hn and his growing family
still lived in their house, near by.

But Mrs. Hughson was out. He stumbled up the high stairs in the dark,
and lit a lamp with numbed fingers. He had not been often so late
away; probably she had gone to search for him. He must go out after
her. She was doubtless at John's.

But first McMurtagh went to his writing-desk and unlocked the drawer
that he had not visited for years; and from its dust, beneath a pile
of letters, he drew out his only picture of Mercedes. He had vowed
never to look at it again until he could go to help her; and now--

And now he was not going to help her. He had left her alone all those
years; and now he was still to leave her, widowed, in a hostile city,
perhaps to starve. Old Jamie strained his eyes to the picture with
hard tearless sorrow. It was a daguerreotype of the beautiful young
girl that Mercedes had been in 1845.

Was there no way? The thousand dollars he would need if he went after
her. Should he borrow of Mr. Bowdoin? But how could he do so, now that
he had this present from him? Jamie sat down and pressed his fingers
to his temples. Then he forgot himself a moment.

He was out in the street again in the cold. He had the idea that he
would go to John Hughson's; and sure enough, he found the old lady
there. She and John cried out as he came in, and would know where he
had been. He could not tell. "Why, you are cold," said the old lady,
feeling his hand. And they would have him eat something.

In the street again, returning: it was pleasanter in the dark; one
could think. One could think of her; he dared not when people were
looking, lest they should know. He would go to her.

Suppose he told old Mr. Bowdoin, frankly, the debt was nearly made up:
he would gladly lend him. Nay, but it was a theft, not a debt. How
could he tell--now--when so nearly saved?

In the room, Mrs. Hughson was bustling about getting a hot drink. So
nearly! Why, even if David might have lived a year more! And he had
been a slave-catcher. Perhaps he had left her money? Perhaps she might
get on for a year--if he wrote? Ah, here was the hot drink. He would
take it; yes, if only to get rid of Mrs. Hughson. She looked old and
queer, and smiled at him. But he did not know Mercedes' address; he
could not write. Yes, he felt warmer now; he was well enough, thank
you. Ah, by Heaven, he would go! He must sleep first. Would not Mrs.
Hughson put out the light? He liked it better so. Good-