She proceeded to give an account of Mrs. Argand's discovery of my identity, and to take us both off. "They didn't pay the rent, I suppose?" "Yes. But it was not his fault--just their misfortune. His wife's illness and being out of work and all--it just piled up on top of him. A man named Ring--something--a walking-delegate whom he used to know back in the East, got down on him, and followed him up, and when he was about to get in the Union, he turned him down. And, Dad, you've just got to give him a place." "Wringman, possibly," said Mr. Leigh. "There's a man of that name in the city who seems to be something of a leader. He's a henchman of Coll McSheen and does his dirty work for him. He has been trying to make trouble for us for some time. Send your man around to Butts to-morrow, and I'll see what we can do for him." Eleanor ran and flung her arms around her father's neck. "Oh! Dad! If you only knew what a load you have lifted from my shoulders. I believe Heaven will bless you for this." "I know Butts will," said Mr. Leigh, kissing her. "How's our friend, the Marvel, coming on?" "Dad, he's a saint!" "So I have heard before," said Mr. Leigh. "And that other one--how is he?" "Which one?" "Is there any other but the Jew? I have not heard of another reforming saint." "No, he is a sinner," said Eleanor, laughing; and she went on to give an account of my episode with Pushkin, which she had learned from John Marvel, who, I may say, had done me more than justice in his relation of the matter. "So the count thought a team had run over him, did he?" "Yes, that's what Mr. Marvel said." She related a brief conversation which had taken place between her and Pushkin and Mrs. Argand, after I left, in which Pushkin had undertaken to express his opinion of me, and she had given him to understand that she knew the true facts in the matter of our collision. All of which I learned much later. "Well, I must say," said Mr. Leigh, "your new friend appears to have 'his nerve with him,' as you say." "Dad, I never use slang," said Miss Eleanor, severely. "I am glad you have promised to give poor McNeil a place, for, if you had not, I should have had to take him into the house." Mr. Leigh laughed. "I am glad, too, if that is the case. The last one you took in was a reformed drunkard, you said, and you know what happened to him and also to my wine." "Yes, but this one is all right." "Of course he is." There was joy next day in one poor little household, for McNeil, who had been dragging along through the streets for days with a weight, the heaviest the poor have to bear, bowing him down--want of work--came into his little bare room where his wife and children huddled over an almost empty stove, with a new step and a fresh note in his voice. He had gotten a place and it meant life to him and to those he loved. XXV FATE LEADS