in dealing
with the poor--money matters and politics are different from anything
else--I am too generous. I don't mind my own interests enough. There it
is!" Mr. Keepum says this with an evident relief to himself. Indeed it
must here be acknowledged that this very excellent member of the St.
Cecilia Society, and profound dealer in lottery tickets, like our fine
gentlemen who are so scrupulous of their chivalry while stabbing men
behind their backs, fancies himself one of the most disinterested beings
known to generous nature.

Bent and tottering, the old man recounts the value of his curiosities;
which, like our chivalry, is much talked of but hard to get at. He
offers in apology for the nonpayment of the debt his knowledge of the
old continentals, just as we offer our chivalry in excuse for every
disgraceful act--every savage law. In fine, he follows the maxims of our
politicians, recapitulating a dozen or more things (wiping the sweat
from his brow the while) that have no earthly connection with the
subject. "They are all very well," Mr. Keepum rejoins, with an air of
self-importance, dusting the ashes from his cigar. He only wishes to
impress the old man with the fact that he is his very best friend.

And having somewhat relieved the Antiquary's mind of its apprehensions,
for McArthur stood in great fear of duns, Mr. Keepum pops, uninvited,
into the "back parlor," where he has not long been when Maria's screams
for assistance break forth.

"Ah! I am old--there is not much left me now. Yes, I am old, my
infirmities are upon me. Pray, good man, spare me my daughter. Nay, you
must not break the peace of my house;" mutters the old man, advancing
into the room, with infirm step, and looking wistfully at his daughter,
as if eager to clasp her in his arms. Maria stands in a defiant
attitude, her left hand poised on a chair, and her right pointing
scornfully in the face of Keepum, who recoils under the look of
withering scorn that darkens her countenance. "A gentleman! begone,
knave! for your looks betray you. You cannot buy my ruin with your gold;
you cannot deceive me with your false tongue. If hate were a noble
passion, I would not vent that which now agitates my bosom on you. Nay,
I would reserve it for a better purpose--"

"Indeed, indeed--now I say honestly, your daughter mistakes me. I was
only being a little friendly to her," interrupts the chopfallen man. He
did not think her capable of summoning so much passio