The girl was surprised to learn that her father’s benefactor was a stranger to him, and looked doubtingly at him for a moment—­but only a moment—­and then ran briskly up the stairs, asking him to follow.

The stairs were uncarpeted, and had little feet-worn hollows in the middle of them.  The banisters were rickety, and had been notched by the knives of reckless tenants.  The first and second floors were occupied by different families (so Marcus inferred from the distinct set of baby cries issuing from each), and the halls were dirty, and flavored with a decided odor of washing day.  But on the third story he saw a clean, white floor, and drew breaths of pure air from an open rear window, and heard no noise save the dull sound of filing.

The little girl paused a second at a door bearing the inscription, “Private,” asked the visitor to please wait, and opened the door just wide enough to admit her body, and entered, nearly closing it behind her.  In the one glance which Marcus then obtained of the interior of the room, he saw the pale mechanic hastily rise from a jumble of cog wheels before him, and put up a screen to shelter his work from observation, after which he stepped forward, or rather sprang, to meet his child.

Mr. Wilkeson heard a few words of hurried conversation between the father and daughter, and then the door was thrown wide open, and the mechanic stood in full view.  He was a man of medium height, of a spare build, and attired in faded, seedy black.  His head seemed altogether too large for his body; and his almost livid complexion, hollow cheeks, and gleaming eyes, told a story of constant and consuming thought.  The strange, fixed glitter of his eyes was unpleasant to behold.  Marcus had noticed the same thing in insane persons.

“My name is Minford,” said the mechanic, in a deep and solemn voice, “and I thank you for saving me from the annoying visits of that impertinent fellow.  I beg, sir, that you will give me your address, and assure you that the sum shall positively be repaid to you next week.”

“Never mind the repayment,” said Marcus, kindly.  “The sum was a trifle for me.”

The mechanic’s eyes flashed with new fire, and his lower lip curved with pride, as he answered: 

“But I shall insist on returning it, sir.  We are temporarily poor, sir; but we are not beggars yet, I trust that, some day, we shall be in a position to confer benefits, instead of receiving them.”

Marcus knew that the man was turning over in his mind the troublesome question of “Motive,” with which so many people like to make themselves unhappy; and he therefore said: 

“I took the liberty of assisting you, sir, because I am a neighbor of yours, living on the other side of the block, in a house which can be plainly seen from your window; and I think it is the duty of neighbors to be neighborly, on New Year’s day at least.  My name is Marcus Wilkeson.”