, I understood you to say, was dark? Since she was the
twin-sister of one of Mr. Balder Helwyse's complexion, that is odd,
Mr. MacGentle,--odd, sir." And the solid family man fixed his sharp
brown eyes full upon the unsubstantial bachelor. The latter's delicate
nostrils expanded, and a pink flush rose to his faded cheeks. He was
now as haughty and superb as a paladin.

"I will discuss business subjects with my subordinates, Mr. Dyke; not
other subjects, if you please! This dispute was not begun by me. Let
it be carried no further, sir! Twins are not necessarily, nor
invariably, of the same complexion. Let nothing more be said, Mr.
Dyke. I trust the little girl may yet be found and restored to her
family--to--to her brother! I trust she may yet be found, sir!" And he
glared at Mr. Dyke aggressively.

"I trust you may live to see it, Mr. MacGentle, sir!" said the
confidential clerk, shifting his ground in a truly masterly manner;
and before the President could recover, he had bowed and gone out. Ten
minutes afterwards MacGentle opened the door, and lo! Dyke himself on
the threshold.

"Mr. Dyke!"

"Mr. MacGentle!" in the same breath.

"I--Mr. Dyke, let me apologize for my asperity,--for my rudeness,"
says MacGentle, stepping forward and holding out his thin white hand,
his eyebrows more raised than ever, the corners of his mouth more
depressed. "I am sincerely sorry that--that--"

"O sir!" cries the square clerk, grasping the thin hand in both his
square palms; "O sir! O sir! No, no!--no, no! I was just coming to beg
you--My fault,--my fault, Mr. MacGentle, sir! No, no!"

Thus incoherently ended the quarrel between these two old friends, the
dispute being left undecided. But the important point was established
that Balder Helwyse was insured a practice in Boston, in case his
uncle Glyphic's fortune failed to enrich him.

VIII.

A COLLISION IMMINENT.

A large, handsome steamer was the "Empire State," of the line which
ran between Newport and New York. She was painted white, had
walking-beam engines, and ornamented paddle-boxes, and had been known
to run nearly twenty knots in an hour. On the evening of the
twenty-seventh of May, in the year of which we write, she left her
Newport dock as usual, with a full list of passengers. On getting out
of the harbor, she steamed into a bank of solid fog, and only got out
of it the next morning, just before passing Hellgate, at the head of
East River, New York. On