IN WHICH JIM ENLARGES HIS PLANS FOR A HOUSE, AND COMPLETES HIS PLANS FOR
A HOUSE-KEEPER.
When, at last, Jim and Mr. Benedict were left alone by the departure of
Mr. Balfour and the two lads, they sat as if they had been stranded by a
sudden squall after a long and pleasant voyage. Mr. Benedict was plunged
into profound dejection, and Jim saw that he must be at once and
persistently diverted.
"I telled Mr. Balfour," said he, "afore he went away, about the house. I
telled him about the stoop, an' the chairs, an' the ladder for posies to
run up on, an' I said somethin' about cubberds and settles, an' other
thingembobs that have come into my mind; an' says he: 'Jim, be ye goin'
to splice?' An' says I: 'If so be I can find a little stick as'll
answer, it wouldn't be strange if I did.' 'Well,' says he, 'now's yer
time, if ye're ever goin' to, for the hay-day of your life is a passin'
away.' An' says I: 'No, ye don't. My hay-day has jest come, and my grass
is dry an' it'll keep. It's good for fodder, an' it wouldn't make a bad
bed.'"
"What did he say to that?" inquired Mr. Benedict.
"Says he: 'I shouldn't wonder if ye was right. Have ye found the woman?'
'Yes,' says I. 'I have found a genuine creetur.' An' says he: 'What is
her name?' An' says I: 'That's tellin'. It's a name as oughter be
changed, an' it won't be my fault if it ain't.' An' then says he: 'Can I
be of any 'sistance to ye?' An' says I: 'No. Courtin' is like dyin'; ye
can't trust it to another feller. Ye've jest got to go it alone.' An'
then he laughed, an' says he: 'Jim, I wish ye good luck, an' I hope
ye'll live to have a little feller o' yer own.' An' says I: 'Old
Jerusalem! If I ever have a little feller o' my own,' says I, 'this
world will have to spread to hold me.'"
Then Jim put his head down between his knees, and thought. When it
emerged from its hiding his eyes were moist, and he said:
"Ye must 'scuse me, Mr. Benedict, for ye know what the feelin's of a pa
is. It never come to me in this way afore."
Benedict could not help smiling at this new exhibition of sympathy; for
Jim, in the comprehension of his feelings in the possible event of
possessing offspring, had arrived at a more vivid sense of his
companion's bereavement.
"Now, I tell ye what it is," said Jim. "You an' me has got to be
brushin' round. We can't set here an' think about them that's gone; an'
now I want to tell ye 'bout another thing that Mr. Balfour said. Says
he: 'Jim, if ye're goin' to build a house, build a big one, an' keep a
hotel. I'll fill it all summer for ye,' says he. 'I know lots o' folks,'
says he, 'that would be glad to stay with ye, an' pay all ye axed 'em.
Build a big house,' says he, 'an' take yer time for't, an' when ye git
ready for company, let a feller know.' I tell ye, it made my eyes stick
out to think on't. 'Jim Fenton's hotel! says I. 'I don't b'lieve I can
swing it.' 'If ye want any more money'n ye've got,' says he, 'call on
me.'"
The idea of a hotel, with all its intrusions upon his privacy and all
its diversions, was not pleasant to Mr. Benedict; but he saw at once
that no woman worthy of Jim could be expected to be happy in the woods
entirely deprived of society. It would establish a quicker and more
regular line of communication with Sevenoaks, and thus make a change
from its life to that of the woods a smaller hardship. But the building
of a large house was a great enterprise for two men to undertake.
The first business was to draw a plan. In this work Mr. Benedict was
entirely at home. He could not only make plans of the two floors, but
an elevation of the front; and when, after two days of work, with
frequent questions and examinations by Jim, his drawings were concluded,
they held a long discussion over them. It was all very wonderful to Jim,
and all very satisfactory--at least, he said so; and yet he did not seem
to be entirely content.
"Tell me, Jim, just what the trouble is," said his architect, "for I see
there's something wanting."
"I don't see," said Jim, "jest where ye're goin' to put 'im."
"Who do you mean? Mr. Balfour?"
"No; I don't mean no man."
"Harry? Thede?"
"No; I mean, s'posin'. Can't we put on an ell when we want it?"
"Certainly."
"An' now, can't ye make yer picter look kind o' cozy like, with a little
feller playin' on the ground down there afore the stoop?"
Mr. Benedict not only could do this, but he did it; and then Jim took
it, and looked at it for a long time.
"Well, little feller, ye can play thar till ye're tired, right on that
paper, an' then ye must come into the house, an' let yer ma wash yer
face;" and then Jim, realizing the comical side of all this charming
dream, laughed till the woods rang again, and Benedict laughed with him.
It was a kind of clearing up of the cloud of sentiment that enveloped
them both, and they were ready to work. They settled, after a long
discussion, upon the site of the new house, which was back from the
river, near Number Ten. There were just three things to be done during
the remainder of the autumn and the approaching winter. A cellar was to
be excavated, the timber for the frame of the new house was to be cut
and hewed, and the lumber was to be purchased and drawn to the river.
Before the ground should freeze, they determined to complete the cellar,
which was to be made small--to be, indeed, little more than a cave
beneath the house, that would accommodate such stores as it would be
necessary to shield from the frost. A fortnight of steady work, by both
the men, not only completed the excavation, but built the wall.
Then came the selection of timber for the frame. It was all found near
the spot, and for many days the sound of two axes was heard through the
great stillness of the Indian summer; for at this time nature, as well
as Jim, was in a dream. Nuts were falling from the hickory-trees, and
squirrels were leaping along the ground, picking up the stores on which
they were to subsist during the long winter that lay before them. The
robins had gone away southward, and the voice of the thrushes was still.
A soft haze steeped the wilderness in its tender hue--a hue that carried
with it the fragrance of burning leaves. At some distant forest shrine,
the priestly winds were swinging their censers, and the whole temple was
pervaded with the breath of worship. Blue-jays were screaming among
leathern-leaved oaks, and the bluer kingfishers made their long diagonal
flights from side to side of the river, chattering like magpies. There
was one infallible sign that winter was close upon the woods. The wild
geese, flying over Number Nine, had called to Jim with news from the
Arctic, and he had looked up at the huge harrow scraping the sky, and
said: "I seen ye, an' I know what ye mean."
The timber was cut of appropriate length and rolled upon low
scaffoldings, where it could be conveniently hewed during the winter;
then two days were spent in hunting and in setting traps for sable and
otter, and then the two men were ready to arrange for the lumber.
This involved the necessity of a calculation of the materials required,
and definite specifications of the same. Not only this, but it required
that Mr. Benedict should himself accompany Jim on the journey to the
mill, three miles beyond Mike Conlin's house. He naturally shrank from
this exposure of himself; but so long as he was not in danger of coming
in contact with Mr. Belcher, or with any one whom he had previously
known, he was persuaded that the trip would not be unpleasant to him. In
truth, as he grew stronger personally, and felt that his boy was out of
harm's way, he began to feel a certain indefinite longing to see
something of the world again, and to look into new faces.
As for Jim, he had no idea of returning to Number Nine again until he
had seen Sevenoaks, and that one most interesting person there with whom
he had associated his future, although he did not mention his plan to
Mr. Benedict.
The ice was already gathering in the stream, and the winter was
descending so rapidly that they despaired of taking their boat down to
the old landing, and permitting it to await their return, as they would
be almost certain to find it frozen in, and be obliged to leave it there
until spring. They were compelled, therefore, to make the complete
journey on foot, following to the lower landing the "tote-road" that
Mike Conlin had taken when he came to them on his journey of discovery.
They started early one morning about the middle of November, and, as the
weather was cold, Turk bore them company. Though Mr. Benedict had become
quite hardy, the tramp of thirty miles over the frozen ground, that had
already received a slight covering of snow, was a cruel one, and taxed
to their utmost his powers of endurance.
Jim carried the pack of provisions, and left his companion without a
load; so by steady, quiet, and almost speechless walking, they made the
entire distance to Mike Conlin's house before the daylight had entirely
faded from the pale, cold sky. Mike was taken by surprise. He could
hardly be made to believe that the hearty-looking, comfortably-dressed
man whom he found in Mr. Benedict was the same whom he had left many
months before in the rags of a pauper and the emaciation of a feeble
convalescent. The latter expressed to Mike the obligations he felt for
the service which Jim informed him had been rendered by the good-natured
Irishman, and Mike blushed while protesting that it was "nothing at
all, at all," and thinking of the hundred dollars that he earned so
easily.
"Did ye know, Jim," said Mike, to change the subject, "that owld Belcher
has gone to New Yorrk to live?"
"No."
"Yis, the whole kit an' boodle of 'em is gone, an' the purty man wid
'em."
"Hallelujer!" roared Jim.
"Yis, and be gorry he's got me hundred dollars," said Mike.
"What did ye gi'en it to 'im for, Mike? I didn't take ye for a fool."
"Well, ye see, I wint in for ile, like the rist of 'em. Och! ye shud
'ave seen the owld feller talk! 'Mike,' says he, 'ye can't afford to
lose this,' says he. 'I should miss me slape, Mike,' says he, 'if it
shouldn't all come back to ye.' 'An' if it don't,' says I, 'there'll be
two uv us lyin' awake, an' ye'll have plinty of company; an' what they
lose in dhraimin' they'll take out in cussin',' says I. 'Mike,' says he,
'ye hadn't better do it, an' if ye do, I don't take no resk;' an' says
I, 'they're all goin' in, an' I'm goin' wid 'em.' 'Very well,' says he,
lookin' kind o' sorry, and then, be gorry, he scooped the whole pile,
an' barrin' the ile uv his purty spache, divil a bit have I seen more
nor four dollars."
"Divil a bit will ye see agin," said Jim, shaking his head. "Mike, ye're
a fool."
"That's jist what I tell mesilf," responded Mike; "but there's betther
music nor hearin' it repaited; an' I've got betther company in it,
barrin' Mr. Benedict's presence, nor I've got here in me own house."
Jim, finding Mike a little sore over his loss, refrained from further
allusion to it; and Mr. Benedict declared himself ready for bed. Jim had
impatiently waited for this announcement, for he was anxious to have a
long talk with Mike about the new house, the plans for which he had
brought with him.
"Clear off yer table," said Jim, "an' peel yer eyes, Mike, for I'm
goin' to show ye somethin' that'll s'prise ye."
When his order was obeyed, he unrolled the precious plans.
"Now, ye must remember, Mike, that this isn't the house; these is plans,
as Mr. Benedict has drawed. That's the kitchen, and that's the
settin'-room, and that's the cubberd, and that's the bedroom for us, ye
know, and on that other paper is the chambers."
Mike looked at it all earnestly, and with a degree of awe, and then
shook his head.
"Jim," said he, "I don't want to bodder ye, but ye've jist been fooled.
Don't ye see that divil a place 'ave ye got for the pig?"
"Pig!" exclaimed Jim, with contempt. "D'ye s'pose I build a house for a
pig? I ain't no pig, an' she ain't no pig."
"The proof of the puddin' is in the atin', Jim; an' ye don't know the
furrst thing about house-kapin'. Ye can no more kape house widout a pig,
nor ye can row yer boat widout a paddle. I'm an owld house-kaper, Jim,
an' I know; an' a man that don't tend to his pig furrst, is no betther
nor a b'y. Ye might put 'im in Number Tin, but he'd go through it
quicker nor water through a baskit. Don't talk to me about house-kapin'
widout a pig. Ye might give 'im that little shtoop to lie on, an' let
'im run under the house to slape. That wouldn't be bad now, Jim?"
The last suggestion was given in a tender, judicial tone, for Mike saw
that Jim was disappointed, if not disgusted. Jim was looking at his
beautiful stoop, and thinking of the pleasant dreams he had associated
with it. The idea of Mike's connecting the life of a pig with that stoop
was more than he could bear.
"Why, Mike," said he, in an injured tone, "that stoop's the place where
she's agoin' to set."
"Oh! I didn't know, Jim, ye was agoin' to kape hins. Now, ef you're
agoin' to kape hins, ye kin do as ye plase, Jim, in coorse; but ye
musn't forgit the pig, Jim. Be gorry, he ates everything that nobody
ilse kin ate, and then ye kin ate him."
Mike had had his expression of opinion, and shown to his own
satisfaction that his judgments were worth something. Having done this,
he became amiable, sympathetic, and even admiring. Jim was obliged to
tell him the same things a great many times, and to end at last without
the satisfaction of knowing that the Irishman comprehended the precious
plans. He would have been glad to make a confidant of Mike, but the
Irishman's obtuseness and inability to comprehend his tenderer
sentiments, repulsed him, and drove him back upon himself.
Then came up the practical question concerning Mike's ability to draw
the lumber for the new house. Mike thought he could hire a horse for his
keeping, and a sled for a small sum, that would enable him to double his
facilities for doing the job; and then a price for the work was agreed
upon.
The next morning, Jim and Mr. Benedict pursued their journey to the
lumber-mill, and there spent the day in selecting their materials, and
filling out their specifications.
The first person Mr. Benedict saw on entering the mill was a young man
from Sevenoaks, whom he had known many years before. He colored as if he
had been detected in a crime, but the man gave him no sign that the
recognition was mutual. His old acquaintance had no memory of him,
apparently; and then he realized the change that must have passed upon
him during his long invalidism and his wonderful recovery.
They remained with the proprietor of the mill during the night.
"I jest call 'im Number Ten," said Jim, in response to the inquiries
that were made of him concerning his companion, "He never telled me his
name, an' I never axed 'im. I'm 'Number Nine,' an' he's 'Number Ten,'
and that's all thar is about it."
Jim's oddities were known, and inquiries were pushed no further, though
Jim gratuitously informed his host that the man had come into the woods
to get well and was willing to work to fill up his time.
On the following morning, Jim proposed to Mr. Benedict to go on to
Sevenoaks for the purchase of more tools, and the nails and hardware
that would be necessary in finishing the house. The experience of the
latter during the previous day showed him that he need not fear
detection, and, now that Mr. Belcher was out of the way, Jim found him
possessed by a strong desire to make the proposed visit. The road was
not difficult, and before sunset the two men found themselves housed in
the humble lodgings that had for many years been familiar to Jim. Mr.
Benedict went into the streets, and among the shops, the next morning,
with great reluctance; but this soon wore off as he met man after man
whom he knew, who failed to recognize him. In truth, so many things had
happened, that the memory of the man who, long ago, had been given up as
dead had passed out of mind. The people would have been no more
surprised to see a sleeper of the village cemetery among them than they
would to have realized that they were talking with the insane pauper who
had fled, as they supposed, to find his death in the forest.
They had a great deal to do during the day, and when night came, Jim
could no longer be restrained from the visit that gave significance, not
only to his journey, but to all his plans. Not a woman had been seen on
the street during the day whom Jim had not scanned with an anxious and
greedy look, in the hope of seeing the one figure that was the desire of
his eyes--but he had not seen it. Was she ill? Had she left Sevenoaks?
He would not inquire, but he would know before he slept.
"There's a little business as must be did afore I go," said Jim, to Mr.
Benedict in the evening, "an' I sh'd like to have ye go with me, if ye
feel up to't." Mr. Benedict felt up to it, and the two went out
together. They walked along the silent street, and saw the great mill,
ablaze with light. The mist from the falls showed white in the frosty
air, and, without saying a word, they crossed the bridge, and climbed a
hill dotted with little dwellings.
Jim's heart was in his mouth, for his fears that ill had happened to the
little tailoress had made him nervous; and when, at length, he caught
sight of the light in her window, he grasped Mr. Benedict by the arm
almost fiercely, and exclaimed:
"It's all right. The little woman's in, an' waitin'. Can you see my
har?"
Having been assured that it was in a presentable condition, Jim walked
boldly up to the door and knocked. Having been admitted by the same girl
who had received him before, there was no need to announce his name.
Both men went into the little parlor of the house, and the girl in great
glee ran upstairs to inform Miss Butterworth that there were two men and
a dog in waiting, who wished to see her. Miss Butterworth came down from
busy work, like one in a hurry, and was met by Jim with extended hand,
and the gladdest smile that ever illuminated a human face.
"How fare ye, little woman?" said he. "I'm glad to see ye--gladder nor I
can tell ye."
There was something in the greeting so hearty, so warm and tender and
full of faith, that Miss Butterworth was touched. Up to that moment he
had made no impression upon her heart, and, quite to her surprise, she
found that she was glad to see him. She had had a world of trouble since
she had met Jim, and the great, wholesome nature, fresh from the woods,
and untouched by the trials of those with whom she was in daily
association, was like a breeze in the feverish summer, fresh from the
mountains. She was, indeed, glad to see him, and surprised by the warmth
of the sentiment that sprang within her heart in response to his
greeting.
Miss Butterworth looked inquiringly, and with some embarrassment at the
stranger.
"That's one o' yer old friends, little woman," said Jim. "Don't give 'im
the cold shoulder. 'Tain't every day as a feller comes to ye from the
other side o' Jordan."
Miss Butterworth naturally suspected the stranger's identity, and was
carefully studying his face to assure herself that Mr. Benedict was
really in her presence. When some look of his eyes, or motion of his
body, brought her the conclusive evidence of his identity, she grasped
both his hands, and said:
"Dear, dear, Mr. Benedict! how much you have suffered! I thank God for
you, and for the good friend He has raised up to help you. It's like
seeing one raised from the dead."
Then she sat down at his side, and, apparently forgetting Jim, talked
long and tenderly of the past. She remembered Mrs. Benedict so well! And
she had so many times carried flowers and placed them upon her grave!
She told him about the troubles in the town, and the numbers of poor
people who had risked their little all and lost it in the great
speculation; of those who were still hoping against hope that they
should see their hard-earned money again; of the execrations that were
already beginning to be heaped upon Mr. Belcher; of the hard winter that
lay before the village, and the weariness of sympathy which had begun to
tell upon her energies. Life, which had been once so full of the
pleasure of action and industry, was settling, more and more, into dull
routine, and she could see nothing but trouble ahead, for herself and
for all those in whom she was interested.
Mr. Benedict, for the first time since Jim had rescued him from the
alms-house, became wholly himself. The sympathy of a woman unlocked his
heart, and he talked in his old way. He alluded to his early trials with
entire freedom, to his long illness and mental alienation, to his hopes
for his boy, and especially to his indebtedness to Jim. On this latter
point he poured out his whole heart, and Jim himself was deeply affected
by the revelation of his gratitude. He tried in vain to protest, for
Mr. Benedict, having found his tongue, would not pause until he had laid
his soul bare before his benefactor. The effect that the presence of the
sympathetic woman produced upon his _protege_ put a new thought into
Jim's mind. He could not resist the conviction that the two were suited
to one another, and that the "little woman," as he tenderly called her,
would be happier with the inventor than she would be with him. It was
not a pleasant thought, but even then he cast aside his selfishness with
a great struggle, and determined that he would not stand in the way of
an event which would crush his fondest hopes. Jim did not know women as
well as he thought he did. He did not see that the two met more like two
women than like representatives of opposite sexes. He did not see that
the sympathy between the pair was the sympathy of two natures which
would be the happiest in dependence, and that Miss Butterworth could no
more have chosen Mr. Benedict for a husband than she could have chosen
her own sister.
Mr. Benedict had never been informed by Jim of the name of the woman
whom he hoped to make his wife, but he saw at once, and with sincere
pleasure, that he was in her presence; and when he had finished what he
had to say to her, and again heartily expressed his pleasure in renewing
her acquaintance, he rose to go.
"Jim, I will not cut your call short, but I must get back, to my room
and prepare for to-morrow's journey. Let me leave you here, and find my
way back to my lodgings alone."
"All right," said Jim, "but we ain't goin' home to-morrer."
Benedict bade Miss Butterworth "good-night," but, as he was passing out
of the room, Jim remembered that there was something that he wished to
say to him, and so passed out with him, telling Miss Butterworth that he
should soon return.
When the door closed behind them, and they stood alone in the darkness,
Jim said, with his hand on his companion's shoulder, and an awful lie in
his throat:
"I brung ye here hopin' ye'd take a notion to this little woman. She'd
do more for ye nor anybody else. She can make yer clo'es, and be good
company for ye, an'--"
"And provide for me. No, that won't do, Jim."
"Well, you'd better think on't."
"No, Jim, I shall never marry again."
"Now's yer time. Nobody knows what'll happen afore mornin'."
"I understand you, Jim," said Mr. Benedict, "and I know what all this
costs you. You are worthy of her, and I hope you'll get her."
Mr. Benedict tore himself away, but Jim said, "hold on a bit."
Benedict turned, and then Jim inquired:
"Have ye got a piece of Indian rubber?"
"Yes."
"Then jest rub out the picter of the little feller in front of the
stoop, an' put in Turk. If so be as somethin' happens to-night, I sh'd
want to show her the plans in the mornin'; an' if she should ax me whose
little feller it was, it would be sort o' cumbersome to tell her, an' I
sh'd have to lie my way out on't."
Mr. Benedict promised to attend to the matter before he slept, and then
Jim went back into the house.
Of the long conversation that took place that night between the woodsman
and the little tailoress we shall present no record. That he pleaded his
case well and earnestly, and without a great deal of bashfulness, will
be readily believed by those who have made his acquaintance. That the
woman, in her lonely circumstances, and with her hungry heart, could
lightly refuse the offer of his hand and life was an impossibility. From
the hour of his last previous visit she had unconsciously gone toward
him in her affections, and when she met him she learned, quite to her
own surprise, that her heart had found its home. He had no culture, but
his nature was manly. He had little education, but his heart was true,
and his arm was strong. Compared with Mr. Belcher, with all his wealth,
he was nobility personified. Compared with the sordid men around her,
with whom he would be an object of supercilious contempt, he seemed like
a demigod. His eccentricities, his generosities, his originalities of
thought and fancy, were a feast to her. There was more of him than she
could find in any of her acquaintances--more that was fresh, piquant,
stimulating, and vitally appetizing. Having once come into contact with
him, the influence of his presence had remained, and it was with a
genuine throb of pleasure that she found herself with him again.
When he left her that night, he left her in tears. Bending over her,
with his strong hands holding her cheeks tenderly, as she looked up into
his eyes, he kissed her forehead.
"Little woman," said he, "I love ye. I never knowed what love was afore,
an' if this is the kind o' thing they have in heaven, I want to go there
when you do. Speak a good word for me when ye git a chance."
Jim walked on air all the way back to his lodgings--walked by his
lodgings--stood still, and looked up at the stars--went out to the
waterfall, and watched the writhing, tumbling, roaring river--wrapped in
transcendent happiness. Transformed and transfused by love, the world
around him seemed quite divine. He had stumbled upon the secret of his
existence. He had found the supreme charm of life. He felt that a new
principle had sprung to action within him, which had in it the power to
work miracles of transformation. He could never be in the future exactly
what he had been in the past. He had taken a step forward and upward--a
step irretraceable.
Jim had never prayed, but there was something about this experience that
lifted his heart upward. He looked up to the stars, and said to himself:
"He's somewhere up thar, I s'pose. I can't seen 'im, an' I must look
purty small to Him if He can seen me; but I hope He knows as I'm
obleeged to 'im, more nor I can tell 'im. When He made a good woman, He
did the biggest thing out, an' when He started a man to lovin' on her,
He set up the best business that was ever did. I hope He likes the
'rangement, and won't put nothin' in the way on't. Amen! I'm goin' to
bed."
Jim put his last determination into immediate execution. He found Mr.
Benedict in his first nap, from which he felt obliged to rouse him, with
the information that it was "all right," and that the quicker the house
was finished the better it would be for all concerned.
The next morning, Turk having been substituted for the child in the
foreground of the front elevation of the hotel, the two men went up to
Miss Butterworth's, and exhibited and talked over the plans. They
received many valuable hints from the prospective mistress of the
prospective mansion. The stoop was to be made broader for the
accommodation of visitors; more room for wardrobes was suggested, with
little conveniences for housekeeping, which complicated the plans not a
little. Mr. Benedict carefully noted them all, to be wrought out at his
leisure.
Jim's love had wrought a miracle in the night. He had said nothing about
it to his architect, but it had lifted him above the bare utilities of a
house, so that he could see the use of beauty. "Thar's one thing," said
he, "as thar hain't none on us thought on; but it come to me last night.
There's a place where the two ruffs come together that wants somethin',
an' it seems to me it's a cupalo--somethin' to stan' up over the whole
thing, and say to them as comes, 'Hallelujer!' We've done a good deal
for house-keepin', now let's do somethin' for glory. It's jest like a
ribbon on a bonnet, or a blow on a potato-vine. It sets it off, an'
makes a kind o' Fourth o' July for it. What do ye say, little woman?"
The "little woman" accepted the suggestion, and admitted that it would
at least make the building look more like a hotel.
All the details settled, the two men went away, and poor Benedict had a
rough time in getting back to camp. Jim could hardly restrain himself
from going through in a single day, so anxious was he to get at his
traps and resume work upon the house. There was no fatigue too great for
him now. The whole world was bright and full of promise; and he could
not have been happier or more excited if he had been sure that at the
year's end a palace and a princess were to be the reward of his
enterprise.