hange was
effected. In the closet where had been the bottles, the decanters,
glasses, and pickle-jars of the late occupant, Mr. Bixby had arranged
shelves, and filled them with his books. Over the mantel, from which
Mr. Bangs had taken away a colored print of a bull-dog in an overcoat,
Mr. Bixby hung a fine engraving of the Madonna, and on the mantel
itself he had placed his clock. It was a small French clock under a
crystal, so that its rapidly-swinging pendulum could be easily seen.
All bachelors, however negligent of their surroundings, have some one
hobby among articles of furniture. It may be an easy-chair, or a
book-case, or a chandelier--there is one thing that must be the best
of its kind. There could be no doubt, from the care with which Mr.
Bixby placed his clock in its position, and from time to time compared
it with his watch, that this was his hobby. It had the three
requisites which he demanded in a clock. It kept correct time without
failing, its pendulum swung rapidly, and was plainly visible. Time
past was the happiness of Mr. Bixby, and this clock told him
continually that all was being done that could be done to induce the
hours of every day to go over to the majority. He depended upon this
clock. He was surer of its mechanism than of that of his own heart.

What with hanging his pictures and arranging his furniture, and with
many other little things which had to be done, Mr. Bixby was busily
employed all day. But the task was not an unpleasant one. His heart
was in the work, for there was hardly an object in the room not nearly
associated with some event in his past life. After carefully brushing
the dust from an old writing-desk, which had evidently once belonged
to a lady, he placed it upon the rug in front of the fire. Only on
Christmas-eves was this desk opened.

"It is curious," thought Mr. Bixby, "that I should have moved this
day, of all days in the year!"

Often in his work he thought of stopping to take from the desk an old
packet of letters, and reading them once more. But it was not yet
time, and, moreover, he was continually interrupted. First, there came
some one to his door with "Two dozen Congress-water for Mr. Bangs;"
then one with "Mr. Bangs's boots," and another to tell Mr. Bangs that
"the pup was big enough to take away." Finally, came Bangs himself, to
complain of like interruptions, and to bid him good-by.

"Here is some manuscript a boy left for you. You will have to attend