the interest in mankind, which is needful even for satire.

'Now what can this be?' thought I to myself, 'has the old man lost all
his property, or taken too much to strong waters?'

'Come inside, John Ridd,' he said; 'I will have a talk with you. It is
cold out here; and it is too light. Come inside, John Ridd, boy.'

I followed him into a little dark room, quite different from Ruth
Huckaback's. It was closed from the shop by an old division of boarding,
hung with tanned canvas; and the smell was very close and faint. Here
there was a ledger desk, and a couple of chairs, and a long-legged
stool.

'Take the stool,' said Uncle Reuben, showing me in very quietly, 'it is
fitter for your height, John. Wait a moment; there is no hurry.'

Then he slipped out by another door, and closing it quickly after him,
told the foreman and waiting-men that the business of the day was done.
They had better all go home at once; and he would see to the fastenings.
Of course they were only too glad to go; but I wondered at his sending
them, with at least two hours of daylight left.

However, that was no business of mine, and I waited, and pondered
whether fair Ruth ever came into this dirty room, and if so, how she
kept her hands from it. For Annie would have had it upside down in about
two minutes, and scrubbed, and brushed, and dusted, until it looked
quite another place; and yet all this done without scolding and
crossness; which are the curse of clean women, and ten times worse than
the dustiest dust.

Uncle Ben came reeling in, not from any power of liquor, but because he
was stiff from horseback, and weak from work and worry.

'Let me be, John, let me be,' he said, as I went to help him; 'this is
an unkind dreary place; but many a hundred of good gold Carolus has been
turned in this place, John.'

'Not a doubt about it, sir,' I answered in my loud and cheerful manner;
'and many another hundred, sir; and may you long enjoy them!'

'My boy, do you wish me to die?' he asked, coming up close to my stool,
and regarding me with a shrewd though blear-eyed gaze; 'many do. Do you,
John?'

'Come,' said I, 'don't ask such nonsense. You know better than that,
Uncle Ben. Or else, I am sorry for you. I want you to live as long as
possible, for the sake of--' Here I stopped.

'For the sake of what, John? I knew it is not for my own sake. For the
sake of what, my boy?'

'For the sake of Ruth,' I answered; 'if you must have all the tru