Marcus Wilkeson might have derived a selfish consolation from the fact that other mysteries and calamities were causing his name, which last month was on the tongue of the whole town, to be forgotten.  But he had a nobler and truer source of consolation in his dear books.  In the presence of the philosophers, and sages, and historians, and novelists, and poets, and wits, the men of genius of the past, chroniclers of the loss of empires, grave men who taught the vanity of life, and funny men who taught the same lesson in a different way, Marcus felt his pack of sorrows considerably lightening.  His first, last, only disappointment in love had subsided into a gentle and not disagreeable melancholy.  His trial, and the dreadful notoriety which his name had acquired, had imparted to his mild nature a gentle tinge of cynicism, which improved him.

Marcus was sitting, one morning, in the little back parlor, idly turning over the leaves of an old folio, and looking with a half eye through the closed window at the houses opposite, and thinking what a deal of trouble it was possible to extract from a single block of buildings, when a slight rap was heard at the door.  Simultaneously, the door was pushed open, and Wesley Tiffles shot in.

He had brought all his tonical properties with him.  Good nature and cheerfulness effervesced from his face.  Through the trial, and since the acquittal, Wesley Tiffles had stuck to Marcus.  Twice, often three times a day, he called, and was always welcomed by Marcus, and not inhospitably received by Miss Philomela Wilkeson.  The interviews between that lady and the romantic speculator usually took place, quite by accident, in the entry, on the arrival or the departure of Mr. Tiffles; but, as it happened, not with the cognizance of Marcus.

On one occasion—­at the edge of evening—­Marcus went into the entry a few minutes after Tiffles had left the room, and saw that gentleman and Philomela standing in the doorway.  Tiffles appeared to be in the act of raising the lady’s hand to kiss it; but, if that were his intention, he abandoned it on seeing Marcus, and shook the attenuated fingers instead.  Then he coughed, and, saying “Good-night,” went down the steps, as if he had not seen Marcus in the gloom.  Miss Wilkeson coughed also (why do people always cough?), and, turning to her approaching brother, said it was a cool night, which was not true, as the night was agreeably warm.  Marcus had never afterward seen them together, and had forgotten this slightly mysterious circumstance.  Wesley Tiffles had, as usual, something enlivening to tell.

“Got the funniest piece of news for you, my dear fellow!” said he.

“Anything funny is always welcome, Tiffles,” said he, closing his folio, that he might not appear to obstruct his friend’s jocosity.

“I’ve heard from that infernal old panorama—­when I say infernal, of course I don’t mean to imply that it wasn’t a splendid idea, if I had had capital enough to see it through—­and what do you s’pose the landlord and the other creditor have done with it?  You couldn’t guess in a month.”