The business succeeded beyond his expectations.  In a few years he was able to marry, and live in a very comfortable style.  He would hear none of the objections urged by his mother against living with him, but shut up her shop in spite of her remonstrances, and brought her to the city.  No one who saw her during the remaining ten years of her life would have called her unhappy.

I know Peyton still.  He is not now, by general reputation, “a fine, generous fellow.”  But he is a good citizen, a good husband, and a good father; and was a good son while his mother lived with him.  He has won the means of really benefiting others, and few are more willing than he is to do it, when it can be done in the right way.  He is “generous” still—­but wisely so.

TAKING IT FOR GRANTED.

MR. EVERTON was the editor and publisher of the——­Journal, and, like too many occupying his position, was not on the best terms in the world with certain of his contemporaries of the same city.  One morning, on opening the paper from a rival office, he found an article therein, which appeared as a communication, that pointed to him so directly as to leave no room for mistake as to the allusions that were made.

Of course, Mr. Everton was considerably disturbed by the occurrence, and thoughts of retaliation arose in his mind.  The style was not that of the editor, and so, though he felt incensed at that personage for admitting the article, he went beyond him, and cast about in his mind for some clue that would enable him to identify the writer.  In this he did not long find himself at a loss.  He had a man in his employment who possessed all the ability necessary to write the article, and upon whom, for certain reasons, he soon fixed the origin of the attack.

“Have you seen that article in the Gazette?” asked an acquaintance, who came into Everton’s office while he sat with the paper referred to still in his hand.

“I have,” replied Everton, compressing his lips.

“Well, what do you think of it?”

“It’ll do no harm, of course; but that doesn’t touch the malice of the writer.”

“No.”

“Nor make him any the less base at heart.”

“Do you know the author?”

“I believe so.”

“Who is he?”

“My impression is, that Ayres wrote it.”

“Ayres?”

“Yes.”

“Why, he is indebted to you for his bread!”

“I know he is, and that makes his act one of deeper baseness.”

“What could have induced him to be guilty of such a thing?”

“That’s just what I’ve been trying to study out, and I believe I understand it all fully.  Some six months ago, he asked me to sign a recommendation for his appointment to a vacant clerkship in one of our banks.  I told him that I would do so with pleasure, only that my nephew was an applicant, and I had already given him my name.  He didn’t appear to like this, which I thought very unreasonable, to say the least of it.”