sed of, the accounts can be audited and
settled," said Minor in a sharp, business-like way. "The debts have all
come in, and been paid dollar for dollar; though, if your father had
been a prudent man, he would have made sure of something for his family.
No one expects estates to pay more than fifty per cent nowadays."

Fred rose, and crushed Jack Darcy's note in his pocket, holding himself
proudly, while his cheek flushed.

"I am very thankful," in a clear, cold tone. "My father's life was pure
and honorable, and no man can fling a stone at his grave. I would rather
be penniless, as I am, than have it otherwise."

"Oh! very well, very well," sneeringly.

Fred walked out of the office, and turned into Broadway. The same
curious, restless, hurrying throng. Where were they all going? Did they
find room and work? How clearly the sun shone! The sky was so blue, with
great drifts of white floating about,--strange barques on a mystical
sea. In spite of the outside roar and rush, there was a solemn and
awesome stillness within him. He began to feel how entirety alone he
stood. A twelvemonth ago there were hosts of friends pulling him hither
and yon, proposing this and that, laughing and chatting gayly. Where
were they now? Not all weak and false, but the shadow of circumstances
had drifted them apart. We do not always cease to love or like when
separation ensues; and in this shifting, changing life, people drop out,
yet are not quite forgotten. Some of the young fellows whom fortune had
buffeted had found a place in active, stirring life: he, with his
education, refinement, accomplishments, and talent, was merely a piece
of driftwood. Sylvie Barry had been right,--he was a useless appendage
to the world. Ah, no wonder she despised him! Sturdy, honest Jack Darcy
could find a place. His self-complacency was more than touched,--it was
shattered, completely broken up. The present was blank and colorless,
the future like a thick mist in which there penetrated not one ray of
light. What did all his elaborate philosophies for him now?--art, that
was to regenerate the world; science, that explained and refined, and
found a place and a reason for every thing in the universe; man, the
most important of all. And here he was, tossed aside like a weed. Who
cared whether his nature was foul or kinglike? He was, in truth, one of
the atoms floating about in space, and finding no use or purpose. The
world could go on just as well without him