University of Virginia Library

LITTLE PELEG,
THE DRUNKARD'S SON;

BY WILLIAM. T. COGGSHALL,
Author of “Oakshaw,” “Ned Elton,” “Tom Toper, Esq.” and other Tales.

1. CHAPTER I.
THE CHRISTMAS SUPPER.

Peleg.—A homely name for a homely boy, but a boy as
good as he was homely. Peleg Brown, or as the school boys
tauntingly called him, because his complexion was nearly the
color of a hazel nut, Brown Peleg, was the only son of a worse
than widowed woman, who lived in an humble cottage on the
outskirts of a village situated upon the romantic stream, Kishacoquillas,
a Pennsylvania tributary to the noble Juniata.

Peleg's mother, one of those gentle women, who seem only
able to hold life in its sunshine aspects, but whose experience is
an evidence that they have latent strength for cloud and storm,
was worse than widowed, because her husband, John Brown,
had, for several years, been a confirmed drunkard, dependent upon
the efforts of his gentle wife and feeble son for his food, raiment
and shelter, as well as for the means, obtained through force
and stealth, by which he purchased, at the village grog-shop, the
numerous drams that rendered his wife a creature of sorrow, and
his son a youth shunned and forsaken by the boys of his age.

It was Christmas—a holiday to most boys—but a day of labor
to Peleg Brown. With his saw-buck upon his shoulder and
his wood-saw under his arm, Peleg trudged through the snow,
from one house to another, seeking a job. A pile of wood in
front of the mansion of one of the wealthiest men of the village
attracted his attention, and he begged the privilege of sawing it
into proper stove-lengths. He was told that he might carry it
into the back-yard, saw it, and pile it in the wood-house. It
was a good job, Peleg was a small boy, but he thought how many
comforts he might buy his mother with the money the job would
bring him, and, with a cheerful heart, and a willing hand, he
went to work. Noon came and he sat down on his saw-buck to
eat his frugal Christmas dinner. It was a blustering day, and
the snow, whirled from the tops of the houses, fell upon Peleg,
until he looked as if he were a miller's apprentice, but he heeded
not the snow or the cold, and was hurrying with his repast, that
he might have the more time to work, when he found himself
face to face, with a handsome, well dressed boy, about his own
age, but of much larger size, who said to him:

“Halloa, little fellow, how much did you have to spend for
Christmas?”

“I had nothing, sir,” honestly answered Peleg, somewhat

astonished at the abrupt question, “but if I work well to-day,
mother will make a nice pie when I go home.”

“Ha, ha,” cried the well dressed boy—“work on a Christmas
and get a nice pie for it. You're a little unfortunate. Where
do you live?”

This was said with an air, as if the speaker regarded Peleg a
curiosity; but Peleg was too honest to notice such irony, and he
answered frankly.

“I live in the little house back of the church on the common.”

“Oh! ho! then, you're the son of drunken Brown. No
wonder you don't have any money to spend on Christmas. I
had three dollars—my father ain't a drunkard.”

Peleg was hurt—sorely hurt—but he thought of his mother
and uttered no retort. He made his saw run glibly through the
wood, and paid no attention to the careless boy that had taunted
him. When he turned around to get another stick of wood to
lay upon his buck, he noticed that his tormentor was gone.

This boy was the only son of the merchant for whom Peleg
was sawing wood. When he left the yard, he ran into the parlor,
where his mother, father and sister were sitting, and marching
up to the latter, he whispered,

“There's a character in the yard, Jane, a chap that'll just
suit you. He is sawing wood on Christmas to get a pie at night.
Ain't he a character?”

“What character,” inquired the father, catching the last
words, “come, Frank, what mischief have you been up to
now?”

“Nothing, Pa,” returned the boy, “only I had been out to
see my pony, when I found a character in the yard—the son of
drunkard Brown is sawing our wood, and I had some fun with
him.”

“You did not make fun of his misfortunes, I hope, my son,”
said the mother.

“No, mamma,” returned Frank, “I only laughed at him a
little for having to saw wood on Christmas, and being content
with a nice pie at night.”

“That was naughty, Frank,” said Jane.

“Come, come, Jane,” interrupted the father, “let Frank
have his sport to-day. You may preach to him to-morrow.
But, Frank, you must not associate with drunkard's sons and
wood-sawyers. It is bad enough to have one in the family given
to such company.”

The last sentence was intended as a reprimand to Jane.
She felt it, and left the parlor. As she walked to her own room,
the tears started in her eyes, and her heart said “Why does not
father love me? He tells me I am homely. He says Frank is
his only pride: but I love father, though he never does call me
Pet. I'm sure if I do associate with drunkard's children it's not
to disobey Pa, but it is because I love to see them have something
good to eat, and wear. Ma loves me for this, and other
people say I am good. Why does not Pa love me?”

Again, and again she asked herself this question, and still
she could find no answer, but that she was a homely girl, and
Frank was a handsome boy. She did not feel that her father
was a worldly man—one whose heart was on houses and lands
and stocks and bills—that he loved Frank because he was fine
ooking, and, what the parent was pleased to term, a “sharp”
boy—that he expected him to sustain the credit of the house of
Pridore & Co., and that he had nothing to expect of Jane, because
she was not only homely, but seemed to have no joy in
the society of the rich and proud who visited his house—would
rather, even when it stormed, carry a basket of clothing around
to the poor children in the neighborhood, than sit in the parlor

and play the piano for visiters. Frank laughed at Jane for these
“whims.” He loved the dashing company that visited his father's
house—he was well pleased when his father allowed him
to sit down with the proud visiters to a rich supper, and drink the
choice wine which flowed freely around the board. Sometimes
his mother thought he took too much wine, but the father said,

“No. It don't hurt him. He's of the real Pridore stock.
He knows what good wine is, and it is good for him.”

Night was approaching—little Peleg prepared to quit work
for the day. His “job” was not finished, but he sent a modest
request into the house that, as it was Christmas, he might be paid
for what he had done; promising to come on the morrow and
complete his work. His request was granted, and he was carefully
placing the hard earned sixpences in the pocket of his ragged
jacket, when a young lady crossed the yard towards him.
It was Jane; who had determined to do something for the drunkard's
son, which would cause him to forget Frank's harshness,
and remember that Christmas with pleasure.

She spoke kindly to Peleg, and told him he must not think
hard of what her brother had said. He was a thoughtless boy.

“I didn't only for a moment, kind lady,” said Peleg, “I
know he doesn't feel what it is to be a drunkard's son. I am
a poor boy, but I've got a good mother, and I love her.”

“You are a good boy,” said Jane, “stay here a moment
I have something to send your mother.”

Peleg put down his saw-buck, and Jane ran into the house.
In a moment she appeared again, bringing a basket which was
carefully covered, and which Peleg found to be heavy when
Jane put it into his hand, saying,—

“Carry this to your mother, and tell her it is from Jane
Pridore.”

“We are not beggars,” was on Peleg's lip, but Jane smiled

upon him so sweetly, he could not say it. Thanking her with
a tone which made her heart thrill, he bid her good evening,
and ran homewards. He had worked hard, and he was tired;
he carried his wood-saw and buck and a heavy basket, but the
remembrance of Jane's smile was warm in his heart, and he
walked not a step until he reached his mother's cottage.

He was gladly received—joyfully welcomed, and the basket
was quickly opened. There, nicely and carefully packed, was
an assortment of delicacies such as Peleg had never partaken of,
and such as his mother had not seen for many years.

The mother prepared the Christmas supper in the neatest
style her meagerly furnished house would allow, and when Peleg
had dressed himself, in his Sabbath school suit, they sat down
to such a repast as had never been eaten in that cottage. There
was but one thing wanting to complete comfort—the husband
and father could not partake with mother and son. He was at
the village grog-shop, and he did not come home till long after
Peleg had recited his lessons to his mother, and was dreaming of
Jane Pridore.

The wife had left for the husband a portion of the Christmas
supper in the most tempting manner she could prepare it, but he
was in no mood for “delicacies.” He threw himself upon his
couch—slept the sleep of a drunkard, and was away from the
cottage again as soon as it was light, seeking his bitters.

2. CHAPTER II.
THE BIRTH-NIGHT PARTY.

Spring had come—Birds sung sweetly in the bushes and
modest flowers were springing to new-life in the narrow beds
around the pretty cottage where dwelt little Peleg, and his mothere—but
within there was sadness, sorrow and death.—There
lay a body, prepared for the narrow bed “appointed for all
the living” from which there is no newlife—the Spirit unprepared;
had been liberated, by violence, from the bonds which
confined it to earth, and was now where it witnessed, in all
dreadful reality, the degrading results of those habits which debase
high resolves and yield holy pleasures, for the gratification
of low passions and grovelling appetites.

The husband and father had been found dead, on the highway
between the village grog-shop and his home,—his death
was a violent one—what man who ever died of the direct influences
of intoxication did not have a violent death!

The funeral was not numerously attended; from the church
yard to their saddened home, but one person accompanied the
chief mourners—that one was Jane Pridore. She was welcomed
to the cottage in a manner which showed that she was a frequent
but never a tedious visiter.

“You have been so kind to us,” said Peleg—“You are a
little girl not bigger than I am, but you can do so much.”

“Father is kind to me, Peleg. He is rich, and I have something
to do with. If you were as rich as I am, you could do a
great deal more than I do.”

“I'll be rich some day,” said Peleg, I know I will, and

then I'll do a great deal. I'll not forget the poor, I know I
won't.”

“Perhaps you can do something for some of my folks some
day,” returned Jane.

“But you're so rich, you'll never be poor, and what I can
do I must do for the poor. I never can forget the time when I
was a poor drunkard's son, if I live to be a hundred years old,
and get as rich as Stephen Girard,” answered Peleg.

“I've read in my books, Peleg,” said Jane, “of many rich
people becoming poor. You nor I don't know what may happen;
but I must run home now. Good bye Peleg, and good
bye Mrs. Brown.”

“Good bye, my little benefactress,” said Mrs. Brown.

Peleg followed Jane to the garden gate, and there said good
bye, as Jane went tripping over the common towards the village.
In a moment she cried “Peleg! Peleg!”

Peleg ran to meet her when she whispered, as if the wind
must not catch the sound and bear it to other ears.

“I've thought of something, Peleg—I've something to tell
you, Peleg—but I won't tell it now—to-morrow, Peleg, to-morrow.”

And although the boy made an effort to detain her, in a
moment she was tripping across the common again. Peleg could
not imagine why Jane should not tell him then, if she had any
thing important to communicate, nor was he able to conjecture
what she might have to tell him. He went back to the cottage,
but said nothing of Jane's conduct, determined that until he
knew her secret, he would keep his own.

When Jane reached home, she found that her father and
mother had just taken dinner, and were in the parlor. She ate
her dinner in haste, fearing that her father would go the store
before she could see him. When she was ready to enter the

parlor, he was still at home, however, and she greeted him in
her most pleasant manner.

“And where have you been roaming to-day, Jane?” inquired
Mr. Pridore.

“I went to Mr. Brown's funeral.”

“The Brown's have become great favorites of yours, Jane.'

“They are nice people, father, and I could not neglect the
mother, and that honest little boy, just because Mr. Brown was
a drunkard.”

“Well—well, Jane, you can't be Frank, and I suppose
you must have your whims; I don't expect much of you.”

“Now, pa, don't be cross, or scold me to-day,” said Jane,
walking up confidently to her father, and placing her hand on
his knees, “I have something to ask of you.”

Mr. Pridore was a man, who, with all his harshness to
Jane, loved to indulge her. He was touched by her winning
manner, and said, smiling,—

“Well, Jane, I am not in a bad humor, and it would not
be strange if I granted you a favor, notwithstanding you have
been a truant to-day.”

“No, pa; mother said I might go to the funeral; but I
don't want to ask anything for myself. I heard one of the
clerks say, this morning, that a boy was needed at the store.
Wont you let that little Peleg Brown, come? He'll work
hard, father, and I know he's honest.”

“Well—well, Jane,” said Mr. Pridore, I should think you
were getting familiar with the Browns. The first we know,
this little Peleg will be a beau of yours: a drunkard's son waiting
upon my daughter!”

“No—no, father; I am sure I never thought of having a
beau. I don't want a beau,” interrupted Jane, in her simplicity,
not seeing the bearing of her father's objections. “But,

pa, do give this boy a place. He supports his mother, and
I'm sure he's honest.”

“You've set your heart on it, Jane. Perhaps I'll take this
fellow: I'll see about it this evening.”

“Thank you, pa; not for myself, but for the poor boy's
widowed mother,” said Jane; following her father, as he
walked through the hall, on his way to the counting-room of
the firm of Pridore & Co.

Whether Mr. Pridore made any inquiries respecting Peleg
Brown, he never chose to disclose; but certain it is that, on the
morrow, Jane sent a note to the boy which, when he opened
it, with beating heart, and glistening eye, he found to contain
the following words:

“Dear Peleg:—I could not come to see you to-day, and
tell you that secret, so I have sent this note. You are to live
at our house—no, you are to work in the store, and live at
home if you please. Will you come? Don't say no. I got
the place for you, from pa. Come this afternoon. Pa will tell
you what you must do, in the evening: he is so kind.—Jane.”

“Mother—mother!” cried Peleg, after he had read the
note over and over again, half a dozen times, “mother, oh
mother! see here—I told you I should be rich—I know I
shall. See here—see what that little girl, not bigger than I
am, and not as old, has done for me. I couldn't do anything
for myself or you, but saw wood and run errands; but mother,
see what Jane has done. Oh! I never thought it; but now I
will do something for myself, mother, and for you. I will be
rich, and I'll have a store of my own some day, and then I'll
give poor boys a chance; and good boys, whose fathers are
dead, like mine, shall have the first chance. Oh! mother, we
shall be so happy: don't you think we shall?”

“Yes, my child,” said Mrs. Brown, who, during Peleg's

rhapsody, had read the note; “I am glad you have got this
place: Jane is very kind to us.”

“Indeed she is, mother. I love her so. I'll be a brother
to her—more than a borther.”

Mrs. Brown looked at her boy with a singular expression;
she felt the meaning of his words, but knew that he did not,
and she was compelled to think that when he did understand
their true import, they might be to him the talisman of his
severest trial.

In a few days little Peleg was regularly installed, assistant
clerk, with the duties of an errand boy, in the store of Pridore &
Co. His salary was a meager one, but he was accustomed to
frugality.

He performed his duties, for nearly a year, with such strict
assiduity and excellent judgment, that he was more rapidly promoted
than boys of his age usually are in extensive stores, and
before the end of the first quarter of the second year, he was considered
one of the most useful and trustworthy sales-men of the
establishment. He had not been in the employment of Pridore
& Co. a year and a half, when he was made assistant bookkeeper,
with an increased salary.

Jane had watched the promotions of her little friend with
much interest, but, that he might hold her father's favor, she
said nothing about him, unless spoken to in reference to his conduct.

Peleg often wondered why Jane was not as familiar with
him, as she had been when he was a wood-sawyer, but as he
grew older, he felt that they could not be brother and sister, except
in such circumstances as placed them socially for ever apart,
and whenever he had reason to rejoice over prosperity, he would
go to his trunk, and taking out Jane's note, which had been
most carefully treasured, he would again peruse it with a beating

heart and glistening eye, and say, as he had said to his mother,
when he read this note for the first time.

“I will be rich—I know I will.”

One afternoon, Peleg was arranging some accounts in a
private room, when Frank Pridore paid him a visit.

“Come little Brown,” said he, “You never have been one
of us, but you must come out to-night, this is my twenty-first
birth-day. After the party at father's to-night, where you will
be, of course, the boys in the store will adjourn down town for a
grand spree. You will join us this once. You shan't back
out.”

“You will excuse me, Mr. Pridore,” said Peleg, mildly.

“No, I won't excuse you,” answered Frank shortly, “I
won't do any such thing.”

“I have never been on a spree,” said Peleg.

“You needn't spree, if you don't want to,” returned Frank,
“but you shall go.” “I cannot go,” returned Peleg, firmly,
“I would not countenance a spree by my presence.”

“Ah! I remember,” said Frank, “you are one of these
timid fools of wine, afraid of being a drunkard. I'm not; I need
not get drunk unless I want to. My father did not die a
drunkard.”

“These are hard words, Mr. Pridore,” answered Peleg,
with a trembling voice; “if you live many years you will
repent them; but I forgive you now, for your sister's sake.”

“Pooh!” cried Frank, with a sneer. “She's another of
your canters, who think there's death in a social glass of wine.
We wanted no empty chairs at our feast to-night, but empty
chairs are better than canting fellows, who have no sociability.
Good day, Mr. Temperance Preacher.”

Peleg's heart was heavy when Frank left him. He did
not care for the sneers thrown at him, but associations were

awakened, which ever carry a bitter sting to the sensitive heart.
He determined that he would not attend the birth-night party
at Mr. Pridore's, an invitation to which had been given him by
Frank, at Jane's solicitation. When he left the store after the
work of the day was over, he despatched a note to Jane, in
these words:—

Jane did not receive this note until she had been expecting
Peleg for some time. She flew to Frank for an explanation.

“Bravo!” he answered, when he had read the note.
“Bravo! I like the fellow's spunk. He forgives the inestimable
pleasure of seeing you, Jane, because when he refused to join
the boys in a jubilee after the party, I told him he was afraid of
being a drunkard, like his father.”

“You were naughty,” said Jane, in a tone which, had not
the brother been flushed with wine, he would long have remembered.
“It was unworthy of my brother; I would not
have come here to-night, if I had been in Mr. Brown's place.”

“To be sure you would not; you and he would make a
good match. But yonder's a party drinking bumpers to me; I
cannot waste time with you, Jane.”

Frank was gone to join his wine-drinking companions. As
she saw him drink glass after glass, Jane thought of what she
had once said to Peleg about doing something for her folks some
day, and she pressed closer the little note she had that evening
received, and wished—.

When Peleg had taken supper with his mother, and many
times refused to confide to her the cause of a manifest depression

of spirits, he walked down into the village, found his way to his
little room back of the store, and, taking up an engaging book,
read and thought, and calculated, till a late hour. It was after
midnight when he began to retrace his steps to the cottage. As
he sauntered slowly through a portion of the village sparsely
inhabited, he observed a man lying across the dilapidated steps
of an untenanted building. He stooped to look at the unfortunate
being, and ascertain whether he was intoxicated, or had
been physically injured by ruffians, when something familiar
about the dress arrested his attention. He dragged the apparently
lifeless body towards a hotel a few rods distant, and by
the light reflected from the bar-room, was able to discover that
he had found—as it were, dead in the street—the only son of his
employer. His birth-night spree had been too much for Frank
Pridore: he had entered manfully upon the year of his majority.

Peleg was grieved and bewildered—grieved to find young
Pridore in such a situation, and bewildered in respect to his duty
towards him and the family. He forgot all the harsh words
Frank had said to him, and determined that he would endeavor
to get him to his father's house without calling such assistance
as might make public the young man's degradation. He applied
at the hotel, and succeeded in arousing the ostler, who, for
half a week's wages, consented to assist Peleg. Frank was
borne home. When they approached the Pridore mansion,
Peleg dismissed his “help,” and knowing the appointments of
the house, he awakened a servant without arousing the family,
and told him that he wished to see Mr. Pridore on important
business, and that he must be awakened without alarming any
other member of the household. The servant was faithful—he
had often discharged such duties—and Mr. Pridore soon met
Peleg, who conducted him to Frank, and explained the circumstances
under which he had been found.

The services of the servant who had awakened Mr. Pridore
were further required, and Frank was secretly conveyed into
the house, and silently placed in his own bed. When Peleg
departed from Mr. Pridore, the latter said:

“I am deeply indebted to you for your discretion; neither
Miss nor Mrs. Pridore must know a word of this.”

“I have only done my duty, sir,” returned Peleg; “
should respect your feelings.”

Mr. Pridore wished Frank had fallen into the care of any
young man of the village, rather than Peleg Brown. As he
stood by the bedside of his drunken son, he thought of the time
when he knew John Brown, who died a drunkard, to be a
wealthy and respectable man; he thought of the Christmas-day
Peleg sawed wood in his yard, and he reflected on the encouragement
he then gave his now drunken boy, to take freely of
that which had degraded him.

These were bitter thoughts for an over-indulgent father.

3. CHAPTER III.
REWARDS AND PUNISHMENTS.

Five years have elapsed since Frank Pridore celebrated his
twenty-first birth-night. Peleg Brown was first clerk in the extensive
store of Pridore & Co. Mr. Pridore had treated him with
distant, but marked respect ever since the night on which his
judgment was so nicely exercised for the reputation of the heir
apparent to the Pridore station and importance. But there were
now no occasions for the exercise of nice discrimination on this

subject. Frank Pridore was a genteel sot, and he was so regarded
in the village generally; not that a man can be genteel
and be a sot—but Frank Pridore's sottishness was genteel compared
with that of many drinking men in the village. He was
never seen drunk in the streets—he was never engaged in
drunken brawls—his father kept the strictest watch upon bim.

Little Brown's mother had been in the land of Spirits two
years. Peleg had, through life, loved his mother with that
child-like fondness which ever regards MOTHER the dearest of
names, and he mourned her deeply.

The first clerk in the store of Pridore & Co. knew well that
for at least three years the capital of the firm had not been augmented,
and he well knew also that in the last year it had very
materially decreased, and he believed that something of this state
of affairs was owing to the insidious influences of the “siren foe,”
that had saddened his earlier years and embittered, for life, the
recollections of his childhood.

At the beginning of the sixth year of little Brown's clerkship
he was engaged to take an inventory of the “stock in trade” of
Pridore & Co. When the work was completed to the satisfaction
of his employers, he was informed that it was the intention
of the junior partner of the firm to retire, and that he was desirous
of finding some person who would purchase his interest.
On the evening after Peleg learned this fact, he called at the
Pridore mansion and begged an hour's conversation with the
proprietor.

Supposing that something important in reference to business,
was to be communicated, Mr. Pridore promptly invited little
Brown to his private room. When they had talked together
on general matters for a few moments, Mr. Pridore said:—

“You have, something important to communicate, I understand.”

“I am informed,” replied Peleg, “that Mr. Hanks is desirous
of finding some one who will purchase his interest in the
store.”

“Such is “the fact,” said Mr. Pridore, “and I wish that I
knew of some man acquainted with our business who could take
his place since it is forbidden me to give it to my son, for whom
I had intended it. Pridore & Son, I should have rejoiced to see
that name in gilt letters over the door of our store, but—but, it is
past. I speak freely to you, sir. You respect my feelings.”

“For that reason I have called upon you. I have had
some intention of making Mr. Hanks a proposition, and before
doing so, I wished to consult you,” replied Peleg.

“You,” exclaimed Mr. Pridore. “You, make Mr. Hanks
a proposition. Where in the name of Heaven did you get
money enough to talk of buying an interest in the business of
Pridore and company?”

“When my mother died the cottage and lot was mine, sir,
I sold them for fifteen hundred dollars. I invested the money
in property on the Creek, which has more than doubled in value—and
besides, sir, I have saved nearly two thousand dollars
out of my wages since I have been in your employ.”

“Yes! yes!” said Mr. Pridore. “I had forgotten. You
have been a saving boy—but I'll think of this. It is unexpected.
I'll see Mr. Hanks. Leave me now.”

When Peleg was gone, Mr. Pridore had sorrowful reflections.
He reviewed his life. He thought of the time when he
and John Brown, Peleg's father, drank wine together—he
thought of Peleg the little wood-sawyer—of John Brown's awful
death—then he thought of his own habits, and the gradual encroachments
upon his independence, of the love for what had
made his boy—whom he had regarded in his youth with so
much pride—a reproach to his family—and when he thought of

his boy, then Peleg the drunkard's son came up in contrast,
and with that contrast, a source of most poignant reproach, haunting
him, he threw himself upon a couch, and conjured to himself
the remarks of his correspondents in business, when they
learned that little Brown was the junior partner of the firm of
Pridore & Co.

The “fates” had decreed. Peleg Brown took Mr. Hank's
place in the firm of Pridore & Co. He and Jane Pridore had
been distant acquaintances during the whole period of his clerkship,
but as he was now a frequent visitor at the Pridore mansion,
on terms that were humiliating to neither party, the intimate
friendship of youth was renewed between the little wood-sawyer
and the little girl whose kind heart had secured him a
situation of trust and profit.

Peleg had been a partner but a few months, when Frank
Pridore was one morning found dead in his bed. He had been
intoxicated for several days. The physicians gave the “cause”
of his death, and it was announced in the newspapers:

“Died.—Frank Pridore, aged twenty-seven years, only son
of H. Pridore, Esq., of the firm of Pridore & Co., of apoplexy,
on the—day of—.”

Mr. Pridore was a changed man after this death. He
knew that the physicians were guilty of a professional libel
when they said his son had died of “apoplexy.” Wine was
banished from his table—the flush left his cheek—he became
melancholy—absent-minded. The business of the firm of Pridore
and Co., devolved mainly on little Brown. He discharged
his duties with excellent judgment, and the credit of the firm
was re-established. Mr. Pridore treated Peleg not only with
kindness, but with deference.

When the mother and sister of Frank Pridore had left off
mourning apparel in memory of the “early lost,” and Jane

Pridore again went into company, Peleg Brown was her constant
attendant.

One evening they walked across the Common towards the
site of the cottage in which Jane first saw Peleg's mother. A
handsome mansion stood in the place of the cottage: it was the
property of Peleg Brown. Jane and Peleg entered this mansion.
Jane admired the style in which it was furnished; she
complimented Peleg warmly upon his taste, and Peleg said
to her:

“To-morrow it will be our home, and your father and
mother will live with us. Come—I will show you their apartments.”

The little wood-sawer and the rich merchant's daughter
had been married nearly three months.

Mr. Pridore put all of his property into the hands of his
son-in-law, and Peleg purchased the interest of the second
member of the firm; and if Mr. Pridore did not see the name
of Pridore & Son, over the door of the store, he saw that of
“Pridore & Brown,” and he felt that Peleg was a son to him.

The little wood-sawer—frugal, industrious and temperate—
was the wealthy husband of the girl who spoke kindly to him
in his severe Christmas labor. Now, he was the support and
protection of him who had warned his children to shun the
society of the drunkard's son; and the youth who, at a father's
prompting, had ridiculed his simple desires—taunted him with
his early misfortunes—and abused him as an enemy to socia
habits, because he would not join in a “spree”—had met a
drunkard's reward in that sphere where none know the right,
and “still the wrong pursue.”