Except, among the rest, a young man who comes hastily out of Thiel’s, over Stewart’s—­a young man of flowing black hair and fiery black eyes, which look restlessly and furtively up and down Broadway, which seems to the young man odiously and unnaturally bright.  He gains the street with a bound.  He hurries along, restless, disordered, excited—­the black eyes glancing anxiously about, as if he were jealous of any that should see his yesterday was not over, and that somehow his wild, headlong night had been swept into the serene, open bay of morning.  He hurries up the street; tossing many thoughts together—­calculating his losses, for the black-haired young man has lost heavily at Thiel’s faro-table—­wondering about payments—­remembering that it is Sunday morning, and that he is to attend a young lady from the South to church—­a young lady whose father has millions, if universal understanding be at all correct—­thinking of revenge at the table, of certain books full of figures in a certain counting-room, and the story they tell—­story known to not half a dozen people in the world; the black-eyed youth, in evening dress, alert, graceful, but now meandering and gliding swiftly like a snake, darts up Broadway, and does not seem to hear the bells, whose first stroke startled him as he sat at play, and which are now ringing strange changes in the peaceful air:  Come, Newt!  Come, Newt!  Abel Newt!  Come, Newt!  It is I, Everardus, Dominie Bogardus—­come, come, come! and be d——­d, ding, dong, bell, amen-n-n-n!

Later in the morning the bells rang again.  The house doors opened, and the sidewalk swarmed with well-dressed people.  Boniface Newt and his wife sedately proceeded to church—­not a new bonnet escaping Mrs. Nancy, while May walked tranquilly behind—­like an angel going home, as Gabriel Bennet said in his heart when he passed her with his sister Ellen leaning on his arm.  The Van Boozenberg carriage rolled along the street, conveying Mr. and Mrs. Jacob to meditate upon heavenly things.  Mrs. Dagon and Mrs. Orry passed, and bowed sweetly, on their way to learn how to love their neighbors as themselves.  And among the rest walked Lawrence Newt with Amy Waring, and Arthur Merlin with Hope Wayne.

The painter had heard the voice of the Dominie Bogardus, which his fancy had heard in the air; or was he obeying another Dominie, of a wider parish, whose voice he heard in his heart?  It was not often that the painter went to church.  More frequently, in his little studio at the top of a house in Fulton Street, he sat smoking meditative cigars during the Sunday hours; or, if the day were auspicious, even touching his canvas!

In vain his sober friends remonstrated.  Aunt Winnifred, with whom he lived, was never weary of laboring with him.  She laid good books upon the table in his chamber.  He returned late at night, often, and found little tracts upon his bureau, upon the chair in which he usually laid his clothes when he retired—­yes, even upon his pillow.  “Aunt Winnifred’s piety leaves its tracts all over my room,” he said, smilingly, to Lawrence Newt.