“There's another thing--I want to open my heart to you,” he said. “I haven't a brother or sister or friend that I can talk to about certain matters. The fact is, I'm in love and engaged to be married.” He paused, and was smoking thoughtfully, as I asked, “To Miss Fame?” “No; she didn't reciprocate; and maybe it's just as well. I am engaged to a talented actress by the name of Maud Isabel Manning.” He paused again as if to note the effect of this impressive name, and continued: “She's from New York, and beautiful as a dream. Came here with a show, and one morning she walked into the office. Told me that she used my toilet soap, and wanted to see the factory. I showed her about, and fell in love with her. She's a wonder--grand clothes, and knows how to wear 'em; wonderful education, fine talker, sings like a bird, and can make the piano roar. I told her about my false leg and foot and my family--that's worse than a wooden leg--but she doesn't mind, and we're going to be married.” I fear that I shared the prejudice of my Puritan fathers against the stage, and was a little taken aback and a bit conservative in my comment. I think he felt it, for he blushed and began to argue, although a little off the point. “I think every gentleman ought to marry. There's something about women that makes a man gentle. Old bachelors are about as ugly as a bear with a sore head. I want somebody to work for besides myself. I can't love myself well enough to pay for the struggle. I've got to have somebody who grows happy as I grow rich, or I wouldn't care for money, upon my word I wouldn't. Then the Bible says that men should increase and multiply and replenish the earth.” I wished him all happiness, and tried to put his mind at ease. “I am forgetting you in talking of myself--you will want to retire,” he said, and we closed the office and walked to the inn together. Next morning some one rapped at my bedroom door. “Who's there?” I demanded. “A friend and fellow-citizen from St. Lawrence County,” was the answer, and I knew it was Pearl. I opened the door, and there stood my old friend in the familiar goggles and linen duster, but with his left sleeve empty and a new scar on the side of his face. “Mr. Pearl!” I exclaimed; “what's happened to you?” “Oh, I've just been trimmed up a little,” he said, with a smile, as he gave me his hand. “It's nothing. Every tree needs it once in a while. I had too much wood for my sap.” “An accident?” I asked, with tears in my eyes. “An accident, an' I'm tryin' to forget it,” said he. “How are the folks?” And I saw clearly that he wished me to say no more of his misfortunes. Soon Mr. McCarthy came, and he and the Pearl went to the shop together. STAGE VIII.--IN WHICH YOUNG MR. HERON COMES TO A TURN IN THE ROAD [Illustration: 9221] FTER breakfast I found the handmade gentleman at his factory, and went with him into all its departments, and saw a hundred men and women at work.