距 "Yes, 'tis Rachel's face, indeed. And my son Benjamin-what of him?" "I nothing know, uncle, of Benjamin, excepting that he married my sister." "Father Abraham, shall I ever find my lost children? moaned the old man. "Know you nothing, uncle, of his fate and that of Rachel, my sister?" "Naught, Judah, beyond a dreadful ordeal through which he barely passed with life. Oh Benjamin, my son-my son!" "Be comforted, uncle. If living, I will find him and my sister, Rachel." "Yes, yes, good Judah," said the venerable Hebrew, with kindled hope. "Thou art young Judah. Thou wilt find Benjamin and his bride. I am sure thou canst. He must be living, Judah. It is impossible that he can be no more among the living. Thou wilt find them, my son. Swear to me by my fathers' God that thou wilt find them. Promise the old man, Judah, oh promise him, that you will search the earth to restore to him his son and thy sister-thy sister, Rachel, also." "If he is with the living, I will restore him to you, my uncle. And now let us sit down to breakfast. Then take a draught which I will prepare, for you need repose. To-morrow you shall awake refreshed and strong, and I will listen to your history since you parted from young Benjamin. Twill help me in my search for him." "And I had nearly turned thee from my doors, Judah. Father Abraham, pardon me.' "There is a Providence in this night's meeting, uncle Isaac. Sceptic as I have been, I say again I own a Providence in this. It is our own individual experience that brings us into the state of faith." "The God of our fathers be praised!" responded Isaac Ben Ammon. CHAPTER XXVI. ISAAC BEN AMMON'S STORY. It was in the afternoon succeeding the events related in our last chapter. The aged Hebrew was seated in an arm-chair of antique fashion. His Jewish gaberdine fastened by a rich girdle, hung loosely about his venerable form. On his finger he wore a massive diamond ring which would have been a fitting ransom for a prince. His features were noble; his countenance pale and elongated, and his white beard which reached to his bosom, gave him a most patriarchal appearance. On the opposite side sat his nephew, whom we have known by the sobriquet of Snap, and by the more classical one of the Mentor. In future, in his associations with his Hebrew relatives, we shall call him by his proper name, Judah Nathans. "Uncle Isaac," observed Judah, as the old man was about to commence his story "if you are not equal to the task leave it till to-morrow." "Nay, nephew." "But you look pale and agitated, Uncle Isaac." "I am well, Judah-as well as I am wont to be." "Yet you suffer! I read your history written on your countenance. The intensity of your feelings have drained your life, Uncle. You must throw off this weight of care." Alas! alas! Judah, you know not what to say. Since the merciless officers of the Czar gave the youthful Benjamin to the dreadful torture of the knout-Oh Father Abraham, the memory of it kills me I have often, Judah, mentally suffered the agonies which my stripling son endured in that awful hour. Not even did my own personal calamities-the loss of fortune and banishment to Siberia, equal what I have borne in anguish for my Benjamin.” "Dwell not upon it, Uncle Isaac.” "Alas! alas, Judah But I will tell my story in its order." "Uncle, I listen." "Your mother was my only sister," began Isaac Ben Ammon. "She was two years younger than myself-no more: for though my form is bowed and the white locks on my forehead as scant leaves on the autumn tree, yet is my age but sixty-seven. My grandsire lived until he was ninety-seven; and scarcely then seemed older than I." "Yet, your form in youth, Uncle Isaac, must have been like the stately oak." Alas! Judah! it is now like the oak stricken by the thunderbolt. I had a frame of iron, but suffering has bowed it to the earth." "Your mother and myself," resumed the old man, after a moment's pause, "grew to maturity. We were happy. I entered JULY 10, into the calling of our race, and thrived as did our father Jacob, when he kept the flocks of Laban, for the blessing of our father's God was with me. I thought not of coming woe. The calamities which in ages past fell upon the chosen people because of their transgressions were as a dispensation of judgments over. My own prosperity seemed to me a bright prophecy of future blessings to Israel. Thus it ever is, when we ourselves are blessed," observed his philosophical nephew. "I grew an enthusiast," continued the patriarch, "for I was devoted to the God and religion of our fathers. I deemed the time had come to favor Israel; for in the nations of Europe the sons of our antique race were rising in political as well as commercial power. I saw the destiny of nations passing into their hands; monarchs courted them; the commerce of the world pulsated at their will; the finance of governments were secretly controled by the house of Judah. To my ardent mind it seemed that the day had nearly come for the jubilee of our return to be proclaimed to our nation. Say unto the daughter of Zion, thy transgressions are blotted out. Return and rebuild with marble the ancient city. Beautify her Temple with gold and precious stones. In fancy, I heard the voice of our Messiah proclaim it to our people with more than the wondrous charm of the ram's horns which our priests blew when the walls of Jericho fell." "Dreams, Uncle Isaac, dreams," interrupted his nephew. "Believest thou not, Nephew, that Jacob shall again be a mighty nation?" "Jacob was never so blessed, Uncle Isaac, as in the captivity which led him into every land. Israel was never so great a nation as now." "What sayest thou, Judah?” asked the patriarch with astonishment. "Of old," observed his nephew in reply "our people were but as busy ants in a tiny sand-hill Hardly worth the name of a nation -they were but a large family which generations had multiplied." "It was the promise to Abraham. Our seed were to be as the stars in the firmament," observed the venerable Hebrew, reverently. "All that onr people have ever been in race they are to-day; but now, as you yourself have said, they hold empires in their hand. In their glory as a separate nation, ever under David and Solomon, they merely shared in common with the gentiles their little Palastine. Their dispersion was a blessing; their restoration-a dream, Uncle Isaac-a long-cherished dream, but still a dream." "What, Judah; believest thou not that the covenant will be restored and Israel gathered to the land which God gave to our father Abraham?" "Pardon me, Uncle; I interrupt your story." Judah saw that his uncle was still an enthusiast. The venerable Hebrew continued: "When your mother had reached the age of eighteen, she married Levi, your father. She loved her husband; but I-well, no matter, Judah, of that." "You did not approve of my mother's choice, Uncle Isaac?" "Well, Nephew, to confess the truth, your father was not thrifty." Isaac Ben Ammon said this as though he was admitting against his brother-in-law a cardinal sin. He was not thrifty." All of the Jew was crowded in the sentence. "Levi was of a strange mind," continued the old man, "and loved not commerce. Science was his delight. But there is no thrift in it, Judah. Yet knowledge is very good. Solomon was wise beyond all men, but commerce, Judah, best becomes the genius of our race." "I believe, uncle, I inherit my father's sins. I admire Solomon more than Jacob." "Now mark me, nephew," continued the uncle. "Levi Nathans increased not like Jacob in this world's substance; a family grew up around my sister. You were her first-born; Rachel, my BenLevi and Judeth with their jamin's bride, her youngest child. family went to England, what more of sons or daughters were born to them there I know not." "I will some other time supply their history. Suffice now that my parents are dead as I told you, and of all the family I alone am left. The pestilence swept all away but me." "Alas, alas!" said Isaac Ben Ammon. "The scourge fell not alone on me. What am I that I should murmur." "Resume your story, uncle." "As you have learned, Judah, since we met last night your sister Rachel, whom your parents left with me, became the bride "But one evil day, Judah, I was induced to loan money to the conspiring nobles of Russia, for they told me that prince Nicholas desired the throne. They told me that this daring prince would carry out the intentions of Peter the Great, and among the rest redeem the Holy Land and break up the Ottoman empire. I was tempted, for I deemed that this would lead to the return of the Jews. Alas, Judah, the result was my own exile and my tender boy was given to the torture of the knout. I cannot dwell upon that day. Overpowered by his emotions the old man broke off for a few moments, but then continued. "Sarah, my wife, died of a broken heart, and my children fled, designing to go to Italy. But their fate since I know not. Father Abraham, shall I ever find my children?" "How came you from Siberia, uncle? Did you escape or did Nicholas on his ascension recall you?" asked Judah, to draw the old man from his unpleasant memories. "For ten years, Judah, I was an exile in Siberia, and then the Czar granted my petition for pardon. I returned to Russia and was graciously received by Nicholas. Not the most distant reference was made to his favor of the old conspiracy, for he fain would hide the indiscretion of his youth. Indeed, he affected to pity me on the assumption of my innocence, treating the conspiracy as a thing which never had any real existence. His brother Alexander, he said, had been misled by his ministers and betrayed by false tales. The advantage was that the nobles to whom I had loaned my monies redeemed their obligations with a fair interest which, to do them justice, was willingly rendered. Thus I was restored to more than my lost wealth." "That indeed was handsome in the Czar," observed the nephew. "Yes," replied Isaac Ben Ammon, "Nicholas of Russia is magnanimous, though his will is of iron, and his vengeance fearful when aroused." "Did you continue in Russia, uncle?" interrogated his listener. For five years I did," was the reply, "and I sent my agents the world over to search for my son and his wife; but they found them not. At length one of my agents traced them to Italy; but the circumstances were so obscure that nothing certain could be discovered." "In Italy," observed Judah, making a mental note. "There is a link to the likeness of my sister Rachel, found on the wounded sin ger. Go on, uncle." "I then gathered together my wealth and resolved to make Italy my home. It was the land to which my Benjamin had fled, and where he had been was sanctified to my anxious heart. I came to Rome, and to occupy my mind continued in the calling of our race, though with but little ambition. Since that time I have traveled through all the cities of Italy to find my son, but in vain, until Providence sent you to my doors last night with the wounded stranger upon whose person you found the picture of your sister Rachel, not a trace of my children could I discover. But oh, Judah, we have found it at last. The God of Jacob, whose faith prevailed, has not sent that angel's face to us in vain." "It is strange," murmured the Mentor. "Yes it is, uncle, a very strange coincidence that the lost links of our family were found together last night. I am less a sceptic than I was." "You think that likeness will discover more-you think so good Judah?" eagerly queried the old man. "Yes, uncle, I think so. But how came Farinelli with it? What connection can he have had with my sister Rachel ?" Surely he is not her son? No, he is too old for that. I cannot make it out. I must solve the problem of his connection with that picture." At this moment old Rebecca entered in excitement, and informed her master that the wounded man was delerious. She had left him with her son Levi, she said, who could only with difficulty hold him in his bed. "Let us go to him, uncle. I will administer a sleeping draught. I would not have him die without revealing the secret of that picture." "Nor I," said Isaac. "Half my wealth I would give to save his live to reveal that secret." And they hurried to the room of the wounded singer, whom they found in the state reported. He seemed to half recognize the Mentor as he entered, for he became still more furious. "Give me my foster-sister," he cried, stretching his arms widely to Judah. "Terese, leave me not for him. He would destroy you body and soul. 159 Curse him, He does not love you as Beppo loves you. curse him. No, Terese, forgive me. I will not curse him if you will not forsake your foster-brother for the false English noble. Ha! the villian takes her from me to bear her to England. He will make her his mistress. Let me after him." "Who is this Terese, good Judah, that the young man's fancy conjures up?" "I know not, uncle, more than that she is his foster-sister, and the prima donna which has of late been winning triumphs in Rome. The singer laid exhausted, and Judah stood contemplating him in deep thought. An idea seemed to have struck him and he was finding its connection. "Yes," he said at length, exultingly, "I have found it." "In your granddaughter.”" "My granddaughter! God of Abraham, what mean you, Judah?” "Mark, uncle!" and he took from his pocket the locket and held it before the eyes of Farinelli, who savagely clutched it, thrust it in his bosom and pressing it to his heart murmured "Terese, Terese." The old Jew understood it all in a moment, and he sunk upon his knees and exclaimed: "God of Abraham, I thank thee. I have found the child of Rachel and Benjamin. Oh, where are they?" and he hid his face in his hands. The Mentor, not unmoved, yet still in a scientific mood, looked on with the satisfaction of one who had solved a problem, not one whose faith had received a revelation. His own acuteness had found it out. "Indeed! Are you known to my adopted child?" "I knew her mother." "Her mother? You astonish me." "Her mother was my sister," said Judah. "Holy Virgin! Terese's mother your sister!" exclaimed Spontini. "Rachel, her mother, was truly my sister." "This is wonderful." "Her grandsire, Isaac Ben Ammon, is waiting to fold Terese to his heart," continued Judah. "Isaac Ben Ammon is her grandsire. This is wonderful news, wonderful news, signor," replied the composer excitedly. "Walk in, signor. My pupil must know of this at once. I hope you are not deceived. It would be cruel to trifle with the poor child.” "Startle her not, Signor Spontini," observed her uncle with cautious solicitude. "You are right, signor. My pupil is already afflicted concerning the absence of her foster-brother." "Say that I bring news of him. The rest I will gently break to her." "Yes, it is best so. This will be a surprise indeed. I hope you do not intend to take her from me. Holy Virgin, I would Sir Walter Templar was here." Her uncle thought differently, but he followed the musician without reply "Here is a friend, Teresc, who brings us intelligence of Farinelli," said Spontini, as they entered the room where the Hebrew maiden sat looking from the window, her thoughts divided between anxiety for her foster-brother, and uncertain dreams of her departed lover. One moment the beautiful Jewess would in her trustful fancy picture the future bright as the great love of Walter could make it if she became his bride. 我 "Yes, Providence will overrule all for the best," she murmured. "His family will release him from his betrothal. Eleanor herself will insist upon it when she knows how dearly he loves me." But then at the next moment came the uncertainty, and the longing to know the worst or be confirmed in the assurance which her lover breathed into her ear as they parted, and sealed with a prolonged, passionate kiss upon her lips, as though he feared, in spite of his assurance, that their parting would be forever. JULY 10, picture than mine. If you knew Beppo as I do, you would say so too." The slight touch of woman's jealousy manifested that Terese was not altogether unconscious of her foster-brother's hopeless love. "I am right, my child. 'Tis the likeness of my sister Rachel." "My mother's name was Rachel," observed the Jewess, startled. "And your father's name was Benjamin, the only son of Isaac Ben Ammon?" "It was. But how know you my history, signor?” "You mother was my sister; I am Judah, her eldest brother. Rachel, Rachel, my niece-for to me you are Rachel-I see your mother in you-Rachel, my little one, will you not come to your uncle Judah's arms?" With each reaction from her hopefulness came an anxiety for her foster-brother, and the thoughts of what had become of him. She knew somewhat of his jealousy, for she had marked it, and perhaps the indistinct association in her mind of Walter and Farinelli as rivals, so constantly brought the two up together in her reverie that afternoon. It might have been, too, because intuitive natures like that of the Jewess sense the hidden circumstances which are approaching them, and by their prescient instincts fore-self, opened his arms, and Terese obeying her impulse, was clasped shadow phases of their lives yet to be revealed. Hence we often think of persons who are nearing us, and forebode events which immediately manifest themselves. In this en rapport state of mind Spontini and her uncle found Terese, and when the maestro as he entered observed: "Here is a friend, Terese, who brings intelligence of Farinelli,” the maiden started to her feet and came towards them with the eagerness of one who expected some message of deepest moment. "Oh, signor, where is my foster-brother? What news have you for me? Tell me, I beseech you." But her uncle, instead of making a direct reply, bent upon the maiden a long gaze of tenderest interest. Fain would he have folded her to his heart as he did his little sister Rachel when he left her in Russia. Not to that heart had he pressed a creature in love since that day; for as a boy he was made churlish by illtreatment, as a man cynical by his intellectual scepticism of the genuineness of human affections. He deemed that self-interest and passion governed the action of mortals, and to the potency of evil he gave too large an influence in the affairs of life. But he himself was a proof that the world is "not all dross," as he stood with his tender gaze bent upon his niece, and a yearning in his heart to fold her there. Terese, not understanding the meaning of the stranger's manner, and thinking it had exclusive reference to Farinelli, after the moment's silence, laying her hand impulsively upon his arm, said: "In mercy, signor, keep me not in this suspense. What has become of my foster-brother?" "Be not alarmed, gentle maiden," her uncle replied, affectionately. "No serious harm has happened." "But harm has happened to him. Oh tell me the worst, signor, Oh tell me the worst. Keep me not in suspense." "I have told you the worst, my child, in saying that harm has happened. Be seated; compose yourself and I will tell you all." Terese took her seat as desired, and her uncle and Spontini followed her example. "My child," began her uncle, "your foster-brother has been wounded, but not seriously. 'Tis but a bruise. I will answer for his speedy recovery. I deceive you not, lady. I could not deceive you, my child.” The maiden thought the stranger's tender words were those of sympathy, and evinced no surprise thereat. "How came my poor foster-brother hurt?" she asked. "In an encounter two nights ago with some unknown man," was the reply. "I cannot tell you the particulars, my child." "It is strange.' "Suffice it maiden, that coming upon the scene, I rescued him and bore him to a house where he received surgical skill and nursing." "Is he still there?" "Yes." "I will go to him. We will go at once, good Spontini. Order our cariage, maestro, while I hasten to attire." "Nay, nay, my child," said her uncle. "Your foster-brother is in good hands. I have not yet communicated all." "I listen, signor," observed Terese, resuming her seat. "We found a small locket on the person of your foster-brother. It was the picture of a child-a little maiden some eight years of age I should suppose." Tis the picture of myself." "He wore it next his heart," continued her as yet unknown uncle. "My foster-brother ever loved me," observed the maiden with a blush. "It is the picture of my sister," said Judah. "No, signor stranger. That cannot be. It is the picture of myself. I know my foster-brother wears it. It cannot be another 生 And the cynic, the infidel, the man of evil as he classed himto his heart with a fervent embrace; and as her uncle kissed her, a tear glistened in his dark eye so usually passionless, but passionless from a nature subdued. Spontini looked on and doubted not the relationship between Judah Nathans and Terese Ben Ammon. THE GOOD WIFE. It is just as you say, neighbor Green, Her crullers and puddings just right. My house is as neat as a pin, You should see how the door-handles shine, And all of the soft-cushioned chairs And nicely-swept carpets are mine. But then she so freis at the dust, She doctors the neighbors-O yes, If a child has the measles or croup, To physic my blood in the spring; She knits all my stockings herself, My shirts are bleached white as the snow; My old clothes look better than new, Yet daily more threadbare they grow. Or dust on my trousers should cling, It's just as you say, neighbor Green, Most pleasures on earth have their sting; She's a treasure, I know, neighbor Green, But she's such a fidgety thing. Published THE HOME JOURNAL OF THE PEOPLE. DEVOTED TO leekly. LITERATURE, ART, SCIENCE AND EDUCATION No. 11] SALT LAKE CITY, JULY 17, 1869. THY SPIRIT MOVETH BY MY SIDE. Thy spirit moveth by my side And now, though parted-far away, The music of thy gentle voice, I prize thy fondness far above THE SIGNAL-MAN. "Halloa! Below there!" When he heard a voice thus calling to him, he was standing at the door of his box, with a flag in his hand, furled round its short pole. One would have thought, considering the nature of the ground, that he could not have doubted from what quarter the voice came; but instead of looking up to where I stood on the top of the steep cutting nearly over his head, he turned himself about and looked down the Line. There was something remarkable in his manner of doing so, though I could not have said, for my life, what. But, I know it was remarkable enough to attract my notice, even though his figure was foreshortened and shadowed, down in the deep trench, and mine was high above him, so steeped in the glow of an angry sunset that I had shaded my eyes with my hand before I saw him at all. "Halloa! Below!" From looking down the line, he turned himself about again, and, raising his eyes, saw my figure high above him. "Is there any path by which I can come down and speak to you?" He looked up at me without replying, and I looked down at him without pressing him too soon with a repetition of my idle question. Just then, there came a vague vibration in the earth and air, quickly changing into a violent pulsation, and an oncoming rush that caused me to start back, as | though it had force to draw me down. When such vapor as [VOL 3 rose to my height from this rapid train, had passed me and was skimming away over the landscape, I looked down again, and saw him re-furling the flag he had shown while the train went by. I repeated my inquiry. After a pause, during which he seemed to regard me with fixed attention, he motioned with his rolled-up flag towards a point on my level, some two or three hundred yards distant. I called down to him, "All right!" and made for that point. There, by dint of looking closely about me, I found a rough, zig-zag descending path notched out: which I followed. The cutting was extremely deep, and unusually precipitate. It was made through a clammy stone that became oozier and wetter as I went down. For these reasons, I found the way long enough to give me time to recall a singular air of reluctance or compulsion with he which had pointed out the path. When I came down low enough upon the ziz zag descent, to see him again, I saw that he was standing between the rails on the way by which the train had lately passed, in an attitude as if he were waiting for me to appear. He had his left hand at his chin, and that left elbow rested on his right hand crossed over his breast. His attitude was one of such expectation and watchfulness, that I stopped a moment, wondering at it. I resumed my downward way, and, stepping out upon the level of the railroad and drawing nearer to him, saw that he was a dark sallow man, with a dark beard and rather heavy eyebrows. His post was in as solitary and dismal a place as ever I saw. On either side, a dripping-wet wall of jagged stone, excluding all view but a strip of sky; the perspective one way, only a crooked prolongation of this great dungeon; the shorter perspective in the other direction, terminating in a gloomy red light, and the gloomier entrance to a black tunnel, in whose massive architecture there was a barbarous, depressing, and forbidding air. So little sunlight ever found its way to this spot, that it had an earthy deadly smell; and so much cold wind rushed through it, that it struck chill to me, as if I had left the natural world. Before he stirred, I was near enough to have touched him. Not even then removing his eyes from mine, he stepped back one step, and lifted his hand. This was a lonesome post to occupy (I said), and it had riveted my attention when I looked down from up yonder. A visitor was a rarity, I should suppose; not an unwelcome rarity, I hoped? In me, he merely saw a man who had been shut up within narrow limits all his life, and who, being at last set free, had a newly awakened interest in # these great works. To such purpose I spoke to him; but I am far from sure of the terms I used, for, besides that I am not happy in opening any conversation, there was something in the man that daunted me. He directed a most curious look towards the red light near the tunnel's mouth, and looked all about it, as if something were missing from it, and then looked at me. That light was part of his charge? Was it not? He answered in a low voice: "Dont you know it is?" The monstrous thought came into my mind as I perused the fixed eyes and the saturnine face, that this was a spirit, I have speculated since, whether there may have been infection in his mind. not a man. In my turn, I stepped back. But in making the action, I detected in his eyes some latent fear of me. This put the monstrous thought to flight. "You look at me," I said, forcing a smile, "as if you had a dread of me." "I was doubtful," he returned, "whether I had seen you before." 66 Where?" He pointed to the red light he had looked at. "There?" I said. Intently watchful of me, he replied (but without sound), Yes. "My good fellow, what should I do there? However, be that as it may, I never was there, you may swear." "I think I may," he rejoined. Yes. I am sure I may." His manner cleared, like my own. He replied to my remarks with readiness, and in well chosen words. Had he much to do there? Yes; that was to say, he had enough responsibility to bear; but exactness and watchfulness were what was required of him, and of actual work-manual labor-he had next to none. To change that signal, to trim those lights, and to turn this iron handle now and then, was all he had to do under that head. Regarding those many lonely hours of which I seemed to make so much, he could only say that the routine of his life had shaped itself into that form, and he had grown used to it. He had taught himself a language down here-if only to know it by sight, and to have formed his own crude ideas of its pronunciation, could be called learning it. He had also worked at fractions and decimals, and tried a little algebra; but he was, and had been as a boy, a poor hand at figures. Was it necessary for him when on duty, always to remain in that channel of damp air, and could he never rise into the sunshine from between those high stone walls? Why, that depended upon times and circumstances. Under some conditions there would be less upon the Line than under others, and the same held good as to certain hours of the day and night. In bright weather, he did chose occasions for getting a little above these lower shadows; but, being at all times liable to be called by his electric bell, and at such times listening for it with redoubled anxiety, the relief was less than I would suppose. He teok me into his box, where there was a fire, a desk for an official book in which he had to make certain entries, a telegraphic instrument with its dial face and needles, and the little bell of which he had spoken. On my trusting that he would excuse the remark that he had been well educated, and (I hoped I might say without offence), perhaps educated above that station, he observed that instances of slight incongruity in such-wise would rarely be found wanting among large bodies of men; that he had heard it was so in workhouses, in the police force, even in that last desperate resource, the army; and he knew it was so, more or less, in any great railway staff. He had been, when young (if I could believe it, sitting in that hut; he scarcely could), a student of natural philosophy, and had attended lectures; but he had run wild, misused his opportunities, gone down, and never risen again. He had no complaint to offer about that. He had made his bed, and he lay upon it. It was far too late to make another. All that I have here condensed, he said in a quiet manner, with his grave dark regards divided between me and the fire. He threw in the word "Sir," from time to time, and especially when he referred to his youth: as though to request me to understand that he claimed to be nothing but what I found him. He was several times interrupted by the little bell, and had to read off messages, and send replies. Once, he had to stand without the door, and display a flag as a train passed, and make some verbal communication to the driver. In the discharge of his duties I observed him to be remarkably exact and vigilant, breaking off his discourse at a syllable, and remaining silent until what he had to do was done. In a word, I should have set this man down as one of the safest of men to be employed in that capacity, but for the circumstance that while he was speaking to me he twice broke off with a fallen color, turned his face towards the little bell when it did NOT ring, opened the door of the hut (which was kept shut to exclude the unhealthy damp), and looked out towards the red light near the mouth of the tunnel. On both of those occasions, he came back to the fire with the inexplicable air upon him which I had remarked, without being able to define, when we were so far asunder. Said I when I rose to leave him: "You almost make me think that I have met with a contented man." (I am afraid I must acknowledge that I said it to lead him on.) "I believe I used to be so," he rejoined, in the low voice in which he had first spoken; "but I am troubled, sir, I am troubled." He would have recalled the words if he could. He had said them, however, and I took them up quickly. "With what? What is your trouble?" "It is very difficult to impart, sir. It is very, very difficult to speak of. If you ever make me another visit, I will try to tell you." But I expressly intend to make you another visit. Say, when shall it be?" |