“That girl,” thought Mr. Stillinghast, “is a mystery.  She is either a profound hypocrite, or an honest Christian.  This scene, however, has fixed my resolves.  That Helen may be a fool, but she’s not much of a papist.  Odds, it will hardly require the temptation of a handsome husband, and a splendid settlement, to make her forswear her creed.  I will see Jerrold this very day.”  When he arrived at his counting-house, he went directly to his desk, and penned a note, which he directed and sealed, then handed it to his porter to take to Mr. Jerrold.  Then he perched himself on his high writing-stool, and opening his books, attempted to go on as usual with the business of the day.  But there was something unquiet tugging at his conscience, which did not allow him to do so.  He paused frequently, with his pen poised over his inkstand, or paper, and fell into reveries, which ended with expressions which burst out like shots from a revolver.  It was now “Pshaw!” then, “I hate it worse than I do the synagogue;” or, “it is not injustice!  Have I not a right to do as I please with my own property?” and “I’ll do it as sure as my name is Mark Stillinghast.”

“Mr. Jerrold was away at bank, sir,” said the porter, who had returned; “and, sir, I left the note.”

“All right, Michael. Business is the master we must serve first, and best.  Hoist out those bales there ready to ship.”

“The devil ’ll fly away wid that ould haythen some of these days!  I should like to know intirely if he ever hard of the day of judgment and the Master that’s to take an account of how he’s been sarved.  I reckon, bedad, he’ll find out thin, if not sooner, that he’s the one that ought to had a little waitin’ on,” muttered Michael, rolling out a heavy bale of cotton.

Ere long Mr. Jerrold, anxious to conciliate the millionnaire, and full of curiosity, did not lose a minute after he read the note in going to him.

“Good morning sir.  I hope I have not kept you waiting,” he said, holding out his hand to Mr. Stillinghast.

“No, sir; you are in very good time,” he replied, shaking hands, and offering his guest a chair.  “I see that you are not one who will let grass grow under your feet.”

“I have my fortune to make, sir,” replied the young man, laughing; “but can I serve you in any way, Mr. Stillinghast?”

“Michael!  No, sir—­no—­ Here Michael!” cried Mr. Stillinghast.

“Here, sir,” answered the porter at the door.

“I wish to have a private conversation with this gentleman, and do not want to be interrupted; do you hear?”

“Bedad, sir, I’m not deaf no more than the next one; but suppose somebody comes to pay up rents, et cetera?”

“Well—­well, they can wait,” he replied.

“And supposin’ they won’t?” persisted Michael.

“In that case, rap at my door, and I will come out.  Now, be off.”