"You like a good song, I have heard, Mr. Bangs," came from the other side of the table. "Have you any favorite?" Mr. Bixby did not understand this at all. The question puzzled him. Should he as Bangs fall in the estimation of some relative if he admitted the fact? Or did his visitor intend to sing? However, he felt compelled to be frank, so he said: "Oh, yes; I like a good song. Some of the Scotch ballads please me most. There is 'The Land o' the Leal.'" "A very fine song, sir. A very fine song. It is a credit to any man to like that song." The old gentleman was excited. Mr. Bixby was just congratulating himself on having given Bangs a lift, when his thoughts were turned into an altogether new channel by the following remark: "It was my impression, however, that your taste ran rather in the way of drinking-songs. I should have thought now you would have said, 'The Coal-Black Wine.'" There was something in the tone with which this was uttered that made Mr. Bixby shudder. It ran through his mind that this man was some enemy of Bangs--that he was dangerous. Startled by this sudden suspicion, tremblingly he again peered under the shade. The wrinkle in the line of the frontal suture was more deeply indented. The light on the spectacles was brighter than ever. "Mr. Bangs, I called on your opposite neighbor, Mr. Bixby, to-night. I knocked on the door, but he was away." "Yes," said Mr. Bixby, somewhat confused. He wished that Bangs had stayed at home, and determined to end the interview as soon as possible. "Yes. I am sorry. I had a positive appointment with him. I am a great friend of his." "Does he know you?" "Oh, no; we have never met personally that he remembers. I am an old friend of the family. He suffers from the heart-disease, and has been expecting me." "Oh, you are a physician?" "Yes, sir. I attended his father at his last illness." Mr. Bixby's heart began to beat rapidly. His mind became equally active, and, although he had no experience to be guided by, he began to suspect the nature of this man's business with Bangs. He almost determined to discover himself, but the letters were yet unread. If that were only done, he would do anything his visitor might request. Recalling the old gentleman's last words, he said, at last, calmly: "And his mother?" "Yes, and his mother." The old man's voice assumed almost a kindly tone. "He is, indeed, a friend of my family," thought Mr. Bixby; and then he started, for fear he might have spoken aloud. His eyes fell upon the packet of letters. He must read them. He must end the interview. The old doctor must have noticed Mr. Bixby's eyes, with the tears rising in them, as he tenderly touched the letters one by one, for it was with a voice very gentle and low that he spoke again.