The Board of Church Trustees met, as customary, on Monday night, but there was no business transacted except the passing of a resolution expressing its deep regret over the loss of “our distinguished fellow-townsman, whose genius has added so much to the beautifying of our village, and whose uprightness of character will always be,” etc., etc.

Neither Jack nor McGowan, nor any one representing their interests, was present. A hurried glance over Garry's check and bank-books showed that the money to pay McGowan's vouchers—the exact sum—had been drawn from the fund and deposited to Garry's personal credit in his own bank in New York. Former payments to McGowan had been made in this way. There was therefore no proof that this sum had been diverted into illegitimate channels.

McGowan was paid that same Monday afternoon, Jack bringing the papers to the contractor's office, where they were signed in the presence of Murphy and his clerk.

And so the matter was closed, each and every one concerned being rejoiced over the outcome.

“Mr. Minott (it was 'Mr.' now) had a big stack of money over at his stepfather's bank,” was Murphy's statement to a group around a table in one of the bar-rooms of the village. “He was in a big deal, so Mac thinks, and didn't want to haul any of it out. So when he died Mr. Breen never squawked—just went over and told the old man that Mac wanted the money and to fork out; and he did, like a good one. I seen the check, I tell ye. Oh! they're all in together. Mr. Breen's kin to them New York folks, and so is Mrs. Minott. He's her father, I hear. I think Mac shot off his mouth too quick, and I told him so, but he was so het up he couldn't keep still. Why, them fellers has got more money than they can throw away. Mac sees his mistake now. Heard him tell Mr. Breen that Mr. Minott was the whitest man he ever knowed; and you bet yer life he's right.”

Nor was Murphy's eulogium the only one heard in the village. Within a week after the funeral a committee was appointed to gather funds for the placing of a stained-glass window in the new church in memory of the young architect who had designed and erected it; with the result that Holker Morris headed the subscription list, an example which was followed by many of the townspeople, including McGowan and Murphy and several others of their class, as well as various members of the Village Council, together with many of Garry's friends in New York, all of which was duly set forth in the county and New York papers; a fact which so impressed the head of the great banking firm of Arthur Breen & Co. that he immediately sent his personal check for a considerable amount, desiring, as he stated at a club dinner that same night, to pay some slight tribute to that brilliant young fellow, Minott, who, you know, married Mrs. Breen's daughter—a lovely girl, brought up in my own house, and who has now come home again to live with us.

Peter listened attentively while Jack imparted these details, a peculiar smile playing about the corners of his eyes and mouth, his only comment at the strangeness of such posthumous honors to such a man, but he became positively hilarious when Jack reached that part in the narrative in which the head of the house of Breen figured as chief contributor.

“And you mean to tell me, Jack,” he roared, “that Breen has pushed himself into poor Minott's stained-glass window, with the saints and the gold crowns, and—oh, Jack, you can't be serious!”

“That's what the Rector tells me, sir.”

“But, Jack—forgive me, my boy, but I have never in all my life heard anything so delicious. Don't you think if Holker spoke to the artist that Mr. Iscariot, or perhaps the estimable Mr. Ananias, or Mr. Pecksniff, or Uriah Heep might also be tucked away in the background?” And with this the old fellow, in spite of his sympathy for Jack and the solemnity of the occasion, threw back his head and laughed so long and so heartily that Mrs. McGuffey made excuse to enter the room to find out what it was all about.

With the subletting of Garry's house and the shipping of his furniture—that which was not sold—to her step-father's house, Jack's efforts on behalf of his dead friend and his family came to a close. Ruth helped Corinne pack her personal belongings, and Jack found a tenant who moved in the following week. Willing hands are oftenest called upon, and so it happened that the two lovers bore all the brunt of the domestic upheaval.

Their own packing had long since been completed; not a difficult matter in a furnished house; easy always to Ruth and her father, whose nomadic life was marked by constant changes. Indeed, the various boxes, cases, crates, and barrels containing much of the linen, china, and glass, to say nothing of the portieres, rugs and small tables, and the whole of Ruth's bedroom furniture, had already been loaded aboard a box car and sent on its way to Morfordsburg, there to await the arrival of the joyous young girl, whose clear brain and competent hands would bring order out of chaos, no matter how desolate the interior and the environment.

For these dainty white hands with their pink nails and soft palms, so wonderfully graceful over teapot or fan, could wield a broom or even a dust-pan did necessity require. Ruth in a ball gown, all frills and ruffles and lace, was a sight to charm the eye of any man, but Ruth in calico and white apron, her beautiful hair piled on top of her still more beautiful head; her skirts pinned up and her dear little feet pattering about, was a sight not only for men but for gods as well. Jack loved her in this costume, and so would you had you known her. I myself, old and wrinkled as I am, have never forgotten how I rapped at the wrong door one morning—the kitchen door—and found her in that same costume, with her arms bare to the elbows and covered with flour, where she had been making a “sally lunn” for daddy. Nor can I forget her ringing laugh as she saw the look of astonishment on my face, or my delight when she ordered me inside and made me open the oven door so that she could slide in the finished product without burning her fingers.

The packing up of their own household impedimenta complete, there came a few days of leisure—the first breathing spell that either MacFarlane or Jack, or Ruth, too, for that matter, had had for weeks. MacFarlane, in view of the coming winter—a long and arduous one, took advantage of the interim and went south, to his club, for a few days' shooting—a rare luxury for him of late years. Jack made up his mind to devote every one of his spare hours to getting better acquainted with Ruth, and that young woman, not wishing to be considered either neglectful or selfish, determined to sacrifice every hour of the day and as much of the night as was proper and possible to getting better acquainted with Jack; and the two had a royal time in the doing.

Jack, too, had another feeling about it all. It seemed to him that he had a debt of gratitude—the rasping word had long since lost its edge—to discharge; and that he owed her every leisure hour he could steal from his work. He had spent days and nights in the service of his friends, and had, besides, laid the burden of their anxieties upon her. He would pay her in return twice as many days of gladness to make up for the pain she had so cheerfully borne. What could he do to thank her?—how discharge the obligation? Every hour he would tell her, and in different ways—by his tenderness, by his obedience to her slightest wish, anticipating her every want—how much he appreciated her unselfishness, and how much better, if that were possible, he loved her for her sacrifice. Nor was there, when the day came, any limit to his devotion or to her enjoyment. There were rides over the hills in the soft September mornings—Indian summer in its most dreamy and summery state; there were theatre parties of two and no more; when they sat in the third row in the balcony, where it was cheaper, and where, too, they wouldn't have to speak to anybody else. There were teas in Washington Square, where nobody but themselves and their hostess were present, as well as other unexpected outings, in which all the rest of the world was forgotten.

The house, too, was all their own. Nobody upstairs; nobody downstairs but the servants; even the emptiness of daddy's room, so grewsome in the old days, brought a certain feeling of delight. “Just you and me,” as they said a dozen times a day to each other. And then the long talks on that blessed old sofa with its cushions—(what a wonderful old sofa it was, and how much it had heard); talks about when she was a girl—as if she had ever passed the age; and when he was a boy; and of what they both thought and did in that blissful state of innocence and inexperience. Talks about the bungalow they would build some day—that bungalow which Garry had toppled over—and how it would be furnished; and whether they could not persuade the landlord to sell them the dear sofa and move it out there bodily; talks about their life during the coming winter, and whether she should visit Aunt Felicia's—and if so, whether Jack would come too; and if she didn't, wouldn't it be just as well for Jack to have some place in Morfordsburg where he could find a bed in case he got storm-bound and couldn't get back to the cabin that same night. All kinds and conditions and sorts of talks that only two lovers enjoy, and for which only two lovers can find the material.

Sometimes she thought he might be too lonely and neglected at the log-cabin. Then she would make believe she was going to ask daddy to let them be married right away, insisting that two rooms were enough for them, and that she herself would do the washing and ironing and the cooking, at which Jack would laugh over the joy of it all, conjuring up in his mind the pattern of apron she would wear and how pretty her bare arms would be bending over the tub, knowing all the time that he would no more have allowed her to do any one of these things than he would have permitted her to chop the winter's wood.

Most of these day dreams, plots, and imaginings were duly reported by letter to Miss Felicia to see what she thought of them all. For the dear lady's opposition had long since broken down. In these letters Ruth poured out her heart as she did to no one except Jack; each missive interspersed with asides as to how dear Jack was, and how considerate, and how it would not be a very long time before she would soon get the other half of the dear lady's laces, now that daddy and Jack (the boy had been given an interest in the business) were going to make lots of money on the new work—to all of which Miss Felicia replied that love in a garret was what might be expected of fools, but that love in a log-cabin could only be practised by lunatics.

It was toward the close of this pre-honey-moon—it lasted only ten days, but it was full moon every hour and no clouds—when, early one morning—before nine o'clock, really—a night message was handed to Jack. It had been sent to the brick office, but the telegraph boy, finding that building closed and abandoned, had delivered it to Mrs. Hicks, who, discovering it to be sealed, forwarded it at once, and by the same hand, to the MacFarlane house, known now to everybody as the temporary headquarters, especially in the day time, of the young superintendent who was going to marry the daughter—“and there ain't a nicer, nor a better, nor a prettier.”

On this morning, then, the two had planned a day in the woods back of the hills; Ruth's mare was to be hooked up to a hired buggy, and such comforts as a bucket of ice, lettuce sandwiches thin as wafers, a cold chicken, a spirit lamp, teapot, and cups and saucers, not to mention a big shawl for my sweetheart to sit on, and another smaller one for her lovely shoulders when the cool of the evening came on, were to be stowed away under the seat.

“That telegram is from Aunt Felicia, I know,” said Ruth. “She has set her heart on my coming up to Geneseo, but I cannot go, Jack. I don't want to be a minute away from you.”

Jack had now broken the seal and was scanning the contents. Instantly his face grew grave.

“No—it's not from Aunt Felicia,” he said in a thoughtful tone, his eyes studying the despatch. “I don't know whom it's from; it is signed T. Ballantree; I never heard of him before. He wants me to meet him at the Astor House to-day at eleven o'clock. Some business of your father's, I expect—see, it's dated Morfordsburg. Too bad, isn't it, blessed—but I must go. Here, boy”—this to the messenger, who was moving out of the door—“stop at the livery stable as you go by and tell them I won't want the horse and wagon, that I'm going to New York. All in a life-time, my blessed—but I'm dreadfully sorry.”

“And you MUST go? Isn't it mean, Jack—and it's such a lovely day.”

“Yes—but it can't be helped. What are you going to do with the sandwiches and chicken and things? And you had so much trouble making them. And you will be lonely, too.”

“Why, I shall keep them till you come back, and we'll have a lovely feast at home,” she said with a light laugh in her effort to hide her feelings. “Oh, no, I shan't be lonely. You won't be gone long, Jack, will you, dear?”

“I hope not.” His mind must no longer rest on the outing. There was work to do for Ruth as well as himself. His play time had come to a sudden end; the bell had rung and recess was over. He looked at his watch; there was just time to catch the train.

She followed him to the door and kissed her hand as he swung down the path and through the gate, and watched him until he had disappeared behind the long wall of the factory; then she went in, put away the sandwiches and chicken, and the teapot and the cups and saucers, and emptied the ice.

Yes, the day was spoiled, she said to herself—part of it anyway; but the night would come, and with it Jack would burst in with news of all he had seen and done, and they would each have an end of the table; their last dinner in the old home, where everything on which her eyes rested revived some memory of their happiness. But then there would be other outings at Morfordsburg, and so what mattered one day when there were so many left? And with this thought her tears dried up and she began to sing again as she busied herself about the house—bursting into a refrain from one of the operas she loved, or crooning some of the old-time melodies which her black mammy had taught her when a child.

But now for Jack and what the day held for him of wonders and surprises.

Some pessimistic wiseacre has said that all the dire and dreadful things in life drop out of a clear sky; that it is the unexpected which is to be feared, and that the unknown bridges are the ones in which dangers lurk and where calamity is to be feared.

The optimistic Scribe bites his derisive thumb at such ominous prophecies. Once in a while some rain does fall, and now and then a roar of thunder, or sharp slash of sleet will split the air during our journey through life, but the blue is always above, and the clouds but drifting ships that pass and are gone. In and through them all the warm, cheery sun fights on for joyous light and happy endings, and almost always wins.

This time the unexpected took shape in the person of T. Ballantree, from Morfordsburg—a plain, direct, straight-to-the-point kind of a man, whom Jack found in the corridor of the Astor House with his eyes on the clock.

“You are very prompt, Mr. Breen,” he said in clear-cut tones, “so am I. What I wanted to see you about is just this: You own some ore property three miles east of the Maryland Mining Company's lay-out. Am I right?”

“Yes, you are right,” answered Jack with a comprehensive glance which began at the speaker's black derby hat, traversed his suit of store clothes, and ended in a pair of boots which still showed some traces of yellow clay, as if their wearer had been prospecting the day before.

“Are there any encumbrances on the property—any mortgages or liens not yet recorded? I don't mean taxes; I find they have been paid,” continued Ballantree.

Jack shifted his seat so he could get a better view of the speaker's face, and said in answer:

“Why do you ask?”

“Because,” said the man with entire frankness, “we understand that the Maryland Mining Company have an option on it. If that is so, I'll stop where I am. We don't care to buck up against Breen & Co.”

“No,” answered Jack, now convinced of the man's sincerity; “no—it's free and clear except for a loan of ten thousand dollars held by a friend, which can be paid off at any time.”

Ballantree ducked his head in token of his satisfaction over the statement and asked another question—this time with his eyes straight on Jack.

“Is it for sale—now—for money?”

It was Jack's turn to focus his gaze. This was the first time any one had asked that question in the memory of the oldest inhabitant.

“Well, that depends on what it is wanted for, Mr. Ballantree,” laughed Jack. He had already begun to like the man. “And perhaps, too, on who wants it. Is it for speculation?”

Ballantree laughed in return. “No—not a square foot of it. I am the general manager of the Guthrie Steel Company with head-quarters here in New York. We have been looking for mineral up in that section of the State, and struck yours. I might as well tell you that I made the borings myself.”

“Are you an expert?” asked Jack. The way people searched his title, examined his tax receipts and rammed hypodermics into his property without permission was, to say the least, amusing.

“Been at it thirty years,” replied Ballantree in a tone that settled all doubt on the subject.

“It is a low-grade ore, you know,” explained Jack, feeling bound to express his own doubts of its value.

“No, it's a high-grade ore,” returned Ballantree with some positiveness; “that is, it was when we got down into it. But I'm not here to talk about percentage—that may come in later. I came to save Mr. Guthrie's time. I was to bring you down to see him if you were the man and everything was clean, and if you'll go—and I wouldn't advise you to stay away—I'll meet you at his office at twelve o'clock sharp; there's his card. It isn't more than four blocks from here.”

Jack took the card, looked on both sides of it, tucked it in his inside pocket, and said he would come, with pleasure. Ballantree nodded contentedly, pulled a cigar from his upper breast pocket, bit off one end, slid a match along his trousers until it burst into flame, held it to the unbitten end until it was a-light, blew out the blaze, adjusted his derby and with another nod to Jack—and the magic words—“Twelve sharp”—passed out into Broadway.

Ten minutes later—perhaps five, for Jack arrived on the run—Jack bounded into Peter's bank, and slipping ahead of the line of depositors, thrust his overheated face into the opening. There he gasped out a bit of information that came near cracking the ostrich egg in two, so wide was the smile that overspread Peter's face.

“What—really! You don't say so! Telegraphed you? Who?”

“A Mr. Ballantree,” panted Jack. “I have just left him at the Astor House.”

“I never heard of him. Look out, my boy—don't sign anything until you—”

“Oh, he is only the general manager. It's a Mr. Guthrie—Robert A. Guthrie—who wants it. He sent Mr. Ballantree.”

“Robert Guthrie! The banker! That's our director; that's the man I told you of. I gave him your address. Go and see him by all means and tell him everything. Talk just as you would to me. One of the best men in the Street. Not a crooked hair on his head, Jack. Well—well—this does look like business.”

“Pardon me, sir, one minute, if you please—” interpolated Peter to an insistent depositor whom Jack in his impatience had crowded out. “Now your book—thank you—And Jack”—this over the hat of the depositor, his face a marvel of delight—“come to my rooms at four—wait for me—I'll be there.”

Out again and around the block; anything to kill time until the precious hour should arrive. Lord!—how the minutes dragged. The hands of the old clock of Trinity spire must be stuck together. Any other day it would take him at least half an hour to walk up Wall Street, down Broadway to the Battery and back again—now ten minutes was enough. Would the minute hand never climb up the face to the hour hand and the two get together at twelve, and so end his impatience. He wished now he had telegraphed to Ruth not to expect him until the late afternoon train. He thought he would do it now. Then he changed his mind. No; it would be better to await the result of his interview. Yet still the clock dragged on, and still he waited for the magic hour. Ten minutes to twelve—five—then twelve precisely—but by this time he was closeted inside Mr. Guthrie's private office.

Peter also found the hours dragging. What could it all mean? he kept asking himself as he handed back the books through his window, his eyes wandering up to the old-fashioned clock. Robert Guthrie the banker—a REAL banker—had sent for the boy—Guthrie, who never made a too hurried move. Could it be possible that good fortune was coming to Jack?—that he and Ruth—that—Ah! old fellow, you nearly made a mistake with the amount of that check! No—there was no use in supposing. He would just wait for Jack's story.

When he reached home he was still in the same overwrought, anxious state—hoping against hope. When would the boy come? he asked himself a hundred times as he fussed about his room, nipping off the dead leaves from his geraniums, drawing the red curtains back; opening and shutting the books, only to throw himself into his chair at last. Should he smoke until four?—should he read? What a fool he was making of himself! It was astonishing that one of his age should be so excited over a mere business proposition—really not a proposition at all, when he came to think of it—just an ordinary question asked. He must compose himself. It was quite absurd for him to go on this way. But would the boy NEVER come? It was four o'clock now—or would be in ten minutes, and—and—

Yes!

He sprang toward the door and caught the young fellow in his arms.

“Oh! such good news! Mr. Guthrie's bought the property!” roared Jack.

He had made one long spring from the sidewalk up three flights of steps to the old-fashioned door, but he still had breath to gasp the glad tidings.

“Bought!—Who?—Not Guthrie!”

“Yes—I am to sign the papers to-morrow. Oh!—Uncle Peter, I am half crazy with delight!”

“Hurrah,” shouted Peter. “HURRAH, I say! This IS good news! Well!—Well!” He was still bending over him, his eyes blinking in his joy, scurries of irradiating smiles chasing each other over his face. Never had the old gentleman been in such a state.

“And how much, Jack?”

“Guess.”

“Will there be enough to pay Isaac's ten thousand?”

“More!” Jack was nearly bursting, but he still held in.

“Twenty thousand?” This came timidly, fearing that it was too much, and yet hoping that it might be true.

“More!” The strain on Jack was getting dangerous.

“Twenty-five thousand?” Peter's voice now showed that he was convinced that this sum was too small.

“More! Go on, Uncle Peter! Go on!”

“Thirty-five thousand, Jack?” It was getting hot; certainly this was the limit. Was there ever such luck?

“Yes!—and five thousand more! Forty thousand dollars and one-fifth interest in the output! Just think what Ruth will say. I've just sent her a telegram. Oh!—what a home-coming!”

And then, with Peter drawn up beside him, his face radiant and his eyes sparkling with joy, he poured out the story of the morning. How he had begun by telling Mr. Guthrie of his own and Mr. MacFarlane's opinion of the property, as he did not want to sell anything he himself considered worthless. How he had told him frankly what Peter had said of his—Mr. Guthrie's—fairness and honesty; how he was at work for his prospective father-in-law, the distinguished engineer of whom Mr. Guthrie had no doubt heard—at which the gentleman nodded. How this property had been given him by his father, and was all he had in the world except what he could earn; how he already owed ten thousand dollars and had pledged the property as part payment, and how, in view of these facts, he would take any sum over ten thousand dollars that Mr. Guthrie would give him, provided Mr. Guthrie thought it was worth that much.

“But I am buying, not selling, your land, young man,” the banker had said. “I know it, sir, and I am willing to take your own figures,” Jack replied—at which Mr. Guthrie had laughed in a kindly way, and had then called in Mr. Ballantree and another man how the three had then talked in a corner, and how he had heard Mr. Guthrie say, “No, that is not fair—add another five thousand and increase the interest to one-fifth”; whereupon the two men went out and came back later with a letter in duplicate, one of which Mr. Guthrie had signed, and the other which he, Jack, signed—and here was Mr. Guthrie's letter to prove it. With this Jack took out the document and laid it before Peter's delighted eyes; adding that the deeds and Isaac's release were to be signed in the morning, and that Mr. Guthrie had sent a special message by him to the effect that he very much wished Mr. Grayson would also be present when the final transfers would be signed and the money paid.

Whereupon the Scribe again maintains—and he is rubbing his hands with the joy of it all as he does it—that there was more sunshine than clouds in this particular Unexpected, and that if all the boys in the world were as frank and sincere as young Jack Breen, and all the grown-ups as honest as old Robert Guthrie, the REAL banker, the jails would be empty and the millennium knocking at our doors.

Peter had drunk in every word of the story, bowing his head, fanning out his fingers, or interrupting with his customary “Well, well!” whenever some particular detail seemed to tend toward the final success.

And then, the story over, there came the part that Peter never forgot; that he has told me a dozen times, and always with the same trembling tear under the eyelids, and the same quivering of his lower lip.

Jack had drawn his chair nearer the old gentleman, and had thrown one arm over the shoulder of his dearest friend in the world. There was a moment's silence as they sat there, and then Jack began. “There is something I want you to do for me, Uncle Peter,” he said, drawing his arm closer till his own fresh cheek almost touched the head of the older man. “Please, don't refuse.”

“Refuse, my dear boy! I am too happy to-day to refuse anything. Come, out with it.”

“I am going to give you half of this money. I love you better than any one in this world except Ruth, and I want you to have it.”

Peter threw up his hands and sprang to his feet.

“What!—You want to—Why, Jack! Are you crazy! Me! My dear boy, it's very lovely of you to wish to do it, but just think. Oh, you dear Jack! No!—no, no!” He was beating the air now deprecatingly with his outspread fingers as he strode around the room, laughing short laughs in his effort to keep back the tears.

Jack followed him in his circuit, talking all the while, until he had penned the old gentleman in a corner between the open desk and the window.

“But, Uncle Peter—think what you have done for me! Do you suppose for one moment that I don't know that it was you and not I who sold the property? Do you think Mr. Guthrie would have added that five thousand dollars to the price if he hadn't wanted to help you as well as me?”

“Five thousand dollars, my dear Jack, is no more to Robert Guthrie than a ferry ticket is to you or me. He gave you the full price because you trusted to his honesty and told him the truth, and he saw your inexperience.”

“No—it was YOU he was thinking of, I tell you,” protested Jack, with eager emphasis. “He would never have sent Ballantree for me had you not talked to him—and it has been so with everything since I knew you. You have been father, friend, everybody to me. You gave me Ruth and my work. Everything I am I owe to you. You must—you SHALL have half of this money! Ruth and I can be married, and that is all we want, and what is left I can put into our new work to help Mr. MacFarlane. Please, Uncle Peter!—we will both be so much happier if we know you share it with us.” Here his voice rose and a strain of determination rang through it. “And, by George!—Uncle Peter, the more I think of it, the more I am convinced that it is fair. It's yours—not mine. I WILL have it that way—you are getting old, and you need it.”

Peter broke into a laugh. It was the only way he could keep down the tears.

“What a dear boy you are, Jack,” he said, backing toward the sofa and regaining his seat. “You've got a heart as big as a house, and I'm proud of you, but no—not a penny of your money. Think a moment! Your father didn't leave the property to me—not any part of it—he left it to you, you spendthrift! When I get too old to work I am going up to Felicia's and pick out an easy-chair and sit in a corner and dry up gradually and be laid away in lavender. No, my lad, not a penny! Gift money should go to cripples and hypochondriacs, not to spry old gentlemen. I would not take it from my own father's estate when I was your age, and I certainly won't take it now from you. I made Felicia take it all.” Jack opened his eyes. He had often wondered why Peter had so little and she so much. “Oh, yes, nearly forty years ago! But I have never regretted it since! And you must see how just it was, for there wasn't enough for two, and Felicia was a woman. No—be very careful of gift money, my boy, and be very careful, also, of too much of anybody's money—even your own. What makes me most glad in this whole affair is that Guthrie didn't give you a million—that might have spoilt you. This is just enough. You and Ruth can start square. You can help Henry—and you ought to, he has been mighty good to you. And, best of all, you can keep at work. Yes—that's the best part of it—that you can keep at work. Go right on as you are; work every single day of your life, and earn your bread as you have done ever since you left New York, and, one thing more, and don't you ever forget it: Be sure you take your proper share of fun and rest as you go. Eight hours' work, eight hours' play, eight hours' sleep—that's the golden rule and the only one to live by. Money will never get its grip on you if you keep this up. This fortune hasn't yet tightened its fingers around your throat, or you would never have come up here to give me half of it—and never let it! Money is your servant, my boy, not your master. And now go home and kiss Ruth for me, and tell her that I love her dearly. Wait a moment. I will go with you as far as Isaac's. I am going to tell him the good news. Then I'll have him measure me for a coat to dance at your wedding.”

And the Unexpecteds are not yet over. There was still another, of quite a different character, about to fall—and out of another clear sky, too—a sort of April-shower sky, where you get wet on one side of the street and keep dry on the other. Jack had the dry side this time, and went on his way rejoicing, but the head of the house of Breen caught the downpour, and a very wet downpour it was.

It all occurred when Jack was hurrying to the ferry and when he ran into the senior member of the firm, who was hurrying in the opposite direction.

“Ah, Jack!—the very man I wanted to see,” cried Breen. “I was going to write you. There's something doing up in that ore country. Better drop in to-morrow, I may be able to handle it for you, after all.”

“I am sorry, sir, but it's not for sale,” said Jack, trying to smother his glee.

“Why?” demanded Breen bluntly.

“I have sold it to Mr. Robert Guthrie.”

“Guthrie! The devil you say!—When?”

“To-day. The final papers are signed to-morrow. Excuse me, I must catch my boat—” and away he went, his cup now brimming over, leaving Breen biting his lips and muttering to himself as he gazed after him.

“Guthrie!—My customer! Damn that boy—I might have known he would land on his feet.”

But Jack kept on home to his sweetheart, most of the way in the air.

Down in the little room all this time in the rear of the tailor's shop the two old men sat talking. Peter kept nothing back; his lips quivering again and another unbidden tear peeping over the edge of his eyelid when he told of Jack's offer.

“A dear boy, Isaac—yes, a dear boy. He never thinks with his head—only with his heart. Never has since I knew him. Impulsive, emotional, unpractical, no doubt—and yet somehow he always wins. Queer—very queer! He comes upstairs to me and I start out on a fool's errand. He goes down to you, and you hand him out your money. He gives it all away the next day, and then we have Guthrie doubling the price. Queer, I tell you, Isaac—extraordinary, that's what it is—almost uncanny.”

The Jew threw away his cigar, rested his short elbows on the arms of his chair, and made a basket of his hands, the tips of all his fingers touching.

“No, you are wrong, my good friend. It is not extraordinary and it is not uncanny. It is very simple—exceedingly simple. Nobody runs over a child if he can help it. Even a thief will bring you back your pocket-book if you trust him to take care of it. It is the trusting that does it. Few men, no matter how crooked, can resist the temptation of reaching, if only for a moment, an honest man's level.”