Warrington, the bitterness of failure in his soul, undertook the work, and succeeded.

Praise would have made an indifferent novelist of him, for he was a born dramatist.
Regularly each year he visited his birthplace for a day or so, to pay in person his taxes.

For all that he labored in New York, he still retained his right to vote in his native town.
A sudden desire seized him to-night to return to his home, to become a citizen in fact and deed.

It was now the time of year when the spring torrents flood the lowlands, when the melting snows trickle down the bleak hillsides, when the dead hand of winter lies upon the bosom of awakening spring, and the seed is in travail.

Heigh-ho! the world went very well in the springs of old; care was in bondage, and all the many gateways to the heart were bastioned and sentineled.
"Sir, a lady wishes to see you." Warrington turned.