en asked to a Christmas party at the Boston
house, she saw that aristocratic life could offer better things. She
had an intense appreciation of the advantages so imperfectly exploited
by these rich Bowdoins, her high acquaintance. And was it perhaps a
justification of her way of education, after all, that little
Harleston Bowdoin, like every male creature that she met, was
fascinated, first by her face, then more by her manners, and most of
all by what she said?

Miss Mercy was sent to the girls' high school, and brought up in all
ways after the manner of New England. Her looks were not of New
England, however; and her dresses would show an edge of trimming or a
ribbon that had a Spanish color, despite all Jamie's mother's
Presbyterian repression. Then, a few years after, the old drayman
died; and a beautiful piano appeared in the McMurtaghs' modest
lodging. Mr. James discovered that the expensive Signor Rotoli, who
was instructor to his own daughters, went afterwards to give lessons
to Miss Mercy. Father and son wagged their heads together at the
wisdom of this step; and Mr. James was deputed a committee of one to
suggest the subject to Jamie McMurtagh. Old Mr. Bowdoin had ideas of
his own about educating young women above their station, but he was
considerably more afraid of Jamie than was Mr. James.

The latter deemed it most politic to put the question on a basis of
expense; but this was met by Jamie's allegation of a considerable
saving in the family budget caused by old McMurtagh's decease and
consequent total abstinence. Mr. James was mildly incredulous that the
old drayman could have drunk enough to pay for a grand piano, and
Jamie grew rusty.

"Your father's stipeend is leeberal, young man, and I trust ye've
deescovered nothing wrong in my accounts."

Mr. James fled: had the familiar address been overheard by the old
gentleman, Jamie's discharge had followed instantly.

McMurtagh mopped his reddened face, and tried to enjoy his victory;
but the ill-natured thrust about the accuracy of the accounts
embittered many a sleepless night of his in after-years.

X.

Jamie McMurtagh still continued his rather sidelong gait as he walked
twice daily up State Street to the Old Colony Bank, bearing in a rusty
leathern wallet anything, from nothing to a hundred thousand dollars,
the daily notes and discounts of James Bowdoin's Sons. James Bowdoin
and his father used to watch him occasionally from the window.