nd there they let him steal most of the
revenue, and, of course, his loyalty was in proportion to his booty.
Many a time, no doubt, he was procurer for both royal brothers, Charles
and James, making his tavern their stew, with Betty Killigrew, or Lucy
Walters, or Katy Peg, or even Anne Hyde, the mother of a queen--of her
who was the Princess Anne, godmother of our worshipful town here. I have
not read in vain," concluded Meshach, "because my noble townsmen drove
me to my cell!"

The next portrait was clothed in military uniform, with a higher type of
manhood, shrewd and vigilant, but magisterial. "That should be
Major-general John Custis," thought Milburn, looking at it, "son of John
the tapster, and a marrying, shifty fellow, who first began greatness as
a salt-boiler on these ocean islands, till his father's friend, Charles
II., in a merry mood, made Henry Bennet, the king's bastard son's
father-in-law, Earl of Arlington and lessee of Virginia. All the
province for forty shillings a year rent! Those were pure, economical
times, indeed, around the court. So salt-boiler John flunkeyed to
Arlington's overseers, named his farm 'Arlington,' hunted and informed
upon the followers of the Puritan rebel Bacon, then turned and fawned
upon King William, too. His grandchildren, all well provided for, spread
around this bay. So much for politics in a merchant's hands!"

The tone of Meshach's comment had somewhat raised his courage, and a
sense of pleasurable interest in the warm room and genial surroundings
led him to pass the time, which was of considerable length, quite
contentedly, till Judge Custis was ready.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, the steeple-top hat was giving some silent astonishment to
the house-servants, assembled to gaze upon it from the foot of the hall.
The neat chamber-servant, Virgie, had carried the wondrous information
to the colonnade that the dreadful creditor had come, and Roxy, the
table waiter, had carried it from the colonnade to the kitchen, where
the common calamity immediately produced a revolution against good
manners.

"Hab he got dat debbil hat on he head, chile?" inquired Aunt Hominy,
laying down the club with which she was beating biscuit-dough on the
block.

"Yes, aunty, he's left it on the hat-rack. I'm afraid to go past it to
the do'."

Aunt Hominy threw the club on the blistered bulk of dough, and retreated
towards the big black fireplace, with a face expres