"I am so glad," interrupted Mr. Gusher, receiving the money, "you put your confidence in ze house. You shall zee zat ze honor of ze firm shall be your protection." As he proceeded to arrange the little equivalents with the picture of the big spread eagle at the top and the coffer dam at the bottom, the little woman fixed her gaze on the counting-room furniture, which seemed to attract her attention to an uncommon degree. Elaborately-finished and highly-polished mahogany desks were arranged around the room, the floor was covered with a soft carpet, and there were carved oak chairs, upholstered in green plush. The walls were hung with engravings and paintings representing favorite ships and steamboats, and a huge safe stood wide open, displaying shelves and drawers filed with books and papers. It was, indeed, a part of the firm's philosophy that what you lacked in substance you must make up in show.

There, too, was a door leading into Topman's private office, furnished with exquisite good taste. Topman was the great financial monument of the firm. Gusher did the elegant and ornamental.

George Peabody, the great philanthropist, made his fortune and his fame in a little dark, dingy office in Warnford Court, London. The pretensions of the great firm of Topman and Gusher were not to be confined by any such examples of economy.

A very clerical-looking man, with a round, smooth face, a somewhat portly figure, a high forehead, and a very bald, bright head, fringed with grey hair, and nicely trimmed grey side whiskers, stood at a desk, turning and re-turning the leaves of a big ledger. He was dressed in a neat black suit, and wore a white neckerchief. There was ledger No. 1, and ledger No. 2, and ledger No. 3, all so elegantly bound, and expressive of the business relations of the great firm of Topman and Gusher. It looked very much, however, as if the portly gentleman was only a part of the ornamental department of the great firm, for, having turned and re-turned the pages of No. 1, he would take up No. 2, and continue the occupation. It is true, he would pause now and then, and exchange a smile and a bow with some one of the customers waiting for stock.

There was also a slender, mild-mannered, and precisely-dressed young man, standing at another desk, and looking through a pair of gold-framed spectacles into a ledger. This was Mr. Foblins, registry clerk to the great firm. Mr. Foblins had a brigade of figures in column, and seemed continually busy putting them through a course of tactics known only to the firm. Mr. Foblins had his customers in column, with the number of shares and the amount invested, in front and rear ranks.

The word "Cashier" was painted over a third desk. And here a rollicking, talkative little man, with a round fat face, and a round bald head - a sort of fat boy that had been overtaken on the road of life by maturity - and who seemed to have a joke and a pleasant word for everybody, and was in the best of humor with himself, stood counting and re-counting, and passing out and receiving in money. This was Mr. Books, the merry little man of the establishment. Books entertained an excellent opinion of himself, and was in high favor with the customers, for he was witty, musical, and talkative. More than that, he was a stately little man, and well informed in all the great political movements of the day, and would entertain customers on the condition of the nation while counting their money. It was evident that Mr. Books was not in sympathy with the great enterprise his employers were developing, for he was continually saying witty but malicious things about Gusher, and would even point significantly with his thumb over his right shoulder. When a more than ordinarily verdant customer would come with his money, Mr. Books would shrug his shoulders, drum with his fingers on the desk, and hum a tune to the words -