“Are you going through New Orleans?”

“Yes; will be there one day.”

“You are pretty well acquainted in that town, I suppose.”

“With the streets,” Henry answered.

“I wish I could go with you, but I can’t.  Next year perhaps I can get away oftener.”

“Yes, if you have cause to place confidence in me.”

“I have the confidence now; all that remains for you to do is to become acquainted with the details of your new position.”

“And there the trouble may lie.”

“You underrate yourself.  A man who can pick up an education can with a teacher learn to do almost anything.”

“But when I was a boy there was a pleasure in a lesson because I felt that I was stealing it.”

The merchant laughed and drew Henry closer to him.  “If we may believe the envious, the quality of theft may not be lacking in your future work,” he said.

After a short silence Henry remarked:  “You say that I am to perpetuate your name.”

“Yes, surely.”

“I suppose, then, that you claim the right to direct me in my selection of a wife.”

Again the merchant drew Henry closer to him.  “Not to direct, but to advise,” he answered.

“A rich girl, I presume.”

“A suitable match at least.”

“Suitable to you or to me?”

“To both—­to us all.  But we’ll think about that after a while.”

“I have thought about it; the girl is penniless.”

“What!  I hope you haven’t committed yourself.”  They were farther apart now.

“Not by what I have uttered—­and she may care nothing for me—­but my actions must have said that I love her.”

“What do you mean by ’love her’?” the merchant angrily demanded.

“Is it possible that you have forgotten?”

“Of course not,” he said, softening.  “Who is she?”

“A girl whose life has been a devotion—­an angel.”

“Bosh!  That’s all romance.  Young man, this is Chicago, and Chicago is the material end—­the culmination of the nineteenth century.”

“And this girl is the culmination of purity and divine womanhood—­of love!” He stopped short, looked at Witherspoon, and said:  “If you say a word against her I will not go into the store—­I’ll set fire to it and burn it down.”

They were in a far corner, and now, standing apart, were looking at each other.  The young man’s eyes snapped with anger.

“Come, don’t fly off that way,” said the merchant.  “You may choose for yourself, of course.  Oh, you’ve got some of the old man’s pigheadedness, have you?  All right; it will keep men from running over you.”

He took Henry’s arm, and they walked back toward the gate.

“I won’t say anything to your mother about it.”

“You may do as you like.”

“Well, it’s best not to mention it yet a while.  Will you sell your newspaper as soon as you return?”