But none of these things had anything to do with my contract. I worked away and had good weather, so I lost no time, and at the end of five months I had finished the house, been paid for it, had paid my bills, and made a clear two thousand dollars on the job. I could have made a thousand more, without any one being the wiser for it, but I don’t build houses in that way—the public will greatly oblige me by cutting this out. This money gave me a handsome business start, and having had no serious losses, nor any houses thrown back upon my hands—(for I always make it a point to do a little better than I promise, so folks can’t find fault)—I am now quite well off, and building houses on my own account, to sell; while some of my competitors, who started before I did, have been through bankruptcy, while some have been too poor to do even that. A few years after building Markson’s house, I went with a Southern friend into a black-walnut speculation. We bought land in the Southwest, cut the timber, got it to market, and made a handsome profit, I am glad to say. This business took me away from home, and kept me for months, but, as I was still without family ties, I did not suffer much during my absence. Still the old village seemed to take on a kind of motherly air as the stage, with me in it, rattled into town, and I was just dropping into a pleasant little reverie, when a carriage, which I recognized as Markson’s, dashed down the road, met us, and stopped, while the coachman shouted: “Raines’s foreman says the old man’s coming home to-day.” He meant me. “Reckon his head was purty level,” replied the stage-driver, tossing his head backward toward me. “Mr. Raines,” said the coachman, recognizing me, “Mr. Markson is awful sick—like to die any minute—an’ he wants to see you right away—wishes you wouldn’t wait for anything.” What to make of it I didn’t know, and said so, upon which the stage-driver rather pettishly suggested that ’twouldn’t take long to find out if I got behind Markson’s team; and, as I agreed with him, I changed conveyances, and was soon at Markson’s house. Helen met me at the door, and led me immediately to Markson’s chamber. The distance from the door of his room to the side of his bed couldn’t have been more than twenty feet, yet, in passing over it, it seemed to me that I imagined at least fifty reasons why the sick man had sent for me, but not one of the fifty was either sensible or satisfactory. I was even foolish enough to imagine Markson’s conscience was troubled, and that he was going to pay me some money which he justly owed me, whereas he had paid me every cent, according to contract. We reached his bedside before I had determined what it could be. Helen took his hand, and said: “Father, here is Mr. Raines.” Markson, who was lying motionless, with his face to the wall, turned quickly over and grasped my hand and beckoned me closer. I put my head down, and he whispered: