“It’s too bad, though!” says the man, relenting.  “What can we do with this fellow, Stephen?”

“Send him around to Judge Gingerford’s,—­I should say that’s about the best thing to do with him,” says the witty Stephen.

The man knew well what would please.  His master’s face lighted up.  He rubbed his hands, and regarded the vagabond with a humorous twinkle, with malice in it.

“Would you, Stephen?  By George, I’ve a good notion to!  Take the umbrella, and go and show him the way.”

Stephen did not like that.

“I was only joking, Sir,” he said.

“A good joke, too!  Here, you fellow! go with my man.  He’ll take you to a house where you’ll find friends.  Excellent folks! damned philanthropical! red-hot abolitionists!  If you only had nigger-blood, now, they’d treat you like a prince.  I don’t know but I’d advise you to tell ’em you’re about a quarter nigger,—­they’ll think ten times as much of you!”

It was sufficiently evident that the gentleman did not love his neighbor the Judge.  There was in his tone bitter personal and political hatred.  With his own hands he spread again the soaked umbrella, and, giving it to the reluctant Stephen, turned him away with the vagabond.  Then he shut the door, and went in.  By the fire he pulled off his wet boots, and put on the warm slippers, which the children brought him with innocent strife to see which should be foremost.  And he gave to each kisses and toys; for he was a kind father.  And sitting down to supper, with their beaming faces around him, he thought of the beggar-boy only in connection with the jocular spite he had indulged against his neighbor.

Meanwhile the disgusted Stephen, walking alone under the umbrella, drove Fessenden’s before him through the storm.  They turned a corner.  Stephen stopped.

“There, that’s the house, where the lights are.  Good bye!  Luck to you!” And Stephen and umbrella disappeared in the darkness.

Fessenden’s kept on, wearily, wearily!  He reached the house.  And lo! it was the same, at the door of which the lady had told him that he, with his name, was not wanted.  Tiger slept in his kennel, and dreamed of barking at beggars.  The Judge, snugly ensconced in his study, listened to the report of his speech before the Timberville Benevolent Association.  His son read it aloud, in the columns of the “Timberville Gazette.”  Gingerford smiled and nodded; for he thought it sounded well.  And Mrs. Gingerford was pleased and proud.  And the heart of Gingerford Junior swelled with the fervor of the eloquence, and with exultation in his father’s talents and distinction, as he read.  The sleet rattled a pleasant accompaniment against the window-shutters; and the organ-pipes of the wind sounded a solemn symphony.  This last night of November was genial and bright to those worthy people, in their little family-circle.  And the future was full of promise.  And the rhetoric of the orator settled the duty of man to man so satisfactorily, and painted the pleasures of benevolence in such colors, that all their bosoms glowed.