"Be calm, Arthur," said Wilkins, in his full deep tones; "look up, and tell us what has happened."

Arthur raised his head, and told his story unhesitatingly.

"This is a bad business, my young friend. I am extremely sorry; but the only way for you is not to mind it. This is Mr. Delancey's way. Intercourse with the world has rendered him suspicious, and you'll never convince him that you don't know something about the money. No one else that knows you will ever think so, though; and you will stand just as high as ever. Yours isn't the first case of this kind."

"It is too outrageous, Wilkins, and I won't bear it. Do you think I'll tamely submit to be called, or thought, a thief?"

"What can you do? It is useless to talk or feel thus; say nothing, go steadily on, and Delancey himself will forget, after awhile, his suspicions. As to replacing it, I feel that you have been unfortunate through my means, and I will assist you in that."

"I don't wish you to, thank you, Wilkins. I don't care so much for my money as I do for my good name. To be robbed of it in this manner, is more than I can possibly endure."

"Let me beg of you to think no more about it. Follow my advice, and all will yet be well."

Arthur sat moodily down, and gave himself up to thought. He fancied there was no possible way to extricate himself from the difficulty, and that it would be useless to argue with such a man as his employer. With flushed cheek and thoughtful air he rose and took his place behind the counter.

Wilkins watched him anxiously, and then, as though Guly were the elder, instead of the younger brother, he sought him for a consultation. He was busy with a customer, and Wilkins noticed that he was displaying some of Blanche's new work, and wondered whether it was that, or interest in his brother's behalf, which brought such a bright glow to his cheek.

"It is very beautiful," said the lady who was buying, examining one of the collars closely, "Very beautiful; is that your lowest, Master Pratt?"

"The very lowest, Madame. I have been gratified in being able to show these articles to you first. They are quite new, and I know how well you like the first choice."

"No one else, then, has bought from these before?"

"No, Madame."

"It is high, but I'll take it."

"Yes, Madame."

As the lady left the store, Guly turned to Wilkins, with a bright smile:

"You see I have kept my promise to Blanche, and have sold her work to a 'choice customer.'"

"I see," said Wilkins. "A word with you, Guly."

Guly stepped toward him.

"Arthur has—"

"Poor Arthur! true enough! how could I forget him; what was the matter, Wilkins? I have been so busy, you know."

"He has got into sad trouble; I feel very sorry for him; but I can't help him an iota, that I see; it's too bad, I declare."

Wilkins then gave Guly the details, as far as he knew them, of Arthur's misfortune.

"Well, Mr. Wilkins, this is outrageous!" exclaimed Guly, with a vehemence unusual to him. "It would require the virtue and forbearance of a saint to bear up under such things. It isn't the money so much, though I'm very sorry he lost it, but it is his good name; to have that sullied, even in thought! It is enough to drive any one to desperation."

"Don't tell Arthur so, for the world," said Wilkins, very earnestly.

"No, no, I'll not—can I go to him?"

"Of course."

"Dear Arthur," said Guly, beckoning his brother a little one side, "I know all. You know how I sympathize with you, my brother; but cheer up, we can live through it all; and you will be, in the end, thoroughly acquitted of what Mr. Delancey suspects you of, even in his own heart. The only way to convince him of his error, is to show him by your future course how much such an act would be beneath you."

"Oh, there's no use, Guly; I never could convince such a flint-hearted man in the world, of my innocence, if he chose to think me guilty. I was horrified at first, but I've thought of it, and thought of it, till I don't care much. It's my fate, I suppose."

"Don't give up in this way, Arthur; think of your own proud self, of how much depends upon you, of our dear mother, and all that. Don't allow yourself to be crushed."

"Guly, just think of it—a thief!"

"Only so in the opinion of one who will not reflect upon it long enough to see its utter impossibility."

"And all this year's labor lost, Guly; and nothing to send home now to mother."

"We'll try what we can do with my salary, Arthur."

"Pooh! the whole of it just covers the amount lost; and how are you going to live?"

"Don't give it up so, don't! There is One who will never desert those who trust Him. Remember that, Arthur, and look up."

"It is my fate to be forced to look down. It is useless for me to try to struggle against it. I can't be otherwise."

"You are too desponding, Arthur; many a man, now rich and happy, if he could tell his experience in getting so, would no doubt relate a harder life than yours can ever be. This should only serve to make you stronger."

"If Mr. Delancey was only a different-tempered man, perhaps I could do better. If he had sympathized with me, and assured me kindly of his belief that it was all an accident, oh, I would have felt so differently, so happy in comparison! There is no pleasure in serving such a man; it is only rigid duty, rigidly performed, for one you cannot but hate. He is never so happy as when mixing gall with the honey of one's happiness. I am miserable, Guly, miserable! and I can't rouse myself. I wish I was as meek and forbearing as you are, I could be happier; my pride, my strong unbending pride, has been, and ever will be, my curse."

Arthur's tones seemed to struggle up so heavily in his sorrow, from his heart's depths, that Guly felt strongly inclined to tell him there were very few, however meek and charitable, who would submit to an insult of this kind quietly; but he remembered his promise to Wilkins, and refrained.

"If I could reason with Mr. Delancey, if he would talk with me as it is his duty to talk with me, I am sure he would think differently upon the matter; but for me to stay here for the ensuing year, as I now am forced to do, whether or no; and for me to feel that every time those cold eyes are turned upon me, they believe themselves to be looking on a thief! Oh, my God! Guly, it is too much!"

Arthur was intensely excited, and the veins in his forehead stood out like cords, so swollen were they, and his face was deeply flushed.

Guly's heart ached for him, and he was trying to think of something which he could say to comfort him, when he was called away by a customer, and, with a kindly pressure upon his brother's hand, he left his side.

Arthur also stepped back to his place; but every attitude he assumed, every changing expression of his handsome face, told the restless misery of that young heart, and the crushing weight upon that lofty spirit.

Guly waited anxiously for night to come, that he might talk to, and try to encourage, Arthur. When the lamps were lighted, and the customers had gradually thinned out, he was about to cross over and speak to him. To his surprise he saw that his place was vacant, and he was nowhere to be seen. A sharp pang went through the boy's heart, succeeded by a sickening faintness; and he leaned against the counter for support, filled with undefined fears of sorrow, and danger, and unhappiness.

With a blush at his apparently causeless emotion, he stepped to the clerk who always stood next to Arthur, and inquired if he knew where he had gone.

"No," the young man said; "he went out about half an hour ago, and Mr. Quirk was with him."

"Quirk!" ejaculated Guly, involuntarily, while the pang went through his breast again; and seizing his cap, he started forth, in the hope of discovering Arthur's where-abouts.



CHAPTER XVI.

"Press me not, I beseech you, so; There is no tongue that moves, none, none i' the world, So soon as yours could win me; so it should now, Were there necessity in your request, although 'Twere needful I denied it."

Winter's Tale.

Through the damp streets, where shone mistily through the heavy fog the lamps on the corners, Guly, with anxious heart and hurried step, wandered alone. He sought every place of which he believed his brother to have any knowledge, and left no spot unvisited where they had ever been together. All in vain. None of whom he inquired had seen Arthur, and of many he could not bring himself to inquire, blushing at the thought of his brother being known to them. Still, as he turned to retrace his steps, he found himself involuntarily looking into the richly furnished saloons, where the show of luxury, and display of wealth, lead so many, through their very love of gorgeousness, to drink, to distress, to death! Each time, as his eyes turned thitherward, a sigh of relief rose from his heart to find that Arthur was not an inmate there. Thus seeking, thus hoping, he found himself again before the door of No. —, Chartres-street. Having no pass-key, he rapped for admittance, for the store was closed, and all around it dark. Wilkins' voice bade him enter. Trying the door, he found it unlocked, and going in, saw Wilkins sitting by the coal fire—which the chill air of November now rendered necessary—alone, and apparently in deep thought. With as cheerful an air as he could assume, he approached him, and laying a hand upon each shoulder, as he stood behind his chair, bent forward, and looked up in the thoughtful eyes gazing on the fire.

"What can be the subject of your meditations, Mr. Wilkins? your face looks sad enough to be the index of a sorrowful heart?"

Mr. Wilkins made no reply, but lifting his arm, drew the golden head upon his bosom, and held it there, stroking back with listless fingers the soft bright curls.

"Has anything unpleasant happened since I went out, Wilkins?"

"No, Guly; nothing has happened. I was alone here—the fire was bright, the arm-chair empty, so I sat down, and fell to thinking, that's all. Have you been to see Blanche?"

"Blanche! I don't suppose I could have found her, had I thought of trying."

"True enough. We are going there together. What of your brother, Guly?"

Guly told him of his ineffectual search; the fact of his not having seen him in any of the saloons, and the hope he entertained of seeing him walk in, by and by, feeling happier for his walk, and seating himself there by the fire.

Wilkins shook his head, doubtingly.

"Your brother's spirit is one which needs to be peculiarly dealt with, until he grows a little older, and less impetuous. I'm sorry to say it, but he has more pride than principle just at this age; and he ought to have the blessing of a home and a mother's love, till the principle could be made to predominate. Get a chair, Guly, and sit close by me, here."

Guly brought the chair, and placed it close to his companion, and seated himself. Wilkins drew his head again upon his bosom.

"It is about him," continued Wilkins, "that I have been thinking this evening. I really take a deep interest in his welfare, and wish I knew how to guide him. For his sake I wish my own heart was more disciplined, that I was not so utterly incapable."

"Don't let such thoughts as these prevent you from using your influence with my poor brother, Wilkins. I am too young, too weak, too inexperienced, to control him. He would naturally scorn the advice of one so much younger; but you, oh! don't let too lowly an opinion of yourself deprive Arthur of the counsel and guidance he so much needs."

"Ah! Guly, you don't know me. I might tell him how he should do; but my example, if he should ever chance to see it, would disgust him with my advice. Had it been different when I first came here, I might now be a better man. I was an orphan, came here from the North, had no soul in this vast city to love or care for me, and for five years I have lived here loveless and lonely, save when with those companions which a friendless being is almost sure to fall in with here; and I can turn to no one, feeling that they care for me."

"Wilkins, I love you; indeed, I love you as a brother."

"I believe you, Guly; though we are so different; though my cherishing you is like the lion mating with the lamb, still I believe in my heart the honest love I feel for you, God has blest me by causing you to reciprocate. I have been a better man since I first held you here on my heart. A better man, Heaven knows!"

"Wilkins, in all the five years you have been here, do you mean to say Mr. Delancey has never asked you to his house, or noticed you any more than he does now?"

"I have never been asked to enter his door, Guly, any more than you have. He would as soon, I suppose, turn a herd of swine into his drawing-room, as to ask his clerks there. He is very proud."

"That isn't pride, Wilkins; it is meanness. A truly proud man would adopt the contrary course, I am sure; and so attach all his employees to himself, and to his interests."

"Ah! he never thinks of that. His negroes get better treatment than his clerks, by far; and there isn't a soul among them but what loves him dearly, and would die for him, I don't doubt, at any moment. So you see he can be kind, strange as it may seem."

"It is strange, Wilkins. Mr. Delancey is a man I cannot understand or appreciate. I don't think I like him at all."

"He certainly has done nothing to make you, my poor boy. His pride, for it is pride, renders him very disagreeable. If all the sin, which his harshness and indifference has caused in others, were laid up against him, 'twould make a mighty pile. There's a day of retribution coming for him, though."

As Wilkins spoke he bent forward, and rested his head on his hand, with a peculiar smile upon his lips.

"A day of retribution! What do you mean, Wilkins? Is there any trouble brooding for him?"

"All pride must have a fall," muttered Wilkins, as if to himself, while he gave the coals a vehement thrust. "Don't ask me anything more about it, Guly."

"But you have roused my curiosity," said Guly, looking up in surprise. "If it isn't a secret, I would like to know more of what you mean."

"I mean a great deal, and would tell you sooner than any one else; but it would do you no good if I would tell you, which I can't, and so we'll say no more about it."

"Has Mr. Delancey any children?"

"Two—a son and a daughter; at least he had a son."

"And did he die?"

"Oh, no; he fell in love with a poor but worthy girl, who has no doubt made him an excellent wife, or at least would have done so had it been in her power. Instead of taking his daughter-in-law to his heart and home, and making her what his wealth could have made her, with her worth and beauty, he met the whole affair with stern opposition, and after his son's marriage turned him from him with a curse, and disinherited him. How the poor fellow has managed to live since, I can't imagine; for he had no profession, nor anything to live by but his wits. I heard once he had become reckless and dissipated, and had sworn vengeance on his unnatural father, but I've heard very little of him of late."

"This is shocking. A clerk can expect but little from such a father. Oh, horrible!"

"He is a man you will probably never know, however long you may live with him. Had it not been for the necessary contact my position in his employ brought us into, I should never have known him at all."

"And you believe he really deemed Arthur guilty to-day?"

"That is more than I can answer. Mr. Delancey is close with regard to money matters."

"My poor brother! Wilkins, promise me to do all you can for him. Oh! I know how much danger surrounds him. What can I, so young and feeble, do? We two are all that is left our mother. Help me—I'm sure you will—to save him."

"I will, Guly—by my sworn love to you, I will. Sometime, my boy, when I may greatly need a friend to help me through a trouble or sorrow that is coming upon me—when those that know me may shun me—you, who love me, will be that friend. May I rely upon you?"

"Depend upon me?—yes, truly, Wilkins—in anything that's right."

Guly's heart was racked with more sorrowful anxiety for his brother than he could, or cared to, express; but in spite of his efforts to restrain them, the bright tears fell down his cheeks at Wilkins' kind words, and dropped upon the broad breast which supported him. Wilkins raised his hand, and wiped them away.

"Don't cry, Guly; your grief unmans me."

"Oh, Wilkins, how can I help it?"

Wilkins answered nothing, but drew the slight form closer in silent sympathy. The hours went on, and midnight still saw them sitting there together—the golden head upon the broad, kind breast, and the eyes of both looking thoughtfully into the coals.



CHAPTER XVII.

"She's beautiful, and therefore to be woo'd; She is a woman, therefore to be won."

Henry VI.

——"Bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose, with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell."

Childe Harold.

Della sat in her large chair, before the dressing-glass, with her delicate feet buried in the rich softness of a velvet cushion; her hands were folded in her lap, and her eyes fixed upon Minny's face, which was clearly reflected in the mirror, as she stood behind her mistress, arranging the shining bands of long fair hair.

"Minny, how very, very white you are! How came you to be so white, when your mother is the blackest slave papa owns?"

A scarlet flush rose to the quadroon's cheek.

"My father, Miss, was as white as your own."

"Were you born here, Minn?"

"My mother was in your father's service when she gave me birth, Miss Della. Will you have your bandeaux single or double for this evening?"

"Double, Minn, so the wreath can lie nicely in between; and make those braids as rich as possible. I wish to look my best to-night. You have always lived here since you were born, Minn?—was a baby when I was a baby?"

"Yes, my dear Miss, and my mother was your nurse; your own mother not liking to spoil her figure by nursing her child, you were put to my mother's breast. So mother tells me."

"Well, if you had been a white child, that would have made us foster-sisters, wouldn't it? That's the reason old Mag loves me so well. I never knew of this before."

"It's something very common here, you know, Miss, for white children to have their foster-mothers among the slaves. Fashionable ladies always think it ruins their forms to have a child at the breast."

"Yes, I know, Minn; and I think it a very shameful practice, too. I never want to be a fashionable woman, if it is going to deprive me of performing a mother's holiest offices for my children. I'm sure after a child of mine had been reared at a black mother's breast I should feel they were black children, had black blood in their veins, and I never could feel right toward them again."

"You are one in a thousand, dear Miss Della; and such feelings are right, and good, and noble. But if you ever wish to be truly a mother to your children, don't marry a fashionable man, whose pride will be to show you off all the time in gay company, and who will be always fretting to keep your beauty good. It is such husbands that make bad mothers. A woman can't be a votary of fashion and a good mother."

"I never shall marry a fashionable man, Minny—you know that; but when I do marry I shall try and be a good, and true, and dutiful wife, nothing more. I haven't a taste for high life—that is, gay life, which has no heart in it. But, Minny, let's go back to you; I commenced about you; what made you change the subject, child?"

"Did I, Miss?"

"Yes. Who was your father, Minny?"

Minny's cheek lost it's flush, and became pale as death.

"I cannot tell you, Miss."

"But you know."

Minny made no answer, but her hands shook violently, and the braids she had just fastened fell loose again from her trembling fingers.

"What ails you, Minn? why don't you answer me?" said Della, looking up earnestly at Minny, in the glass.

"I never told you a lie in the world, Miss Della; and I don't answer you because I can't tell the truth now."

"You must tell me if you know, Minny; and you must tell the truth, too."

"Oh, Miss Della," said the girl, sinking at her mistress's feet in a fit of wild weeping, "don't, don't ask me this. I never knew it myself till yesterday, and then I wrung it from my mother, who charged me, if I valued her life, never to lisp it again. It made me wretched. Oh, Miss Della, it would kill you."

"Kill me? How can it affect me, silly child? What nonsense."

Della lifted up the beautiful head which was bowed before her, and turned the pallid face toward her own.

"Tell me, you foolish one," she persisted, her curiosity fully aroused. "I must and will know about it now;" and she stamped her little foot with an air of command, which, toward her favorite, was very rarely assumed.

Minny pressed her hands, clasped one upon the other, hard against her heart, as if its throbbing was painful, and raised her eyes, full of a strange, wild light, to her mistress's face.

"I would sooner die than tell you, Miss."

There might have been something in that agonized look that called forth emotion, or there might have been something in that cold, fixed gaze, which stamped for the instant the father on that upturned, ashy face; for as she met the glance, Della suddenly clasped her hands to her face, and, with an exclamation of horror, fell back fainting.

Minny sprang wildly to her feet—"Oh, Miss Della!" she exclaimed, as she bent over the senseless form before her, pouring out her passionate accents as if there was an ear to hear them. "Oh, Miss Della, how could you crave this knowledge to-day, of all other days? Had it been yesterday morning, or ever before in all our life here together, I would not have known, and you would have never known. To-day, of all days! Oh, I have broken this poor, sensitive heart; woe is me, woe is me! Oh, if I had only died before I learned this dreadful secret, only died! only died!"

With trembling hands, and eyes raining down their gushing tears, Minny bathed the pale brow, and brought rare perfumes, and chafed the little hands.

"Miss Della! Miss Della! I knew it would kill you—and you only guessed; I never told you—oh, no, never, never, never!"

Slowly Della returned to consciousness, and as her eyes unclosed, they fell upon the agonized face of her weeping attendant. She closed them quickly, and raised her hand so as to wave her from her sight, but it dropped listlessly back into her lap, and she lay still in the large chair, apparently as weak and helpless as an infant.

"Oh, Miss Della! God forgive me for what I have done, though I never meant to do it—never thought to do it. What could have turned your thoughts on this to-day?"

"Go away," murmured Della, faintly; "go away, so that I may open my eyes and not see you."

Minny moved a few paces back.

"I can see you in the glass yet; go away so that I can't see you anywhere, Minn."

Weeping bitterly, Minny retired to the other apartment; and Della, with folded hands, sat quite still with downcast eyes and pallid cheeks, looking like a statue of meditation.

A little French clock upon the mantle-piece struck the hour, and went on with its monotonous tick, tick—that unobtrusive voice of warning and admonition—until the half hour was sweetly chimed, and still Della sat there, pale, and still thinking. At length she rose, and with an energy unusual with her, walked hastily back and forth across the room. It had a soothing effect, and her brow was calm and resolute, yet shadowed as if with some new lesson of life, harshly forced upon her. She seated herself once more before the mirror.

"Minny, I am ready for you now."

Minny came, with her face calm and corpse-like, and once more essayed to bind up the rich bands of hair.

"Place my wreath a little more front. My cheek needs the shade of that bright rose to relieve its pallor—so—that effect is charming."

"Your hair is dressed, Miss."

Della sprang to her feet like one who resolutely tossed some load from the heart, and taking the hand-mirror from the table, surveyed the arrangement of her hair altogether.

"Beautiful! Minny, you have excelled yourself to-night."

"Thank you, Miss. What dress?"

"My India mull, and the rose-colored ribbons."

The dress was brought, and Della stood before the full-length mirror while Minny fastened it.

"Tie my shoulder-knots in your prettiest manner, Minny."

"Yes, Miss; and my reward shall be a rehearsal of the list of conquests?"

"I suppose so," smiled Della; "Minn, I pet you a great deal too much."

"I know it, Miss; and make me love you a great deal too well."

Della sighed.

At this moment there was a tap at the door, and Mrs. Delancey, in full evening costume, entered the room.

"Most ready, dort, darling?"

"Yes, mamma, I will be down in a few minutes."

"You look very sweetly in that simple dress; what prompted you to choose that to-night, treasure?"

"An instinctive knowledge, I presume, mamma, that I would look very sweetly in it," replied Della, archly.

Mrs. Delancey was a fine-looking woman—very fussy and very French. She smiled, and displayed her brilliant teeth at her daughter's answer, then stooped, and kissed her brow. Mrs. Delancey loved her child, with all the strength of affection she was capable of feeling. She was even first in her heart in some moments of pride and ambition, and second never, save to her love of fashion and display.

"Clasp this string of pearls about your throat, it will relieve the plainness of your attire."

"I'd rather not have it relieved, mamma."

"What a strange whim," returned the lady, proceeding to fasten on the necklace.

As the toilet was declared finished, Mrs. Delancey stepped back to observe the effect.

"Charmante, ma chere!" she exclaimed. "Remember, love, your father and I wish you to be particularly agreeable to General Delville this evening. He is a splendid match, rich as a Jew, and of such fine family!"

"He is the gentleman who was of age when papa was born, isn't he, mamma?"

"Hush, child; what of that! He may be a little old, but all the better—you'll be left a charming young widow the sooner."

Della lifted a bracelet from the table, and fell to examining it with the closest inspection, while her little satin-slippered foot kept up an unconscious, nervous tapping upon the carpet.

Mrs. Delancey looked at her watch—"Nine o'clock, Della; the guests will begin to arrive, shortly. You need not come down till your father comes for you. Remember, ma chere, General Delville, particularly."

So saying, the proud mother swept from the apartment.

As the door closed upon her, Della stepped through the open window, and passed out upon the balcony. Minny busied herself with putting aside the jewels which had not been wanted, and other unnecessary articles of dress, which the capricious fancy of her mistress had drawn from their proper places during the process of preparation.

A half hour passed before Mr. Delancey sought his daughter's apartment; when he entered, Della was seated gracefully on an ottoman, arranging a bouquet of orange flowers and mignonnette. It was a sweet picture, and the father stopped to look upon it.

Della looked up, and her eye went quickly from her father's to Minny's face, then dropped again upon her flowers.

"Are you ready, Della?"

"One minute, papa."

"You are looking very lovely to-night, my daughter. Be careful and have your manners to correspond with your looks. My choicest friends are here this evening, and I wish to see you Queen of Hearts."

"Especially to General Delville?"

"Especially to General Delville, Della. I shall be very happy to see you his wife, and it is in your power to become so if you choose."

"I should like to know how many wives he has already, before I take that step, so that I may know how strong a fortification my eyes need against finger-nails."

"Fie, Della! the General has never been married, and you will no doubt occupy the first place in his heart."

"I have always hoped that when I married such might be my lot, but it cannot be in this case, I know. If General Delville has lived in New-Orleans till he has grown old enough to be my grandfather, he can't have much of a heart left."

"Della, you astonish me!" said her father, with the frown deepening. "One would think you had no ambition whatever to make a good match."

"Papa, do you love me at all?"

Mr. Delancey started at the abrupt question, and gazed upon his daughter in surprise.

"Love you, Della? the whole of my heart is centred in you."

Della sighed, as if the answer did not quite please her, and taking her father's proffered arm, went down the broad staircase, and into the magnificent drawing-room.

Wealth, and beauty, and state, and grandeur, all were there; yet first, and fairest, and brightest, shone the merchant's daughter. The happy father and proud mother watched her, as with a light step she flitted through the thronged rooms, the "observed of all observers," and there was a light in her eye, an animation in her tread, and a glow on her cheek, which was all the more beautiful for being rare.

She leant upon Mr. Delville's arm, the envied object of many a young heart there; and when seated at the harp, her clear, unaffected voice rose in strains of thrilling melody. General Delville was at her side, listening with earnest attention, and turning the leaves of her music with all the grace of a more youthful courtier.

Aware, as he was, of the sanction of the father and the eagerness of the mother, it was no wonder that the General strove to win to his withered heart so fair a flower. He had been a great traveler, and had feasted his eyes on the beautiful women of the East, and the more frigid beauties of northern climes. He had been courted rather than courting, and had gone through life dreading to take to his heart a wife, lest, when too late, he should find his wealth had been the talisman that drew her there.

But in Della, he thought he saw a sweet and guileless girl; and put forth all his attractive powers of conversation and graces of person (which, old as he was, became him well,) to interest her in himself. Her father watched the progress of their acquaintance with a delight which manifested itself, even in his cold eyes, and Della received the assiduous attentions of her white-haired admirer with a triumph for which she was excusable; yet with no desire to win him closer than now.

The evening wore away, the splendid supper was over, and the guests, one by one, took their departure. Many a youthful suitor made his adieus to Della that night with a jealous pang, as Delville's apparent success arose to his mind. When the rooms were cleared, Mr. Delancey called his daughter to his side.

"I cannot let you retire, Della, without telling you how much you have pleased and gratified a father's heart this night. I am more than ever proud of you; you will well adorn the station in which Delville can place you. Bless you, Della. Good night."

"Good night, papa."

Della moved gracefully away, and slowly mounted the broad staircase leading to her chamber.

"No blessing of love—no blessing of affection," she murmured softly, as she went on, step by step—"only a blessing through his pride—cold, hollow, empty pride, with nothing noble, nothing lofty in it; having for foundation only an eligible match for me, or my station, or my appearance. What a life, what a life!"

Della expected to find Minny asleep, as the hour was late; but when she entered her apartment, Minny was there, walking the floor with her hands clasped thoughtfully before her.

"Undress me, Minn. I am weary—weary."

"Haven't you been happy, Miss?" asked the girl, as she knelt to unfasten the slender slipper from the pretty foot.

"Yes—and no, Minn. If triumph could make me happy, I must have been, so far as that is concerned; but in thinking of you I have been unhappy; and I have thought of you all the evening."

"Of me, Miss, in the midst of all that gaiety!"

"Of you. Would you like to be free, Minny?"

"Free, Miss Della? to have my freedom, and leave you?"

"Yes, Minny, if you would like your freedom, you shall have it this very night; papa will do anything I say with regard to it, and you may go, dear Minn, whenever you choose. You shall have money to carry you where you like. In the North you might do well; marry some rich abolitionist, perhaps, and be very happy. I am in earnest, Minn; you have but to speak."

"Miss Della, if I have offended you in any way, if I have hurt your heart by any means, if I have spoken, acted, or looked anything that displeased you, do anything to punish me save sending me from you. What would my freedom be to me away from you? Miss Della, you will never know how poor Minn loves you."

The girl had spoken in such a subdued voice, uttering her short sentences between the sobs that were trying to struggle up, that, as she paused in her task, and looked in her mistress's face with an expression of such tearful, doubtful anxiety on her features, Della was deeply touched, and sat a moment with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. She took it down at last, and went on very calmly and thoughtfully.

"Minny, it is very painful for me to talk of this, but you must understand me: I'm afraid I can never be quite happy again, with you performing such offices as this for me. The discovery I made this afternoon—that unfortunate discovery for both of us—was terrible—very terrible!"

"Oh, Miss, that of all things you should have asked me that! I will never, never remember it, if you will only forget it, and let me be to you what I have ever been."

"I was right in what I suspected—I am sure I guessed the truth—you must tell me now, Minny," said Della, taking one of Minny's hands in hers, and speaking in a tone half doubtful that she might be wrong. "My father was your father, n'est ce pas, dear Minny?"

Heedless of the kindness with which the words were spoken, Minny threw up her hands with a gesture of despair, then flung herself full length upon the floor, in a burst of passionate grief.

"Get up, Minny; get up, and come by me here; come!"

With the deep sobs still bursting from her lips, the girl rose, and sat, with bowed head and falling tears, at her young mistress's feet.

"Minny, you understand me now, don't you? Think of it, Minny: you are my sister!"

"Oh! none the less your slave, Miss."

"My father's child must never be a slave to me."

"Miss Della! Oh that this knowledge should have ever come to either of us; don't for the love of mercy talk so; don't put me from you; what am I but a negro's child, the fruit of the white man's sin?"

"I know, Minny, I know the world would never look upon this as I do; but you are in my sight as much my sister as if my father had lost a first wife and wedded again, and we were the fruits of the two marriages. The same blood is in your veins that is in mine. He who gave you being, to me is 'father,' to you is 'master.' You are more beautiful than I, as well as better fitted for the society into which I am forced to move, yet you are a slave!"

Della leaned back in her chair a moment; and again held her handkerchief to her eyes; she controlled herself quickly however, and continued:

"I set the case before you just as it is, Minny; I want you to view it in its true light—then choose between what I offer you, and what you must otherwise be. Don't tremble so, Minny; I never have felt towards you as a mistress would to a slave. When I look back, I remember you were the only playmate I ever had, the closest and best companion of my wayward girlhood; and I feel that I have always loved you, always respected you, and, Minny, I always shall. I am certain, Minn, that though there may be black blood circling round it, there never was a purer heart, a nobler soul, than yours. Were it not for my father's sake your position should be different in this house, but in honor to him I can only do you good by sending you where your birth and parentage will ever be a mystery. Minny, dear, will you go?"

The girl had sat during all this time quiet as a statue, at her mistress's feet. As she heard her stop speaking, she raised herself upon her knees before her, and clasping her small hands above her, exclaimed:—

"As God hears me, Miss Della, I would rather stay by you, rather be the veriest slave that ever breathed, a mere thing to answer to your beck and call, so that I may be near you, and love you, and do for you, than to be the wife of the richest white man that ever lived—to be looked upon as white myself—or to move in those circles which you would fain believe me fitted for. As God hears me this is true!"

"Heaven bless you, Minny! Then we will never part."

With an exclamation of joy, Minny clasped her young mistress to her heart, and poured forth, with passionate vehemence, her prayers and tears and blessings. It seemed as if she could never cease, and Della twined her fair arms, jeweled, and white, and beautiful, beneath the thick black curls, which covered Minny's neck, and gave her kiss for kiss, and tear for tear.

"When I am Bernard's wife, Minn, then I can make you happier. You have all those dear letters safe, quite safe?"

"I keep them as the apple of my eye, Miss. You can never make me happier, dear Miss, than I am now. I can never wish to be more blest than I am this minute."

"Dear Minny, you have a woman's heart, and that must know a woman's longings. When I have it in my power I shall at least try to make you happier, though it may be in a different way. You have always been more a friend and a fond companion than a slave to me, and now, now—" Della paused, as if it were impossible for her to speak the words she would, then added, after a moment's pause, "Minny, never let this dreadful secret go farther, place a seal upon your lips, and let it die with you for my sake. And, if you will stay, Minny, rather than to go and be free and happy in your own way, I will do everything for you, love you, care for you, all—only never, never let this dreadful truth be known."

"Never, Miss, so help me Heaven! Only let me stay with you, and be what I have ever been to you, and I will be content. Try, dear Miss, to forget all that's passed to-day, and let us stand together in the old light."

"No, Minny, I can never forget it. The old light can never shine on me again; but I will try always to remember it as I should; and now, Minn, finish, undressing me; or rather, teach me to undress myself."

"I claim this as my privilege, Miss, and never want you to learn how."

Della smiled, and patted Minny's cheek. There had a change come over her in the last few hours, such as she never thought to experience. It seemed as if she had become more of a woman in that short space than she had ever thought she would become. Her judgment and heart, too, seemed suddenly to have expanded; and she felt more respect for herself than she had ever done before. She had always been one who thought for herself, notwithstanding there were so many to think for her; and, with a spirit above all affectation, she looked at things in a plain, common-sense, and true light. When the first shock was over in regard to her relationship to Minny, she had struggled with her natural feelings of wounded pride, till the matter stood before her as it was. Her father was not one to win his child's affections, and Della had always feared more than loved him; but of one so cold and stern she had never in all her life thought this. But now that she knew it, she almost wondered how it was she had never suspected as much before. Few girls, in Della's position, would have talked with a slave as she talked to Minny—would ever have thought of placing matters in so strong a light before her; but Della was guileless and innocent at heart, with a child-spirit in some things, yet more than woman's strength in others. She never thought Minny could take advantage of the new aspect of affairs she painted for her; she only felt that Minny was enduring a life of wrong, and longed to give her redress. And Minny's was a great, and noble, and truthful heart. From earliest childhood she had been taught to regard Miss Della as her mistress, and was never absent from her side. Della had been educated at home; and Minny, with her quick mind, and an occasional lesson from her young mistress, together with her earnest desire to learn, had acquired more real knowledge than Della herself, though lacking some of the light accomplishments in which her mistress excelled. Thus had they grown up together, and they were not to be parted now.



CHAPTER XVIII.

"Alas! the heart that inly bleeds Has naught to fear from outward blow; Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss."

Byron.

When Arthur left the store, the evening after the unfortunate affair of the bank deposit, he had gone forth with no definite purpose, no chosen course for his footsteps, only with a longing desire to feel the breath of Heaven upon his hot brow once again, and to look up at the stars, which he felt glad would gaze on him always the same, from the deep blue sky above; no matter what changes came o'er the heart of man, or how black the frown adversity might bend upon him. Perhaps had the youth, that night, been left to commune with his own rebel thoughts, and to the companionship of those holy stars, and the still voice of the night, he would have become himself again, and sought his pillow with a heart refreshed from the storm that had swept over it. But his evil genius pursued him; and before he reached the first corner, he heard a quick step behind him, and turning, stood face to face with the last person he at that moment wished to meet—Quirk, his fellow-clerk.

Since the Sabbath which they had spent so disgracefully together, he had shunned Quirk in every way. He had avoided his glances, shunned his presence, and turned a deaf ear to his sneers and gibes. But now there was no way to avoid him, and Arthur greeted him with as good a grace as possible.

"What the devil's the matter with you, Pratt?" he exclaimed, after the first words of recognition. "I can see plainly there's been a muss between you and old D., someway, but I'll be hanged if I could find out what 'twas about. He hasn't found out we lost that pass-key, has he?"

"D——n the key," said Arthur, uttering his first oath with cool nonchalance; "I don't know whether he's found it out or not, and care less."

"You'd have to care, I reckon, if he did find it out, though," returned the other. "Don't you see the store is liable to be entered any night, if a clever fellow happened to find that key? You see the number of the store and all is on it."

Arthur walked on for a moment in silence, then replied:

"If a 'clever fellow,' as you say, had found it, and wanted to use it for such a purpose, he'd have been in, I guess, before now—that key has been gone a month or more."

"Aye, but the nights have been too fine; starlight or moonlight all the while; and may be he is waiting for the new stock of goods, who knows?"

"Well, if that's going to happen," said Arthur, earnestly, "I only hope it will not come just yet; I've got trouble enough for one season."

"Trouble! what have you got to trouble you, I'd like to know? But I forgot, you haven't told me what occurred to-day; and that's just what I come after you for, to find out."

"Well, I may as well tell you, I suppose, if you are so anxious to know. Delancey, I don't believe, will keep it to himself, and you may as well know it from me as him."

"Never hope for him to keep anything secret that could hurt a body; I never knew him to screen a clerk's faults yet. He is of the opinion that to make the matter public, is the best way to ensure better luck next time. Let's step in here, and take something refreshing; and you can tell me the story over our glasses."

Arthur complied, and entering one of those gorgeous saloons, which can be found in almost every block of the Crescent City, Quirk stepped to the counter, and ordered a bottle of wine, and, in an under-tone, added:—"A private apartment, also, if you have one empty."

The clerk, who was a portly, sensual-faced, red-haired man, raised his brows, and, tipping a sly wink at Quirk, said:—"Up stairs or down?"

"Both, perhaps," returned the other, with a laugh; "but if we want an upper one, we'll let you know. Down stairs for the present."

The man had by this time lighted a lamp, at the wick of which he had been working for some time, and taking the bottle of wine, he led the way into the back part of the saloon, where was a door partially concealed by red moreen hangings. He shoved aside the curtain, and passed into a long vestibule, elegantly furnished, with doors opening on each side, not unlike the state-rooms of a steamboat. These doors led into small apartments, carpeted, lighted, and containing four chairs and a card-table, with a pack of cards.

"You are perfectly private here, gentlemen."

"Yes," replied Quirk, seating himself with the air of a man who has bought his comfort, and means to enjoy it. "Ah, Quibbles, what shall we do for cigars? I forgot them."

"We have some prime Havanas, sir; how many did you order?"

"Oh, bring me half a dozen; that's enough after wine."

Quibbles departed on his mission.

"This is a nice place, Pratt, to tell secrets in; don't you think so?"

"I do, indeed," said Arthur, looking around with a knowing air, and thrumming on the table with his fingers.

The clerk at this moment returned with cigars and wine glasses, and drew the cork of the wine bottle.

"Quibbles."

"Yes, sir."

"Has Clinton been here to-night?"

"Not yet."

"When he comes tell him we are here, and send him in, will you?"

Quibbles bowed, and retired.

"Is that the proprietor of this establishment, Quirk?" asked Arthur, helping himself to a glass of wine.

"Ho, ho, bless your heart, no. The proprietor is one of the pillars of an up-town church, and would feel his reputation ruined, and himself disgraced, if seen behind the counter of such a concern. He hires this man to play proprietor, and keeps the place open for the benefit of those who prefer bar-rooms to churches. You see, Christians go into anything that pays well, here."

Arthur bent over his glass with something like a frown on his young brow; then holding his wine up between his eye and the light, he shook it slowly, and watched the ruddy reflection playing on his hand.

"Didn't I hear you ask if Clinton had been here, Quirk?"

"Aye, just so."

"Does he frequent this place?"

"Well, between you and me, he does."

"Does he use these?" said Arthur, lifting a few of the cards, and letting them fall slowly through his fingers.

"Well, sometimes he does one thing, sometimes another; you see this is a very extensive establishment, and sometimes he drinks in the saloon, sometimes gambles in here, and sometimes passes the evening up stairs with the ladies, and occasionally does all in the course of an evening. He's a fine fellow, I tell you; a fast un, though."

"What ladies are in the house, the family of the man out yonder?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" roared Quirk, uproariously; "what a prime innocent it is, though. Why, my boy, this is one of the fashionable establishments of the city."

A glow of shame crossed Arthur's cheek, as the truth flashed upon his mind, and dashing his glass angrily down, blushing at the thought of being led into such a place, he was about to pass out of the door.

"Why, hold on, Pratt; have you forgotten what you came here for? You haven't told me a word of what you were going to."

"Nor shall I in this hole," returned Arthur, laying his hand upon the door-key; "if you want to hear it you must get out of here."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Quirk, trying to detain him; "hold on till we finish this bottle."

"Not I," replied Arthur, "I've had enough;" and dashing open the door, he rushed against the trim figure of Clinton, who was just about to enter.



CHAPTER XIX.

"Fate is above us all; We struggle, but what matters our endeavor? Our doom is gone beyond our own recall; May we deny or mitigate it? Never!"

Miss Landon.

"Whither so fast, whither so fast!" cried Clinton, so cheerfully, as he laid both hands on Arthur's shoulders, and playfully detained him, that he could not answer the speaker with a frown; so, holding out his hand, he shook that of the new comer heartily, and suffered himself to be led back into the card-room.

"If you hadn't have come just as you did, Clin, this chap would have been off like a shot from a shovel, his young modesty was so shocked just by my telling him the state of affairs in the house here," said Quirk, tipping back in his chair against the wall, while a sneer mingled in the smile upon his lips.

"Well, if he isn't used to such things, I don't wonder," returned Clinton, drawing Arthur to a seat by his side, and squeezing cordially the hand he still held.

"You're a pretty one to side that way," said Quirk, half angry at Clinton's remark. "If he ain't used to such things, it's time he was initiated, if he ever expects to be a man."

"Time enough, time enough," replied Clinton, good-naturedly, shaking the bottle to see if there was anything left in it, then touching a table-bell at his side, he summoned Quibbles.

"A couple of bottles of champagne here, and clean glasses."

They were brought instantly.

"How came you to drop in here, boys, to-night? I declare it is an unexpected pleasure."

"Pratt had something on his mind, and came in here to tell me of it; but he got so d——d huffy, I don't suppose I shall hear it now."

"Something on your mind, eh, Pratt?" said Clinton, in a commiserating tone, as he filled Arthur's glass, and shoved the bottle to Quirk; "if so, here's to the end of it."

They touched glasses, and drank off the sparkling draught.

"Now for the story, whatever it is!" cried Clinton.

"It is no story, only a little affair that happened after I left you this afternoon," returned Arthur.

"Indeed! after you left me! I am all impatience, my dear fellow, let's hear."

In as few words as possible, dwelling as lightly as he could on what Mr. Delancey had said to him, Arthur told it all as it had happened, his companions listening attentively meanwhile.

"Why, my dear soul!" cried Clinton, clapping his hand on Arthur's shoulder, as he finished speaking, "your pocket must have been picked. There's always a crowd in the street at that time of day, and somebody has just been cute enough to rob you."

"So Mr. Delancey thought, and he said probably you did it," returned Arthur, though in the tone of one who tells what he feels assured is false.

"The deuce he did!" exclaimed Clinton, filling the glasses again, and holding up his own to conceal the flush upon his face.

"Well, it's too bad anyhow," said Quirk, with returning good nature. "You don't get any credit for honesty, and have to bear the loss besides—outrageous!"

"How did the old man know anything about me?" said Clinton, with an indifferent air; "I'll have to call him out, if he touches upon my character in this style."

Quirk laughed, and Arthur hastened to explain to Clinton how the remark had been made, and how light a bearing, after all, it had upon himself.

Clinton received it with a careless bow, as if, at best, he considered it a matter of no consequence.

"And so he actually insinuated that you had it, eh, in the end?"

"Yes—and that's the most I care for; if he had believed me honest, I could have borne the rest unmurmuringly; but to be thought a thief!"

"It seems hard enough, don't it?" said Clinton, in a tone of sympathetic kindness, well-calculated to win on the trusting heart beside him, and laying one hand familiarly on Arthur's knee.

"It's a deuced piece of business, that's all about it!" cried Quirk, growing excited with the wine he had swallowed; "it's an insult I wouldn't take from any man—old or young, or little or big; I'll be dem'd if I would."

An insult! that was a light in which he had not exactly placed it before, and Arthur's blood rose at the thought. Clinton remarked it, with a twinkle of gratification in his keen eye, which he strove to conceal from Arthur's observation.

"It's enough to drive one desperate! I scarcely know what I should do under such circumstances," said he, suddenly, with his eyes fixed keenly upon Arthur's flushed face.

"There's no way for me to do but to put up with it," returned Arthur, doggedly; "I've got to stay there, and make it up; and I may as well do it quietly as to make a disturbance about it, because it's got to be done."

"It's enough to tempt one to try the strength of the old adage——," continued Clinton, thoughtfully, and pausing in the midst of his sentence.

"What's that?" asked Arthur, without looking up.

"Why, to take the game as well as the name," said the other, with a short laugh, and without taking his eyes from Arthur's face.

"True enough," cried Quirk, "you might as well be a thief as to be called one, according to my opinion."

Arthur placed his elbow on the table, and looked into the lamp-blaze thoughtfully, with his head on his hand.

"You are both ready to advise," said he, after a moment's silence, "but I doubt if either of you know what you'd do in my case, after all."

"I'd be avenged," said Clinton, resolutely; "but you are not me, and I don't ask you to do as I would."

"That's just the thing!" cried Quirk; "and if you can hit upon a plan, carry it out; there'll be some satisfaction in that."

"Revenge!" said Arthur, bitterly; "how can I be revenged? It would be a sparrow struggling against a vulture."

"You admit you have been wronged?"

"Most unjustly so."

"And you would be avenged, if you could?"

"Yes, if I spilled my heart's blood."

Arthur had drank deeply of the wine, and his blood was heated with it, and his worst passions aroused. He had been goaded into the belief that he had been grossly insulted and had taken it submissively, and that revenge was his only resource. He threw aside his chair, and strode back and forth across the narrow room, with the excited tread of the caged lion.

Clinton watched him furtively from beneath his brows for a moment, then rising, linked arms, and leaned toward him in a confidential manner.

"My poor friend, I pity you from the bottom of my heart; count upon me whenever you are in want of a friend, will you?"

"Always, Clinton; thank you."

"And if I should try to think upon some good plan, lay some good plot, by which you could gain retribution for this great wrong, would you then be courageous, and carry it out handsomely?"

"Would I? Never fear me there. I'll show you that I'm not one to bow my neck to the insults of a money-holder. I'll carry out anything you say."

"Bravo! my boy; you've got the right kind of spirit in you; that's what I like to see—you're a man of pluck."

"About when do you think you'll have this grand plot ready for me, eh?"

"The first dark night."

"You'll consult the clerk of the we-weather as to when that is c-coming, eh?"

"I suppose so," said Clinton, laughing. "Meanwhile, come down to my house the last of the week, say Friday night, and I'll have all things in cap-a-pie order for you."

"How do I know where to find you, my more than brother," said Arthur, clasping Clinton's hand closely.

"Quirk knows the way. You'll come?"

"Depend upon it."

"Good! that's settled; now for a bumper on it."

"Well, I don't know, Clinton; I—I—declare I'm afr-afraid I'll be (hic) drunk if I drink any more."

"Nonsense! down with it; let's finish the last bottle."

The wine was swallowed, and Clinton, taking Arthur's hand in his, shook it heartily.

"Ah! my boy, you've proved yourself 'one of us' to-night; glad to claim you as a b-hoy. Whenever you're in want or trouble, signal the b-hoys, and you'll be helped out of it. It's a better society than any of the Odd Fellows or Free Masons can ever be, and costs you nothing besides. What say you now for a stroll?"

"Agreed! for my part, I am ready for anything."

"Then hurrah, boys!" cried Clinton, beginning to sing a lively air; and lighting their cigars, they passed out into the saloon.

"Put all this in my bill, Quibbles," said Clinton, as he passed that gentleman, on his way to the door.

"That'll do, sir—all right."

With noise and laughter, and rude jest, the drunken trio went down the street. It needed but a glance to show that the younger of the three, he with the bright complexion and jetty hair, was but a novice in dissipation, and more than one felt a glow of pity, as he jostled past them in the light of the bright windows of Royal-street. Alas! alas! Arthur; where was the ghost in your heart now? that haggard figure, pointing ever with its skinny finger backward!

They kept on until they reached St. Ann-street, into which they turned; as they did so, their attention was attracted by the appearance of a slight female figure, with a short cloak about her shoulders, and the hood drawn over her head. The moment she heard the unsteady steps behind her she hurried her pace, which was already rapid, and sped along with feet winged with fear.

"By Jove! that's a graceful little minx!" exclaimed Clinton.

"She's inclined to lead us a chase, too," said Quirk.

"Let's after her."

"Agreed."

And with a shout, the three started in pursuit, scarce conscious, in their excitement, of the object they had in view.

With a scream, the light form bounded onward, and fled away like the wind. Strong limbs followed; but her feet were fleet, and lightly clad, and with the hood falling from her head, and hands clasped upon a parcel she carefully carried, she seemed almost to fly before her pursuers. With a cry of delight, she saw the gleam of a lamp come through an open door, a little beyond, when, as she attempted to spring an intervening gutter, her foot struck the curb-stone, and she fell to the earth.

In an instant she was lifted in the arms of Quirk and Clinton.

"Oh, grandpapa! grandpapa!" she shrieked, in thrilling accents, "what will become of your poor, poor Blanche? Help! help!"

Her cries were unheeded by her merciless captors, and they bore her down an adjacent street.



CHAPTER XX.

"Oh! Clifford, how thy words revive my heart!" King Henry VI.

"Villains!" cried a deep, powerful voice, as a huge form met them, in full career, staggering through the darkness; "villains! unhand this girl, or, by Heavens, you'll rue the hour you ever placed a finger on her."

"Help! help!"

"And who are you, I'd like to know, that dares to put his finger in our p-p-pie?" returned Quirk, trying to dash past the tall figure with his burden.

"I am one that dares to protect defenceless virtue, whenever I see it thus assailed. This girl is not what you take her for, or she would never cry for help; and I tell you to put her down, or I will make you," returned the other, lifting his strong arm, and still preventing them from passing.

The girl struggled in the grasp of her captors, and moaned.

The new comer sprang forward with a bound, and clasping his arms about her, strove to draw her from their hold.

"Not so fast, not so fast," said Clinton, placing one hand over the girl's mouth; "remember we're three to one here, and if you don't want your head broke, you'd better keep away."

"That's the kind," said Arthur, coming forward; "hold on to her, Clin—"

The words were no sooner spoken, than the speaker fell to the pavement, leveled by a heavy blow from the arm of the intruder, and a second blow sent Quirk, staggering, into the gutter, while at the same moment the girl was snatched from the now yielding arms of Clinton.

As she gained her feet, she flung back her hair from her eyes, and looked up in the face of her rescuer.

"Monsieur Wilkins!"

"Good Heavens! is this Blanche?"

At the mention of Wilkins' name, Arthur and Quirk sprang to their feet, and started on a run down the street, followed by Clinton.

"A devilish muss this," cried Quirk, as they paused on a corner, a few blocks from the scene of their discomfiture.

"It was too dark for him to recognize a soul of us," returned Clinton; "if it hadn't been for the lamp gleam coming suddenly through that window, she would not have known him."

"I hope he didn't know me," said Arthur, rubbing his forehead, which had struck the pavement as he fell, and feeling considerably sobered by his fall, and the recent flight. "I don't want this scrape to go back to Guly."

"Who's that? your young milk-and-water brother! Pshaw! what does he know about the fun of such things? If you want to enjoy yourself, I advise you to keep your sprees a secret from him; he has no soul to appreciate such affairs."

"You are more than half right there."

"He's the kind of character I can't bear to be near," said Quirk, emphatically.

"You couldn't pay him a higher compliment than to say that," returned Arthur, warmly.

"Well, well, don't get into a miff about a trifle now. Clint, where shall we go to?"

"I shall go home, I reckon; my head aches," said Arthur.

"No, you won't go home either," replied Clinton, pulling him along with him, good-naturedly. "Let's make a night of it, now we have begun. What do you say for the Globe ball-room? There's a high affair there to-night, and

'We'll dance all night till broad daylight, And go home with the gals in the morning.'"

"Agreed," said Quirk; "come along, Pratt. Your foot's in, and it'll be dirty, whether you pull it out first or last; you may as well have the good of it."

With a heart responding to this idea, Arthur suffered his companions each to take an arm, and went on with them to the Globe ball-room. The haggard ghost, the pale figure of warning and remorse, was gone for ever from Arthur's heart.

Wilkins, the moment he discovered who it was he had rescued, gave scarce a thought to the flight of those who had opposed him; but, with a gush of thankfulness in his heart, he drew Blanche's arm within his, and led her back toward her own house.

"How came you to be in the street at this hour, Miss? Do you know it is after midnight, and young girls like you are never safe in these streets at such hours?"

"Oh, sir," said Blanche, bursting into tears, "my grandpapa was taken very ill. I had no one to send, you know, and of course I had to go for assistance myself. I looked all up and down the street, and saw nobody, not even a watch-man; so I put on my cloak, and ran for the doctor. He wasn't home; so I went a little further to see old Elise, who always gives me medicine that helps grandpapa, and she detained me a little while preparing it; and when I came out, they came behind me; I tried my very best to run away, but I fell down, and they caught me. Oh, Mon Dieu! Monsieur! what if you hadn't come just as you did!"

"You would have been a most miserable little girl, without doubt, Miss Blanche."

"I can never thank you enough, Monsieur."

"You can repay me by never going out at such a time again."

"And when another case comes just as extreme, Mr. Wilkins, what can I do? I couldn't let poor grandpapa die, could I?"

There was such an earnest intonation of voice in these words, and such a simple innocence of manner, that Wilkins couldn't repress a smile.

"If I furnish you with a tidy little black girl, will you take good care of her, Miss Blanche, and let her do your errands?"

"Oh, Monsieur, that would be too much for you to do."

"No; I own a number of slaves, and the daughter of one of them is too young to be put out to a place, and is just old enough to work for you."

"You are so very kind!"

By this time they had reached Blanche's home, and as she tripped up the steps, she said:—

"Come and see grandpapa to-morrow, Mr. Wilkins; and let him thank you for his kindness to his little house-keeper."

"I will come, Miss Blanche."

"And, Monsieur," she added, coming out again after she had passed into the door, "bring Guly with you, won't you?"

"Oui, Mademoiselle."

The door closed, and Wilkins passed on, thoughtfully, towards Royal-street. In the excitement of the recent adventure, he had almost forgotten what had called him forth at that time of night, and now walked on, like one who wanders forth purposeless, into darkness and solitude. But suddenly, in passing a brilliantly lighted cafe, the thought of Arthur crossed his mind; and, for the first time, the idea flashed upon him, that he might have been one of those concerned in the capture of little Blanche.

He stopped short, and was about to turn back, to endeavor to trace the fugitives, when he remembered that Arthur had as yet but just commenced the downward path, and that he could not already have become so fallen as to commit so base an act as that which he had just witnessed. It had been too dark to recognize faces, and his own excitement had prevented him from thinking to notice the voices; and the more he thought of it, the more convinced was he that Arthur was not among them. He had sat with Guly by the fire until the midnight hour had passed, waiting for Arthur's return; but when the fire died out, and the lamp faded, and he still was absent, he persuaded Guly to go to bed, promising that he would seek his brother before he slept. Guly would fain have accompanied him, but Wilkins induced him to remain, not wishing to familiarize the pure heart of his boy-friend with the scenes in which he felt convinced he must look for the wanderer.

Wilkins faithfully kept his word, and left no place unsearched wherein he thought it possible to find Arthur. He believed he would find him in some one of the popular places of resort, standing ever open, with their false glitter and dangerous splendor, to lure their victims to destruction. But 'the wee small hour ayont the twal' found him still searching, and still unsuccessful.

Disappointed, with lingering steps he turned toward the store, but, as he stepped upon the sill, a slender figure darted from the alley-way, and laid a chill and trembling hand upon his arm.

"Bernard!"

"Heavens, Minny! what brings you here?"

"Hopes and fears, and memories, and sorrows, which will not die."

"Pshaw, girl! harping on the old string yet! What of your mistress?"

"She is well, and by this time happy in her dreams."

"And did she send you to me? how came you here?"

"I came here with the pass, which gives any negro a right to the highway; and though I forged it, it served me well."

Minny stepped back into the shadow of the archway, and Wilkins, obeying the convulsive grasp of that delicate hand, followed her.

"Bernard," said she, dropping her voice almost into a whisper, which echoed deep and clear through the dark and narrow alley, "I have come to you to-night, for the last time in my life, to stand before you for a moment in the light of other days."

She paused, as if some smothered emotion overcame her; and the trembling hand upon his arm slipped down, and was clasped an instant in Wilkins' grasp. It lingered there but a moment, one wild sad moment to Minny, and was withdrawn hastily, with a gush of tears.

"I cannot tell you," she proceeded to say, in a tone of touching sadness, and speaking every word with impressive distinctness, "I cannot tell you what came over me to-night, as I sat by the tall window, looking up at the pale stars, and listening to the night-wind, but it seemed to me like some vivid dream, or some shadowy vision of the past, and as my mistress fell asleep, I sat there still, looking up at the stars, with my vision between me and them. Listen, Bernard, and let me tell you what it was."

Wilkins' heart was touched by the soul-reaching sadness of the girl's manner, and he folded his arms patiently upon his breast, and leaned back against the brick wall of the archway, with his head bent forward to listen.

"I saw myself, Bernard, at first, as I was when first you came here. I knew none of the sorrows of my situation then, if there were any; at least I did not think it was anything to be a slave, and I was light-hearted and innocent, and very happy. I saw myself tripping along with my basket in my hand, as I so often used to do in my frequent errands to the store, and I met you, and at last, one moonlight night, you started with me from the store, and talked with me kindly and gently, and left me only at the gate of the great house where I lived. Bernard, do you remember?"

"Yes, Minny, I do remember."

"And the next night, and the next—and still the next—they all came before me to-night so clearly. You were by my side, and talking sweetly, gently, lovingly. Yes, you told your love to me, Bernard; I saw you in my vision to-night as plainly as I saw you in reality then. On your knees before me, me the quadroon, clasping my hand, kissing it, blessing it, praying, imploring, beseeching me to be your wife. You were younger then, and less ambitious. I loved you so passionately, so wildly—Oh! my God! with what intenseness—and I told you so. To-night, looking up at those stars above me, I seemed to hear the old cathedral bell, I saw the doors swing slowly open, I heard the solemn service, you clasped me to your heart—your own."

"Girl! girl!" cried Wilkins, striking his hand upon his brow passionately, "why do you come to call all this up now?"

"Hear me, Bernard," said Minny, laying her hand again upon his arm. "You must hear me out. My lips shall never call the past to your mind again, never; but hear me now. I kept my place, and you kept yours. We met clandestinely, when we could, and where we could; and when I found that bondage kept me from your side, and that you had neither the gold to buy me, nor the courage to have it said you bought your wife, then, then I learned the bitter lot the quadroon has to bear. I was as white as you, as free in heart and motion, with high and good impulses, and a cultivated mind; and yet I had no liberty to go abroad, and make my home with him I loved, and, for the first time in my life, I cursed the fate which rendered me a slave! A little time went on, and what a change! Oh! Heaven! that I should e'er have lived to see it! you grew cold and distant as you rose in life, and when you gained the position you now have here, I saw, because my very love made me see, that an ambitious heart had turned your thoughts higher than the poor quadroon, the beautiful but wretched slave. You loved my mistress! my master's daughter! She whom he would rather this day bury in the Potter's field than see your wife—and you know it! Oh! what agony then was mine! It was my turn then to weep, and pray, and plead; was I not your lawful wife, your own? Ha! what answer did you give me then? That our marriage was a mere form, that it was illegal, and I was—what? No marriage could be performed lawfully, you said, between a white man and a woman with the blood of my race in her veins. I wonder that I did not go mad then; I was taken terribly ill, but it was my fate to live on in misery. I lived to see you and Miss Della meet often, after that first meeting at the masked ball, and I lived to see her love you. When I found her secret out, I gave you up for ever; and from that moment my love froze up, and has hung in my heart like an unthawing icicle ever since."

"Have done, girl!" cried Wilkins, suddenly laying his heavy hands on her shoulders, as she stood before him with the starlight she so loved, just making her pale face and glittering eyes visible; "have done, I say, or I will curse you. Hence! I have heard enough of this; why do you come prating here, to tell me what I already know too well?—out upon you!"

In his impatient anger, Wilkins threw her from him, and strode hurriedly, up and down through the narrow alley, where they stood. Minny waited until his excitement had in a measure subsided, and he stood once more with folded arms before her, and his dark eyes looking into hers.

"Now," said he, speaking half in mockery, half in awe of the firm-hearted girl beside him, "now, my sin, my concentrated lightning, my beautiful passion, my quintessence of gall and bitterness, go on. I'll stand and listen now till doomsday, if you will it, though your lips drop burning coals into my bare bosom, and scorch my soul. Go on, I say, I'll listen."

Minnie drew herself up proudly before him, as she heard his words, and stood with her beautiful head erect, and her keen eye fixed upon him, unwaveringly.

"Had you possessed a soul to burn over a woman's woes, and a woman's wrongs, it would have been scorched out long ago, Bernard; but let that pass. I came to you this night, not only to tell over my own wretchedness, a reviewal of which had risen up so forcibly before me, but I came to you anew as the spirit of the past, to call up in your breast the memory of what you have been, and to ask you if the future brings a change. And now, Bernard, on all your hopes of happiness, here or hereafter, answer me truly. Do you sincerely love this girl, whose guileless heart you've won?"

"And whether I do or not, girl, is it you I must make my confessor? No, never. It is a matter which concerns you not at all. Whether my heart be black as hate, or pure as an angel's pinion, I lay it bare to no one. Whatever my feelings or intent in this matter, they are my own."

"Not so, Bernard. If ambition has prompted you to gain her affections, if love of wealth has sent you a wooer at that shrine, having in your breast no faithful heart to bestow in return for hers, let me beg, let me implore you, to stop where you are. Be merciful, compare the home which you can give, to the home from whence you take her. Compare the happiness which you can bestow to that of which you rob her, and feel, that if you take her, with all this, to a loveless breast, you take her to misery, to desolation, and death!"

"Do you deem me a villain, woman?"

"What you have been, you may be again."

Wilkins mused a moment; then, in a softer and more subdued tone, said:—

"No, no; oh no! God only knows—but never that to her, oh never!"

"Bernard! my mistress is dear to me; her happiness more sacred to me than my own. If I believed that you would ever play her false, if I believed that a sinister motive led you to accomplish this end, as I stand before you here, I would expose you as you are. I would lay bare to her the secrets of the past. I would warn her to recall the love which she has lavished on you, though the next hour should be my last, in consequence. Her happiness shall never be wrecked while I have the slightest power to guide it clear from danger."

With his impetuous spirit growing calm, as Minny became more excited, Wilkins looked upon her, as she confronted him, with her soul in her face, and his eyes kindled with the admiration his impulsive but generous heart could not but feel.

"Most nobly spoken, Minny!" he exclaimed, earnestly, "and now, as Heaven hears, let me speak what I feel is truth. Minny, there is a first love, a wavering, flickering, effervescing sentiment of youthful hearts, faithful and enduring in some instances, but not in mine, and this, God forgive me, I gave to you. True, I believed then I could never change; but the change came, with the exhalation of my heart's first passion, and though I never hated, I found I could no longer love you. Our marriage was illegal; I did not know it when it took place, but I learned it afterwards, when my love had chilled, and with perhaps a cruel, but a just hand, Minny, just to us both, I severed the cord which had bound us so sweetly, and our parted hearts drifted out of each other's sight, on the billows of life's ocean."

"Aye, Bernard, the one, a torn and shattered wreck, cast helpless on the desolate shores of sorrow and despair; the other, strong and uninjured, floating away to new and pleasant places, with only the shadow of a sad memory following it."

"Too true, Minny, too true! alas for the restless impulses of my misguided spirit. Alas for the trusting hopefulness of thine. But, Minny, as I stand before you now, with my whole heart open to your sight, I can most truly declare, that my love for Della is all that you would have it. She is trusting and innocent. I will never blight the one, or betray the other. I will hold her to my strong heart as some tender flower, which needs protection from a wintry blast, and from the world's cold breath; I will shield and guard, and cherish her with my life. God help me so to do!"

"Amen, Bernard, amen!"

"Minny, are you satisfied?"

"Yes! my heart trusts you once again. Even more hopeful for its trust for another, than even for itself."

"Bless you, Minny; and now 'tis time your anxious heart found rest. I will see you safe to your own gate, and then good-night."

Minny suffered Wilkins to draw her hand within his arm, and lead her forth once more beneath the starry skies. They walked on silently, each engrossed with their own reflections, with only the occasional interruption of the watchman, or the rattle of some noisy vehicle, hastening along the stony streets. Minny at last stopped at the entrance of the vacant court, leading to the secret garden door. As she was about to withdraw her hand from his arm, Wilkins retained it, firmly, yet respectfully, in his own.

"I have been thinking, Minny, more deeply than I ever thought before, of the great wrong which I have done you. The time may never come again when we shall meet as to-night we've met, and before we part, I must hear your lips pronounce my forgiveness."

"From the bottom of my heart, Bernard, I forgive you all that you may ever have done to me; either in word, or thought, or deed."

"I have been a wretch, Minny."

"But," continued the girl, without heeding the interruption, and speaking in an earnest, thrilling tone, "by the Heaven that is above us both, Bernard, I here swear, that if you are ever cold or cruel to the new bride you are winning, as true as there's a heart in my bosom, I will be her avenger—mark my words; though I should have to follow you to the ends of the earth, that revenge shall be mine."

A moment of silence ensued, and Minny stood like a breathing statue of retribution, with her glittering eyes fixed upon the face before her.

"Ah, Minny, the chill breath of desertion and sorrow has extinguished the last spark of affection which once glowed in your breast for me, or you could never speak thus. But fear not; your young mistress shall be to me as the apple of my eye, even as the core of my heart."

"Enough, enough. Good-night."

"Stay, Minny; can you learn to think of me kindly; and, in coming days, to witness my affection for another unshrinkingly?"

"I have already learned to do so."

"And you will not let these gloomy visions of the past rise up between you and the far-off stars?"

"Never again, never again."

He pressed the trembling hand he held between his own, and touched it to his lips.

It was drawn quickly from him; a stifled sob fell upon his ear, and he stood alone.

Slowly he turned his steps homewards, and with every echo of his solitary footfall, with every sob of the passing night-wind, came back upon his troubled heart, with thrilling sadness, Minny's last mournful words, "Never again, never again!"

Again he reached the store, and the lock, obedient to the ponderous key, turned noiselessly, and Wilkins entered. It was dark and gloomy, and a chill passed over him as he fastened the door, and groped his way along between the deserted counters. The scene through which he had just passed had called up bitter and unpleasant memories, and there came over him a sense of lonely desolation, such as he could not endure to experience. He stopped a moment as he reached the high desk, and stood there, silent and thoughtful.

"I will go to him," he muttered; "there is something holy in his presence, which will make me happier."

With cautious steps he mounted the winding stairs, and sought the room where Guly lay. The moment he approached the bedside, the boy started from his restless pillow.

"Arthur, is it you?"

"It is me, Guly," returned Wilkins, in a low voice.

"You! and you come without him?"

"I come alone, Guly."

"And has anything happened—oh! do not keep it from me! Is Arthur hurt? What brings you here, Wilkins, if it is not that?"

"I came here, Guly, with my own troubled heart, to look upon you as you slept, and to go away happier. I have no news, either good or bad, of poor Arthur."

Guly was silent a moment, then taking Wilkins' hand, he said:—

"I cannot tell you how much I thank you for the long and dreary walk you have taken for my sake. Some day I hope to be able to repay your kindness."

"Don't mention it, Guly; a mere trifle."

"It was a great deal to me; and now, Wilkins, would you just as soon lie down by me as to sleep in your own bed? It must be nearly morning, but this is a gloomy place to lie in alone, with only a troubled heart for company."

"True, Guly; I will be with you in a moment."

They lay down together, and soon slept, side by side, exhausted by watching and weariness; and the boy's fair head was pillowed on the man's breast, rising and falling there like a golden shield, resting on the bounding heart, "keeping the evil out."



CHAPTER XXI.

"'Tis done! I saw it in my dreams. No more with hope the future beams; My days of happiness are few. Chilled by misfortune's wintry blast, My dream of life is overcast. Love, hope, and joy, adieu— Would I could add, remembrance too."

Byron.

Arthur was at his place in the morning, almost as soon as Jeff opened the door. His face was pale and haggard, and wore upon it a look of unbroken gloom, and his eye wandered restlessly, as if dreading to meet another's gaze. He had arrived at his post so early, however, that no clerks were yet in the store, and for some time his only companion was the busy negro.

"Jeff," said he, at last, in a hesitating tone.

"Yes, massa, I'se here, sah."

"Did you sleep here behind the store-door last night, as usual?"

"Yes, massa, ob course."

"Did my brother go to bed early that you know of?"

"Well, no, massa, he didn't. He and Massa Wilkins sat back dar by de fire pretty late, sah!"

"Indeed! what could they have been talking of to keep them sitting up?"

"Well, massa, I don't 'spect 'twould be berry hon'ble in me to tell, case I know dey taut I was sleepin', and didn't know I couldn't help hearin' ebery word dey sed."

Arthur blushed as the thought crossed his mind, that the negro's sense of honor was higher than his own; but his curiosity overcame his scruples, and he went on questioning Jeff, as he rubbed up and trimmed the lamps for evening.

"Perhaps you heard my name, Jeff, eh?"

"Well, 'casionally, I 'spect I did, sah. Bery common ting for brudders to talk of one anudder," said Jeff, rubbing away on the lamp he held with redoubled earnestness.

"Did Mr. Wilkins leave the store, that you know of, after it was closed?"

"Well, I bleeb he did, sah! He couldn't a come in widout he'd been out, and I know one ob my toes got pinched in de crack ob de door by his coming in when 'twas most mornin'."

"My brother was not with him then, was he?"

"Well, I had my eyes shut, sah! and it was too dark to see if I'd a had 'em open. 'Alus de darkest hour 'fore day,' you know, sah."

"You don't know whether my brother asked Mr. Wilkins to go out, or not, I suppose?"

"Really, couldn't tell anyting 'bout it, sah," said Jeff, mounting on a wooden stool, and taking down another lamp carefully. As he gained the floor his eyes met Arthur's face.

"Bless de Lord, young massa, how came you by dat offal bump 'long side ob your head?"

Arthur drew his hat hastily over his brow, and turned away with a dissatisfied air, without giving any reply.

He stood in the door, half-angry at the unsatisfactory answers he had received, but ashamed to show, even to the black, that he felt any real interest in the matter. Preferring, too, to continue the conversation in any way rather than be left to silent communion with his thoughts, he turned suddenly, and said:—

"Jeff, wouldn't you like to be free?"

"Free, massa!" exclaimed the negro, rolling up his great eyes at his questioner, in earnest wonder; "why, what de debil put dat in your head? No, sah! I wouldn't be free for nuffin. If dares one ting in dis world more mean dan anudder, I 'spect it's a free nigger. Guy! de Lord deliber dis chile from anyting ob dat kind."

"You astound me, Jeff. This is all nonsense."

"You'se not de fuss pusson from de Norf, massa, dat's been 'stounded by what de niggers say in de Souf here. I 'member wunst old Massar hab a fren cum here from somewhar, State of York, I tink 'twas, an' he taut a great sight ob him, and took him roun' de city in de big carriage, and made big dinners for him, and 'vited all his notorious 'quaintances to meet him at his house, and all dat. Well, all de time dat Master was makin' so much ob him, dat man was catching ebery chance to try and git his niggers away from him, and de Master knowin' nuffin 'tall 'bout it, and treatin' him like a king.

"Well, one day, dis ole debbil cum to me, ('scuse me for calling him so 'fore you, Mister Pratt, but he warn't nuffin else,) an' stood an' looked at me awhile, as I was workin' away, and he sez, 'Jeffrey'—he allus called me by my hull name, and wus a kind of pious-lookin' man, wore a white neck-tie, and alus folded up his hands kinder solemn when he spoke—'Jeffrey,' sez he, puttin' on a bery long face, 'I do feel so much pity for you!'

"'Caus why, massa?' sez I.

"'Why, 'cause I see you here sich a fine, strong, young man, with sich able powers o' your own, and sich excellent caperbilities to make a fine livin' for yourself, a workin' here, day in and day out, an' a givin' all your life fur de benefit ob anudder. Oh, I feel so sorry fur you!' an' he sighed when he sed dat, like a tired mule.

"'Well,' sez I, 'massa, I'se contented where I is. I hab my victuals and clothes, and a good hum, and for all I can see, dat's all my Master has. Ob de two I does tink I'm de best off. Sometimes, when I see him cum in lookin' all pale and flurried like, from his business, I tink to myself I wouldn't hab all his 'sponsibilities on my back fur de world. Guy! I'd rather be de slave dan de master, any time; and as fur when de time comes to die, I reckon I'll take jist as much out of de world as he will.'

"'Poor benighted soul,' sez he, liftin' up his hands again, mighty solemn, 'so they've really learn't you to talk so, eh? To think ob perwerting a human soul in dis way! Drefful! drefful!'

"'Now,' sez I, 'massa, nobody told me to say dat at all. Don't you 'spect brack man's got sum common sense, and can see as fur into a cane-brake as anybody else? A brack man's nebber a fool 'cept when he's coaxed to run away from a good master, sah! Better bleeb dat.'

"'But only to tink,' sez he, 'ob bein' whipped like a hoss when you do anyting wrong, and all dat.'

"'Well,' sez I, 'I 'spect if you've got any chillen, you puts de gad on to dem when dey do wrong, too. I'se got a kind Master, and one ob de bes young Mistresses in de world. Fur my part, I'm happy as de day is long.'

"'But,' sez the ole feller, 'if you get away, and go North, see how much happier you'll be. You'll have all you earn to yourself, and can buy your own clothes, and can have your own hum, and be out ob de chains of slavery—be a free man, tink ob dat! Cum, if you want to go, I'll help you to run away.'

"'Tank you, massa,' sez I, 'but I'd rather stay, and hab ebery ting provided fur me, to trying to be free, and habbin' to dig like a dog to airn my living, an' den not half live. But if you want to set me free so bery bad, and feel so 'stremely bad 'bout my sitiation, if you'll jist walk into de house, an' offer to buy me ob my Master, you can get me, I 'spect, because I ain't one ob de best niggers in the world, an' I'll jist try dis freedom you talk ob, for awhile.'

"'Buy you!' sez he, wavin' of his white hand at an orful rate, 'nebber! 'Spose I'll lay out my money to buy a nigger free? Be dem, no! Go free! you've a right to be free; jist cut, and run 'cross de line, an' be happy."

"'Cross de line, and go to de debbil!' sez I. 'No, sah! I'se got too much respect for my Master to leeb him in dat style; 'side dat, I'd never 'spec to go to Hebben in de wurld, 'cause I might jist as well rob him ob so much money, fur he paid a good price for me, I tell you. No, sah! I say. I'll stay where I am as long as I can, fur, 'cording to my idee, dar's nuffin meaner in all creation dan a free nigger, 'cept it's a hypercritical abolitionist.'

"Lord! I had to run den, as if de ole scratch was at my heels, fur he flung his cane at me so hard, dat when it struck, it stood straight up in de ground. I peeked roun' de ara winder when I got out ob reach, and he was shakin' all ober, he wus so mad, and swarin' fit to kill. Yah, yah, I fixed de ole feller dat time, Massa Pratt, I 'sure you."

Arthur could not help smiling at Jeff's enthusiastic relation of the circumstance, and at the same time he saw it was useless to carry on a conversation upon this subject with one of his quick wit; so he only remarked to the negro, who seemed waiting for some encomiums, that he "served him right," and then turned away, and began arranging the goods in his department for the day's sale. Steps were now heard upon the stairs, and Wilkins, followed by Guly, came down into the store, the latter looking pale, and half-sick, from the previous night of lonely and anxious vigils. Wilkins passed Arthur with a cheerful "good morning," and Guly advanced to his side, trying to smile; but the attempt was futile, and he gained his side, and took his hand, silently.