“Very ingenious, and economical, too; but I think not.  It is too late.  I was brought up in the country, and I don’t think it good policy to begin agricultural operations in the fall of the year; my spring has past.  But is the day fixed?  When are you to be the truly happy man?”

“No,—­the day is not fixed,” said Greenleaf, thoughtfully.  “You see, I was so bent upon the settlement of the difficulty, that I had not considered the practical bearing of the matter.  I am too poor to marry, and I am heartsick at the prospect of waiting”—­

“With the chance of another rupture.”

“No,—­we shall not quarrel again.  But I shall go to work.  I’ll inundate the town with pictures; if I can’t sell them myself, I will have Jews to peddle them for me.”

“Hear the mercenary man!  No,—­go to work in earnest, but put your life into your pictures.  If you can keep up your present glow, you will be warmer than Cuyp, dreamier than Claude, more imaginative than Millais.”

“But the desperate long interval!”

“I don’t know about that.  I quite like the philosophy of Mr. Micawber, and strenuously believe in something turning up.”

“What is that?” asked Greenleaf, noticing a letter on his friend’s table.  “It seems to be addressed to me.”

“Yes,—­I met a lawyer to-day, who asked me if I knew one George Greenleaf.  As I did, he gave me the letter.  Some dun, probably, or threat of a suit.  I wouldn’t open it.  Don’t!”

“You only make me curious.  I shall open it.  To-day I can defy a dun even from—­What, what’s this?  Bullion dead?—­left in his will a bequest—­forty thousand—­to me?”

Easelmann looked over his friend’s shoulder with well-simulated astonishment.

“Sure enough; there it is, in black and white.—­What do you think of Micawber?”

“I think,” said Greenleaf, with manly tears in his eyes, “that you are the artfullest, craftiest, hugger-muggering, dear old rascal that ever lived.  Now let me embrace you in good earnest.  Oh, Easelmann, this is too much!  Here is Alice—­mine!  Here is Europe, that I have looked at as I would heaven, beyond reach in this life! Now we will go to work; and let Cuyp, Claude, and the rest of them, look out for their laurels!”

“Softly, my boy; you squeeze like a cider-press.  But how came the old miser to give you this?”

“My father was his partner; he was thought to be worth a handsome sum while he lived,—­but at his death, though Bullion and another junior went on with the business, there was nothing left for us.  My mother died poor.  I am the only child living.  This, I suppose, is the return for the property that Bullion wrongfully detained,—­with compound interest, too, I should say.  Let us not speak ill of the dead.  He has made restitution and squared the books; I hope the correction has been made above.”

“How lucky for you that Bullion was your banker!  Suppose you had grown up with the expectation of having this money, what would you have been good for?  You would have run all to patent-leather boots, silky moustaches, and black-tan terriers.  Your struggles have developed your muscles, metaphorically speaking, and made a man of you.”