brushed his hair back fiercely, and then sat down to a pile of papers
that he always kept conveniently upon his library table.

"Come in," said Mr. Belcher, in his blandest tone, when Miss Butterworth
was conducted to his room.

"Ah! Keziah?" said Mr. Belcher, looking up with a smile, as if an
unexpected old friend had come to him.

"My name is Butterworth, and it's got a handle to it,' said that
bumptious lady, quickly.

"Well, but, Keziah, you know we used to--"

"My name is Butterworth, I tell you, and it's got a handle to it."

"Well, Miss Butterworth--happy to see you--hope you are well--take a
chair."

"Humph," exclaimed Miss Butterworth, dropping down upon the edge of a
large chair, whose back felt no pressure from her own during the
interview. The expression of Mr. Belcher's happiness in seeing her, and
his kind suggestion concerning her health, had overspread Miss
Butterworth's countenance with a derisive smile, and though she was
evidently moved to tell him that he lied, she had reasons for
restraining her tongue.

They formed a curious study, as they sat there together, during the
first embarrassing moments. The man had spent his life in schemes for
absorbing the products of the labor of others. He was cunning, brutal,