Bowdoin's office, at an hour
when he knew he should find him alone. For the old gentleman called
early at the little counting-room, as in the days when he might hope
to find some ship of his own, fresh from the Orient, warping into the
dock. Jamie's lips were dry, and his voice came huskily. He gave up
the effort to speak of St. Clair's death, but asked briefly that Mr.
Bowdoin would get him three months' leave.

"Three months!" cried the old man. "Why, Jamie, you've not taken a
vacation for fifteen years!"

"That's why I make bold to ask it, sir," said Jamie humbly.

"Take six months, man, six months,--not a week less! And your salary
shall be paid in advance"--Mr. Bowdoin noted a sudden kindling in
Jamie's eye that gave him his cue. "Two quarters! you have well
deserved it. And now that the bank is to change its charter, there'll
be a lot of fuss and worry; it'll be a good time to go away."

"Change its charter?"

"Ay, Jamie; we've got to give up being a state bank, and go in under
the new national law to issue shinplasters to pay for beating the
rebels! But come with me to the bank,--the board are meeting now for
discounts," and the old gentleman grabbed his hat, and dragged Jamie
out of the counting-room.

I doubt if ever the old clerk was rushed so rapidly up the street.
And coming into the bank, Mr. Bowdoin shoved him into an anteroom.
"Wait you there!" said he, and plunged into the board-room.

There had been a light spring snow that night, and Jamie had not had
time to wipe his boots. He cleaned them now, and then went back and
sat upon a sofa near the sacred precincts of the directors' room.
Suddenly he felt a closing of the heart; he wondered if he were going
to be taken into custody--after so many years--and now, just now, when
he must go to rescue Mercedes. Then he remembered that he had been
brought there by Mr. Bowdoin, and Jamie knew better than to think
this.

In a minute more the door opened, and that gentleman came out. Behind
him peered the faces of the directors; in his hand was a crisp new
bank-note.

"McMurtagh," said Mr. Bowdoin, "the directors have voted to give you a
six months' vacation; and as some further slight recognition of your
twenty years of service, this," and he thrust a thousand-dollar note
into his hand.

Jamie's labors were light that day. To begin with, every clerk and
teller and errand-boy had to shake him by the hand and hear all about
it. And it was not for the m