“I won’t alter my figures,” repeated Mr. Goodman, interrupting him. “Then, sir, you cannot count on a law to prevent people running after foxes,” answered Mr. Fox dryly; but presently, shrugging his shoulders, “However, as much as can be accomplished with that small sum of money, I will accomplish.” “I don’t doubt it,” observed Mr. Goodman; then, turning toward the table, “And now, sir, suppose we drink a glass of wine, after which you will proceed to Albany.” Accordingly, to Albany Mr. Fox went, while Richard Goodman and his daughter took wing for Long Branch. But, strange to relate, the change of air did not work the beneficial effects which her father had expected. There was evidently something the matter with Daisy. She had grown thoughtful beyond her years, and would ever and anon sit down on the beach, and, with Rover’s head resting on her lap, gaze out over the blue waters without opening her lips for perhaps a whole hour. “What can ail my darling child?” Mr. Goodman often asked himself during these pensive moods. Then he consulted three physicians who happened to be taking a holiday at the Branch; one of whom recommended iron, another cod-liver oil, while the third doctor said: “Fresh milk, sir, fresh milk.” While he was thus worried about Daisy, the torrid, sunstroke heat of summer flamed down upon the city, and more and more people followed his example and fled to Newport and the White Mountains, to Saratoga and Long Branch. But those who went away were as a drop in the ocean to those who remained behind. The toilers are ever legion. We see them not, yet they are always near, toiling, toiling; and our refinement, our luxury, our happiness, are too often the fruit of their misery. The deeper the miner delves in the mine, the higher towers the castle of Mammon. So in these sultry dog-days Flywheel Bob’s spider fingers were at work for Richard Goodman’s benefit, as deftly as in the depths of winter――no holiday for those poor fingers. Yet not even a sigh does Bob heave, and he cares less now for the blessed sunshine than he did in his baby days, when it painted a golden streak on the cellar floor. O foolish boy! why didst thou not go with thy mother? There was room enough in the pine box to have held ye both, and in Potter’s field thy weary body would have found rest long ago.