s little girl.

Then his eye fell on the old box on the upper shelf. A hanged pirate's
money! He drew the box down; the key still was on his bunch; he opened
the chest. There the gold pieces lay in their canvas bag; no one had
thought of them for almost twenty years. Now, as a thought struck him,
he took down some old ledgers, ledgers of the old firm of James
Bowdoin's Sons, that had been placed there for safe-keeping. He opened
one after another hurriedly; then, getting the right one, he came out
into the light, and, finding the index, turned to the page containing
this entry:--

_Dr. Pirates._

June 24, 1829: To account of whom it may concern (eagles, pistoles &
doubloons) $16,897.00

He dipped his pen in ink, and with a firm hand wrote opposite:--

_Cr._

June 22, 1848. By money stolen by James McMurtagh, to be accounted
for $16,897.00

Then the old clerk drew a line across the account, returned the
ledger to its place in the safe, and locked the heavy iron doors. The
canvas bag was in his hands; the chest he had put back, empty.

PART THREE: RECOVERY.

I.

The customer of St. Clair's firm was paid off, the partnership was
dissolved without scandal, and the St. Clairs went to live in New
Orleans. Jamie occupied one room in the attic of the old house in
Salem Street. He wrote no more letters to Mercedes: he did not feel
that he was worthy now to write to her. And a year or two after her
arrival in New Orleans her letters ceased. She had thanked Jamie
sorrowfully when he had paid over the money in New York, and kissed
him with her pale lips (though his face was still paler), and upon the
memory of this he had lived. But he had fancied her lips wore a new
line; their curves had gone; and her eyes had certainly new depth.

When Mercedes ceased to write, Jamie did not complain. He knew well
what the trouble was, and that her husband wished her to write to him
for more money. But he could do no more for her. And after this his
hope was tired, and Jamie hardly had the wish to write. The only link
between them now was his prayer at night. The dry old Scotchman had
come to prayer at last, for her if not for himself.

And the office lost their interest in him. Only the Bowdoins were
true. For the "foreign mail" no longer came; and Jamie was no longer
seen writing private letters on his ledger page. His dress grew so
shabby that old Mr. Bowdoin had to sp