The landscape was almost swallowed up.  The glassy little lake was at his feet, smooth and quiet.  It seemed to him that God was as unresponsive to his distress as the lake.  Was there any God?

There was one hope.  Westcott might die.  He wished he might.  But Charlton had lived long enough to observe that people who ought to die, hardly ever do.  You, reader, can recall many instances of this general principle, which, however, I do not remember to have seen stated in any discussions of mortality tables.

After all, Albert reflected that he ought not to expect Kate’s lover to satisfy him.  For he flattered himself that he was a somewhat peculiar man—­a man of ideas, a man of the future—­and he must not expect to conform everybody to his own standard.  Smith Westcott was a man of fine business qualities, he had heard; and most commercial men were, in Albert’s estimation, a little weak, morally.  He might be a man of deep feeling, and, as Albert walked home, he made up his mind to be charitable.  But just then he heard that rattling voice: 

“Purty night!  By George!  Katy, you’re divine, by George!  Sweeter’n honey and a fine-tooth comb!  Dearer to my heart than a gold dollar!  Beautiful as a dew-drop and better than a good cigar!  He! he! he!”

At such wit and such a giggle Charlton’s charity vanished.  To him this idiotic giggle at idiotic jokes was a capital offense, and he was seized with a murderous desire to choke his sister’s lover.  Kate should not marry that fellow if he could help it.  He would kill him.  But then to kill Westcott would be to kill Katy, to say nothing of hanging himself.  Killing has so many sequels.  But Charlton was at the fiercely executive stage of his development, and such a man must act.  And so he lingered about until Westcott kissed Katy and Katy kissed Westcott back again, and Westcott cried back from the gate, “Dood night! dood night, ’ittle girl!  By-by!  He! he!  By George!” and passed out rattling the keys and coins in his pocket and singing: 

“O dear Miss Lucy Neal!” etc.

Then Albert went in, determined to have it all out with Katy.  But one sight of her happy, helpless face disarmed him.  What an overturning of the heaven of her dreams would he produce by a word!  And what could be more useless than remonstrance with one so infatuated!  How would she receive his bitter words about one she loved to idolatry?

He kissed her and went to bed.

As Albert Charlton lay awake in his unplastered room in the house of Plausaby, Esq., on the night after he had made the acquaintance of the dear, dear fellow whom his sister loved, he busied himself with various calculations.  Notwithstanding his father’s “notions,” as his mother styled them, he had been able to leave his widow ten thousand dollars, besides a fund for the education of his children.  And, as Albert phrased it to himself that night, the ten thousand dollars was every cent clean money, for