ave but to say I will have,
and I have! When I die, I will burn it, or have it lay wit me in my
grave."

"It's not possible you could do this!" cried Beecher, in horror: far
less of indignation had it cost him to hear that any one should carry
out of the world with him the cure of cancer, of cholera, or some such
dread scourge of poor humanity. The black-hearted selfishness of such a
crime seemed without a parallel, and for a second or two, as he
looked at the decrepid object before him, and saw the lonely spot, the
isolation, and the propitious moment, a strange wild thought flashed
across his mind that it might be not only pardonable, but praiseworthy,
to seize upon and carry it off by force.

Whether the old man read what was passing within him is hard to say, but
he returned the other's look as steadily and as fiercely, and Beecher
felt abashed and cowed.

"I' ll tell you what, Stein," said he, after a pause, "I 'll buy that
same old volume of yours, just for the curiosity of the thing, and I 'll
make you a sporting offer,--I 'll give you ten thousand francs for it!"

A low wailing whistle of utter contempt was all the Jew replied.

"Well, it's a splendid bid, if you come to think of it; for, just
suppose it be everything you say--and I own I can't believe it is,--but
suppose it were, who is to guarantee the continuance of these great
public play-tables? All the Governments of Europe are setting their
faces against them,--not a year passes without one or two being closed.
This very spring there was a talk of suppressing play at Baden. Who can
tell what the first outbreak of fanatic zeal may effect?"

"No, no. So long as men live, dey will do tree tings,--make love, make
war, and gamble. When dey give up dese, de world shut up."

There was a truthful force about this Beecher felt could not be
gainsaid, and he stood silent and confuted. There was another appeal
that he had not tried, and he resolved to neglect nothing that gave
even the faintest chance of success. He addressed himself to the Jew's
goodness of heart,--to the benevolence that he knew must have its home
in his nature. To what end, therefore, should he carry to the grave, or
destroy, a secret that might be a blessing to thousands? He depicted,
not without knowledge, some of the miseries of the man "forgotten
of Fortune,"--the days of fevered anxiety,--the nights of agonizing
torture, as, half maddened by his losses, he played wildly, recklessly
on