this enthusiastic pursuit of scientific knowledge might have lasted had not Mr. Minorkey been seized with one of his dying spells.  When the message was brought by a Norwegian servant-girl, whose white hair fairly stood up with fright, Mr. Charlton was very much shocked, but Miss Minorkey did not for a moment lose her self-possession.  Besides having the advantage of quiet nerves, she had become inured to the presence of Death in all his protean forms—­it was impossible that her father should be threatened in a way with which she was not already familiar.

Emotions may be suspended by being superseded for a time by stronger ones.  In such case, they are likely to return with great force, when revived by some association.  Charlton stepped out on the piazza with his microscope in his hand and stopped a moment to take in the scene—­the rawness and newness and flimsiness of the mushroom village, with its hundred unpainted bass-wood houses, the sweetness, peacefulness, and freshness of the unfurrowed prairie beyond, the calmness and immutability of the clear, star-lit sky above—­when he heard a voice round the corner of the building that put out his eyes and opened his ears, if I may so speak.  Somebody was reproaching somebody else with being “spooney on the little girl.”

“He! he!”—­the reply began with that hateful giggle—­“I know my business, gentlemen.  Not such a fool as you think.”  Here there was a shuffling of feet, and Charlton’s imagination easily supplied the image of Smith Westcott cutting a “pigeon-wing.”

“Don’t I know the ways of this wicked world?  Haven’t I had all the silly sentiment took out of me?  He! he!  I’ve seen the world,” and then he danced again and sang: 

“Can’t you come out to-night,
Can’t you come out to-night,
And dance by the light of the moon?”

“Now, boys,” he began, again rattling his coins and keys, “I learnt too much about New York.  I had to leave.  They didn’t want a man there that knew all the ropes so well, and so I called a meeting of the mayor and told him good-by.  He! he!  By George!  ’S a fack!  I drank too much and I lived two-forty on the plank-road, till the devil sent me word he didn’t want to lose his best friend, and he wished I’d just put out from New York.  ’Twas leave New York or die.  That’s what brought me here.  It I’d lived in New York I wouldn’t never ’ve married.  Not much, Mary Ann or Sukey Jane.  He! he!” And then he sang again: 

[Illustration:  “BY GEORGE!  HE!  HE!  HE!”]

“If I was young and in my prime,
I’d lead a different life,
I’d spend my money—­

“but I’d be hanged if I’d marry a wife to save her from the Tower of London, you know.  As long as I could live at the Elysian Club, didn’ want a wife.  But this country!  Psha! this is a-going to be a land of Sunday-schools and sewing-societies.  A fellow can’t live here without a wife: 

“’Den lay down de shubble and de hoe,
Den hang up de fiddle and de bow—­
For poor old Ned—­’