Two days had passed, and poor little Matty had been laid to the rest which knows no breaking; and all about Mrs. Petersen’s rooms and the little flower-shop had settled to its usual routine, save that Tony still abode with the kind Germans, and that he tended alone both the peanut-stand and his roaster. His parents had not yet returned, nor have we to this day obtained, or indeed sought, any trace of them; all concerned being only too glad that they have made no claim upon the little lame boy. Tony, now no longer a peanut-vender, has been promoted to the post of assistant and errand-boy to Johnny Petersen, who, with his wife, treat the lad as if he were their own son, instead of a little deserted waif cast by a merciful Providence into their kind hands.

I had, happily, or rather Edward had for me, been able to rescue Matty’s beautiful tresses from the hands of the conscienceless barber, who, when approached on the subject, demanded the most exorbitant price for them; but finding that the circumstances of the first sale were known to the gentleman, and being confronted with Tony, whom my brother had taken with him and left outside till he should ascertain what advance in price would be asked, he came down in his demands, and parted with them at exactly three times the sum he had paid for them, and which probably, in righteousness, he should have given to Matty.

They were at once given to Tony, whose pride in them had been only less than that of his sister, and who, with a show of tender sentiment scarcely to be expected from one of his surroundings and antecedents, received them as a gift from the dead. Cheery, jolly little Tony! but for this and other similar tokens of an affectionate heart, it might have been thought that he was wanting in feeling, so easily did his elastic, joyous spirit throw off trouble; so completely did he extract all the sweet, and throw aside all the bitter, offered to him by a lot in life which most of us would not have envied.

In the trouble and excitement over the sudden fate of the little “deform,” as Allie and Daisy had called her, we had for the moment put aside the question of what was to be done with Theodore Yorke; but now it was to be decided.

That the boy could be touched; that he was not lost to all trace of human or decent feeling, was shown by the trouble, and, his grandparents thought, remorse, which he testified on hearing of Matty’s tragical death; and he would even have tried to make some amends to Tony, had not the lame boy absolutely refused to let him come near him; while the florist, seeing him from within the shop, rushed out upon him, and threatened him with some more of the same “veesic” as he had administered before, seeming inclined to do so whether or no; and Theodore, plainly thinking discretion the better part of valor, had lost no time in putting a safe distance between himself and the pugilistic old German.

Not wishing to discuss the subject in the presence of the culprit or his distressed and anxious grandmother, uncle Rutherford had told Captain Yorke to come again to our house in the evening of the day on which Matty was buried; having first taken counsel with father and mother and aunt Emily as to the best course to be pursued for all interested. The captain seemed quite to have lost his usual independence and courage, and had put himself and his family into the hands of those who he knew were good friends to him and his.

“I didn’t let on to the boy, Gov’nor an’ Mr. Livingstone,” he said, rubbing up his grizzled locks as was his wont when talking, “I didn’t let on to the boy as we was thinkin’ he was to be took from school; but I’m glad to say he was consid’able cut up along of that poor little hunchback, an’ his bein’ so mean to her jes’ afore she was took; an’ I’m thinkin’ he has some kind of feelin’s in respecks of her, all the more mebbe as he thinks he’s goin’ to get off ’thout any more punishment than what he got; an’ I don’t bear no grudge agin that Dutch flower-man for what he done to him, an’ isn’t he a Dutchy though! ’Pears like he ain’t never studied no grammar nor good English, nor nothin’, an’ them’s my opinions. He do talk the funniest, an’ mos’ times I don’t hardly make no sense of it. But,” with a heavy, long-drawn sigh, “what was yer both of ye thinkin’ it was bes’ to do?”

“We have thought, captain,” answered uncle Rutherford, to whom father left all explanations, “we have thought it would be best and wisest, if you and his grandmother and mother agree, to send Theodore to a boarding-school on Long Island, where he will be kept under very strict discipline and supervision.”

“Supervision! an’ what may that be, Gov’nor, askin’ yer pardon?” said the old man, as uncle Rutherford paused for a moment to see how he would take his proposal.

Uncle Rutherford explained, and, seeing that he must confine himself to simple words, went on,

“We know the gentleman in charge, and believe that he will have an especial eye to Theodore if we ask him to do so; and he is an excellent teacher, and will bring him on in his studies. If Theodore does well there for a year or two, and shows himself fit to be trusted, we may then remove him to a different and higher school, where he may still fit himself to be a man, and a help and comfort to you. He has his future in his own hands; let him do well, and Mr. Livingstone and I will see that he is provided for till he is fitted to take care of himself; but an opportunity which might have been his” O, dear uncle Rutherford, why need you have told this? “must pass to another who has better deserved it. Do you feel that you can part with the boy, and let him go to boarding-school?”

“I reckon I ain’t goin’ to have much feelin’s agin it,” answered the captain, whose face had assumed an expression of intense relief as uncle Rutherford unfolded his plans. “I don’t set such a heap by the boy as to set my face against his goin’ to the boardin’-school, if it do be stric’; it’ll do him good; an’ he ain’t got roun’ me so’s the other gran’children have, an’ I’d a sight rather we had Jim for a gran’boy than this one, if he is my own flesh an’ blood, as they say. I ain’t never took no stock in him sence the first day he come, when I see him take his little sister’s bigger cake unbeknownst to the little one, an’ put his’n what was not so big in its place.”

There were no family secrets or shortcomings which would not come to light when the captain was on the high-road to such disclosures; for a wise and discreet reticence was not his distinguishing characteristic, as we know.

“I hope he’ll do well, an’ turn out a credit to ye, Gov’nor an’ Mr. Livingstone,” he continued, as though washing his hands of the boy, though all the while the trouble dwelt upon his weather-beaten old face; “but I bet on Jim, an’ I wish it was him had the chance ye speak of. Mebbe it is, now; an’ if it was, it’d be ’most a set-off agin the other not havin’ it. I set a lot on Jim!”

And the old man looked inquiringly at uncle Rutherford, who was not, however, quite so indiscreet as his interlocutor, and kept his own counsel so far as this.

So it was settled, then. Theodore was to be removed from the school he was attending at present, and sent to the boarding-school, where he would be under far closer restraint than he could be in the city, or even at home with his grandparents; and there could be no question that the old man felt that a great responsibility was taken from his shoulders.

“I wish it was time to go home. I mean, I wish Miss Yorke was cured up so’s we could go home,” he said. “I reckon I’ve seen about all there is to see in this town; an’ it’s my opinions I might ’bout as well be thinkin’ of the seines an’ poles, an’ lobster-pots, an’ so on. Course they wants lookin’ arter ‘cordin’ to custom this time o’ year; an’ Jabez he’s took so to carpenterin’ an’ what he calls cabiny-makin’, he’s goin’ to let ’em slip, Jabez is; an’ come time for settin’ ’em they ain’t goin’ to be ready, an’ I reckon I oughter to be there; but the doctor, he says four weeks more for Miss Yorke, an’ he’ll let her go cured. She’s pretty first-rate now, an’ she don’t walk no more with a cane, on’y comin’ up an’ down the stairs. I never did see such folks to have long ladders of stairs as York folks is; when I fust come, I used to think I wouldn’t never get to the top of ’em; an’ even the poor folks here has to go a-pilin’ theirselves up atop of stairs as high as a mast, one lot atop of another. Ye get up near the sky there; not that folks is so good an’ heavenly; no, no; there’s on’y a few of ’em that way;” with an approving nod at father and uncle Rutherford, and a comprehensive wave of his hand, as if to say that he excepted from his adverse criticism both of his present companions, and all who belonged to them; “on’y a few; but they’re pintin’ straight for the New Jerusylem,” another nod pointed the compliment. “Where was I? Oh, them stairs. Wa’l, as I was a-sayin’, I reckon I’ve had ’bout enuf of ’em, an’ I’d like to be home where I can be down onto the flat groun’ an’ not like to what’s his name’s coffin, what I heerd the boys speakin’ about, what got hitched half way up to heaven an’ stuck there. He’s a fable feller, ov course; Mahomet, that’s his name; there ain’t never been no such doin’s sence miracle days ‘cept in the theayters an’ them places. An’ t’other night Miss Dodge, she asked me would I go to the opery, an’ I says ‘yes.’ I was boun’ to see all there was to see, an’ we went; an’ such a goin’ up stairs as there was there, up an’ up an’ up, an’ when we got there I thought we might ha’ stopped sooner; for down below there was lots of folks sittin’ an’ standin’, an’ I asked Miss Dodge why she didn’t stop onto some of them floors, three or four of ’em below, an’ she kinder smirked, an’ says it costs lots to go in there. Wa’l, I couldn’t make out what they was at on the platform, the play actors; it wasn’t half so nice as the mother-in-law actin’; they did all their talkin’ to singin’, an’ they died singin’, an’ all sorts of things; an’ there was a old man got young an’ fell spooney on a girl; an’ they all got foolisher an’ foolisher, an’ the devil was there, an’ such a mix-up; an’ bimeby the girl, she died in a prison, an’ angel actin’ folks come down an’ took her up, leastways was takin’ her up to heaven, an’ there come a hitch, an’ there they stuck, half up, half down. Miss Dodge said there must ha’ been somethin’ wrong with the machinery what h’isted ’em; an’ it made me think of that feller’s coffin, so I sung out, ‘Mahomet’s coffin!’ an’ the folks, some larfed, they was mostly boys an’ young fellers, an’ some few below looked up; an’ Miss Dodge, she was awful affronted, an’ she says she was glad enough we wasn’t below, she would ha’ been too mortified. W’al, that ain’t nothin’ to do with Miss Yorke, for she wasn’t along; she couldn’t ha’ clumb so high; an’ I never was a man of many words, so I’ll get to my p’int. As I was a-sayin’, Miss Yorke, she can’t go home yet, an’ she can’t be left alone, so I’ve got to stay on.”

Here mamma went to the rescue; for, as before, the rest of the family were gathered in the next room, and heard all that had passed. The two gentlemen had allowed the captain to ramble on, partly because he amused them and us, partly because they knew it was of little use to try to stop him after he had once started to expound his views on men and things.

“Captain,” said mamma, joining the two in the library, “Mrs. Rutherford and I thought you were growing weary of the city, and wanted to go back home; so we have arranged a little plan which may suit you both, and will certainly suit me well. I have a great deal of sewing to be done now, which I should like to have done in the house, and Mrs. Yorke is such a beautiful seamstress that I should be glad of her assistance. Suppose that she comes here. I can give her accommodation on the basement floor, so that she need not go up and down stairs; and Mammy and my own seamstress will gladly do all that is needful for her. Then you can go home as soon as you choose. Will you ask her?”

The captain gazed for a minute into mother’s face, then looked from her to father, from him to uncle Rutherford, and drew a long breath.

“Wa’l!” he ejaculated, “when you folks gets histed to heaven, I reckon there ain’t goin’ to be no hitch in the histin’. An’ them’s my opinions.”

Having delivered himself of these “opinions,” he rose, shook hands with mother, father, and uncle Rutherford, a long hard shake, expressive of his feelings; came into the room where the rest of us were gathered, and went through the same ceremony all round; returned to the library and repeated it, then once more back to the drawing-room for a second pumping of each arm, and finally managed to convey himself away; the last words which father heard as he closed the door behind him being, “No hitch in that histin’.”

Two days after, Mrs. Yorke was comfortably settled in our basement, and industriously plying her needle; the captain was on his way home by water, where he would not be apt to go astray; while at a very few hours’ notice Theodore had been removed from the one school, and sent to the other.

“Miss Milly,” said Jim, meeting my sister in the hall on the afternoon of the day on which he had learned that his rival had been taken from the school they had both attended, and speaking in evident but repressed excitement, “Miss Milly, they say Theodore Yorke has left school for good. Has he, Miss Milly?”

“He has left your school, and been sent to another, Jim, where you will not be likely to meet him soon again,” answered Milly.

“And they say it’s an awful strict school, Miss Milly, a kind of a bad-boy school, where a feller don’t get half so much chance as he does in ours.”

“I think the discipline is very strict, Jim,” replied his young mistress.

“And,” wistfully, “he was sent there because of what he done I mean, did to Matty?”

Even in the midst of excitement, Jim was becoming careful to correct himself when he lapsed inadvertently into any inaccuracies of speech.

Milly hesitated for a moment, but she thought that the lesson might possibly point a moral, and she answered,

“Yes, for that especially, Jim. It was his crowning offence; but Theodore is not a good, upright boy, and it was thought better to remove him to another and a stricter school.”

“Thank you’m,” said the lad as he walked away with a crestfallen air which much surprised Milly. Was he going to take so much to heart the absence of the boy between whom and himself there had waged a constant state of warfare ever since they had first met? Amy must be right, thought Milly, and there must be something behind these singular moods of Jim’s. Was it possible that he, too, had fallen into temptation and sin, and, seeing with what consequences these had been fraught for Theodore, was now trembling for himself? She could hardly believe this, Jim had proved himself so frank and upright; but there must be something which he was hiding, and this was the only solution at which she could arrive.

But she was not kept much longer in doubt.

Jim slept over the matter upon his mind and conscience, and the next morning, which happened to be Saturday, and therefore a holiday, came to her, and requested a private interview.

The request was readily granted; and, taking him aside, Milly waited with more anxiety than can well be appreciated by those who did not know her interest in the boy.

“Miss Milly,” he said, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, and twisting his hands nervously together as he stood before her, “Miss Milly, I’ve got something I ought to tell you.”

“Well, Jim?” said Milly encouragingly.

“I don’ know what you’re goin’ to think of me, miss,” he answered with a very shamed face.

“If you have done wrong, Jim, and are ready to confess it now, I shall not be very severe with you, you know that, Jim,” said Milly. “You are in some trouble. I have seen for a long time that you had something on your mind; if you tell me, I may be able to help you out of it.”

“I ain’t in no scrape, Miss Milly, if that’s what you mean,” said the boy; “only only it’s a mean kind of a thing, an’ I’ve got to tell. ’Tain’t fair for me to keep it to myself any longer. Bill’s the only other feller knows. It’s going to take my chance, for sure; but all the same, I’ve got to tell. I ain’t so afraid of you as of some others.” He paused again, and again Milly had to re-assure and encourage him, bidding him remember that others as well as herself had his good and interest at heart, and that he had already tested these and not found them wanting.

“I know, Miss Milly,” he answered, “but I can’t bear for you or none of the family to think me a sneak, an’ that’s what I feel I’ve been now. ‘Twasn’t fair, an’ now I know it. I did know it all along, on’y I wouldn’t let on.”

“Well, come, Jim,” said Milly, determined to bring him to the point without any more of this shilly-shallying which was exceedingly unlike Jim; “you must tell me at once if you wish to do so, for I have an engagement, and shall have to leave you very soon.”

“Well, miss,” he replied, thus urged, “I found out don’t you be ashamed of me, Miss Milly I found out about how Mr. Rutherford was goin’ to give a big thing, some kind of a thing in the way of eddication, to me or Theodore Yorke, whichever turned out best this year at school, an’ how he thought Theodore was a sneak, an’ me too hot-tempered, an’ always ready for a fight, an’ how he was goin’ to see which did the best, not on’y in his learnin’, but in his conduck, quite without us knowin’ about what was afore us, an’ then give that one this big thing. And, Miss Milly, you an’ Mr. Rutherford, an’ the rest of the fam’ly, maybe, thought me doin’ well, an’ takin’ care of my temper. An’ maybe so I was; but it was ‘cause I was bound to beat Theodore, an’ not let him get that prize. I felt awful mean all along; but now Theodore’s cut up so, an’ got sent off, an’ he never knew nothin’ about it, or maybe he’d done better, an’ I don’t feel it’s fair in me. I knew, an’ he didn’t. I stood a lot from Theodore, an’ didn’t fly out at him on’y once or twice that you know about; but I wouldn’t ha’ stood it, an’ there’s many a time I would ha’ fought him an’ the other boys, too, on’y for thinkin’ of that. So, you see, I did get more chance at the beginning than him, an’ ‘tain’t fair in me. An’ I thought to myself, If you’re goin’ to do a mean thing like this to get a hitch in life, how you goin’ to get fit to be President? If you see somebody doin’ a sneaky or dishonest thing, you can’t have the face to pull him up an’ send him to prison,” as may be seen, Jim’s ideas of the Presidential authority were that it was unlimited and autocratic, “when you know you got there yourself on the sly; an’ I wouldn’t feel fit for it. So there wasn’t no comfort in it one way or another; an’ I made up my mind I’d tell you, an’ you can tell Mr. Rutherford; an’ anyhow I’ll come out fair an’ even chances with Theodore. Mr. Rutherford will maybe think this is worse than fightin’ an’ blowin’ out?” interrogatively and wistfully.

Milly had let him go on without interruption when she had once succeeded in starting him, and had asked no questions; now she said,

“I think, Jim, that Mr. Rutherford will be pleased that you had so far the mastery over yourself that you would not take what you considered an unfair advantage over Theodore. I am glad, truly glad that you have succeeded in learning to control your temper; but still more glad that your sense of honor and right led you to tell of this. But how did you learn of Mr. Rutherford’s plan?”

Jim related how Bill, overhearing the conversation, or at least a part of it, on the evening on which the matter had been discussed by the family, had been the medium of communication, and how they had both resolutely guarded their knowledge of it until now; when Jim had told his comrade that he must make confession, and put himself, as he thought, on equal ground with his antagonist and unconscious rival.

“I didn’t do it for no good feelin’ to Theodore, Miss Milly,” he added, “for I b’lieve I just hate Theodore. I didn’t feel none too good to him ever since first I seen him, an’ the more I saw him the worse I got to like him; but all the same, I’d got to be fair to him when it come came to his chance bein’ lost. If I couldn’t take care of myself that way, I ain’t goin’ to be fit to take care of these United States. Miss Milly, you’ll tell Mr. Rutherford? I could tell you, but I couldn’t tell him.”

Milly answered him that she would be the bearer of his confession; and left him, much relieved herself to find that he had been guilty of nothing more serious, and thankful from her very heart to see that her teachings and his newly-awakened sense of justice would not allow him to take unfair advantage of another, even though that other might be one whom he considered an enemy. She lost no time in seeking uncle Rutherford, and telling him all, so that the boy might not be in suspense longer than was necessary; for she well knew that he would find a lenient judge in our uncle.

Nor was she wrong. Uncle Rutherford sent for Jim, and taking the boy’s hand, shook it heartily, as he said, “My boy, you have gained the mastery over yourself, and no man can achieve a greater victory. I could wish that you had tried to keep control over your temper from a better and higher motive than the wish to outstrip Theodore; but we may trust that you will set that before yourself now. Go on as you have begun, and the scholarship is yours in good time. My best wishes go with you, and I sincerely trust that you may win the prize.”