The little cottage at Port-na-Whapple, to which Alfred Layton had repaired to collect the last few relics of his poor mother, had so completely satisfied all his longings for quiet seclusion, that he lingered on there in a sort of dreamy abstractedness far from unpleasing. Quackinboss was with him, but never was there a companion less obtrusive. The honest American delighted in the spot; he was a fisherman, and soon became acquainted with all the choice places for the take of salmon, while he oftentimes strolled inland and whipped the mountain streams with no small success. In fact, the gun, the rod, and a well-trained greyhound amply supplied all the demands of the household; and never was there a life less crossed by outward cares than theirs. Whether the Colonel believed or not that Layton was deeply engaged in his studies, he affected to think so, and made a point of interfering as little as possible with the other's time. If by a chance word now and then he would advert to their projected trip to America, he never pressed the theme, nor seemed in any way to evince over-eagerness regarding it. Indeed, with a delicacy of truest refinement, he abstained from making Layton ever feel himself constrained by the deep obligations he owed him, so that nothing could be freer than their intercourse; the only theme of gloom between them being the fate of Layton's father, of which, notwithstanding all their efforts, they could obtain no tidings. From the day when he quitted the asylum, and was pronounced “cured,” nothing was known of him. Dr. Millar had assisted in all their inquiries with a most friendly interest, and endeavored to induce Alfred to accept the hospitalities of the vicarage; but this he declined, making weak health his apology. The vicar, however, did not cease to show his constant attention, feeling deeply interested in the youth. In nothing did he evince this sentiment more than the trouble he gave himself to collect the scattered papers and documents of the old Professor. The old man—accustomed ever to an existence of emergency—was in the habit of pledging his private papers and his own writings for small sums here and there through the country; and thus researches which had cost months of labor, investigations of deepest import, were oftentimes pawned at a public for a few shillings. Scarcely a day went over without some record being brought in by a farmer or a small village tradesman; sometimes valueless, sometimes of great interest. Now and then they would be violent and rebellious pasquinades against men in power,—his supposed enemies,—versified slanders upon imaginary oppressors.

Neither imbued with Alfred's taste nor influenced by the ties of blood, Quackinboss took a pleasure in poring over these documents which the young man could not feel. The Professor, to him, seemed the true type of intellectual power, and he had that bold recklessness of all consequences which appealed strongly to the Yankee. He was, as he phrased it, an “all-mighty smasher,” and would have been a rare man for Congress! All Alfred's eagerness to possess himself of his father's papers was soon exceeded by the zeal of Quackinboss, who, by degrees, abandoned gun and rod to follow out his new pursuit. If he could not estimate the value of deep scientific calculations and researches, he was fully alive to the sparkling wit and envenomed satire of the various attacks upon individuals; and so enamored was he of these effusions, that many of the verse ones he had committed to memory.

Poor Alfred! what a struggle was his, as Quackinboss would recite some lines of fearful malignity, asking him, the while “if all English literature could show such another 'tarnal screamer' as his own parent? Warn't he a 'right-down scarification'? Did n't he scald the hides of them old hogs in the House of Lords? Well, I 'm blest if Mr. Clay could a-done it better!” To the young man's mild suggestions that his father's fame would rest upon very different labors, Quackinboss would hastily offer rejoinder, “No, sir, chemicals is all very well, but human natur' is a grander study than acids and oxides. What goes on in a man's heart is a main sight harder reading than salts and sediments.”

The Colonel had learned in the course of his wanderings that a farmer who inhabited one of the lone islands off the coast was in possession of an old writing-desk of the Professor,—the pledge for a loan of three pounds sterling,—a sum so unusually large as to imply that the property was estimated as of value. It was some time before the weather admitted of a visit to the spot, but late of a summer's evening, as Alfred sat musingly on the door-sill of the cottage, Quackinboss was seen approaching with an old-fashioned writing-desk under his arm, while he called out, “Here it is; and without knowin' the con-tents, I 'd not swap the plunder for a raft of timber!”

If the moment of examining the papers was longed for by the impatient Quackinboss with an almost feverish anxiety, what was his blank disappointment at finding that, instead of being the smart squibs or bitter invectives he delighted in, the whole box was devoted to documents relating to a curious incident in medical jurisprudence, and was labelled on the inner side of the lid, “Hawke's case, with all the tests and other papers.”

“This seems to have been a great criminal case,” said Alfred, “and it must have deeply interested my father, for he has actually drawn out a narrative of the whole event, and has even journalized his share in the story.

“'Strange scene that I have just left,' wrote he, in a clear, exact hand. 'A man very ill—seriously, dangerously ill—in one room, and a party—his guests—all deeply engaged at play in the same house. No apparent anxiety about his case,—scarcely an inquiry; his wife—if she be his wife, for I have my misgivings about it—eager and feverish, following me from place to place, with a sort of irresolute effort to say something which she has no courage for. Patient worse,—the case a puzzling one; there is more than delirium tremens here. But what more? that's the question. Remarkable his anxiety about the sense of burning in the throat; ever asking, “Is that usual? is it invariable?” Suspicion, of course, to be looked for; but why does it not extend to me also? Afraid to drink, though his thirst is excruciating. Symptoms all worse; pulse irregular; desires to see me alone; his wife, unwilling, tries by many pretexts to remain; he seems to detect her plan, and bursts into violent passion, swears at her, and cries out, “Ain't you satisfied? Don't you see that I 'm dying?”'

“'We have been alone for above an hour. He has told me all; she is not his wife, but the divorced wife of a well-known man in office. Believes she intended to leave him; knows, or fancies he knows, her whole project. Rage and anger have increased the bad symptoms, and made him much worse. Great anxiety about the fate of his child, a daughter of his former wife; constantly exclaiming, “They will rob her! they will leave her a beggar, and I have none to protect her.” A violent paroxysm of pain—agonizing pain—has left him very low.

“'"What name do you give this malady, doctor?” he asks me.

“'"It is a gastric inflammation, but not unaccompanied by other symptoms.”

“'"How brought on?”

“'"No man can trace these affections to primary causes.”

“'"I can,—here, at least,” breaks he in. “This is poison, and you know it. Come, sir,” he cried, “be frank and honest with one whose moments are to be so few here. Tell me, as you would speak the truth in your last hour, am I not right?”

“'"I cannot say with certainty. There are things here I am unable to account for, and there are traits which I cannot refer to any poisonous agency.”

“'"Think over the poisons; you know best. Is it arsenic?”

“'"No, certainly not.”

“'"Nor henbane, nor nicotine, nor nitre, nor strychnine,—none of these?”

“'"None.”

“'"How subtle the dogs have been!” muttered he. “What fools they make of you, with all your science! The commonest money-changer will detect a spurious shilling, but you, with all your learning, are baffled by every counterfeit case that meets you. Examine, sir; inquire, investigate well,” he cried; “it is for your honor as a physician not to blunder here.”

“'"Be calm; compose yourself. These moments of passion only waste your strength.”

“'"Let me drink,—no, from the water-jug; they surely have not drugged that! What are you doing there?”

“'"I was decanting the tea into a small bottle, that I might take it home and test it.”

“'"And so,” said he, sighing, “with all your boasted skill, it is only after death you can pronounce. It is to aid the law, not to help the living, you come. Be it so. But mind, sir,” cried he, with a wild energy, “they are all in it,—all. Let none escape. And these were my friends!” said he, with a smile of inexpressible sorrow. “Oh, what friends are a bad man's friends! You swear to me, doctor, if there has been foul play it shall be discovered. They shall swing for it Don't you screen them. No mumbling, sir; your oath,—your solemn sworn oath! Take those keys and open that drawer there,—no, the second one; fetch me the papers. This was my will two months ago,” said he, tearing open the seals of an envelope. “You shall see with your own eyes how I meant by her. You will declare to the world how you read in my own hand that I had left her everything that was not Clara's by right. Call her here; send for her; let her be present while you read it aloud, and let her see it burned afterwards.”

“'It was long before I could calm him after this paroxysm. At length he said: “What a guilty conscience will be yours if this crime pass unpunished!”

“'"If there be a crime, it shall not,” said I, firmly.

“'"If it were to do,” muttered he, in a low voice, “I 'd rather they 'd have shot me; these agonies are dreadful, and all this lingering too! Oh! could you not hasten it now? But not yet!” cried he, wildly. “I have to tell you about Clara. They may rob her of all here, but she will be rich after all. There is that great tract in America, in Ohio, called 'Peddar's Clearings;' don't forget the name. Peddar's Clearings, all hers; it was her mother's fortune. Harvey Winthrop, in Norfolk, has the titles, and is the guardian when I am dead.''”

“Why, I know that 'ere tract well; there's a cousin of mine, Obadiah B. Quackinboss, located there, and there ain't finer buckwheat in all the West than is grown on that location. But go on, let's hear about this sick fellow.”

“This is an account of chemical tests, all this here,” said Alfred, passing over several leaves of the diary. “It seems to have been a difficult investigation, but ending at last in the detection of corrosive sublimate.”

“And it killed him?”

“Yes; he died on the third evening after this was written. Here follows the whole story of the inquest, and a remarkable letter, too, signed 'T. Towers.' It is addressed to my father, and marked 'Private and Secret': 'The same hand which delivers you this will put you in possession of five hundred pounds sterling; and, in return, you will do whatever is necessary to make all safe. There is no evidence, except yours, of consequence; and all the phials and bottles have been already disposed of. Be cautious, and stand fast to yours,—T. T.' On a slip wafered to this note was written: 'I am without twenty shillings in the world; my shoes are falling to pieces, and my coat threadbare; but I cannot do this.' But what have we here?” cried Alfred, as a neatly folded note with deep black margin met his eyes. It was a short and most gracefully worded epistle in a lady's hand, thanking Dr. Layton for his unremitting kindness and perfect delicacy in a season of unexampled suffering. “I cannot,” wrote she, “leave the island, dearly associated as it is with days of happiness, and now more painfully attached to my heart by the most terrible of afflictions, without tendering to the kindest of physicians my last words of gratitude.” The whole, conveyed in lines of strictly conventional use, gave no evidence of anything beyond a due sense of courtesy, and the rigid observance of a fitting etiquette. It was very polished in style, and elegant in phraseology; but to have been written amid such scenes as she then lived in, it seemed a perfect marvel of unfeeling conduct.

“That 'ere woman riles me considerable,” said Quackinboss; “she doesn't seem to mind, noways, what has happened, and talks of goin' to a new clearin' quite uncon-sarned like. I ain't afraid of many things, but I 'm darned extensive if I 'd not be afeard of her! What are you a-por-ing over there?”

“It is the handwriting. I am certain I have seen it before; but where, how, and when, I cannot bring to mind.”

“How could you, sir? Don't all your womankind write that sort of up-and-down bristly hand, more like a prickly-pear fence than a Christian's writin'? It's all of a piece with your Old-World civilization, which tries to make people alike, as the eggs in a basket; but they ain't like, for all that. No, sir, nor will any fixin' make 'em so!”

“I have certainly seen it before,” muttered Layton to himself.

“I 'm main curious to know how your father found out the 'pyson,'—ain't it all there?”

“Oh, it was a long and very intricate chemical investigation.”

“Did he bile him?”

“Boil him? No,” said he, with difficulty restraining a laugh;' 'certainly not.”

“Well, they tell me, sir, there ain't no other sure way to discover it. They always bile 'em in France!”

“I am so puzzled by this hand,” muttered Alfred, half aloud.

Quackinboss, equally deep in his own speculations, proceeded to give an account of the mode of inquiry pursued by Frenchmen of science in cases of poisoning, which certainly would have astonished M. Orfila, and was only brought back from this learned disquisition by Layton's questioning him about “Peddar's Clearings.”

“Yes, sir,” said he, “it is con-siderable of a tract, and lies between two rivers. There 's the lines for a new city—Pentacolis—laid down there; and the chief town, 'Measles,' is a thriving location. My cousin, O. B. Quackinboss, did n't stump out less than eighty dollars an acre for his clearin', and there's better land than his there.”

“So far as appears, then, this is an extensive property which is spoken of here?”

“Well, sir, I expect it's a matter of half a million of dollars now, though, mayhap, twenty thousand bought it fifteen or sixteen years back.”

“I wonder what steps my father took in this affair? I 'll be very curious to know if he interested himself in the matter; for, with his indolent habits, it is just as likely that he never moved in it further.”

“A 'tarnal shame, then, for him, sir, when it was for a child left alone and friendless in the world; and I'm thinkin' indolence ain't the name to give it.”

For a moment an angry impulse to reply stirred Layton's blood, but he refrained, and said nothing.

“I'll go further,” resumed the American, “and I'll say that if your father did neglect this duty, you are bound to look to it. Ay, sir, there ain't no ways in this world of getting out of what we owe one to another. We are most of us ready enough to be 'generous,' but few take trouble to be 'just.'”

“I believe you are right,” said Layton, reflectively.

“I know it, sir,—I know it,” said the other, resolutely. “There's a sort of flattery in doing something more than we are obliged to do which never comes of doing what is strict fair. Ay,” added he, after a moment, “and I 've seen a man who 'd jump into the sea to save a fellow-creature as would n't give a cent to a starving beggar on dry land.”

“I 'll certainly inquire after this claim, and you 'll help me, Quackinboss?”

“Yes, sir; and there ain't no honester man in all the States to deal with than Harvey Winthrop. I was with him the day he cowhided Senator Jared Boles, of Massachusetts, and when I observed, 'I think you have given him enough,' he said, 'Well, sir, though I have n't the honor of knowing you, if that be your conscientious opinion, I 'll abstain from going further;' and he did, and we went into the bar together, and had a mint julep.”

“The trait is worth remembering,” said Layton, dryly. “Here's another reason to cross the Atlantic,” cried he, with something of his former energy of voice and look.

“Here's a great cause to sustain and a problem to work out. Shall we go at once?”

“There's the 'Asia' to sail on Wednesday, and I 'm ready,” said Quackinboss, calmly.

“Wednesday be it, then,” cried Layton, with a gayety that showed how the mere prospect of activity and exertion had already cheered him.