LITMIR.BIZ

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to the chin. Blending with a slightly troubled expression, was a strongly marked selfishness, evidently brooding over the consummation of its purpose. For some moments I sat gazing on his face, half doubting at times if it were really that of Simon Slade. Suddenly a gleam flashed over it—an ejaculation was uttered, and one clenched hand brought down, with a sharp stroke, into the open palm of the other. The landlord's mind had reached a conclusion, and was resolved upon action. There were no warm rays in the gleam of light that irradiated his countenance—at least none for my heart, which felt under them an almost icy coldness.

      "Just the man I was thinking about." I heard the landlord say, as some one entered the bar, while his whole manner underwent a sudden change.

      "The old saying is true," was answered in a voice, the tones of which were familiar to my ears.

      "Thinking of the old Harry?" said Slade.

      "Yes."

      "True, literally, in the present case," I heard the landlord remark, though in a much lower tone; "for, if you are not the devil himself, you can't be farther removed than a second cousin."

      A low, gurgling laugh met this little sally. There was something in it so unlike a human laugh, that it caused my blood to trickle, for a moment, coldly along my veins.

      I heard nothing more except the murmur of voices in the bar, for a hand shut the partly opened door that led from the sitting room.

      Whose was that voice? I recalled its tones, and tried to fix in my thought the person to whom it belonged, but was unable to do so. I was not very long in doubt, for on stepping out on the porch in front of the tavern, the well remembered face of Harvey Green presented itself. He stood in the bar-room door, and was talking earnestly to Slade, whose back was toward me. I saw that he recognized me, although I had not passed a word with him on the occasion of my former visit, and there was a lighting up of his countenance as if about to speak—but I withdrew my eyes from his face to avoid the unwelcome greeting. When I looked at him again, I saw that he was regarding me with a sinister glance, which was instantly withdrawn. In what broad, black characters was the word TEMPTER written on his face! How was it possible for anyone to look thereon, and not read the warning inscription!

      Soon after, he withdrew into the bar-room and the landlord came and took a seat near me on the porch.

      "How is the 'Sickle and Sheaf' coming on?" I inquired.

      "First rate," was the answer—"First rate."

      "As well as you expected?"

      "Better."

      "Satisfied with your experiment?"

      "Perfectly. Couldn't get me back to the rumbling old mill again, if you were to make me a present of it."

      "What of the mill?" I asked. "How does the new owner come on?"

      "About as I thought it would be."

      "Not doing very well?"

      "How could it be expected when he didn't know enough of the milling business to grind a bushel of wheat right? He lost half of the custom I transferred to him in less than three months. Then he broke his main shaft, and it took over three weeks to get in a new one. Half of his remaining customers discovered by this time, that they could get far better meal from their grain at Harwood's mill near Lynwood, and so did not care to trouble him any more. The upshot of the whole matter is, he broke down next, and had to sell the mill at a heavy loss."

      "Who has it now?"

      "Judge Hammond is the purchaser."

      "He is going to rent it, I suppose?"

      "No; I believe he means to turn it into some kind of a factory—and, I rather think, will connect therewith a distillery. This is a fine grain-growing country, as you know. If he does set up a distillery he'll make a fine thing of it. Grain has been too low in this section for some years; this all the farmers have felt, and they are very much pleased at the idea. It will help them wonderfully. I always thought my mill a great thing for the farmers; but what I did for them was a mere song compared to the advantage of an extensive distillery."

      "Judge Hammond is one of your richest men?"

      "Yes—the richest in the county. And what is more, he's a shrewd, far-seeing man, and knows how to multiply his riches."

      "How is his son Willy coming on?"

      "Oh! first-rate."

      The landlord's eyes fell under the searching look I bent upon him.

      "How old is he now?"

      "Just twenty."

      "A critical age," I remarked.

      "So people say; but I didn't find it so," answered Slade, a little distantly.

      "The impulses within and the temptations without, are the measure of its dangers. At his age, you were, no doubt, daily employed at hard work."

      "I was, and no mistake."

      "Thousands and hundreds of thousands are indebted to useful work, occupying many hours through each day, and leaving them with wearied bodies at night, for their safe passage from yielding youth to firm, resisting manhood. It might not be with you as it is now, had leisure and freedom to go in and out when you pleased been offered at the age of nineteen."

      "I can't tell as to that," said the landlord, shrugging his shoulders. "But I don't see that Willy Hammond is in any especial danger. He is a young man with many admirable qualities—is social-liberal—generous almost to a fault—but has good common sense, and wit enough, I take it, to keep out of harm's way."

      A man passing the house at the moment, gave Simon Slade an opportunity to break off a conversation that was not, I could see, altogether agreeable. As he left me, I arose and stepped into the bar-room. Frank, the landlord's son, was behind the bar. He had grown considerably in the year—and from a rather delicate, innocent-looking boy, to a stout, bold lad. His face was rounder, and had a gross, sensual expression, that showed itself particularly about the mouth. The man Green was standing beside the bar talking to him, and I noticed that Frank laughed heartily, at some low, half obscene remarks that he was making. In the midst of these, Flora, the sister of Frank, a really beautiful girl, came in to get something from the bar. Green spoke to her familiarly, and Flora answered him with a perceptibly heightening color.

      I glanced toward Frank, half expecting to see an indignant flush on his young face. But no—he looked on with a smile! "Ah!" thought I, "have the boy's pure impulses so soon died out in this fatal atmosphere? Can he bear to see those evil eyes—he knows they are evil—rest upon the face of his sister? or to hear those lips, only a moment since polluted with vile words, address her with the familiarity of a friend?"

      "Fine girl, that sister of yours, Frank! Fine girl!" said Green, after Flora had withdrawn—speaking of her with about as much respect in his voice as if he were praising a fleet racer or a favorite hound.

      The boy smiled, with a pleased air.

      "I must try and find her a good husband, Frank. I wonder if she wouldn't have me?"

      "You'd better ask her," said the boy, laughing.

      "I would if I thought there was any chance for me."

      "Nothing like trying. Faint heart never won fair lady," returned Frank, more with the air of a man than a boy. How fast he was growing old!

      "A banter, by George!" exclaimed Green, slapping his hands together. "You're a great boy, Frank! a great boy! I shall have to talk to your father about you. Coming on too fast. Have to be put back in your lessons—hey!"

      And Green winked at the boy, and shook his finger at him. Frank laughed in a pleased way, as he replied: "I guess I'll do."

      "I guess you will," said Green, as, satisfied with his colloquy, he turned off and left the bar-room.

      "Have something to drink, sir?" inquired Frank, addressing me in a bold, free way.

      I shook my head.

      "Here's a newspaper," he added.

      I took the paper and sat down—not to read, but to observe. Two or three men soon came in, and spoke

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