"The one with the bright doorplate, green curtains and gold borders. I thought you were looking at it as I came up."

"N-no, I wasn't. And what if I was, hey?"

"It strikes me you're rather touchy, my young friend," said the man, with his conciliatory smile. "Here's the letter, now, and a quarter.

It's only a few steps. No answer required."

As Bog caught sight of the letter, done up in the long, rakish envelope which had just begun to come into fashion, and faintly perfumed, a lucky thought occurred to him.

The man saw that he wavered. "Only a step," said he. "And here is the quarter." He offered it to Bog between a thumb and finger.

"Why don't you deliver the letter yourself?" asked Bog.

"Oh! oh! for family reasons," answered the man, hesitating. "Miss Pillbody there is my aunt, and the lady to whom this letter is addressed is my cousin. The old woman and I have had a sort of falling out about the young one, you see. These little difficulties will occur in the best-regulated families. Come, take the letter. I'm in a hurry."

Bog allowed the letter to be thrust into his hand. He looked at it, and saw, as he expected, that it was addressed to "Miss Minford, Present."

The direction was in a beautiful commercial hand, which was at once more hateful in his eyes than the most crabbed of writing.

"All right," said he. "I'll deliver it. Poh! never mind the quarter. I won't take it." Bog moved toward the house as he spoke.

"You're a queer fellow, but a good one. Well, you'll accept my thanks, at any rate."

He waited at the hydrant until Bog had delivered the letter.

Bog walked straight to the house, and up the steps, although his face was pale, and his knees trembled.

He rang the bell with a decisive pull, and, as he did so, glanced at the strange man, who nodded approvingly at him.

He suddenly turned his back on the strange man. With a quick movement of the fingers of his right hand, he thrust the letter up his coat sleeve: The next instant he whipped a handkerchief out of an inside breast pocket, and, with it, a stray copy of a new "Dentifrice" circular, which he had been distributing the night before. This circular was folded to about the size and shape of the letter. With the handkerchief he wiped his face, upon which there were real drops of sweat. The circular he slipped into his right hand, and then turned toward the strange man again, to show that he still held the letter. This bit of legerdemain took about three seconds.

In three seconds more, Bog heard footsteps approaching in the entry.

What if his angel should come to the door? The thought sent a horrible, sickly sensation all over him, and the solid rock seemed to tremble beneath his feet.

The door opened, and something quite the opposite of an angel presented itself. It was Bridget; and her red hair was dishevelled, her face flushed to the parboiled tint, and her dress uncommonly damp and frowsy.

A mop which she held in her hand explained everything.

"A circular, if you please," said Bog, in a quivering voice, poking the folded paper at her.

"A succular, is it? Miss Peelbody told me not to take any succulars for her. So 'way wid ye." Bridget put her hand on the door, and was about to swing it to.

"It isn't for Miss Pillbody at all," said Bog, fearful lest the strange man should see it refused, "but for your own pretty self."

Bridget smiled, for she was conscious that the compliment was deserved.

She relaxed her hand on the door. "Fat is it?" said she.

"Hush!" said Bog, in a whisper; "a circular about the rights of servants, issued by the 'Servants' Mootual Protecting Society.'" (Bog thought of the name on the spur of the moment.) "Please take it--quick."

Bridget s.n.a.t.c.hed the circular out of his hand, and was about to look at it, bottom side up, for she had not yet attained to the mystery of reading, when the musical voice of Miss Pillbody was heard at the back of the entry. "Bridget--what is wanted, Bridget?"

"Nothing ma'am, but one of these succular men. Bad luck to him! Here, now, take it."

She made a feint of handing back the circular to Bog, but concealed it, with the other hand, in her capacious bosom.

"Heaven bless ye!" said she, in a low voice, and then slammed the door in his face.

Bog came down the door steps quickly, and saw the strange man make a bow and a gesture of grat.i.tude at him, and then disappear suddenly round the corner. Bog's first impulse was to follow him at a distance; but his curiosity to inspect the slender, perfumed letter, overcame it.

When Bog reached the awning in front of McFeeter's store--a sort of haven or putting-in place for him--he pulled out the letter, and was about to read it. Then it occurred to him that the situation was too much exposed. The strange man might come back, and see him with the open letter in his hand. Bog would have enjoyed a personal collision with him on any pretext; but to be caught in the act of reading the letter, would spoil the strategical advantage that Bog now had over him.

Bog moved on down a side street, and took his stand behind a huge wooden column surmounted by a gilded mortar and pestle. Here he was about to rip open the envelope, but a glance across the street discovered a policeman looking at him. Bog felt guilty and awkward. He coughed, and thrust the letter into his pocket, and moved on again. The exciting events of the morning had made Bog intensely nervous. He did not stop this time until he had gained his home.

His aunt was sitting in the front room, reading a book through a huge pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. There was a thick fold of flannel about her neck, and she smelt strongly of embrocation. As Bog rushed into the room, she groaned audibly, and laid down the book, as if it were a wicked enjoyment.

"I'm so bad to-day, Bog," said she. "Them shootin' pains'll be the death of me."

Bog responded not a word, but dashed across the apartment, and, entering his little sleeping room, closed the door, and bolted it.

"Unfeelin' creetur!" said his aunt. She stopped groaning, and took up her book and read again.

Bog seated himself on his hair trunk, and drew out the letter. There was a slight discussion within him on the abstract question of his right to open it. After turning it over twice, the question was decided in the affirmative. He slit the envelope with his thumb, and brought to light a billet faultlessly written, as follows:

"Frederick Lynville begs to present his compliments to Miss Minford, and to a.s.sure her, from the depths of his heart, that his feelings toward her are only those of the purest admiration for the matchless charms of her mind and person. He takes this method of explaining himself, because he has observed with great sorrow that Miss Minford has shown a desire to avoid him on several recent occasions, when they have accidentally met in the street. It was Mr. Lynville's blessed privilege, under Providence, to save Miss Minford's life; but he would not be selfish and base enough on that account to obtrude himself on Miss Minford's notice.

Mr. Lynville would die sooner than be guilty of that discourtesy. He is not presumptuous enough to ask an answer to this letter. His only object in writing it, is to inform Miss Minford that he will not venture again upon the impropriety of speaking to her first when they next meet. Miss Minford will therefore be free to drop his acquaintance, or continue it, as she thinks best. Whatever fate she may decide for him, her happiness will still be his constant prayer."

Bog was ill versed in the art of complimentary letter writing. But the villany here seemed to be clumsily concealed. That the letter was full of danger to the object of his boyish idolatry, he had no doubt.

But why did Pet avoid this Frederick Lynville? Did she really dislike him? Or----. The thought of his own shyness toward the beautiful girl came into his mind like a flash. To avoid might be--to love.

The poor boy dropped the letter, and covered his face with his hands, and wept.

Love is not always selfish; and goodness is sometimes its own reward. In that bitter hour of his first real misery, Bog did not regret his kindness to the Minfords, or take credit to himself for having n.o.bly concealed from their knowledge those little weekly gifts of money which he sent to them through the mail, when they were in poorer circ.u.mstances. He was not for a moment base enough to think that Pet would look with kinder eyes on him, if she but knew of his secret benefactions--which, up to this time, neither she nor her father had suspected, and which they would never learn from his lips.

BOOK SIXTH.

MYSTERIES OF THE NIGHT.

CHAPTER I.

THE UNKNOWN HAND.

Marcus Wilkeson made no effort to discover the writer of the anonymous letter, because he knew that such an effort would be in vain. He called on Mr. Minford once in two or three days now. The inventor always took occasion to refer to the letter, and a.s.sured Marcus that it was not worth remembering, or talking about. "Why, then, did he talk about it?"

Marcus asked himself. His eyes were not blind to watchful and suspicious glances which the old man directed to him, at times, under cover of those s.h.a.ggy, overhanging eyebrows. Nor could he help noticing a strange reserve in the bearing of Pet toward him. It was not mere modesty, or timid grat.i.tude, but DOUBT, as he read the signs. Marcus was convinced that the father had put his child on guard against something, though he might not have mentioned the existence of the anonymous letter. This thought distressed him acutely.

But his troubles, as well as his joys, he kept to himself. The miser puts his broken bank notes and his good gold under the same lock and key.