UNCLE ISRAEL.

The lamps were lighted in the cars, and on through the valley of the Connecticut the New Haven train was speeding its way. In one corner of the car sat St. Leon, closely wrapped in cloak and thoughts, the latter of which occasionally suggested to him the possibility that his was a “Tomfool’s” errand; “but then,” thought he, “no one will know it if I fail, and if I do not, it is worth the trouble.”

When the train reached Hartford a number of passengers entered, all bound for New Haven. Among them was a comical-looking, middle-aged man, whom St. Leon instantly recognized as a person whom he had known when in college in New Haven, and whom the students familiarly called “Uncle Israel.” The recognition was mutual, for Uncle Israel prided himself on never forgetting a person he had once seen. In a few moments St. Leon was overwhelming him with scores of questions, but Uncle Israel was a genuine Yankee, and never felt happier than when engaged in giving or guessing information.

At length St. Leon asked, “Does Ada Linwood fulfil the promise of beauty which she gave as a child?”

“Ada who?” said Uncle Israel.

“Linwood,” repeated St. Leon, arguing from the jog in Uncle Israel’s memory that all was not right.

“Do you mean the daughter of Harcourt Linwood, he that was said to be so rich?”

“The same,” returned St. Leon. “Where are they?”

Uncle Israel settled himself with the air of a man who has a long story on hand, and intends to tell it at his leisure. Filling his mouth with an enormous quid of tobacco, he commenced: “Better than four years ago Linwood smashed up, smack and clean; lost everything he had, and the rest had to be sold at vandue. But what was worse than all, seein’ he was a fine feller in the main, and I guess didn’t mean to fail, he took sick, and in about a month died.”

“And what became of his widow and orphan?” asked St. Leon eagerly.

“Why, it wasn’t nateral,” said Uncle Israel, “that they should keep the same company they did before, and they’s too plaguy stuck up to keep any other; so they moved out of town and supported themselves by takin’ in sewin’ or ironin’, I forgot which.”

“But where are they now?” asked St. Leon.

Uncle Israel looked at him for a moment, and then replied, “The Lord knows, I suppose, but Israel don’t.”

“Did they suffer at all?” asked St. Leon.

“Not as long as I stuck to them, but they sarved me real mean,” answered Uncle Israel.

“In what way?”

“Why, you see,” said Uncle Israel, “I don’t know why, but somehow I never thought of matrimony till I got a glimpse of Ada at her father’s vandue. To be sure, I’d seen her before, but then she was mighty big feelin’, and I couldn’t ha’ touched her with a hoe-handle, but now ’twas different. I bought their house. I was rich and they was poor.”

Involuntarily St. Leon clinched his fist, as Uncle Israel continued: “I seen to getting them a place in the country and then tended to ’em generally for more than six months, when I one day hinted to Mrs. Linwood that I would like to be her son-in-law. Christopher! how quick her back was up, and she gave me to understand that I was lookin’ too high! ’Twas no go with Ada, and after awhile I proposed to the mother. Then you ought to seen her! She didn’t exactly turn me out o’ door but she coolly told me I wasn’t wanted there. But I stuck to her and kept kind o’ offerin’ myself, till at last they cut stick and cleared out, and I couldn’t find them, high nor low. I bunted for more than a year, and at last found them in Hartford. Thinkin’ maybe they had come to I proposed again, and kept hangin’ on till they gave me the slip again; and now I don’t know where they be, but I guess they’ve changed their name.”

At this point the cars stopped until the upward train should pass them, and St. Leon, rising, bade his companion good evening, saying, “he had changed his mind and should return to Hartford on the other train.”