“It is gratifying to think,” said Mrs. Gingerford, wiping her eyes at the pathetic close, “how much good the printing of that address in the ‘Gazette’ must accomplish.  It will reach many so who hadn’t the good-fortune to hear it at the rooms.”

Certainly, Madam.  The “Gazette” is taken, and perhaps read this very evening, in every one of the houses at which the pauper has applied in vain for shelter, since you frowned him from your door.  Those exalted sentiments, breathed in musical periods, are no doubt a rich legacy to the society of Timberville, and to the world.  It was wise to print them; they will “reach many so.”  But will they reach this outcast beggar-boy, and benefit him?  Alas, it is fast growing too late for that!

Utter fatigue and discouragement have overtaken him.  The former notion of dying in the fields recurs to him now; and wretched indeed must he be, since even that desperate thought has a sort of comfort in it.  But he is too weary to seek out some suitably retired spot to take cold leave of life in.  On every side is darkness; on every side, wild storm.  Why endeavor to drag farther his benumbed limbs?  As well stretch himself here, upon this wet wintry sod, as anywhere.  He has the presumption to do it,—­never considering how deeply he may injure a fine gentleman’s feelings by dying at his door.

Tiger does not bark him away, but only dreams of barking, in his cozy kennel.  Close by are the windows of the mansion, glowing with light.  There beat the philanthropic hearts; there smiles the pale, pensive lady; there beams the aspiring face of her son; and there sits the Judge, with his feet on the rug, pleasantly contemplating the good his speech will do, and thinking quite as much, perhaps, of the fame it will bring him,—­happily unconscious alike of his neighbor’s malicious jest, and of the real victim of that jest, lying out there in the tempest and freezing rain.

So November goes out; and winter, boisterous and triumphant, comes in.

* * * * *

Sunday morning:  cold and clear.  The December sun shines upon the glassy turf, and upon trees all clad in armor of glittering ice.  And the trees creak and rattle in the north wind; and the icy splinters fall tinkling to the ground.

The splendor of the morning gilds the Judge’s estate.  Everything about the mansion smiles and sparkles.  Were last night’s horrors a dream?

There was danger, we remember, that the foolish youth might do a very inconsiderate and shocking thing, and perhaps ruin the Judge.  What if he had really deposited his mortal remains at the gate of that worthy man,—­to be found there, ghastly and stiff, a revolting spectacle, this bright morning?  What a commentary on Gingerford philanthropy!  For of course some one would at once have stepped forward to testify to having seen him driven from the door, which he came back to lay his bones near.  And