The proceedings dragged on.

Meanwhile Hezekiah’s business interests accumulated.

At length, at Hezekiah’s own suggestion, it was necessary to abandon the case.

“Gentlemen,” he said, in his final speech to the court, “I feel that I owe an apology for not being able to attend these proceedings any further.  At any time, when I can snatch an hour or two from my business, you may always count on my attendance.  In the meantime, rest assured that I shall follow your proceedings with the greatest interest.”

He left the room amid three cheers and the singing of “Auld Lang Syne.”

After that the case dragged hopeless on from stage to stage.

The charge of arson was met by a nolle prosequi.  The accusation of theft was stopped by a ne plus ultra.  The killing of the footman was pronounced justifiable insanity.

The accusation of murder for the death of the philanthropist was withdrawn by common consent.  Damages in error were awarded to Hayloft for the loss of his revolver and cartridges.  The main body of the case was carried on a writ of certiorari to the Federal Courts and appealed to the Supreme Court of the United States.

It is there still.

Meantime, Hezekiah, as managing director of the Burglars’ Security Corporation, remains one of the rising generation of financiers in New York, with every prospect of election to the State Senate.

VI. —­ Sorrows of a Super Soul:  or, The Memoirs of Marie Mushenough
   (Translated, by Machinery, out of the Original Russian.)

DO you ever look at your face in the glass?

I do.

Sometimes I stand for hours and peer at my face and wonder at it.  At times I turn it upside down and gaze intently at it.  I try to think what it means.  It seems to look back at me with its great brown eyes as if it knew me and wanted to speak to me.

Why was I born?

I do not know.

I ask my face a thousand times a day and find no answer.

At times when people pass my room—­my maid Nitnitzka, or Jakub, the serving-man—­and see me talking to my face, they think I am foolish.

But I am not.

At times I cast myself on the sofa and bury my head in the cushions. 
Even then I cannot find out why I was born.

I am seventeen.

Shall I ever be seventy-seven?  Ah!

Shall I ever be even sixty-seven, or sixty-seven even?  Oh!

And if I am both of these, shall I ever be eighty-seven?

I cannot tell.

Often I start up in the night with wild eyes and wonder if I shall be eighty-seven.

* * *

Next Day.

I passed a flower in my walk to-day.  It grew in the meadow beside the river bank.

It stood dreaming on a long stem.

I knew its name.  It was a Tchupvskja.  I love beautiful names.