name now, though he shuddered in
every limb, and a cold perspiration stood in great beads about his thin
temples. A third person witnessing his hesitation might fancy him
faltering and shrinking in the path of dishonor, rather than the other.

"I really have no idea," bracing up his broad, full shoulders with
portentous dignity: "George managed that matter. No doubt there are some
memoranda," pausing with an indifferent air as if it were a matter of a
few dollars.

"The bank must be made good, Mr. Eastman."

"Well; as you think best, as you think best;" nodding confidently, as if
the repayment were the easiest thing in the world. "Let me see,--would
it not be better to write to George?"

What impression could he make upon this man? To appeal to conscience,
justice, or any latent sense of right, would be a waste of words. With
him success was right, and failure the blunder or sin. He was to "do
well unto himself," to gain the world's verdict of approval. That solid
flesh made by good eating and drinking, not debauchery or
intemperance,--the man had few of these gross vices,--that complacent
strength, that keen, concentrating force than could bend all energies in
the one direction, never looking back when he had once set his mind to a
thing, experiencing no remorse for those he crushed under his feet so
long as he went to success over them, knowing no disinterestedness,
trading simply upon the credulity, honor, and honesty of others: he had
chosen him for some of these very qualities. Do men gather grapes of
thistles?

"Bring the books to my office. I shall go over them to-night," was the
haughty command.

Eastman bowed and withdrew. The books were sent by the errand-boy. Then
he threw himself into his luxurious Russia-leather chair, rested his
feet upon the edge of the desk, settled his hands comfortably in his
pockets, and began to consider. A man would be foolish to stay and be
caught in the ruin of a falling house. He might not be crushed, to be
sure; but there would be the _debris_, and he had no fancy for clearing
that away. Not only the mills, but Yerbury, would fall flat. He did not
care to retire to a garden, and raise strawberries and corn: the clink
of gold was more melodious to his ear than the voices of nature. There
was a place for talent like his: the quick sight and keen discrimination
were still able to give the rusty old world a lift out of ruts it had
stopped in, and send it on with a rush. He ha