misty steeple of Park-Street Church,--since we haven't any misty
mountaintops in the neighborhood."

"One would think _you_ the happy man."

"I am; your enthusiasm is so contagious that I am back in my twenties
again."

"Why do you take your pleasure vicariously? There is Mrs. Sandford, the
charming woman; I love her, because"--

"No, Sir, not her,--one is enough."

"Then why not love her yourself? We'll make a double-barrelled shot of
it,--two couples brought down by one parson."

"Very ingenious, and economical, too; but I think not. It is too late. I
was brought up in the country, and I don't think it good policy to begin
agricultural operations in the fall of the year; my spring has past. But
is the day fixed? When are you to be the truly happy man?"

"No,--the day is not fixed," said Greenleaf, thoughtfully. "You see,
I was so bent upon the settlement of the difficulty, that I had not
considered the practical bearing of the matter. I am too poor to marry,
and I am heartsick at the prospect of waiting"--

"With the chance of another rupture."

"No,--we shall not quarrel again. But I shall go to work. I'll inundate
the town with pictures; if I can't sell them myself, I will have Jews to
peddle them for me."

"Hear the mercenary man! No,--go to work in earnest, but put your life
into your pictures. If you can keep up your present glow, you will be
warmer than Cuyp, dreamier than Claude, more imaginative than Millais."

"But the desperate long interval!"

"I don't know about that. I quite like the philosophy of Mr. Micawber,
and strenuously believe in something turning up."

"What is that?" asked Greenleaf, noticing a letter on his friend's
table. "It seems to be addressed to me."

"Yes,--I met a lawyer to-day, who asked me if I knew one George
Greenleaf. As I did, he gave me the letter. Some dun, probably, or
threat of a suit. I wouldn't open it. Don't!"

"You only make me curious. I shall open it. To-day I can defy a dun even
from--What, what's this? Bullion dead?--left in his will a bequest--forty
thousand--to _me_?"

Easelmann looked over his friend's shoulder with well-simulated
astonishment.

"Sure enough; there it is, in black and white.--What do you think of
Micawber?"

"I think," said Greenleaf, with manly tears in his eyes, "that you are
the artfullest, craftiest, hugger-muggering, dear old rascal that ever
lived. Now let me embrace you in good earnest. Oh, Easelmann, this is
too much