“Send her—, Mr. Cory,” said the organist, with a suppressed fierceness in his voice, “You saw how frail she is, how she looks as if, even now, the shadow of death might be upon her. You know how, from her birth, she has been crippled. I tell you one month in that school among strangers would kill her. Are there not strong arms enough in the world, is there not wealth enough already, that this unfortunate one, this perpetually enfeebled child, must wear out her brief span of life in a painful struggle to gain a little food?” “We are not, sir, expected to keep the ‘unfortunate one,’ as you call her,” blustered Mr. Cory, fairly purple with indignant astonishment. “What do you mean, sir? We are not under obligations to do any thing whatever for the girl. She should be thankful we interested ourselves in her behalf,” he said, partially choking with rage. “We will do this for her, but that is all. She is nothing to us.” “I had no intention of dictating,” said the organist, politely, who had quieted down as quickly as he had roused up. “You are right, sir, she is nothing to you, and you need not trouble yourself about the matter further. I will see that the child is provided for.” Then Mr. Cory looked at Franz as if he thought he had not heard aright, or that the music-master might be departing from his senses. “I repeat, I will see that the child is provided for, and you need not trouble yourself in regard to her further.” “Very well, sir, very well!” exclaimed the elder, rising, almost speechless with surprise. But when he reached the piazza he said,—“Then it is understood that I am not responsible in the case?” “It is understood.” Franz had had no intention of parting with the child. He would not have given her up had Mr. Cory offered all his grassy meadows. He watched him as he walked down the graveled path and disappeared in the darkness. “Charity!” he muttered. “Shut him out, O Night—hide him from view! Wrap your impenetrable mantle about him, that it may shield him from the eye of God and man!” The German stood for a moment looking out into the limitless gloom, which screened alike the evil and the good, then he turned again into the house. He went back, through the dining-room where his supper was spread untouched upon the table, to the kitchen, where Margery sat warming herself by the dying embers in the stove. The old servant was used to his irregular ways, and often saw his meals go untasted without a remark. But it was rarely the master ever intruded upon her premises, and she rose up as he came in, with an expression of surprise upon her quiet face. “Margery,” he said, “fix up the bedroom next to yours, then come down to me in the parlor.” The old woman heard him without a question, though never before could she remember when the guest-chamber had been used, or a visitor staid overnight at the house.