and do the blessed sun no hurt

To note all this, occupied but a second. The next second Clarence had slipped from some place of concealment and was pouring news into my ear, his eyes beaming with triumph and gladness. He said: "'Tis through ME the change was wrought! And main hard have I worked to do it, too. But when I revealed to them the calamity in store, and saw how mighty was the terror it did engender, then saw I also that this was the time to strike! Wherefore I diligently pretended, unto this and that and the other one, that your power against the sun could not reach its full until the morrow; and so if any would save the sun and the world, you must be slain to-day, while your enchantments are but in the weaving and lack potency. Odsbodikins, it was but a dull lie, a most indifferent invention, but you should have seen them seize it and swallow it, in the frenzy of their fright, as it were salvation sent from heaven; and all the while was I laughing in my sleeve the one moment, to see them so cheaply deceived, and glorifying God the next, that He was content to let the meanest of His creatures be His instrument to the saving of thy life. Ah how happy has the matter sped! You will not need to do the sun a REAL hurt -- ah, forget not that, on your soul forget it not! Only make a little darkness -- only the littlest little darkness, mind, and cease with that. It will be sufficient. They will see that I spoke falsely, -being ignorant, as they will fancy -- and with the falling of the first shadow of that darkness you shall see them go mad with fear; and they will set you free and make you great! Go to thy triumph, now! But remember -- ah, good friend, I implore thee remember my supplication, and do the blessed sun no hurt. For MY sake, thy true friend." I choked out some words through my grief and misery; as much as to say I would spare the sun; for which the lad's eyes paid me back with such deep and loving gratitude that I had not the heart to tell him his good-hearted foolishness had ruined me and sent me to my death.

I only wandered purposely about

That was the halfconviction that when the nature of my proposed calamity should be reported to those superstitious people, it would have such an effect that they would want to compromise. So, by and by when I heard footsteps coming, that thought was recalled to me, and I said to myself, "As sure as anything, it's the compromise. Well, if it is good, all right, I will accept; but if it isn't, I mean to stand my ground and play my hand for all it is worth." The door opened, and some men-at-arms appeared. The leader said: "The stake is ready. Come!" The stake! The strength went out of me, and I almost fell down. It is hard to get one's breath at such a time, such lumps come into one's throat, and such gaspings; but as soon as I could speak, I said: "But this is a mistake -- the execution is tomorrow." "Order changed; been set forward a day. Haste thee!" I was lost. There was no help for me. I was dazed, stupefied; I had no command over myself, I only wandered purposely about, like one out of his mind; so the soldiers took hold of me, and pulled me along with them, out of the cell and along the maze of underground corridors, and finally into the fierce glare of daylight and the upper world. As we stepped into the vast enclosed court of the castle I got a shock; for the first thing I saw was the stake, standing in the center, and near it the piled fagots and a monk. On all four sides of the court the seated multitudes rose rank above rank, forming sloping terraces that were rich with color. The king and the queen sat in their thrones, the most conspicuous figures there, of course.

I handed him over to the soldiers

"Now then, I will tell you what to say." I paused, and stood over that cowering lad a whole minute in awful silence; then, in a voice deep, measured, charged with doom, I began, and rose by dramatically graded stages to my colossal climax, which I delivered in as sublime and noble a way as ever I did such a thing in my life: "Go back and tell the king that at that hour I will smother the whole world in the dead blackness of midnight; I will blot out the sun, and he shall never shine again; the fruits of the earth shall rot for lack of light and warmth, and the peoples of the earth shall famish and die, to the last man!" I had to carry the boy out myself, he sunk into such a collapse. I handed him over to the soldiers, and went back. Chapter 6 The Eclipse IN the stillness and the darkness, realization soon began to supplement knowledge. The mere knowledge of a fact is pale; but when you come to REALIZE your fact, it takes on color. It is all the difference between hearing of a man being stabbed to the heart, and seeing it done. In the stillness and the darkness, the knowledge that I was in deadly danger took to itself deeper and deeper meaning all the time; a something which was realization crept inch by inch through my veins and turned me cold. But it is a blessed provision of nature that at times like these, as soon as a man's mercury has got down to a certain point there comes a revulsion, and he rallies. Hope springs up, and cheerfulness along with it, and then he is in good shape to do something for himself, if anything can be done. When my rally came, it came with a bound. I said to myself that my eclipse would be sure to save me, and make me the greatest man in the kingdom besides; and straightway my mercury went up to the top of the tube, and my solicitudes all vanished. I was as happy a man as there was in the world. I was even impatient for tomorrow to come, I so wanted to gather in that great triumph and be the center of all the nation's wonder and reverence. Besides, in a business way it would be the making of me; I knew that. Meantime there was one thing which had got pushed into the background of my mind.

I could play it myself

You see, it was the eclipse. It came into my mind in the nick of time, how Columbus, or Cortez, or one of those people, played an eclipse as a saving trump once, on some savages, and I saw my chance. I could play it myself, now, and it wouldn't be any plagiarism, either, because I should get it in nearly a thousand years ahead of those parties. Clarence came in, subdued, distressed, and said: "I hasted the message to our liege the king, and straightway he had me to his presence. He was frighted even to the marrow, and was minded to give order for your instant enlargement, and that you be clothed in fine raiment and lodged as befitted one so great; but then came Merlin and spoiled all; for he persuaded the king that you are mad, and know not whereof you speak; and said your threat is but foolishness and idle vaporing. They disputed long, but in the end, Merlin, scoffing, said, 'Wherefore hath he not NAMED his brave calamity? Verily it is because he cannot.' This thrust did in a most sudden sort close the king's mouth, and he could offer naught to turn the argument; and so, reluctant, and full loth to do you the discourtesy, he yet prayeth you to consider his perplexed case, as noting how the matter stands, and name the calamity -- if so be you have determined the nature of it and the time of its coming. Oh, prithee delay not; to delay at such a time were to double and treble the perils that already compass thee about. Oh, be thou wise -- name the calamity!" I allowed silence to accumulate while I got my impressiveness together, and then said: "How long have I been shut up in this hole?" "Ye were shut up when yesterday was well spent It is 9 of the morning now." "No! Then I have slept well, sure enough. Nine in the morning now! And yet it is the very complexion of midnight, to a shade. This is the 20th, then?" "The 20th -- yes." "And I am to be burned alive to-morrow." The boy shuddered. "At what hour?" "At high noon."

I want you to get word to

He don't amount to shucks, as a magician; knows some of the old common tricks, but has never got beyond the rudiments, and never will. He is well enough for the provinces-- one-night stands and that sort of thing, you know -- but dear me, HE oughtn't to set up for an expert -- anyway not where there's a real artist. Now look here, Clarence, I am going to stand your friend, right along, and in return you must be mine. I want you to do me a favor. I want you to get word to the king that I am a magician myself -- and the Supreme Grand High-yu-Muckamuck and head of the tribe, at that; and I want him to be made to understand that I am just quietly arranging a little calamity here that will make the fur fly in these realms if Sir Kay's project is carried out and any harm comes to me. Will you get that to the king for me?" The poor boy was in such a state that he could hardly answer me. It was pitiful to see a creature so terrified, so unnerved, so demoralized. But he promised everything; and on my side he made me promise over and over again that I would remain his friend, and never turn against him or cast any enchantments upon him. Then he worked his way out, staying himself with his hand along the wall, like a sick person. Presently this thought occurred to me: how heedless I have been! When the boy gets calm, he will wonder why a great magician like me should have begged a boy like him to help me get out of this place; he will put this and that together, and will see that I am a humbug. I worried over that heedless blunder for an hour, and called myself a great many hard names, meantime. But finally it occurred to me all of a sudden that these animals didn't reason; that THEY never put this and that together; that all their talk showed that they didn't know a discrepancy when they saw it. I was at rest, then. But as soon as one is at rest, in this world, off he goes on something else to worry about. It occurred to me that I had made another blunder: I had sent the boy off to alarm his betters with a threat -- I intending to invent a calamity at my leisure; now the people who are the readiest and eagerest and willingest to swallow miracles are the very ones who are hungriest to see you perform them; suppose I should be called on for a sample? Suppose I should be asked to name my calamity? Yes, I had made a blunder; I ought to have invented my calamity first. "What shall I do? what can I say, to gain a little time?" I was in trouble again; in the deepest kind of trouble:... "There's a footstep! -- they're coming. If I had only just a moment to think.... Good, I've got it. I'm all right."

which may have seemed to him to bring

Snacklit got out of the car. "I can see," he said, "that you are a wise man. You'd better come with me, and talk this over." The man stopped his clock. He said, "I'd like to know who's going to pay my fare." "You can't expect me to do that," Irene said. "I didn't ask you to bring me here. If you take me back where - - " "There's no hurry about that," Snacklit interposed. "But as to the fare, you'll both come with me, and we'll talk about that too." The man appeared to be reassured by this statement, which may have seemed to him to bring the incident back to a more normal level. He got out, and Irene, seeing no advantage in sitting longer in a vehicle which there was no one to drive, did the same. As she did this, she saw that the wide gates were already dosed. A yardman was dropping bars into their slots, while Burfoot was turning a heavy key. She disliked that, but still the taxi and its driver were with her. There was a measure of reassurance in that, which would have been more had the man been of a different sort. Snacklit went back to the gate to give some instructions to Burfoot, which were beyond her hearing. The driver said: "I hope you know what you're doing, miss. But I wish I was out of here." "I rather wish I were too," Irene admitted. "But you've no need to worry. Scotland Yard knows what I was doing. They'll see you right. It's that man who ought to be feeling sick." Perhaps he should. But he gave no sign of such inward emotions as he walked back to where they were standing. He seemed to have gained confidence since he had reached his own premises, and closed his gates on the outer world.

But what other course

They had returned to their previous direction by now, the grey car leading, but at a moderate pace; certainly making no attempt to get away. The intruder sat silently beside her own driver. He had become doubtful both of the wisdom of what he had done, and of what he should do next. But what other course, he asked himself, could he have taken? A wild attempt to outdistance pursuit, perhaps ending in an accident, or the intervention of the police, with those false number-plates on his car? No, it was far more prudent to take control of this young woman till he had ascertained who she was, and what peril might threaten from her. But he saw himself suddenly involved in a whirlpool of danger he did not like, and he had become correspondingly dangerous himself, in the manner of a mean, frightened, and ruthless man. Irene, watching the route, and making mental notes of the streets they passed, had not long to debate what she should do next, for the grey car slackened speed, and turned into a wide gateway entrance, at the side of a substantial edifice, the front of which was crossed by a large sign: SNACKLIT HOME AND HOSPITAL FOR DOMESTIC PETS Irene spoke to the driver quickly: "Don't go in there. I've come as far as I need now." The man slackened speed, and, as he did so, he saw a pistol in the hand of the intruder beside him. "You'll have to go on now," Snacklit said, in a voice that trembled with excitement, pushing the gun into the driver's ribs. "Don't take any notice of him," Irene urged. "I don't suppose it's loaded, and he wouldn't dare to shoot if it were. Everyone knows you get hanged in this country if you do that. It's my taxi, not his." "Yes, lady. But it's my life," the man answered. "I didn't bargain for this." His hands trembled on the wheel, so that the car wobbled perilously as it turned into the gateway. Seeing that it was useless to continue protesting over that which had already occurred, she became silent, but she was intently observant now of a position which she no longer liked. She was conscious of the effort of will which was required to hold down a rising fear.

he transferred his attention to her

She would be able to identify him anywhere now. And his clothes. He was well enough dressed, but that did not make him look like a gentleman. Nothing could. Baffled by the driver's silence, he transferred his attention to her. He opened the door, and leaned in as he asked his previous question in a rather different form, "Perhaps you'll be good enough to say why you're following me?" She smiled as she gave a flippantly evasive answer, "It must have been because you were in front." He looked at her uncertainly, showing no appreciation of the humour of this reply. He said, "I shall need a better explanation than that." She saw that it was useless to attempt concealment of the fact that she had been following him. After that backward turn! She said boldly, "We thought you'd got the wrong case." He stared at her in mingled fear and bewilderment. "What made you think that?" "Because the labels had got a bit mixed." "And who are you?" "I brought the case over for Mr. Kindell." His next question was checked unspoken. Could he ask more without giving himself away to this dubious stranger? He said, "Well, you shall have your way." He went back to the front door, and got in beside the driver. As he did so, the car in front began to move ahead. He said to the driver: "You can go on following it. We don't mind." Irene observed his action with excitement rather than apprehension. She was certainly succeeding in what Will had relied on her to do, though no one could have foreseen what was happening now. She was in a civilized city, on the side of the law, and in her own hired taxi. And the man who had got in did not appear to be a formidable kind. But she had become cautious. She decided that she would not go far in pursuit of the light grey car without having something more to say.

which had also drawn up at the pavement

Burfoot turned the car at a left-hand street, and then turned left again, so that he was returning the way he came. After the second turn, he slowed down, so that, when Irene's taxi followed him, he was only a short distance ahead. "So that's it?" Snacklit said. I'll have a word with them and find out who they are, and what they think they're doing. You'd better draw up to the kerb, and if they stop, and you see me get in, just go ahead as before." "To Snacklit House, sir?" "Yes. You'll be all right if we don't follow, and all right if we do." "What about Low Level Bridge, sir?" "Not with them looking on. Give it a miss." He got out, and walked back to the taxi, which had also drawn up at the pavement a short distance behind. He did not know what he should find - it might have been an escort sent by Professor Blinkwell for his protection - but he was surprised when he saw only a taxi-driver of rather dull aspect in front, and a young, well-dressed, and attractive girl in the rear of the vehicle Anyone less likely than she - unless it were a baby in arms to be representing the law in pursuit of their powerful and dangerous gang would not be easy to imagine. Neither did the driver appear to be such a one as the police would have been likely to select for such a task. He thought it probable that Burfoot had made a mistake, which modified his manner, though it did not change his purpose to probe what the truth might be. He looked at the driver as he asked, "What's the game you're playing with us?" The man, who, unlike most of his kind, was not quick at retort, did not reply. He looked round at Irene, as though implying that the question should be addressed to her. Irene looked at a man whom she felt no occasion to fear. He was small, rather skinny in build, bald, thin-faced, with colourless eyebrows above very pale blue eyes. She looked at him closely thinking that her mission had already become more than half a success by his own act.

and he knew enough of the methods which

He was one of the five living persons (if we exclude the suspicions of the police) who could have identified Professor Blinkwell as the head of the gang to which they belonged, and he knew enough of the methods which were in use to be surprised, and somewhat perturbed when he received instructions to collect the valise from Mrs. Collinson's house. He knew that something must have gone wrong of sufficient seriousness to upset the basic rules of their organization. It was not usual for him to make such collections himself, but, though not of a reliable courage, he had the temperament which, when alarmed, becomes impatient to force the event. He told Burfoot, the car driver and usual agent for such occasions, that he would go with him. He told himself that this would avert the necessity of giving Burfoot Mrs. Collinson's name. He found the case waiting for him in that lady's hall, and received it from Becky's hands without ceremony or delay. It was of an expected weight, and it was not until he had settled down in the car, with it in the seat behind him, that he noticed that it was not of the pattern or quality which it was customary to use for these highly valuable and secret consignments. He observed this first with curiosity rather than suspicion He had already accepted the idea that something unusual had happened. Doubtless this had involved the use of a makeshift receptacle. It would be part of the plan by which Professor Blinkwell's inexhaustible ingenuity had baffled investigation, as it had done so often before. But then his attention became fixed upon the fastening of the case. It looked a wretched lock. A mere pretence, such as will be fitted to the cheaper suitcases, and that can be opened by almost any key of approximately the right size. "It's ten to one," he thought, "that I could do it from my own bunch." His next thought was that it would be fortunate if he could, for it was evident that the key he held for the valise which should have come would not avail. It would be too large.

This was a body resembling a milk can in its general form

The second handling-machine was now completed, and was busied in serving one of the novel contrivances the big machine had brought. This was a body resembling a milk can in its general form, above which oscillated a pear-shaped receptacle, and from which a stream of white powder flowed into a circular basin below. The oscillatory motion was imparted to this by one tentacle of the handling-machine. With two spatulate hands the handling-machine was digging out and flinging masses of clay into the pear-shaped receptacle above, while with another arm it periodically opened a door and removed rusty and blackened clinkers from the middle part of the machine. Another steely tentacle directed the powder from the basin along a ribbed channel towards some receiver that was hidden from me by the mound of bluish dust. From this unseen receiver a little thread of green smoke rose vertically into the quiet air. As I looked, the handling-machine, with a faint and musical clinking, extended, telescopic fashion, a tentacle that had been a moment before a mere blunt projection, until its end was hidden behind the mound of clay. In another second it had lifted a bar of white aluminium into sight, untarnished as yet, and shining dazzlingly, and deposited it in a growing stack of bars that stood at the side of the pit. Between sunset and starlight this dexterous machine must have made more than a hundred such bars out of the crude clay, and the mound of bluish dust rose steadily until it topped the side of the pit. The contrast between the swift and complex movements of these contrivances and the inert panting clumsiness of their masters was acute, and for days I had to tell myself repeatedly that these latter were indeed the living of the two things.

That brought him to reason for a time

He would weep for hours together, and I verily believe that to the very end this spoiled child of life thought his weak tears in some way efficacious. And I would sit in the darkness unable to keep my mind off him by reason of his importunities. He ate more than I did, and it was in vain I pointed out that our only chance of life was to stop in the house until the Martians had done with their pit, that in that long patience a time might presently come when we should need food. He ate and drank impulsively in heavy meals at long intervals. He slept little. As the days wore on, his utter carelessness of any consideration so intensified our distress and danger that I had, much as I loathed doing it, to resort to threats, and at last to blows. That brought him to reason for a time. But he was one of those weak creatures, void of pride, timorous, anaemic, hateful souls, full of shifty cunning, who face neither God nor man, who face not even themselves. It is disagreeable for me to recall and write these things, but I set them down that my story may lack nothing. Those who have escaped the dark and terrible aspects of life will find my brutality, my flash of rage in our final tragedy, easy enough to blame; for they know what is wrong as well as any, but not what is possible to tortured men. But those who have been under the shadow, who have gone down at last to elemental things, will have a wider charity. And while within we fought out our dark, dim contest of whispers, snatched food and drink, and gripping hands and blows, without, in the pitiless sunlight of that terrible June, was the strange wonder, the unfamiliab routine of the Martians in the pit. Let me return to those first new experiences of mine. After a long time I ventured back to the peephole, to find that the new-comers had been reinforced by the occupants of no fewer than three of the fightingmachines. These last had brought with them certain fresh appliances that stood in an orderly manner about the cylinder.

And I recall now with a sort of wonder that

When I looked again, the busy handling-machine had already put together several of the pieces of apparatus it had taken out of the cylinder into a shape having an unmistakable likeness to its own; and down on the left a busy little digging mechanism had come into view, emitting jets of green vapour and working its way round the pit, excavating and embanking in a methodical and discriminating manner. This it was which had caused the regular beating noise, and the rhythmic shocks that had kept our ruinous refuge quivering. It piped and whistled as it worked. So far as I could see, the thing was without a directing Martian at all. The arrival of a second fighting-machine drove us from our peephole into the scullery, for we feared that from his elevation the Martian might see down upon us behind our barrier. At a later date we began to feel less in danger of their eyes, for to an eye in the dazzle of the sunlight outside our refuge must have been blank blackness, but at first the slightest suggestion of approach drove us into the scullery in heart-throbbing retreat. Yet terrible as was the danger we incurred, the attraction of peeping was for both of us irresistible. And I recall now with a sort of wonder that, in spite of the infinite danger in which we were between starvation and a still more terrible death, we could yet struggle bitterly for that horrible privilege of sight. We would race across the kitchen in a grotesque way between eagerness and the dread of making a noise, and strike each other, and thrust add kick, within a few inches of exposure. The fact is that we had absolutely incompatible dispositions and habits of thought and action, and our danger and isolation only accentuated the incompatibility. At Halliford I had already come to hate the curate's trick of helpless exclamation, his stupid rigidity of mind. His endless muttering monologue vitiated every effort I made to think out a line of action, and drove me at times, thus pent up and intensified, almost to the verge of craziness. He was as lacking in restraint as a silly woman.

One would have at least expected it in locomotion

And of their appliances, perhaps nothing is more wonderful to a man than the curious fact that what is the dominant feature of almost all human devices in mechanism is absent--the WHEEL is absent; among all the things they brought to earth there is no trace or suggestion of their use of wheels. One would have at least expected it in locomotion. And in this connection it is curious to remark that even on this earth Nature has never hit upon the wheel, or has preferred other expedients to its development. And not only did the Martians either not know of (which is incredible), or abstain from, the wheel, but in their apparatus singularly little use is made of the fixed pivot or relatively fixed pivot, with circular motions thereabout confined to one plane. Almost all the joints of the machinery present a complicated system of sliding parts moving over small but beautifully curved friction bearings. And while upon this matter of detail, it is remarkable that the long leverages of their machines are in most cases actuated by a sort of sham musculature of the disks in an elastic sheath; these disks become polarised and drawn closely and powerfully together when traversed by a current of electricity. In this way the curio us parallelism to animal motions, which was so striking and disturbing to the human beholder, was attained. Such quasi-muscles abounded in the crablike handling-machine which, on my first peeping out of the slit, I watched unpacking the cylinder. It seemed infinitely more alive than the actual Martians lying beyond it in the sunset light, panting, stirring ineffectual tentacles, and moving feebly after their vast journey across space. While I was still watching their sluggish motions in the sunlight, and noting each strange detail of their form, the curate reminded me of his presence by pulling violently at my arm. I turned to a scowling face, and silent, eloquent lips. He wanted the slit, which permitted only one of us to peep through; and so I had to forego watching them for a time while he enjoyed that privilege.

in no sense a signal

Now no surviving human being saw so much of the Martians in action as I did. I take no credit to myself for an accident, but the fact is so. And I assert that I watched them closely time after time, and that I have seen four, five, and (once) six of them sluggishly performing the most elaborately complicated operations together without either sound or gesture. Their peculiar hooting invariably preceded feeding; it had no modulation, and was, I believe, in no sense a signal, but merely the expiration of air preparatory to the suctional operation. I have a certain claim to at least an elementary knowledge of psychology, and in this matter I am convinced--as firmly as I am convinced of anything--that the Martians interchanged thoughts without any physical intermediation. And I have been convinced of this in spite of strong preconceptions. Before the Martian invasion, as an occasional reader here or there may remember, I had written with some little vehemence against the telepathic theory. The Martians wore no clothing. Their conceptions of ornament and decorum were necessarily different from ours; and not only were they evidently much less sensible of changes of temperature than we are, but changes of pressure do not seem to have affected their health at all seriously. Yet though they wore no clothing, it was in the other artificial additions to their bodily resources that their great superiority over man lay. We men, with our bicycles and road-skates, our Lilienthal soaring-machines, our guns and sticks and so forth, are just in the beginning of the evolution that the Martians have worked out. They have become practically mere brains, wearing different bodies according to their needs just as men wear suits of clothes and take a bicycle in a hurry or an umbrella in the wet.

Since his butter was so inferior

By the time he reached town a cold rain had set in.  He went at once to the intelligence office, but could obtain no girl for Mrs. Mumpson to "superintend," nor any certain promise of one.  He did not much care, for he felt that the new plan was not going to work.  Having bartered all his eggs for groceries, he sold the old stove and bought a new one, then drew from the bank a little ready money.  Since his butter was so inferior, he took it to his friend Tom Watterly, the keeper of the poorhouse. Prosperous Tom slapped his old friend on the back and said, "You look awfully glum and chopfallen, Jim.  Come now, don't look at the world as if it was made of tar, pitch, and turpentine.  I know your luck's been hard, but you make it a sight harder by being so set in all your ways.  You think there's no place to live on God's earth but that old up-and-down-hill farm of yours that I wouldn't take as a gift.  Why, man alive, there's a dozen things you can turn your hand to; but if you will stay there, do as other men do.  Pick out a smart, handy woman that can make butter yaller as gold, that'll bring gold, and not such limpsy-slimsy, ghostly-looking stuff as you've brought me.  Bein' it's you, I'll take it and give as much for it as I'd pay for better, but you can't run your old ranch in this fashion." "I know it, Tom," replied Holcroft ruefully. "I'm all at sea; but, as you say, I'm set in my ways, and I'd rather live on bread and milk and keep my farm than make money anywhere else.  I guess I'll have to give it all up, though, and pull out, but it's like rooting up one of the old oaks in the meadow lot.  The fact is, Tom, I've been fooled into one of the worst scrapes I've got into yet." "I see how it is," said Tom heartily and complacently, "you want a practical, foresighted man to talk straight at you for an hour or two and clear up the fog you're in.  You study and brood over little things out there alone until they seem mountains which you can't get over nohow, when, if you'd take one good jump out, they'd be behind you. 

It was well that it had not looked upon such a scene

She waved him off. "I don't know," she replied. "I've no right to be here," and she fled down the stairway and out into the darkness. The child had not wakened.  It was well that it had not looked upon such a scene, even in utter ignorance of its meaning. Chapter 8 Holcroft's View of Matrimony Holcroft was indeed very lonely as he drove through the bare March fields and leafless woods on his way to town.  The sky had clouded again, like his prospects, and he had the dreary sense of desolation which overwhelms a quiet, domestic man who feels that his home and all to which he clings are slipping from him.  His lot was hard enough at best, and he had a bitter sense of being imposed upon and wronged by Lemuel Weeks.  It was now evident enough that the widow and her daughter had been an intolerable burden to his neighbor, who had taken advantage of his need and induced him to assume the burden through false representation.  To a man of Holcroft's simple, straightforward nature, any phase of trickery was intensely repugnant, and the fact that he had been overreached in a matter relating to his dearest hopes galled him to the quick.  He possessed the strong common sense of his class; his wife had been like him in this respect, and her influence had intensified the trait.  Queer people with abnormal manners excited his intense aversion.  The most charitable view that he could take of Mrs. Mumpson was that her mind--such as she had--was unbalanced, that it was an impossibility for her to see any subject or duty in a sensible light or its right proportions. Her course, so prejudicial to her own interests, and her incessant and stilted talk, were proof to his mind of a certain degree of insanity, and he had heard that people in this condition often united to their unnatural ways a wonderful degree of cunning.  Her child was almost as uncanny as herself and gave him a shivering sense of discomfort whenever he caught her small, greenish eyes fixed upon him. "Yet, she'll be the only one who'll earn her salt.  I don't see how I'm going to stand 'em--I don't, indeed, but suppose I'll have to for three months, or else sell out and clear out."

buried his face in his hands

Let me tell you, miss, that this man was also married to me by a minister.  I have my certificate and can produce witnesses.  There's one little point you'll do well to consider," she continued, in bitter sarcasm, "he married me first.  I suppose you are not so young and innocent as not to know where this fact places YOU.  He courted and won me as other girls are courted and married.  He promised me all that he ever promised you.  Then, when I lost my rosy cheeks--when I became sick and feeble from child-bearing--he deserted and left me almost penniless.  You needn't think you will have to take my word for this.  I have proof enough.  And now, Henry Ferguson, I've a few words for you, and then you must take your choice.  You can't escape.  I and my brother have tracked you here.  You can't leave these rooms without going to prison.  You'd be taken at the very door.  But I give you one more chance.  If you will promise before God to do your duty by me and your child, I'll forgive as far as a wronged woman can forgive.  Neither I nor my brother will take proceedings against you.  What this woman will do I don't know.  If she prosecutes you, and you are true to me, I'll stand by you, but I won't stand another false step or a false word from you." Ferguson had again sunk into his chair, buried his face in his hands, and sat trembling and speechless.  Never for an instant had Alida taken her eyes from him; and now, with a long, wailing cry, she exclaimed, "Thank God, thank God!  Mother's dead." This was now her best consolation.  She rushed into her bedchamber, and a moment later came out, wearing her hat and cloak.  Ferguson started up and was about to speak, but she silenced him by a gesture, and her tones were sad and stern as she said, "Mr. Ferguson, from your manner more truly than from this woman, I learn the truth.  You took advantage of my misfortunes, my sorrow and friendlessness, to deceive me.  You know how false are your wife's words about my eagerness to be deceived and married.  But you have nothing to fear from me.  I shall not prosecute you as she suggests, and I charge you before God to do your duty by your wife and child and never to speak to me again."  Turning, she hastened toward the door. "Where are you going?" Ferguson exclaimed, seeking to intercept her.

and covered his face with his hands

Instinctively she sprang to his arms, crying, "Oh, thank God!  You've come.  Take away this awful woman!" "Yes, Henry Ferguson; it's very proper you should take me away from a place like this." As the man who had called himself Wilson Ostrom heard that voice he trembled like an aspen; his clasp of Alida relaxed, his arms dropped to his side, and, as he sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands, he groaned, "Lost!" "Found out, you mean," was the woman's reply. Step by step, with horror-stricken eyes, Alida retreated from the man to whose protection and embrace she had flown. "Then it's true?" she said in a hoarse whisper. He was speechless. "You are willfully blind now, miss, if you don't see it's true," was the stranger's biting comment. Paying no heed to her, Alida's eyes rested on the man whom she had believed to be her husband.  She took an irresolute step toward him. "Speak, Wilson!" she cried. "I gave you my whole faith and no one shall destroy it but yourself.  Speak, explain!  Show me that there's some horrible mistake." "Lida," said the man, lifting his bloodless face, "if you knew all the circumstances--" "She shall know them!" half shrieked the woman, as if at last stung to fury. "I see that you both hope to get through this affair with a little high tragedy, then escape and come together again in some other hiding place.  As for this creature, she can go where she pleases, after hearing the truth; but you, Henry Ferguson, have got to do your duty by me and your child or go to prison. 

You are not a young

You are playing a bold game or else you have been deceived, and very easily deceived, too.  They say some women are so eager to be married that they ask no questions, but jump at the first chance.  Whether deceived or deceiving, it doesn't matter now.  But you and he shall learn that there is a law in the land which will protect an honest woman in her sacred rights.  You needn't look so shocked and bewildered.  You are not a young, giddy girl if I may judge from your face.  What else could you expect when you took up with a stranger you knew nothing about?  Do you know that likeness?" and she drew from her bosom a daguerreotype. Alida waved it away as she said indignantly, "I won't believe ill of my husband.  I--" "No, miss," interrupted the woman sternly, "you are right for once.  You won't indeed believe ill of YOUR husband, but you'll have to believe ill of MINE.  There's no use of your putting on such airs any longer.  No matter how rash and silly you may have been, if you have a spark of honesty you'll be open to proof.  If you and he try to brazen it out, the law will open both your eyes.  Look at that likeness, look at these letters; and I have other proof and witnesses which can't be disputed.  The name of the man you are living with is not Wilson Ostrom.  His name is Henry Ferguson.  I am Mrs. Ferguson, and I have my marriage certificate, and--What!  Are you going to faint?  Well, I can wait till you recover and till HE comes," and she coolly sat down again. Alida had glanced at the proofs which the woman had thrust into her hands, then staggered back to a lounge that stood near.  She might have fainted, but at that awful moment she heard a familiar step on the stairs.  She was facing the door; the terrible stranger sat at one side, with her back toward it. When Ostrom entered he first saw Alida looking pale and ill.  He hastened toward her exclaiming, "Why, Lida, dear, what is the matter?  You are sick!"

a man who sits supreme

Smiles rippled continuously over his fat face. He looked about him, at the pauses in the music, serenely satisfied with himself and his fellow-creatures. "Yes! yes! these barbarous English people are learning something from ME. Here, there, and everywhere, I--Fosco--am an influence that is felt, a man who sits supreme!" If ever face spoke, his face spoke then, and that was its language. The curtain fell on the first act, and the audience rose to look about them. This was the time I had waited for--the time to try if Pesca knew him. He rose with the rest, and surveyed the occupants of the boxes grandly with his opera-glass. At first his back was towards us, but he turned round in time, to our side of the theatre, and looked at the boxes above us, using his glass for a few minutes-then removing it, but still continuing to look up. This was the moment I chose, when his full face was in view, for directing Pesca's attention to him. "Do you know that man?" I asked. "Which man, my friend?" "The tall, fat man, standing there, with his face towards us." Pesca raised himself on tiptoe, and looked at the Count. "No," said the Professor. "The big fat man is a stranger to me. Is he famous? Why do you point him out?" "Because I have particular reasons for wishing to know something of him. He is a countryman of yours--his name is Count Fosco. Do you know that name?" "Not I, Walter. Neither the name nor the man is known to me." "Are you quite sure you don't recognise him? Look again--look carefully. I will tell you why I am so anxious about it when we leave the theatre. Stop! let me help you up here, where you can see him better." I helped the little man to perch himself on the edge of the raised dais upon which the pit-seats were all placed. His small stature was no hindrance to him--here he could see over the heads of the ladies who were seated near the outermost part of the bench.

He was not there

The last notes of the introduction to the opera were being played, and the seats in the pit were all filled, when Pesca and I reached the theatre. There was plenty of room, however, in the passage that ran round the pit--precisely the position best calculated to answer the purpose for which I was attending the performance. I went first to the barrier separating us from the stalls, and looked for the Count in that part of the theatre. He was not there. Returning along the passage, on the left-hand side from the stage, and looking about me attentively, I discovered him in the pit. He occupied an excellent place, some twelve or fourteen seats from the end of a bench, within three rows of the stalls. I placed myself exactly on a line with him. Pesca standing by my side. The Professor was not yet aware of the purpose for which I had brought him to the theatre, and he was rather surprised that we did not move nearer to the stage. The curtain rose, and the opera began. Throughout the whole of the first act we remained in our position-the Count, absorbed by the orchestra and the stage, never casting so much as a chance glance at us. Not a note of Donizetti's delicious music was lost on him. There he sat, high above his neighbours, smiling, and nodding his great head enjoyingly from time to time. When the people near him applauded the close of an air (as an English audience in such circumstances always WILL applaud), without the least consideration for the orchestral movement which immediately followed it, he looked round at them with an expression of compassionate remonstrance, and held up one hand with a gesture of polite entreaty. At the more refined passages of the singing, at the more delicate phases of the music, which passed unapplauded by others, his fat hands, adorned with perfectly-fitting black kid gloves, softly patted each other, in token of the cultivated appreciation of a musical man. At such times, his oily murmur of approval, "Bravo! Bra-a-a-a!" hummed through the silence, like the purring of a great cat. His immediate neighbours on either side--hearty, ruddy-faced people from the country, basking amazedly in the sunshine of fashionable London--seeing and hearing him, began to follow his lead. Many a burst of applause from the pit that night started from the soft, comfortable patting of the black-gloved hands. The man's voracious vanity devoured this implied tribute to his local and critical supremacy with an appearance of the highest relish.

and gravely handed the rest to the monkey

Here he stopped at a pastrycook's, went in (probably to give an order), and came out again immediately with a tart in his hand. An Italian was grinding an organ before the shop, and a miserable little shrivelled monkey was sitting on the instrument. The Count stopped, bit a piece for himself out of the tart, and gravely handed the rest to the monkey. "My poor little man!" he said, with grotesque tenderness, "you look hungry. In the sacred name of humanity, I offer you some lunch!" The organ-grinder piteously put in his claim to a penny from the benevolent stranger. The Count shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and passed on. We reached the streets and the better class of shops between the New Road and Oxford Street. The Count stopped again and entered a small optician's shop, with an inscription in the window announcing that repairs were neatly executed inside. He came out again with an opera-glass in his hand, walked a few paces on, and stopped to look at a bill of the opera placed outside a musicseller's shop. He read the bill attentively, considered a moment, and then hailed an empty cab as it passed him. "Opera Boxoffice," he said to the man, and was driven away. I crossed the road, and looked at the bill in my turn. The performance announced was Lucrezia Borgia, and it was to take place that evening. The opera-glass in the Count's hand, his careful reading of the bill, and his direction to the cabman, all suggested that he proposed making one of the audience. I had the means of getting an admission for myself and a friend to the pit by applying to one of the scene-painters attached to the theatre, with whom I had been well acquainted in past times. There was a chance at least that the Count might be easily visible among the audience to me and to any one with me, and in this case I had the means of ascertaining whether Pesca knew his countryman or not that very night. This consideration at once decided the disposal of my evening. I procured the tickets, leaving a note at the Professor's lodgings on the way. At a quarter to eight I called to take him with me to the theatre. My little friend was in a state of the highest excitement, with a festive flower in his button-hole, and the largest opera-glass I ever saw hugged up under his arm. "Are you ready?" I asked. "Right-all-right," said Pesca. We started for the theatre.

The front garden gate opened and closed

No one appeared at the windows in the front of the house. I walked down a turning which ran past the side of it, and looked over the low garden wall. One of the back windows on the lower floor was thrown up and a net was stretched across the opening. I saw nobody, but I heard, in the room, first a shrill whistling and singing of birds, then the deep ringing voice which Marian's description had made familiar to me. "Come out on my little finger, my pret-pret-pretties!" cried the voice. "Come out and hop upstairs! One, two, three--and up! Three, two, one--and down! One, two, three--twit-twit-twit-tweet!" The Count was exercising his canaries as he used to exercise them in Marian's time at Blackwater Park. I waited a little while, and the singing and the whistling ceased. "Come, kiss me, my pretties!" said the deep voice. There was a responsive twittering and chirping--a low, oily laugh--a silence of a minute or so, and then I heard the opening of the house door. I turned and retraced my steps. The magnificent melody of the Prayer in Rossini's Moses, sung in a sonorous bass voice, rose grandly through the suburban silence of the place. The front garden gate opened and closed. The Count had come out. He crossed the road and walked towards the western boundary of the Regent's Park. I kept on my own side of the way, a little behind him, and walked in that direction also. Marian had prepared me for his high stature, his monstrous corpulence, and his ostentatious mourning garments, but not for the horrible freshness and cheerfulness and vitality of the man. He carried his sixty years as if they had been fewer than forty. He sauntered along, wearing his hat a little on one side, with a light jaunty step, swinging his big stick, humming to himself, looking up from time to time at the houses and gardens on either side of him with superb, smiling patronage. If a stranger had been told that the whole neighbourhood belonged to him, that stranger would not have been surprised to hear it. He never looked back, he paid no apparent attention to me, no apparent attention to any one who passed him on his own side of the road, except now and then, when he smiled and smirked, with an easy paternal good humour, at the nursery-maids and the children whom he met. In this way he led me on, till we reached a colony of shops outside the western terraces of the Park.

for that reason only

My visits to the Hampstead cottage, my mother's belief in the denial of Laura's identity which the conspiracy had accomplished, my vain efforts to overcome the prejudice on her part and on my sister's to which, in their jealous affection for me, they both continued to adhere, the painful necessity which that prejudice imposed on me of concealing my marriage from them till they had learnt to do justice to my wife--all these little domestic occurrences have been left unrecorded because they were not essential to the main interest of the story. It is nothing that they added to my anxieties and embittered my disappointments-the steady march of events has inexorably passed them by. For the same reason I have said nothing here of the consolation that I found in Pesca's brotherly affection for me, when I saw him again after the sudden cessation of my residence at Limmeridge House. I have not recorded the fidelity with which my warmhearted little friend followed me to the place of embarkation when I sailed for Central America, or the noisy transport of joy with which he received me when we next met in London. If I had felt justified in accepting the offers of service which he made to me on my return, he would have appeared again long ere this. But, though I knew that his honour and his courage were to be implicitly relied on, I was not so sure that his discretion was to be trusted, and, for that reason only, I followed the course of all my inquiries alone. It will now be sufficiently understood that Pesca was not separated from all connection with me and my interests, although he has hitherto been separated from all connection with the progress of this narrative. He was as true and as ready a friend of mine still as ever he had been in his life. Before I summoned Pesca to my assistance it was necessary to see for myself what sort of man I had to deal with. Up to this time I had never once set eyes on Count Fosco. Three days after my return with Laura and Marian to London, I set forth alone for Forest Road, St. John's Wood, between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning. It was a fine day--I had some hours to spare--and I thought it likely, if I waited a little for him, that the Count might be tempted out. I had no great reason to fear the chance of his recognising me in the daytime, for the only occasion when I had been seen by him was the occasion on which he had followed me home at night.

the door he rained a shower of

He, too, was in his stocking feet.     As soon as he saw Wheeler enter his friend's chamber he stole up and locked the door on the outide. Then when he heard the thief trying to open the door he rained a shower of knocks on the panel.     Instantly Jefferson Pettigrew sprang out of bed and proceeded to act.     "What are you doing here?" he demanded, seizing Wheeler in his powerful grasp.     "Where am I?" asked Wheeler in a tone of apparent bewilderment.     "Oh, it's you, Mr. Wheeler?" said Jefferson. "Don't you know where you are?"     "Oh, it is my friend, Mr. Pettigrew. Is it possible I am in your room?"     "It is very possible. Now tell me why you are here?"     "I am really ashamed to find myself in this strange position. It is not the first time that I have got into trouble from walking in my sleep."     "Oh, you were walking in your sleep!"     "Yes, friend Petttigrew. It has been a habit of mine since I was a boy. But it seems very strange that I should have been led to your room. How could I get in? Wasn't the door locked?"     "It is locked now?"     "It is strange! I don't understand it," said Wheeler, passing his hand over his forehead.     "Perhaps you understand why you have that bag of gold in your hand."     "Can it be possible?" ejaculated Wheeler in well counterfeited surprise. "I don't know how to account for it."     "I think I can. Rodney, unlock the door and come in."

and drew on his trousers

    "It will be safe enough now," he said to himself.     He rose from his bed, and drew on his trousers. Then in his stocking feet he walked along the corridor till he stood in front of Jefferson Pettigrew's door. He was in doubt as to whether he would not be obliged to pick the lock, but on trying the door he found that it was not fastened. He opened it and stood within the chamber.     Cautiously he glanced at the bed. Mr. Pettigrew appeared to be sleeping soundly.     "It's all right" thought Louis Wheeler. "Now where is the bag of gold?"     It was not in open view, but a little search showed that the owner had put it under the bed.     "He isn't very sharp," thought Wheeler. "He is playing right into my hands. Door unlocked, and bag of gold under the bed. He certainly is a very unsuspicious man. However, that is all the better for me. Really there isn't much credit in stealing where all is made easy for you."     There seemed to be nothing to do but to take the gold from its place of deposit and carry it back to his own room. While there were a good many lodgers in the hotel, there seemed to be little risk about this, as every one was asleep.     Of course should the bag be found in his room that would betray him, but Mr. Wheeler proposed to empty the gold coins into his gripsack, and throw the bag out of the window into the back yard.     "Well, here goes!" said Wheeler cheerfully, as he lifted the bag, and prepared to leave the chamber. But at this critical moment an unexpected sound struck terror into his soul. It was the sound of a key being turned in the lock.     Nervously Wheeler hastened to the door and tried it. It would not open. Evidently it had been locked from the outside. What could it mean?     At the same time there was a series of knocks on the outside of the door. It was the signal that had been agreed upon between Mr. Pettigrew and Rodney. Jefferson had given his key to Rodney, who had remained up and on the watch for Mr. Wheeler's expected visit.

but this would not last him long

    Among those who listened to this conversation with interest was Louis Wheeler. Rodney did not fail to see the covetous gleam of his eyes when the gold was displayed.     The fact was, that Wheeler was getting short of cash and at the time he took John O'Donnell's money -- for he was the thief -- he had but about twenty dollars left, and of this he contributed five to the relief of the man he had robbed.     His theft realized him two hundred dollars, but this would not last him long, as the expenses of living at the Miners' Rest were considerable. He was getting tired of Oreville, but wanted to secure some additional money before he left it. The problem was whom to make his second victim.     It would not have occurred to him to rob Jefferson Pettigrew, of whom he stood in wholesome fear, but for the admission that he was an unusually sound sleeper; even then he would have felt uncertain whether it would pay. But the display of the bag of money, and the statement that it contained six hundred dollars in gold proved a tempting bait.     "If I can capture that bag of gold," thought Wheeler, "I shall have enough money to set me up in some new place. There won't be much risk about it, for Pettigrew sleeps like a top. I will venture it."     Jefferson Pettigrew's chamber was on the same floor as his own. It was the third room from No. 17 which Mr. Wheeler occupied.     As a general thing the occupants of the Miners' Rest went to bed early. Mining is a fatiguing business, and those who follow it have little difficulty in dropping off to sleep. The only persons who were not engaged in this business were Louis Wheeler and Rodney Ropes. As a rule the hotel was closed at half past ten and before this all were in bed and sleeping soundly.     When Wheeler went to bed he said to himself, "This will probably be my last night in this tavern. I will go from here to Helena, and if things turn out right I may be able to make my stay there profitable. I shan't dare to stay here long after relieving Pettigrew of his bag of gold."     Unlike Jefferson Pettigrew, Wheeler was a light sleeper. He had done nothing to induce fatigue, and had no difficulty in keeping awake till half past eleven. Then lighting a candle, he examined his watch, and ascertained the time.

I think I can make use of it

    "That is an idea. I think I can make use of it.".     That evening when Wheeler was present Mr. Pettigrew managed to turn the conversation to the subject of sleeping.     "I am a very sound sleeper," he said. "I remember when I was at home sleeping many a time through a severe thunder storm."     "Don't you sometimes wake up in the middle of the night?" asked Rodney.     "Very seldom, if I am in good health."     "Its different with me," said another of the company. "A step on the floor or the opening of the door will wake me up at any time."     "I am glad I am not so easily roused."     "If I had a fish horn," said Rodney, laughing, "I should be tempted to come up in the night and give it a blast before your door."     "That might wake me up," said Mr. Pettigrew. "I wouldn't advise you to try it or the other boarders might get up an indignation meeting."     The same evening Jefferson Pettigrew took out a bag of gold and carelessly displayed it.     "Are you not afraid of being robbed, Mr. Pettigrew?" asked Rodney.     "Oh no. I never was robbed in my life."     "How much money have you there?"     "I don't know exactly. Perhaps six hundred dollars," said Pettigrew in an indifferent tone.

up the notes and gold and sweeping

    It was a happy suggestion and proved popular. Every one present came forward, and tendered his contributions including Jefferson, who put down twenty five dollars.     Mr. Wheeler gathered up the notes and gold and sweeping them to his hat went forward and tendered them to John O'Donnell.     "Take this money, Mr. O'Donnell," he said. "It is the free will offering of your friends. I am sure I may say for them, as for myself, that it gives us all pleasure to help a comrade in trouble."     Louis Wheeler could have done nothing that would have so lifted him in the estimation of the miners.     "And now," he said, "as our friend is out of his trouble I will play you a few tunes on my violin, and will end the day happily."     "I can't make out that fellow, Rodney," said Jefferson when they were alone. "I believe he is the thief, but he has an immense amount of nerve." Chapter 31 Mr. Wheeler Explains     Probably there was no one at the hotel who suspected Louis Wheeler of being a thief except Rodney and Mr. Pettigrew. His action in starting a contribution for John O'Donnell helped to make him popular. He was establishing a reputation quite new to him, and it was this fact probably that made him less prudent than he would otherwise have been.     As the loss had been made up, the boarders at the Miners' Rest ceased to talk of it. But Jefferson and his young assistant did not forget it.     "I am sure Wheeler is the thief, but I don't know how to bring it home to him," said Jefferson one day, when alone with Rodney.     "You might search him."     "Yes, but what good would that do? It might be found that he had money, but one gold coin is like another and it would be impossible to identify it as the stolen property. If O'Donnell had lost anything else except money it would be different. I wish he would come to my chamber."     "Perhaps he would if he thought you were a sound sleeper."

to carry out his part of

    "Mr. Pettigrew will explain the advantages of the farm as we go along," said Rodney.     So they walked from field to field, Jefferson expatiating to his young friend upon the merits of the investment, Rodney asking questions now and then to carry out his part of the shrewd and careful boy capitalist.     When they had made a tour of the farm Jefferson said: "Well, Rodney, what do you think of the investment?"     "I am satisfied with it," answered Rodney. "Mr. Hooper, I will advance you the money on the conditions mentioned by my friend, Mr. Pettigrew."     Tears of joy came into the eyes of Cyrus Hooper and his worn face showed relief.     "I am very grateful, young man," he said. "I will see that you don't regret your kindness."     "When will Squire Sheldon be over to settle matters, Uncle Cyrus?" asked Jefferson.     "He is comin' this afternoon at two o'clock."     "Then Rodney and I will be over to take part in the business." Chapter 27 The Failure Of Squire Shedon's Plot     On the morning of the same day Squire Sheldon sat in his study when the servant came in and brought a card.     "It's a gentleman thats come to see you, sir," she said.     Lemuel Sheldon's eye brightened when he saw the name, for it was that of a railroad man who was interested in the proposed road from Sherborn.

I am sure I shall enjoy myself in

    "Jefferson says you are goin' to Montany with him."     "I hope to do so. I am sure I shall enjoy myself in his company."     "How far is Montany, Jefferson?"     "It is over two thousand miles away, Uncle Cyrus."     "It must be almost at the end of the world. I don't see how you can feel at home so far away from Vermont."     Jefferson smiled.     "I can content myself wherever I can make a good living," he said. "Wouldn't you like to go out and make me a visit?"     "No, Jefferson, I should feel that it was temptin' Providence to go so far at my age."     "You never were very far from Burton, Uncle Cyrus?"     "I went to Montpelier once," answered the old man with evident pride. "It is a nice sizable place. I stopped at the tavern, and had a good time."     It was the only journey the old man had ever made, and he would never forget it.     "Uncle Cyrus," said Jefferson, "this is the young man who I thought might advance you money on a new mortgage. Suppose we invite him to go over the farm, and take a look at it so as to see what he thinks of the investment."     "Sartain, Jefferson, sartain! I do hope Mr. Ropes you'll look favorable on the investment. It is Jefferson's idea, but it would be doin' me a great favor."

I have a little mining interest

    "Yes, uncle. I'm going to stay round here long enough to fix up your affairs and get you out of your trouble. Then I'll go back to the West. I have a little mining interest there and I can make more money there than I can here."     "If you can get me out of my trouble, Jefferson, I'll never forget it. Nancy and I have been so worried that we couldn't sleep nights, but now I'm beginnin' to be a little more cheerful."     Jefferson Pettigrew spent another hour at his uncle's house, and then went back to the tavern, where he found Rodney waiting for him. He explained briefly the part he wished his boy friend to take in his plan for relieving his uncle.     "I shall be receiving credit to which I am not entitled," said Rodney. "Still, if it will oblige you I am willing to play the part of the boy capitalist."     The next morning after breakfast the two friends walked over to the house of Cyrus Hooper. Aunt Nancy came to the door and gave them a cordial welcome.     "Cyrus is over at the barn, Jefferson," she said. "I'll ring the bell and he'll come in."     "No, Aunt Nancy, I'll go out and let him know I am here."     Presently Cyrus Hooper came in, accompanied by Jefferson.     "Uncle Cyrus," said the miner, "let me introduce you to my friend Rodney Ropes, of New York."     "I'm glad to see you," said Cyrus heartily. "I'm glad to see any friend of Jefferson's,"     "Thank you, sir. I am pleased to meet you."

the sum you want

    "Perhaps you have heard that I have a boy with me -- a boy from New York, named Rodney Ropes. He has money, and perhaps I might get him to advance the sum you want."     "Oh, Jefferson, if you only could!" exclaimed Aunt Nancy, clasping her thin hands. "It would make us very happy."     "I'll see Rodney tonight and come over tomorrow morning and tell you what he says. On account of the railroad I shall tell him that it is a good investment. I suppose you will be willing to mortgage the farm to him for the same money that he pays to lift the present mortgage?"     "Yes, Jefferson, I'll be willin' and glad. It'll lift a great burden from my shoulders. I've been worryin' at the sorrow I've brought upon poor Nancy, for she had nothing to do with my foolish actions. I was old enough to know better, Jefferson, and I'm ashamed of what I did."     "Well, Uncle Cyrus, I'll do what I can for you. Now let us forget all about your troubles and talk over the village news. You know I've been away for four years, and I haven't had any stiddy correspondence, so a good deal must have happened that I don't know anything about. I hear Frank Dobson has prospered?"     "Yes, Frank's pretty forehanded. He's got a good economical wife, and they've laid away five or six hundred dollars in the savings bank."     "I am glad of it. Frank is a good fellow. If it hadn't been for him I couldn't have gone to Montana. When he lent me the money everybody said he'd lose it, but I was bound to pay it if I had to live on one meal a day. He was the only man in town who believed in me at that time."     "You was a littless shif'less, Jefferson. You can't blame people. I wasn't quite sure myself how you'd get along."     "No doubt you are right, Uncle Cyrus. It did me good to leave town. I didn't drink, but I had no ambition. When a man goes to a new country it's apt to make a new man of him. That was the case with me."     "Are you goin' back again, Jefferson?"

He says he must call in the money

    "No, he won't. I've asked him. He says he must call in the money, and so the old place will have to be sold, and Nancy and I must turn out in our old age."     Again the old man sighed, and tears came into Nancy Hooper's eyes.     "There'll be something left, won't there, Uncle Cyrus?"     "Yes, the place should bring six hundred dollars over and above the mortgage. That's little enough, for it's worth three thousand."     "So it is, Uncle Cyrus. But what can you do with six hundred dollars? It won't support you and Aunt Nancy?"     "I thought mebbe, Jefferson, I could hire a small house and you could board with us, so that we could still have a home together."     "I'll think it over, uncle, if there is no other way. But are you sure Squire Sheldon won't give you more time?"     "No, Jefferson. I surmise he wants the place himself. There's talk of a railroad from Sherborn, and that'll raise the price of land right around here. It'll probably go right through the farm just south of the three acre lot."     "I see, Uncle Cyrus. You ought to have the benefit of the rise in value."     "Yes, Jefferson, it would probably rise enough to pay off the mortgage, but its no use thinkin' of it. The old farm has got to go."     "I don't know about that, Uncle Cyrus."     "Why, Jefferson, you haven't money enough to lift the mortgage!" said the old man, with faint hope.     "If I haven't I may get it for you. Tell me just how much money is required."     "Thirteen hundred dollars, includin' interest."

ever wore pale green gowns and snowdrops in

   But the heart that was fullest beat and fluttered in Rose's bosom as she went about putting spring flowers everywhere; very silent, but so radiant with happiness that the aunts watched her, saying softly to one another, "Could an angel look sweeter?"    If angels ever wore pale green gowns and snowdrops in their hair, had countenances full of serenest joy, and large eyes shining with an inward light that made them very lovely, then Rose did look like one. But she felt like a woman and well she might, for was not life very rich that day, when Uncle, friend, and lover were coming back to her together? Could she ask anything more, except the power to be to all of them the creature they believed her, and to return the love they gave her with one as faithful, pure, and deep?    Among the portraits in the hall hung one of Dr. Alec, done soon after his return by Charlie in one of his brief fits of inspiration. Only a crayon, but wonderfully lifelike and carefully finished, as few of the others were. This had been handsomely framed and now held the place of honor, garlanded with green wreaths, while the great Indian jar below blazed with a pyramid of hothouse flowers sent by Kitty. Rose was giving these a last touch, with Dulce close by, cooing over a handful of sweet "daffydowndillies," when the sound of wheels sent her flying to the door. She meant to have spoken the first welcome and had the first embrace, but when she saw the altered face in the carriage, the feeble figure being borne up the steps by all the boys, she stood motionless till Phebe caught her in her arms, whispering with a laugh and a cry struggling in her voice,-      "I did it for you, my darling, all for you!"    "Oh, Phebe, never say again you owe me anything! I never can repay you for this," was all Rose had time to answer as they stood one instant cheek to cheek, heart to heart, both too full of happiness for many words.

If the old house had been infected with

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fit her for a long life full of

   The lesson came to Rose when she was ready for it, and showed her what a noble profession philanthropy is, made her glad of her choice, and helped fit her for a long life full of the loving labor and sweet satisfaction unostentatious charity brings to those who ask no reward and are content if "only God knows."    Several anxious weeks went by with wearing fluctuations of hope and fear, for Life and Death fought over the prize each wanted, and more than once Death seemed to have won. But Phebe stood at her post, defying both danger and Death with the courage and devotion women often show. All her soul and strength were in her work, and when it seemed most hopeless, she cried out with the passionate energy which seems to send such appeals straight up to heaven: "Grant me this one boon, dear Lord, and I will never ask another for myself!"    Such prayers avail much, and such entire devotion often seems to work miracles when other aids are in vain. Phebe's cry was answered, her self-forgetful task accomplished, and her long vigil rewarded with a happy dawn. Dr. Alec always said that she kept him alive by the force of her will, and that, during the hours when he seemed to lie unconscious, he felt a strong, warm hand holding his, as if keeping him away from the swift current trying to sweep him away. The happiest hour of all her life was that in which he knew her, looked up with the shadow of a smile in his hollow eyes, and tried to say in his old cheery way: "Tell Rose I've turned the corner, thanks to you, my child."    She answered very quietly, smoothed the pillow, and saw him drop asleep again before she stole away into the other room, meaning to write the good news, but could only throw herself down and find relief for a full heart in the first tears she had shed for weeks. Mac found her there, and took such care of her that she was ready to go back to her place,-now indeed a post of honor while he ran off to send home a telegram which made many hearts sing for joy and caused Jamie, in his first burst of delight, to propose to ring all the city bells and order out the cannon: "Saved thanks to God and Phebe."    That was all, but everyone was satisfied, and everyone fell a-crying, as if hope needed much salty water to strengthen it. That was soon over, however, and then people went about smiling and saying to one another, with handshakes or embraces, "He is better no doubt of it now!" A general desire to rush away and assure themselves of the truth pervaded the family for some days, and nothing but awful threats from Mac, stern mandates from the doctor, and entreaties from Phebe not to undo her work kept Miss Plenty, Rose, and Aunt Jessie at home.

her last directions and trying to

Rose was less patient, and at first had wild ideas of setting off alone and forcing her way to the spot where all her thoughts now centered. But before she could carry out any rash project, Aunt Myra's palpitations set in so alarmingly that they did good service for once and kept Rose busy taking her last directions and trying to soothe her dying bed, for each attack was declared fatal till the patient demanded toast and tea, when hope was again allowable and the rally began.    The news flew fast, as such tidings always do, and Aunt Plenty was constantly employed in answering inquiries, for her knocker kept up a steady tattoo for several days. All sorts of people came: gentlefolk and paupers, children with anxious little faces, old people full of sympathy, pretty girls sobbing as they went away, and young men who relieved their feelings by swearing at all emigrants in general and Portuguese in particular. It was touching and comforting to see how many loved the good man who was known only by his benefactions and now lay suffering far away, quite unconscious how many unsuspected charities were brought to light by this grateful solicitude as hidden flowers spring up when warm rains fall.    If Rose had ever felt that the gift of living for others was a poor one, she saw now how beautiful and blessed it was how rich the returns, how wide the influence, how much more precious the tender tie which knit so many hearts together than any breath of fame or brilliant talent that dazzled but did not win and warm. In after years she found how true her uncle's words had been and, listening to eulogies of great men, felt less moved and inspired by praises of their splendid gifts than by the sight of some good man's patient labor for the poorest of his kind. Her heroes ceased to be the world's favorites and became such as Garrison fighting for his chosen people; Howe restoring lost senses to the deaf, the dumb, and blind; Sumner unbribable, when other men were bought and sold and many a large-hearted woman working as quietly as Abby Gibbons, who for thirty years had made Christmas merry for two hundred little paupers in a city almshouse, besides saving Magdalens and teaching convicts.

and fare worse for the strain

   "But I want to help. I must go, Aunty, I must: no matter what the danger is," cried Rose, full of a tender jealousy of Phebe for being first to brave peril for the sake of him who had been a father to them both.    "You can't go, dear, it's no use now, and she is right to say, 'Keep away.' I know those fevers, and the ones who nurse often take it, and fare worse for the strain they've been through. Good girl to stand by so bravely, to be so sensible, and not let Mac go too near! She's a grand nurse Alec couldn't have a better, and she'll never leave him till he's safe," said Miss Plenty excitedly.    "Ah, you begin to know her now, and value her as you ought. I think few would have done as she has, and if she does get ill and die, it will be our fault partly, because she'd go through fire and water to make us do her justice and receive her as we ought," cried Rose, proud of an example which she longed to follow.    "If she brings my boy home, I'll never say another word. She may marry every nephew I've got, if she likes, and I'll give her my blessing," exclaimed Aunt Plenty, feeling that no price would be too much to pay for such a deed.    Rose was going to clap her hands, but wrung them instead, remembering with a sudden pang that the battle was not over yet, and it was much too soon to award the honors.    Before she could speak Uncle Mac and Aunt Jane hurried in, for Mac's letter had come with the other, and dismay fell upon the family at the thought of danger to the well-beloved Uncle Alec. His brother decided to go at once, and Aunt Jane insisted on accompanying him, though all agreed that nothing could be done but wait, and leave Phebe at her post as long as she held out, since it was too late to save her from danger now and Mac reported her quite equal to the task.    Great was the hurry and confusion till the relief party was off. Aunt Plenty was heartbroken that she could not go with them, but felt that she was too infirm to be useful and, like a sensible old soul, tried to content herself with preparing all sorts of comforts for the invalid.