now so soon to see. At last, between sleeping and waking, the end of
his journey was unexpectedly reached. It was dark, but, being "steamer
night," the shops and business places were still open, and Mr. Peyton
had arranged that the stage-driver should deliver Clarence at the
address of his relative in "J Street,"--an address which Clarence had
luckily remembered. But the boy was somewhat discomfited to find that
it was a large office or banking-house. He, however, descended from the
stage, and with his small pack in his hand entered the building as the
stage drove off, and, addressing one of the busy clerks, asked for "Mr.
Jackson Brant."

There was no such person in the office. There never had been any such
person. The bank had always occupied that building. Was there not some
mistake in the number? No; the name, number, and street had been deeply
engrafted in the boy's recollection. Stop! it might be the name of a
customer who had given his address at the bank. The clerk who made this
suggestion disappeared promptly to make inquiries in the counting-room.
Clarence, with a rapidly beating heart, awaited him. The clerk returned.
There was no such name on the books. Jackson Brant was utterly unknown
to every one in the establishment.

For an instant the counter against which the boy was leaning seemed to
yield with his weight; he was obliged to steady himself with both hands
to keep from falling. It was not his disappointment, which was terrible;
it was not a thought of his future, which seemed hopeless; it was not
his injured pride at appearing to have willfully deceived Mr. Peyton,
which was more dreadful than all else; but it was the sudden, sickening
sense that HE himself had been deceived, tricked, and fooled! For it
flashed upon him for the first time that the vague sense of wrong which
had always haunted him was this--that this was the vile culmination of