took shape more and more as a purpose.  In some way he would revenge himself upon the people of the town.  Even at a personal sacrifice, he would pay them off for their slight upon him; and he knew there was no way in which he could so effectually do this as by leaving them.  He had dreamed many times, as he rapidly accumulated his wealth, of arriving at a point where he could treat his splendid home as a summer resort, and take up his residence in the great city among those of his own kind.  He had an uneasy desire for the splendors of city life, yet his interests had always held him to Sevenoaks, and he had contented himself there simply because he had his own way, and was accounted “the principal citizen.”  His village splendors were without competition.  His will was law.  His self-complacency, fed and flourishing in his country home, had taken the place of society; but this had ceased to be all-sufficient, even before the change occurred in the atmosphere around him.

It was six months after the reader’s first introduction to him that, showily dressed as he always was, he took his place before his mirror for a conversation with the striking-looking person whom he saw reflected there.

“Robert Belcher, Esquire,” said he, “are you played out?  Who says played out?  Did you address that question to me, sir?  Am I the subject of that insulting remark?  Do you dare to beard the lion in his den?  Withdraw the dagger that you have aimed at my breast, or I will not hold myself responsible for the consequences.  Played out, with a million dollars in your pocket?  Played out, with wealth pouring in in mighty waves?  Whose name is Norval still?  Whose are these Grampian Hills?  In yonder silent heavens the stars still shine, printing on boundless space the words of golden promise.  Will you leave Sevenoaks?  Will you go to yonder metropolis, and there reap, in honor and pleasure, the rewards of your enterprise?  Will you leave Sevenoaks howling in pain?  Will you leave these scurvy ministers to whine for their salaries and whine to empty air?  Ye fresh fields and pastures new, I yield, I go, I reside!  I spurn the dust of Sevenoaks from my feet.  I hail the glories of the distant mart.  I make my bow to you, sir.  You ask my pardon?  It is well!  Go!”

The next morning, after a long examination of his affairs, in conference with his confidential agent, and the announcement to Mrs. Belcher that he was about to start for New York on business, Phipps took him and his trunk on a drive of twenty miles, to the northern terminus of a railroad line which, with his connections, would bear him to the city of his hopes.