Well, why had he not? Was it thought for them? Had the prospect of their
starving lain heavily on his soul?

Ah, the love of money-getting, the fiend of covetousness! But what would
these people have done? Some one had once said, "What is that to thee?
Follow thou me." Was it in a sermon?

He lighted the gas, and went on wearily with his books. Some one opened
the door softly, and peered in. It was Farrell, the day-man. When he saw
Mr. Lawrence he touched his cap respectfully.

"Pardon me, sir: I saw a light"--

"Yes, I am going to stay--all night, I think: I shall be busy. When does
the night-man come?"

"At seven, sir."

"I will send a note up to Hope Terrace, Farrell. Could you take it?"

The man thought of his long day's work and his waiting supper. "Yes," he
answered rather reluctantly.

"Stop in, then, when you go."

Farrell went off grumbling. He would go home to supper first, that he
would. These men had no souls. That long walk-- Some people always rode
in chaises, were born with silver spoons in their mouths, and looked on
the rest of the world as mere lackeys!

There was some wine in the closet, and Mr. Lawrence took a glass to
clear his brain. He rarely used it save at dinner. Then back to the
tormenting books,--columns of business that appeared incredible now. How
had all this money slipped away?

Farrell tapped, and came in.

"Jackson's here now, sir. Is the note ready?"

"Yes. There is some change. Get a hack, Farrell: it is too far to walk.
Did Mr. Eastman"--

There was so long a pause that Farrell said,--

"Mr. Eastman went to New York. He said he might not be back to-morrow."

Mr. Lawrence nodded, as if that were sufficient. He would not peer into
the man's business.

"If you should want any thing, sir, Jackson will be at hand," said the
man kindly; for the thin, pale face, and strange, nervous light in the
eyes startled him.

"Jackson," he began, when outside, "Mr. Lawrence is going to stay a bit,
maybe all night. He has a great pile of books before him; but I'm afraid
he's queer some way. His eyes look wild and strange. Keep a lookout,
will you"--

"You don't mean that he's likely to shuffle? Are things as bad as that?
Has he got a pistol?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. Maybe I'm wrong;" and Farrell counted over the
money in his hand. "Anyhow, I would walk up and down this hall, and
listen."

Jackson nodded, and Farrell went his way; yet now he thought the brisk
walk would