"I shall do no more than my duty--what I ought to have done before,"
replied the banker, magnanimously. "And, by the way, it would be as
well for you to sign a paper, so as to set this business at rest, and
prevent Fitz from annoying me," said the banker, as he took down his
check-book, and shuffled the papers about the desk with assumed
indifference.

"What paper am I to sign?" asked Mrs. Wittleworth, beginning to open
her eyes.

"I mean a quitclaim deed on the block of stores; but of course that has
nothing to do with the ten thousand dollars I am to pay you."

Mrs. Wittleworth knew what a quitclaim deed was. It was a deed by which
she relinquished all her right, title, and interest in the block of
stores.

"I think I will not sign it to-day, Mr. Checkynshaw," said she, rather
fearfully.

The banker urged her in vain. Fitz had warned her against such a step,
and she had more confidence in Fitz's judgment at that moment than ever
before.

"Very well; I will have the deed drawn, and fill out the check ready
for you the next time you call," added the banker, more disappointed
than his manner indicated.

Mrs. Wittleworth went home.

CHAPTER XV.

A SUCCESS IN THE MOUSE BUSINESS.

"Now, Tom, if you will draw the wagon, I will steady the house, and see
that the mice don't get out and run away," said Leo, when he had drawn
the chariot of the beauties a short distance.

"Small loss if they do," replied Tom Casey, who had already made up his
mind that they were going on a fool's errand.

"Not a bit of it, Tom. These mice are worth fifty cents a pair," added
Leo, as he placed himself by the house, and his companion took the pole
of the wagon.

"Fifty cints--is it? Sure who'd give fifty cints for those bits o'
crayturs? I wouldn't give fifty cints for a tousand of 'em, let alone a
pair of 'em."

"When I come back with five or six dollars in my pocket, which I shall
get for this establishment, you will change your tune, Tom."

"Well, the house is foist rate, and you may get five dollars for that.
Sure I think it's worth it; but I wouldn't give two cints for all the
mice that's in it."

"Perhaps you wouldn't, Tom. You haven't any taste for white mice."

"Taste--is it? Sure, would anyone ate 'em?"

Tom Casey was a recent importation from the Green Isle, and the emerald
dust had not been rubbed off him by the civilizing and humanizing
influence of the public schools; but he brought with him from Ire