“I’ll bet you a horn of brandy，” said the first， “that thechap has either a pocketbook or a snug little hoard ofsmall change stowed away amongst his shirts. And if notthere， we will find it in his pantaloons pocket.”
“But how if he wakes？” said the other.
His companion thrust aside his waistcoat， pointed tothe handle of a dirk and nodded.
“So be it！” muttered the second villain.
They approached the unconscious David， and， while onepointed the dagger toward his heart， the other began tosearch the bundle beneath his head. Their two faces， grim，wrinkled and ghastly with guilt and fear， bent over theirvictim， looking horrible enough to be mistaken for fiendsshould he suddenly awake. Nay， had the villains glancedaside into the spring， even they would hardly have knownthemselves as reflected there. But David Swan had neverworn a more tranquil aspect， even when asleep on hismother’s breast.
“I must take away the bundle，” whispered one.
“If he stirs， I’ll strike，” muttered the other.
But at this moment a dog scenting along the groundcame in beneath the maple trees and gazed alternately ateach of these wicked men and then at the quiet sleeper.
He then lapped out of the fountain.
“Pshaw！” said one villain. “We can do nothing now. Thedog’s master must be close behind.”
“Let’s take a drink and be off，” said the other.
The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon intohis bosom and drew forth a pocket-pistol， but not of thatkind which kills by a single discharge. It was a flask ofliquor with a block-tin tumbler screwed upon the mouth.
Each drank a comfortable dram， and left the spot withso many jests and such laughter at their unaccomplishedwickedness that they might be said to have gone on theirway rejoicing. In a few hours they had forgotten the wholeaffair， nor once imagined that the recording angel hadwritten down the crime of murder against their souls inletters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan， he stillslept quietly， neither conscious of the shadow of deathwhen it hung over him nor of the glow of renewed lifewhen that shadow was withdrawn. He slept， but no longerso quietly as at first. An hour’s repose had snatched fromhis elastic frame the weariness with which many hoursof toil had burdened it. Now he stirred， now moved hislips without a sound， now talked in an inward tone to thenoonday spectres of his dream. But a noise of wheels camerattling louder and louder along the road， until it dashedthrough the dispersing mist of David’s slumber； and therewas the stagecoach. He started up with all his ideas abouthim.
“Halloo， driver！ Take a passenger？” shouted he.
“Room on top！” answered the driver.
Up mounted David， and bowled away merrily towardBoston without so much as a parting glance at thatfountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He knew not that aphantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue upon itswaters， nor that one of Love had sighed softly to theirmurmur， nor that one of Death had threatened to crimsonthem with his blood， all in the brief hour since he lay downto sleep. Sleeping or waking， we hear not the airy footstepsof the strange things that almost happen. Does it notargue a superintending Providence that， while viewless andunexpected events thrust themselves continually athwartour path， there should still be regularity enough in mortallife to render foresight even partially available？
