dow, the first time in three days, and tendered
the compliments of the season in two low bows and a smile. Having
carefully adjusted his necktie, and smoothed the creases of his gloves,
Mr. Wilkeson grasped his old friend, a hickory cane, by its sturdy
elbow, and marched forth to make his solitary visit.

As 'he turned the corner of the street upon which the unknown old
gentleman's residence was situated, thinking of the oddity of the call
he was about to make, and half inclined to abandon it, he saw, in a
doorway a few yards in front of him, a little girl who bore a striking
resemblance to the patient creature that he had often noticed sitting at
a window in the room of the pale mechanic. A single glance at the
cracked and dirty front of the building established its connection with
the weather-stained and shaky rear premises in which the worker toiled
at his strange task from morning to night, and far into the
morning again.

The little girl was earnestly talking with a rough, hungry-looking
fellow in a greasy cap and tattered blue overalls. As Marcus approached,
he heard the following fragment of conversation:

"Yer can't fool this child again, now, I tell yer. Why don't he pay me?
_that's_ what I want to know. I _will_ go up." The man stepped forward,
as if to ascend the stairs.

"Please don't, Mr. Gilsum," said the girl, in a sweet, pleading tone,
laying a red and toilworn little hand softly on his arm. "Papa will pay
you next week. He will, believe me, sir."

"So you told me last week," growled Mr. Gilsum, "and the week before
that. It's all humbug. Why don't he pay me now? _that's_ what I want to
know." Again he put a foot forward, and was again restrained by the hand
of the little girl.

"I have tried very hard to earn money, Mr. Gilsum," said the musical and
plaintive voice, _but_ have been disappointed. Next week I am sure I
will have some for you."

"Pshaw!" ejaculated the man, pulling the greasy cap over his eyes in a
spirit of savage determination. "I can't waste time talking. I _will_
find out why he don't pay me now."

The inexorable Mr. Gilsum pushed aside the feeble hand of the little
girl, and was about to go up the stairs in good earnest, when Marcus
Wilkeson, who had lingered near the door to catch the exact purport of
the conversation, called out to him:

"Hallo, my friend! what's the row?"

Mr. Gilsum stopped, and, turning, said snappishly:

"None of yer business. Unless," he prudently