spectral in the gloom. He is waiting for them to open the door! He thinks they have quitted the window for that purpose! Ah! here comes the father, and they are glad.
He comes hurrying from the cars under his umbrella, which is braced against the gale and shuts out from his eyes the sight of the unsheltered wretch. And he is hastily entering his door, which is opened to him by the eager children, when they scream alarm; and looking over his shoulder, he perceives, following at his heels, the fright. He is one of your full-blooded, solid men; but he is startled.
"What do you want?" he cries, and lifts the threatening umbrella.
"I'm hungry," says the intruder, with a ghastly glare, still advancing.
He stands taller in his tattered shoes than the solid gentleman in his boots; and those long, lean, claw-like hands act as if anxious to clutch something. Papa thinks it is his throat.
"By heavens! and do you mean to"———And he prepares to charge umbrella.
"You may!" answers the wretch, with perfect sincerity, presenting his ragged bosom to the blow.
The lord of the castle lowers his weapon. The children huddle behind him, hushing their screams.
"Go in, Minnie! In, all of you! Tell Stephen to come here,—quick!"
The children scamper. And the florid, prosperous parent and the gaunt and famishing pauper are alone, confronting each other by the light of the shining hall-lamp.
"I'm cold," says the latter,—"and wet," with an aguish shiver.
"I should think so!" cries the gentleman, recovering from his alarm, and getting his breath again, as he hears Stephen's step behind him. "Stand back, can't you?" (indignantly). "Don't you see you are dripping on the carpet?"
"I'm so tired!"
"Well! you needn't rub yourself against the door, if you are! Don't you see you are smearing it? What are you roaming about in this way for, intruding into people's houses?"
"Please, Sir, I don't know," is the soft, sad answer; and Fessenden's is meekly taking himself away.
"It's too bad, though!" says the man, relenting. "What can we do with this fellow, Stephen?"
"Send him around to Judge Gingerford's,—I should say that's about the best thing to do with him," says the witty Stephen.
The man knew well what would please. His master's face lighted up. He rubbed his hands, and regarded the vagabond with a humorous twinkle, with malice in it.
"Would you, Stephen? By George, I've a good notion to! Take the umbrella, and go and show him the way."
Stephen did not like that.
"I was only joking, Sir," he said.
"A good joke, too! Here, you fellow! go with my man. He'll take you to a house where you'll find friends. Excellent folks! damned philanthropical! red-hot abolitionists! If you only had nigger-blood, now, they'd treat you like a prince. I don't know but I'd advise you to tell 'em you're about a quarter nigger,—they'll think ten times as much of you!"
It was sufficiently evident that the gentleman did not love his neighbor the Judge. There was in his tone bitter personal and political hatred. With his own hands he spread again the soaked umbrella, and, giving it to the reluctant Stephen, turned him away with the vagabond. Then he shut the door, and went in. By the fire he pulled off his wet boots, and put on the warm slippers, which the children brought him with innocent strife to see which should be foremost. And he gave to each kisses and toys; for he was a kind father. And sitting down to supper, with their beaming faces around him, he thought of the beggar-boy only in connection with the jocular spite he had indulged against his neighbor.
Meanwhile the disgusted Stephen, walking alone under the umbrella, drove
