Mr. Balfour sees that he and Jim are observed, and so speaks louder.  “There is one thing,” he says:  “that I have learned in the course of this business.  It does not lie very deep, but it is at least worth speaking of.  I have learned how infinitely more interesting and picturesque vulgar poverty is than vulgar riches.  One can find more poetry in a log cabin than in all that wealth ever crowded into Palgrave’s Folly.  If poor men and poor women, honest and patient workers, could only apprehend the poetical aspects of their own lives and conditions, instead of imagining that wealth holds a monopoly of the poetry of life, they would see that they have the best of it, and are really enviable people.”

Jim knows, of course, that his old cabin in the woods is in Mr. Balfour’s mind, and feels himself called upon to say something in response.  “If so be as ye’re ‘ludin’ at me,” says he, “I’m much obleeged to ye, but I perfer a hotel to a log cabin, pertickler with a little woman and a little feller in it, Paul B., by name.”

“That’s all right, Jim,” says Mr. Balfour, “but I don’t call that vulgar wealth which is won slowly, by honest industry.  A man who has more money than he has brains, and makes his surroundings the advertisement of his possessions, rather than the expression of his culture, is a vulgar man, or a man of vulgar wealth.”

“Did ye ever think,” says Jim, “that riches rots or keeps accordin’ to their natur?—­rots or keeps,” he goes on, “accordin’ to what goes into ‘em when a man is gitten’ ’em together?  Blood isn’t a purty thing to mix with money, an’ I perfer mine dry.  A golden sweetin’ grows quick an’ makes a big show, but ye can’t keep it through the winter.”

“That’s true, Jim,” responds Mr. Balfour.  “Wealth takes into itself the qualities by which it is won.  Gathered by crime or fraud, and gathered in haste, it becomes a curse to those who hold it, and falls into ruin by its own corruptions.  Acquired by honest toil, manly frugality, patient endurance, and patient waiting, it is full of good, and holds together by a force within itself.”

“Poor Mrs. Belcher!” exclaims Mrs. Dillingham, as the reflection comes to her that that amiable lady was once the mistress of the beautiful establishment over which she has been called upon to preside.

“They say she is living nicely,” says Mr. Snow, “and that somebody sends her money, though she does not know where it comes from.  It is supposed that her husband saved something, and keeps himself out of sight, while he looks after his family.”

Mr. Benedict and Mrs. Dillingham exchange significant glances.  Jim is a witness of the act, and knows what it means.  He leans over to Mr. Benedict, and says:  “When I seen sheet-lightnin’, I know there’s a shower where it comes from.  Ye can’t fool me about ma’am Belcher’s money.”

“You will not tell anybody, Jim,” says Mr. Benedict, in a low tone.

“Nobody but the little woman,” responds Jim; and then, seeing that his “little feller,” in the distance, is draining a cup with more than becoming leisure, he shouts down the table:  “Paul B!  Paul B!  Ye can’t git that mug on to yer head with the brim in yer mouth.  It isn’t yer size, an’ it doesn’t look purty on ye.”