lodging and dining rooms were too gorgeous to be comfortable, and only the bar commodious and consolatory; the Belton Bank; the Passaic Insurance Company; the Savings Institution, with its bee-hive sign—in all of which Rufus Heath's claim of ownership, or sovereignty, gave further indication of the wealth of the Obershaw estate. In short, you could not turn without being reminded how fortunate and important a man was the present heir, whilom a poor lawyer's clerk and now owner of the truly Pactolian waters of the Falls of the Passaic.

II.

The villa on the cliff would probably have excited but little attention in any country where chateaux or palaces abound, but it was looked upon by the simple people of Belton as a magnificent dwelling. After a stranger or tourist had seen the falls, he was invariably driven by the ciceroning hackman, desirous of lengthening the ride and increasing the fare, to view Mr. Heath's residence, that being considered next in importance as a noteworthy object. It was built of a gray stone, on a site that commanded a fine prospect of the town and of a long stretch of river. There was no attempt to preserve architectural unity in the structure; in fact, it exhibited rather an incongruous medley of orders. The front was partly Italian, with a circular portico supported by slender Ionic columns. The rear was Elizabethan, pieced out with an extension for a picture-gallery; on one side were oriel windows, and the other was flanked by a keep, with turret and embattled parapet, which gave the edifice rather a frowning appearance, as if the host were prepared for any emergency, and could treat visitors with bountiful hospitality, or a narrow cell in the donjon, as he saw fit and felt disposed. The interior was in keeping with this pretentious exterior. A stately staircase led up from a wide entrance hall tessellated with marble tiles, on either side of which were dining and reception rooms. These and the boudoirs and bedchambers were all resplendent with gilt and elegant frescoes. The surrounding grounds, or "park," as they were called, were spacious. There were terraces with marble urns, fountains, velvet lawns, interspersed with brilliant beds of flowers, and rows of shapely evergreens. In short, no expense had been spared to construct a habitation capable of impressing an ordinary beholder with the wealth and importance of the dwellers therein, and if corroborative evidence were needed, the porter at the lodge would carry conviction by referring to the elegant iron railing inclosing the grounds, which he asserted, with emphatic pride, "cost more'n twenty thousand hard, ringing silver dollars! a fortune for any one."

Do not suppose that old John Peter Obershaw was in any way responsible for all this pomp and splendor. Spending money, much less extravagance in any shape, was totally foreign to his habits or tastes; and he had been led into the outlay requisite for all this grandeur insensibly and unwittingly. We say insensibly and unwittingly the more positively, as the aged invalid could not be said to have had any sense or wit of his own, during the last years of his long life, and was completely under the dominion of his son-in-law, who planned and built the villa in accordance with his own ostentatious ideas.

The morning after the late owner of this princely residence had left it for the narrow quarters of a churchyard vault, the new one arose early and descended from his bedroom for a short walk in the fresh morning air. A very handsome man of fifty or so, with a compact figure, keen gray eyes, high receding forehead, slightly bald, and hair prematurely silvered. Perceptible on the firm surface of his pale, close-shorn face, were the lines of decision and shrewdness, and that seal of pride conferred by the possession of wealth and authority—a chilling expression commonly called aristocratic, and which is simply refined vanity. Musing with downcast eyes, hands clasped behind his back, and head uncovered, to and fro on the terrace paced Mr. Heath. Before descending, he had opened the door of his father-in-law's room, and looked in. The huge stuffed arm-chair was still there in its accustomed place, but vacant; the padding ripped up—done to look for secreted coin. His staff lay in one corner, a worn hickory stick, his companion for years,—but the old man was gone. He had been for years but an inert dweller, verging on imbecility, an incumbrance, and yet what a void he had left! How silent and empty the chamber seemed! Mr. Heath closed the door softly, and went gravely down the stairs. He was glad to breathe the refreshing air and feel the sunshine. As he paced, he would occasionally stop and glance over the sloping lawn, and towards the river whose shining current bore thrift to the town and tribute to him. All these possessions were now his, absolutely and entirely his. Without longing for it, he had expected and looked forward to this day. He remembered, when a poor clerk, how he had coveted the wealth of the proprietor of Belton Falls, as he watched him, meanly clad, haggling with some shop-keeper over a few coppers. He remembered his joy when a stroke of luck put him in possession of the capital necessary to carry out a scheme whose consummation had enabled him finally to attain his present position, first, by securing Mr. Obershaw's confidence, and eventually, a less difficult feat (favored as he was by an uncommon share of good looks), the hand and heart of his daughter. And now they were both gone, and he was left loaded with wealth; wealth unmeasured—wealth to flatter every wish and further every ambitious project. The fruit was ripe and had fallen. He bit it, but no luscious juice rushed to the bare papillæ; the taste was insipid and dry as ashes! Every realization is but an after-taste, but this was almost bitter. The morning sun spangled the dewy grass, and darted brightly through the tree boughs. Birds carolled sweetly, and all nature rejoiced, but his spirits seemed to sink under the increased weight of riches, and he felt burdened. For an instant an unaccountable depression seized him, and he hardly heeded a gardener who approached to speak. The man noticed his master's pre-occupation, and waited patiently and respectfully until his attention was drawn towards him. He wanted to know if Mr. Heath would like to look at a beautiful exotic that had just bloomed that morning. Mr. Heath mechanically assented, and followed the gardener to the greenhouse. Usually he was much interested in the fine collection of plants in the conservatory, but now he listened dully to the man's enthusiastic praises of the rare flower, and looked at it with indifference. Without replying to the gardener, he walked away slowly, musing as he went on that sermon so often repeated but never heeded—the vanity of earthly possessions. "Dross, dross, it is so," he soliloquized, "but how long it takes to learn the lesson! How many envy me; how many whose first thought on seeing me, whose first wish, is to be as I am! What a supremely happy and blessed man I must be! Ah, the monks are wise.... But fame—the incense of popular applause—a name to live in future generations; something that the grave cannot extinguish, and death take away, that is the goal to strive for! Aye, ambition is the only passion worthy a master mind."

He re-entered the house and went to his library. The sight of his accustomed work-room seemed to banish the shadow on his countenance. "Blessed—blessed labor, what a balm thou art!" he apostrophized as with a sort of eagerness he threw himself in a chair, seized a pen, and followed a new train of ideas.

A singular fit of despondency this in one basking in the smiles of Fortune, and who had so steadily enjoyed her favors; for the capricious dame had marked Rufus Heath for a favorite long ago by a significant gift plainly indicative of her partiality. This gift, or stroke of luck, was the winning at his start in life of a lottery prize, which sudden affluence, judiciously invested, had led to the splendid culmination now