rely
encouraging idleness and crime. But I can't make him see it. He declares
that, if a sewing-girl makes but two dollars a week and has a helpless
mother and three small sisters to support besides rent and fuel, and so
on, it's not encouraging idleness to help her with the rent. Well, I
suppose it _is_ hard sometimes with some of those people. But you've no
right to go by particular cases in these matters. You ought to go by the
general rule, as I constantly tell him. 'Yes,' says he, in that smiling
way of his which does put me almost beside myself, 'yes, you shall go by
the general rule, and let people starve; and I'll go by particular cases,
and feed 'em.' Then he is just as rich as if he were an old flint like
Van Boozenberg. Well, it is the funniest, foggiest sort of world. I swear
I don't see into it at all--I give it all up. I only know one thing; that
it's first in first win. And that's extremely sad, too, you know. Yes,
very sad! Where was I? Ah yes! that we are all dirty scoundrels."

Abel had relighted his cigar, after Mr. Van Boozenberg's departure, and
filled the office with smoke until the atmosphere resembled the fog in
which his father seemed to be floundering.

"Abel, merchants ought not to smoke cigars in their counting-rooms,"
said his father, in a half-pettish way.

"No, I suppose not," replied Abel, lightly; "they ought to smoke other
people. But tell me, father, do you know nothing about the woman that you
say was mixed up with Uncle Lawrence's affairs?"

"Nothing at all"

"Not even her name?"

"Not a syllable."

"Pathetic and mysterious," rejoined Abel; "a case of unhappy love, I
suppose."

"If it is so," said Mr. Newt, "your Uncle Lawrence is the happiest
miserable man I ever knew."

"Well, there's a difference among men, you know, father. Some wear their
miseries like an order in their button-holes. Some do as the Spartan boy
did when the wolf bit him."

"How'd the Spartan boy do?" asked Mr. Newt.

"He covered it up, laughed, and dropped dead."

"Gracious!" said Mr. Boniface Newt.

"Or like Boccaccio's basil-pot," continued Abel, calmly; pouring forth
smoke, while his befogged papa inquired,

"What on earth do you mean by Boccaccio's basil-pot?"

"Why, a girl's lover had his head cut off, and she put it in a
flower-pot, and covered it up that way, and instead of laughing herself,
set flowers to blooming over it."

"Goodness me, Abel, what are you talking about?"

"Of Love