riticism his innocent remarks on art; I had told myself, I
had even partly believed, he did not want to come; I had been, and
still am, convinced that he was sure to be unhappy out of Muskegon; in
short, I had a thousand reasons, good and bad, not all of which could
alter one iota of the fact that I knew he only waited for my invitation.

"Thank you, Myner," said I; "you're a much better fellow than ever I
supposed. I'll write to-night."

"O, you're a pretty decent sort yourself," returned Myner, with more
than his usual flippancy of manner, but, as I was gratefully aware, not
a trace of his occasional irony of meaning.

Well, these were brave days, on which I could dwell for ever. Brave,
too, were those that followed, when Pinkerton and I walked Paris and the
suburbs, viewing and pricing houses for my new establishment, or covered
ourselves with dust and returned laden with Chinese gods and brass
warming-pans from the dealers in antiquities. I found Pinkerton well up
in the situation of these establishments as well as in the current
prices, and with quite a smattering of critical judgment. It turned out
he was investing capital in pictures and curiosities for the States, and
the superficial thoroughness of the creature appeared in the fact that
although he would never be a connoisseur, he was already something of an
expert. The things themselves left him as near as may be cold, but he
had a joy of his own in understanding how to buy and sell them.

In such engagements the time passed until I might very well expect an
answer from my father. Two mails followed each other, and brought
nothing. By the third I received a long and almost incoherent letter of
remorse, encouragement, consolation, and despair. From this pitiful
document, which (with a movement of piety) I burned as soon as I had
read it, I gathered that the bubble of my father's wealth was burst,
that he was now both penniless and sick; and that I, so far from
expecting ten thousand dollars to throw away in juvenile extravagance,
must look no longer for the quarterly remittances on which I lived. My
case was hard enough; but I had sense enough to perceive, and decency
enough to do, my duty. I sold my curiosities--or, rather, I sent
Pinkerton to sell them; and he had previously bought, and now disposed
of them, so wisely that the loss was trifling. This, with what remained
of my last allowance, left me at the head of no less than five thousand
francs. Five hu