in the woods is in Mr.
Balfour's mind, and feels himself called upon to say something in
response. "If so be as ye're 'ludin' at me," says he, "I'm much obleeged
to ye, but I perfer a hotel to a log cabin, pertickler with a little
woman and a little feller in it, Paul B., by name."

"That's all right, Jim," says Mr. Balfour, "but I don't call that vulgar
wealth which is won slowly, by honest industry. A man who has more money
than he has brains, and makes his surroundings the advertisement of his
possessions, rather than the expression of his culture, is a vulgar man,
or a man of vulgar wealth."

"Did ye ever think," says Jim, "that riches rots or keeps accordin' to
their natur?--rots or keeps," he goes on, "accordin' to what goes into
'em when a man is gitten' 'em together? Blood isn't a purty thing to mix
with money, an' I perfer mine dry. A golden sweetin' grows quick an'
makes a big show, but ye can't keep it through the winter."

"That's true, Jim," responds Mr. Balfour. "Wealth takes into itself the
qualities by which it is won. Gathered by crime or fraud, and gathered
in haste, it becomes a curse to those who hold it, and falls into ruin
by its own corruptions. Acquired by honest toil, manly frugality,
patient endurance, and patient waiting, it is full of good, and holds
together by a force within itself."

"Poor Mrs. Belcher!" exclaims Mrs. Dillingham, as the reflection comes
to her that that amiable lady was once the mistress of the beautiful
establishment over which she has been called upon to preside.

"They say she is living nicely," says Mr. Snow, "and that somebody sends
her money, though she does not know where it comes from. It is supposed
that her husband saved something, and keeps himself out of sight, while
he looks after his family."

Mr. Benedict and Mrs. Dillingham exchange significant glances. Jim is a
witness of the act, and knows what it means. He leans over to Mr.
Benedict, and says: "When I seen sheet-lightnin', I know there's a
shower where it comes from. Ye can't fool me about ma'am Belcher's
money."

"You will not tell anybody, Jim," says Mr. Benedict, in a low tone.

"Nobody but the little woman," responds Jim; and then, seeing that his
"little feller," in the distance, is draining a cup with more than
becoming leisure, he shouts down the table: "Paul B! Paul B! Ye can't
git that mug on to yer head with the brim in yer mouth. It isn't yer
size, an' it doesn't look purty on ye."