The mechanic’s face assumed a pleasanter expression.  “Perhaps,” said he, “you are the gentleman that I have sometimes seen sitting with a book, in a window covered with grape vines?”

“I am,” returned Marcus.

“As a scholar, then—­as one who is superior to mean motives and vulgar curiosity—­you are welcome to my poor home.  Pray, walk in, sir.  Pet, give the gentleman a chair.”

The girl, whose face had been clouded during the first part of this conversation, brightened up at its close, and obeyed her father with alacrity, brushing the clean chair with her handkerchief, to make it the more acceptable to their visitor.  She also took his hat and cane, and placed them carefully away.

The room was simply but neatly furnished, and very clean.  The hand of taste and order was everywhere visible.  Snow-white curtains festooned the two small windows, and concealed all of a turn-up bedstead but two of its legs.  A small array of white crockery shone from an open closet; and a squat-looking stove, which made the apartment agreeably warm, was smartly polished, and was evaporating cheerful music out of a bright teakettle.  Through a door partly ajar could be seen another room, covered with a rag carpet, and the companion of the first in simplicity and neatness.

Marcus had not intended to look at the mechanic’s corner, which was almost completely screened from view, being desirous to justify the high opinion which Mr. Minford had expressed of him; but his eyes were irresistibly attracted to the mysterious spot, and obtained a clearer glimpse, through an open space between the two screens, of a something composed of cogwheels, springs, bands, and levers.  His host, observing this casual glance, much to the guest’s mortification, rose, and placed the screens close together at right angles, thus shutting out a view of the corner.

Mr. Minford opened his lips as if to offer some explanation of the act, but did not offer it.  A moment afterward, he said: 

“I have not always been a poor man, Mr. Wilkeson.  Six years ago I possessed a handsome fortune, which enabled me to pursue certain philosophical experiments, in which I had taken great interest, at leisure.  An unfortunate speculation in real estate, year before last, nearly ruined me.  I converted the remains of my property into cash, and went on with my experiments, undiscouraged.  Like all laborers in the cause of science—­which is the cause of humanity—­I have met with many obstacles.  Several times, when I have been on the point of perfecting my great invention, some small, unforeseen difficulty has occurred, compelling me to reconstruct large portions of the machinery.  Eighteen months passed away, and I found myself penniless.  I tried to borrow money, but without success.  Now, who do you suppose has supported us the last three months?”

“Some benevolent relative, perhaps,” said Mr. Wilkeson, hazarding a wild guess.