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 ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

About the Authors

Kathy Sierra was a lead developer for the SCJP exam for Java 5 and Java 6.
Kathy worked as a Sun “master trainer,” and in 1997, founded
JavaRanch.com, the world’s largest Java community website. Her bestselling
Java books have won multiple Software Development Magazine awards, and
she is a founding member of Oracle’s Java Champions program.
These days, Kathy is developing advanced training programs in a variety
of domains (from horsemanship to computer programming), but the thread
that ties all of her projects together is helping learners reduce cognitive load.

Bert Bates was a lead developer for many of Sun’s Java certification exams,
including the SCJP for Java 5 and Java 6. Bert was also one of the lead
developers for Oracle’s OCA 7 and OCP 7 exams and a contributor to the
OCP 8 exam. He is a forum moderator on JavaRanch.com and has been
developing software for more than 30 years (argh!). Bert is the co-author of
several best-selling Java books, and he’s a founding member of Oracle’s Java
Champions program. Now that the book is done, Bert plans to go whack a
few tennis balls around and once again start riding his beautiful Icelandic
horse, Eyrraros fra Gufudal-Fremri.

Elisabeth Robson has an MSc in Computer Science and was a software

programmer and engineering manager at The Walt Disney Company for
many years. Since 2012 she has been a freelance writer and instructor. She
produces online training and has written four best-selling books, including
Head First Design Patterns (O’Reilly).

About the Technical Review Team

This is the fifth edition of the book that we’ve cooked up. The first version
we worked on was for Java 2. Then we updated the book for the SCJP 5,
again for the SCJP 6, then for the OCA 7 and OCP 7 exams, and now for the
OCA 8 and OCP 8 exams. Every step of the way, we were unbelievably
fortunate to have fantastic JavaRanch.com-centric technical review teams at
our sides. Over the course of the last 15 years, we’ve been “evolving” the
book more than rewriting it. Many sections from our original work on the
Java 2 book are still intact. On the following pages, we’d like to acknowledge
the members of the various technical review teams who have saved our bacon
over the years.

About the Java 2 Technical Review Team

Johannes de Jong has been the leader of our technical review teams forever
and ever. (He has more patience than any three people we know.) For the
Java 2 book, he led our biggest team ever. Our sincere thanks go out to the
following volunteers who were knowledgeable, diligent, patient, and picky,
picky, picky!
Rob Ross, Nicholas Cheung, Jane Griscti, Ilja Preuss, Vincent Brabant,
Kudret Serin, Bill Seipel, Jing Yi, Ginu Jacob George, Radiya, LuAnn
Mazza, Anshu Mishra, Anandhi Navaneethakrishnan, Didier Varon, Mary
McCartney, Harsha Pherwani, Abhishek Misra, and Suman Das.

About the SCJP 5 Technical Review Team

Andrew
Bill M.

Burk
Devender

Gian
 Jef

Jeoren

Jim
Johannes

Kristin
Marcelo

Marilyn
 Mark

Mikalai

Seema
 Valentin

We don’t know who burned the most midnight oil, but we can (and did)
count everybody’s edits—so in order of most edits made, we proudly present
our Superstars.
Our top honors go to Kristin Stromberg—every time you see a
semicolon used correctly, tip your hat to Kristin. Next up is Burk Hufnagel
who fixed more code than we care to admit. Bill Mietelski and Gian Franco
Casula caught every kind of error we threw at them—awesome job, guys!
Devender Thareja made sure we didn’t use too much slang, and Mark
Spritzler kept the humor coming. Mikalai Zaikin and Seema Manivannan
made great catches every step of the way, and Marilyn de Queiroz and
Valentin Crettaz both put in another stellar performance (saving our butts
yet again).

Marcelo Ortega, Jef Cumps (another veteran), Andrew Monkhouse, and

Jeroen Sterken rounded out our crew of Superstars—thanks to you all. Jim
Yingst was a member of the Sun exam creation team, and he helped us write
and review some of the twistier questions in the book (bwa-ha-ha-ha).
As always, every time you read a clean page, thank our reviewers, and if
you do catch an error, it’s most certainly because your authors messed up.
And oh, one last thanks to Johannes. You rule, dude!

About the SCJP 6 Technical Review Team

 Fred

Marc P.
Marc W.

Mikalai
 Christophe

Since the upgrade to the Java 6 exam was like a small surgical strike we
decided that the technical review team for this update to the book needed to
be similarly fashioned. To that end, we hand-picked an elite crew of
JavaRanch’s top gurus to perform the review for the Java 6 exam.
Our endless gratitude goes to Mikalai Zaikin. Mikalai played a huge role
in the Java 5 book, and he returned to help us out again for this Java 6
edition. We need to thank Volha, Anastasia, and Daria for letting us borrow
Mikalai. His comments and edits helped us make huge improvements to the
book. Thanks, Mikalai!

Marc Peabody gets special kudos for helping us out on a double header! In
addition to helping us with Sun’s new SCWCD exam, Marc pitched in with a
great set of edits for this book—you saved our bacon this winter, Marc!
(BTW, we didn’t learn until late in the game that Marc, Bryan Basham, and
Bert all share a passion for ultimate Frisbee!)
Like several of our reviewers, not only does Fred Rosenberger volunteer
copious amounts of his time moderating at JavaRanch, he also found time to
help us out with this book. Stacey and Olivia, you have our thanks for
loaning us Fred for a while.

Marc Weber moderates at some of JavaRanch’s busiest forums. Marc knows

his stuff and uncovered some really sneaky problems that were buried in the
book. While we really appreciate Marc’s help, we need to warn you all to
watch out—he’s got a Phaser!
Finally, we send our thanks to Christophe Verre—if we can find him. It
appears that Christophe performs his JavaRanch moderation duties from
various locations around the globe, including France, Wales, and most
recently Tokyo. On more than one occasion Christophe protected us from our
own lack of organization. Thanks for your patience, Christophe! It’s
important to know that these guys all donated their reviewer honorariums to
JavaRanch! The JavaRanch community is in your debt.

The OCA 7 and OCP 7 Team

Contributing Authors

Tom

Jeanne

The OCA 7 exam is primarily a useful repackaging of some of the objectives

from the SCJP 6 exam. On the other hand, the OCP 7 exam introduced a vast
array of brand-new topics. We enlisted several talented Java gurus to help us
cover some of the new topics on the OCP 7 exam. Thanks and kudos to Tom
McGinn for his fantastic work in creating the massive JDBC chapter. Several
reviewers told us that Tom did an amazing job channeling the informal tone
we use throughout the book. Next, thanks to Jeanne Boyarsky. Jeanne was
truly a renaissance woman on this project. She contributed to several OCP
chapters; she wrote some questions for the master exams; she performed
some project management activities; and as if that wasn’t enough, she was
one of our most energetic technical reviewers. Jeanne, we can’t thank you
enough. Our thanks go to Matt Heimer for his excellent work on the
concurrency chapter. A really tough topic, nicely handled! Finally, Roel De
Nijs and Roberto Perillo made some nice contributions to the book and
helped out on the technical review team—thanks, guys!

Technical Review Team

Roel

Mikalai
 Vijitha

Roberto

Roel, what can we say? Your work as a technical reviewer is unparalleled.

Roel caught so many technical errors, it made our heads spin. Between the
printed book and all the material on the CD, we estimate that there are over
1,500 pages of “stuff” here. It’s huge! Roel grinded through page after page,
never lost his focus, and made this book better in countless ways. Thank you,
Roel!
In addition to her other contributions, Jeanne provided one of the most
thorough technical reviews we received. (We think she enlisted her team of
killer robots to help her!)
It seems like no K&B book would be complete without help from our old
friend Mikalai Zaikin. Somehow, between earning 812 different Java
certifications, being a husband and father (thanks to Volha, Anastasia,
Daria, and Ivan), and being a “theoretical fisherman” [sic], Mikalai made
substantial contributions to the quality of the book; we’re honored that you
helped us again, Mikalai.
Next up, we’d like to thank Vijitha Kumara, JavaRanch moderator and
tech reviewer extraordinaire. We had many reviewers help out during the
long course of writing this book, but Vijitha was one of the few who stuck
with us from Chapter 1 all the way through the master exams and on to
Chapter 15. Vijitha, thank you for your help and persistence!
Finally, thanks to the rest of our review team: Roberto Perillo (who also
wrote some killer exam questions), Jim Yingst (was this your fourth time?),
other repeat offenders: Fred Rosenberger, Christophe Verre, Devaka
Cooray, Marc Peabody, and newcomer Amit Ghorpade—thanks, guys!

The OCP 8 Team

Approximately two-thirds of the OCP 8 exam’s objectives are the same as the
OCP 7 exam, and about one-third are new topics focused on all of the
amazing new features introduced in Java 8. This time around, our entire
review team was composed of veterans. In addition, it’s about time that we
give thanks to all of the folks on JavaRanch who took time to share errata
with us. Because of our amazing xiireview team and the generosity of
JavaRanchers (we know “CodeRanch”), this book was improved immensely.
Between the printed book and the two final mock exams, this book has
well over 900 pages of material. One way of looking at this book is that every
page is a series of factual claims. It’s hard to estimate, but perhaps there are
20 such claims on every page. That means we’re making about 18,000 factual
claims in this book! This makes us authors feel better about saying that our
various reviewers found hundreds of errors or areas in which our
explanations could have been better. Hundreds out of 18,000 isn’t too bad is
it?
When we’re in the mode of incorporating our reviewers’ feedback, we
often have to make tough choices. We know that our job isn’t to restate the
Java Language Spec. We have to make many decisions about how deeply to
go into the topics on the exam. You should know that our reviewers
constantly challenge us to go deeper. That’s a good thing. If you feel as
though we haven’t covered a topic as deeply as you’d like or that we’ve
oversimplified an explanation, the fault almost certainly lies with us authors,
not with the reviewers!
With all of that said, it’s time to thank the members of our amazing review
team individually.
Technical Review Team

Mikalai

Campbell

Paweł
 Frits

Roberto

Vijitha
 Tim

Mikalai, wow, wow, wow! This is the fourth time (at least?) that Mikalai
Zaikin has been one of our reviewers. Mikalai is a real expert, and he pushes
us and makes us think. Mikalai is first and foremost a family man (hooray!),
but he’s also a geek, and—not satisfied with being only a Java expert—he
also pursues other programming approaches as well. It wouldn’t surprise us
at all if he was into functional programming and other such wackiness. You
all have a huge debt to pay to Campbell. Campbell Ritchie is a JavaRanch
moderator and another true expert. Campbell is passionate about Java, and his
edits really taught us a thing or two. Thanks for all your time Campbell!
Paweł Baczyński, gave us a TON of good feedback. Paweł, send our thanks
to your wife and kids; we appreciate their patience! Our next thanks go to
veteran reviewer and JavaRanch moderator Frits Walraven. Frits is a
published mock-exam-question creator (awesome), husband, father, and
serial Java certificate holder. Get some sleep, Frits! Once again, we were
honored to have Roberto Perillo on our review team. This is at least the third
time Roberto has helped out. Given what a thankless job this is, Roberto, we
can’t thank you enough. Roberto is a dad, hooray, and from what we hear he
plays a mean guitar. With over 4000 JavaRanch posts to his credit, moderator
Vijitha Kumara proved once again to be “in it for the long haul!” In
addition to traveling and community service, Vijitha was with us right to the
final mock exam. Vijitha, thanks for all your help! Last but not least, our
thanks go to yet another JavaRanch moderator Tim Cooke. Rumor has it that
Tim’s cat Polly (an Erlang aficionado!?), was at Tim’s side throughout the
editing process. This might explain some of the attitude that came through in
Tim’s edits. Tim focused his energies on editing the new FP-ish additions to
the exam. Tim, thanks so much for all of your help!
For Jim, Joe, and Solveig
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
"Good!" exploded Peter. "Tell Monroe to watch out for flurries among
them."
"They will all come through."
"Hah, I thought Jacob would bring them to time," whispered Peter.
"How's he coming with his new company?"
"He'll have a million to float in a week."
"Why didn't he make it ten?" asked Peter.
"He's afraid the people are getting weary with so much stock already
on the market."
"The coal combine went," said Peter, smiling.
"But that was the project of the other gang," said Welty.
"Well, I got my tribute, as well as Jacob, for our little assistance," he
answered, with more fierce rubbing.
"Ah, they will all pay—that is, the big ones."
"Some of the little ones, too, eh?" said Peter.
"Where do I come in, Peter?" suddenly asked Welty. This question
caused Peter to look up quickly, with a leer.
"You're not showing the white feather?" asked Peter.
"No, no; but I need some money."
"How much?"
"A thousand."
"I will have Jacob see you," returned Peter.
Then Welty departed. He found Eli where he had left him,
unconscious, with some customers standing about waiting for the
young man to take his own good time about rising. The customers
had come into the store, and when they saw Eli lying on the floor,
remarked among themselves that he was taking an afternoon's nap.
When one of them sought to arouse him, they became alarmed as
to what might have happened, for Eli would not rouse himself. So
they were standing about him in contemplation when Welty came
out of Peter's office. Welty glanced at Eli obliquely, as if deigning to
stoop so low as to lend aid to his victim, brushed past the onlookers,
and made his exit by the front door.
Peter, seeing that something was wrong, strutted out in a fluster,
with his belly about a foot ahead of him. He had not observed from
his peephole that Eli had not resumed his duties while Welty was in
his office, so great was his interest in that visitor. But finding Eli in
his predicament, Peter called on one of his customers to assist in his
resurrection. Eli, thereupon, was lifted to his feet, but he was so
near the limberness of a rope it was impossible to cause him to
assume the perpendicularity of a standing man. Then that old
remedy—water—was applied, with no effect. Eli looked like a faded
piece of blue calico, so deathly was his face.
They called a doctor; with no results. They called an ambulance, and
conveyed him to a hospital. They called in the police to make an
investigation; with no results. Peter knew nothing. It was a strange
affair. The customers, of course, knew nothing; nobody could get
head nor tail of what had happened Eli. It was a deep mystery—to
the police department.
Peter employed a new clerk, temporarily, and resumed his pipe and
peephole. Welty resumed his duties in the office of Jarney &
Lowman. In the meantime Eli Jerey's life hung in the balance; and
the world of business still moved on; for he was only a poor clerk.
 CHAPTER XVII.
GOOD BYE! GOOD BYE! GOOD BYE!
As a metaphysician, John Winthrope could not present his bill of
services, in the nonprofessional sense, for his visit to the Jarneys.
This was the calamitous burden that bore so heavily upon him as he
left the mansion on the hill that night, and kept his head in a whirl
all the way to the city, and to his room, and to his bed, and even
late into the night, till exhausting time relieved him near the
breaking of another day.
It was the first time that the real tempest of passion had broken in
upon his sea of life; it was the first time that Cupid, with his
implements of war, came to offer battle on his serene and peaceful
field of budding bachelorhood. It was the very first time for him, so
amourously passive was he toward the whiles of the little meddler
into one's heart affairs. It is so with many people, men and women;
but when the storm once breaks in upon their unimpressionable
souls it is like a hurricane let loose, and is unrestrainable.
He now saw a new light in the heavens, even through the smoke of
Pittsburgh; a new evening star appeared in his firmament, and
whirled through the universe of his night to meet him in the dawn; a
new moon arose, and burst into full reflection of shadowy mysticism;
a new sun circled the arch of his cold earth, and made the plants of
joy come into leafage. Ah, there were no seasons to him now—it
was light by day, light by night—and he was seeing everywhere
through his visual horoscope—except—always except—as to a
solution of the great problem that confronted him.
The next morning after John's visit to see Miss Edith, Mr. Jarney
arrived at the office a half hour before his time. He was so different
to what he had been on the previous few days that John instinctively
felt his exuberance of pleasantry throughout the entire day. Instead
of taking up his dictation, as had been his wont, Mr. Jarney paced
the floor in his proud and haughty way of doing such things. He
spoke to John, on entering, in his calm, formal explicitness, as had
been his custom, when John entered to take his seat by his master's
desk. John sat waiting for Mr. Jarney to open his letters and
proceed; but he did not touch a letter, at first. He said nothing for
some time, but walked the floor, pondering, as if wrestling with
conflicting thoughts. After awhile he broke the spell.
"Young man," he said, as he stopped in his walk in front of John,
with his hands deep in his pockets, and his keen eyes sparkling, "I
do not know what to make of you."
"Am I such a conundrum as all that?" asked John, as he met his
master's eyes, with his own as sharp as those cast upon him.
"In truth, you are," returned Mr. Jarney. "You are the biggest puzzle
I have ever had to work out."
"Mr. Jarney, you place me in a very awkward position," answered
John. "I am not certain yet as to what you mean by your allusions."
"My dear boy—" he started to say, then checked himself, thinking his
manner too familiar, and went on: "Mr. Winthrope, you are master of
your own destiny. You can make it what you will. You can be a
leader of affairs, or you can be nothing."
"I only hope for an opportunity, Mr. Jarney, to claim the honor of the
first," responded John.
"That is not what I mean, Mr. Winthrope; it is—well, it is—that you
can do it."
"I am certainly at a greater loss to understand you, Mr. Jarney," said
John smiling, but still believing that he understood. "Nevertheless, I
appreciate what you say, and will always regard your views with
much favor."
"Let me tell you, Mr. Winthrope," he pursued; "that business life is a
terror to the average man. It has so many ups and downs that I
have often wondered how so many succeed through all its
uncertainties. I started out as poor as you, and maybe poorer, and
have arrived where I am, with many a pain to accompany me. And
still they call me successful. Had I to start again, I would pursue a
different calling—science, literature, art, or music. These are the
things that are a compensation to one's peace of mind. But most
people believe it is money. I do not. I did once; but I have passed
that period of putting money above everything else. Some will say,
no doubt, that it is my view now, since I have got the money. Truly,
had I not a cent, I would be of the same opinion. It was my opinion
before I accumulated it, and I still cling to that hobby. Still I must
continue on acquiring it. Making money is an endless chain
proposition. Once you get into its entanglements, you cannot let go
—you cannot resist its wonderful influence. Why, I should like to be
free from its thralldom; I should like to be as you are, without the
worry and the bother that money entails; I would like to exchange
places with you, were it possible. But that can never happen, I
suppose, so long as I have my present connections. I have often
thought that I would like to tear myself away from its engrossments,
to be free to go at will; to enjoy life with my wife and daughter in
some way that would be to our liking—some way that is different
from our present existence. I do not say that I will take up such a
life; I may. I did not mean to make this lecture to you, Mr.
Winthrope; but as I have made it. I will stand by it."
"Still I am in as deep a mystery as ever, Mr. Jarney," said John
frankly, and more familiarly than he had ever spoken to him before.
"If I were a young man like you, and had my money, I would go to
my home—assuming that your home is mine—and there live
peacefully the rest of my days," he replied.
"Would you suggest that I do it, in my present poverty?" asked John.
"No; I am just supposing," he returned.
"I cannot suppose anything, Mr. Jarney; I am not in a supposing
position."
"That is right, Mr. Winthrope, don't suppose anything; always believe
it, and then go ahead," he said.
"That is what I have attempted to do; but believing a thing and
obtaining it are two entirely different matters."
"Yes; you are right."
He then strode across the room, and returned.
"I am shocked at your manner of conduct," he said, looking down
upon John. "You have not yet asked about my daughter's health?"
"I fully intended to, Mr. Jarney, at the first opportunity of breaking in
on our line of conversation," said John.
"I am very happy to report she is growing better every hour," said
Mr. Jarney, turning on his heel and walking across the room again,
and returning, with a freshly lighted cigar in his mouth.
"I wish her well," replied John, and then he halted in what he
intended to say further—halted for a moment only, when he asked:
"Mr. Jarney, with your permission, I should like to see Miss Jarney,
once in awhile during her illness. May I have the wish granted?"
"I have no objection—while she is ill," he answered, with that
singular proviso attached.
Then he sat down, and took up his work. At noon he asked John to
lunch with him. John accepted, and lunched. At four p. m. he asked
John to accompany him home for dinner. John accepted, and went.
The combination of circumstances surrounding John's intimacies with
the Jarney family was very indefinable to him, at first. But, as the
days passed, he was slowly and assuredly convinced that his
services as employe of that man of wealth were not of the sordid
kind alone. Mr. Jarney's condescending manner, his straight-
forwardness, his implicit faith in him, his good will toward him, his
extinguishment of form, all showed to him that he was not so
unapproachable as might be believed by any young man of the
qualities of John Winthrope.
Possessed with an unquenchable desire to do that which is right,
honest, honorable, or justifiable, John pursued a course that ever
kept him in good favor. He did not do this with any preconceived
plan, or scheme, to accomplish a purpose, but it was through an
inherent prepossession of his makeup. Through the days he labored
with great assiduity to get results; through the evenings he studied
with great concentration on his subjects—always busy, always ready
to answer a call, or a summons. All these traits in him, Mr. Jarney
was not slow in perceiving, and he gave encouragement, as he
would, like any other man of his mould, to any one who showed the
same relative adaptation and faithfulness. Mr. Jarney looked upon
John as having many parts worth cultivating. As he had, for a long
time, been gleaning in the field of young manhood for such a
reaping, he now considered, since he acquired John, that he had
harvested a good sheaf of wheat when he garnered him; and he
purposed, if all continued straight in him, to flail out his true worth,
if the throwing out of opportunity would be effectually grasped. But
while he had these views concerning such material for his purpose,
he, at no time, thought that his daughter would, in any manner,
enter into the proposition. He would not have thought of
compromising his views on business with his paternal ideas; nor
would he ever have condoned himself, or his wife, should either
have entertained an iota of a notion that it were necessary to bring
her name into such mercenary transactions.
By reason of the extraordinary events, however, that had come to
pass, anent his daughter, he was perforce compelled to extenuate
any qualifying conducements that might connect her with
whomsoever claimed the privilege of being his second, as John was,
in business. His amiableness toward John during the past few days
might be interpreted in one particularity by the reader; which is, that
he was encouraging that young man to press his suit for his
daughter's hand; but this is farther from the thought than that he
would give her away to any young profligate who might ask the
favor of him. He was, withal, a true father, in its supremest meaning.
He loved his daughter. He granted her every reasonable wish. He
even went so far as to make unrelenting enemies among the Four
Hundred, of which he was considered a worthy member, by
discanting and discouraging their form of pleasures for the young
men and women, and looking with disfavor upon the youths who
paid his daughter the least attention. One of his most unpardonable
offenses, in this connection, was his unsparing resentment toward
Jasper Cobb's persistency in wanting to pay court to Edith, with
matrimonial intent. The Cobbs could not, naturally, forgive him for
such treatment of their young hopeful, who was just then strewing
his pathway with the wildest kind of oats. And, as if fortune never
failed him, Edith and her mother, coincided with him. This attitude of
theirs, therefore, gave him the greatest kind of pleasure, and
enhanced his inclination to stop at nothing that would satisfy their
claims to his patronage.
The foregoing statement is made to show what manner of man he
was with his family; but not to excuse him for the manner of man he
was with his business associates. So, in showing favors toward his
secretary, he acted from a double possibility, i. e.: one to have a
trustworthy employe in a very important position; the other to curry
favor with a very lovable daughter, who had an independence that
might run wild on a clear trackage of his own building.
He had asked John to lunch with him that day mostly to be
generous. He had asked him to his home again mostly for the good
that his going might do for his afflicted child, in her hallucination.
Nothing more. He did these things in such a cheerful way, and in
such an unusual manner, that John was confounded. And he did it
without reckoning the consequences, as many fathers act in the
excitable moments of their infinite love for their offspring.
Entering the mansion on the hill, on this, his third visit, John had a
very different feeling than before. The interval since he had been
there had been spent in musing and meditating, with the
consequent result of him being hopelessly smitten. No gilded hall of
magic palace, no form of cast or idol of fetich, no conventional rule
of wealth or arm of power, no scornful threat of irate father or
scolding mother, no nothing could desist him in his conquest, if Edith
were willing. If not, then he would forgive her, and—perhaps,
perhaps—
Edith was sleeping when John was ushered into her room. Star, ever
hopeful, ever faithful, sat by her bedside. Seeing John, Star arose
and advanced to meet him, whispering, as she took his hand: "She
is better—growing better every hour; but very slowly. She now
sleeps."
"Then I shall retire till she awakes," said John.
"No; remain; she will awake soon," said Star.
No sound came from the sleeper, so peaceful was her rest, and so
low her breathing. Her hands lay exposed above the spotless covers,
with no nervous tremors in them. The flush of fever of the day
before was gone. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were tightly
shut. Her hair lay in ringlets over her temples. Was she dead?
thought John; or was it the peace of a tired soul in rest that hung
upon her? He trembled with great fear. Those dear blue eyes were
closed to the light of day; those rosy cheeks had faded; the smile
was gone. There was nothing to convince him that she lived.
Emboldened by the great anxiety that overwhelmed him, he drew up
a chair and sat down by her bed. He picked up one of her hands,
and felt her pulse. He found it throbbing, and he was relieved. He
sat there silently, inconceivably happy, with his own heart throbbing
so loudly that he could hear it beating. Ah, Edith, in her slumbering,
might have heard its telepathic beating, too, for she suddenly
opened her eyes, and turned them upon John, and smiled, so
undisturbing was her awakening. She did not withdraw the hand
that John was holding, nor did she seem to give a sign of
recognition. But she sighed. Was it a sigh of her malady, or a sigh
for him?
"How do you feel this evening, Miss Jarney?" asked John, in a low
voice, deep with sympathetic tenderness.
Then, she opened wide her eyes, as if surprised, and withdrew her
hand.
"Don't you know me, Miss Jarney?" asked John, with a fearsome
thought that she had declined to her former condition.
"Is it you, Mr. Winthrope?" she asked, with her eyes lighting up.
"Why, yes; I believed you were the doctor. I am so very weak, Mr.
Winthrope, that I can scarcely speak."
"Do you feel better?" he asked.
"A little," she responded, feebly. "How glad it makes me feel to think
you have come."
"Perhaps it would be better for me not to come while you are so
low," he said.
"I feel better every time you come," she answered.
She involuntarily threw her hand over the side of the bed. He took it
up, and held it; and then touched his lips to her small fingers—
fingers so small and delicate and white now that they were like
chiseled marble, pliable in his. She did not resist, through inability
mostly to draw it away, had she been so disposed. She made no
pretense to conceal her fondness for him, nor did she attempt to talk
with any design to hurry him away, when he suggested that she
would better rest in absolute quiet. John saw all this. But he believed
that, in her frailty, he should be very prudent in how he acted, and
leave nature, and what little he could do himself, to restore her to
her former mental and physical health.
"You will remain awhile longer, Mr. Winthrope? I am growing better,"
she said.
"I hesitate about remaining, Miss Jarney, for fear of disturbing your
peace," he answered.
"I rest better after seeing you," she whispered, with a trembling
voice, as if she would break into crying.
"Then I am assured that I may come again?" he asked.
"You must come often—very often—every day—will you?"
"If your father continues his permission to that extent?"
"Oh, he will; papa is so good."
Is it an hallucination she is laboring under, thought John; or is it the
will of a pure heart, feebly speaking? He was still perplexed; but his
hopes were not deserting him.
"Mr. Winthrope," she said, after a silent spell, "will you go with Miss
Barton on Sunday to her home, and act for me in what I had
planned to do before I took ill?"
"Indeed, I shall be glad to accompany her, and shall do anything you
wish," he answered.
"I had planned to do so much for the poor in Miss Barton's district,"
she continued. "I brought her here to be my companion and my aid
—such a good girl she is—but I cannot do anything now, unless you
will help. Will you?"
"I will, willingly," he responded, wonderingly.
"When I recover I shall enlist you in my service; we can do so much
good for those distressed people."
"Nothing would please me better than to help you in this work."
"Then, you and Miss Barton may begin it now; I shall join you when
I have recovered."
"That will be a fine combination for charity's sake," he replied,
enthusiastically.
"I knew you would enter into the scheme. How good you are!" she
said, with a feeble effort to express her gratitude for him in a smile.
"I am afraid you flatter me, Miss Jarney," he answered, still holding
her trembling hand.
"Oh, no; papa says you are so good; and I know you are."
"What time Sunday shall we go, Miss Barton?" asked John, turning
to that young lady, with increasing enthusiasm over his accumulating
duties.
"About ten o'clock, perhaps. You call here at that hour, when the
auto will be in waiting for us," answered Star, sitting by him, with as
much interest in him as Edith had herself.
"I shall be prompt to the minute," he replied.
John had remained an hour by Edith's bed talking in very
confidential terms to those two divine maidens—one of them rich,
one of them poor, but both blessed with many heavenly virtues.
Edith was growing restless; although through it all John had been
careful of what he said, and how he said it, so as not to excite her.
"Are you going?" she asked, seeing him rise. "I am sorry I cannot
withstand the strain longer."
"I should go," he answered.
"You will come tomorrow? then I will be better," lifting up her hand
to bid him good bye.
He knelt down by the bed, and held her hand in both of his for a
moment. How it trembled, and how it thrilled him!
"Good bye," she said.
Oh, he prayed, within his heart, that she might be well in that
moment of his own deep affliction, so that the fear that was in him
might be expelled, and he knew his fate.
"Good bye," she said.
Going down the stairs he could hear that tremulous little voice
saying, "Good bye." All through the dinner he heard it ringing like
the distant trembulations of a wind-bell; going out the house he
heard it calling after him; all the way to the city he heard it tinkling,
tinkling from everything about the fleeting things in the streets,
turning all the grime and misery into music. Going to his room it
kept trembling, trembling, till that dingy little place was a Paradise.
And going into sleep it kept singing—singing "Good bye! Good b-y-e!
G-o-o-d——b—y—e!"
 CHAPTER XVIII.
PETER DIEMAN IS AVENGED.
Black and sinister, like The Bastille, rears the bulky rambling building
of that famous institution where infractors of the law are
compensated for their weaknesses. Amidst verdent hills and by the
murky river it sits as a ramparted fortress in a savage land. In
sunshine and cloud, in fog and smoke and grime, it stands brooding,
ever silent, ever sullen; it is a place of the damned, the wonderment
of law-abiding men who hap to pass it by. Beyond the sounds of the
teeming river, beyond the noise of forge and hammer, beyond the
regular haunts of men, it is like a secluded bee-hive, when the
workers are all within. No one hears the hammering, no one hears
the sawing, pounding, dinning, breaking, singing, chanting, praying
of all of those therein, save the unambitious workers themselves. For
it is a penal institution.
Grim-visaged men, with loaded gun, stalk through its ringing halls,
while haunting faces peer out from behind steel bars. The tread of
many feet is hard, in step, on the hardened floors, as the men file to
their places, like trained dogs cringing before their masters; the
thump of many hammers is like a dreadful funeral march for the
lost; the chant of many a tune is heard, in the time of rest, as the
only cheerful note issuing therefrom. And above all is the old familiar
human smell.
In one corner of a cell, on a cot, lies a man. He is bleary-eyed, and
his face is swollen. His feet are bleeding, and his worn-out shoes lie
on the floor. His old blue overalls and check shirt are torn, filthy and
ready to fall from him. He rolls his head from side to side, and beats
his breast with his knotted hands. The spume of an hectic cough
hangs around his mouth, and blood flows out his nostrils. He is Billy
Barton—dying—dying—alone! While the hammers ring, and the men
chant, and the guards pace to and fro; while the clock is ticking for
other men to come and go; while the sun is shining somewhere for
the happy, the good and the bad alike, and all life outside is
palpitating with a vigorous existence, Billy is going upon his final
journey.
He was brought from a nasty jail, where mephitic filth was supreme,
to this place where brutal men are supreme in their cruelty.
Emaciated, gaunt, and made desperate by reason of the abuse
heaped upon his crazed head, he was terrible in his obstinacy of
prison rules. He was put to work with ball and chain tied about his
ankles, when lying down on a feather bed would have been a severe
and painful task to him. He was weak. He could not work, let alone
stand. He was faint, sick, heartsore. But no one saw his misery. No
one wanted to see it. For why should they? He was only a vagabond,
and why should he receive attention?
He was pushed and pounded and thumped and beaten because he
could not work. He was fed on bread and water for his failure; he
was straight-jacketed, hung up by the wrists, given the water-cure;
thrown into the dungeon and flogged. But the brute rises in man,
sometimes, when met by a brute, and Billy struck back. This was the
beginning of his end; for the deputy, being not yet satisfied in the
full exercise of his authority, threw more of his brutishness into
display, and laid Billy low with a cudgel that he carried, and dragged
him, like a dog, to his cell, and threw him on his cot to die—alone!
An investigation into poor Billy Barton's death by the Honorable
Board of Authorities revealed one of the most peculiar and singular
cases that ever came to their discriminating notice. Billy died of
heart failure, they announced. Of course, every man dies when his
heart ceases to beat. Even those good and upright members of the
Honorable Board of Authorities will die of that disease some day;
and no doubt a tombstone will have all their virtues enscribed upon
it. Billy Barton's—will simply be, William Barton, that's all.
Who should claim the body? Had he any friends? they punctiliously
inquired. Yes; they found one. A man of worth, too—Peter Dieman,
the humble junkman; Billy's old friend, of course, who would provide
a decent funeral, and see that the last sad rites were said over his
corruptible remains. Yes; Peter Dieman would do all this, being very
generous, and a philanthropic man; for who would impinge his
motives?

The body was, in the true fiction of such events, conveyed in very
solemn state to that hovel on the south side of the Monongahela
river, near which and within which all of Billy Barton's living time was
spent. All his children were present at the funeral, except that one of
ill-repute who had preceded his father upon the long unknown trail.
All his former friends were present, with one extra added: Peter
Dieman. Another friend was present, in the person of John
Winthrope, as the representative of Edith, who sent the only flowers.
Had Billy Barton been resurrected the time he lay in his coffin,
supported on two chairs, he would have seen a change in the
furnishings of his earthly home; he would have seen paper on the
walls, where once were the smutchings of discoloring time; he would
have seen a carpet on the floor, pictures on the walls, one of which
he would have seen was Madonna and her child; he would have
seen many things that were not there when he was its besotted,
irresponsible master. Ah, he would have seen his little girls dressed
in new frocks, with a simple imitation of pride in their deportment;
and his boys he would have seen, although still very rude, in a
feeble effort to be vain over their new toggery. He would also have
seen his slattern wife in a new dress, with her hair done up, and a
new hope masked behind her stoical face. And he would have seen
that other one, his daughter Star, whom he maltreated all her
sorrowful years, come to offer up to God supplication for his soul;
and, if his spirit had not yet departed, he would have heard her
weeping in her anguish. As he lay in his shroud he would have felt
the warm touch of little hands on his hard face, as the little ones
stood about his bier taking a last farewell look at "Pap" before the
man in black had covered up his face from their view forever; and he
would have seen John, in all the freshness and beauty of young
manhood, a consoling support to his only child that shed a tear. Still
more, he would have seen that exaggerated piece of humanity, Peter
Dieman, in all his implacable hatred for him, sitting in one corner,
listening with exhultation to the droning voice of the minister saying
the ritual words and singing "Rock of Ages."
Solemnly went the funeral cortege through the crowded
thoroughfares bearing him away; and as the people looked with awe
on his passing, remembering, perhaps, that they would take the
same long ride some day, little did they reck how he lived and how
he died.
To Homewood, a pretty decent place, they bore him, and put him
beneath the ground, with the skeltering winds singing his funeral
dirge. Above his grave Star and John placed a tombstone, with, "Our
Father, William Barton; born Friday, December 13, 1861; died Friday,
December 13, 1907," as the only legend. No virtues had he to be
recorded, like those of the Honorable Board of Authorities. But he
was gone—finally gone—out of the turmoil of this world.

Peter Dieman again sat in his little black office in The Die, smoking
his scandalous pipe, rubbing his red hands, and squinting his piggish
eyes; and giving vent occasionally to devlish outbursts of perfect
satisfaction. Nothing consumed his mind so much at present as the
reflection over his victory—his victory over Billy Barton, the worthless
drunkard.
In his youth Peter went into the contest with Billy for the hand of
Kate Jarney, a cousin of Hiram Jarney. Kate, being young and
ignorant, selected the most prepossessing face, and took up her lot
with that face, and all the horrors that accompanied it. Peter being
of a revengeful nature, took up his life alone, a disappointed man,
and sought to drown his sorrows in the role of Chief Ward Heeler.
Peter was not such a bad man in his younger days, but remorse over
his unrequitted love drove him to diabolical things. Hence his
attitude toward all mankind. For twenty years, almost, he was cross,
crabbed and oppressive; and the wonder is how he maintained his
power in his invidious treatment of his henchmen and his superiors.
But this may be explained by his one saving grace of knowing how
to string the "ropes" for the system—Graft—without breaking any of
them, and screening the arch conspirators; for which he was amply
rewarded. For twenty years, almost, he lived like a bear, spending
his days in his black shop, and his nights in a shabby room above,
like a miser—always with an irreconcilable fury burning beneath his
hairy breast. For twenty years, almost, he brooded while he amassed
a fortune, which gave him but the one comfort that the "some day"
might bring. And his day had come at last.
Thus, as he sat in his office smoking and rubbing, the old light came
back to him; and he was not slow to act. Leaving the shop in the
care of the new clerk (Eli Jerey being yet indisposed) he went out.
Finding a purveyor of "houses for sale," he traveled the circuitous
rounds with that individual in search of a satisfying heap of stone
and mortar. Selecting one of approved style and with the requisite
number of rooms, in the rich men's district of the East End, he
purchased. Then, fitting it up with all the dazzle that money could
buy, he installed therein the entire Barton family, with one exception,
of course; and ere the month was out, so little was his compunction
as to propriety, he made the withered love of his youth his wife. And
the gods caused him to smile, at last.
So affecting was this piece of news on Eli Jerey's mind that he
forthwith began to arouse himself from his convalescing lethargy;
and by another fortnight was down at his old post, with the same
cadavorous look in his face, and the same slavish notions in his
head. Since Peter had left his office: which he did immediately after
his marriage: that little black hole stood silent, smokeless, with the
accumulated filth of years still clinging to it. The little peephole was
there, now with no wolfish eyes behind to peer through it, but still a
source of much anxiety to Eli, who, so strong was the force of habit
in him, even after he knew his master was gone, looked suspiciously
at it ever and anon, as if it itself would turn into green eyes and
knock him down by their stare, as those without the secret password
had often done before. Otherwise, Eli had peace of soul, since that
irritable old curmudgeon had surprised him into getting well.
Being faithful to his trust, he could not do different than he did; and
it is well for him. For after Peter had returned from his long-delayed
honeymoon, he came to the office only as a visitor. So magnanimous
was he now, in his rejuvenated character, that he turned the junk
shop and all his business over to Eli, to be managed as he willed.
But this change in proprietorship in nowise took from the place the
name it had acquired, nor from it the honor of being the repository
of all the secrets of the System built up around it, with no apparent
connection. So, instead of Peter being in his den, curled up like a
stoat, he delegated, after awhile, to Eli the perfunctory duties of
receiving and transmitting messages between himself and the
henchmen, with Eli ensconced in the black office.
One day after taking up his incumbency therein, Eli received a call
from Welty Morne.
"Where is Peter?" asked Welty, as he softly entered the sacred
precinct of The Die, unawares to Eli.
Remembering his encounter with that young gentleman, Eli bustled
up like a porcupine on the approach of an enemy, forgetting that he
was to let by-gone be by-gones, and serve his master in a new role.
"Gone," answered Eli, boldly; "I'm boss here. What will you have?"
"Where's he gone?" asked Welty, a little ruffled.
"He's quit these quarters for good," answered Eli.
"Wonder he wouldn't let a fellow know such things," said Welty.
"I'm his messenger; what can I do for you?"
"You! I hope not to that extent!"
"Yes; me—to that extent," retorted Eli.
"Well;" and Welty studied a few moments; then continued: "Convey
to him that Monroe wants to get in communication with him at
once."
"I will do it," responded Eli.
Whereat, Eli descended into the darkness of his private phone
booth, remained a few minutes, and returned, with the information
that Peter would see him that evening at eight o'clock at the
"Bartonage," as he called his new residence.
"Very well," said Welty, leaving in a sulky temper.
At the hour of eight p. m., Peter was sitting at his home in all his
pomp and grandeur, when the starched smile of Monroe irradially
floated in upon his complacency in an hitherto unknown
expansiveness.
"You old tout," said Monroe feelingly; "you surprise us all by your
new stunt."
When Peter laughed, which he did now sometimes, he was the
picture of a crying calf, if the simile is permissible; so when he broke
his face into one of his cunning signs of mirth, Monroe could not but
help feeling amused himself, and accordingly split his barren face up
into waves of noncommittal wrinkles.
"Ho, ho, ha, ha," cried Peter, forgetting now to rub his hands, and
instead slapped his fat hand on his fat leg; "you old batches will
have to fall in line. Look! and see how glorious it all is, Monroe; and
to think that I have missed it all these twenty years! Ho, ho, ha, ha,
he, he; you ought to try it, Monroe, and get those crimps out of your
face!" Peter laughed at this jolly till tears ran down his cheeks.
"Why, I should think you were happy, Peter, the way you are going
on about it," said Monroe, gloomily.
"Yes; try it, Monroe; you can get some one; can't you?" said Peter,
with an extra bang on his fat leg as an extra emphasis to his
seriousness.
"I've never met my Fate—that is, no Fate that would care to take
me," he remarked, with the smile gone.
"How about Jarney's girl?" asked Peter, in a confidential tone.
"That young chap, Winthrope, seems to have the way to her door all
to himself," responded the gloomy one.
"Who did you say?"
"Winthrope."
"I told you to get him out of the way."
"Well?"
"Well?"
"He can't be got out so easy," cried Monroe, with asperity. "He's an
immovable, unapproachable, indefinable young cuss, who can't be
inveigled."
"Have you given it up?"
"Oh, not yet."
"What you leading up to now?" asked Peter.
"To have the boss send him to the New York office."
"Will he send him?"
"He may."
"Say," said Peter, whisperingly, with an idea, "get him in the bribing
line, and then let him drop."
"He's beyond that," said the undaunted Monroe. "We are going to
send him to New York; give him authority to handle money, and lay
our net to catch him. This can be done. We will work it so slick, with
Bate Yenger as his assistant, that he can't crawl out; and we'll keep
the money for our trouble."
"Good!" said Peter, forgetting himself and rubbing this time. "Go
on?"
"That's all."
"Humph;" ejaculated Peter. "You are a genuine dough-god!"
"You bear!" scowled Monroe—that is, he tried to scowl.
"You unplastic scoundrel," shouted Peter, turning on him, "if you
don't get him out of the way, and get that girl, I'll get your job away
from you!"
"Oh, no more of your jollying," said the putty-faced Monroe; "get
down to business. How much do I get out of the swag I get with the
girl?"
"Half," replied Peter.
"Well, it's worth trying for," said Monroe.
"Say, by the by, Monroe; I received this today from Europe. Read it,"
said Peter, handing Monroe a letter, which had the following P. S. at
the end: "I have lost fifteen at Monte Carlo; send ten, or I will return
at once. (Signed) J. D."
"Does he mean fifteen thousand and ten thousand?" asked Monroe.
"He does."
"What will you do?"
"Send for Jacob Cobb."
"What will he do?"
"Furnish the money, of course."
"Jim Dalls is bleeding you for all the game is worth," said Monroe.
"We can do nothing else till we cease bleeding other people."
"You are plain about it, Peter."
"I am always plain, Monroe."
"Have you seen Cobb lately?" asked Monroe.
"Yesterday."
"How're things coming?"
"They're coming for the present," answered Peter. "Don't you think I
need them coming to keep up this establishment when I am fully in
the swim?"
"You probably do, Peter. I will run opposition to you when I get
what's coming to me."
"Be sure you don't get into the Pen, Monroe," said Peter, looking up
sidewise at Monroe, with a strange meaning in his eyes.
"And you?" asked Monroe.
"Oh, they can't get me; too much pull with the—"
Just then a howling brat, in silks and satins, came tearing into the
room, riding a brass curtain pole as his "horse." On seeing a
stranger, the youngster promptly made a flail out of the said curtain
pole, and began to belabor Peter over the head with such
effectiveness that Peter caught the child by the seat of his breeches,
and hurled him blubbering into a corner.
"I thought you enjoyed your new existence," humorously remarked
the staid Monroe.
"I do," answered the angered Peter, with a "humph."
"Well, if that is an example of what married life is, I don't think I
want any of it in mine," said Monroe, with some dejection in the curl
of his lips.
"Don't be so easily discouraged, Monroe; I've got ten like that one,
on whom I spend my time in reforming."
"Oh, Lordy!" exclaimed the placid Monroe.
"Yes; it is Lordy sometimes, you would think, if you were here when
they are all in."
"Why, I'd soon be in an asylum," said Monroe, despairingly.
"Say, Monroe, I've put Eli Jerey in my office," said Peter, changing
the subject.
"He deserves promotion, no doubt; can he be trusted?"
"None more so; that's why I put him there. I'll give him the store
when we pull off the next big deal."
"Will she go through?" asked Monroe.
"She will."
"How much?"
"One hundred thousand; then I'll quit."
"And we poor devils will have to take the crumbs," said the
disheartened Monroe.
"Every one is paid according to his services," said Peter, in reply.
"Get Winthrope out of the way, get the girl, and you'll have yours."
Monroe departed, feeling better.
 CHAPTER XIX.
WHILE THE FATHER WORRIES, MONROE
SCHEMES AND CELEBRATES.
"Mr. Winthrope," said Mr. Jarney, abstractedly, pacing his office floor,
with his hands behind his back, and his head bowed in
commiseration, "my daughter is getting no better—no better."
John made no reply, feeling that no reply should be made at that
time, while the father was worrying so; for in that same moment he
was moved himself beyond the efficacy of a consoling word. The
garish light of the burning incandescents, in that late afternoon, was
tantalizing and unbearable. The pictures on the wall stared down like
taunting ghosts; the green-hued carpet and the reflect glimmer of
the polished furniture seemed to reproach them for any sense of
alleviation either might feel. The busy sound, the clamor, the roar
and rumble of the streets was a hideous nightmare dinning in their
ears. The heavy pall of smoke that heaved and rolled over the
house-tops, infiltrating in its aqueous touch, was a magnet of
melancholy.
Mr. Jarney stood by the window and looked out upon the flat-roofed
buildings sitting below. He wondered if all the life therein and
thereabout was so torn with dread expectation as his own; or
whether any of them thought of life at all; or of the past, or of the
present, or of the future. All his years he had had no inflictions, no
sorrows, no troubles to set his latent sentimentality into ebullition.
He had gone through the mill of business always prospering, always
successful, always a leader, without a counteractive element to his
iron will. He had gone through his wedded period with a love for his
wife, his child and his home, that was unsurpassable, believing that
no untoward thing could ever happen to disturb the tranquility of his
perfect life. He believed that God had blessed him in this respect
alone, to the exclusion of other men. But now the blasting hand of
Fate, he felt, was turned upon him; and he had no peace while his
child lay ill near unto death.
Back and forth he walked his office floor, in his anguish, fretfully
silent, and deeply feeling for every one who might have a similar
burden to bear. Coming to a stop by John's chair, he gazed down at
his secretary, with a fixedness that caused John to have pity for his
master.
"Mr. Winthrope," he said, "if she dies, my grief will be irreconcilable.
The doctors say there is no hope."
"No hope?" faltered John.
"No hope," and the father sat down and cried.
Tears of sympathy came into John's eyes. Under the trying situation,
he could not control his emotions. The breaking down of that strong
man was more than he could stand, and he arose and walked across
the room to a window, where he stopped for some time looking out,
contending with his own passion. Then he returned to his chair,
where he stood in an undecided frame of mind as to what to say.
"Mr. Jarney, you have my full sympathy," he said, about as
expressive as he could say it, without unburdening his own heart's
secret.
"Mr. Winthrope," he replied, turning to John, "it may seem weak in
me giving way so easily; but you do not know, you cannot know
what a father suffers in such extremities—no man can know, if he
has a heart, unless he goes through it as I have these past few
weeks. With all my worldly ambitions, I have willingly permitted my
whole being to be infolded by her being, till no other thought so
dominated me. She was such a lovable child, so good, so kind, so
generous, so unlike any one else I ever saw, that my fatherly soul
rebelled at the thought that anything would ever happen to tarnish
her name, or that of my own. Of these things I was very careful that
they did not come to pass. I have brought her up and educated her,
with the one purpose, that she would be my one consolation in my
declining years. And I intend, if she lives, that all I have shall be
hers; and I know that she will give no cause for me to ever regret,
like so many of the daughters of the rich do. I am rich, Mr.
Winthrope, very rich; but I will give all I have, if that would save her
for me, and would face the world anew without a dollar. Oh, you do
not know—nobody can know what my anguish is!"
"Mr. Jarney, I realize what it might be," said John.
"I had hopes that when she came out of the trance the first time the
crisis had passed," he went on. "She did improve for a few days; but
suddenly she took a relapse and began to weaken, and weaken day
by day, and now I fear for the worst. She is of my own flesh and
blood—oh, God, I cannot bear it—yes—I must bear it. But in bearing
it, what have I as a compensation? Money is nothing; home is
nothing; life is nothing, without some one like her depending on you.
A child might be ever so bad, but still a parent's love goes out to it,
in all its misfortunes and shortcomings. But to have a child like her is
not given to every man, and the parent of such a child should be
doubly blessed. I know that I am selfish in these views. I know that
other parents will differ with me in what I say as to my child being
the best; but no one can say that I am wrong did they but know her.
I do not know what I shall do, if she is taken from me—I do not
know. I am already losing interest in things."
"Mr. Jarney," said John, after he had ceased, "I hope the doctors'
conclusions are wrong, and that your expectations will not come to
pass. I believe that she will recover; I have believed it all through
her trial; but I may be mistaken."
"I hope you are not mistaken, Mr. Winthrope," he replied. "I hope I
am. I have never hoped before that I might be mistaken, and I hope
I shall not be disappointed this time."
Mr. Jarney then took up his accumulation of letters, that had not
been attended to for three days, and began dictating answers. He
was so overcome by anxiety, dread and fear, that he had great
difficulty in composing himself sufficiently to go through them all.
Some he answered with a line, where a whole page would have
been necessary before. Many he did not answer at all, being
indifferent as to what became of them. He was nervous, agitated,
and careless. After he had finished, although not very satisfactorily
to John, who had been used to his methodical handling of his
correspondence, and after John began to prepare to depart, he
turned to him and said:
"Mr. Winthrope, I am thinking of promoting you; would you like to
go to New York?"
"I should not care to leave you, Mr. Jarney, so agreeable have my
connections been in this office; but if you desire me to make a
change, and if I am capable, I shall go wherever I am sent," said
John.
"An assistant treasurer is wanted for the New York office; how would
you like that?"
"Well, Mr. Jarney, this comes as a greater surprise than when you
gave me this position; but, however, I shall accept, if it is the wish of
my superiors."
"They want a man immediately for the place; but—I do not want to
see you go away yet, though I want to see you get the place. You
are capable, and deserving of it."
"I would rather remain here; but if I am to go higher, I suppose I
should go at once to wherever I am to go."
"Another thing, Mr. Winthrope; you should not go while my daughter
continues ill. Or—or—No, you shall remain here till she recovers.
Some one else can fill the place till that time comes. It may seem
strange for me to say so, her recovery may depend upon you
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