f dirty
employes as he would toss a handful of silver coin. Up to this time he
had been sufficient unto himself. By money, by petty revenges, by
personal assumption, he had managed to retain his throne for a long
decade; and when he found his power partly ignored and partly defied,
and learned that his personal courtesies were not accepted at their old
value, he not only began to feel lonesome, but he grew angry. He held
hot discussions with his image in the mirror night after night, in his
lonely library, where a certain measure which had once seemed a distant
possibility took shape more and more as a purpose. In some way he would
revenge himself upon the people of the town. Even at a personal
sacrifice, he would pay them off for their slight upon him; and he knew
there was no way in which he could so effectually do this as by leaving
them. He had dreamed many times, as he rapidly accumulated his wealth,
of arriving at a point where he could treat his splendid home as a
summer resort, and take up his residence in the great city among those
of his own kind. He had an uneasy desire for the splendors of city life,
yet his interests had always held him to Sevenoaks, and he had contented
himself there simply because he had his own way, and was accounted "the
principal citizen." His village splendors were without competition. His
will was law. His self-complacency, fed and flourishing in his country
home, had taken the place of society; but this had ceased to be
all-sufficient, even before the change occurred in the atmosphere around
him.

It was six months after the reader's first introduction to him that,
showily dressed as he always was, he took his place before his mirror
for a conversation with the striking-looking person whom he saw
reflected there.

"Robert Belcher, Esquire," said he, "are you played out? Who says played
out? Did you address that question to me, sir? Am I the subject of that
insulting remark? Do you dare to beard the lion in his den? Withdraw the
dagger that you have aimed at my breast, or I will not hold myself
responsible for the consequences. Played out, with a million dollars in
your pocket? Played out, with wealth pouring in in mighty waves? Whose
name is Norval still? Whose are these Grampian Hills? In yonder silent
heavens the stars still shine, printing on boundless space the words of
golden promise. Will you leave Sevenoaks? Will you go to yonder
metropolis, and there reap, in honor and ple