"Ahem! I will think of it. Does he send you any money?" "Not yet." "Then how do you live?" "Without calling upon you, Albert," said Mrs. Barton, with a little tinge of bitterness. "I hardly think you feel enough interest in me to care how I live." Albert Marlowe was somewhat embarrassed, and regretted that he had asked the question. Mrs. Barton might take it into her head that he was willing to contribute to her support, and this was far from being the case. "Women look at things from a peculiar point of view," he said. "Of course I wish you well, and for that reason regret that you are so injudicious in your management of Bert." "I have no fear but that Bert will turn out well," rejoined Mrs. Barton proudly. "Ahem! I hope so, though that twenty-dollar affair led me to fear that he had inherited loose ideas about honesty." "What do you mean?" demanded Mrs. Barton, her cheeks aflame with indignation. "I shouldn't think you would need to ask. Of course we both know why Mr. Barton is an exile, unable to return home." "Yes, Albert Marlowe, we do know! He is an innocent man, suffering for the crime of another." "That is what he says, is it?" sneered the squire. "That might be expected." "Because it is true; but, Albert Marlowe, I have good hopes that his innocence may be vindicated, and the real criminal brought to light." Her intense gaze made the squire uncomfortable. "Did she mean anything?" he asked himself. "It is natural for you to take the most favorable view of the matter," he said; "but your hope is hardly likely to be realized. Good-morning." Mrs. Barton looked after him, and her spirit rose in revolt against the inequalities of fortune. Here was the real criminal, as she fully believed--rich, prosperous, enjoying a high social position, while her poor husband, the scapegoat for another's offense, was an exile from home. The next day Squire Marlowe went to New York on business. He occasionally visited Wall Street, and now and then made an investment. He looked the embodiment of dignity and respectability, with his ample figure, fine broadcloth suit, and gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and might readily have been taken for a prosperous and wealthy city banker. About one o'clock he entered an expensive restaurant, a stone's throw from Broadway, and taking up the bill of fare made a selection of dishes for his dinner. As he did so, he said to himself, with a comfortable smile: "When I was a common workman in a shoe shop, how little did I think that I should ever be able to sit down in a restaurant like this, and pay a dollar and a half for my dinner. Why, I didn't earn much more than that by a day's labor. Here I am surrounded by brokers, bankers, and wealthy merchants, and quite as good as they."