“God bless you, Jamieson,” he said. “I
may be saved after all. Ten thousand dol
lars will be enough for the present pinch,
and before the next acceptance is due some
relief may come.”
“Don’t speak of thanks. I'll get the notes
in a moment.”
Tears stole silently down the unaccustomed
furrows: the gateway of feeling was open,
but the tremulous lips refused to speak. Be
fore he could revover his self-possession,
Jamieson was gone. Mr. Sleavin tried to
read the newspapers, but the print before his
eyes conveyed no idea to his preoccupied
brain. Then bis thoughts turned to his
beautiful villa in the suburbs, and he remem
bered how that morning his daughter stepped
lightly into the brougham with him at th
back piazza, rode down the winding path
between the evergreen-hedges, and, after
giving him a kiss, sprang out when they
reached the gate. Ha knew, that, when
he returned in the evening, he should find
her in her place under the great horse-chest
nut tree, at the foot of the hill, ready to ride
to the house. How could he meet her with
the news he would have to carry?—how
crush the spirit of his invalid wife? Humili
ating as the idea of failure was when consid
ered in his relations with the mercantile
world, the thought of home, with its changed
feelings and circumstances, and the probable
deprivation of habitual indulgences, was far
more poignant.
It was not long before Jamieson returned,
but with a less buoyant air. Mr. Sleavin’s
spirits fell instantly. “I see it all,” said he,
“you can’t do anything.”
“Perhaps I may, yet. The notes I spoke of,
though due to me, are in the hands of Mr.
