The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him. Paul Leicester Ford

freshness and coolness which even a great city cannot take from a summer dawn. For some reason Peter felt more encouraged. Perhaps it was the consciousness of having beaten his loneliness and misery by mere physical endurance. Perhaps it was only the natural spring of twenty years. At all events, he felt dimly, that miserable and unhopeful as the future looked, he was not conquered yet; that he was going to fight on, come what might.

      He turned to the river front, and after bargaining with a passing cart for a pint of what the poorer people of the city buy as milk, he turned north, and quickening his pace, walked till he had left the city proper and had reached the new avenue or "drive," which, by the liberality of Mr. Tweed with other people's money, was then just approaching completion. After walking the length of it, he turned back to his boarding-place, and after a plunge, felt as if he could face and fight the future to any extent.

      As a result of this he was for the first time late at breakfast The presider over the box-office had ascertained that Peter had spent the night out, and had concluded he would have a gird or two at him. He failed, however, to carry out his intention. It was not the first time that both he and his companions had decided to "roast" Peter, absent, but had done other wise with Peter, present. He had also decided to say to Peter, "Who's your dandy letter-writer?" But he also failed to do that. This last intention referred to a letter that lay at Peters place, and which was examined by each of the four in turn. That letter had an air about it. It was written on linen paper of a grade which, if now common enough, was not so common at that time. Then it was postmarked from one of the most, fashionable summer resorts of the country. Finally, it was sealed with wax, then very unusual, and the wax bore the impression of a crest. They were all rather disappointed when Peter put that letter in his pocket, without opening it.

      Peter read the letter at his office that morning. It was as follows:

      GREY-COURT, July 21st.

      DEAR. OLD MAN—

      Like a fool I overslept myself on the morning you left, so did not get my talk with you. You know I never get up early, and never can, so you have only your refusal to let me in that night to blame for our not having a last chat. If I had had the news to tell you that I now have, I should not have let you keep me out, even if you had forced me to break my way in.

      Chum, the nicest girl in the world has told me that she loves me, and we are both as happy as happy can be, I know you will not be in a moment's doubt as to who she is, I have only run down here to break it to my family, and shall go back to the Shrubberies early next week—to talk to Mr. Pierce, you understand!

      My governor has decided that a couple of years' travel will keep me out of mischief as well as anything else he can devise, and as the prospect is not unpleasant, I am not going to let my new plans interfere with it, merely making my journeyings a solitude à deux, instead of solus. So we shall be married in September, at the Shrubberies, and sail for Europe almost immediately.

      Now, I want you to stand by me in this, as you have in other things, and help me through. I want you, in short, to be my "best man" as you have been my Best friend. "Best man," I should inform you, is an English wedding institution, which our swell people have suddenly discovered is a necessity to make a marriage ceremony legal. He doesn't do much. Holding his principal's hat, I believe, is the most serious duty that falls to him, though perhaps not stepping on the bridal dresses is more difficult.

      My Mamma wants me to drive with her, so this must be continued in our next.

      Aff.,

      W.

      Peter did not read law that morning. But after sitting in his chair for a couple of hours, looking at the opposite wall, and seeing something quite different, he took his pen, and without pause, or change of face, wrote two letters, as follows:

      DEAR WATTS:

      You hardly surprised me by your letter. I had suspected, both from your frequent visits to the Shrubberies, and from a way in which you occasionally spoke of Miss Pierce, that you loved her. After seeing her, I felt that it was not possible you did not. So I was quite prepared for your news. You have indeed been fortunate in winning such a girl. That I wish you every joy and happiness I need not say.

      I think you could have found some other of the fellows better suited to stand with you, but if you think otherwise, I shall not fail you.

      You will have to tell me about details, clothes, etc. Perhaps you can suggest a gift that will do? I remember Miss Pierce saying she was very fond of pearls. Would it be right to give something of that kind?

      Faithfully yours,

      PETER.

      DEAR MISS PIERCE:

      A letter from Watts this morning tells me of his good fortune. Fearing lest my blindness may perhaps still give you pain, I write to say that your happiness is the most earnest wish of my life, and nothing which increases it can be other than good news to me. If I can ever serve you in any way, you will be doing me a great favor by telling me how.

      Please give my regards to Mr. and Mrs. Pierce, and believe me,

      Yours ever sincerely,

      PETER STIRLING.

      After these letters were written, Peter studied the wall again for a time. Studied it till long after the hour when he should have lunched. The wall had three cracks in it which approximated to an outline of Italy, but though Peter gazed at this particular wall a good many hours in the next few weeks, he did not discover this interesting fact till long after this time of wall-gazing.

      In the early morning and after dinner, in spite of the summer heat, he took long walks. During the day he sat in his office doing nothing, with the exception of an occasional letter to his mother, and one or two to Watts in respect to the coming wedding. Two visits to the tailor's, and another to Tiffany's, which resulted in a pearl pin rather out of proportion to his purse, were almost the sole variations of this routine. It was really a relief to this terrible inactivity, when he found himself actually at the Shrubberies, the afternoon before the wedding.

      Peter was rather surprised at the ease with which he went through the next twenty-four hours. It is true that the house was too full, and each person too busy, to trouble the silent groomsman with attention, so he might have done pretty much what he wished, without being noticed. He arrived late, thus having no chance for greetings till after a hurried dressing for dinner, when they were made in the presence of the whole party, who had waited his coming to go to the meal. He went through the ordeal well, even that with Miss Pierce, actually showing less embarrassment than she did. What was more astonishing, he calmly offered his arm to the bridesmaid who fell to his lot, and, after seating her, chatted without thinking that he was talking. Indeed, he hardly heeded what he did say, but spoke mechanically, as a kind of refuge from thought and feeling.

      "I didn't find him a bit so," the girl said to Miss Pierce, later in the evening, with an indefiniteness which, if not merely feminine, must presuppose a previous conversation. "He isn't exactly talkative, but he is perfectly easy to get on with. I tried him on New York, and found he had gone into a good many odd places and can tell about them. He describes things very well, so that one sees them."

      "It must be your tact, then, Miss Leroy," said Mrs. Pierce, "for we could get nothing out of him before."

      "No? I had nothing to do with it, and, between ourselves, I think he disapproved of me. If Helen hadn't told me about him, I should have been very cool to him, his manner was so objectionable. He clearly talked to me because he felt it a duty, and not a pleasure."

      "That's only that unfortunate manner of his," said Helen. "I really think at heart he's dreadfully afraid of us. At least that's what Watts says. But he only behaves as if—as if—well, you know what I mean, Alice!"

      "Exactly," said Alice. "You can't describe it. He's so cool, and stolid, and silent, that you feel shoddy and cheap, and any simple little remark doesn't seem enough to say. You try to talk up to him, and yet feel small all the time."

      "Not at all," said Helen. "You talk down to him, as if he were—were—your old grandfather,