“Our business was nominally the old one; but, in fact, in accordance with the new arrangements John and I had agreed upon, I was to begin cotton-speculation, and John was to keep me informed regarding the fluctuations of the Liverpool market in that staple.  My first efforts, though successful of necessity, were small, I wished John to gain confidence in my mode of conducting the business, before I ventured upon more extensive operations.

“Meantime, John’s letters put me in continual fine spirits.  He kept his telegraphic apparatus at home, and so was much with Cornelia.  He and his wife, he said, were very happy; people could not love one another more than they did.  He blessed me a thousand times, because my invention had taken him to New York, and so had enabled him to meet Cornelia.  But—­ah, these ‘buts,’ Monsieur!—­if you will search long enough the brightest, the clearest blue sky, you will always find some little speck, some faint film of cloud,—­’t is your ‘but,’ Monsieur!—­John fancied his wife was not altogether so happy as it was possible for her to be.  She did not like the cold, colorless Liverpool, nor the foggy people there.  She pined a little, perhaps, for old home-associations, wrote John.  Could I not think of some means to increase her content?  I knew the human heart so well; I was such a genius, moreover.  Ah, bah!  Monsieur, ’t is the old song:  I felt myself capable of sweeping the little cloud from the sky also, as I had done everything else,—­I, this sublime genius!  Monsieur, a moment look upon him, this genius, this triple blind fool! Eh, bien! I considered:—­Cornelia, like all tender, susceptible people, owes much to little things.  She will not have to remain there long; meantime, can I not revive in her mind the associations to which she is used, and so both make her happy and bless my good comrade, John Meavy?  How, then?  Once, during John’s wedding-trip, we had stopped one evening in a little country-town, and while we were there, talking pleasantly by the open window, a mocking-bird, caged before a house across the way, had struck up a perfect symphony of his rich and multitudinous song.  Cornelia was delighted beyond measure, and seemed to yearn for the bird.  John tried to buy it; but it was a pet; its owners were well-to-do, and would not sell:  so Cornelia had to go away without it, and I fancied she was greatly chagrined, though, of course, she said nothing, and seemed soon to forget it.  So now the notion came to me:—­I will send Cornelia a mocking-bird.  Its music will charm her,—­its notes will recall a thousand sounds of home,—­it will give her occupation, something to think about and to care for, until more important cares intervene,—­and so it will help to banish this triste mood of ennui.  Eh, bien! I soon had a very fine bird.  Ah, Monsieur, I cannot tell you what a fine bird was that fellow,—­Don Juan his name,—­such an arch-rascal! such a merry eye he had! such a proud, Pompadour throat! such volumes