Dobbs's Dinner at Delmonico's.

BROWN.-"Twelve o'clock, boys; I told Jennie I'd be home at half-past. Good-by, Dobbs. You've given us a capital dinner." JONES.-"Don't let's go yet! what's twelve o'clock among three of us? only four apiece. Let's keep her up!"

some thought—a puzzled thought apparentlyinto the sand with his whip-lash, was aroused at last by a woman's voice behind him."

"Can you give me a lift?"

"Hilloa! whoa, Molly! What did you say ma'am?" reining in his jogging horse. She came up slowly and repeated her question. "Why, yes, reckon I can. Climb up this side; take my hand—so!” "Thank you," said the woman, when she was seated beside him.

Andrew looked at her; something in her voice struck him curiously-a, slow, monotonous voice, like the toll of a bell. You have heard such, perhaps. Her face might have been fashioned for it. She sat looking directly in front of her, her eyes wandering off to the flats and the blue dis

Perhaps a ride in an open wagon, upon a dusty road, with the thermometer at 96° in the shade, is not as desirable a situation as one might be able to conceive of. So Andrew Kent thought, as his old horse jogged along in the full glare of the sun. The long stretch of yellow sands before him seemed to grow blanker and barer and dustier at every step. The trees had no shadow to cast over him, but shot up straight and motionless into the hot noon; the branches gnarled and crossed each other lazily; scarcely | tance. Yet it was doubtful if she saw them. a leaf quivered upon its stem. The murmur of myriads of insects filled the air, long, monotonous, unbroken. Golden bees were swarming sleepily on the blossoms of the clover which crimsoned the fields. The valley into which they sloped stretched out in yellow flats to the Connecticut, torpid and white, between its banks. From the very daisy at his feet to the line of horizon beyond the river nothing stirred, nothing but the bees and butterflies whose hum and sweep only made the silence audible. Was the world asleep?

This man always found time for his fancies. With a certain instinct of content he called them up and made them minister to him to lighten his toil. Since the noon was on fire and the ride a long one, he turned just as naturally for relief to watch the blossoming fields and the light on the river as many another would have grumbled or sworn at his horse. He would have noticed a violet by the road-side, or a golden cloud that floated above and past him at the close of the busiest day; he saw something more in a field of plumed and nodding grass than his neighbor's crop of hay and profits; he liked to hear the tinkle of the pasture-bells in the twilight.

He was no genius; he never thought of being a poet; he never wrote a book; I do not think he ever cared very much to "have an education." He earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, and asked not for idleness or ease. He worked ten hours of the day, and enjoyed the village gossip in the evening, and slept soundly at night, and rose with the dawn. He gained his honest gains and enjoyed them, and hoped such hopes as God had given him. Because his soul was healthful and manly you would guess how these might weave and interweave themselves with his life. You would have seen it too in the outlines of his face, in the straightening of his tall form, in the very step of his foot upon the ground. A man whose days had been but a pleasant promise, and who saw all which were to come in their light.

Do you know what it means when a hope and

a life are one?

The restless gloom in them, the pallor of her lips, and the dead blackness of the hair which fell down about her forehead might have fitted some tragic picture. And so Andrew thought, in his way-for I doubt if he knew what tragedy meant-saying to himself, compassionately, "I'm sorry for her, poor thing!" wondering the next minute what it was in her that had touched him.

"Hot walking," he said, sympathetically. "Very."

Kent cracked his whip and looked askance again at the woman's restless eyes.

"Have you come far?" he ventured, seeing that she had not observed his look. "Yes."

He coughed and pulled up the reins. What man likes to be foiled or silenced by a woman? Andrew, with that twinkle in his eyes and that half-smile on his lips, certainly did not. Yet he scorned any rude or impertinent question with as true knightly a spirit as if his hands had not been coarse and brown, and his muscles strong with daily toil.

"Where would you like to go?" he said, breaking a silence in which he had whipped the tops off from all the daisies within his reach. They had come to a point where two roads diverged, and this gave him an excuse for speaking. It made him uncomfortable, somehow, to sit so near the woman's eyes and see them still wandering, wandering over the river.

She started a little at his question, and for the first time met his look fully. It apparently reassured her.

"Is there a tavern about here?"

"Yes, just off to the right-I go right along that road. Shall I take you up there?" "Thank you," she said, as she had said it once before.

"Hi ya! there, Molly!" said Andrew, quite sure now that this was an opportunity for conversation. "Pretty considerable of a tavern, ma'am, we call it. Folks come up from the city in summer-time."

"Do they?"
"Yes.

The Cap'n counts on his city lodgAndrew, chirruping to his horse and cutting ings. Some of 'em pay well. There's a chap

prise at last to the door of his shop. Molly, scarcely stopping to leave her master, followed alone the well-known road which would end in her stall, and, with a long, cheery whistle after her, Andrew went in.

come up near a month ago-keeps a parlor go- | ever it may have been it brought him with suring for himself." The woman listened; he saw that. "One of your regular out-and-outersthe Cap'n's right hand.' He seemed to be talking more to gain his little victory over her than from any desire of his own to dwell upon the subject.

A blacksmith's work on such an afternoon

"What did you say his name was?" asked was by no means the easiest, but Kent was not the woman, carelessly.

"I didn't say. It's Pennington, though," he added; "Arthur I believe's the first." "Oh!"

She turned away her head. He fancied from her indifferent tone that she was disappointed in his answer-that she might have expected to hear a name familiar to her.

"Do people think much of him round here?" she continued, as if to make conversation.

Kent drew the lash sharply round Molly's ears. Something very like a scowl was on his forehead. "Some do, and some don't."

His laconic answer, or something else, stopped the reply which was on the woman's lips. She drew her bonnet over her face, brushed her hair out of her eyes, and turned them again to the distance which grew hazy in the increasing heat. They were both silent the rest of the drive. Andrew, with a certain uncomfortable feeling which was rather unusual with him, wished it at an end. He cramped himself as far at his corner of the seat as was possible, and directed a sudden and vehement attention to Molly, who, with drooping head, plodded through the sand on the slowest of all slow walks, varying it only to stop now and then to pull up a mouthful of grass and tiny road-side clovers. He reined her up at last with as much alacrity as if she had been "warranted to trot in 2.40."

"This is the Cap'n's."

The woman looked up at the low, white tavern, glancing furtively at its windows where the blinds were closed, and over the piazza, which was vacant.

"Very well; I'll stop here."

a man to make a stumbling-block out of the weather. One might have known how he would stand in the glow of the forge with that resolute face; what blows he would deal with those great, brawny arms, as if he were knocking midsummer on the head at every stroke; how he would sing over his work in his hearty fashion-not an unmusical voice by-the-wayjust such beauty in it as Nature puts into her most rugged places by the trailing of their wild, rich greens. After a while, however, the song ceased. Some uneasy musing had knotted his |forehead a little, and while he worked it deepened into a scowl.

"It can't be!" speaking half aloud, and stopping suddenly. He stood up straightening his shoulders, looking out of the door over the fields where the blaze of the noon had died into softer light and longer shadows. There was something in his face just then that perhaps had never been there before; the thought which caused it might have been as new. God had never greatly denied this man; there were paths where his soul lay as undeveloped as a child's. If you have always moored your boat in still waters, do you know how it will bear a tempest? "What are you staring at, Kent ?"

Two or three men had strolled up to the door, whom the cooling air, and perhaps the prospect of one of Andrew's jovial talks, had tempted

out.

"Looking at the sun, Mr. Joliffe," laughing with the rest; "it'll be down before long, I reckon."

This man Joliffe-a stranger who had been but a week in town-had a curious way with

He got out and helped her down from the him that Andrew did not fancy. No one knew

wagon.

for what he had come there, or what he was

"Sorry I couldn't give you a cooler ride," he doing, or where he belonged; or any thing, in said, with returning spirit.

"Warm? Yes-yes it is."

She spoke absently, a faint, feverish brightness in her eyes, where the vacant look had been. Then thanking him in the same tone she went slowly into the house.

Andrew turned back as he drove away; she was speaking with the landlord. He stopped in the midst of a whistle of relief-a little vexed with himself that he had allowed her to make him uncomfortable, and utterly at a loss to account for it. "But I don't like to see a woman look like that."

fact, about him, except that he had but one eye, which he made to serve the purposes of two, Andrew thought, a little petulantly, since he was always prying into people's affairs with it; always cognizant of every one's whereabouts, and every one's name; always cocking it impertinently when he asked a question-which he was much in the habit of doing.

"You had a hot ride to-day," he said, seating himself upon a two-legged stool, which he tipped back against the wall for support.

"How did you know?"

Kent pounded away on the glowing iron, so that Joliffe could hardly hear himself speak in answer.

"I? Oh, I saw you out of the tavern window."

Musing a little, his face softening. Something following on the thought drove the stranger from his mind. A pleasant picture, perhaps -brighter than the golden flecks that chased each other among the apple-boughs above him. "Is there any thing you don't know, Mr. Another of his fancies to forget the heat. What-Joliffe ?" he said, laughing.

Joliffe winked with his one eye, and rose, let- | Soft, warm hair it was, like the sun itself. A ting the two-legged stool tip over. Some horse, pretty confusion burned in her cheeks as she driven up to be shod just then, attracted the at- brushed it away to return his bow. She had tention of Andrew's visitors, and his own also. not seen Andrew. Do you know how he hated He forgot Joliffe in his work till he heard the the very horse he shod, for her pure color crippled stool put in its place again, and saw against his own grimy hands, at that moment? him seat himself upon it, somewhat in the shad- He watched the little figure that was passing ow of the wall, and pull his hat over his eyes as along now over a field-path, where the shadif preparing for a nap. ows of some soft floating clouds flitted over

"Hilloa! you Andrew! I want my horse her, and the butter-cups were golden under her shod."

Kent looked away from Joliffe and out of the door. A white horse-he knew it well-a graceful, spirited creature, was pawing the ground outside, and its rider, a gentleman in dress, was looking into the shop impatiently.

"Very well," said Andrew, some stiffness in his voice.

"I'm in a hurry."

"I can't attend to you till I get through this job, Mr. Pennington," hammering away till the meditative farm-horse under his hands winced, and looked round in meek surprise.

The young man grumbled and muttered something about "a blacksmith's keeping a boy, so as to do his business properly." Kent said nothing. Pennington sat idly playing with his riding-whip. He had a delicate hand, and his glove fitted closely. Andrew knocked the dust off from his own blacked ones at last, and looked up.

"I'm ready."

Pennington got out of his stirrups lazily, and Andrew led in the horse. But the white beauty objected decidedly to the hammer and the shoe, her eyes on fire, her ears erect, rearing under even his strong hand.

"She needs two to shoe her," he said, stopping. "Mr. Joliffe, will you help me a moment?"

But Joliffe made no answer, still tipped back against the wall. He was asleep. Kent beckoned to some one outside; and, the horse quieted at last, he worked in silence. Pennington strolled out in front of the shop, and leaned against a fence lazily, puffing at a cigar.

"By Jove!" he said, suddenly, standing erect, "there's Prue Tyndall!"

Andrew let go the horse's foot; she stamped it imperiously, bringing it down almost upon his own.

"Like her master!" Andrew said, between his teeth. Presently he looked up.

feet-he could not help it-he did not know it even. Becoming conscious suddenly of some one's gaze upon him recalled him to himself. He started to find Joliffe's eyes perfectly wide awake under his hat, and, turning sharply, went on with his work.

"That's as pretty a girl as there is in the country," puffed Pennington, after she had gone. Some one standing by laughed, "We s'pose you think so.'

Just then another woman passed by slowlya woman with black hair, and a bonnet drawn far over her face so as quite to hide it. Either from her walk or her dress, Kent, who had looked up with his eyes on fire, recognized her at once; it was the woman he had met that morning. Pennington looked after her a little curiously. "Not many points of similarity," he said, in his insolent way. He watched her as he had watched the other, with the difference of a careless smile, then, turning, walked into the shop.

"Isn't that shoe most on?-how long you are!"

"I should be likely to stop if it was." Andrew's back was turned. Joliffe breathed audibly. Pennington wondered what that man went to sleep in such a dingy place for.

Dingy? So it was; why should not every thing bright turn away from it? Andrew was glad when Pennington and his perfumed gloves and his snowy horse had left it. He breathed more freely he had felt stifled before; he thought the coolness had all passed out of the air; that the closing day had burned it dryer than the noon. He was glad too when the group at the door ceased their gossip about that fellow and the child. How did they dare to touch her name so lightly-little Prue's name? He watched them as they went away, with a sigh of relief that he was alone.

"He's pretty much of a swell, ain't he?" Kent started; he had forgotten Joliffe. What

A girl was coming up the road, walking slow-was that man's mission in the world? ly among the daisies, where the light fell through the leaves of overhanging trees upon her. A little creature, with a white sun-bonnet shading her face, and a basket on her arm. It was a rounded, rosy arm, and a stray sunbeam blinding her just then, she put it up to shade her eyes. Pennington uttered a low whistle.

"Who?" a little tartly.

Joliffe looked round cautiously, until satisfied that they were alone; then he tipped back his stool again, and winked vehemently at Kent several times.

"Fit for a goddess!" laughing lightly. He did not see the look Kent gave him. As the girl passed he took off his hat gracefully, some bright ring on his finger sparkling. The wind blew her hair into her eyes just then.

"What's the matter? Who are you talking about ?"

"Billy Watson."

Andrew stared at the name-that of a noted counterfeiter of whose exploits the recent papers had been full, and whose fame had reached even to this torpid town.

"You've been asleep, Mr. Joliffe," he laughed. "I supposed you were talking about that fellow on the white horse."

"So I am."

Kent dropped his hammer, and concluded Joliffe had escaped from some lunatic asylum. He began to wonder how he should get him taken back, and if that didn't account for his having such an eye.

I told you he was content with his work, and the place God had given him to do it in. And he had been. That little black shop, where he had toiled so many honest years, why he had loved it, an old friend, with its cozy, homely face. Yet to-night, with his hand upon the lock, he loathed it; he would have quitted it so forever. He hurried up the street, and round the curve which hid it from his sight, drawing a long breath there, as one who throws off a burden. The world had been to him but one long, smooth pathway, just as bright, leading through hedges and grasses, as if jewels paved it. It was "Yes I do. I mean that's him, or my name free before him, and the birds had sung above ain't Joliffe." him, and now what was this barrier thrust into

"Arthur Pennington, or Billy Watson, it's all one; you can take your choice of names," said Joliffe, putting the eye on full cock.

"You don't mean it?"

Kent turned away his face; the other could his face? Who had a right to pinion his arm? hear him breathing hard and deep.

It was a strong arm to claim its own! striking

"What did you tell me for?" looking round heavily with it in the air, thinking these things, at last.

not as I have told you, but in his own dim way. His face, with that new darkness on it, deepened at last into an intent look, his eyes softening a little, but full of a restless pain.

An old brown farm-house stood at the summit of the slope up which he walked, a pleasant place, with a few giant shade trees and a garden. He had played there with little Prue when they were children together; he knew every inch

"I know what I mean; and so do you. Well, of it by heart. It was her garden now; he used is it done ?"

"No."

to see her sometimes when he came home from work, busy among the flowers. Passing by it

"Why not? it's got to be by somebody; the now with his manly step, a little quick and nervlaw will have its way." ous to-night, a sudden picture struck upon his view.

Why indeed? What sense of danger was there that made him turn so sharply, as if answering himself.

Lingering lights were chasing each other deep into golden hollyhocks, and blazing in the scar

"I tell you no. I won't have any thing to let hearts of poppies, and hiding in the cups of

do with it."

Joliffe was not a man to show himself foiled or disappointed. He got up, buttoned his coat, and pushed up his hat.

"I'll find those that will. You understand you're to keep mum? if it's blabbed a syllable the thing's all up."

"Yes."

Joliffe knew his man to this depth when he ran the risk. His mistake was a common one; he thought he had touched bottom when he had felt only a few surface waves. Yet a few hours later Kent thought of him; might the man's measure have been a true one after all?

Left alone, he went and sat down on an old cask behind the forge, turning his back to the door and the brightness of the day outside. His head was bowed within his hands, and so for a time he did not move. He rose at last, taking off with an impatient gesture the black leather apron which he wore. He stopped a moment with it in his hand, looking down into the fierce glow of the forge--the white, flameless glow, far hotter than the day that had scorched him since its morning. What would he do? throw the thing in? He smiled the next moment, a childish petulance. Then, tossing it in the corner, he put on his coat and hat, locked the shop door, and went out into the cool of the coming evening.

purple bells; stems of nodding white lilies grew warm in their glow; myrtle leaves folded them into shadow; beds of royal pansies wore them like a crown, and a few late roses held up tiny buds to them, as something sorrowful might ask for a little love.

The brightest of them all touched the blue starry blossoms of a creeper near which little Prue was standing, and weighed down a branch which fell almost upon her hair-the warm, soft hair drooping in her neck. Some light dress that she wore fluttered in the wind; her hands fluttered too, in a little nervous way they had, toying with the winds; the white outline of her face, with its faint flush, was bent a little, a bit of a breathing statue against the crimson of the west beyond. Pennington stood by her, looking down into her face, breaking with his white, shapely hand the spray on which her own rested as if he would touch it if he dared. At something he said, some low words which Andrew did not hear, she turned her face suddenly, and looked up into his with a shy smile, her eyes wide and blue as a child's. Perhaps she knew she had beautiful eyes. If there was a little coquetry in the act do not blame her. She would have played at hide and seek as innocently. But what if there was more? What if that timid tenderness flushing her face meant what Pennington had determined it should mean?