e could to get me away from
Sunnyside.

CHAPTER XXI

FOURTEEN ELM STREET

It was Monday evening when we found the body of poor old Thomas. Monday
night had been uneventful; things were quiet at the house and the
peculiar circumstances of the old man's death had been carefully kept
from the servants. Rosie took charge of the dining-room and pantry, in
the absence of a butler, and, except for the warning of the Casanova
doctor, everything breathed of peace.

Affairs at the Traders' Bank were progressing slowly. The failure had
hit small stock-holders very hard, the minister of the little Methodist
chapel in Casanova among them. He had received as a legacy from an
uncle a few shares of stock in the Traders' Bank, and now his joy was
turned to bitterness: he had to sacrifice everything he had in the
world, and his feeling against Paul Armstrong, dead, as he was, must
have been bitter in the extreme. He was asked to officiate at the
simple services when the dead banker's body was interred in Casanova
churchyard, but the good man providentially took cold, and a substitute
was called in.

A few days after the services he called to see me, a kind-faced little
man, in a very bad frock-coat and laundered tie. I think he was
uncertain as to my connection with the Armstrong family, and dubious
whether I considered Mr. Armstrong's taking away a matter for
condolence or congratulation. He was not long in doubt.

I liked the little man. He had known Thomas well, and had promised to
officiate at the services in the rickety African Zion Church. He told
me more of himself than he knew, and before he left, I astonished
him--and myself, I admit--by promising a new carpet for his church. He
was much affected, and I gathered that he had yearned over his ragged
chapel as a mother over a half-clothed child.

"You are laying up treasure, Miss Innes," he said brokenly, "where
neither moth nor rust corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal."

"It is certainly a safer place than Sunnyside," I admitted. And the
thought of the carpet permitted him to smile. He stood just inside the
doorway, looking from the luxury of the house to the beauty of the view.

"The rich ought to be good," he said wistfully. "They have so much
that is beautiful, and beauty is ennobling. And yet--while I ought to
say nothing but good of the dead--Mr. Armstrong saw nothing of this
fair prospect. To him these trees and lawns were not the work o