Daisy lies awake for hours; at
+last, falling into a trouble sleep, she dreams that she is an heiress.
+
+Oh, Daisy Snarle!
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+    _The bitter cups of Death are mixed,
+    And we must drink and drink again._
+
+                         R. H. STODDARD.
+
+V.
+
+DAISY SNARLE.
+
+    _Sunday Morning--Harvey Snarle and Mortimer--A Tale of Sorrow--The
+    Snow-child--Mortimer takes Daisy's hand--Snarle's death._
+
+
+Six months previous to the commencement of the last chapter, Mr. Harvey
+Snarle lay dying, slowly, in a front room of the little house in
+Marion-street.
+
+It was Sunday morning.
+
+The church bells were ringing--speaking with musical lips to "ye goode
+folk," and chiming a sermon to the pomp and pride of the city. As Mortimer
+sat by the window, the houses opposite melted before his vision; and again
+he saw the old homestead buried in a world of leaves--heard the lapping of
+the sea, and a pleasant chime of bells from the humble church at Ivytown.
+And more beautiful than all, was a child with clouds of golden hair,
+wandering up and down the sea-shore.
+
+"Mortimer?" said the sick man.
+
+Then the dream melted, and the common-looking brick buildings came back
+again.
+
+"The doctor thought I could not live?" said the man, inquiringly.
+
+"He thought there was little hope," replied Mortimer. "But doctors are not
+fortune-tellers," he added, cheerfully.
+
+"I feel that he is right--little hope. Where is Daisy?"
+
+"She has lain down for a moment. Shall I call her?"
+
+"Wearied! Poor angel; she watched me last night. I did not sleep much. I
+closed my eyes, and she smiled to think that I was slumbering quietly. No;
+do not call her."
+
+After a pause, the sick man said:
+
+"Wet my lips, I have something to tell you."
+
+Mortimer moistened his feverish lips, and sat on the bed-side.
+
+"It comes over me," said the consumptive.
+
+"What? That pain?"
+
+"No; my life. There is something drearier than death in the world."
+
+"Sometimes life," thought Mortimer, half aloud.
+
+The sick man looked at him.
+
+"Why did you say that?"
+
+"I thought it. Life is a bitter gift sometimes. An ambition or a passion
+possess us, flatters and mocks us. Death is not so dreary a thing as life
+then."
+
+"He felt that."
+
+"Who?"
+
+"The devil."
+
+"His mind is wandering," murmured Mortimer--"wandering."
+
+"It isn't," said Snarle, slowly. "A passion, a love, made Flint's life
+bitter."
+
+"Flint! Did he ever love anything but gold?"
+
+"Yes; but it was long ago! We are cousins. We were schoolmates and friends,
+sharing our boyish sports and troubles with that confiding friendship which
+leaves us in our teens. We lived together. I can see the old white frame
+house at Hampton Falls!" and the man passed his emaciated hand over his
+eyes, as if to wipe out some unpleasant picture. "A niece of my father's
+came to spend a winter with us. Young men's thoughts run to love. I could
+but love her, she was so beautiful and good; and while she did a thousand
+kind things to win my affection, she took a strange aversion to my cousin
+Flint, who grew rude and impetuous. We were married. But long before that,
+Flint packed up his little trunk, and, without a word of farewell, left us
+one night for a neighboring city. Years went by, and from time to time
+tidings reached us of his prosperity and growing wealth. We were proud of
+his industry, and thought of him kindly. We, too, were prospering. But the
+tide of our fortune changed. My father's affairs and mine became
+complicated. He died, and the farm was sold. One day I stood at Flint's
+office door, and asked for employment. Evil day! better for me if I had
+toiled in the fields from morning till night, wringing a reluctant
+livelihood from the earth, which is even more human than Flint. Wet my
+lips, boy, and come near to me, that I may tell you how I became his slave;
+softly, so the air may not hear me."
+
+Mortimer drew nearer to him.
+
+"It was a hard winter for the poor. My darling wife was suffering from the
+mere want of proper medicines and food. I asked Flint for a little more
+than the pitiable salary which he allowed me. He smiled, and said that I
+was extravagant. We had not clothes enough to shield us from the cold! I
+told him that my wife was sick; and he replied, bitterly, 'poor men should
+not have wives.' Wet my lips again. Can you love me, boy, after what I
+shall tell you? I forged a check for a trivial amount!" and Snarle's voice
+sunk to a hoarse whisper. "Can you love me?"
+
+"Can I love you?" cried Mortimer. He could not see the sick man for his
+tears. "Can I forget all your kindness. Years ago, when I was a mere child,
+toiling early and late in Flint's office, did you not take me to your home,
+a poor hope-broken boy? Have I not grown up with Daisy, like your own
+child? Not love you?"
+
+Mortimer laid his face on the same pillow with the sick man's.
+
+"I was not sent to prison," continued Snarle, with a shudder; "only my own
+mind, and soul, and actions were prisoners. I was Flint's! Flint owned me!
+That little paper which he guards so carefully is the title-deed. O,
+Mortimer, as you hold my memory dear, destroy that paper--tear it, burn it,
+trample it out of the world!"
+
+With these words Snarle sank back upon the pillow, from which he had half
+risen. He went on speaking in a lower tone:
+
+"I have suffered so much that I am sure God will forgive me. Never let the
+world know--never let my wife and Daisy know that I was a----"
+
+"O, I will promise you, dear father," cried Mortimer, before he could
+finish the dreadful word. "I will destroy the paper, though twenty Flints
+guarded it. The man who steals a loaf of bread for famishing lips, is not
+such a criminal in God's sight as he who steals a million times its value
+by _law_ to feed his avarice. Think no more of it. The angel who records in
+his book, has written a hundred good deeds over that unfortunate one. The
+world's frown is not God's frown, and His heart is open when man's is
+barred with unforgiveness."
+
+"Thank you, thank you," said Snarle, brightening up a little. "Your words
+give me comfort. I have not much more to tell. Flint took me into the firm,
+but I was the same slave. I worked, and worked, and the reapings were his.
+You have seen it--you know it. And this was his revenge. His wounded love
+and pride have wrecked themselves on me. He has never crossed the threshold
+of our door--never laid his eyes on my wife since the time when we were
+thoughtless boys together. O, how cruel he has been to me! Evening after
+evening, in midwinter, he has made me bring the last editions of the
+_Express_ to his house, and never asked me in!"
+
+This was said with such a ludicrous expression, that Mortimer would have
+laughed if it had been anybody but poor Snarle. Exhausted with talking, the
+sick man sank into a quiet slumber.
+
+Mortimer sat by his bed-side for an hour, watching the change of
+expressions in the sleeper's face--the shadow of his dreams coming and
+going! Then his head drooped upon his bosom, and he slept so soundly that
+he did not know that Daisy came in the room, and stood beside him, looking
+in his face with her fond, quiet eyes.
+
+When he awoke, one long dark shadow from the houses opposite slanted into
+the apartment.
+
+Snarle was looking at him.
+
+"I have been asleep," said Snarle, "and have had such pleasant thoughts
+that it is painful to find myself in this poor little world again. Ah, me,
+what will wife and Daisy do in it all alone?"
+
+"Not alone," said Mortimer. "I will watch over them--love them." Then,
+after a pause: "Father, I love Daisy--I would make her my wife."
+
+"Ah, I wished that; but I did not think it:" and Snarle paused a moment.
+"Have you told Daisy so?"
+
+"Yes--but----"
+
+"Well," said Snarle, waiting.
+
+"But she does not love me; and that is why I said love would make life
+bitter."
+
+"Perhaps she does."
+
+"No."
+
+"What did Daisy say?"
+
+"She said there were clouds in the morning of her life--(these were her own
+words)--which had no sunshine in them. Then she called me brother and
+kissed me, and told me that I must never think of her as my wife. She would
+be my sister always. And when I speak to her of this, she turns away or
+hums a pleasant air to mock me."
+
+"She is not our child, Mortimer."
+
+"What?"
+
+"No, I am not wandering," said Snarle, in reply to Mortimer's look. "She is
+not our child. We adopted her under strange circumstances. I have not told
+you this before. Daisy did not wish me to; but it is right that you should
+know it now. Sit nearer to me."
+
+Mortimer obeyed mechanically.
+
+"One stormy night we were sitting, my wife and I, in the room below. I
+remember as if it were yesterday, how the wind slammed the window-blinds,
+and blew out the street-lamps. It was just a year ago that night we lost
+our little Maye, and we were very sad. We sat in silence, while without the
+storm increased. The hail and snow dashed against the window-panes, and
+down the chimney. Every now and then the wind lulled, and everything was
+still."
+
+Heaven knows why Mr. Snarle ceased speaking just then; but he did, and
+seemed lost in reverie.
+
+"What was I saying?"
+
+"You were speaking of the storm."
+
+"Yes, yes. It was in one of those pauses of the wind that we heard a low
+sob under our windows. We did not heed it at first, for sometimes a storm
+moans like a human voice. It came again so distinctly as to leave no doubt.
+I opened the hall-door, and groped about in the snow. When I returned to
+the sitting-room, I held little Daisy in my arms. She was no larger than
+our Maye who died--our little three-year-old. The child was half frozen,
+and nothing but a coarse cloak thrown over her night-dress, had saved her
+from perishing. I reported the circumstance at the police-station, but such
+things were of too common occurrence to excite much interest. Weeks passed,
+and then months, and no one answered the advertisements. At last we had
+learned to love the child so dearly, that we dreaded the thought of parting
+with it. I asked and obtained permission to adopt the pet, and so Daisy
+became ours. She is very proud, and the mystery of her birth troubles her;
+and this----"
+
+Before Snarle could finish the sentence, Daisy herself opened the room
+door, and came tripping up to the bed-side.
+
+Mortimer took her hand very quietly.
+
+"Daisy," he said, "I love you."
+
+Daisy hid her face in the pillow.
+
+"He has told me everything, and I love you, Daisy!"
+
+Daisy looked up with the tears and sunshine of April in her eyes.
+
+"Do you love me?" he asked.
+
+The girl was silent for a moment, then a sweet little "yes" budded on her
+lips.
+
+Then Mortimer kissed Daisy, and poor Snarle died happy; for that evening
+his life-stream ebbed with the tide, and mingled with that ocean which is
+forever and forever.
+
+                            REQUIESCAT IN PACE.
+
+
+
+
+VI.
+
+    _A lone ship sailing on the sea:
+    Before the north 'twas driven like a cloud;
+    High on the poop a man sat mournfully:
+    The wind was whistling through mast and shroud,
+    And to the whistling wind thus did he sing aloud._
+
+                                    SMITH'S "BARBARA."
+
+VI.
+
+THE PHANTOM AT SEA.
+
+    _A Storm in the Tropics--The Lone Ship--The Man at the Wheel--How he
+    sang strange Songs--The Apparition--The Drifting Bark._
+
+
+The blood-red sun had gone down into the Atlantic. Faint purple streaks
+streamed up the western horizon, like the fingers of some great shadowy
+hand clutching at the world.
+
+Huge masses of dark, agate-looking clouds were gathering in the zenith, and
+the heavy, close atmosphere told the coming of a storm. Now and then the
+snaky lightning darted across the heavens and coiled itself away in a
+cloud.
+
+A lone ship stood almost motionless in the twilight.
+
+The sails were close-reefed. Here and there on the forecastle were groups
+of lazy-looking seamen; and a man walked the quarter-deck, glancing
+anxiously aloft. The sea was as smooth as a mirror, and that dreadful
+stillness was in the air which so often preludes a terrific storm in the
+tropics. A rumbling was heard in the sky like the sound of distant
+artillery, or heavy bodies of water falling from immense heights.
+
+Then the surface of the sea was broken by mimic waves tipped with froth,
+and the vast expanse seemed like a prairie in a snow fall.
+
+The lightning became more frequent and vivid, and the thunder seemed
+breaking on the very topmasts of the vessel. Then the starless night sunk
+down on the ocean, and the sea raved in the gathering darkness. The storm
+was at its height: the wind,
+
+    "Through unseen sluices of the air,"
+
+tore the shrouds to strings, and bent the dizzy, tapering masts till they
+threatened to snap. But the bark bore bravely through it, while the huge
+waves seemed bearing her down to those coral labyrinths, where nothing goes
+
+    "But doth suffer a sea-change
+    Into something rich and strange."
+
+The thunder sent forth peal after peal, and the heaven was like "a looming
+bastion fringed with fire." On through the slanting rain sped the ship,
+creaking and groaning, with its ribs warped and its great oaken spine
+trembling. The sailors on deck clung to the bulwarks; and below not a soul
+could sleep, for the thunder and the creaking of cordage filled their ears.
+
+At midnight the storm abated; but the sea still ran dangerously high, and
+the wind sobbed through the rigging mournfully. The heaven was spangled
+with tremulous stars, and at the horizon the clouds hung down in gossamer
+folds--God's robe trailing in the sea!
+
+Toward morning the waves grew suddenly calm, as if they had again heard
+that voice which of old said, "Peace, be still!" There was no one above
+decks, save the man at the wheel, who ever and anon muttered to himself, or
+hummed bits of poetry. He was a man in the mellow of life, in the Indian
+summer of manhood, which comes a little while before one falls "into the
+sere and yellow leaf." Once he must have been eminently handsome; but there
+were furrows on his intellectual forehead not traced by time's fingers. His
+eyes were peculiarly wild and restless.
+
+The slightest tinge of red fringed the East, and as the man watched it
+grow deeper and deeper, he sang snatches of those odd sea-songs which
+Shakespeare scatters through his plays:
+
+    "The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,
+      The gunner and his mate,
+    Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian and Margary,
+      But none of us cared for Kate.
+    For she had a tongue with a twang,
+    Would cry to a sailor, go hang!
+      She loved not the savor of tar or of pitch,--
+    Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!"
+
+Then his sonorous voice rang out these quaint words to the night:
+
+    "Full fathom five thy father lies:
+      Of his bones are coral made:
+    Those are pearls that were his eyes:
+      Nothing of him that doth fade--"
+
+He abruptly broke off, and commenced:
+
+    "Break, break, break
+      On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
+    And I would that my tongue could utter
+      The thoughts that arise in me.
+
+    O, well for the fisherman's boy,
+      That he shouts with his sister at play!
+    O, well for the sailor lad,
+      That he sings in his boat on the bay!
+
+    And the stately ships go on,
+      To the haven under the hill;
+    But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand,
+      And the sound of a voice that is still!
+
+    Break, break, break,
+      At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
+    But the tender grace of a day that is dead
+      Will never come back to me."
+
+Suddenly he paused, while a paleness like death overspread his face; the
+spokes of the wheel slipped from his hold, and he called for help; but the
+wind went moaning through the shrouds, and drowned his voice. The sea
+moaned and the ship drifted with the wind.
+
+"It comes again!" he cried; "the graveyard face! Go! I cannot bear those
+sad, reproachful eyes--those arms outstretched, asking mercy! Send foul
+fiends to torture me, and make my dreams hideous nightmares, but not this
+beautiful form to mock me with its purity, and kill me with its mild
+reproach. It has gone. But it will come again! It steals on me in the awful
+hours of night, when the air seems supernatural, and the mind is accessible
+to fear. It stood by my hammock last night; my conscious soul looked
+through my closed eyelids, and sleep felt its dreadful presence. If it
+comes again I will throw myself into the sea! Hush!" he whispered, "it
+stands by the cabin door, so pale! so pale! Come not near me, pensive
+ghost. Give me help, somebody! help! help!"
+
+He sunk down by the wheel.
+
+The stars, at the approach of morning, had grown as white as pond-lilies,
+and the wind had died away; but the same moan came up from the sea. On in
+the morning twilight drifted the ship for an hour, without a helmsman, save
+that unseen hand which guides all things--which balances with equal love
+and tenderness a dew-drop or a world.
+
+
+
+
+VII.
+
+    _I was not always a man of woe._
+
+                       WALTER SCOTT.
+
+VII.
+
+IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN.
+
+    _Mr. Flint sips vino d'oro--The Stranger--The Letter--Mr. Flint
+    Outwitted--Mr. Flint's Photograph--The Madman's Story--The wrecked
+    Soul--How Mr. Flint is troubled by his Conscience, and dreams of a
+    Pair of Eyes._
+
+
+The same night on which Mortimer was writing in the books of Flint &
+Snarle, Mr. Flint sat in the library of his bachelor home, sipping a glass
+of _vino d'oro_; and as the bells of Trinity Church fell faintly on his
+ear, he drew a massive gold watch from his fob, and, patting it
+complacently on the back, scrutinized its face as if he would look it out
+of countenance. Then he yawned a couple of times and thought of bed.
+
+"There's a gintleman without, sur," said Michel, putting his comical head
+in at the library door, "there's a gintleman without, sur," and he
+emphasized the 'gintleman.'
+
+"What sort of a person, Michel?"
+
+"A very quare one indade. 'Is Mr. Flint in?' sez he. 'He is sur,' sez I. 'I
+want to see him,' sez he. 'Your kard, sur,' sez I. He stared at me a minit,
+and laughed. Then, sez he, without the least riverence for your worship,
+'Give this _to owld Flint_!'" And Michel, exploding with laughter, handed
+Flint a knave of clubs very much soiled.
+
+"Michel!" said Mr. Flint, drawing himself up to his full altitude, "kick
+him down the steps!"
+
+"Thanks!" said a voice directly behind Michel, who had retreated to the
+doorway. The voice was so near and unexpected that Michel's crisp hair
+stood on end with fright.
+
+The door was thrown wide open, and a fine looking man, with the bearing of
+a sailor, stood between them. Mr. Flint turned as white as his immaculate
+shirt-bosom; and Michel, whose love of fun had got the better of his scare,
+regarded the intruder with a quizzical, inquiring air, peculiarly Irish.
+
+"Michel," said Mr. Flint, "you may go."
+
+That gentleman, not expecting such an order, hesitated.
+
+"Yes, sur."
+
+"Michel," said the stranger, "your master speaks to you."
+
+"Sure I heard him, sur."
+
+Michel left the room and carefully closed the door after him; but Flint,
+who knew his inquiring proclivities, opened it suddenly, and found Michel
+on all fours with his ear to the key-hole. The door was opened so
+unexpectedly that the listener did not discover the fact for the space of
+ten seconds. When he looked up and beheld his master, the intense
+expression of his face was superbly ludicrous. To say that he shot to the
+subterranean regions of the kitchen like a flash of lightning, does not
+border on fiction.
+
+The man laughed--it was a low, peculiar laugh, sadder than some men's
+tears.
+
+"Flint!"
+
+"Well."
+
+"Are you glad to see me?" and the man repeated his laugh.
+
+"No: you are a devil!"
+
+"I have been away three years, as I promised you."
+
+"Well, what do you want?"
+
+"Money."
+
+"Have I ever seen you when you did not?"
+
+"No, Flint, you never did. But you saw me once when I had an unstained
+soul--when I could have looked up to Heaven and said, 'I am poor, Father,
+but I am honest.' Have you enough money to pay for a lost soul? Oh Flint,
+I am a wrecked man! If it had only been murder--if I had killed _a man_ in
+the heat of passion--but a poor innocent babe in the cold snow! The child!
+the little babe! Ah, Flint, I never see the white snow coming down but I
+think of it. Those eyes are always with me. They follow me out to sea. They
+haunt me in the long watches. One night, when a storm had torn our rigging
+to tatters, and we heard the breakers on the lee-shore, I saw her standing
+by the binnacle light, and, so help me Heaven! she had grown to be a woman.
+I fainted at the wheel. You heard of the shipwreck. How could a ship keep
+clear of the rocks and the helmsman in a trance? Forty souls went down,
+down! Hist! who said that? Not I. No, not I! I am a maniac!"
+
+"Don't go on that way," pleaded Flint, giving uneasy looks toward the door,
+which he regretted having locked.
+
+"Why?"
+
+"It is not pleasant."
+
+"What isn't?"
+
+"Your eyes--your words. What can I do for you?"
+
+The man's excitement lulled for a moment. He replied, carelessly:
+
+"I am not a chameleon; I cannot live on air; I can earn no money. The
+elements are against me--storms and shipwrecks follow me.... I have not
+found him yet," he said, abruptly.
+
+"Who?"
+
+"My boy."
+
+Flint turned aside his head, and laughed quietly.
+
+"I am tired of searching for him," said the man, sorrowfully. "I am not
+going to sea any more." After a pause--"I wish to live among the fishermen
+off Nantucket. You ask me what I want?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"I want two or three hundred dollars to fit up a fishing-smack. Give me
+this, and I will not trouble you again. God knows I don't want to look on
+your face!"
+
+"And the letter--will you give me the letter?"
+
+"Yes; when I take the money."
+
+The man drew from his bosom several letters, and selected one more worn and
+crumpled than the rest.
+
+Flint's eyes fed upon it.
+
+"Of course," said Flint, "I have not such an amount in the house. I have a
+hundred dollars up stairs, and will give you a check for the remainder.
+Will that do?"
+
+"No and yes; but get the money, and I'll see."
+
+Flint left him alone. From a safe in his bed-chamber he took a small bag
+of gold, and caressed it for a moment very much as one's grandmother would
+a pet cat; then he filled up a check, and called Michel.
+
+"Run to the police station, Michel, and tell Captain L.----to send me
+three or four men."
+
+Michel shot down stairs, and his master followed him leisurely, patting the
+gold-bag lovingly at every other step.
+
+"Does he think," said Flint's visitor to himself, as the library door
+closed--"_can_ he think I would part with this paper? He, so full of
+worldly shrewdness, so simple?"
+
+After awhile the door opened.
+
+"There!" gasped Flint, placing the bag on the table before the man; "the
+letter! the letter!"
+
+The stranger carelessly threw a rumpled paper toward Flint, who grasped it
+convulsively. His hand touched a bell-rope, and before the bell had ceased
+tinkling, a heavy measured tramp came through the entry. Four policemen
+entered the room in single file, with Michel behind them making comical
+efforts to keep step.
+
+"Arrest him!" cried Flint, hoarse with passion and triumph, "he has
+extorted money from me!"
+
+"Flint," said the man, walking toward him, "you know that's a lie!"
+
+Mr. Flint retreated behind the policeman.
+
+"This person," he cried, "is a stranger to me; he forced his way into my
+house and has threatened my life. Arrest him quickly, for he is no doubt
+armed!"
+
+"Gentlemen," said the stranger, turning to the officers, "Mr. Flint, I
+fear, has given you useless trouble. Michel, more glasses!"
+
+At this, that astonished individual went off like a rocket.
+
+"For the love you bear your good name, Mr. Flint", he continued, "look at
+the paper which you so innocently put in your pocket."
+
+An idea struck Flint, which caused him to turn pale. He tore open the
+letter; but it was not the one for which he would have given half his
+fortune. Oh! sagacious, wily, clear-sighted Mr. Flint!
+
+"You had better tell these gentlemen that you have made a mistake, Flint.
+But, before they go, they must have a glass of wine."
+
+Michel had failed to appear with the extra glasses; but the want of them
+was elegantly supplied by three silver goblets which stood on the
+_beaufait_. And poor, collapsed Flint! he could only bid the officers go,
+with a wave of his hand.
+
+They were alone.
+
+The sailor, with a scornful curl in his lip, stood by the chair of the
+merchant, whose dejected countenance, taken in connection with his white
+cravat, was delightfully comical.
+
+"Flint," commenced the man, "your verdancy is refreshing. Your sweet and
+child-like simplicity is like a draught of your old wine--it's rare, it's
+rare."
+
+If anything touched Flint, it was sarcasm. He stood in dread of ridicule,
+as most men do whose foibles and vices deserve lashing.
+
+"Edward Walters!" he cried, springing to his feet, "you have outwitted me.
+Well, you are a knave; it is your pride to be one. Your companions will
+shout to-night, in some obscure den of this city, as you tell them of your
+ingenuity, and you will be a hero among----"
+
+"Stop, John Flint! For sixteen years to-night my life has been as pure as a
+child's. The vices of passion and avarice have not touched me. I have borne
+a sorrow in my heart which shrunk instinctively from sin. During these
+years I have been poor, very poor." The man paused. "There is a link lost
+somewhere in my life--was I an age in a madhouse? Let it go. I have loved
+my fellow-man; I have lingered at the hammock of a sick mess-mate, and
+closed his eyes kindly when he died; I have spoken words of cheer when my
+heart was bitterness. I do not say this boastfully, for God's eyes are
+upon us all. I have done these things to atone for the one great sin of my
+life, which has stalked through memory like a plague. John Flint, I have
+had the misfortune to know you for twenty years, and during that time you
+never have, to my knowledge, performed a single act worthy of being
+remembered. You have a narrow, malicious mind; you have been tyrannical
+when you should have been generous; you have been the devil's emissary
+under the cant of religion. You call Jesus master, but you crucify him
+daily! There is your photograph, John Flint!"
+
+"You flatter me," remarked that personage, sarcastically; "but go on."
+
+"It is seldom that a rich man has the truth spoken to him plainly--the poor
+man hears it often enough. Consider yourself favored. You have called me a
+knave. I will draw some pictures, and I wish you to look at them:
+
+"Many years ago, a seafaring man who had just lost his ship in which his
+little fortune had been invested, returned to this city sick at heart, and
+weak from a wound which he had received in the wreck. He had battled many a
+year against misfortune, and his utmost exertions had barely found bread
+for his children. He owed money to a heartless and exacting man. He stood
+before his creditor and said, 'I am beggared, but I will work for you.'
+The merchant replied, 'Come to my house to-night, and I will find means by
+which this debt can be liquidated.' The sailor expected reproaches and hard
+words; so he was surprised at the softness of this speech, and his heart
+was full of gratitude.
+
+"That night he sat in the parlor of the merchant, who plied him with rare
+wines, until his mind went from him. Then he made a proposal to the sailor,
+who, if he had had his senses, would have felled him to the floor. The
+merchant had been appointed guardian to a motherless babe, which his
+brother, dying, begged him to love and educate. His ship on the sea, and
+the bales of merchandize in his warehouses, were not enough to feed his
+hungry avarice. He needs must have the little inheritance of the babe.
+Well, while he was speaking, making artful pictures in the eyes of his
+drugged dupe, the child ran into the room, and twined her arms around the
+neck of him who should have worshiped her. But he coldly unclasped the
+little hands and pushed her from him. John Flint, when that man, on
+Judgment Day, shall cringe before the throne of God, the Evil Angel will
+trample him down!"
+
+Flint was as white as the marble mantel-piece on which he leaned. Edward
+Walters stood a short distance in front of him; his eyes were fixed, and he
+spoke like one who sees what he is describing.
+
+"Then the man--the merchant--wrapped the child in the sailor's cloak. In a
+few minutes the sailor stood in the stormy street, with a frightened little
+heart throbbing against his own. The cutting sleet and snow beat in his
+face, and the wine made a veil before his eyes. It was a fearful night. Not
+a human form was to be seen; the street lamps were blown out, and the poor
+mariner drifted to and fro like a deserted ship. He had become mad; the
+strange events had eaten into his brain. He wrapped the babe closer in his
+cloak, and placed her in a doorway, out of the cold. He wandered from
+street to street, then he sank down in the snow. When his senses came to
+him he had been in a madhouse--God, how many years! Was it ten? The June
+wind broke through the barred window; it touched his forehead, and it was
+like a human hand rousing one from a dreamless sleep. One evening soon
+after, he stood before the merchant, who was sipping his choice cordials,
+as you were to-night, Flint, and the sailor asked for the child. The man
+replied: 'The child is dead; you left it in the cold, and it died, or you
+threw it into the river. I saw a body at the dead-house, weeks afterward,
+which looked like the child. You committed murder; it was your own act.
+Suppose you were to be hung for it!' Have I a good memory, John Flint?"
+
+And the man turned his wild eyes on Mr. Flint, who gave no other evidence
+of not being a statue than a slight tremor of his upper lip.
+
+"What did the madman say to the merchant? He took the cool, calculating
+villain by the throat, and cried, 'Write me out, in your round, clerkly
+hand, a full avowal of your guilt in this matter, or I'll strangle you!'
+The merchant knew he would, so he wrote this document with trembling
+fingers, and he signed it JOHN FLINT!"
+
+Then the sailor drew from his pocket an old stained letter, and held it up
+to the light. He looked at it sadly, and then his mind seemed to wander off
+through a gloomy mist of memories, for his eyes grew gentle and dreamy.
+
+He spoke softly, almost tenderly:
+
+"John Flint, you never saw me weep. Look at me, then. I am thinking of an
+old country-house which stood in a cluster of trees near a sea-shore. It
+once held everything that was dear to me--my children. Three years ago I
+stood with my hand on the gate, and looked into the little garden. It had
+gone to waste; the wind had beaten down the flower frames; the honeysuckle
+vines were running wild, and there was the moss of ten years' growth on the
+broken chimney-pots. The rain had washed the paint off the house, and the
+windows were boarded up. There was something in the ruin and stillness of
+the place which spoke to me. Twilight added a gloomy background to the
+picture. I broke the rusty fastenings of a side door, and entered the
+deserted building. It may have been fancy, but I saw two forms wandering
+from room to room, and through the darkened entries; now they would pause,
+as if listening for foot-steps, then they would move on again, sorrowfully,
+sorrowfully. In the bedroom over the front door, I saw the shadow of a
+little coffin! _She_ used to sleep there. Where were my children? Where was
+trustful old Nanny, that she did not come to me? The house was full of
+strange shadows, and I fled from it. I did not dare go to the village hard
+by. There were too many who might have known me. I sat down in the quiet
+church-yard where my wife had slept many a long year. I sat by a little
+mound on which a wreath of flowers had been laid--nothing remained of them
+but stems and the rotting string that had bound them. It had a peaceful
+look, the grave, and I wished that I had died when my mound would not have
+been made longer than the one at my side. What did the simple head-stone
+say? It said: 'LITTLE BELL!'--that was all!"
+
+The sailor grasped Flint's arm.
+
+"Only little Bell!--that was all. But it was all the world to me! What a
+tale it told! What a tale of weary waiting, and despair, and death! Did
+her little heart wait for me! Did she sicken and die when I did not come to
+her? Aye, it said all this and more. And my boy--was he living? was he
+searching for me? No, not searching, for close by my child's grave, a white
+stone had these words carved on it:" and the man repeated them slowly,
+
+  SACRED
+  TO THE MEMORY
+  OF
+  OUR FATHER,
+  LOST AT SEA.
+
+"Not lost at sea," he said, almost inaudibly, "but lost! Ah, I could have
+died in that quiet place, with the moonlight on me! But I was startled from
+my grief by the shouts of some men on the roadside, and I turned and fled.
+Have you looked at the picture, John Flint?"
+
+He spoke so mournfully, that Flint raised his little, sharp eyes, which all
+this time had been fixed on the carpet; but he made no reply.
+
+"I'll have none of your gold, man. I was weak to want it. Give it to the
+poor. The shining round pieces may fall like sunlight into some wretched
+home. To me they are like drops of blood!"
+
+And he pushed the gold from him, and went to the window. He saw the dim
+eyes of Heaven looking down through the mist--heard the murmurs of the city
+dying away, and the calm of night entered his soul.
+
+"May you be a better man when we meet again," he said, turning to Flint.
+
+"But the letter," cried Flint, fearfully, "you won't----"
+
+The sailor's lips curled, and something of his former severity returned.
+
+"Take off your sanctimonious cravat," he answered, "wrap charity around you
+like a robe, that you may be pleasing in God's sight. You sent some gold to
+convert the Hindoos--the papers said so. Why, man! there is a Heathen Land
+at your door-step! John Flint, good night!"
+
+The merchant stood alone.
+
+The night wind swayed the heavy curtains to and fro, and half extinguished
+the brilliant jets of gas. He threw himself into a chair, and a vision of
+the Past rose up before him--the terrible Past. The ghosts of dead years
+haunted his brain, and remorse sat on his heart, boding and mysterious,
+like the Raven of the sweet poet--
+
+    "That unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
+    Followed fast, and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore!"
+
+That night, as we have said, he dreamt of two blue, innocent eyes, which
+once looked confidingly in his--of two infant arms which encircled his
+neck. Those eyes haunted him into the realm of sleep, where myriads of
+little arms were stretched out to him, and he turned restlessly on his
+pillow!
+
+
+
+
+VIII.
+
+    _He trudged along, unknowing what he sought,
+    And whistled as he went, for want of thought._
+
+                                           DRYDEN.
+
+VIII.
+
+MR. FLINT IS PERFECTLY ASTONISHED, AND MORTIMER HAS A VISION.
+
+    _The Light Heart--A Scene--The Sunny Heart--A Dream of Little Bell--A
+    Hint._
+
+
+Now that Mortimer Walters had destroyed the record of poor Snarle's guilt,
+he determined to be no longer a subject of Flint's authority. He had
+watched for months for an opportunity to become possessed of the forged
+cheque; and it was with a heart as light as a singing bird's that he
+tripped up the office stairs an hour before his time the next morning.
+
+Tim was sweeping out.
+
+Sleep had left no cobwebs in his young eyes; but when he saw Mortimer throw
+open the office door, humming a light-hearted air, he rubbed his eyelids
+with the sleeve of his dusty coat, as if it were a question in his mind
+whether or not he was dreaming.
+
+"My last day here!" said Mortimer gaily to himself. "Weary, tiresome old
+books! my soul has grown sick over you for the last time."
+
+He brushed the dust from off the dull-looking ledger, and went to work.
+"Won't I astonish him?" he thought, looking up; and he laughed so
+pleasantly that Tim, who was sweeping the rubbish into a dust-pan,
+suspended operations, and expressed his surprise in a somewhat dubious
+ejaculation:
+
+"I vum!"
+
+When Mr. Flint came in, he saw the same tall form bending over the
+accustomed desk that had met his eyes every morning for the last ten years;
+but he did not see the heart that was leaping with new life. And when, in
+his usual snarly way, he gave Mortimer orders to make up certain invoices,
+which would have employed the clerk till midnight, he opened a brief
+conversation which ended in his utter amazement.
+
+"You will render Bowen & Cleet their account current, and make up the pork
+sale; it has been standing open long enough. And," added Mr. Flint, "fill
+up bills of lading for the D. D. coffee."
+
+"I don't think I will," was the quiet reply.
+
+Mr. Flint did not believe his ears.
+
+"Mr. Walters!"
+
+"Mr. Flint."
+
+"You will fill up those bills of lading immediately."
+
+"I won't!" plumply.
+
+This caused Mr. Flint to sink in a chair with astonishment; and Mortimer
+went on writing.
+
+"Did you say that you wouldn't?" asked Mr. Flint, looking at him.
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"You did!"
+
+"My year," said Mortimer, leisurely, "expires to-day, and with it, I am
+happy to state, my connection with Flint & Snarle."
+
+Mr. Flint hunted twenty seconds for his lost voice.
+
+"You insolent----"
+
+"Sir!" cried Mortimer, turning to him abruptly, "until now I have borne
+your tyranny with meekness. We are no longer employer and clerk. We are man
+and man, with the advantage on my side. If you apply an insulting epithet
+to me, I shall pull your ears!"
+
+O Tim, how you rubbed your hands, you little villain! How your limbs seemed
+to be receiving a series of galvanic shocks from an invisible battery! How
+your eyes sparkled, and your proclivity for fight got uppermost, till you
+cried out, "Pitch into him, old boy!"
+
+"Go!" hissed Flint, through his closed teeth; "go!" that was all the word
+he could master.
+
+Mortimer passed out of the office.
+
+The genial sunshine slid from the house-tops, and fell under his feet; a
+thousand airy forms walked with him, and he felt their presence, though he
+could not see them.
+
+He wandered through the Park. April had breathed on the cold ground, and
+the green grass was springing up to welcome her. The leaves were unfolding
+themselves, and the air was full of spring. The fountain had thrown off its
+icy manacles, and leaped up with a sense of freedom.
+
+His dreamy eyes saw it all. The black shadows had fallen from him; he had
+left them with Flint; and a bright day had dawned within him and without
+him. Everything was tinged with iridescent light, for he looked at the
+world, as it were, through dew-drops. Happy morning--happy life! when one
+can put aside the trailing vines of painful memory, and let the warm
+sunshine of Heaven find its way into the heart.
+
+In this sunny mood he turned his way homeward. He passed Mrs. Snarle on the
+stairs with a smile; he heard Daisy singing in the sitting-room; and he sat
+himself down in the yellow light which streamed through the window of his
+bedroom, making a hundred golden fancies on the worn carpet:
+
+    "The shadows of the coming flowers!
+    The phantoms of forget-me-nots,
+    And roses red and sweet!"
+
+His eyes made pictures; his fancy inverted the hour-glass of his life, and
+the old sands ran back! He floated down the stream of time, instead of
+onward.
+
+The sunshine grew deeper and broader, and filled the little room. Then it
+became condensed and brighter. Gradually it moulded itself into form, and
+little Bell, in her golden ringlets, stood at the side of Mortimer. Her
+white hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up--not in surprise, but
+with tenderness--with the air of a man who can gaze with unclouded eyes
+into the spiritual world and lose himself.
+
+"I knew you were near," he said, dreamily. "I thought you would come. You
+have something to tell me. What is it, my little Bell? Thus you stood at my
+side, thus you looked into my eyes, the day on which I told Daisy that I
+loved her. Thus you come to me whenever the current of my life changes, to
+love and advise me. What is it, Bell--dainty little Bell?"
+
+A sunny lip rested on his for a moment.
+
+"Be strong!" said little Bell.
+
+A cloud of sunlight floated around Mortimer, slipped down at his feet, and
+lost itself in the orange stream which flooded the window.
+
+"He is dreaming of Bell," said Daisy, as she bent over him--"dreaming of
+lost Bell!"
+
+And she closed the door after her softly.
+
+Then Mortimer's vision of sister Bell was a dream? Perhaps it was not.
+Perhaps this real world is linked more closely to the invisible sphere than
+in our guesses. It may be an angel's hand which touches our cheek, when we
+think that it is only the breeze. _?Quien sabe?_ Who can say that in sleep
+we do not touch hands with the spirits of another world--the angels of
+hereafter? And what may death be but an intellectual dream!--Who knows?
+
+Nobody knows. "But," suggests the gentle reader, "suppose you dispense with
+your Hamlet-like philosophy, and go on with your story, like the pleasant
+author that you are, instead of putting us to sleep, as you have your
+hero."
+
+Reader, the hint was merited.
+
+
+
+
+IX.
+
+    "_My eyes make pictures when they are shut._"
+
+                                       COLERIDGE.
+
+IX.
+
+DAISY AND THE NECKLACE.
+
+    _Our petite Heroine--How she talked to the Poets--The Morocco
+    Case--Daisy's Eyes make Pictures--Tears, idle Tears!_
+
+
+Mortimer was still sleeping an "azure-lidded sleep," as Keats has it, when
+Daisy again came softly to the door.
+
+A pretty little woman was Daisy Snarle.
+
+She had one of those faces which you sometimes pass in the street and
+remember afterward, ever connecting it with some exquisite picture, or, if
+you happen to be in a poetical mood, a dainty bit of music. That face was
+very sweet in the coquettish red and white "kiss-me-quick" which used to
+shade it sunny mornings, when Daisy went to market--a very beautiful face
+when she looked up earnestly--a very holy face when she sat thoughtfully
+in her room at twilight. Her hair was dark chestnut, and she wore it in one
+heavy braid over her forehead. Her eyes were so gentle and saucy by turns
+that I could never tell whether they were gray or hazel; but her smile was
+frank, her laugh musical, and her whole presence so purely womanly, that
+one could not but be better for knowing her. Yet Daisy was not faultless.
+She had a wild little will of her own--none the worse for that, however.
+She could put her foot down--and a sweet little foot it was!--a temptation
+of a foot, cased in a tight boot--high in the instep, and arched like the
+proud neck of an Arabian mare, or the eye-brows of a Georgian girl. And
+then the heel of said boot!--But I daren't trust myself further.
+
+Daisy stood looking at Mortimer with her fond, thoughtful eyes. Soon she
+grew tired of this, and, placing a stool by his chair, sat down and
+commenced sewing. From time to time she looked up from her work and smiled
+quietly.
+
+"How he sleeps!" said Daisy, with a low laugh. "Will he be cross if I
+disturb him?"--and she laughed again. "I wonder," she said, at length, "if
+a tiny song would awaken him?"
+
+So she sang in a gentle voice those touching lines of Barry Cornwall,
+commencing with--
+
+    "Touch us gently, Father Time!
+    As we glide adown the stream."
+
+She sang them bewitchingly. The music must have stolen into Mortimer's
+dream, for he slept a quieter sleep than before. Miss Daisy did not like
+that, and pouted quite prettily, and shook her finger at him.
+
+"O, how tiresome you are!" she said. Then she sewed for ten minutes quite
+steadily.
+
+"I guess I'll arrange your books, Rip Van Winkle! and when you wake up, a
+half century hence, you won't know them, they'll be in such good order!"
+
+And facetious Miss Daisy broke out in such a wild, merry laugh, that an
+early robin, perched on a tree beside the window, ceased chirping, and
+listened to her.
+
+Her fingers grew very busy with Mortimer's books. Having dusted them
+carefully, she commenced to place them in an old black-walnut book-case,
+which must have had an antique look fifty years ago. And Daisy went on
+laughing and talking to herself in a most comical manner.
+
+"Here, Mr. Theocritus!" she cried, taking up that venerable poet, and
+placing him upside down, "I'll just set you on your head for absorbing all
+that stupid boy's attention one live-long evening, when I wanted to chat
+with him."
+
+An author is supposed to know everything about his characters; but I cannot
+tell why Daisy placed Mortimer's poet in such an uncomfortable position,
+unless she thought that the blood might run into the head of Mr.
+Theocritus, and cause him to be taken off with a brain fever!
+
+"And you, Mr. Byron," Daisy continued, "you're a very wicked young fellow!
+and I won't let you sit next to Mrs. Hemans!" so she placed Plutarch
+between them. "But you and Shelly," Daisy said, resting her hand on Keats,
+"you are different sort of persons; you are too earnest and beautiful to be
+impure; and you shall sit side by side between L. E. L. and our own Alice
+Cary. And Chatterton! poor boy Chatterton! I'll place you in that shadowy
+corner of the book-case, where the sunshine never comes!"
+
+So Daisy made merry or sad, as the case might be, over her lover's few
+volumes; and when she had arranged them to suit her capricious self, she
+kissed her hand to Tom Hood, and locked them all--poets, romancers, and
+historians--in the black, sombre old book-case.
+
+Our friend Daisy was in one of those playful, half-childish moods, which
+came upon her not unfrequently.
+
+Now she looked around the room for some other piece of useful mischief to
+do. She would turn over Mortimer's papers. Ah, what made her blush and
+laugh so prettily then? It was only a sheet of note-paper, on which
+Mortimer, in a dreamy moment, had written her name innumerable times--for
+know, good world, that true love takes the silliest ways to express itself.
+
+Now she was curious.
+
+She stood thoughtfully, with a small morocco case in her hand. The reader
+has seen it once in Flint's office. An undefined feeling stole over her;
+and it was some time before she thought of opening the case. She did so,
+however, and took from it a pearl necklace of rare design and workmanship.
+The necklace was in three parts, linked together by exquisitely carved
+clasps, from the largest of which hung a
+
+[Illustration: Cross]
+
+composed of smaller and more costly pearls.
+
+"How beautiful!" and she grew more thoughtful. Something within her
+recognized the jewels. It was not her sight, it was not her touch, but an
+intuitive something which is finer and subtler than either.
+
+"I have seen this somewhere--somewhere," she said; "but where?"
+
+And she closed her eyes, as if the sunlight blinded some timid memory that
+was stealing through her brain. Her fancy painted pictures of strange
+places and things. Now she saw a country-house, among cool, quiet trees;
+then a man dying--some one she loved--but who? Now she was in a large city,
+and heard the rumbling of wheels and confused voices. Now the snow was
+coming down, flake after flake, and everything was white; then it was
+night--dark, stormy, and dreadful--and she was cold, bitter cold! Some one
+had left her in the white, clinging snow, and she was freezing!
+
+Daisy opened her eyes. The snow and wind were gone, and April's sunny
+breath blew shadows through the open window. The house, the death, the
+storm--how were they connected with the string of pearls? And Daisy held
+the necklace on her finger-tips and wondered.
+
+"Somewhere, somewhere--but where?"
+
+Daisy could not tell where.
+
+"I may have seen one like it," Daisy thought. "Perhaps this was Bell's, and
+these stones may have rested many a time on her little neck. I wish I had
+known Bell!"
+
+With this she placed the necklace in the case again, and tears gathered in
+her eyes, she knew not why.
+
+    "Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean."
+
+She laid the box in the place where she had found it, and thought she would
+not speak to Mortimer of the necklace; he might be displeased to have her
+touch it.
+
+Her gaiety had given place to sadness, and when she knelt by Mortimer's
+chair she could not help sobbing. Mortimer awoke and bent over her.
+
+"What, weeping, Daisy?"
+
+
+
+
+X.
+
+    _Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
+      And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
+    Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
+    And tread softly and speak low,
+      For the old year lies a-dying.
+        Old year, you must not die:
+          You came to us so readily,
+          You lived with us so steadily,
+        Old year you must not die.
+    He lieth still: he doth not move:
+      He will not see the dawn of day,
+    He hath no other life above.
+    He gave me a friend and a true love,
+      And the new year will take 'em away.
+        Old year, you must not go:
+          So long as you have been with us,
+          Such joy as you have seen with us,
+        Old year, you shall not go.
+    He frothed his bumpers to the brim:
+      A jollier year we shall not see;
+    But though his eyes are waxing dim,
+    And though his foes speak ill of him,
+      He was a friend to me.
+        Old year, you shall not die:
+          We did so laugh and cry with you,
+          I've half a mind to die with you,
+        Old year, if you must die._
+
+                            ALFRED TENNYSON.
+
+X.
+
+ST. AGNES' EVE.
+
+    _The Old Year--St. Agnes--Keats' Poem--The Circlet of Pearls--A
+    Cloud--The Promise--Mrs. Snarle continues her Knitting._
+
+
+The Old Year had just gone by--the dear, sad Old Year! He died in the
+blustering wind, out in the cold! He lay down in the shadows, moaned, and
+died! Something has gone with thee, Old Year, which will never come again:
+kind words, sweet smiles, warm lips--ah, no, they will never come again!
+Hold them near your heart for love of us, Old Year! They came with you,
+they went with you! _Kyrie eleyson!_
+
+"I wish you could tarry with us," said Mortimer. "You were kind to us,
+merry and sad with us." And he repeated the lines,
+
+    "Old year, you shall not die:
+      We did so laugh and cry with you,
+      I've half a mind to die with you,
+    Old year, if you must die."
+
+"To-night, Daisy, will be St. Agnes' Eve, and if I sell my prose sketch to
+Filberty's Magazine, I'll be in a good humor to read you Keats' poem."
+
+Since leaving Mr. Flint's employ, Mortimer had entirely supported himself
+with his pen. His piquant paragraphs and touching verses over the signature
+of "Il Penseroso," had attracted some attention; and he found but little
+difficulty in disposing of his articles, at starving prices, it is true;
+but he bore up, seeing a brighter time ahead. He had been so occupied in
+writing short stories and essays, that his romance, which lacked but one
+chapter of completion, was still unfinished.
+
+Filberty's Magazine paid him so generously for the "prose article," that he
+could afford to devote himself to a task which did not promise immediate
+profit. He completed the novel at sundown that day; and after supper Daisy
+reminded him of his promise to read Keats' "Eve of St. Agnes."
+
+"I sometimes think," said Mortimer, as good Mrs. Snarle seated herself in a
+low rocking-chair, preparatory to a dose, while Daisy sat on a stool at
+his feet, "I sometimes think that this poem is the most exquisite
+definition of one phase of poetry in our language. Musical rhythm, imperial
+words, gorgeous color and luxurious conceit, seem to have culminated in it.
+And the story itself is so touching that it would be poetical even if
+narrated in the plainest prose. How surpassingly beautiful is it, then,
+worked out with all the richness of that sweetest poet, who, in intricate
+verbal music and dreamy imagery, stands almost alone!"
+
+Mrs. Snarle's head was inclined on one side, and the whole pose of her form
+was one of profound attention.
+
+She was fast asleep.
+
+The busy knitting-needles were placid in her motionless fingers; and Pinky,
+the kitten, was 'spinning a yarn' on her own account from the ball in Mrs.
+Snarle's lap.
+
+"Who was St. Agnes?" asked Daisy.
+
+"She was a saint who suffered martyrdom for her religious views during the
+persecution of the Christians in the reign of the Emperor Diocletian. But
+let us read the poem, which will make her more immortal than her heroism."
+
+Mortimer opened the book, and his voice touched the verse with new music
+for Daisy's ears. Now his tones would be low and sad, as he read of the
+old Beadsman, who told his beads in the cold night air,
+
+                   "While his frosted breath,
+    Like pious incense from a censer old,
+    Seemed taking flight for heaven."
+
+Then his voice grew as tender as a lover's, when he came to the place where
+Porphyro, concealed, beholds Madeline as she disrobes:
+
+    "Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
+    Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
+    Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
+    Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees."
+
+"How few poets know how to handle color!" said Mortimer. "Azure, red,
+orange, and all poetic hues are mixed up in their pictures like a shattered
+rain-bow! But how artist-like is Keats! His famous window scene has not
+been surpassed:
+
+    "A casement high and triple-arched there was,
+    All garlanded with carven imageries
+    Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
+    And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
+    _Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes_,
+    _As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings_;
+    And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
+    _And twilight saints and dim emblazonings_,
+    _A shielded 'scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings_.
+
+    "Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
+    And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
+    As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon:
+    _Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together pressed_,
+    _And on her silver cross soft amethyst_,
+    _And on her hair a glory, like a saint_:
+    She seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed,
+    Save wings, for heaven!"
+
+"Is it not exquisite?" asked Mortimer, looking in Daisy's face.
+
+She nodded assent.
+
+Mortimer fixed his eyes on a pearl necklace which gently clasped the girl's
+neck, and started. The cross undulated on her bosom, which rose and fell
+like two full white roses in the wind.
+
+"Where did you get that?" and Mortimer laid his hand on her arm nervously.
+
+"It was a freak," said Daisy, blushing. "Are you angry?"
+
+"Not angry, Daisy."
+
+"But you look so."
+
+"Do I? I am not. I grow unhappy when I see that necklace."
+
+"It was Bell's, then?"
+
+"Yes--no--don't ask me, Daisy."
+
+"Why?"
+
+A shadow came over Mortimer's face.
+
+That morning Daisy had been tempted to open the morocco case, and a desire
+to clasp the white necklace on her neck became irresistible. Something drew
+her to it, and the same feeling of mystery and longing which stole on her
+when she first held the circlet in her hand while Mortimer was sleeping,
+overpowered her. Almost unconsciously she fastened the gold clasp, and when
+the little cross sunk down on her bosom, her heart grew lighter, and she
+went over the house singing like a canary. She wore it the whole day,
+pausing at times in her household duties to admire the pearls. After a
+while she forgot its existence, and her intention to replace it before
+Mortimer returned.
+
+When Mortimer's eye caught sight of the necklace, Daisy was much
+embarrassed, for she could, in no intelligible way, account for having
+taken it. Mortimer was equally pained. He had unwillingly become possessed
+of the ornament, and saw no means by which he could return it to Mr. Flint
+without acknowledging that he had also taken the _check_. He dreaded to
+make so humiliating a confession, and, perhaps, he stood a little in fear
+of Mr. Flint's anger. The circumstance had caused him many moments of
+anxiety, and an unpleasant thought came to him, as he saw the purloined
+necklace on Daisy's innocent bosom.
+
+"But you _are_ angry?" said Daisy, looking up with dimmed eyes.
+
+"No, pet."
+
+"Then you will kiss me?" said Daisy, in a most winning way.
+
+Mortimer did what most every one would have done "in the premises"--an act
+which was quite sufficient to make one break that part of the commandment
+which refers to envy. Surely a man would be inhuman not to, having once
+seen Daisy Snarle!
+
+"I am not angry, but pained; I cannot tell you why. I wish you to promise
+me something."
+
+"I will. What is it?"
+
+"That you will not doubt me, whatever may occur in connection with this
+necklace--that you will love me, though I may be unable to explain
+condemning circumstances, or dispel the doubts of others."
+
+"I promise that. But how strange," thought Daisy. "I am sorry that I was so
+childish as to take the necklace. Put it away, Mortimer, and forget that I
+did so."
+
+Mortimer's cheerfulness returned, and he commenced reading the poem at the
+place where he had interrupted himself. Just as he finished the last verse,
+telling how, ages long ago,
+
+  "The lovers fled away into the storm,"
+
+Mrs. Snarle awoke with a jerk, and went to knitting as though she had been
+doing nothing else the whole evening--a harmless subterfuge peculiar to old
+people.
+
+
+
+
+XI.
+
+    _Of making many books there is no end._
+
+                     ECCLESIASTES XII., 12.
+
+XI.
+
+MORTIMER HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GREAT PUBLISHER, AND MR. FLINT MAKES A
+DISCOVERY.
+
+    _H. H. Hardwill, Publisher--Criminal Literature--Alliterative
+    Titles--Goldwood--Poor Authors--A Heaven for them in the
+    Perspective--Flint's Discovery, and the Horns of his Dilemma._
+
+
+Mortimer looked up and read the sign--"H. H. Hardwill, Publisher." His
+heart half-failed him, and he stood looking in the large, book-filled
+window, with that romance which was to startle the literary world folded
+quietly under his arm, like any common paper. What kind of a man is Mr.
+Hardwill? he thought. Is he a large man, with a heavy watch-chain, or a
+thin, sky-rockety piece of humanity, dressed in black, and tipped off with
+red hair? Was he a cold, cast-iron man, like Flint? or a simple, sorrowful
+one, like Snarle that was? But this last idea melted of itself. How could
+the famous publisher resemble the poor, unobtrusive Snarle? He, Mr.
+Hardwill, who received notes from the great Hiawatha, and hob-nobbed with
+Knickerbocker Irving; he, who owned a phial of yellow sand, which had been
+taken from a scorching desert with an unpronounceable name, and presented
+to him by the Oriental Bayard; he, who chatted with genial Mr.
+Sparrow-grass--God bless him!--(Sparrow-grass,) and joked with Orpheus
+Stoddard,--he like simple Snarle? Pooh!
+
+"Is Mr. Hardwill in?" asked Mortimer. He came near adding, "the great
+publisher."
+
+The clerk, to whom his eyes looked, said he believed he was, and went on
+calling off from a slip of paper:
+
+"'Murdered Milkmaid,' two copies; 'Bloody Hatchet,' twelve copies; 'The
+Seducer's Victim,' thirty copies; 'The Young Mother,' five copies; 'The
+Deranged Daughter,' seven copies; 'Hifiluten and _other_ poems,' one copy."
+
+"Can I speak with him?" ventured Mortimer, as the clerk, who was calling
+off the _criminal literature_, paused for breath.
+
+"'The Merry Maniacs,' ten copies--Yes, sir; but he's engaged. Wait awhile,"
+continued the clerk, as Mortimer turned to go. "'The Wizard of Wehawkin,'
+six copies; 'The Phantom of Philadelphia,' twelve copies, etc., etc."
+
+So our author seated himself on a case of books, and looked at the wall of
+volumes which encompassed him. Somehow or another, it suggested the Great
+Wall of China and the Cordilleras. He could give no reason why. No more can
+I. Perhaps he felt that light literature, paradoxical as it may seem, is
+always heavy, and so his mind ran on the prodigious freaks of man and
+nature.
+
+After the clerk had finished calling off from the slip of paper, that
+promising young gentleman suddenly discovered that Mr. Hardwill was _not_
+engaged, and offered to conduct our friend into his august presence.
+Mortimer gathered up his heart, as it were, and his loosened manuscript at
+the same moment--"Her heart and morning broke together!"--and followed the
+clerk through an avenue of literature, to a snug inner office--that
+literary Sebastopol, which is forever being stormed by seedy poets and
+their allies, historians, romancers, and strong-minded Eves.
+
+Could it be possible?
+
+Was that middle-sized, dark-eyed, light-haired, pleasant-looking man the
+Napoleon of publishers? However, there was something shrewd in his dark
+eye, or rather eyes--for he had two of them--and a certain expression of
+the mouth, which seemed full of dealings with the world.
+
+"Is this Mr. Hardwill?" asked Mortimer.
+
+"Yes, sir. Will you be seated?"
+
+"I have a romance," commenced Mortimer, with hesitation, "which I would
+offer you for publication. I have written it carefully, and I think it
+possesses several new features----"
+
+Here his voice broke down, for he felt those dark, scrutinizing eyes in his
+face; besides, the intense attention with which he was listened to
+disconcerted him. Mr. Hardwill came to his relief.
+
+"What is the title of your book?"
+
+"It is called 'Goldwood.'"
+
+"That is not happy."
+
+"No?"
+
+"No," said Mr. Hardwill, "it should be something striking--something to
+catch the eye in an advertisement. For instance, the--the----"
+
+"Frantic Father," suggested Mortimer, quietly; and he gazed at the carpet
+to keep from smiling.
+
+Mr. Hardwill eyed him, and displayed his white teeth. There was a little
+satire in our author's remark which pleased Mr. H., who could not be hired
+to read the spasmodic books which he published. It was policy in him to
+cater for that largest class of readers whose tastes are morbid or
+inflamed, and he did so.
+
+Mortimer had thrown aside his timidity. He gave a concise sketch of the
+plot, touching here and there on some supposed-to-be felicitous incident,
+and grew so autorially eloquent over his romance, that the careful Mr.
+Hardwill requested Mortimer to leave his manuscript with him, saying:
+
+"I cannot give you much hope. I have more books ready for press than I can
+well attend to. If you will call on me the latter part of next week, you
+shall have my decision."
+
+With these words, spoken in an off-hand, business-like way, Mr. Hardwill
+made a bow, which said, as kindly as such a thing _can_ be said, "You
+needn't stay any longer."
+
+Mortimer returned his bland smile frankly, and retired, though he would
+fain have called Mr. Hardwill's attention to that delightful and exciting
+scene in which Mr. Adine St. Clair meets Arabella Clementina after an
+estrangement of two weeks! but he didn't. He again threaded his way through
+the labyrinth of literature, and the last sound which fell on his ear, as
+he turned from the book-store into the street, was,
+
+"'The Ruined Cigar Girl,' twenty copies!"
+
+"What on earth could anybody want of a 'Ruined Cigar Girl,' or a 'Young
+Mother?'" and Mortimer laughed outright.
+
+The wand of Prospero is neither more cunning nor more powerful than the pen
+of a well bred author. It creates something out of nothing, (more
+frequently nothing out of something), changes time, place, and human
+nature; it lifts up the blue roofing of ocean, and gives you a glimpse of
+fish-life; and deeper still, shows you the coral forests of the Naiads, and
+their aquatic palaces. It draws back the curtain of cloud-land, and feeds
+your fancy with forms that never have been, and never will be; summons
+spirits from the air, and gives melodious voices to all vernal things.
+
+Pleasant magician that waves this wand! what curious people are walking in
+the chambers of your brain! What dreams are yours, and what cruel cuts this
+real world sometimes gives you! You have no right to be here, poor devil!
+You are somewhat misplanted; you belong to some sphere between earth and
+heaven, and not very near either. That such a place is provided for you I
+am certain. There it is that all your books will run through countless
+editions; there it is you can afford to hire some one to write your
+autograph for besieging admirers, and feed, as you should,
+
+    "On the roses, and lay in the lilies of life."
+
+But I was speaking of pen-magic. It is not my present mood to do anything
+fantastical in that way. I only wish to give you a sight of Mr. Flint, as
+he appeared one afternoon some months after Mortimer had left his office.
+He was standing in that inner-room of his counting-house to which I have
+introduced the reader. I change my mind--he was not standing. He had just
+thrown himself into a chair, in which he did not seem at all easy.
+
+I take peculiar delight in placing Mr. Flint in uncomfortable positions.
+
+He was surprised, alarmed, and angry. He missed the forged check and the
+morocco case which he had watched so many years. That they had been
+purloined, he could not doubt, and his keen thought fell on Mortimer. The
+loss of the check troubled him; he liked to look at it occasionally, for
+Snarle's sake; but the necklace--that gave him strange alarm.
+
+"Snake!" he hissed, "you have crawled into my affairs, and I'll tread on
+you--tread on you and kill you! You stole the check to save Snarle's name;
+and the necklace--why did you steal that? Was it valuable? Yes, that is it.
+I'll grind you in the dust. I'll put you in a prison, and let your
+brainless father look at you through the bars!"
+
+This humane idea caused Mr. Flint to rub his dry hands, and chuckle
+violently.
+
+"But"--here Mr. Flint's countenance fell. "If I do this, won't Walters ruin
+me with that unfortunate letter? O, I was a fool to write it; yet he would
+have murdered me if I had not."
+
+And Mr. Flint thought and thought.
+
+To obtain the letter was impossible. Walters might have left the city; even
+if he had not, there was a method in his madness which Flint knew he could
+not circumvent. He could not lose such a chance of crushing Mortimer as
+presented itself; and yet to attempt it while Walters had possession of the
+letter was unwise.
+
+Mr. Flint was in a brown study.
+
+He walked up and down his sanctum solemnly, neglecting to watch Tim and the
+book-keeper who had succeeded Mortimer. An half hour passed, and still he
+continued his walk and reverie, without any visible intention of stopping.
+His face lights up; he rubs his knuckles with ecstacy. He has got it! got
+it at last. He will have Mortimer arrested; he will have Mortimer's name
+suppressed, or give the newspapers a fictitious one. This will shield him
+from Walters, whose heart he will wring some of these days. Ah! that will
+be revenge.
+
+It may strike the ingenious reader as strange that Mortimer, having charge
+of Flint & Snarle's books, never came across his father's name. This would
+have been the case, and somewhat interfered with our novel, if Mortimer,
+when he applied for a clerkship with the firm, had not given Mr. Flint all
+the particulars of his life. For reasons best known to himself, Mr. Flint
+took every opportunity to strengthen Mortimer in the belief of his father's
+death, and every precaution to keep Walters from meeting him. Once, indeed,
+they stood face to face in the office; but, taking into consideration the
+number of years they had been separated, and the circumstances under which
+they met, it would have been most strange if a recognition had taken place.
+As to Mr. Snarle, being profoundly ignorant of Mortimer's early history, he
+could throw no light on Mortimer's mind; and everything worked to Flint's
+satisfaction. Every circumstance seemed to mould itself to his will.
+
+There is an evil spirit, and a very powerful one, that holds the wires
+which move some of us puppets. The good are made to take the humblest seats
+in the world's Synagogue, and the wily and the evil-hearted are clothed in
+purple, fed on honey, and throned in the highest places. There will be a
+surprising revolution some of these times.
+
+As Mr. Sparrow-grass would say, a revolution is "a good thing to have in
+the country."
+
+
+
+
+XII.
+
+    _Why, true, her heart was all humanity,
+    Her soul all God's; in spirit and in form,
+    Like fair. Her cheek had the pale, pearly pink
+    Of sea-shells, the world's sweetest tint, as though
+    She lived, one-half might deem, on roses sopped
+    In silver dew; she spoke as with the voice
+    Of spheral harmony which greets the soul,
+    When, at the hour of death, the saved one knows
+    His sister angel's near: her eye was as
+    The golden pane the setting sun doth just
+    Imblaze, which shows, till heaven comes down again,
+    All other lights but grades of gloom; her dark,
+    Long rolling locks were as a stream the slave
+    Might search for gold, and searching find._
+
+                                                FESTUS.
+
+XII.
+
+WHAT DAISY DID.
+
+    _The Arrest--Doubt and Love--Daisy and the Necklace--The Search--The
+    heart of Daisy Snarle._
+
+
+In an upper room of a miserable, dingy house which faced the spot where the
+old Brewery used to stand, Edward Walters sat one January evening reading
+the _Express_. There was one paragraph among the city items which he had
+read several times, and each reading seemed to strengthen a determination
+which had, at the first perusal, grown up with him.
+
+"Right or wrong, I'll do it!"
+
+With which words he folded the paper, and placed it in his pocket.
+
+Daisy, too, read the paragraph that night, and the blood rushed into her
+cheeks, then left them very pale.
+
+It was simply a police report--such as you read over your morning coffee,
+without thinking how many hearts may be broken by the sight of that little
+cluster of worn-out type. A young man, no name given, recently a clerk in
+the house of Messrs. Flint & Snarle, had been arrested on the charge of
+stealing a case of jewels from his employers.
+
+Daisy, with dry eyes, read it again and again. Dark doubt and trusting love
+were at conflict for a moment; for doubt had pride for its ally, and love
+was only love. But the woman conquered. Mortimer, who had been arrested
+early in the forenoon, found means to send Daisy a note, in which he simply
+said--"I am charged with stealing the necklace, but I am as guiltless of
+the crime as you, Daisy."
+
+Mrs. Snarle came in the room while our little heroine held the note in her
+hand.
+
+"Mother," said Daisy, averting her head, "Mortimer will not come home
+to-night."
+
+With this she threw the note into the fire, and left Mrs. Snarle alone,
+before the good lady asked any questions.
+
+"That's very odd!" soliloquized Mrs. Snarle, briefly.
+
+"You tell me that you are innocent," said Daisy, looking at a small
+portrait of Mortimer which hung over the fire-place--"I do not question, I
+only believe you!"
+
+And then Daisy did a very strange thing, and yet it was very like Daisy.
+She untied the brown ribbon which bound her dark lengths of hair, allowing
+them to fall over her shoulders; then she braided the string of pearls with
+her tresses, and brought the whole in a beautiful band over her forehead.
+And she looked like a little queen with this coronal of jet and pearl
+shading her brows.
+
+Daisy next picked the jewel-case to pieces, and threw the minute shreds
+into the street. This was scarcely done, when the door-bell rang
+impatiently.
+
+The girl peeped from the window.
+
+The two men at the door-step were not to be mistaken. Daisy's fingers
+trembled as she undid the fastenings of the door.
+
+"We have orders to search this house, miss," said one of the officers,
+touching the vizor of his cap respectfully.
+
+Daisy choked down a sob, and led them with an unnatural calmness from room
+to room.
+
+Every place in the little house was investigated, but in vain; no necklace
+was to be found. Yet twice the breath of one of the searchers fell on the
+pearls in Daisy's hair. The two officers left the house in evident chagrin.
+
+When they had gone, the girl sat on the stairs and sobbed.
+
+Happily for her wishes, Mrs. Snarle had been absent during the search; and
+thus far had been kept in ignorance of Mortimer's disgrace. But Daisy could
+not hope to keep it a secret from her long, for they both would probably be
+summoned as witnesses in open court. The thought of giving evidence against
+Mortimer went through Daisy's heart like an intense pain. It terrified her,
+and her warm little heart was floating on tears all day.
+
+The cloud which had fallen on her seemed to have no silver lining; all was
+cold, black and sunless. But there is no mortal wound to which some unseen
+angel does not bring a balm--
+
+    "There are gains for all our losses!"
+
+Daisy remembered Mortimer's words: _"Promise that you will not doubt me,
+whatever may occur in connection with this necklace--that you will love
+me, though I may be unable to explain condemning circumstances, or dispel
+the doubts of others_"--and the words came to her freighted with such hope
+and tenderness, that her sleep that night was deep and refreshing. Doubt
+had folded its wings in the heart of Daisy Snarle.
+
+
+
+
+XIII.
+
+  LUDWICK.--_Now here's a man half ruined by ill luck,
+    As true a man as breathes the summer air._
+
+  LAUNCELOT.--_Ill luck, erratic jade! but yesterday
+    She might have made him king!_
+
+                                             OLD PLAY.
+
+XIII.
+
+IN THE TOMBS.
+
+    _The Author's Summer Residence--The Egyptian Prison--Without and
+    Within--A Picture--Sunshine in Shadow--Joe Wilkes and his unique
+    Proposal--Gloomy Prospects--The face at the cell-window._
+
+
+There is not a pleasanter place in the world for a summer residence than
+Blackwell's Island! The chief edifices are substantial, and the grounds are
+laid out with exceeding care. The water-scape is delightfully invigorating,
+and the sojourners at this watering-place are not of that transient class
+which one finds at Nahant, Newport, and other pet resorts. Indeed, it is
+usual to spend from six to eight months on the "Island," and one has the
+advantage of contracting friendships which are not severed at the first
+approach of the "cold term"--for the particulars of which "cold term," see
+that funny old _savant_ of Brooklyn Heights, who has a facetious way of
+telling us that it has been raining, after the shower is over.--Bless him!
+
+Such institutions as "Blackwell's Island" are godsends to the _literati_. A
+poor devil of an author, who has a refined taste for suburban air, but
+whose finances preclude his dreaming of Nahant, has only to mix himself up
+in a street fight, or some other interesting city episode, to be entitled
+to a country-seat at the expense of his grateful admirers! Owing to a
+little oversight on his part, the author of this veracious history took a
+passage for "Blackwell's Island" a trifle earlier in the season than he had
+anticipated; and it is at that delightful region these pages are indited.
+
+But the Tombs--heaven save us from that!
+
+There are many pleasanter places in New-York than the Tombs; for that
+clumsy piece of Egyptian architecture--its dingy marble walls, its
+nail-studded doors and sickening atmosphere--is uncommonly disagreeable as
+a dwelling. Many startling tragedies have been enacted there--scenes of
+eternal farewells and lawful murders. I could not count on my fingers the
+number of men who have entered its iron gates full of life, and come out
+cold, still and dreadful!
+
+It was here that Mortimer was brought.
+
+Within, all was sombre and repulsive. Without, there was hum of voices, and
+the frosty rails which ran in front of the prison creaked dismally as the
+heavy freight cars passed over them; but these sounds of life were not
+heard inside.
+
+The cell of Mortimer and its occupants, the morning after his arrest,
+presented a scene of gloomy picturesqueness.
+
+Through a grated window, some six feet from the stone floor, a strip of
+sunshine came and went, falling on Mortimer, who leaned thoughtfully
+against the damp wall. The room, if we may call it one, was devoid of
+furniture, with the exception of a low iron bedstead, whose straw-stuffed
+mattress and ragged coverlid suggested anything but sleep. Daisy Snarle was
+standing with downcast eyes near the door which a few minutes before had
+closed on its creaking hinges, and outside of which the jailor stood
+listening.
+
+The long, dark lashes were resting on her cheek; the pearls of the
+necklace, which gleamed here and there in the queenly braid, looked whiter
+by contrast with Daisy's chestnut hair. In one hand she had gathered the
+folds of her shawl, the other hung negligently at her side. From beneath
+the skirt of her simple dress, peeped one of the loveliest feet ever seen,
+and her whole attitude was unconsciously exquisite. She had just ceased
+speaking, and the faintest possible tinge of crimson was on her cheeks.
+
+"Daisy, you are one of God's good angels, or you would never have come to
+me in this repulsive place."
+
+Daisy's eyes were still bent on the floor.
+
+"Speak to me again, Daisy," said Mortimer, taking her hand. "Your voice
+gives me heart, and your words make me forget everything but you."
+
+Daisy lifted her dreamy hands, and said, softly:--"They could not find it."
+
+"Could not find what, Daisy?"
+
+"The necklace," said Daisy, smiling.
+
+"No," she continued, in a low, musical voice, "they searched in all the
+rooms, in all the trunks--turned over your papers and mother's
+work-basket--but they could not find it."
+
+And Daisy smiled again.
+
+"Where was it, Daisy?"
+
+"Here!"
+
+And Daisy, smiling all the while, lifted Mortimer's hand in hers, and
+placed it on the braid of hair.
+
+Mortimer started.
+
+"O, Daisy! Daisy! why did you do that?"
+
+The little foot tapped gently on the stone floor.
+
+"Because," said Daisy, dropping her eyes, "because, when I read your note
+yesterday, I doubted you for a moment: but when I looked at the portrait in
+your room, I believed you; and I hid the necklace in my hair, and came to
+ask your pardon."
+
+"Let any misfortune come to me, darling!" said Mortimer, touched with this
+ingenious act, "let come what will, I am strong! As sure as little Bell
+looks down from Heaven, you do not wear a stolen necklace. How it came into
+my hands I cannot tell, without wronging the dead. But, Daisy, it was
+imprudent for you to run this risk."
+
+"Oh, no; they hunted for something hidden, and could not see what was
+before their eyes," replied Daisy, giving a quick, low laugh, and then she
+grew thoughtful again.
+
+"But if they _had_ seen it, Daisy?"
+
+"Well."
+
+"You would have been implicated in this unhappy affair to your certain
+ruin, without benefiting me. You must leave the necklace here."
+
+"But I won't!"
+
+This time the pretty little foot was set firmly on the flagging.
+
+The jailor, who had been an attentive listener to the foregoing
+conversation, thrust his hands into the capacious pockets of his overcoat
+with the bearing of a man who is completely satisfied.
+
+"I knowed it," he said, emphatically; "the boy is misfortunate somehow, and
+the young girl's a trump--_she_ is. Lord help 'em! But time's up, and I
+must stop their talk."
+
+With this the man tapped on the door. Mortimer held Daisy in his arms for a
+moment, and then sat down on the bed.
+
+Daisy was gone, and it seemed as if the sunlight had gone with her, the
+cell grew so gloomy to the prisoner.
+
+"Young man," said the jailor, with a solemn look, "the young lady is very
+unprudent to go circumventing round with that necklace twisted up on the
+top ov her skull--_she_ is."
+
+Mortimer groaned.
+
+"You heard all, then, and you will betray us!"
+
+"Part ov what you say _is_ true," returned the man, bluntly, "and part
+isn't. I heard yer talk, but my name _isn't_ Joe Wilkes ef I blow on yer!"
+
+Mortimer looked at the ruddy, honest face of Joe Wilkes, and gave him his
+hand.
+
+"I believe you, my good man."
+
+That individual appeared to be turning something over in his mind which
+refused to be turned over.
+
+"Them keys, young man," he said at length, drawing forth from his pocket a
+bunch weighing some four pounds, "opens the door at the end ov the passage,
+and this one opens the street gate; now jist take that bit ov wood and bang
+me on one side ov my hed--not savagely, you know, but jist enough to
+flatten me, and make me look stunned--like----"
+
+At this novel proposition Mortimer broke into a loud laugh, but Mr. Wilkes
+was in earnest, and insisted on being "flattened."
+
+"I couldn't think of it, Mr. Wilkes!" cried Mortimer, weak with laughter;
+"I couldn't strike you systematically; I should be certain to demolish your
+head."
+
+And Mr. Wilkes retired, perforce, with the air of an injured man.
+
+Mortimer sat on the edge of the bed reflecting on the strange chain of
+circumstances which had placed him in his present position, and boldly
+facing the fact of how little chance he had of escaping Mr. Flint's malice.
+The excitement attending his arrest had passed away, and the reality of his
+utter helplessness came full upon him. For himself he dreaded little, for
+no punishment for a supposed crime, however disgraceful, could make him
+guilty; but a prolonged imprisonment would leave Daisy and Mrs. Snarle
+without means of support. This caused him more anxiety than the thought of
+any suffering attendant on his conviction.
+
+More than this troubled him. It was Daisy's devotion. He had, indeed,
+wished her to believe him innocent, but his generous mind revolted at
+holding her to promises made in happier moments. He could not make Daisy
+his wife while a blemish remained on his honor; and the circumstances
+relative to the forged check, with which the reader is conversant, he could
+not think of revealing, for Snarle's dying words haunted him strangely.
+
+While Mortimer was thus meditating, two hands grasped the iron bars of the
+window, which was directly opposite the bed, and a moment afterwards a
+man's head threw a shadow into the cell.
+
+Mortimer, absorbed in thought, had failed to notice it.
+
+The first expression of the face was that of mere curiosity; this was
+followed by a startled look, and then an intense emotion distorted the
+features. The face grew deathly pale, and the eyeballs glowed into the
+cell, more resembling those of a wild-cat than a human being's.
+
+A deep groan came from the window, and the head disappeared
+instantaneously.
+
+Mortimer looked up and glanced around the narrow room suspiciously, and
+then smiled to think how his fancy had cheated him.
+
+The face was Edward Walters.
+
+
+
+
+XIV.
+
+    _Where more is meant than meets the ear._
+
+                                IL PENSEROSO.
+
+XIV.
+
+A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING.
+
+    _The Strange Visit--The Lawyer--Walter and Mr. Flint--The Clouds--A
+    Strip of Sunshine--Mortimer._
+
+
+About two hours after the incident related at the close of our last
+chapter, Edward Walters stepped from the door of Mrs. Snarle's house,
+waving his hand kindly to Daisy, who stood on the steps, and watched him
+till he turned out of Marion-street.
+
+But we must turn back a little.
+
+After leaving the Tombs, our friend went in search of Mortimer's residence,
+actuated by an impulse which he neither attempted to control nor
+understand--an impulse like that which had prompted him to visit the
+prison. He was led into the little parlor by Mrs. Snarle, to whom he
+represented himself as one deeply interested in the misfortunes of
+Mortimer, and desirous of assisting him. His own astonishment surpassed
+that of Mrs. Snarle, when he found her entirely ignorant of the arrest.
+While he was speaking, and Mrs. Snarle--who stood with her hand on the back
+of a chair, from which she had just risen--was regarding him with a vacant
+stare, Daisy stepped into the room, without knowing that it was occupied.
+
+Edward Walters ceased speaking, and fixed his eyes on what, to him, seemed
+an apparition. He had seen that pale, pensive face in his dreams for years.
+It had followed him out to sea, and in far lands where he sought to avoid
+it. He arose from the sofa, and approached Daisy with hesitating steps, as
+if he were afraid she would vanish into thin air before he reached her.
+Daisy shrunk from him, and looked inquiringly at her mother. Walters laid
+his hand on the girl's arm.
+
+"Sometimes," he said, looking her full in the eyes--"sometimes the mind
+wanders back to childhood, and we have visions of pleasant fields and
+familiar places. Something we had forgotten comes back to us in
+shadow--voices, faces, incidents! Did you ever see a snow-storm in your
+thought?"
+
+Daisy started as if in sudden pain.
+
+Walters watched the effect of his question with unconcealed emotion.
+
+"Yes," said Daisy, lifting up her eyes wonderingly.
+
+"I knew it," said the man, abstractedly, taking Daisy's hand.
+
+The girl drew back in fear, and Mrs. Snarle stepped between them.
+
+"My words seem strange, lady; but I knew her when she was a babe."
+
+And he turned his frank face to Daisy.
+
+"What do you know of me?" cried Daisy, grasping his arm eagerly.
+
+"Everything."
+
+"O, sir, do not deal in mystery! If you know aught of this child's life, in
+mercy speak!" and Mrs. Snarle caught his hand.
+
+"I can tell nothing now."
+
+And with this he abruptly put on his hat, strode into the hall and out of
+the front door, waving his hand to Daisy, who, as we have said, stood on
+the steps, and watched him till he was out of sight.
+
+We will leave Mrs. Snarle and Daisy to their astonishment, and follow on
+the quick foot-steps of our marine friend, to whom that day seemed crowded
+with wonderful events.
+
+It did not take long for Walters to reach Wall-street, where he
+disappeared in one of those many law offices which fringe that somewhat
+suspected and much-abused locality. On the door through which Mr. Walters
+passed was a tin sign, bearing, in gilt letters,
+
+[Illustration: J. G. BURBANK, _Attorney at Law._]
+
+What transpired between him and that gentleman we will leave to the
+surmises of the reader. After being closeted for an hour in a room whose
+only furniture consisted of one or two green baize-covered tables, piled
+with papers, and a book-case crowded with solid-looking volumes, our friend
+turned his thoughtful face toward the office of Messrs. Flint & Snarle.
+
+Mr. Flint looked up from his writing, and found Edward Walters quietly
+seated beside him. They had not met since the interview we described at Mr.
+Flint's house; and the captain's presence at the present time was not a
+thing to be desired by Mr. Flint. The visit looked ominous. Whatever doubts
+he entertained respecting its object were immediately dispelled.
+
+"I read the arrest in yesterday's paper," said Walters.
+
+Flint, with an effort, went on writing.
+
+"And this morning I visited the boy in his cell."
+
+"Well!" cried Flint, nervously.
+
+"And I found my son, John Flint!"
+
+Mr. Flint found himself cornered, and, like a rat or any small animal, he
+grew cowardly desperate.
+
+"You found a thief, sir--a miserable thief."
+
+We will do Mr. Flint the justice to say that he considered Mortimer in that
+light.
+
+"I am not sure of that," was the calm reply. "A man may be in prison, and
+yet be no felon; and I should doubt the guilt of any man whom _you_
+persecuted. But I did not come here to quarrel. The boy is my son, and he
+must be released."
+
+"_Must_ be, Mr. Walters!"
+
+"I think I said so."
+
+Flint regarded him with his cold, cynical smile.
+
+"John Flint, there is nothing I would not do to serve the boy. There is
+nothing I will not do to crush you if you persist in convicting him. I do
+not know that he is innocent--I do not know that he is worthy of my love. I
+only know that he is my child."
+
+There was an agony in the tone with which these words were spoken that was
+music to Mr. Flint. He smiled that undertaker's smile of his.
+
+"The law must take its course," he said. "It is impossible to stop
+_that_."
+
+"Not so. The examination takes place this afternoon. If you do not appear
+against him, Mortimer will be discharged. You have forgotten that I have
+_the letter_."
+
+"Stop!" cried Flint, as Walters turned to the door, and he assumed his
+usual, fawning, hypocritical air.
+
+"If I do as you wish, what then?"
+
+"You shall have the letter."
+
+"What assurance have I of that?"
+
+"My word."
+
+"Is that all?" said Flint. "Would you take mine, in such a case?"
+
+"No," replied Walters, with delightful candor. "Your word is worthless.
+Mine was never broken. Do we understand each other?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"There must be another stipulation."
+
+"What is it?"
+
+"You are not to mention my name to Mortimer. He does not know of my
+existence."
+
+"I shall not be likely to meet him," returned Flint, a little surprised. "I
+thought you had seen him."
+
+"I did--through the bars of his cell."
+
+And Mr. Flint was left alone in no enviable state of mind. So absorbed was
+he in his disappointment, that Tim several times that afternoon whistled
+snatches from "Poor Dog Tray," with impunity.
+
+The twilight came stealing into the room in which Mrs. Snarle and Daisy
+were sitting. The food on the supper table remained untouched. Neither of
+them had spoken for the last half hour; the twilight grew denser and
+denser, and the shadows on their faces deepened. Daisy had told her mother
+all--the search of the officers for the necklace, her visit to the Tombs,
+and Mortimer's protestation of innocence. Mrs. Snarle never doubted it for
+a moment; but she saw how strong their evidence might be against him.
+
+"God only knows how it will end, Daisy."
+
+"As God wills it, mother!"
+
+As these words were said, a shadow fell across the entry, and a pair of
+arms was thrown tenderly around Daisy's neck.
+
+"Mortimer!"
+
+
+
+
+XV.
+
+    QUIN.--_Is all our company here?_
+
+            MID-SUMMER'S NIGHT DREAM.
+
+XV.
+
+IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES.
+
+    _A Picture--The Lawyer's Note--Mr. Hardwill once more--The Scene at
+    the Law Office--Mr. Flint Hors du Combat--Face to Face._
+
+
+"Mortimer!"
+
+That was all Daisy said.
+
+The candles were lighted, the dim, sad twilight driven out of the room, and
+a happy trio sat around the supper table. Mrs. Snarle smoothed her silk
+apron complacently; Daisy's eyes and smiles were full of silent happiness;
+and Mortimer, in watching the variations of her face, all so charming,
+forgot the misfortunes which had so recently threatened him.
+
+Daisy gave Mortimer an account of the unknown's strange visit; and,
+inexplicable to himself, Mortimer connected it in some way with his
+unexpected release.
+
+Soon after Mrs. Snarle had retired, the lovers sat in the little room,
+which was only lighted by a pleasant fire in the grate. Wavering fingers of
+flame drew grotesque pictures on the papered walls; then a thin puff of
+smoke would break the enchantment, and the fire-light tracery fled into the
+shadows of the room.
+
+It was a delicate picture.
+
+Mortimer was sitting at Daisy's feet, playing with the fingers of a very
+diminutive and dainty hand; Daisy was bending over him; and as the glow
+from the fire came and went in their eyes, one could see that a long brown
+tress of Daisy's hair rested on Mortimer's.
+
+What if their lips touched?
+
+"O!" cried Daisy, drawing back, "a note was left here this afternoon, while
+you were in----"
+
+"The Tombs," finished Mortimer, smiling.
+
+"Yes," replied Daisy. "I was afraid to open it, though."
+
+"Were you?"
+
+"Yes," she said, laughing. "I thought it might be from that charming young
+lady whom you assisted to cross Broadway last month; and of whom you speak
+so pleasantly when I am the least bit out of humor."
+
+And the girl looked at him quizzically with her impudent eyes.
+
+Mortimer, by kneeling close to the fire, was enabled to read the note.
+
+"That is strange--read it, Daisy."
+
+Daisy read:
+
+  "SIR,--By calling at my office, No. ---- Wall-street, to-morrow, at
+  4 P. M., you will learn something of importance. It is necessary that
+  Mrs. Snarle and her daughter should accompany you.
+
+                                       "Respectfully,
+                                              "J. C. BURBANK,
+                                                   "_Attorney at Law._"
+
+About the same hour that evening, Mr. Flint received a communication of
+similar import, after reading which, he said:
+
+"Hum!" and thrust the note into his vest-pocket.
+
+Hum, indeed, Mr. Flint. There was something in store for you.
+
+The next morning Mortimer bethought himself of his "Romance," and directed
+his steps toward the sanctum of Mr. Hardwill.
+
+He found that gentleman talking with three new geniuses in pantelets, who
+were attempting to convince the great Pub of his mistake in refusing to
+"bring out" a pregnant-looking manuscript which the authoress was holding
+in her hand with a tenderness that was touching to behold.
+
+When they had retired, Mr. Hardwill extended his hand to Mortimer.
+
+"Sharp young man," he said, displaying his white teeth. "You didn't wish to
+appear anxious about your book; I was on the point of sending for you. You
+were to have called on me three days since. Well, sir, I like the story."
+
+Mortimer bowed.
+
+"Did you read it all, sir?"
+
+"I? Not a line of it," returned Mr. Hardwill. "I never look at anything but
+the size of the manuscript."
+
+"Then you buy by the _weight_," said Mortimer, smiling.
+
+"Not precisely. I never publish anything of less than four hundred pages.
+As to weight, I sometimes find a MS. of the right size altogether too
+heavy; but yours is not, my reader says."
+
+"Your reader, sir?"
+
+"Yes, I am a mere business man," quoth Mr. Hardwill, explanatorily. "I
+seldom read my publications. I merely sell them--sometimes I don't do
+_that_. I have a reader who looks over sizeable MSS., and I abide by his
+judgment."
+
+"Ah!"
+
+"He is a man of fine scholarship and literary attainments."
+
+Mr. Hardwill might have added--"and has the sway of 'The Morning Rabid' and
+'The Evening Twilight,'" but he did not.
+
+Arrangements were made to publish "Goldwood," with the euphonious and
+"striking title" of "Picklebeet Papers." Now, whether "Picklebeet" was a
+vegetable in vinegar, or the name of some charming country-place, I cannot
+say; but "Picklebeet," whatever it was, had as much to do with the contents
+of the book as the biography of my reader's grandmother.
+
+On what terms the "Picklebeet Papers" were published, concern neither the
+reader nor myself; but, while remarking, _en passant_, that the book, owing
+to some extraordinary freak on the part of the public, never went to a
+"second edition," we will fix the hands of the city clock to suit
+ourselves.
+
+It is 4 P. M.
+
+Without further preamble, we will lead the reader (mine, not Mr.
+Hardwill's) to Mr. Burbank's law office, at which place the threads of our
+story become somewhat disentangled. We are not sorry at this, (we doubt if
+the reader is,) for there is a satisfaction in rounding off a plot--in
+coming to the last page, where the author can write "FINIS"--which no one
+but a scribbler may know. But this pleasure is not a little touched with
+regret, as he sweeps the carefully-moved images from the chess-board of his
+brain, and tells you in those five letters that the game is finished.
+
+The personages in the law office are not strangers to us, if we except the
+lawyer.
+
+Mrs. Snarle and Daisy, with their veils down, are sitting in the back part
+of the room, and Mortimer stands behind them, speaking in a low voice to
+Daisy.
+
+Edward Walters is seated at a desk, the screen around which prevents him
+from being observed by the first-described group.
+
+Mr. Burbank, a dark-eyed, large-mouthed man, occupies a table in the centre
+of the apartment, near which is a chair for Mr. Flint, who has not yet made
+his appearance.
+
+This was the position of the parties on Mr. Flint's entrance.
+
+The merchant gave the lawyer three bony fingers, bestowed a stiff,
+surprised bow on Mortimer, and glanced suspiciously around him, evidently
+not liking the company he was in.
+
+Mr. Flint glanced inquiringly at the lawyer.
+
+"As all the parties concerned in this meeting are present," commenced the
+devotee of Blackstone, "I will at once proceed to business. You are too
+much of a business man, Mr. Flint, to require a prelude to interrogations
+which will explain themselves."
+
+Mr. Flint looked very doubtful.
+
+The lawyer ran his fingers through a crop of shaggy hair with professional
+dignity.
+
+"It is something over twenty years since your brother, Henry Flint, died,
+is it not?"
+
+The merchant nodded.
+
+"He left no heirs--I believe," continued the lawyer, with a delightful
+appearance of hesitation.
+
+"He left one child," said Flint, nervously. Mr. Flint did not like the turn
+which the conversation was taking.
+
+"Ah, yes! A daughter, if I remember correctly. Let me see, Maude Flint was
+the name."
+
+(This slight dialogue caused Daisy's breath to come and go quickly.)
+
+"Maude Flint!" she whispered hastily to Mortimer. "Listen! M. F.,--the
+initials in the necklace!"
+
+"I drew up the will at the time," said Mr. Burbank, thoughtfully; "but my
+memory has been tasked with more important things."
+
+He turned abruptly to Mr. Flint.
+
+"What became of this child--Maude?"
+
+"Died," returned Flint, briefly, with an uncomfortable air.
+
+"And the property----?"
+
+"Came to me--the child having no other relative," said Flint, rallying.
+
+The lawyer was silent for a moment.
+
+"Now, Mr. Flint, suppose I should tell you that your brother's child is
+still living, what would you say?"
+
+"I should say, sir," cried the startled merchant, springing to his feet, "I
+should say, sir, that it was a lie! I see through it all. This is a
+miserable conspiracy to force money from me. Your plot, sir, is
+transparent, and I see that snaky individual crawling at the bottom of it."
+He pointed at Mortimer. "But it won't do!" he thundered, "it _won't_ do!"
+
+"Of course it won't for you to get in a passion. The man who gets into a
+passion," continued Mr. Burbank, philosophically, "never acts with
+judgment. And what is the use, Mr. Flint? I am acquainted with all the
+circumstances of the child's disappearance; indeed, I have a full account
+of them in your own handwriting."
+
+Mr. Flint turned white.
+
+"This letter, which I shall give you by and by," said the man of law,
+"divulges a plot of villainy which heaven happily thought fit to prostrate;
+and I'll prove the truth of what I say."
+
+And the lawyer motioned for Daisy to approach him.
+
+She did so, mechanically.
+
+"This lady," said Mr. Burbank, smiling blandly, "is my first witness. Will
+you raise your veil?"
+
+Daisy complied with the request, and looked Mr. Flint in the face. Flint
+turned his eyes on her with such earnestness that she shrunk back. Then he
+staggered to a chair, and exclaimed involuntarily:
+
+"So help me God, it is Henry's child!"
+
+Edward Walters rested his hands on the desk, and looked over the baize
+screen.
+
+Mortimer stepped to Daisy's side.
+
+"This necklace," he said, in a trembling voice, "I return to the owner. It
+was my misfortune to take it by mistake, and it is happiness to return it
+to one who does not require any proof of my innocence."
+
+Daisy pressed his hand.
+
+"Let me go!" exclaimed Mr. Flint.
+
+"Presently, Mr. Flint. You must first witness the _denouement_ of our
+little drama."
+
+With this the lawyer turned to Mortimer, and handed him a paper.
+
+"What this fails to explain relative to your father, you must seek from his
+own lips."
+
+"My father!--his lips!"--repeated Mortimer, bewildered.
+
+He opened the paper.
+
+"My father! where is he?"
+
+"Mortimer!" cried Walters, pushing aside the screen.
+
+And they stood face to face.
+
+
+
+
+XVI.
+
+    _Our revels now are ended: these our actors,
+    As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
+    Are melted into air, thin air:
+    And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
+    The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
+    The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
+    Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
+    And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
+    Leave not a rack behind!_
+
+                                      SHAKESPEARE.
+
+XVI.
+
+THE OLD HOUSE BY THE SEA.
+
+    _Clap-Trap--John Flint--The Old House by the Sea--Joe Wilkes--Strephon
+    and Chloe--Tim Enjoying Himself--Edward Walters and Little Bell--A
+    Last Word._
+
+
+It is an artistic little weakness we scribblers have of seducing our
+dramatis personae into _tableaux vivants_, and deserting them abruptly. In a
+story of this kind, which depends rather on action than fine writing for
+interest, this species of autorial clap-trap is very effective, if cleverly
+done. So we will make no excuse for leaving _nuestros amigos_ at the
+lawyer's office, and drawing a green curtain, as it were, on the actors of
+this humble comedy.
+
+Some six years are supposed to have elapsed since the drop-scene fell on
+our last act.
+
+From this out our story is rather a pantomime than a play. We give pictures
+and figures, instead of dialogues and soliloquies. Will the reader follow
+us?
+
+I.
+
+Time has not touched Mr. Flint gently. His hair is grayer, his step more
+feeble, and his eyes have a lack-lustre look. His cravat is whiter and
+stiffer, if possible, than ever; and he looks more religious. God grant
+that he is so. But we doubt it. For to such as he, nor April, with its
+purple-mouthed violets, nor red ripe summer, with its wealth of roses, nor
+the rich fruit-harvest of autumnal suns, bring wisdom's goodness. The
+various months teach him no lesson. Let him go. He came like a shadow into
+our plot, so let him depart. He is not a myth, however, but flesh and blood
+mortality; and though we have only outlined his weakness--his love of gold,
+his cold, intriguing spirit--yet the sketch is such that, if he looks at
+it, he will have the felicity of seeing himself as others see him!
+
+II.
+
+It is a day in June, an hour before sunset. The lanes leading to an old
+house situated between Ivyton and the sea, are fringed with pink peach
+blossoms, and the air is freighted with their odors. The violets, with dew
+in their azure eyes, peep from every possible nook; and those sweet peris
+of the summer wood, wild roses, are grouping everywhere. Surely Titania has
+been in this spot, breathing exquisite beauty upon the flowers, or,
+perhaps, Flora's dainty self. The blue-bells, these yellow-chaliced
+butter-cups, are fit haunts for fairies, and, perchance, wild Puck, or
+Prospero's good Ariel has been slumbering in them. But let us draw near to
+the fine old house which stands in this new Eden. It was here that we first
+met the little castle-builders--the child Bell and Mortimer. The place is
+not changed much. The same emerald waves break on the white beach; the same
+cherry-trees are spreading their green tresses, and the simple church-yard
+sleeps, as it used, in sunshine and shadow.
+
+The house has been newly painted, and the fresh green blinds make one feel
+a sense of shade and coolness. The garden in front has been re-made with a
+careful eye to its old beauties. The white pebbled walks, the strawberry
+and clover beds, the globes of pansies, and the clambering honeysuckle
+vines, are all as they were years ago. Even the groups of wild roses, by
+the door, bud and bloom as if the autumn winds had never beaten them down.
+
+We shall accuse the reader with having a bad memory, if he does not
+recognise Joe Wilkes in the stalwart form and honest face of the gardener,
+who occupies himself with tying up a refractory vine, which persists in
+running wild over the new summer-house. It is he, indeed--the whilome
+jailor of the Tombs, who has laid aside his ponderous prison-keys, and
+taken up the shovel and the hoe.
+
+III.
+
+Two persons are standing at the "round window," where Bell and her brother
+used to linger, dreamily, in the twilights of long ago. The rays of the
+setting sun glance over the waves, and fall on the faces of Mortimer and
+Daisy--Daisy Snarle no more, but little Maude Walters. Their honey-moon has
+been of six years' duration, and to such as they, that sweet moon of
+tenderness never wanes, but runs from full to full--never new and never
+old! Strephon woos Chloe as of yore. The lover, as in some antique picture,
+is ever kneeling at the feet of his mistress, and she, through the
+gathering of years, looks down on him with the olden tenderness and the
+April blushes of womanhood! To such as they, life plays on a dulcimer. The
+golden age is not dead to them. They see the shepherd Daphnis seated on the
+slopes of AEtna, and hear him pipe to the nymph Eschenais. This "bank-note
+world," to them, is Arcady, and their lives are sweet and simple as
+pastoral hymns!
+
+But we, the author of this MS., are growing pastoral ourselves, and Heaven
+forbid that we should venture into a field which one of our poets has
+recently brought into disrepute by his indifferent blank verse.
+
+Mortimer, leaning on the sill of the window, is looking at Daisy, who
+stands a little in the background, with that kissable white hand of hers
+shading the sun from as dangerous a pair of black eyes as ever looked "no"
+when they meant "yes." She is watching a speck of a boat, which is dancing
+up and down on the waves like a cork. Mortimer has just brought a telescope
+to bear on the distant object, and we, with that lack of good-breeding
+which has characterized all romancers from time immemorial, will look over
+his shoulder. The delighted occupant of the boat is that audacious fellow,
+Tim, who has taken a trip up to Ivyton from the great city, to spend a week
+with "Mr. Mortimer." It may be well to say that Tim--Timothy Jones, Esq.,
+Mr. Reader--has ceased to have a proclivity for the "machine;" and
+now-a-days, the City Hall alarm bell never disturbs his equanimity. Indeed,
+he is so metamorphosed by time and a respectable tailor, that the gentle
+reader stands in some danger of not recognizing him at all. Hence the
+above formal introduction. Just notice the set of those cream-colored
+pants, falling without a wrinkle over those mirror-like patent leathers,
+and the graceful curve of that Shanghai over the hips! Just notice! And
+more than all, that incipient _moustache_, which only the utmost
+perseverance on the part of Tim and _Mr. Phalon_ has coaxed out into
+mundane existence!
+
+The writer of this veritable history has a great mind to drown Tim for his
+impudence; but as that young gentleman has a good situation in a
+Front-street commission-house, he refrains, for a capsize a mile from land
+would considerably interfere with Young America's prospects.
+
+IV.
+
+CAPTAIN EDWARD WALTERS sits on the door-step of the old house; and through
+a curtain of honeysuckle vines, which he draws aside, is watching the
+fawn-like motions of
+
+    "A six years loss to Paradise!"
+
+Is it little Bell come back again? It is very like her. Walters thinks so,
+as the child runs from flower to flower like a golden-belted bee, and a
+mist comes over his fine eyes, and he can scarcely see his grandchild for
+tears.
+
+His lips move, and perhaps he is saying: "Little Bell! Little Bell!"
+
+And he thinks of the angel whom he left years ago, playing on the
+_partarre_, in front of the gate. He hears her clear, crystal laugh, and
+sees her golden ringlets floating among the flowers, and cannot tell if
+they be curls or sunshine!
+
+The child in the garden resembles the dead Bell as one white lily does
+another. She has the same wavy tresses, shading the same dreamy eyes, with
+their longing, languid expression. Her form has the _abandon_ of childhood,
+with a certain shadow of dignity that is charming. She is very fragile and
+spiritual; and it seems to us as if Heaven, in moulding the child, had
+hesitated whether to make her an Angel or a Flower, and so gave her the
+better parts of each!
+
+Let us take one more look at her sweet young face--
+
+    "A thing of beauty is a joy forever!
+    Its loveliness increases; it will never
+    Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
+    A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
+    Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing."
+
+Little Bell holds an armful of lilacs against her bosom; and, with her eyes
+running over with childish merriment, trips toward the house; but two arms
+stretching out from the vines catch her. She utters a pretty scream, and
+then sits quietly on Walters' knee. He kisses her laughingly; but his face
+grows serious as his eyes fall on a string of almond-shaped pearls which
+encircle the child's delicate neck; on the innocent white bosom lies a
+
+[Illustration: Cross]
+
+It is DAISY'S NECKLACE; that is WHAT CAME OF IT; and here, gentle reader,
+is
+
+    THE END OF THE CHAIN.
+
+
+
+
+EPILOGUE.
+
+    DON SEBASTIAN.--_You have no plot._
+
+    FABRICIO.--_But such characters! and every one is as true
+    as truth: copied right off from nature._
+
+    DON SEBASTIAN.--_Badly done, sir Poet._
+
+                                                LOPE DE VEGA.
+
+EPILOGUE.
+
+
+"What a mournful glory falls upon the October woods! It seems as if a
+broken rain-bow were strained through a sieve of gray clouds, and sprinkled
+over the crisp leaves. Ochre, vermillion, dappled russet, and all rare
+tintings! And then the wind that rushes so gloriously through the
+woodlands, bearing with it a rich, earthy smell, and scattering the purple
+wealth, the hoarded gold of the autumnal days! Pleasant Forest, with your
+oaken harps! Pleasant little Town, lying quietly in sunshine and
+moonlight--how sad I was to leave ye! Pleasant River, that stealest up from
+the sea, past the fort and into the old weather-beaten seaport
+town--crawling lazily among the rotting piers of deserted wharves, then
+gliding off through the shaky bridge, squirming and curveting into a world
+of greenery, like a great serpent with an emerald back! And the girls!
+Village belles, rustic flirts--eyes, lips, shady curls, white hands, little
+feet, enchanting pouts--ah, me!
+
+    "Pleasant it was when woods were green,
+    And winds were soft and low--"
+
+This rhapsodical soliloquy was interrupted one fine October morning, two
+days after my return from the sea-side, by a voice there was no mistaking.
+It was Barescythe, who startled Mrs. Muggins with the following pertinent
+inquiry:
+
+"Prolific producer of sea-prodigies, is Ralph at home?"
+
+I could not see Mrs. Muggins' face, for that good soul was standing at the
+foot of the stairs; but I knew her feelings were injured, and I hastened
+out of my room to prevent any verbal combat that might ensue.
+
+MRS. MUGGINS, (_after a long silence, and with some asperity_)--"What,
+sir?"
+
+BARESCYTHE, (_petulantly_)--"Is Ralph in, Sycorax?"
+
+What reply the "relick" of Joshua Muggins might have made to this
+interrogation, is only to be imagined; for I immediately "discovered"
+myself, to use a theatrical phrase, and led my solemn friend from hostile
+ground.
+
+"My dear Barry," said I, after greeting him cordially, "you shouldn't--"
+
+"Shouldn't what?"
+
+"Call Mrs. Muggins names."
+
+"Sycorax? She deserved it. Women are Cleopatras until they are thirty, then
+they are old witches with broomstick propensities! Don't interrupt me.
+Don't speak to me."
+
+I choked down a panegyric on Woman, for I knew that Barry was thinking of a
+cold, heartless piece of femininity that, years and years ago, forgot her
+troth to an honest man, and ran away with a moustache and twenty-four gilt
+buttons. I could never see why he regretted it, for Mrs. Captain Mary
+O'Donehugh never stopped growing till she could turn down a two hundred
+weight; and she looks anything but interesting, with her long file of
+little O'Donehughs--nascent captains and middies in the bud!
+
+I knew that Barescythe was not in a mood to be critically just, yet, for
+the sake of turning his thoughts into different channels, I glanced
+significantly at the MS. under his arm.
+
+"My Novel," I ventured.
+
+"Like the man in the play," said Barescythe, "the world should ask somebody
+to write it down an ass!"
+
+With which, he threw the manuscript on the table before me.
+
+His remark was uttered with such an air of logic, that I nodded assent, for
+I never disagree with logicians.
+
+"The world is wide-mouthed, long-eared, and stupid--it will probably like
+that affair of yours, though I doubt if the book sells."
+
+And Barry pointed to the curled up novel on the table.
+
+I bowed with, "I hope it will."
+
+"The world," he continued, "that gave Milton L10 for _Paradise Lost_, ought
+surely to be in ecstacies over DAISY'S NECKLACE."
+
+"Barry," said I, somewhat nettled, "is it my good nature, or your lack of
+it, that seduces you into saying such disagreeable things?"
+
+"Neither, Ralph, for I no more lack good nature than you possess it. But we
+won't quarrel. I am sore because the day of great books has gone by! Once
+we could boast of giant minds: we have only pigmies now."
+
+"But let them speak, Barry. There may be some among us that are not for a
+day. Who foresaw in the strolling player, in the wild, thoughtless Will
+Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon, the Dramatist of all time? Your pet
+Homer was a mendicant. Legions of our best poets were not acknowledged,
+until the brain that thought, was worn out, the hand that toiled, cold, and
+the lips that murmured, patient forever!
+
+    'So angels walked unknown on earth,
+    But when they flew were recognized!'
+
+What if my poor story is stale and flat beside the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Sir
+Walter Scott's genius? Barry, there is a little bird in our New-England
+woods known only by its pleasant chirp; yet who would break its amber bill
+because the nightingales in eastern lands warble so deliciously?"
+
+Barry laughed.
+
+"There you come, Ralph, with your bird-conceits! You flap the wings of some
+thread-bare metaphor in my face, and I cannot see for the feathers! You are
+not a man to argue with. Poetical men never are: they make up in sentiment
+what they lack in sense; and very often it happens that a bit of poetry is
+more than a match for a piece of logic. 'No more of that, Hal, an' thou
+lovest me.' Your book is a miserable one. All your voluble ingenuity
+cannot controvert _that_."
+
+Barry's better nature had slipped out of him for a moment into the
+sunshine, like a turtle's head; but it slipped back again, and the speech
+that commenced with a laugh ended with a snarl.
+
+"It shows," he said, rumpling the manuscript with a careless hand, "a want
+of Art. The construction of the tale is crude: the characters are all old
+friends with new names--broken down stage-horses with new harnesses--and
+the prose throughout is uneven. How can it be otherwise, since it is only
+an intolerable echo of Hood, Dickens, and Charles Reade? Your want of
+artistic genius is shown in taking three chapters to elaborate "little
+Bell," who has no kind of influence in working out the plot, and who dies
+conveniently at Chapter III. Your imitative proclivities are prominent in
+the chapter headed 'A Few Specimens of Humanity.' Was ever anything more
+like the author of 'The Old Curiosity Shop?' Your short, jerky sentences
+are modeled after Reade's 'Peg Woffington,' and 'Christie Johnstone,' or
+any of Dumas' thefts. As to the plot, _that_ is altogether too improbable
+and silly for serious criticism. And then the title, 'Daisy's
+Necklace'--'Betsy's Garter!'"
+
+"Ah, Barry, this is only Fadladeen and Feramorz over again! Do you
+remember that after all the strictures of the eastern _savant_, Feramorz
+turned out to be not only a Poet but a Prince? I could take you to be
+'Blackwood' slashing an American book, rather than a Yankee editor looking
+over a friend's virgin novel. You are like all critics, Barry. They ignore
+what might please them greatly if they had not their critical behavior on,
+and grow savage over that part of an author which they should speedily
+forget--like a dog on a country highway, that turns up his cold nose at the
+delicate hedge-blossoms, and growls over a decayed bone! So you find
+nothing to admire in my sixteen chapters?"
+
+"Not much."
+
+"Then say a good word for that little."
+
+"There are some lines, Ralph, some whole paragraphs, may be, that would be
+very fine in a poem; but in an every-day novel they are strikingly out of
+place. Your jewels, (heart-jewels I suppose you call 'em,) seem to me like
+diamonds on the bosom of a calicoed and untidy chambermaid. That
+sentimental chapter with 'The Dead Hope' caption, is quite as good as your
+blank verse, and I would wager a copy of Griswold's 'Poets of America,'
+against a doubtful three-cent piece, that you wrote it in rhyme--it's not
+very difficult, you know, to turn your poetry into prose. You needn't
+stare. In a word, your book is as tame as a sick kitten--I hate kittens:
+there's something diabolical in a yellow cat!"
+
+I nipped a smile in the bud, and said, quietly:
+
+"I intended to write a tame, simple domestic story. The facts are garnered
+from my own experience, and--"
+
+"Garnered from your maternal grandparent, Ralph! Very much I believe it.
+Very much anybody will. It's a wonder to me that you didn't call the book
+'Heart-life by an Anatomy'!"
+
+"I will acknowledge, Barescythe, that I have not done my best in this
+affair. 'Yet consider,' as Fabricio says in the play, ''twas done at a
+sitting: a single sitting, by all the saints! I will do better when I have
+those pistoles, and may use time.' Local tales of this school have been
+popular. I wrote mine to sell."
+
+"But it won't."
+
+"Why?"
+
+"Let's see. How many 'sunsets' have you in the book?"
+
+"Not many, I think."
+
+"That was an oversight. There should be one at the end of each
+chapter--twenty 'sunsets' at least. Then you have no seduction."
+
+"A seduction?" horrified.
+
+"Of course. What modern novel is complete without one? It gives a spicy
+flavor to the story. People of propriety like it. Prim ladies of an
+uncertain age always 'dote' on the gallant, gay Lothario, and wish that he
+wasn't so _very_ wicked!"
+
+And Barry raised his eye-brows, and broke out in such a clear, bell-like,
+canorous laugh--so contagious in its merriment, that I joined him; and I
+fancied I heard Mrs. Muggins beating a hasty retreat down the front stairs.
+It seems improbable to me that Mrs. Muggins had been listening at the
+key-hole of my door--respectable Mrs. Muggins.
+
+"Then, sir," said Barry, re-assuming his mock-serious air, "there should be
+a dreadful duel, in which the hero is shot in his hyacinthine curls, falls
+mortally wounded, dripping all over with gory blood, and is borne to his
+ladye-love on a shutter! You have none of these fine points. Then the names
+of your characters are absurdly commonplace. Mortimer Walters should be
+Montaldo St. Clare: Daisy Snarle, (how plebeian!) should be Gertrude
+Flemming: John Flint, Clarence Lester, and so on to the end of the text.
+How Mrs. Mac Elegant will turn up her celestial nose at a book written all
+about common people!"
+
+"Mrs. Mac Elegant be shot!" I exclaimed. I used to be sweet on Mrs. Mac
+Elegant, and Barescythe has a disagreeable way of referring to that
+delicate fact. "It was not for such as she I wrote. I sought to touch that
+finer pulse of humanity which throbs the wide world over. The sequel will
+prove whether or not I have failed."
+
+Barry laughed at my ill-concealed chagrin.
+
+"Barry," said I, carelessly, meditating a bit of revenge, and unfolding at
+the same time a copy of the 'Morning Glory,' "did you write the book
+criticisms in to-day's paper?"
+
+"Yes," returned Barry, coloring slightly.
+
+"They are very fine."
+
+Barry's blood went up to his forehead.
+
+"So consistent," I continued, "with what you have been saying. I have
+neither read '_The Scavenger's Daughter_,' nor '_The Life of Obadiah
+Zecariah Jinkings_;' but, judging from the opinion here expressed, I take
+them to be immortal works. I could never be led to think so by reading the
+extracts you have made from the volumes, for the prose is badly
+constructed. Indeed, Barry, here's a sentence which lacks a personal
+pronoun and a verb."
+
+"I see what you are aiming at," replied Barescythe, sharply. "You twit me
+with praising these books so extravagantly. I grant you that worse trash
+was never in type, (DAISY is not printed yet, you know,) but will you
+allow me to ask you a question?"
+
+"_Si usted gusta_, my dear fellow."
+
+"Do you think that Gabriel Ravel, at Niblo's, turns spasmodic summersets on
+a chalked rope for the sake of any peculiar pleasure derived therefrom?"
+
+"Why, Barry, I can scarcely imagine anything more unpleasant than to be
+turned upside down, fifteen feet from maternal earth, with an undeniable
+chance of breaking one's neck, on a four-inch rope. But why do you ask?"
+
+"M. Ravel distorts himself for a salary, and no questions asked. I do the
+same. I throw literary summersets for a golden consideration. It is a very
+simple arrangement"--here Barescythe drew a diagram on the palm of his
+hand--"Messrs. Printem & Sellem (my thumb) give us, 'The Morning Glory,'
+(my forefinger) costly advertisements, and I, Barescythe, (the little
+finger) am expected to laud all the books they publish."
+
+Out of respect to Barescythe, I restrained my laughter.
+
+He went on, with a ruthful face:
+
+"Here is '_The Life of Jinkings_'--the life of a puppy!--an individual of
+whom nobody ever heard till now, a very clever, harmless, good man _in his
+way_, no doubt,--the big gun of a little village, but no more worthy of a
+biography than a printer's devil!"
+
+With which words, Barescythe hit an imaginary Mr. Jinkings in the stomach
+with evident satisfaction.
+
+"Yet I am called upon to tell the world that this individual, this what do
+you call him?--Jinkings--is one of the luminaries of the age, a mental
+Hercules, a new Prometheus--the clown! Why on earth did his friends want to
+resurrectionize the insipid incidents of this man's milk-and-water
+existence! If he made a speech on the introduction of a 'Town-pump,' or
+delivered an essay at the 'Bell Tavern'--it was very kind of him, to be
+sure: but why not bury his bad English with him in the country church-yard?
+I wish they had, for I am expected to say that ten thousand copies of the
+'work' have been sold, when I know that only five hundred were printed; or
+else Messrs. Printem & Sellem withdraw their advertisements, in which case
+my occupation's gone! And this '_Scavenger's Daughter_'--a book written by
+a sentimental schoolgirl, and smelling of bread-and-butter--see how I have
+plastered it all over with panegyric!"
+
+"And so, Barry," I said, with some malice, "you wantingly abuse _my_ book,
+because I cannot injure _you_ pecuniarily."
+
+"Perhaps I do," growled Barescythe. "It is a relief to say an honest thing
+now and then; but wait, Ralph, till I start _The Weekly Critique_, then
+look out for honest, slashing criticism. No longer hedged in by the
+interests and timidity of 'the proprietors,' I shall handle books for
+themselves, and not their advertisements--
+
+    'Friendly to all, save caitiffs foul and wrong,
+    But stern to guard the Holy Land of Song.'"
+
+"What a comment is this on American criticism! O, Barry, it is such men as
+you, with fine taste and fine talent, who bring literature into disrepute.
+Your genius gives you responsible places in the world of letters, and how
+you wrong the trust!"
+
+"Thank you," returned Barescythe, coldly, "you blend flattery and insult so
+ingeniously, that I hesitate whether to give you the assurance of my
+distinguished consideration, or knock you down."
+
+"Either you please, Barry. I have spoken quite as honestly, if not so
+bluntly as you; and I regret that I have so little to say in favor of your
+inconsistent criticism. I am sorry you dislike my novel, but--"
+
+I looked toward the chair in which Barescythe had been sitting.
+
+He was gone.
+
+I was not surprised, for Barry does few things "after the manner of men,"
+and a ceremonious departure is something he never dreams of. I sat and
+thought of what had been said. I wondered if we were the dregs of time, the
+worthless leaves of trees that had borne their fruit--if there were none
+among us,
+
+    "Like some of the simple great ones gone
+    Forever and ever by!"
+
+And lastly, I wondered if any of our city papers had such a critical
+appendage as T. J. Barescythe.
+
+                                  =?=
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It is pleasant to have your friend Mr. Smith pat you patronisingly on the
+back, and say, "My dear fellow, when is your book coming out?"
+
+Of course, you send Mrs. Smith a copy after that--and all Mrs. Smith's
+relations.
+
+"DAISY'S NECKLACE" is nearly ready. The following advertisement, which I
+cut from "The Evening Looking Glass" of last Thursday, illustrates the
+manner in which "my publishers," Messrs. Printem & Sellem, make their
+literary announcements:
+
+    "_We have in Press, and shall publish in the course of a few days, a
+    New Work of rare merit, entitled_--
+
+                              DAISY'S NECKLACE,
+                            And what came of it.
+
+    A THRILLING NOVEL, SURPASING, in pathos and quiet satire, the most
+    felicitous efforts of Dickens!!
+
+                                     PRINTEM & SELLEM,
+                                                      _Publishers_."
+
+That was rather modest and pleasant; but it is pleasanter than all to have
+an early copy of your book placed on the breakfast-table, unexpectedly,
+some sunshiny morning--to behold, for the first time, the darling of your
+meditation in a suit of embossed muslin. How your heart turns over--if you
+are not used to the thing. How you make pauses between your coffee and
+muffins, to admire the clear typography, the luxurious paper, the gold
+letters on the back!
+
+Messrs. Printem & Sellem sent me two out-of-town papers, containing notices
+of "DAISY." These notices were solicited by advance copies of the work, for
+the purpose of being used in the publication advertisement. It is curious
+to remark how great minds will differ.
+
+    [_From the Blundertown Journal._]
+
+    "NEW PUBLICATIONS.
+
+    "DAISY'S NECKLACE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. _New-York: Printem and
+    Sellem._
+
+    THIS production is an emanation from the culminating mind of glorious
+    genius! Nothing like it has been produced in this century. It
+    possesses all the fine elements of Dickens' novels, without any of
+    their numerous defects. Its scope, its pathos, and wit, is[B] beyond
+    all praise. Our Britannic brethren will no longer ask, 'Who reads an
+    American book?' For we can reply, 'The World!'
+
+    "We learn, from good authority, that the publishers have received
+    orders for twenty thousand copies of the work, in advance of its
+    publication. We have no doubt of it; for 'Daisy's Necklace' will shed
+    new lustre on the name of American Literature! Envious authors will
+    abuse the work. As the immortal Goethe says, '_De gustibus non est
+    disputandum!_' Our rush of advertisements prevents us from making
+    voluminous extracts from the novel; this, however, would be useless,
+    as _everybody_ will read it for _themselves_.
+
+    "Orders addressed to HIGGINS & CO., of this town, will be promptly
+    filled."
+
+I should take the editor of the "Blundertown Journal" to be a man of
+cultured taste, appreciative and discriminating. The second review was not
+quite so "favorable," and can scarcely be called "a first-rate notice."
+
+    [_From the Frogpond Gazette._]
+
+    "DAISY'S NECKLACE" is the silly title of an absurd novel about to be
+    issued by Printem & Sellem, of New-York. From the fact that the
+    author's name is withheld from the title-page, we infer that he had
+    _some_ friends--some few who were not wholly willing that he should
+    make a donkey of himself. We have read a great deal of trash in our
+    day; but 'Daisy's Necklace' is the king of all vapid
+    novels,--sentimental in sentiment, flaccid in fiction, and entirely
+    intolerable from beginning to end. The first forty pages put us to
+    sleep. We advise all druggists to keep the book for sale,--as an
+    _anodyne_.
+
+    "The binding is good, and that is all the praise we can give so
+    contemptible an abortion. A reading public that tolerates a novel like
+    this, must be made up of very good-natured persons--assinine in
+    temperament, and mentally obtuse.
+
+    "This 'work,' we presume, is written by that much-abused and prolific
+    myth--'a young gentleman of this city,' distinguished, _of course_. We
+    believe that he writes all of Printem & Sellem's books. At all events,
+    those enterprising gentlemen always have 'a startling novel' in
+    press, from his immortal pen. What a long string of sins these
+    gentlemen have to answer for! What a commotion there would be among
+    the shelves of their book-store, if dead authors could come back and
+    reclaim stolen property! If the shade of _Lindley Murray_ could stalk
+    among them!
+
+    "For our part, we had rather see the Hudson River Railroad's list of
+    'dead and wounded,' than Printem & Sellem's list of 'Popular
+    Publications!' But it is consoling to know that books like 'Daisy's
+    Necklace,' in spite of 'purchased puffery,' find their level at last
+    as linings for portmanteaus and third-rate trunks. We shall make
+    cigar-lighters of our copy, and thank the stars that we were not born
+    a book-making genius!"
+
+Not a line quoted to prove the justice of the unstrained censure! I could
+not account for the malignant personality of this _critique_, until Barry
+informed me that my publishers never advertised their books in the columns
+of the "Frogpond Gazette." This, of course, explained it. I only wish I had
+the stubborn editor of the "Frogpond" at arm's length, I would try the
+consistency of his ears.
+
+I was somewhat astonished, the next day, to find how ingeniously Messrs.
+Printem & Sellem made the adverse criticism subservient to their interests.
+
+My lucubration was out.
+
+The "Post" said so; the "Morning Rabid" said it; the "Evening
+Looking-Glass" said it; and a host of small fry echoed the important fact.
+I unfolded "The Rabid," and beheld the following advertisement:
+
+    "PUBLISHED THIS DAY,
+    _A Novel of Unprecedented Power, entitled_,
+
+    DAISY'S NECKLACE,
+    AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
+
+    THE 'FROGPOND GAZETTE,' (high authority), in a long review of this
+    work says: '_Daisy's Necklace is the King of all Novels_.'
+
+    'The Blundertown Journal' (also high authority) remarks:
+
+    '_This Book is an emanation from the culminating mind of glorious
+    genius!_'
+
+    '_Nothing like it has been produced in this century!_'
+
+    '_It has all the fine elements of Dickens' Novels, without any of
+    their numerous defects!_'
+
+    Our first edition (20,000 copies) is exhausted, and we beg our friends
+    to have patience for a few days.
+
+    WANTED, 4,000 Agents to sell the above work!!
+
+                                             PRINTEM & SELLEM,
+                                                       _Publishers_."
+
+"Four thousand agents!" quoth Barry, looking over my shoulder; "I rather
+think it would take _forty_ thousand to sell an edition of 'DAISY!'"
+
+I laughed at my irate friend, and, igniting a fresh regalia, crossed my
+feet on the mantel-piece, and remarked, composedly,
+
+"Now for the Critics!"
+
+FINIS.
+
+
+
+
+ERRATUM.
+
+The Greek of my book-making genius, Ralph ---- Esq., seems decidedly rusty.
+He has evidently given his lexicon an icy shoulder. Will the intellectual
+and erudite reader substitute _kyrie eleyson_ for _kyrie elyson_ on page
+131?
+
+
+
+
+FOOTNOTES:
+
+[A] Mr. Barescythe, with his characteristic word-catching spirit, wishes to
+know if grapes and cherries are ripe at one and the same time in
+New-England.
+
+[B] Barescythe says, that the wrong verb used in this paragraph is what
+editors call "a typographical error."
+
+
+
+
+  +----------------------------------------------------------------------+
+  | Transcriber's Note.                                                  |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Italics have been indicated in this text version by underscores      |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | The following changes have been carried out:--                       |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Page 22  comma changed to period.                                    |
+  |          'gently, gently. Sleep,'                                    |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Page 60. 'distroted' to 'distorted'                                  |
+  |          'highly polished, distorted knocker'                        |
+  |                                                                      |
+  |          'kided' to 'kidded'                                         |
+  |          'white-kidded, be-ruffled gallants'                         |
+  |                                                                      |
+  |          Incorrectly positioned parenthesis moved from before        |
+  |          the phrase 'the Museum opposite' to what appears to         |
+  |          be a more logical position at the begining of the phrase    |
+  |          'if you would only'                                         |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Page 98. 'Snarle' to 'Flint'                                         |
+  |          '"Don't go on that way," pleaded Flint,'                    |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Page 133. 'rythm' to 'rhythm'                                        |
+  |           'Musical rhythm'                                           |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Page 198. 'woes' to 'woos'                                           |
+  |           'Strephon woos Chloe as of yore'                           |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Page 209. 'Shakspeare' to 'Shakespeare'                              |
+  |           'thoughtless Will Shakespeare'                             |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Unusual spelling has been retained as in the original publication    |
+  |                                                                      |
+  | Erratum.  This has been carried out in the text.                     |
+  |                                                                      |
+  +----------------------------------------------------------------------+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Daisy's Necklace, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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author	Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org>	2025-10-14 19:54:13 -0700
committer	Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org>	2025-10-14 19:54:13 -0700
commit	0519dfdc8e7f1440dbe96862fd30cd331a2f21b9 (patch)
tree	0ea2e2ce6b64aeec259652ccccce15f6e4f12078