“You are right, sir.  And a near and dear relative it is—­no other than my little Pet here.”  Mr. Minford placed his right hand fondly on the shining head of the young girl, who sat on a low stool by his side, looking into his face.

She blushed deeply, and said: 

“You forget the unknown good friend who sent the letters with money to you, papa.”

“No, no, I don’t, Pet,” continued Mr. Minford, patting her playfully on the cheeks; “but you were the dearest and sweetest of my guardian angels.  You know you were, you rogue.  Why, sir, you will hardly believe it, but this little creature, when she knew our money was nearly gone, taught herself the art of embroidery, with the aid of some illustrations from an old magazine, and in less than a fortnight could work so beautifully, that she was able to earn from three to four dollars a week.  When she first told me that she was going out to look for work, I opposed it fiercely; but the obstinate little Pet would have her way.  She was lucky enough to get a job from a milliner, and pleased her employer so well, that steady work was given to her, until last week, when the kind-hearted lady died, and now little Pet has nothing to do.  Some people think, because she is young—­”

“Please don’t talk about me any more, papa,” said Pet, who had been blushing deeply, and looking very beautiful in the visitor’s eyes.  “You forget what the postman used to bring you every Saturday.”

“No, I don’t, you little, troublesome, impertinent Pet.  I was just about to speak of it, when you interrupted me.  You must know, Mr. Wilkeson, that every Saturday the postman, on his first morning round, delivered to me a letter, marked ‘New York City,’ containing two dollars, without a word of writing inside, and addressed to me in large capitals, each nearly half an inch long.  The object of this singular style of address was either to make it so plain that the postman could not mistake, or to disguise some handwriting which otherwise I might recognize.  Now, as I have no relatives living, and no friends that I know of, who would lend me a dollar except on the best security, I am greatly puzzled, as you may suppose, to guess the name of my unknown benefactor.  Generous man!  For aught I know, he may now be dead, or himself reduced to poverty; for, last Saturday, the regular weekly remittance failed to come.”

“Then I see that I am just in season to help you,” said Marcus Wilkeson, who, during the recital of this brief history, had decided upon his course of action.

“I thank you most gratefully,” returned Mr. Minford, “and fully appreciate the noble motives of your conduct.  Your appearance convinces me that you are entirely disinterested.  But I should feel ashamed to take money from you, without giving some security for its repayment.  I shall therefore insist upon making over to you a certain interest in the invention, the most valuable of modern times, which lies almost finished behind those screens.  Let me give you some idea of it, and you can then decide how much money you will advance, merely as a matter of business.  I cannot consent to put our negotiations upon any other ground.  The invention, then, is—­” The speaker looked at the corner as he spoke, and paused.