“You may die at any moment, and probably will,” concluded Mr. Schenck, thoughtfully; “but still, on the score of friendship, we’ll give you a Policy for a reasonable amount, and take the chance of being able to compromise with your mother on a certain per centage after the funeral.”

“I don’t want any of your plagued policies!” exclaimed the irritated Gospeler, pushing away the hand striving to feel his pulse again.

“As you have expressed a desire to resign the guardianship of your wards, Mr. and Miss pendragon, and I have agreed to accept it, my purpose in calling here is to obtain such statement of your account with those young people as you may be disposed to render.”

“Ah!” returned the other, in sullen disappointment.  “That is all, eh?  Allow me to inform you, then, that I have cancelled the Boreal policies which have been granted to the Murderer and his sister; and allow me also to remark, that a dying clergyman like yourself might employ his last moments better than encouraging a Southern destroyer of human life.”

“I do not, cannot believe that Montgomery pendragon is guilty,” said Mr. Simpson, firmly.  “Having his full confidence, and thoroughly knowing his nature, I am sure of his innocence, let appearances be what they may.  Consequently, it is my determination to befriend him.”

“And you will not have your life insured?”

“I will not, sir.  Please stop bothering me.”

“And you call yourself a clergyman!” cried Mr. Schenck, with intense scorn.  “You pretend to be a Ritualistic spiritual guide; you champion people who slay the innocent and steal devout men’s umbrellas; and yet you do not scruple to leave your own high-church Mother entirely without provision at your death.—­In such a case,” continued the speaker, rising, while his manner grew ferocious with determination—­“in such a case, all other arguments having failed, my duty is plain.  Yon shall not leave this room, sir, until you have promised to take out a Boreal Policy.”

He started, as he spoke, for the door of the private-office, intending to lock it and remove the key; but the unhappy Ritualist, fathoming his design, was there before him, and tore open the door for his own speedy egress.

“Mr. Schenck,” observed the Gospeler, turning and pausing in the doorway, “you allow your business-energy to violate all the most delicate amenities of private life, and will yet drive some maddened mortal to such resentful use of pistol, knife, or poker, as your mourning family shall sincerely deplore.  The articles on Free Trade and Protection in the daily papers have hitherto been regarded as the climax of all that utterly wearies the long-suffering human soul; but I tell you, as a candid friend, that they are but little more depressing and jading to the vital powers than your unceasing mention of life-insurance.”

“These are strong words, sir,” answered Mr. Schenck, incredulously.  “The editorial articles to which you refer are considered the very drought of journalism; those by Mr. Greeley, especially, being so dry that they are positively dangerous reading without a tumbler of water.”