by shudder. It ran through his mind that this man was some
enemy of Bangs--that he was dangerous. Startled by this sudden
suspicion, tremblingly he again peered under the shade. The wrinkle
in the line of the frontal suture was more deeply indented. The light
on the spectacles was brighter than ever.

"Mr. Bangs, I called on your opposite neighbor, Mr. Bixby, to-night. I
knocked on the door, but he was away."

"Yes," said Mr. Bixby, somewhat confused. He wished that Bangs had
stayed at home, and determined to end the interview as soon as
possible.

"Yes. I am sorry. I had a positive appointment with him. I am a great
friend of his."

"Does he know you?"

"Oh, no; we have never met personally that he remembers. I am an old
friend of the family. He suffers from the heart-disease, and has been
expecting me."

"Oh, you are a physician?"

"Yes, sir. I attended his father at his last illness."

Mr. Bixby's heart began to beat rapidly. His mind became equally
active, and, although he had no experience to be guided by, he began
to suspect the nature of this man's business with Bangs. He almost
determined to discover himself, but the letters were yet unread. If
that were only done, he would do anything his visitor might request.
Recalling the old gentleman's last words, he said, at last, calmly:

"And his mother?"

"Yes, and his mother."

The old man's voice assumed almost a kindly tone.

"He is, indeed, a friend of my family," thought Mr. Bixby; and then he
started, for fear he might have spoken aloud.

His eyes fell upon the packet of letters. He must read them. He must
end the interview. The old doctor must have noticed Mr. Bixby's eyes,
with the tears rising in them, as he tenderly touched the letters one
by one, for it was with a voice very gentle and low that he spoke
again.

"I attended once a very dear friend of his. It must be quite ten years
ago now. Her name was Margaret. I think she loved him, for I
remember--yes--it was one Christmas-eve, she said, and after that she
said no more, 'Has Harry come?'"

Mr. Bixby could bear no more. His sobs were striving for utterance.
His fingers grasped the strong oak arms of his chair. It was only the
thought of the letters which gave him strength to say:

"I am sorry, sir. You mistake me. I must ask you to leave me. You may
come again. I shall be here, but I have something I would do to-night.
I have given you much of my time. It is already late."

"It is y