—that it was double? That it might contain
documents, notes, a will, receipts,
acknowledgments?"

' No, I didn't turn it out. I'm an
unsuspicious, innocent man -- grossly imposed
on—ruined. Amen!"

The pawnbroker seemed so overcome that
the woman was melted. " Hear what I tell
you," she said. " If we arrange matters
together, we may yet be rich. Do I understand
that you will share with me whatever
the drawer contains?"

"What does it contain? " inquired Benson
in a whisper. " Does it contain anything?"

"Why do I offer you hundreds for it?"
inquired the woman; " but I will tell you all.
Did you know Farmer Merriwood?"

"No, I can't say I knew him. I once sold
him a second-hand saddle; and he made some
row about the stuffing coming out. I had to
let him off for half the price agreed on."

"It's like him -- harsh, cold, selfish -- so I
was told, in his latter years. He was different
long ago -- very different."

"I didn't know him then," replied Mr.
Benson.

"I did," continued the woman; " but no
wonder he changed; for misery was in his
heart, and disgrace fell on his family. These
things change a man's temper."

"He was well to do in the world," said
the pawnbroker; " churchwarden and highway
commissioner. I never heard of any
disgrace."

"Some people didn't think it so. He had
a daughter; twenty years ago people called
her beautiful. She was his only child. She
was beautiful, at all events, to him. Her name
was Caroline. How she loved him! how she
attended to all his wishes, and read to him,
and played on the piano to him, and was
everything to him, and so playful, and so
kind! We all loved her."

"Did you know her?"

"Did I know her? I knew her from the time
of her birth. I was a distant relation. Cousin
Janet they called me, though I was their paid
servant; but the word cousin was better
than all their wages. So we went on for
years and years, I taking care of the house;
Philip Merriwood attending to the farm, and
Caroline, the delight of us both. Don't you
see what's coming, old man? You must be
dull as this wretched room you live in, if
you don't guess what followed."

'' I can't," said Mr. Benson. " I 'm trying.
I can't. Amen!"

"Not when I tell you that the Marquis
of—- but never mind his name, it is best,
perhaps, omitted; but he had a son —his
eldest son, Lord Rostock— dashing, gay, but
kind -- oh, kind and generous like a knight of
old; he saw her, saw Caroline; was struck
with her beauty—who wasn't?—got to speech
of her, spoke her fair, won her heart; the
old story -- the old story! Love rules all.
Hearts break; but fools fill up the places of
those who perish. Ah! once -- 'twas in September,
twelve years ago -- she came to me,
and said, ' Cousin Janet, do you think my
father a forgiving man? '— ' Of course, my
darling,' I said. ' He is a Christian.' —' But
will he forgive a person for getting above
him in the world, for leaving the rank he
moves in? Ha, ha! ' she added, with a
beatitiful, wild laugh. ' What would he think if
he had to stand with his hat off as he saw me
going up the church path, and asked how my
ladyship was? Wouldn't it be charming to
be a lady? ' I told her no, or turned the
talk, or gave her wise advice. I forget what
I did; it was so pretty to see her walking up
and down the floor of her bedroom, flirting one
of her slippers as if it were a fan, and swaying
about from side to side as if she had a court
train to her robe. And all the time she was
only in her night-gown, and showed her
pretty naked feet."

"And what happened? Cold, eh?
consumption?"

"No—elopement -- ruin—death! She was
missing one morning that same month, and
Philip Merriwood never held up his head.
He seemed to know what had happened
without being told. He never asked for her,
and when a letter was put in his hands a few
days after, signed by Caroline, and telling him
that she was about to be married -- to be a
lady —rich and grand -- but kind still, and
loving to him, he tore the paper into twenty
pieces and said ' fool! fool! '"

"And so she was," said Mr. Benson. " He
didn't marry her?"

"No, and she never wrote again. So the
house was dark and dismal; Philip Merriwood
went into the bed-room that had been
hers, and seized the little oak wardrobe where
she had kept her clothes. He emptied the
drawers on the floor, and ordered me to
remove the frocks and stockings, and the blue
silk jacket, and the pink satin slip, and all
the things, and throw them into the fire. It
was an old piece of furniture, and had belonged
to his people for hundreds of years. It had
once been the place where he kept his secret
papers; his leases and bonds and parchments
were all in the front drawer, but in the top
one there was a false bottom; there — in the
thickness of the wood — he kept the things he
cherished most: — the letters that had past
between him and Sophia Felton, his wife,
before they were married; the last letter she
wrote to him when she was dying; the first
copy-book of Caroline when she was learning
to write; the little notes she sent him when
she was at school. So when he had turned
all Caroline's clothes out of the drawers he
opened the secret ledge; and how he read,
and cried, and read again! We couldn't get
him down to dinner, and when he came he
ate nothing. A month passed, and a long
time passed, and when half a year was come
and gone, there came a letter one day with a
great crest upon the seal—a marquis's crest