Yes, indeed, it was a very crest-fallen youth who accompanied Arthur Ripley back to New York that bright summer afternoon, and who toward bed-time that evening stole quietly into Mr. Finkelstein's shop. It was hard work under the circumstances to return to Mr. Finkelstein's. I had to swallow my pride in doing so, and it proved to be an exceedingly unpalatable dose. I had expected to return a young prince, in princely style, to dazzle my plebeian friends with my magnificence, and overwhelm them with my bounteous generosity; and now, in point of fact, I came back poorer than I had gone away, a beggar and a dependent, one who would be homeless and penniless if they should refuse to take him in. It was a dreadful come-down. I think, if there had been anywhere else for me to go, I should never have returned to Mr. Finkelstein's at all, it mortified my vanity so cruelly to have to do it. I felt as though I should like to seek out some obscure hiding-place in the remotest quarter of the world, and bury myself there forever from the sight of men. “O, Rip!” I cried, “I should just like to bag my head.”

Of course, as I opened the shop door, the bell above it must needs tinkle; and in response to this summons Mr. Finkelstein himself issued from the parlor.

“What, Kraikory!” he exclaimed at sight of me. “Back so soon? Ach! I tought it was a customer. Vail, it's you yourself, and no mistake about it.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, “we came back on the train this afternoon.”

“Ach, so? You came back on de train dis aifternoon? Vail, vail, valk in, set down, make yourself to home. Vail, Kraik-ory, I'm real glaid to see you. Vail, it's all right, I suppose? You got de money, hey? Vail, was it more or less as you expected? Was it fifty tousand, or a hundred, or maybe only terventy-fife? Vail, set down and tell me all about it.”

“N-no, sir,” I began, rather tremulously; “it—we—there—there was a mistake. She—I mean to say my grandmother—she didn't leave any money, after all. She didn't have any to leave. She was quite poor, instead of rich, and—and my Uncle Peter, he supported her. He owned the house and everything. He had bought it from her, and she had sent the money to France. So—I—that is—you see”—I broke down. I could get no further.

“Ach, dere, dere, Kraikory,” cried Mr. Finkelstein, as my emotion betrayed itself, and he laid his hand caressingly upon my shoulder; “dere, dere, don't you go feel baid about it, my dear little poy.” Then he caught himself up. “Excuse me, Kraikory; I didn't mean to call you a little poy; I forgot. But don't you go feel baid about it, all de same. You ain't no vorse off as you was before already. Put it down to experience, Kraikory, sharsh it to experience. It's allright. You got a comfortable home here by me. You needn't feel so awful about it. Come, sheer up, Kraikory. Don't tink about it no more. Come along inside mit me, and Henrietta will get you somedings to eat. We ain't got no faitted caif to kill in your honor, Kraikory, but we got some of de finest liver sowsage in de United States of America; and ainyhow, Kraikory, veal is a fearful dry meat. Ach, dere, dere, for mercy's sake, don't you feel baid. I get off a shoke shust on purpose to make you laif, and you don't naifer notice it. Ach, Kraikory, don't feel baid. I simply hate to see you feel baid, Kraikory; I simply cain't staind it. I give ten tousand tollars right out of my own pocket sooner as see you feel baid, Kraikory; I'm so fond of you, don't you understand?”

My heart melted all at once like ice in sunshine. Tears sprang to my eyes. “Oh! my dear, dear Mr. Finkelstein,” I sobbed, “you are so good to me. Oh! can—can you ever—for—forgive the—the way I've acted? I—I'm—I'm so sorry for it.”

“My kracious, Kraikory, don't talk like dot. If you talk like dot, you make me aict so foolish I be ashamed to show my face. You make me cry like a raikular old voman, Kraikory; you aictually vill. Ach, dere I go. Ach, my kracious! Ach! I cain't help it. Ach, what—what an old fool I am.... Kraikory—my boy—my son—come here, Kraikory—come here to me. O, Kraikory! I loaf you like a fader. O, Kraikory! you know what I tought? I tought I loast you foraifer, Kraikory. O, Kraikory! I'm so glaid to haif you back. Ach, Kraikory, God is good.” The tears rolled downward from his dear old eyes, and pattered like rain-drops upon my cheeks. He had clasped me in his arms.

From that hour I took up my old place at Mr. Finkelstein's, in a humbler, healthier, and, on the whole, happier frame of mind than I had known for many a long day before. My heart had been touched, and my conscience smitten, by his loving kindness.

I was sincerely remorseful for the ungrateful manner in which I had behaved toward him, and for the unworthy sentiments that I had cherished. I strove honestly, by amending my conduct, to do what I could in the way' of atonement.

Incidentally, moreover, my little adventure had brought me face to face with some of the naked facts of life. In a grim and vivid tableau it had shown me what a helpless and dependent creature I was; how for the sheer necessities of food, shelter and clothing I must rely upon the charity of other people. I tried now to make myself of real value to my patron, of real use in the shop and about the house, and thus in some measure to render an equivalent for what he did for me. Instead of going off afternoons to amuse myself with Ripley, I would remain at home to improve such chances as I had to be of service to Mr. Finkelstein. I would play the hand-organ for him, or read aloud to him, or take charge of the shop, while he slept, or enjoyed his game of pinochle with Mr. Flisch. And in my moments of leisure I would study a dog-eared fourth-hand copy of Munson's Complete Phonographer that I had bought; for I had long thought that I should like to learn short-hand, and had even devoted a good deal of time to mastering the rudiments of that art; and I fancied that, by much diligent practice now, I might hasten forward the day when I should be able to earn my own livelihood, and thus cease to be a burden upon my friends. Indeed, I could already write as many as sixty words a minute with perfect ease.

Mr. Finkelstein did not altogether approve of my assiduous industry, and used to warn me, “Look out, Kraikory! It don't naifer pay to run a ting into de ground; it aictually don't. You study so hart, your head'll get more knowledge inside of it as it can hold, and den, de first ting you know, all of a sudden vun day, it'll svell up and bust. Ainy-how, Kraikory, dere's a proverp which goes, 'All vork and no play makes Shack a dull poy'; and dot's as true as you're alife, Kraikory; it aictually does. You better knock off dis aifternoon, Kraikory, and go haif some fun. It's Saiturday, ain't it? And dere's a maitinee, hey? Vail, why don't you go to de teayter?... How? You study so hart becoase you vant to get able to earn your living? Now look at here, Kraikory; don't you talk foolish. I got plenty money, ain't I? And I got a right to spend my money so as to get saitisfaiction out of it, hey? Vail, now look at here; dere ain't no vay of spending my money what'll give me so much saitisfaiction as to spend it to make you haippy and contented; dot's a solemn faict. You needn't vorry about earning your living. You ain't got to earn it for a great mainy years yet already—not till you get all done mit your education. And ainyhow, Kraikory, you do earn it. You mind de store, and you read out lout to me, and you keep me company; and, my kracious, you're such a shenu-wine musician, Kraikory, you got such a graind tailent for de haind-organ, I don't know how I'd get along midout you. I guess I haif to raise your sailary next New Years.”

This was-only of a piece with Mr. Fin-kelstein's usual kindness. But I felt that I had abused his kindness in the past, and I was determined to abuse it no longer.

I say I was happier than I had been for a long while before, and so I was. I was happier because I was more contented. My disappointment about the inheritance, though keen enough at the moment, did not last long. As Mr. Finkelstein had remarked, I was no worse off than I had been in the first place; and then, I derived a good deal of consolation from remembering what Uncle Peter had told me—that the money had gone to reconstruct the splendor of our house in France. My disappointment at seeing my meeting with Uncle Florimond again become a thing of the indefinite future, was deeper and more enduring. “Alas,” I sighed, with a heart sick for hope deferred, “it seems as though I was never going to be able to go to him at all.” And I gulped down a big lump that had gathered in my throat.

Against Rosalind Earle I still nursed some foolish resentment. She had wished that I might have to eat humble pie. Well, her wish had come to pass; and I felt almost as though it were her fault that it had done so. She had said she didn't like me any more, and didn't care to have me call upon her any more. I took her at her word, and staid away, regarding myself in the light of a much-abused and injured person. So three or four weeks elapsed, and she and I never met. Then... Toward six o'clock one evening I was seated in the parlor, poring over my Complete Phonogacipher, when the door from the shop opened with a creak, and a light footstep became audible behind my chair. The next instant I heard Rosalind's voice, low and gentle, call my name.

My heart began to flutter. I got up and turned around, and saw the dear little girl standing a yard distant from me, with her hand extended for me to take, and with her beautiful dark eyes fixed appealingly upon my face. I didn't speak; and I pretended not to see her hand; and I just stood still there, mute and pouting, like the sulky coxcomb and simpleton that I was.

Rosalind allowed her hand to drop to her side, and a very pained look came over her face; and there was a frog in her voice, as she said, “O, Gregory! you—you are still angry with me.”

“O, no! I'm not angry with you,” I answered, but in an offish tone; and that was true; I really wasn't angry with her the least bit any more. All my anger had evaporated at the sight of her face and the sound of her voice. But I didn't know how to unbend gracefully and without loss of dignity.

“Then—then why haven't you been to see me?” she asked.

“You said you didn't want me to come to see you any more.”

“But I didn't mean it. You must have known I didn't mean it.”

“But you said it, anyhow. I don't care to go where I'm not wanted. When people say a thing, how am I to know they don't mean it?”

“But I said it when I was vexed. And what people say when they're vexed—other people ought not to count it. It isn't fair. And really and truly, Gregory, I didn't mean it; and I'm sorry I said it; and I'm sorry I spoke to you the way I did; and—and that's why I've come here, Gregory; I've come to ask your pardon.”

“Oh! certainly; don't mention it; no apology's necessary,” I said. I would have given anything to have taken her in my arms, and kissed her, and begged her pardon; but I was too stiff-necked and self-conscious.

“And then,” she went on, “after you came back from Norwich, and Mr. Flisch told me what Mr. Finkelstein had told him—about how disappointed you had been, and everything—I—I felt so sorry for you, Gregory, and so sorry that I had spoken to you that way; and I wanted to come right over, and tell you I didn't mean it, and beg your pardon, and ask you to make up with me; but I thought maybe you mightn't like it, and that you might be angry with me, and—and not—not—I don't know; but anyway, I didn't come. And then I just hoped and hoped all the time that maybe you would come to see me; but you never did. And then at last I just couldn't wait any longer, I felt so guilty and sorry and everything; and—and so I stopped in on my way home to day; and, O, Gregory! I really didn't mean to hurt your feelings, and I hope you'll forgive me, Gregory, and not be angry with me any more.”

By this time I had gone up, and taken her in my arms; and, “O, Rosalind!” I cried, “don't talk like that. You—you make me feel so ashamed. You—you humiliate me so. What you said to me that day—it was just right. You were just right, and I was wrong. And I deserved to have you talk to me ten times worse, I was so horrid and stuck-up and everything. And I—I'm awfully sorry. And I've wanted—I've wanted to go and see you all the time, and tell you I was sorry; only—only I don't know—I suppose I was too proud. And I just hope that you'll forgive me, and forgive the way I acted here to-day a little while ago, and—O, Rosalind! I'm so glad to be friends with you again.”

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Finkelstein, entering from the shop. “Hugging and kissing each udder! Vail, my kracious! Vail, if I aifer! Vail, dot beats de deck! Oh! you needn't take no notice of me. You needn't stop on my account. I don't mind it. I been dere myself already, when I was your age. You needn't bloosh like dot, Rosie; dough it's mighty becoming to you, dot's a faict. And, Kraikory, you needn't look so sheebish. You ain't done nodings to be ashamed of. And I'm awful sorry I came in shust when I did, and inderrubded you; only I didn't know what you was doing, as you haidn't notified me, and I vanted to speak to Kraikory about a little maitter of business. Dere's an old feller outside dere in de store what cain't talk no English; and I guess he was a Frenchman; so I tought I'd get Kraikory to come along and aisk him what he vants, if you could spare him, Rosie—hey?” So Rosalind and I followed Mr. Finkelstein into the shop.

A tall, thin, and very poor-looking old man stood before the counter, resting his hands upon it—small and well-shaped hands, but so fleshless that you could have counted the bones in them, and across which the blue, distended veins stretched like wires. His stove-pipe hat was worn and lustreless; his black frock coat was threadbare, and whitish along the seams. His old-fashioned standing collar was frayed at the edge; and a red mark on each side of his neck, beneath his ears, showed that the frayed edge had chafed his skin. His face was colorless and emaciated; his eyes, sunken deep under his brows, had a weary, sad, half-frightened look in them that compelled your pity. His moustache and imperial were as white as snow. A very forlorn, pathetic, poor-looking old man, indeed. Yet there was also something refined, dignified, and even courtly in his appearance; and I thought to myself that he had seen better days; and my heart ached for him. It was with an unwonted gentleness that I inquired: “You are French, Monsieur? I put myself at your service.”

His sad old eyes fixed themselves eagerly upon mine, and in a quavering old voice he answered, “Je cherche un jeune homme qui s'appelle GrÉgoire Brace”—I seek a young man named Gregory Brace. “C'est ici que il demeure?”—It is here that he lives?

“Mais oui, monsieur: c'est moi” “—it is I,” I said; and wondering what in the world he could want with me, I waited for him to go on.

His eyes opened a little wider, and a light flashed in them. He seemed to be struggling with an emotion that made it impossible for him to speak. His throat, I could see, gave two or three convulsive swallows. Then his lips parted, his eyes grew dim with tears, and very huskily, bending forward, he demanded, “Et—et vous ne me connaissez pas?”—And you do not know me?

I scanned his face carefully. I could not recognize it. I shook my head. “Mais non, monsieur—I do not think that I have ever seen you before.

“No, that is true. But I hoped that you might know me, nevertheless.... Gregory, it is I; it is thy uncle—de la Bourbonnaye.” And he stretched out his two arms, to embrace me.