had been merry all day, looked suddenly grave and
waited. At one Jamie came in, hurrying.

"I hoped you would have taken a holiday to-day," said Mr. Bowdoin.

"I have come down to close the books," replied Jamie, not sharply. Mr.
Bowdoin looked at him.

"Mr. Stanchion could have done that. Stanchion!"

"The books are nearly done, sir," said that gentleman, hurrying to the
window.

"I prefer to stay, sir, and close the books myself, if Mr. Stanchion
will forgive me." He spoke calmly; he gave both men a sudden sense of
sorrow. Mr. Bowdoin accompanied him behind the rail.

"Come, Jamie, you need the rest, and Mercedes"--

"She has gone back, sir--and I--have business in New York. I must ask
for three days off, beginning to-morrow."

"You shall have it, Jamie, you shall have it. But why did you not go
back with Mercedes?"

Jamie made no reply but to bury his face in the ledger, and the old
gentleman went away. The bank closed at two o'clock; by that time
Jamie had not half finished his figuring. The cashier went, and the
teller, each with a "good-night," to which Jamie hardly responded. The
messenger went, first asking, "Can I help you with the safe?" to which
Jamie gave a gruff "I am not ready." The day-watchman went, and the
night-watchman came, each with his greeting. Jamie nodded. "You are
late to-day." "I had to be." Last of all, Harley Bowdoin came in (one
suspects, at his grandfather's request), on his way home from the old
counting-room on the wharves.

"Still working, Jamie?"

"I must work until I finish, Mr. Harley."

"It's late for me," said Harley, "but a ship came in."

"A ship!"

"Oh, only the Maine Lady. Well, good-night, Jamie."

"Good-night, Mr. Harley." Jamie had never used the "Mr." to Harley
before, of all the Bowdoins; and now it seemed emphasized, even. The
young man stopped.

"Tell me, Jamie, can I help you in anything?"

"No!" cried old Jamie; and Harley fled.

Left alone, Jamie laid down his pen. It seemed his figuring was done.
But he continued to sit, motionless, upon his high stool. For Mercedes
had told him, between Worcester and Boston, that her David would be in
prison, perhaps for life, unless he could get him seventeen thousand
dollars within forty-eight hours.

She had pleaded with him all the way to Boston, all the way in the
carriage down to the little house. His roses had been forgotten in the
car. In vain he told her that he had no money.

She could not see t