“Mr. Hopper,” he said, “these Eastern notes are due this week, are they not?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Colonel glanced up swiftly.

“There is no use mincing matters, Hopper.  You know as well as I that there is no money to pay them,” said he, with a certain pompous attempt at severity which characterized his kind nature.  “You have served me well.  You have brought this business up to a modern footing, and made it as prosperous as any in the town.  I am sorry, sir, that those contemptible Yankees should have forced us to the use of arms, and cut short many promising business careers such as yours, sir.  But we have to face the music.  We have to suffer for our principles.

“These notes cannot be met, Mr. Hopper.”  And the good gentleman looked out of the window.  He was thinking of a day, before the Mexican War, when his young wife had sat in the very chair filled by Mr. Hopper now.  “These notes cannot be met,” he repeated, and his voice was near to breaking.

The flies droning in the hot office made the only sound.  Outside the partition, among the bales, was silence.

“Colonel,” said Mr. Hopper, with a remarkable ease, “I cal’late these notes can be met.”

The Colonel jumped as if he had heard a shot, and one of the notes fell to the floor.  Eliphalet picked it up tenderly, and held it.

“What do you mean, sir?” Mr. Carvel cried.  “There isn’t a bank in town that will lend me money.  I—­I haven’t a friend—­a friend I may ask who can spare it, sir.”

Mr. Hopper lifted up his hand.  It was a fat hand.  Suavity was come upon it like a new glove and changed the man.  He was no longer cringing.  Now he had poise, such poise as we in these days are accustomed to see in leather and mahogany offices.  The Colonel glared at him uncomfortably.

“I will take up those notes myself, sir.”

“You!” cried the Colonel, incredulously, “You?”

We must do Eliphalet justice.  There was not a deal of hypocrisy in his nature, and now he did not attempt the part of Samaritan.  He did not beam upon the Colonel and remind him of the day on which, homeless and friendless, he had been frightened into his store by a drove of mules.  No.  But his day,—­the day toward which he had striven unknown and unnoticed for so many years—­the day when he would laugh at the pride of those who had ignored and insulted him, was dawning at last.  When we are thoughtless of our words, we do not reckon with that spark in little bosoms that may burst into flame and burn us.  Not that Colonel Carvel had ever been aught but courteous and kind to all.  His station in life had been his offence to Eliphalet, who strove now to hide an exultation that made him tremble.

“What do you mean, sir?” demanded the Colonel, again.

“I cal’late that I can gather together enough to meet the notes, Colonel.  Just a little friendly transaction.”  Here followed an interval of sheer astonishment to Mr. Carvel.