Mr. Windlespin was too wily to be long in doubt as to Mr. Montague’s circumstances. He managed to discover that he was a widower, sorrowing over the recent loss of a beloved wife, and that he had come to the north with the double motive of dissipating his grief, and purchasing a certain description of merchandise, which he designed to send to the city of Galveston, where a branch of his widely-extended commercial house was established. This news was of course communicated to the young ladies, and while Grace became doubly sentimental, Kate, the amiable romp, determined to wile him from his vain regrets by the charms of gayety. Leaving his daughters to pursue their matrimonial plans, Mr. Windlespin determined to make the most of his present opportunities, and, if possible, to gain some percentage on account of the interesting stranger. He accordingly sounded a friend, a careful old Scotchman, who dealt largely in the kind of goods required by Mr. Montague, and endeavored to secure a handsome commission from him, in case he brought him so profitable a customer. But the crafty old fellow was not to be caught with fair promises; he required proof of Mr. Montague’s ability to become a cash customer, and accepted an invitation to meet him at Mr. Windlespin’s apartments. But the scene which met his eyes when he entered the parlor at early twilight, was not calculated to give him a very exalted opinion of his anticipated dealer. The elegant Mr. Montague, attired in pantaloons of spotless white, with gaiters of the same snowy hue, extending within an inch of the toe of his shining boot—a blue silk fancy jacket, fastened to his waist by a sash of crimson net—an embroidered collar, turned back from his throat, and embroidered ruffles dangling over his delicate hands, seemed to the rough old borderer like the very personification of effeminacy and folly. But when he only half rose from his graceful attitude, and extended the tip of his finger to the visiter, while he directly turned from him to continue his flirtation with the sisters, Mr. MacDonald lost all patience with himself for having been foolish enough to expect any benefit from such a “popinjay.” But even Mr. MacDonald could not read the character of the “interesting stranger.” Early on the following morning, he had scarcely reached the counting-room, when he was surprised by a visit from Mr. Montague, and the old man could scarcely identify the hero of the past evening’s manœuvres in the keen and practised man of business who now addressed him. “I never talk on business in the presence of ladies, sir,” said the elegant gentleman, “and this, I hope, will account for my silence on the subject last evening; if I am rightly informed, however, you are the very person to whom I was advised to apply by my friend Mr. Tickler, of New Orleans.” “Ah, Mr. Tickler, cashier of the Sugarcane Bank, you mean; an old friend of mine,” answered Mr. MacDonald, “did he give you letters to me?”