Mr. Carlyle by his second wife had been chiefly instrumental in the
accumulation of his large fortune.

Miss Carlyle, or, as she was called in town, Miss Corny, had never
married; it was pretty certain she never would; people thought that her
intense love of her young brother kept her single, for it was not likely
that the daughter of the rich Mr. Carlyle had wanted for offers. Other
maidens confess to soft and tender impressions. Not so Miss Carlyle. All
who had approached her with the lovelorn tale, she sent quickly to the
right-about.

Mr. Carlyle was seated in his own private room in his office the morning
after his return from town. His confidential clerk and manager stood
near him. It was Mr. Dill, a little, meek-looking man with a bald head.
He was on the rolls, had been admitted years and years ago, but he had
never set up for himself; perhaps he deemed the post of head manager
in the office of Carlyle & Davidson, with its substantial salary,
sufficient for his ambition; and manager he had been to them when the
present Mr. Carlyle was in long petticoats. He was a single man, and
occupied handsome apartments near.

Between the room of Mr. Carlyle and that of the clerks, was a small
square space or hall, having ingress also from the house passage;
another room opened from it, a narrow one, which was Mr. Dill's own
peculiar sanctum. Here he saw clients when Mr. Carlyle was out or
engaged, and here he issued private orders. A little window, not larger
than a pane of glass, looked out from the clerk's office; they called
it old Dill's peep-hole and wished it anywhere else, for his spectacles
might be discerned at it more frequently than was agreeable. The old
gentleman had a desk, also, in their office, and there he frequently