the clear blue eye were enough to counterbalance the incoherent talk: the
old man was not crazy, only eccentric to a rare degree. Mercy felt
instinctively that she had found a friend, and one whom she could trust
and lean on.

"Thank you, sir," she said. "I'm very glad you like my face. I like yours,
too,--you look so merry. I think I and my mother will be very glad to know
you. We have come to live here in half of Mr. Stephen White's house."

"Merry, merry? Nobody calls me merry. That's a mistake, child,--mistake,
mistake. Mistake about the house, too,--mistake. Stephen White hasn't any
house,--no, no, hasn't any house. My name's Wheeler, Wheeler. Good enough
name. 'Old Man Wheeler' some think's better. I hear 'em: my cane don't
make so much noise but I hear 'em. Ha! ha! wolves, wolves, wolves! People
are all wolves, all alike, all alike. Got any money, child?" With this
last question, the whole expression of his face changed; the very features
seemed to shrink; his eyes grew dark and gleaming as they fastened on
Mercy's face.

Even this did not rouse Mercy's distrust. There was something inexplicable
in the affectionate confidence she felt in this strange, old man.

"Only a little, sir," she said. "We are not rich; we have only a little."

"A little's a good deal, good deal, good deal. Take care of it, child.
People'll git it away from you. They're nothing but wolves, wolves,
wolves;" and, saying these words, the old man set off at a rapid pace down
the street, without bidding Mercy good-morning.

As she stood watching him with an expression of ever-increasing