n of the romantic kind, but he recalls
his father's pride and pleasure in his young manhood, his interest in
the house and the marriage arrangement. The later letters of his father
have touched him, too, with a sort of secret weariness, as if his
absorbing interest in business had begun to decline. He had planned
some release and journeys for him, but the last journey of all had been
taken, and he was at rest.

Slowly he broke the double seal and took the missive out of its
enclosure, and began the perusal.

_To my dear Son Floyd_,--When you read this the hand that penned it
will be mouldering in the dust, its labor ended but not finished.

The pathos blurred his eyes, and he turned them to the window. The sun
shone, the busy feet tramped to and fro, there was the ceaseless hum of
the machinery, but the brain that had planned, the heart that had
hoped, was away from it all, silent and cold, and the mantle had fallen
on one who had no part or lot in the matter.

The letter had been written at intervals, and gave a clear statement of
the business. Mr. Wilmarth had one quarter-share, Mr. St. Vincent had
another quarter-share, and a certain amount of royalty on a patent that
Mr. Grandon felt would secure a fortune to them all if rightly managed.
For this, he asked Floyd's supervision. Eugene was too young to feel
the importance of strict, vigorous attention. There was no ready money,
the factory was mortgaged, and the only maintenance of the family must
come from the business.

A chill sped over Floyd. Commercial pursuits had always wearied and
disgusted him. Now, when he understood the bent and delight of his own
soul, to lay his work aside and take up this--ah, he could not, he
said.

Then he went over the will. To his mother, the furniture and silver,
and, in lieu of dower, the sum of two thousand dollars yearly. To his
sisters, the sum of five thousand apiece, to be paid as soon as the
business would allow, and at the expiration of a term of years five
thousand more. The half-share of the business to belong to Eugene
solely after the legacies were paid. The library and two valuable
pictures were bequeathed to Floyd, and in the tender explanation, he
knew it was from no lack of affection that he had been left out of
other matters.

The heavy bell clangs out the hour of noon. No one comes to disturb
him. It seems like being in the presence of the dead, in a kind of
breathless, waiting mystery. The duty is