once a broker in Wall Street, but lost money by the failure of various railroads—the Camden and Amboy, for one."
"That hasn't failed," I interrupted.
"Well, then, it was the Northern Pacific, or some other one of them—at any rate, I know it was either a railroad or a bank—and he soon became very poor. He has a son in Cincinnati, who is a successful merchant, and lives in a fine house, with horses and carriages, and all that; and this poor man has written to his son, but has never had any answer. So now he is going to walk to Cincinnati to see him. He knows he will not be turned away if he can once meet his son face to face. He was very tired when he stopped here—and he has ever and ever so far to walk yet, you know—and so after I had given him something to eat, I let him lie down in the outer kitchen, on that roll of rag-carpet that is there. I spread it out for him. It is a hard bed for one who has known comfort, but he seems to sleep soundly."
"Let me see him," said I, and I walked back to the outer kitchen.
There lay the unsuccessful broker fast asleep. His face, which was turned toward me as I entered, showed that it had been many days since he had been shaved, and his hair had apparently been uncombed for about the same length of time. His clothes were very old, and a good deal torn, and he wore one boot and one shoe.
"Whew!" said I. "Have you been giving him whisky?"
"No," whispered Euphemia; "of course not. I noticed that smell, and he said he had been cleaning his clothes with alcohol."
"They needed it, I'm sure," I remarked, as I
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