"Suppose," continued Theodore to his inner self; "suppose I should take that poor fellow who is leaning against the post? God's mercy is great enough for him. I want somebody to bring as a thank-offering for Jim and Rick--yes, and for Mr. Ryan, too. I believe I'll choose him. I'll find out who he is, and follow him up, with the Lord's help, until he chooses one of the many mansions for himself. How shall I go to work to discover who he is and where he belongs? I really doubt his knowledge of either subject just at present." Then the man embracing the post spoke for the first time. "What you s'pose ails this confounded lamp-post? Won't stand still; whirls round like a wind-mill or a church-steeple, or suthin. B'lieve it's drunk, sure's you live." Something in the manner, in the tones, thick and foolish and unnatural though they were, brought Theodore to a full stop before the poor fellow, and caused him to look eagerly in the upturned face, while the blood surged violently through his veins. "Drunk!" returned the less intoxicated companion, contemptuously. "You're drunk yourself, that's what's the matter. You better come on now and let that lamp-post stay where it is. I ain't going to drag you both home, I reckon." Meantime Theodore laid a firm steady hand on the arm of the drunken man, and spoke in a low quiet tone, "Pliny," for he had too surely recognized the voice, and knew now beyond the shadow of a doubt that the "poor wretch" in question was Pliny Hastings, and that his drunken companion was the old friend of his boyhood, Ben. Phillips. So these three, whose lives had commenced on the same day of time, had crossed each other's paths once more. With very little effort he persuaded the poor bewildered fellow to desert his whirling post, and a carriage returning empty from the midnight train came at his call, and the three were promptly seated therein, and the order given by Theodore, No.--Euclid Avenue. A strange ride it was for him. His companions sang and yelled and quarreled by turns, until at last the sleepy stage came upon them, and this but for one thing was a relief. It had been no part of his plan to be seen by any dweller in the Hastings' mansion that night; but if this man was to be an utterly helpless log how could he help it? However, he comforted himself with the thought that a servant was probably in waiting, and that they could get him quickly and quietly to his room. So when the carriage rolled up the avenue and halted before the door, he sprang out, and once more rang the bell and awaited admittance to Hastings' Hall. He had not long to wait; he heard the night-latch click sharply, and a moment thereafter the door swung open, and he confronted not a servant but Dora, looking nearly as white and quite as grave as she had on the day of the ride. "Dora!" he said, in his surprise and alarm. "Why, is it you? Where is your father?" "Papa is in his room. Is it Pliny, Mr. Mallery?"