Mabel's eyes seemed to glance inward, and she made no reply. She honestly believed she had never knowingly encouraged a man to become her victim; yet she had heard of men doing very silly things when they thought themselves disappointed in love. She cast a look of timid inquiry at her host.

"Oh, perfectly safe, if you like," said the general. "The fellow is at the door, and several of our guests are in the hall."

Miss Fewne looked serious, and hurried to the door. She saw a man in shabby clothing and with unkempt beard and hair, yet with a not unpleasing expression.

"Madame," said he, "I'm a loafer, but I've been a gentleman, and I know better than to intrude without a good cause. The cause is a dying man.

He's as rough and worthless as I am, but all the roughness has gone out of him, just now, and he's thinking about his mother and a sweetheart he used to have. He wants some one to pray for him--some one as unlike himself and his associates as possible. He cried for his mother--then he whispered to me that he had seen, here in Smithton, a lady that looked like an angel--seen her driving only to-day. He meant you. He isn't pretty; but, when a _dying_ man says a lady is an angel, he means what he says."

Two or three moments later Miss Fewne, with a very pale face, and with her brother-in-law as escort, was following Brownie. The door of the saloon was thrown open, and when the Enders saw who was following Brownie they cowered and fell back as if a sheriff with his _posse_ had appeared. The lady looked quickly about her, until her eye rested upon the figure of the wounded man; him she approached, and as she looked down her lip began to tremble.

"I didn't mean it," whispered Baggs, self-depreciation and pain striving for the possession of his face. "If I hadn't have been a-goin', I shouldn't have thought of such a thing, but dyin' takes away one's reg'lar senses. It's not my fault, ma'am, but when I thought about what mother used to say about heaven, _you_ came into my mind. I felt as if I was insultin' you just by thinkin' about you--a feller such as me to be thinking about such a lady. I tried to see mother an' Liz, my sweetheart that was, just as I've seen 'em when my eyes was shut, but I couldn't see nothin' but you, the way you looked goin' along that road and makin' the End look bright. I'd shoot myself for the imperdence of the thing if I was goin' to get well again, but I ain't. Ther needs to be a word said for me by somebody--somebody that don't chaw, nor drink, nor swear--somebody that'll catch God's eye if He happens to be lookin'

down--and I never saw that kind of a person in Smithton till to-day."

Mabel stood speechless, with a tear in each eye.

"Don't, if you don't think best," continued Baggs. "I'd rather go to--to t'other place than bother a lady. Don't speak a word, if you don't want to; but mebbe you'll _think_ the least thing? God _can't_ refuse _you_.

But if you think t'other place is best for me, all right."

The fright, the sense of strangeness, were slowly departing from Mabel, and as she recovered herself her heart seemed to come into her face and eyes.

"Ev'rybody about here is rough, or dirty, or mean, or rich, or proud, or somethin'," continued the dying man, in a thin yet earnest voice. "It's all as good as I deserve; but my heart's ached sometimes to look at somebody that would keep me from b'leevin' that ev'rything was black an'

awful. And I've seen her. Can I just touch my finger to your dress? I've heard mother read how that somebody in the Old Country was once made all right by just touchin' the clothes Christ had on."

In his earnestness, the wretched man had raised himself upon one elbow, and out of his face had departed every expression but one of pitiful pleading. Still Mabel could not speak; but, bending slightly forward, she extended one of her slender, dainty hands toward the one which Baggs had raised in his appeal.

"White--shining--good--all right," he murmured. Then all of Baggs which fell back upon the floor was clay.

With the prudence of a conqueror, who knows when the full extent of his powers has been reached, Mabel Fewne married within six months. The happy man was not a new conquest, but an old victim, who was willfully pardoned with such skill, that he never doubted that his acceptance to favor was the result of the renewal of his homage.

[Illustration]

MARKSON'S HOUSE.

Raines is my name--Joseph Raines. I am a house-builder by profession, and as I do not often see my writings in print, except as prepaid advertisements, I consider this a good opportunity to say to the public in general that I can build as good a house for a given sum of money as any other builder, and that I am a square man to deal with. I am aware of the fact that both of these assertions have been made by many other persons about themselves; but to prove their trustworthiness when uttered by me, the public needs only to give me a trial. (In justice to other builders, I must admit they can use even this last statement of mine with perfect safety for the present, and with prospective profit if they get a contract to build a house.)

I suppose it will be considered very presumptuous in me to attempt to write a story, for, while some professions seem relatives of literature, I freely admit that there is no carpenter's tool which prepares one to handle a pen. To be sure, I have read some stories which, it seemed to me, could have been improved by the judicious use of a handsaw, had that extremely radical tool been able to work aesthetically as it does practically; and while I have read certain other stories, and essays, and poems, I have been tormented by an intense desire to apply to them a smoothing-plane, a pair of compasses, or a square, or even to so far interfere with their arrangement as to cut a window-hole or two, and an occasional ventilator. Still, admitting that the carpenter should stick to his bench--or to his office or carriage, if he is a master builder, as I am--I must yet insist that there are occasions when a man is absolutely compelled to handle tools to which he is not accustomed.

Doctor Buzzle, my own revered pastor, established this principle firmly in my mind one day by means of a mild rebuke, administered on the occasion of my volunteering to repair some old chairs which had come down to him through several generations. The doctor was at work upon them himself, and although he seemed to regard the very chips and sawdust--even such as found a way into his eyes--with a reverent affection, he was certainly ruining good material in a shocking manner.

But when I proffered my assistance, he replied:

"Thank you, Joseph; but--they wouldn't be the same chairs if any one else touched them."

I feel similarly about the matter of my story--perhaps you will understand why as you read it.

When I had finished my apprenticeship, people seemed to like me, and some of our principal men advised me to stay at Bartley, my native village--it was so near the city, they said, and would soon fill up with city people, who would want villas and cottages built. So I staid, and between small jobs of repairing, and contracts to build fences, stables and carriage-houses, I managed to keep myself busy, and to save a little money after I had paid my bills.

One day it was understood that a gentleman from the city had bought a villa site overlooking the town, and intended to build very soon. I immediately wrote him a note, saying I would be glad to see his plans and make an estimate; and in the course of time the plans were sent me, and I am happy to say that I under-estimated every one, even my own old employer.

Then the gentleman--Markson his name was--drove out to see me, and he put me through a severe course of questions, until I wondered if he was not some distinguished architect. But he wasn't--he was a shipping-merchant. It's certainly astonishing how smart some of those city fellows are about everything.

The upshot was, he gave me the contract, and a very pretty one it was: ten thousand three hundred and forty dollars. To be sure, he made me alter the specifications so that the sills should be of stuff ten inches square, instead of the thin stuff we usually use for the sills of balloon-frame houses, such as his was to be; and though the alteration would add quite a few dollars to the cost of materials, I did not dare to add a cent to my estimate, for fear of losing the contract.

Besides--though, of course, I did not intend to do so dishonorable a thing--I knew that I could easily make up the difference by using cheap paint instead of good English lead for priming, or in either one of a dozen other ways; builders have such tricks, just as ministers and manufacturers and railroadmen do.

I felt considerably stuck up at getting Markson's house to build, and my friends said I had a perfect right to feel so, for no house so costly had been built at Bartley for several years.

So anxious were my friends that I should make a first-class job of it, that they all dropped in to discuss the plan with me, and to give me some advice, until--thanks to their thoughtful kindness--my head would have been in a muddle had the contemplated structure been a cheap barn instead of a costly villa.

But, by a careful review of the original plan every night after my friends departed, and a thoughtful study of it each morning before going to work, I succeeded in completing it according to the ideas of the only two persons really concerned--I refer to Mr. Markson and myself.

Admitting in advance that there is in the house-building business very little that teaches a man to be a literary critic, I must nevertheless say that many poets of ancient and modern times might have found the building of a house a far more inspiring theme than some upon which they have written, and even a more respectable one than certain others which some distinguished rhymers have unfortunately selected.

I have always wondered why, after Mr. Longfellow wrote "The Building of a Ship," some one did not exercise his muse upon a house. I never attempted poetry myself, except upon my first baby, and even _those_ verses I transcribed with my left hand, so they might not betray me to the editor of the Bartley _Conservator_, to whom I sent them, and by whom they were published.

I say I never attempted poetry-writing save once; but sometimes when I am working on a house, and think of all that must transpire within it--of the precious ones who will escape, no matter how strongly I build the walls; of the destroyer who will get in, in spite of the improved locks I put on all my houses; of the darkness which cannot at times be dispelled, no matter how large the windows, nor how perfect the glass may be (I am very particular about the glass I put in); of the occasional joys which seem meet for heavenly mansions not built by contract; of the unseen heroisms greater than any that men have ever cheered, and the conquests in comparison with which the achievements of mighty kings are only as splintery hemlock to Georgia pine--when I think of all this, I am so lifted above all that is prosaic and matter-of-fact, that I am likely even to forget that I am working by contract instead of by the day.

Besides, Markson's house was my first job on a residence, and it was a large one, and I was young, and full of what I fancied were original ideas of taste and effect; and as I was unmarried, and without any special lady friend, I was completely absorbed in Markson's house.

How it would look when it was finished; what views it would command; whether its architectural style was not rather subdued, considering the picturesque old hemlocks which stood near by; what particular shade of color would be effective alike to the distant observer and to those who stood close by when the light reached it only through the green of the hemlock; just what color and blending of slate to select, so the steep-pitched roof should not impart a sombre effect to the whole house; how much money I would make on it (for this is a matter of utter uncertainty until your work is done, and you know what you've paid out and what you get); whether Markson could influence his friends in my favor; what sort of a family he had, and whether they were worthy of the extra pains I was taking on their house--these and a thousand other wonderings and reveries kept possession of my mind; while the natural pride and hope and confidence of a young man turned to sweet music the sound of saw and hammer and trowel, and even translated the rustling of pine shavings with hopeful whispers.

The foundations had been laid, and the sills placed in position, and I was expecting to go on with the work as soon as Markson himself had inspected the sills--this, he said, he wished to do before anything further was done; and, so that he might not have any fault to find with them, I had them sawn to order, and made half an inch larger each way, so they couldn't possibly shrink before he could measure them.

The night before he was to come up and examine them, I was struck at the supper-table by the idea that perhaps, from one of the western chamber-windows, there might be seen the river which lay, between the hills, a couple of miles beyond. As the moon was up and full, I could not rest until I had ascertained whether I was right or wrong; so I put a twenty-foot tapeline in my pocket, and hurried off to the hill where the house was to stand.

Foundation three feet, height of parlor ceilings twelve feet, allow for floors two feet more, made the chamber-floor seventeen feet above the level of the ground.

Climbing one of the hemlocks which I thought must be in line with the river and the window, I dropped my line until I had unrolled seventeen feet, and then ascended until the end of the line just touched the ground. I found I was right in my supposition; and in the clear, mellow light of the moon the river, the hills and valleys, woods, fields, orchards, houses and rocks (the latter ugly enough by daylight, and utterly useless for building purposes) made a picture which set me thinking of a great many exquisite things entirely out of the housebuilding line.

I might have stared till the moon went down, for when I've nothing else to do I dearly enjoy dreaming with my eyes open; but I heard a rustling in the leaves a little way off, and then I heard footsteps, and then, looking downward, I saw a man come up the path, and stop under the tree in which I was.

Of course I wondered what he wanted; I should have done so, even if I had had no business there myself; but under the circumstances, I became very much excited.

Who could it be? Perhaps some rival builder, come to take revenge by setting my lumber afire! I would go down and reason with him. But, wait a moment; if he _has_ come for that purpose, he may make things uncomfortable for me before I reach the ground. And if he sets the lumber afire, and it catches the tree I am in, as it will certainly do, I will be--

There is no knowing what sort of a quandary I might not have got into if the man had not stepped out into the moonlight, and up on the sills, and shown himself to be--Mr. Markson.

"Well," I thought, "you _are_ the most particular man I ever knew--and the most anxious! I don't know, though--it's natural enough; if _I_ can't keep away from this house, it's not strange that _he_ should want to see all of it he can. It's natural enough, and it does him credit."

But Mr. Markson's next action was neither natural nor to his credit. He took off his traveling shawl, and disclosed a carpenter's brace; this and the shawl he laid on the ground, and then he examined the sills at the corners, where they were joined.

They were only half joined, as we say in the trade--that is, the ends of each piece of timber were sawn half through and the partially detached portions cut out, so that the ends lapped over each other.

Well, Mr. Markson hastily stacked up bricks and boards to the height of the foundation, and then made a similar stack at the other end of the foundation-wall, and then he rolled one of the sills over on these two supports, so it was bottom side up. Then he fitted a bit--a good wide one, an inch and a quarter, at least, I should say--to the brace, and then commenced boring a hole in the sill.