A patient, plodding man was Charles Evans—a man who had made his own fortune, and was perfectly sure that every man might do the same who chose to mind his own business and keep at work, and not spend money or time. He went to election and voted, and went home without drinking a “brandy-smasher,” or a “whiskey-toddy.” He was a democrat when he had no property to protect, and when he had acquired wealth, he had got in the habit of being a democrat—and his democracy was his religion, his Faith in Human Brotherhood. He immured himself in a living tomb in Wall street all day, and worked half the night at his home in William street, beside. It was here that Edward Evans found him, the evening after his wife’s funeral.

“How are you, Ned?” said Charles, glancing at him to see if he were sober, and then continued to fold and direct letters, seeming a little nervous under the infliction of a visit from his worthless cousin.

“I have been very unfortunate,” said Ned, a good deal troubled how to penetrate his thick-skinned cousin.

“I never knew you otherwise,” said Charles, and he wrote on.

“I mean, I have had the bad fortune to bury my wife.”

“Very good fortune for her,” said his cousin, but he dropped his pen and regarded the weed on Ned’s hat. “I did not notice that you were in mourning. So Fanny is dead. It is a long time since I have seen her. She died of a broken-heart, I suppose, you will allow.”

“She bled to death from her lungs.”

“All the same. Pity it had not been you.”

“I came to see you about the child. She wished me to give her to you.”

“To ME,” said his cousin, starting with real astonishment. “What could I do with a child, and a child who could never see her father again if she were to live with me? How old is she?”

“I don’t justly remember,” said Ned.

“Is there a race-horse in the city whose age you don’t remember? How long did it take you to kill your wife—do you know that? How long have you been a drunkard and a devil? How long have you eaten when your wife and child starved? How long have you hid them where even I could not find them—can you tell me that, you decently dressed vagabond? I’ll warrant your wife is clad as warmly in her grave as she was out of it.”

Ned could answer nothing. He was a wretch—and he had the good sense to know it. He had not the slightest respect for himself, but he wanted his child taken care of; then, if he had a pint of brandy, and six feet of rope, he thought he would comfort himself with the brandy, and hang himself with the rope; but then he had a great liking for cards and a decent rig, and it is probable that while luck, or loaded dice, gave him broadcloth and brandy, he would have laid up the rope against a lack of either, which he would have considered a decided reverse of fortune.

“I promised my wife that I would give the girl to you. If you will take her, I will go to the South, and never show my face here again.”

“What on earth am I to do with a child? My old blind aunt can’t see to herself and me—how is she to take care of another? But it is a temptation to be rid of you. How does the girl look?”

The father was again at a loss.

“Oh, you don’t know—what color is Kenny’s horse, Eclipse? How many hands high is he, and how old? How far can he run in ten minutes and thirteen seconds?”

“Once for all—will you take the girl?” said the man whose life was exhausted by dissipation and excitement into an apathy that resembled patience. “She will have to go to the Almshouse if you don’t, and your blood is in her veins. She is your grandmother’s grandchild.”

“I would like you to be the only one of our blood who should die in the Almshouse; but I say again—what am I to do with the child? I can only take her as a servant.”

“Make a slave of your own blood if you like,” replied the father, whose stupid apathy was pierced at last. “She had better serve you than serve the devil. She is a good, serviceable child.”

“O, you know that, do you? No doubt you know all about that. Look you, Ned Evans, I owe you no service. I have earned every dollar I have, whilst you have squandered a fortune twice as large as mine, of your own, and another for your wife, whilst you have been a sponge to soak brandy, a gambler and a stool-pigeon for gamblers, and have made acquaintance with every horse-dealer and all the horse-flesh in the Union, and have murdered your wife by inches, till at the age of 29 years, an age when she should be as fresh as a new-blown rose, and with her fortune living as well as any lady in the land, you have done her the last and only kindness you ever did her—you have bought her a pine coffin, and have seen her buried. But though I know you ought to be hung, I will make a bargain with you. I will see you on board a vessel bound for New Orleans, with your passage paid, and take your child. You agree to go to New Orleans. When once you are there, I have no fear of you or your ghost ever appearing to me again. On these conditions I will take the child.”

“When must I sail for New Orleans? I’ll go after Monday. The race with Eclipse and Black Bess comes off then. I have agreed to ride for Kenny. I know the horse better than anybody else. Besides, a fellow must keep his word.”

“Very good,” said Charles, after a moment’s thought. “You may break your neck, and save me the passage-money. I agree to that—any thing more?”

“When may I bring the girl?”

“To-morrow morning at 6 o’clock.”

“That’s too early to wake her,” mumbled Ned.

“Then, or not at all. You can keep sober one night, and get up in decent season one morning in your life, for the sake of getting your child a situation.”

If a particle of Ned Evans’ old spirit had been left, this taunt of getting his daughter a situation would have roused it. But his life was crushed. He was hopelessly besotted and exhausted, though now he had decent clothes, for which he had sacrificed the last remnant of decent feeling he possessed. These clothes belonged to the keeper of the vilest Hell in New York; and Ned was his “decoy-duck,” and did any job the fellow set him about.

He was as craven before his cousin as possible. He had one instinct of his nature left—he wanted to provide for his child.

“I will be here at the time, so help me God,” said he—and he kept his word. It was the last right act of his life. As if to make his cousin out a prophet, he rode Eclipse, and broke his neck in earnest, though not in “sober earnest.”

When Charles Evans heard of it, he only said, “One poor devil less in the world;” but he murmured to himself, as he turned away, “Poor Cousin Ned!”

——