t there yet.

Mr. Stanchion told him no. By that time it was after eleven. But Mr.
Bowdoin made a rapid calculation of the distance (it never would have
occurred to him to take a hack; carriages, in his view, were meant for
women, funerals, and disreputable merrymakers), and hastened down to
Salem Street.

Old Mrs. Hughson met him at the door, grateful and tearful. Yes, young
Mr. Harley (she remembered him well in the old days, and had been
jealous of him as a rival of her son) was upstairs. She feared poor
McMurtagh was very ill. He had been out of his head for days and days.
To Mr. Bowdoin's peppery query why the devil she had not sent for him,
Mrs. Hughson had nothing to say. It had never occurred to her,
perhaps, that the well-being of such a quaint, dried-up old chap as
Jamie could be a matter of moment to his wealthy employers whom she
had never known.

"Can I see him?" asked Mr. Bowdoin. But as he spoke, Harley came down
the stairs.

"It's heart-breaking," he said. "He thinks he's in the South with her.
He was going to meet her, it seems; and the poor old fellow does not
know he has not gone."

"Let me see him," said the elder. "Have they no nurse?"

"I nurse him off and on, nigh about all he needs," answered Mrs.
Hughson. "And then there's John."

But Mr. Bowdoin had hurried up the stairs. Jamie was lying with his
eyes wide open, moving restlessly. It seemed a low fever; for his face
was pale; only the old ruddiness showed unnaturally, like the mark of
his old-country lineage, left from bygone years of youth and sunlight
on his paling life. And Jamie's eyes met Mr. Bowdoin's; he had been
murmuring rapidly, and there was a smile in them; but this now he
lost, though the eyes had in them no look of recognition. He became
silent as his look touched Mr. Bowdoin's face and glanced from it
quickly, as do the looks of delirious persons and young children. And
then, as the old gentleman bent over him and touched his hand, "A
thousand dollars yet! a thousand dollars yet!" many times repeating
this in a low cry; and all his raving now was of money and rows of
money, rows and rows of gold.

Mr. Bowdoin stood by him. Harley came to the door, and motioned to him
to step outside. Jamie went on: "A year more! another year more!"
Then, as Mr. Bowdoin again touched his hand, he stared, and Mr.
Bowdoin started at the mention of his own name.

"See, Mr. Bowdoin! but one row more to fill! But one year more, but
one yea