Miss Butterworth called at the house of the Rev. Solomon Snow, who, immediately upon her entrance, took his seat in his arm-chair, and adjusted his bridge.  The little woman was so combative and incisive that this always seemed a necessary precaution on the part of that gentleman.

“I want to see it!” said Miss Butterworth, without the slightest indication of the object of her curiosity.

Mrs. Snow rose without hesitation, and, going to a trunk In her bedroom, brought out her precious certificate of stock, and placed it in the hands of the tailoress.

It certainly was a certificate of stock, to the amount of five shares, in the Continental Petroleum Company, and Mr. Belcher’s name was not among the signatures of the officers.

“Well, that beats me!” exclaimed Miss Butterworth.  “What do you suppose the old snake wants now?”

“That’s just what I say—­just what I say,” responded Mrs. Snow.  Goodness knows, if it’s worth anything, we need it; but what does he want?”

“You’ll find out some time.  Take my word for it, he has a large axe to grind.”

“I think,” said Mr. Snow judicially, “that it is quite possible that we have been unjust to Mr. Belcher.  He is certainly a man of generous instincts, but with great eccentricities.  Before condemning him in toto (here Mr. Snow opened his bridge to let out the charity that was rising within him, and closed it at once for fear Miss Butterworth would get in a protest), let us be sure that there is a possible selfish motive for this most unexpected munificence.  When we ascertain the true state of the case, then we can take things as they air.  Until we have arrived at the necessary knowledge, it becomes us to withhold all severe judgments.  A generous deed has its reflex influence; and it may be that some good may come to Mr. Belcher from this, and help to mold his character to nobler issues.  I sincerely hope it may, and that we shall realize dividends that will add permanently to our somewhat restricted sources of income.”

Miss Butterworth sat during the speech, and trotted her knee.  She had no faith in the paper, and she frankly said so.

“Don’t be fooled,” she said to Mrs. Snow.  “By and by you will find out that it is all a trick.  Don’t expect anything.  I tell you I know Robert Belcher, and I know he’s a knave, if there ever was one.  I can feel him—­I can feel him now—­chuckling over this business, for business it is.”

“What would you do if you were in my place?” inquired Mrs. Snow.  “Would you send it back to him?”

“Yes, or I’d take it with a pair of tongs and throw it out of the window.  I tell you there’s a nasty trick done up in that paper; and if you’re going to keep it, don’t say anything about it.”

The family laughed, and even Mr. Snow unbent himself so far as to smile and wipe his spectacles.  Then the little tailoress went away, wondering when the mischief would reveal itself, but sure that it would appear in good time.  In good time—­that is, in Mr. Belcher’s good time—­it did appear.