"But, Mr. Wheeler,"--

"Don't 'but' me. There ain't any buts about it. There's the clock. Take
it, child,--take it, take it, take it, or else leave it, just's you like.
I ain't a-goin' to saddle ye with it; but I think ye'd be very silly not
to take it,--silly, silly."

Mercy began to think so too. The clock was its own advocate, almost as
strong as the old man's pleading.

"Very well, Mr. Wheeler," she said. "I will take the clock, though I don't
know what my mother will say. It is a most valuable present. I hope we
can do something for you some day."

"Tut, tut, tut!" growled the old man. "Just like all the rest o' the
world. Got no faith,--can't believe in gettin' somethin' for nothin'.
You're right, child,--right, right. 'S a general thing, people are cheats,
cheats, cheats. Get all your money away,--wolves, wolves, wolves! Stay
here, child, a minute. I'll get two men to carry it." And, before Mercy
realized his intention, he had shut the door, locked it, and left her
alone in the warehouse. Her first sensation was of sharp terror; but she
ran to the one window which was accessible, and, seeing that it looked out
on the busiest thoroughfare of the town, she sat down by it to await the
old man's return. In a very few moments, she heard the sounds of steps on
the stairs, the door was thrown open, and the old man, still talking to
himself in muttered tones, pushed into the room two ragged vagabonds whom
he had picked up on the street.

They looked as astonished at the nature of the place as Mercy had. With