Marshall, following his first impulse, thrust the paper into the dull red coals.  It flamed for an instant, and flew with a sound like a sob up the chimney.

They hunted for Golyer all night, but in the morning found him lying as if asleep, with the peace of expiation on his pale face, his pruning-knife in his, heart, and the red current of his life tinging the turf with crimson around the roots of the Blood Seedling.

JOHN HAY.

The Marquis.

Mrs. Ruggles lived near Crawfish Creek.  Crawfish Creek ran near Thompson City.  Thompson City was in a Western State, but now is in a Middle one.  It was always in the midst of a great country—­accepting local testimony and a rank growth of corn and politicians as the tests of greatness.  The earth there was monotonously parched in summer, and monotonously muddy at all other times.  The forests were gigantic, the air carbonic, and when the citizens wished to give Thompson City the highest commendation, they did so by saying that “fevernagur” was worse in some other places.

In the parlor of Mrs. Ruggles, which was also her kitchen and dining-hall, hung a frame containing a seven-by-nine mirror, which was the frame’s excuse for being, although a compartment above and one below held squares of glass covered with paint instead of mercury.  The lower one was colored like the contents of a wash-tub after a liberal use of indigo; and in the centre was a horizontal stroke of red, surmounted by a perpendicular dash of white, intersected by an oblique line of black—­all of which represented a red boat, with a white sail and black spar, making an endless voyage across the lake of indigo.  The black crosses in the sky were birds.  The black lines on the left were bulrushes.  And among these bulrushes a certain gloomy little object was either a Hebrew prophet or a muskrat.

Above the mirror was painted a long-tailed coat, from behind which extended a hand holding a bell-crowned hat, to whose scarlet lining the holder seemed inviting the spectator’s particular attention.  There were also a pair of legs and boots, a heavy shock of hair, a labyrinth of neckcloth and a florid human face.  Under the boots were the words,

MARQUIS DE LA FAYETTE.

And the beholder was ever in doubt whether the marquis was trying to stand exclusively upon this title or was unconsciously trampling it into the ground.

Mrs. Ruggles admired this picture.  Her knowledge of French was not great, but her ear was delicate; and thinking the words “sounded handsome,” she had deliberately conferred them in full on her first-born.  When in good-humor she was content with calling him “Marquis-dee.”  In fact, it was only when chasing him into the street with a lilac bush in her hand that she insisted on addressing him by his full name.  At such times, between each flourish of the lilac bush and each yell of the young nobleman, she pronounced with significant fullness, with fearful exactness, the handsome-sounding name of Marquis de la Fayette Ruggles.  His playmates, however, had not the delicate ear of the mother, and as the son had brown specks on his face, he was popularly known as “Frecky Rug.”