The latter, prying about the school-building as soon as he heard that Egremont was going to convert it into a library, had discovered that the caretaker was known to him.

There seemed at the time no particular profit to be derived from the circumstance, but Mr.Bower regarded it much as he would have done a piece of lumber that might have come into his possession, as a thing just to be kept in mind, if perchance some use for it should some day be discovered.

It is this habit of thought that helps the Bower species to become petty capitalists.

We call it thrift, and--respecting public opinion--we do not refuse our admiration.
On Monday evening, about eight o'clock, Mr.Bower went up to the house-door in the rear of the building, and knocked.

The door was opened about two inches, and an aged voice asked who was there.
'It's me, Mrs.Butterfield--Bower,' was the pleasantly modulated reply.
The door opened a little wider.
'Does Mr.Egremont happen to be here ?' the visitor went on to ask.
'No, Mr.Bower, he ain't here, nor likely to come again to night, I shouldn't think.' 'Never mind.