“It may be as you say, Mr. Daniel,” returned Miller, with a lawyer's reserve on a point unsubstantiated by evidence, “but even if he has the money hidden away, how are we to get it from him?” “I'd find a way,” retorted Daniel, hotly, “so I would.” “We 'll do all we can,” said Miller. Daniel strode into the house and Alan went after his horse. Miller stood at the gate, idly tapping his boot with his whip. “Poor Mrs. Bishop!” he said, his eyes on the house; “how very much she resembled Adele just now, and she is bearing it just like the little girl would. I reckon they 'll write her the bad news. I wish I was there to--soften the blow. It will wring her heart.” XXIII [Illustration: 9201] HAT evening after supper the family remained, till bedtime, in the big, bare-looking dining-room, the clean, polished floors of which gleamed in the light of a little fire in the big chimney. Bishop's chair was tilted back against the wall in a dark corner, and Mrs. Bishop sat knitting mechanically. Abner was reading--or trying to read--a weekly paper at the end of the dining-table, aided by a dimly burning glass-lamp. Aunt Maria had removed the dishes and, with no little splash and clatter, was washing them in the adjoining kitchen. Suddenly Abner laid down his paper and began to try to console them for their loss. Mrs. Bishop listened patiently, but Bishop sat in the very coma of despair, unconscious of what was going on around him. “Alf,” Abner called out, sharply, “don't you remember what a close-fisted scamp I used to be about the time you an' Betsy fust hitched together?” “No, I don't,” said the man addressed, almost with a growl at being roused from what could not have been pleasant reflections. “I remember folks said you was the stingiest one in our family,” struck in Mrs. Bishop, plaintively. “Law me! I hain't thought of it from that day to this. It seems powerful funny now to think of you havin' sech a reputation, but I railly believe you had it once.”