to the sorrowful event. To whom Mr. Mook, with that mingled air of neatness, despatch, and meek resignation to the decrees of Providence, which characterized him, replied in a serious and very proper way. The information imparted was invariably received by the questioners with expressions of deep interest and sympathy, as if they had lost a near and dear friend. It is sad to add, though, that one individual, George Gildersleeve, the noisiest quidnunc in Belton, was on the contrary rather discourteous and disparaging in his inquiries and comments. George is a man of substance, and proprietor of the Archimedes Works. A burly fellow of middle age, with chest and loins like an ox, coarse mouth, hale complexion, and sandy hair shorn close over an obstinate head. Rich and purse-proud, he proclaims himself a plebeian, and in keeping therewith is generally seen divested of coat and hands in pockets. Thus he appeared in the doorway of his counting-room as Mr. Mook came down the street, and passed the Archimedes Works. Decorous and mournful Mook affected not to see Gildersleeve, dreading him as a bore and button-holder; but the stratagem was futile, and bluff George, hailing the undertaker as "Commodore," brought him—speaking nautically—"to."

"First-class obsequies, sir, have been ordered. Most elegant rosewood casket, new pattern silver handles. Everything in the most rekerchey and approved style. Funeral on Wednesday," Mook replied, in a tone of mild reproof, in answer to Gildersleeve's query as to when he was going to put old Uncle John to bed with a shovel.

Mr. Mook took pride in his profession. He was the inventor and patentee of a burial casket, that for "ease, elegance, and comfort," as he admiringly described it, was equalled by few and surpassed by none.

"Well, well, Commodore"—it was a habit of Gildersleeve's to dub his friends and acquaintances with incongruous titles, whether prompted thereto by affectionate impulses or a peculiar sense of humor, we are not prepared to decide; sufficient to say that the undertaker was invariably addressed as "Commodore" by the master of the Archimedes Works; similarly, Mr. McGoffin, the highly respectable, though illiterate shoe-maker, was styled "Judge;" Dr. Wattletop, "Major," etc., etc.

"Well, well, Commodore," said Gildersleeve, leaving his door-step and planting himself on the sidewalk so as to bar the way and hold the undertaker to converse, "so we go. If the man with the pitchfork don't get old Uncle John, what the deuce is the use of having a man with a pitchfork, eh?"

Mr. Mook coughed behind his hand, and tried to look as if he hadn't heard the remark, as he said, "Great loss to Belton, Mr. Gildersleeve."

"Great loss!" repeated Gildersleeve. "The old cuss! Why, confound him, he drove his only son, Johnny Obershaw, to sea when he was but fourteen years old, by his infernal meanness, and the little monkey was lost overboard less than a month after; and now here's Rufe Heath, that I recklect when he hadn't two coppers to jingle on a tombstone, slips in, bags the whole pool, and puts on more airs than a French barber. Now I'll tell you what it is, Joe Mook, you know me well enough, and you know that I can show as lovely a little pile of rocks as the next man, and you know, too, that I sweat for it. Yes, sir, by the hokey! on this spot (with a flourish towards the works), where my grandfather shod Gineral Washington's horse in a rickety old shanty that you could have capsized with a kick, I began when I was knee-high, with a hide apron on, swinging the sledge and paring hoofs late and early. Yes, sir! late and early, warm or cold, I stuck to it, and no thanks to any one, until you see what I've come to! And is there any airs about me? I think not; and there's many a man in this place that's as proud as a peacock, that I could buy and sell twice over. But I can say this, and you know it, that I've always been, and always intend to be, as independent as a hog on ice. That's me!"

And that was he. For if Mr. George Washington Gildersleeve prided himself on anything, it was on being free from "airs," and independent as a hog on ice—a comparison, it must be confessed, not particularly happy, and that conveyed an entirely unintended impression. However, it came pat to him, and he flung it defiantly in the teeth of the world. Mook had heard those sentiments before, hence he was not vividly impressed by them, nor altogether pleased with the diatribe against his present patrons. Still, he was not prepared for their sakes to remonstrate, and perhaps offend a future customer, for the undertaker, "thankful for past favors," as he stated in his advertisement in the Belton Sentinel, "and soliciting a continuance of the same," seemed to think himself exempt from the common lot of humanity, and set apart to take under all Belton forever. So he gave a non-committal shake of the head, as he contemplated the pavement, and then, profiting by a pause in Gildersleeve's harangue to escape, glided with soft steps away to his avocations.

The funeral was an imposing one. Many of the mills were closed—all, in fact, that could conveniently stop working. The Archimedes Works, though, remained in full blast, as the proprietor, true to his independence, did not feel himself any more called upon to close his shops for old John Peter Obershaw's death, than for that of any other mere acquaintance. Gildersleeve, however, as a concession, was at the interment, with his coat on too, somewhat subdued, perhaps, in tone and demeanor, but keeping up, nevertheless, an animated political discussion with a fellow-citizen as they stood in the churchyard. Nine-tenths of the population of the town gathered to witness the funeral. There had not been so much excitement in the place since the day of the "Grand Triumphal Entrée" of "Peabody's Combination Menagerie and Hippodrome." The people lined the streets through which the procession passed, and filled St. Jude's, where the services were held. No less than three ministers were in attendance, and a bishop extolled the virtues and success of the decedent in a way to persuade the auditors that they mourned a well-spent life. Then the church bell tolled a requiem knell as to the family vault the corpse was borne along, attended by pall-bearers, who had been consistently selected from among the wealthiest acquaintances of the family. The Hon. Rufus Heath followed as chief mourner, with his young daughter; then came his son and daughter-in-law; and lastly, a multitude of relatives and friends.

So passed away this old man, leaving behind a vast fortune, that had brought him but the gambler's joy—but the arid pleasures of the gold glutton, subsisting on the fumes of money; the odorless fumes whose cold astringency withers the emotions, dries the heart, and leaves man with but the instincts of the vulture and fox.

John Peter Obershaw left no children to survive him. His only son, as Gildersleeve had said, was lost at sea, and his daughter, Mrs. Heath, had preceded her father on the long journey years before. As he owed much of the augmentation of his wealth to the judgment, vigilance, and superintendence of his son-in-law, it was not surprising that the estate was found devised to him, the only being who had ever secured the favor and entire confidence of the old miser. Town tattle hinted at "undue influence" and "imbecility." There might have been more in this than idle gossip, but as no one was interested other than the devisee's children in making any investigations, he inherited without opposition. A great accretion of wealth this to Rufus Heath, who stepped thus quietly into the shoes of the late owner of Belton, for that town was in reality little more than an appanage of the Obershaw family. The evidences of this were patent on every side. A walk through the principal street showed you Heath Hall, where political meetings to distract, and balls and concerts to delight, the denizens took place; Obershaw House, a tavern of dimensions vast, where the