Arthur's heart had not become so hardened, in so short a space of time, as to lose all its generous impulses, and he was deeply touched by the expression of his brother's face, so full of grief, yet with such an apparent effort to conceal all sorrow from him. Wilkins was engaged with his books, and Jeff was busy in the back part of the store; and, assured that he would not be observed, he threw an arm about his brother, and drew him close to his side.

Guly lifted his large blue eyes, sad and moistened, to Arthur's face.

"Dear Arthur," he whispered, "could you but know how much I loved you, you would never—never—" he could get no farther, and stopped suddenly, struggling to keep down his rising emotion.

"I would never go astray thus, you would say, Guly; but think not so. It is my fate; I cannot turn aside from it, nor avert it; when I would stop and struggle, on this slippery, downward path, I find it impossible, and I rush on, like one who must keep moving, or fall."

"You do not call upon One to aid you, who would surely hear your cry."

Arthur was silent.

"If we knelt oftener, side by side, as we used to, dear brother, do you not think that your heart would grow more humble and more submissive? and that we both would be happier far?"

"Guly! do not charge me with having totally neglected those duties. The past night must, indeed, have been a long one, if you can believe that we no longer do as we used to do. Night before last, remember, Guly, I was by your side, looking over with you the pages of the Holy Word, and kneeling to Him who bids us obey it."

"True, Arthur; but the night has seemed to me almost interminable. It is very lonely without you, Arthur."

"I am not sorry you miss me, Guly; it seems to whisper of so much love; and your love is very dear to me. Remember what I told you the other night upon the step, and always try to feel this affection for me."

"Always, Arthur."

"There is a terrible weight upon my spirits this morning," added the elder brother, speaking huskily; "I have never felt such a heaviness of heart before. All that was ever bright in my past life, comes up to my memory with a pall wrapped around it, and the future shows no fairer scene. In truth, I have witnessed more vice since I parted from you, Guly, than I have ever imagined the world contained."

"Don't you feel ill, Arthur? If you will lie down, I will see that your place is taken care of."

"No, Guly, I am getting used to it; I require no rest now; and I may as well bear up, after a night's dissipation, first as last."

"I beg you, Arthur, not to talk in this way. Surely you do not mean to continue this course; you will not, you cannot, I am sure. What would I ever do, dear brother, left utterly alone and friendless here?"

"My poor Guly! alas, I dare not promise myself to make another attempt to do better; my pride is my misfortune; and I feel as if the hopes and promises of all my young life were dead. I am wretched, wretched!"

At this moment Quirk entered the store; and as Arthur looked up, he caught the leer of significant meaning, sent from a quick wink of the eye, and a momentary elongation of the visage, of his late companion.

He smiled in return, but at the same moment blushed deeply, as if ashamed to be seen exchanging significant glances with such a being. He also gently withdrew the arm which was about his brother, and moved a little away from him. The clerks now began rapidly to fill their respective places, and the brothers started forth, accompanied by Wilkins, to the restaurant. Wilkins observed, that at breakfast Arthur helped himself freely to claret, and drank heartily, as if to satisfy a burning thirst. He made no remark upon it, however, and the meal was altogether a sad and silent one. All were reflecting upon the events of the past night, a subject which each felt a peculiar sensitiveness about broaching, and with the mere table ceremonies, which even in such a place the brothers did not fail to observe, the breakfast was finished.

As was frequently the case, Wilkins was the first to be through, and as soon as he had taken the last mouthful, he took his hat and started for the store, as if there was something painful in the silence which had fallen over them. Though left to themselves, the brothers did not resume the subject they had been discussing before Quirk's appearance, and though Guly longed to ask about the bruise standing out blue and prominent on his brother's brow, he could not frame the words with which to ask the question. He felt, too, that the knowledge might bring him much more trouble and uneasiness, than the unexplained sight of the blow, and they passed forth into the street, with linked arms, but divided hearts, and turned their steps toward the store.

They had gone but a short distance, when Guly's attention was attracted by a gathering crowd upon the opposite side of the way, and, with a natural feeling of curiosity, he hastened across the street, accompanied by Arthur, to discover the cause of the excitement.

What was his astonishment, to see extended upon the pavement, face downwards, while with his long arms he swept his crutches around him, like a pair of oars, to keep his tormentors, the boys, away, his old acquaintance, the dwarf. He had evidently fallen down, and in his descent had dropped his greasy cap, from which had rolled a few of his precious picayunes. He either was unable to rise, or else would not do so, lest while he was engaged in righting himself, the boys should rob him of his scattered silver. They had gathered about him at his fall, but he had swung his long crutches so dexterously around him, keeping his one eye fixed gloatingly upon the bits of change meanwhile, that not one dared to approach him closer.

The moment Guly's eye fell upon him, he hastened forward with an exclamation of pity upon his lips, and in spite of the crutches, he stepped behind the unfortunate old man, and raised him to his feet. Without hesitation he commanded the boys to leave the picayunes untouched, placed the cane properly in the dwarf's hand, then restored to him the cap, and its scattered contents, at the same time adding a trifle from his own purse, to the little stock.

"Hih, hih!" chuckled the little man, for the first time looking up, as he received his treasure; "hih, hih."

His one eye, with its odious expression, lit suddenly upon Guly's face, and became illuminated instantly with a new light. It regarded him earnestly, and though he stepped back to avoid the gaze, the immense head, with that one eye burning in it, turned still toward him, on the slim, wrinkled neck.

"You pick me up, Monsieur?"

Guly smiled, and nodded.

"Hih, hih; I am obliged to you; will you keep the boys away till I get started?"

"They shall not touch you."

Taking one more earnest look of Guly, he threw his weight upon his long crutches, and swung away between them, with the skirts of his coat, as usual, trailing behind him.

"You have met this miserable object every morning, for more than a month, now, Guly, and he has always begged for alms, and you have never refused. How do you know whether he is worthy or not?" said Arthur.

"His deformity is sufficient to testify to that, brother."

"With your salary, I can't imagine how you can afford it."

"A picayune a day is a mere trifle; I save for him what I might otherwise spend in selfish indulgence."

"Well, charity begins at home. I can't afford to be so benevolent."

"Whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord," replied Guly, with a smile, as they entered the store.



CHAPTER XXII.

"I love that soul so nobly proud, That misery cannot blight; The soul that braves the jeering crowd, And sternly claims its right."

Anon.

Guly took his place with a more cheerful heart than the early morning had promised him; for the consciousness of having performed a kindly deed, imparted a buoyancy to his spirits, which on the previous night he had almost fancied he could never experience again. He had been in his place but a few moments, when a lady entered to purchase some embroidery. The article she desired was an expensive one, and the contents of the whole box were searched before she found it. As Guly was folding it for her, he perceived, as he held it between him and the light, that there were several threads broken here and there between the delicate fibres of the work, as if it had been eaten by an insect. He immediately pointed out the defect to his customer. She examined it, and finding that the piece had suffered in the same way throughout, she expressed her thanks to him warmly for having made her aware of the imperfection, and also manifested her regret at not being able to take the article under such circumstances, for she had intended it as a bridal gift to a young friend of hers, and would have felt deeply mortified if the discovery had been made after the presentation. After a few more trifling purchases, she turned away, and Guly restored the rejected piece of work to its place, and put the box upon the shelf. As he turned round, his eye fell upon the face of his employer, who stood bolt upright on the opposite side of the counter.

Guly bowed politely, and wished him good morning; but the hard face before him relaxed not a muscle, and stared straight and rigidly into the boy's eyes. It needed no second glance to show that Mr. Delancey was very much enraged.

"Did I see you, sir," he demanded, at last, in a tone far from being inaudible, "point out to a customer a defect in her purchase, and so lose a sale?"

"I certainly did so, sir; you would not have me sell an imperfect piece of goods, knowing that it was so, for perfect, and take the full price for the same, would you?"

"What was it to you, I'd like to know, after she had examined the piece, and declared that it suited her, whether there was a blemish in it or not, if she had not discovered it?"

"She might have discovered it afterwards, and would no doubt have thought I meant to deceive her, and, in all probability, I should have lost her custom altogether."

"Nonsense! young man; she would have sent it to her milliner to make up, and in an hour the imperfection would have never been discovered. The next time I see you do a thing of this kind, you lose your place."

"Then I must, sir," returned Guly, firmly; "I can never sacrifice principle to profit, under any circumstances."

"You're a fool," said Delancey; pale with anger at the firm but mild demeanor of his clerk. "How much would the sale have amounted to?"

"Thirty-five dollars."

"It shall be taken from your salary. Teach you better another time."

"Very well, sir. Wilkins, be kind enough to mark my salary thirty-five dollars less, if you please."

Mr. Delancey had carried on his part of the conversation in so loud a tone, that it was audible to a number, who were not too busy with their own affairs to pay heed to it; but Guly felt deeply chagrined to observe, as Mr. Delancey turned away, that his late customer had been standing just behind the merchant, examining some goods at another counter, and had probably heard all that had passed. As she left the store she looked up at Guly, with a smile, bowed to him, and passed out.

As small as Guly's salary was, he looked upon the loss which he had suffered as a mere trifle, when compared with the pleasure he received from an approving conscience. Ho felt that he had acted right, not only in exposing the defects in the desired article, but in remaining firm to his sense of duty under the anger of his employer.

The incident awakened in his breast a wish to know the name of the lady who had looked at the goods, and he turned to Mr. Hull, the clerk who stood next to him, to make inquiry. Hull informed him that he knew little of her except as a customer; that he had never learned her name, as he did those of most of his customers, by sending goods to their houses, for she always came in her carriage, and brought her own servant. He added, that her affability had won the esteem of all the clerks; more than this he could not tell.

When the dinner hour arrived, Quirk sauntered down past Guly, looking at him with an impudent stare. He turned back, as he reached the door, and stopped at the counter.

"Anything you will have, Mr. Quirk?"

"No, I reckon not; when I do, though, I'll know where to come to find an honest chap to deal with," and he curled his disagreeable mouth into a sneer.

Guly was silent; not wishing to prolong the conversation with one for whom he felt such an aversion. Quirk, however, was not to be put off in this manner; and drawing out his tooth-pick, he began using it among his huge masticators, and continued:—

"I s'pose you thought the boss was of the Puritan stamp, and would perhaps promote you for that nice little affair of this morning, eh? You found yourself mistaken, I reckon, when you had the thirty-five charged over, ha, ha!"

"I thought, sir, of acting honestly, only; and since you happened to overhear the conversation, let me tell you that I should have done the same thing the next moment, under like circumstances."

"Well, you're a precious ninny, that's all I've got to say about it."

"If so, perhaps you'll be willing to lounge on your own counter instead of mine, Mr. Quirk."

"No," he replied, at the same time changing his position, "I'm comfortable enough here; so long as the boss don't see me, I believe I will stay where I am."

Guly made no reply.

"Well, say," said Quirk, again wheeling round so as to face Guly, "what's the reason you can't be a little sociable with a feller, when he comes and tries to talk with you. Pshaw, your brother is worth two of you."

"I prefer devoting business hours to business," returned Guly.

"And paying for lost sales out of your own salary. Let me advise you, if you are going to stay in this place, to let the customers find their own blemishes, and take the responsibility."

"I shall always act according to my own judgment in such cases, Mr. Quirk," replied Guly, taking his hat, and leaving the young gentleman to pour out his advice to an unoccupied counter. Arthur had gone to dinner before him; so Guly trudged on alone, and, on entering the restaurant, found Wilkins seated at the little table, which the three so frequently shared together, by himself.

"Where's Arthur?" inquired Guly, anxiously.

"He finished before me to-day, for a wonder," returned Wilkins, smiling, "and went out some time since; you probably passed each other on opposite sides of the way."

This last suggestion quite comforted Guly, whose apprehensions for his brother had, of late, become most painfully awakened, and he fell off into conversation with his companion, upon the various topics which chanced to present themselves to their minds.

Suddenly Wilkins looked up, and remarked:—

"I have an engagement for you to-night, Guly."

"For me! what is it, pray?"

"Guess."

"Oh, I never can. You must tell me, if you ever expect me to know."

"What would you say, if I told you 'twas a visit to Blanche?"

"Can it be possible?"

Guly blushed very deeply, which Wilkins observed, and commented upon with mischievous delight.

"Did the invitation come from her own lips, Wilkins?"

"To be sure it did."

"And you accepted in my name?"

"Certainly."

"Thank you! I shall be delighted."

"At eight o'clock, then."

"Very well."

And so they parted, and Guly was left alone at the little table.

It was an hour when the restaurant was pretty well filled, and the numerous inmates busily discussed the news, foreign and political, and affairs private and public, in their various languages and different manners. Guly looked round from his solitary table, an amused spectator of the scene. But suddenly his attention was attracted by a sound of shuffling steps upon the floor, and turning, he beheld his friend the dwarf, making his way in between the tables, with a dexterity which his long canes would scarcely warrant.

Though surprised at the presence of one so poor in such a place, Guly advanced, and placed a chair for him at a table near his own, and helped him to mount upon it.

"Hih, hih! Monsieur; you are very good," puffed the little man, quite out of breath, without looking up at his kind assistant. "Give me a little bean soup, if you please, Monsieur. I am very poor, and very hungry to-day. Must spend one picayune for one cheap dinner, or else must have one cheap coffin made for me at the expense of the corporation! Hih, hih!"

Guly smiled at this odd speech, and rang the little bell for the waiter. As he did so, the dwarf suddenly wheeled his head round on his slender neck, and tipped his one eye curiously up at the face beside him.

"'Tis you, Monsieur. Be gor, I thought it was one waiter. Hih, hih! I am very hungry, Monsieur."

"Here is the waiter. What will you have, my friend?"

"One cheap dinner—bean soup—I am so very poor. Ah, Monsieur, 'tis hard to be so poor."

Guly ordered some meat to be added to the old man's frugal repast, and then returned to his own table to finish his dinner. The dwarf seemed to dispatch his meal with a fine relish, though interrupting himself in the process of eating, every few minutes, by twisting his crooked body half-way round, and turning his one eye up at Guly, as if to make sure he was there.

The singular appearance of the dwarf, and the ready and gentle assistance rendered him by Guly, had attracted considerable attention, from those who yet lingered over their viands; and when Guly took his seat, a young exquisite, who occupied a table just at his left, and who had been obliged to use two of his fingers to part his glossy moustache, while he passed in his food with his other hand, now turned round, and regarded him with an impertinent stare.

"I say, Mistar, is that gentleman with crutches yondaw, a brothaw of yours?"

"By the laws of humanity he is, sir."

"Awr! I'm glad to find there's no closaw tie, so I can express my opinion of him. He is a scamp, sah!"

"Indeed! why so?"

"Because he is, sah!"

"You know him?"

"Perfectly well!"

"And he is a scamp?"

"If he's no relation of yours, yes, sah."

"Does he tipple?"

"Not zat I know, sah!"

"Steal?"

"No, sah!"

"Meddle with other people's affairs?"

"Yes, sah! zat is, every day he puts his disgwusting digits on my spotless cassimeres, and asks for money!"

"You of course grant his request?"

"Not I, sah! I feel always like touching the twip of me pwatent leather gaitaw just beneath the lowermost extreme of his spinal column, and elevating his dangling supporters a few feet in the air, before pwopelling him into the nearest guttaw."

"A very unpleasant feeling, most certainly."

"Vewy true, sah!"

"Yes, sah, especially when you know your stwaps are too tight to admit of any such use of your unmentionable members," squeaked the dwarf, mockingly, who had sat unmoved within hearing distance of the whole conversation.

A roar of laughter followed this speech, through which the dandy sat frowning darkly. When it ceased, he sprang near the dwarf, shouting:

"You mean to insult me, do you, eh?"

"Hope you wouldn't notice such a scamp as me, sah!" squeaked the dwarf in answer.

"I will pwummel your cwooked legs, sah!"

"Wipe that off of your own, sah, first," cried the other, dexterously turning a fresh plate of bean soup over the dandy's "spwotless cassimeres."

Another roar of laughter followed this act, amid which the exquisite made his exit with his pocket hankerchief spread over his lap, swearing he would "go stwaight and sue for dwamages," that he was "scalded to death by the dem beggar, and he would have revenge for his ruined trousers, be gar!"

Guly, after assisting his helpless friend to his crutches and a firm standing, was about to leave; but the dwarf detained him by twitching the skirt of his coat, then exclaimed:

"Hih, hih! monsieur, I lost my bean soup but I saved my head, hih! hih! bean, soup's good, but 'twas spilt in a glorious cause; paid for monsieur?"

This last question was put in such a comic manner, with that one eye tipped up towards him, that Guly could not repress a smile; but he cordially satisfied him on that point, feeling still able, in spite of his diminished salary, to pay for a beggar's dinner, which is more than many, with their well filled purses, can make themselves afford to do.

Freeing himself from the companionship of his singular friend, Guly hurried away to the store; with every light footfall, and each thrilling heart-throb, whispering to himself one word, which fell upon his thoughts in the midst of the crowd and din through which he hastened, like the tinkling music of a waterfall in the midst of a broad desert, "Blanche! Blanche!"



CHAPTER XXIII.

Pure thoughts are angel visitants! be such The frequent inmates of thy guileless breast; They hallow all things by their sacred touch, And ope the portals of the land of rest.

At eight o'clock precisely, Wilkins stepped down from his desk, gave orders to have the store closed, and told Guly he would be ready in one moment. The clerks, most of them, dropped the curtain of linen over the goods, and went out, not sleeping in the store and having no pass key. While Jeff was putting up the shutters, Guly went to Arthur and told him he was going out to see one of Wilkins' friends a little while, but would be back soon, and begged him to go to bed and try to sleep that haggard look from his face.

"Yes," Arthur said, he had no doubt but he needed rest and would try to gain it; and shaking hands they parted. Wilkins seemed waiting for the two or three clerks who yet remained, to go away before he left, but as he stood drawing on his gloves, Quirk came up and whispered something in his ear which Guly did not hear, but to which Wilkins answered aloud, saying: "I can't leave the key with you, but I'll lock you in."

"And how long will you be gone?"

"Only an hour or two."

"All right, then."

Wilkins and Guly went out and locked the door, leaving the young men in there. They walked on, through the busy streets thronged with pleasure seekers, some on foot, some riding, all gaily dressed and full apparently of bright anticipations and buoyant life. Sometimes a lamp gleam would fall through the plate-glass windows of some princely structure, where light forms of beauty, attired in fashion's garb, were flitting through the mazy dance or listening to music's enrapturing strain. As Guly walked on, noting the panorama of life which passed by him, he fell into a fit of musing from which he was unable to rouse himself, until they turned into another street, and Wilkins remarked quietly that it was the one in which Blanche lived. Then his whole attention was awakened, and there was no more musing, no more lack of conversation till they paused to rap at the door of the little house where Blanche lived. She opened it herself, and held out a hand to each of the new comers.

"I am so happy to see you," said she earnestly, as she permitted them to enter. "Guly, this is grandpapa, you will soon be acquainted with him, for we have been talking about you all day, and I have been describing you to him, so that he might know how you looked, and could know just how you would always act when I was giving you my work for sale, and all that."

The old gentleman was very venerable in appearance, and sat in a large stuffed chair with his grey locks floating over his shoulders, and his hands clasped upon a staff he held before him. His sightless orbs were turned in the direction whence came his good child's voice, and when she mentioned Guly's name he held out one trembling hand, and expressed, in a feeble, faltering tone, his pleasure at "seeing" them.

Guly took the extended hand, shook it cordially, and sat down near the old gentleman and entered into a brisk conversation with him, leaving Blanche to be entertained by, and to entertain, Wilkins.

"She called you Guly, this child of mine," said the old man, suddenly breaking a slight pause which had occured in the conversation. "Blanche, my love, when will you ever learn to be polite?"

"Dear grandpapa," returned Blanche, approaching him and stroking down his snow-white locks with her soft hand, "don't call me impolite, only a little too thoughtless and informal, grandpapa."

"Thoughtless and informal then, my dear; but I could wish you not to address young gentlemen by their given names."

"Well, grandpapa, I always say 'Mr.' to Monsieur Wilkins, because he is twice as tall as I, and looks always as if he expected to be mistered; but, grandpapa, just feel of Guly—he is nothing but a boy, only a little taller and a little older than I. Do let us be Blanche and Guly to each other."

There was no withstanding the simple and artless manner with which these words were spoken, and Blanche hung fondly over her grandfather's chair.

The old man smiled as he listened to her, and, turning to the side where Guly sat, he said, in an apologetic manner:

"Blanche's reasoning springs from her heart; she studies no etiquette save that which nature teaches."

"Which will carry such a spirit as hers through the world more safely than any other," said Wilkins, drawing his chair also to the side of his blind friend.

"Still," said Guly, blushing as he spoke, "it may make her heart so rare a gem that too many will covet it."

A shade of anxiety crossed the blind man's features as he heard the words, and he turned his dim eyes toward Guly as if he would give worlds to read the expression of face with which the sentence had been spoken.

"Lately," said he, leaning forward more heavily on his staff, "I have such thoughts myself. I am a weak, powerless old man, already bending over the grave into which I must so soon drop. When I think of this poor, dear child, left unprotected and alone in this great city, I am very unhappy, very miserable."

Guly saw a tear sparkle, and trickle down through the wrinkles of that aged face, and his own heart yearned sorrowfully.

"Blanche will never be without friends," said Wilkins, encouragingly. "At least she will never lack for one while I live."

"Or I," exclaimed Guly, earnestly.

The old man shook his head, and smiled sadly.

"Two young men, however worthy and noble they may be, are not exactly the ones to offer their protection to an orphaned and beautiful girl. Such things I don't doubt may be done uprightly and honestly; but the world, the suspicious world, is ever ready to cast the blight of shame and slander on such things."

Blanche suddenly left her grandfather's chair and hurried away to a distant corner of the room, from whence she brought a little stand containing a work-basket and the lamp. She placed it just in front of her grandpapa's chair, and between Guly and Wilkins. With a smile she seated herself at it, and began to embroider a strip of insertion; nimbly plying her needle among the slender vines and tendrils she was working.

"Are you there, darling?" said the old man, stretching out his unsteady hand and laying it on her head.

"Yes, grandpapa, right here in my old place."

He withdrew his hand with an air of pleased satisfaction, and resumed the subject he had just dropped.

"Blanche needs a mother—some female friend to guard and protect her, when—when her old grandfather shall be gone. I am afraid I shall drop off suddenly one of these days; I have sudden turns of illness which are very severe. I was quite sick last night—ah, she told me of your kindness to her, Mr. Wilkins; God be praised—and I could not help feeling then that my thoughts turned more upon my poor desolate child here, than on that other world to which I might be hastening."

Blanche dropped her head lower and lower over her work, till her short glossy ringlets shaded her soft brown eyes.

"This world," continued he, with that love of pursuing the prominent subject of thought so common with aged persons, "has, of course, lost its fascination for me. I am blind, and very old; and am swiftly descending from the summit of life's mount, and must soon drop from its base into that vast eternity of which we know so little. Poor Blanche! I am of course a trouble, so helpless and blind, but she will miss me when she's left alone. Poor child, poor child!"

Blanche lifted up her head quickly, and showed her cheeks wet with streaming tears. She rose from her seat, took the staff from the old man's hands, and threw herself sobbing aloud upon his bosom.

He folded his aged arms around her and drew her to his heart, while he bent his head, and his white hair, so silvery, floated forward and mingled with the raven blackness of hers. Thus they sat, a touching picture of youth and hoary age, of life's spring-time and the calm tranquillity of its withered autumn.

"Oh, grandpapa!" exclaimed Blanche at last, lifting up her face and looking tearfully into those dim eyes as though they could see all that she wished them. "Never, never talk any more about dying and leaving me here alone, unless you wish to break poor Blanche's heart. You are all that God has left me on this earth to love, and if He takes you, I want to go too. And you said you were a trouble! Don't ever, ever say that again, dear grandfather, if you love me dearly, as I know you do."

"But I wish to prepare you, darling, for the change that must surely come."

"Don't say so. You never could prepare me for such a dreadful thing, and please don't try to."

The old man drew a long shivering sigh, and leaned back in his chair. Blanche sat up, smoothed his thin locks, kissed his brow, and soothed him once more into a placid calm. She slid from his arms, then placed the staff in his hands, and he bent forward on it as if already forgetful of the scene just passed.

Guly and Wilkins were deeply impressed by this simple occurrence, and the former had looked on, with difficulty keeping the answering drops from his large blue eyes. There had been something so natural in it all, yet so affecting and heart-touching. There had been no attempt to check the heart's first impulse, no struggle of affected prudery, but the free gushing forth of her warm affection, forgetful of everything save the strong love for her blind grandfather.

"Now, Guly," said Blanche, playfully, breaking the sad pause which had followed the recent excitement, "I am anxious to finish this piece of work this evening, and you must thread my needle for me. That will help me."

Guly expressed his willingness to obey, and drew his chair closer to the little table for the purpose, as he said, of receiving instructions. Blanche gave them, and he sat watching her taper fingers, and waiting impatiently to see the thread used up that he might proffer another.

The old man talked pleasantly, Guly loved to hear him talk; Wilkins conversed with them all in a general maner, yet watched, with a pleased expression of countenance, Blanche and Guly as they sat side by side at the little table, the blue eyes looking into the brown, and the locks of gold lending a tinge of additional brightness to the curls of jetty black.

They rose to leave at ten o'clock, and the old man took Guly's hand, expressing a hope that he would repeat his visit; the boy uttered what his heart at the moment felt, that it was the pleasantest evening of his life, and his memory of it would not fail to induce him soon to seek a like enjoyment.

Guly walked home like one in a dream. A seed had fallen on his heart's rich soil, to spring up in time into fragrant bloom. In the holiest niche of his heart a new lamp was lighted, and it burned before the image of a Virgin!



CHAPTER XXIV.

"Never more Shall hope's bright chain be gathered from the dust, And, re-united, glitter as before, Strong and unsullied by corroding dust."

When they reached the store door, Wilkins rapped before entering, and Guly, remembering that Quirk was within, and not wishing to meet that young gentleman, told Wilkins he would go to his own room by the alley-way. He had the pass-key for the small door; so they shook hands and parted, just as the front door was being opened.

In a few moments Guly stood in the large old room, which was the only spot he could look upon as home.

All that surrounded him was darkness and gloom; for he had no lamp, and the night-light of heaven never entered there. But Guly was happy, and the bare floor had lost its hardness to him as he knelt to pour out the fervent prayer of gratitude gushing from his heart.

He had forgotten to listen for his brother's breathing, from the lowly bed in the corner; the throbbing of his own glad heart was all he heard, and for once in his life Guly was selfishly happy.

But when he threw himself upon his pillow, he became conscious that he was alone; there was no gentle hand, half-roused from slumber, to creep about him with a brother's love, and there was no half-escaped sigh or murmured word of half-awakened welcome. Arthur's pillow was cold, his place deserted.

As soon as he became conscious of this fact, the glow of happiness and delight went out in his heart, like a suddenly smothered lamp. He had expected Arthur would return as soon as he left him, but he had not done so, and Guly grew restless and anxious in wondering where he could have gone, and in what way he might be occupied.

Never in all the hurry and excitement in which he had been thrown, never in all the trouble and apprehension which had so early burdened his young heart, had Guly forgotten his mother's parting injunctions, her tears, her sorrow, or her counsel. Their memory had burned in his bosom with a steady beacon blaze, and he had watched and guarded the flame even as did the ancients their sacred fires.

Now, as he lay pondering on his brother's danger, he felt that he could not sleep happily, conscious of a duty unperformed, and he determined to rise and go in search of him. As he crossed the floor to find his clothes, he struck his foot against some light object, which went half way across the room with the strong and sudden impetus he had given it. He remembered that the lamp they had used the night before was left upon the floor beside the bed, and had probably not been removed. Glad to gain a light, he groped about until he found it, struck a match, and the lamp's feeble blaze illuminated some portion of the surrounding gloom. He was partially dressed when he paused to listen, sure that he heard the murmur of excited voices coming from the store below.

He threw a white flannel dressing gown about him with facings of pale blue silk, and cord and tassel of the same delicate hue, bearing evidence of its being a relic of better days. Scarce knowing what he did, the boy took the lamp in one hand and his Bible in the other, and passed forth from the room; the door, covered with its gay advertisements, swinging solemnly, shut behind him, as if it partook of the anxious sorrow of that youthful breast.

With firm step Guly went down the winding stairs. He descended slowly, and the voices he heard grew more distinct with every step. As he gained the last turn in the staircase, he stood in view of the whole main part of the store, and stopped, looking at the scene before him in sad astonishment.

Between the counters, about half way through the store, was a small deal table, containing a lamp, four hands of cards just dealt, and several wine glasses partially emptied of their contents. On one of the counters stood a number of bottles; some empty, some half filled, and one as yet unopened. Arthur was seated at the head of the table with a small pile of gold beside him, and his face flushed and excited. Quirk was opposite him, and two other clerks made up the party. Wilkins was standing behind Arthur, attempting with earnest tone and warm entreaties to draw him away; but with every sentence Arthur answered him insolently, and rudely shook the pleading hand from his shoulder.

"Your conduct shall be reported, sir, to-morrow," at last said Wilkins, hoping to move Arthur by his pride.

"Report it then if you choose; don't you see I'm trying to win enough to pay that d——d debt of mine?"

"How much have you won already?"

"One hundred and eleven dollars."

"One hundred and eleven dollars! well, boys, you must be staking your salaries to-night, I should think; but, come, Arthur, if you have won that much, stop now; for you won't win much longer, and if you'll give up this kind of business, I'll make up the rest for you, and your debt shall be canceled. Come, I can't bear to see a young man of your abilities, and one who has a mother with a heart to break, beginning this practice. It's awful!"

At any other moment an appeal of this kind might have touched Arthur's heart; but he had drained his wine cup several times, and the exciting draughts had already exerted their powerful influence over his young frame to a degree which rendered him deaf to everything beyond the prospect of regaining that sum which he had so unluckily, as he declared, lost.

"You are altogether too good, Mr. Wilkins, but I don't need any assistance when I am prospering as I now am."

"That's right, Pratt!" exclaimed Quirk, with an encouraging wink; "pick up your cards, and show 'em you ain't to be nosed around by anybody, and that you didn't come so many hundred miles from home tied fast by your mammy's long apron-string."

"Had I known this was your intention, Mr. Quirk, when you asked me for the key, you would never have got it I assure you," said Wilkins, coldly. "Isn't it enough for you to be bad and unprincipled, without dragging those who might do better, if let alone, with you into the pit?"

"'Taint my fault if he can't resist temptation," replied the other, doggedly. "Come, Pratt, it's your play."

"Arthur, don't throw another card!" exclaimed Wilkins, at the same time arresting the uplifted hand.

Arthur struggled to release it, but Wilkins held it firmly, and drew him back from the table as he sat in his chair, and held him fixedly there in his grasp.

"Arthur, I treat you as I would a younger brother; an eye experienced in such matters shows me the danger you are in; stop now, in mercy to yourself and all who love you."

"Release me, Mr. Wilkins; you have no right to act in this manner to me, sir."

"Yes!" shouted Quirk, seizing an empty bottle with a dreadful imprecation, and levelling it at Wilkins' head, "release him this minute if you don't want this through your skull!"

At this instant one of the other clerks caught sight of Guly, who had stood where he stopped, as if spell-bound, through all this scene.

"Look there!" cried the young man, pointing toward the staircase, and dropping the cards he held.

They all turned their heads and looked toward Guly, who seemed, standing there in his white robe, with the lamp elevated just in front of his forehead, not unlike some spiritual visitant bearing a star on his brow.

The attention which had been called to him, seemed in a measure to rouse Guly, for he came on slowly down the stairs, but with his blue eyes open and fixed like one walking in his sleep.

Not one of the startled group before him moved a muscle or dropped an eye as he advanced, but gazed upon him like persons under the influence of magnetism.

He approached the table, put his lamp upon it, and laid his Bible down beside it. He turned his eyes upon Arthur, and stood with his hands clasped, looking at him as Wilkins still held him drawn back from the table in his chair.

Still no eye was turned, no lip moved, not a word was uttered. There was something to awe the stoutest soul in the almost unearthly expression of the boy's face, as he gazed upon his brother with an unutterable hopelessness shining from his eyes. Never, in all his fears for Arthur's erring steps, had Guly thought of this. Never had the idea of gambling crossed his mind; and now, as he saw him engaged in it, his heart seemed to grow cold, and he stood looking at him as if he felt the future was but a wild abyss, into which he must inevitably fall, and near the brink of which he had too closely approached ever to escape.

All his hopes, his aspirations, and ambition for that brother fell on the instant from their throne, and, as they vanished, gave back but the one sad echo—"Lost! lost! lost!"

Arthur had looked up, and met the light of those sad eyes but for an instant, then dropped his head, and sat, with changing cheek, nervously fingering the cards which, at Quirk's suggestion, he had picked up from the table.

The silence which had fallen upon the party was abruptly broken by Quirk, who suddenly bent forward and read the title of the book which Guly had laid upon their card-table.

"H—ll!" he muttered between his short teeth; "what the devil did you lay that right in the midst of our cards for? that's no place for it. Who ever heard of cards and Bible keeping company on the same board?"

"Had you never neglected the one, you would not now be engaged with the other," returned Guly, speaking in a soft but impressive voice; and turning his eyes for an instant from Arthur to Quirk, but immediately reverting them.

Arthur flung his cards upon the table, but without once lifting his eyes. He seemed to feel all that his brother looked, without meeting that full, sad gaze of hopeless sorrow.

"Come, now, Arthur," said Guly, at last, laying his small, girlish hand upon his brother's brow; "you are tired and excited. It is late, too—come with me to our own room."

Arthur was ashamed to show any heed of his brother's words before his present companions, and he drew his head away from the gentle touch of that kindly hand, and remarked that he would go when he chose—not before; that he was used to late hours, and he'd run the risk of all deleterious effects.

"That's it—I like your pluck!" shouted Quirk, too excited by the wine he had drank to heed the presence of the head clerk. "Don't let's be scared out of our rubber by a baby-faced boy, and a big Bible—'hanged if we will."

"You shall not play another round beneath this roof to-night," said Wilkins, resolutely. "If you do not vacate this place within five minutes, I will turn every one of you out of doors by main force."

"I'd like to see you try that game once," replied Quirk, instantly, bending suddenly forward, as if to grasp the book upon the table.

Before he could touch it, Guly had caught it in his own hands.

"This was my mother's Bible. Never shall a defiling finger touch its sacred pages. Oh! Arthur, if there is any brotherly love left in your heart for me, go with me to-night. You well know there is no fear of reproof from me—I could not give it, if I would."

Arthur rose resolutely, swept the gold into his pocket, and took his brother's hand.

"Zounds, Pratt! you won't leave us so!"

"Your five minutes are up," said Wilkins, firmly, lifting his foot and turning the table, with its contents, over upon the floor.

"Ten thousand devils!" shouted Quirk, madly; and catching up the neck of a broken bottle, he hurled it fiercely at Wilkins, who was approaching him.

It glanced—turned aside by the head-clerk's self-defending hand—and struck Guly upon the temple. With a faint moan he sank bleeding to the floor, clasping his mother's Bible to his breast.



CHAPTER XXV.

"Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell A votress in Maronan's cell— Rather through realms beyond the sea, Seeking the world's cold charity, An outcast pilgrim will she rove— Than wed the man she cannot love."

Scott.

"Who rang the bell, Minny?" inquired Della one morning, as she sat looking over a richly-bound volume of engravings, a recent gift from her father.

"General Delville, Miss."

"Has mamma gone into the drawing-room?"

"Not yet, Miss; she is preparing to do so."

"Well, Minny, do you go to her, and tell her that Della says, please not go in this morning, she wishes to see General Delville alone."

"Oh, Miss Della, she would never consent to your seeing him alone in the world. I'm certain she won't; and there is scarcely any use of asking her."

"Do as I tell you, Minny dear."

Minny went out.

Since the evening of the party, the General had been very assiduous in his attentions; waiting upon Mrs. Delancey and her daughter to concerts, operas, theatres, and every other place which he believed would be interesting and entertaining to them. His bouquets for Miss Della were always selected with the greatest care and taste, and had the fair recipient been possessed of sufficient patience to study out their language, she would have found the General by no means ignorant of that delicate manner of expressing thoughts which lose their chief beauty by being spoken.

Mrs. Delancey, with a watchfulness highly commendable, had never allowed Della and the General to remain a moment alone together; and she triumphantly declared, to her very intimate and confidential friends, that not a sentence of admiration or esteem had the General ever uttered, but what she had listened to, as well as Della; and that she should, of course, as much expect to be present when he made his declaration, as to have Della herself there.

Twice had Della summoned courage to declare, in the presence of both her parents, that if General Delville came with any idea of winning her love she wished his visits to cease; for marry him she never would; but both times had she met with such stormy reproofs from her father, and such loud appeals to her pride and dignity from her mother, that she had ceased to argue the matter, and by both parents her acceptance of his suit was considered a settled thing. A man with a title militaire, and, moreover, half a million at his command, was not to be found as a wooer every day; and what though his years were many, when he had a fortune to long outlive him, and station, which any woman might be proud to gain? Surely, Della would be worse than silly, to throw away such an opportunity.

Mrs. Delancey was standing before the glass, arranging the folds of her elegant dress, with all the care of a Miss of eighteen, as Minny entered the room, and, standing at a respectful distance, delivered the message her young mistress had given her.

To her surprise, Mrs. Delancey merely raised her eyebrows slightly, as she heard her out, then turned round, with a smile upon her lips, and said:—

"Well, I suppose it would be better so. Matters have gone so far now, it is all as good as settled, and she, no doubt, is aware that he comes to-day to declare himself, and feels timid, poor thing, about giving her answer in the presence of a third person. It is but natural. Tell her, Minny, that her wishes are acceded to."

Minny left the room with a smile, though it was concealed from Mrs. Delancey. She bounded like a fawn through the shadowy passages to Della's apartment, and repeated her mother's answer.

"I told you so, Minny!"

"I never could have believed it, Miss!"

With a changing cheek, but firm, resolute step, Della descended to the drawing-room, and gracefully received her visitor, who looked no less surprised than pleased to see her enter alone.

General Delville was a splendid-looking man; and this, united with his wealth and station, could scarcely have failed to win to his heart any maiden whom he chose to address, less frank and upright than Della Delancey.

His fine features were lighted up with a beaming smile of pleasure, as he took her hand and led her to a seat, nor did he resign that hand without a gentle pressure of the white and perfumed fingers.

For an instant Della sat, with downcast eyes, in silence, while the General gazed upon her with the same smile upon his lips, but no words.

Suddenly Della lifted her eyes, and turned them full upon the face before her.

"General Delville?"

"Della."

"Pardon me, sir, for what I am about to say to you, and which I would have said long ago had I only had the opportunity; and—and—

"Go on, Miss Della," said the General, though he moved uneasily in his chair.

"General Delville, I, of course, am not unaware of your intentions with regard to myself, or the object of your visits at papa's house. I would not pain you for the world, sir; I esteem you, I love you so very much; but I want to tell you openly, as my heart dictates, that I have not for you the love that a wife should feel for her husband—only the love that a child should feel for a dear father; and if I married you, I could never feel for you anything more."

The General sat before her, looking all the astonishment he felt, but said not a word. Della went on, with flushed cheek and fluttering heart, but with voice calm and steady.

"Indeed, sir, I feel for you all the earnest esteem, all the warm, enduring affection, which a knowledge of your character cannot fail to inspire one with, especially one so very much younger than yourself as I. But as for that love which would make me truthfully perform the marriage vows, I do not experience it, and never can. I have never, since the first evening I met you, sir, intended in the least to encourage any particular attention on your part for myself. The encouragement, which I will admit has been by no means slight, you must acknowledge has been entirely on the part of my parents."

"And that is where a gentleman looks for encouragement, Miss Delancey."

"Most unfortunately, too true, sir; but in this instance I cannot conform to such a code of ethics, and give you a heart beating always indifferently for you. I set the case before you as it is. I tell you the truth, which I have longed to do long since, but could not; and now, knowing this, can you wish to make me your bride? I am sure you cannot. Still, if you persist, here is my hand, given in obedience to my parents."

The hand was taken, and held fondly against the stout heart beside her; and for a moment neither spoke—the old man looking thoughtfully upon the floor—the young girl gazing anxiously into his expressive face.

"Deep as is my disappointment, Miss Della, I cannot but confess that you have acted nobly. You have even won my heart closer in the last half hour than ever before. You have done what I would never have expected you would do; and, though I am the sufferer, I honor—I admire you for it. True, I am an old man; I could never have seemed other than a father to you, however much the husband I might have felt. I came to-day to lay my heart and fortune at your feet: a heart which, though old, would have been true to you, and loved you dearly. It is, of course, needless to tell you how great is my disappointment. I ask no sacrifice of you, however. May you always be happy! God bless you!"

Della burst into tears.

"General Delville, I knew I could not be mistaken in your noble nature."

"Pardon an old man's curiosity, my child," said he, dropping at once into the relationship Della had chosen for them; "but may I ask if a younger suitor influences you in this matter?"

Della blushed very deeply, but answered, frankly, through her tears, in the affirmative.

"You are sure you have chosen one worthy of such a heart as yours?"

"I think so, most truly."

"And his circumstances and station befit your own?"

"In point of wealth and station he is undoubtedly beneath me; but in nature, in heart, I am certain he is all I could wish."

"And, knowing this, how could your father sanction my suit?"

"He knew nothing of these circumstances, sir. I have, from necessity, kept it a secret from him. May I trust you to do the same?"

"You may, indeed. I would not sanction duplicity between father and child; but neither would I have you sacrifice your happiness to a father's pride. In early youth, had she, who won my first affections, been as true to me, through such a test, as you have been to him you love through this, I would, probably, have never occupied the position of an old and disappointed suitor before you here."

"I would gladly reveal all to my parents, but that I know and dread the consequences. And when they learn the course I have this day pursued with you, the storm will perhaps be no less fierce."

"Fear nothing, Della; from this hour I am your sincere and devoted champion, in all causes wherein I believe you to be right. The confidence you have placed in me shall never be betrayed. Your father I will gradually turn aside from the ideas he has cherished with regard to you and myself. It is all better, no doubt, as it is; this, I must admit, however lonely my heart may throb in saying it. I had hoped to be happy in holding you to that heart, as one of its own rightful treasures. I will now strive to make myself happy in seeing her so I could not win. Whenever you want a friend, my child—one faithful and sincere, and uninfluenced by selfish motives—you will ever find one in the old man who has dared to love you, and whom you have this day rejected."

Della placed both hands in General Delville's, and looked up earnestly and trustfully into his noble face.

"Believe me, I always will."

"And I may continue to be a welcome visitor here?"

"Always, always."

"Enough, Della. Farewell."

"Adieu, mon ami!"

The General's tall figure passed into the lofty hall, and Della heard the door close behind him. She hurried to a window, and watched him as he descended the steps and entered his carriage, then, with a feeling of reverential affection for that proud spirit and noble heart which an hour before she had scarcely expected to feel, she passed out of the parlor on her way to her own room. Traces of tears were still upon her cheeks, and her whole face still bore evidence of recent agitation.

As she was about to ascend the stairs, Mrs. Delancey's maid met her, with the message that her mother desired an interview.

"Say to my mother, that I beg to be excused for a few moments, but will be with her presently," said Della, proceeding up the stairs.

The girl obeyed, but returned immediately, and over-taking Della on the stairs, said:—

"Mistress says you must come instantly, Miss; that she wishes to see you before you go to your room."

Dispelling, as far as possible, all traces of agitation, Della returned to her mother's apartment. The moment Mrs. Delancey's eyes fell upon her child's features, she held out her hand, with a bland smile, exclaiming:—

"Ah, Dort, I see how it is, dear; couldn't get through with a proposal without crying a little, eh? Rather undignified, I must say, but perfectly natural for unexperienced girls, I suppose. Allow me to congratulate you."

Della pressed the hand her mother gave, and made an effort to speak; but choked, faltered, and failed entirely, bursting into a violent fit of weeping instead.

"Really, my child, you surprise—you shock me; if you can't behave any better now, what will you ever do at the wedding? Really, I am ashamed of you! At your age I had received seven offers, and never shed a tear!"

"Perhaps you didn't accept them, Madam; and so, sever the ties which bound you to father and mother, and home," said Minnie, who had entered just in time to hear Mrs. Delancey's last remark.

"That's true enough," returned the lady, as if she had not thought of the fact before. "Della, you can go to your room till you are more composed; I will tell your father what has happened, so your timidity will be spared that."

"Oh, don't tell him anything, mamma; don't tell him this," sobbed Della.

"Nonsense, Dort; worse and worse. Go to your room, and don't make your appearance again until you can come with a face more composed, and features not all swollen and distorted by weeping."

Della obeyed, and her mother saw her no more that night.

"Oh, Minny!" exclaimed the young girl, as the privacy of her own apartment was gained, and she threw herself, still sobbing, on the quadroon's bosom; "didn't you know before I went down that I never would accept him, that I never could marry him, never?"

"Yes, Miss, I knew it."

"Yet you implied to mamma, Minn, that you believed I had accepted him, and you know she thinks I tell you everything. Oh, Minny, you musn't tell falsehoods for my sake!"

"I told no falsehood, Miss; I only asked your mamma a simple question, that you might get free, as I knew you wished to be."

"But I know she thought you meant that."

"It is wrong for people, to jump so hastily at conclusions."

"But, Minny, you know you intended mamma should jump at that."

"Well, Miss Della, don't chide me now about it; if it got you off without any more questions you are very glad, are you not?"

"Of course, if it wasn't falsehood."

"It certainly was not, Miss Della; now dry your eyes, and I will show you something."

"A letter, Minn, from—from him?"

Minny smiled, and nodded her head.

"Bathe my eyes, then, and I won't shed another tear."

Minny obeyed; and Della, with trembling fingers, tore open the letter, and perused it.

"Is it good, Miss?"

"Sweet Minny, read it yourself."

The quadroon took it, and, as she stood behind her mistress, the tremor which seized her frame, when she looked upon that handwriting, was unseen and unthought of by any but herself.

"Delightful, Miss Della."

"Yes; now, Minny, put it with the rest."

"You won't have it beneath your pillow then, for the first night?"

"No, Minn; put it away. I am going to dream of General Delville, to-night, if I can—the best and noblest, and kindest man, excepting somebody you know, that ever I knew."

"Indeed, Miss! I'm so glad he proved so."

"Oh, yes, Minn, I can never tell you how noble and good he is; but, Minn, these letters—Bernard's letters—you are very sure you kept them all safe, perfectly secure?"

"As the apple of my eye, Miss."

"I have felt anxious about them sometimes of late, and have thought of offering to take care of them myself; but there's Madam Gerot in these rooms every week; I could hide nothing from her lynx eyes. I think I might do without a governess now—don't you, after having had a proposal from a General?"

"Your mamma thinks she perfects your manners, Miss."

"All nonsense! I never have any grace or manner when she is in sight. Minny, the truth is, I am prettier and more graceful when I am right here with you, than I would be with all the French dancing-masters and ornamental governesses in the world."

"Bless your dear heart!"

"Thank you, Minn; nobody ever blessed me save you and General Delville; he blessed me to-day in such a beautiful way, it went straight to my heart. Oh, if it is so sweet to be blessed by the rich, what must it be, Minny, to be blessed by the poor?"

Minny was silent.

"If ever I get out of fashionable society, Minn, I shall never court it again. It is a heartless sphere! I would sooner be a stone than human, with no humanity beyond flesh and blood, and that cast in a fashionable mould."

"Your mamma is a fashionable woman, Miss, and seems very happy."

"It is only seeming, Minn. She has more misery over an ill-fitting dress, an unshapely shoe, or an awkward glove, than you and I have in an age. I was born out of my sphere, I know I was; I ought to have been poor."

"You may be, one of these days, Miss."

"How so, Minn? What do you mean?"

"Disinherited."

"Oh, no! that will never be, I am certain."

"But you'd not be unhappy if it should happen?"

"Only for Bernard."

"I am very happy to hear this."

"Dear Minnie, you have so many foolish fears!"

"It is better to think of these things."

"True enough. Good night, Minn!"

"Good night. You are going to sleep early, Miss?"

"So as to have bright eyes in the morning, dear."

Lonely, without her mistress, Minnie also prepared for sleep; and that night Bernard's letter was placed beneath her pillow, and her dreams were of him.

Della, as she had hoped, dreamed of General Delville. All night long was his noble face before her, wearing that radiant expression which had illuminated it when he bade God bless her. Never afterwards, in all her waking hours, whether in joy or gloom, light or darkness, did Della cease to remember him as she dreamed of him there with the halo of that blessing circling him and her.

Lightly as he had seemed to give her up, it had cost the General a more severe struggle than Della had imagined. He had truly loved her, old as he was, and had not loved lightly; but he could not take to his heart the heartless wife which she had frankly admitted she must be if he married her; and Della had, unwittingly, skillfully touched a tender chord, when she made the appeal to his feelings which she did. He had felt the force of her reasoning, and had been delighted with her frankness and her confidence; though it pained him to relinquish her, he was too much a soldier to display his wounds; and, though he parted from her nominally a friend, he was never more her lover than when he that afternoon called her his child and bade her adieu.



CHAPTER XXVI.

Many and sharp the numerous ills Inwoven with our frame! More pointed still we make ourselves Regret, remorse, and shame. And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn.

Burns.

"Wretch!" cried Wilkins, striking at Quirk with his brawny fist, as he rose from the prostrate form of Guly—"Wretch, you have killed him!" and, seizing the offender by the collar, with the united force of foot and hand he hurled him into the street. The two other young men, who had drunk less freely of the wine, and were less excited, passed out also, expressing to Wilkins their regret at the unfortunate occurrence. Locking and barring the door, the head clerk hurried back to Guly's side, and lifted him gently in his arms. With the tender care of a mother, he bore him to his own bed and smoothed the golden curls from the wounded temple, as he laid him softly on the pillow. The old gush of love had swept back to Arthur's heart when he saw his brother fall at his side, and with throbbing pulse he implored Wilkins to fly for a physician leaving him to watch by Guly's pillow.

Wilkins acceded to his request, and, going out by the alley door, locked it after him, and dashed down the street in search of his own physician. The sound of his heavy footsteps, as they fell upon the pavement, rang far and near through the silent streets; and, as he sped on, their echo fell upon his ear fearfully, and sent a thrill of something like terror through his strong frame. He even slackened his pace, and strove to lighten his tread that the desolate sound might not thus sweep constantly after him; but his anxiety with regard to Guly was so intense that he found it impossible to go at a slower gait, and he went on, running strongly, his huge chest heaving with the unwonted exertion, and the big drops of perspiration standing out like rain-drops on his brow. Suddenly there came a low hum of voices to his ear, not unlike the murmur of a distant sea. Louder and louder, it came upon the midnight air, till, answering to the echo of his flying steps, came the distant cry of "Murder! stop him! stop him! Murder!" And the prolonged, terrific cry sent a panic through every limb, as for an instant the head clerk paused to listen.

As by instinct, he comprehended all. He felt as fully aware as though he had been plainly told so, that the echo of his hurried pace had been caught by the quick ear of the night guardians, and he was pursued as a midnight assassin. Thinking that the safest course would be to hurry straight to the physician's office, where he was well known and where the statement he might make would be corroborated, he again struck into a run, and with all his strength endeavored to elude the pursuers, whose voices every moment fell more clearly on his ear.

He felt in his great heart all the terrible consequences which might accrue to Guly if he should be captured, for there would necessarily be more or less delay in his again obtaining freedom.

But, swiftly as he fled, he felt he was no match for the swift-footed pursuers behind him, and the cry of murder, and the sound of clubs upon the banquette, and the sharp, quick watchman's rattle, fell on his ear more startlingly clear every moment. Suddenly he thought to dart down the first dark street, and at the next block double on his pursuers. But his design had been anticipated, and as he dashed at a headlong pace round the corner, he found himself face to face with a posse of policemen, and a crowd of half-dressed coffee-house loafers, who are always abroad upon the first hint of an excitement.

With a shout of triumph, Wilkins' arms were pinioned at his side; and despite all his prayers and entreaties, he was hurried away to the guard-house. He begged to be allowed to stop at Doctor C.'s office, and deliver him the message he had brought, assuring them that, would they but give him a few minutes' time, he could fully assure them of his innocence; but all in vain. An atrocious murder had been committed somewhere up town, and they had been chasing all night, they said, to find the assassin, who had escaped. They declared themselves "fagged out," and swore they must "chuck" somebody, and if he wasn't the right man he could prove it in the morning, and that was all they had to say; and, in bitterness of heart and anxiety of mind, Wilkins heard the heavy door shut with a short clang, and knew he was a prisoner! Wearily the night sped away; and, tortured with anxiety for the pale young being whom he had left senseless on his pillow, Wilkins walked the narrow precincts of his cell moody and disconsolate. For with all the evil of this man's strange nature, there were some pure and sparkling gems of good, which cast a radiance, bright and purifying, over the dark traits of his character. This love for Guly was one of these. Springing up, as it did, from among the rank weeds of sin and recklessness in his breast, it proved that he could appreciate the lovely, and knew how to cherish it. Then, his guardian care of Blanche, the brodereuse—where a thousand men would have but thought of evil, his sole care was to ward it from her. And now, as he walked back and forth across the heavily spiked floor, another ray of glorious and intense light shot from his great heart heavenward. It was a prayer! breathed there in the midst of the perplexities and troubles which surrounded him, earnestly, hopefully breathed for Guly; and if ever a prayer ascended to the "Great White Throne," accepted for its faith and sincerity, that one did, sent from the burning lips of Bernard Wilkins that night.

Morning came, and he was taken before the Recorder, and though it required but little trouble to prove his innocence, it took time, and it was with a breast lacerated by a thousand fears that he found himself again at liberty, and turned his steps towards the store.

As he had left the front door key inside, Jeff had as usual been able to open the store and put things in order. The clerks were many of them in their places, but he scarcely noticed any one; passing up between them, with long and rapid strides, he struck his foot against the door of his room, and the next instant stood at Guly's side. He lay as he had left him, on the bed, still wrapped in his white robe, pale and very beautiful. Wilkins bent breathlessly over him, and the blue eyes at that moment opened, and smiled a welcome upon him. Clasping his hands together with an upward look of thankfulness, Wilkins fell upon his knees beside the bed and buried his face in the covers, as if he would fain conceal the too vivid pleasure expressed in his features.

A hand was laid upon his shoulder. He started, looked up, and met the gaze of Arthur.

"Ah, yes, Arthur, I had forgotten you. How did you manage? What could you do?"

"Finding you did not return, I suspected something had occurred, and dispatched Jeff after the nearest physician. He pronounced Guly's wound not dangerous, but recommended quiet for a day or so. You see he is doing nicely; he wasn't hurt much after all. As Quirk says, he is such a weakly affair, that it takes nothing at all to knock the senses out of him."

"Then you have had a conference with Quirk, this morning, have you?" returned Wilkins, coldly. "Well, your very humane judgment is worthy of both of you; you can now go to your counter, sir, if you like, or seek rest if you are fatigued, as you choose."

Arthur took his place in the store. Aided by Quirk's slurs and inuendoes, as soon as he saw Guly recovering he had experienced another revulsion of feeling, and really cherished a sentiment of anger, when he remembered that he had allowed himself to be so "bullied," as Quirk expressed it, by a stripling so weak and "curdy" as Gulian. He convinced Arthur, with his reckless reasoning, that in gambling for a little "innocent amusement," there in the store, they were but doing what all young men with any idea of fashionable pleasure did, and that Wilkins had no right to exert over them the authority which he did. That, as for Guly's wound, it was Wilkins' fault he had received it, and, altogether, they ought to have fought it out before yielding so easily. But though he had succeeded in leading Arthur to think that Guly was meddlesome and intrusive, he could not succeed in rousing his ire towards Wilkins; for Arthur was not so blind as to be unable to see that Wilkins was his truest friend. Still, there was a restless and undefined uneasiness in his breast, a fancy that his dignity had been insulted, yet so vague was the impression left on his mind by the wily Quirk, that he could scarcely decide from whom he had suffered it, Wilkins or Guly; but with that unnatural perversity which sometimes enthrals the human heart, he was more than half inclined to think it was his brother, and cherished an indignant feeling against him, which even the memory of his pallid face as he lay before him the night before, with the blood slowly oozing from his wounded temple down the blue-veined cheek, could not dissipate; and whenever, during that long day, he went into Wilkins' darkened room to look upon the young form lying there, it was not in sorrow and love, but silence and coldness.

When Mr. Delancey came to the store that day, which was at an hour later than usual, Wilkins joined him at his high desk, and held with him a long conference. The merchant had shown many signs of impatience during its pending, and no slight evidences of anger. As Wilkins turned away, Mr. Delancey sat looking down through the store for some time, leaning stiffly back in his chair meanwhile. The moment he saw Quirk disengaged, he called his name in his sharp, peculiar tone of voice, at the same time beckoning to him with his forefinger. Quirk flung down the piece of goods he was about folding, and a scarce perceptible pallor spread over his coarse cheeks, as, darting a malicious glance at Wilkins, he approached the high desk.

"So, sir, you took the liberty to gamble in my store last night, eh?"

"I wasn't the only one."

"Hold your tongue, sir. You dare not tell me you didn't propose it?"

"Mallory, Adams and Arthur Pratt joined me."

"You knew the store's rules better than they. Do you know that I think any one that gambles will steal?"

"Then your store is full of thieves."

"The more need, then, of making an example for their benefit. Take your place, sir; you have a fortnight's warning to find another situation, and quit."

With cheeks glowing with anger and fierce resentment, Quirk went back to his place, knowing there was no use in arguing the matter with such a man as Delancey; who had, in fact, acted entirely upon Wilkins' suggestion; whereas the others would no doubt have shared the same fate, had he acted upon his own. The head clerk had laid the whole matter before him exactly as it was, quietly throwing in his own advice and ideas on the subject, and there were reasons why Mr. Delancey didn't choose to differ very materially from what his head clerk said.

After he had dismissed Quirk, the merchant every now and then turned his eye upon Wilkins' room door, as if he fain would enter there could he possibly do so without being seen. Unconsciously, as it were, Mr. Delancey had that morning missed the bright young brow and gentle eyes, which in all his moods never had failed to show him the respect of an obeisance and a greeting regularly upon his entrance. There was an uprightness and nobleness too, characterizing Guly's every deed which the merchant had not failed to observe, and which had created a respect and esteem for the boy even in that obdurate heart.

Mr. Delancey stepped down from his high desk, and began to traverse the space between it and the long windows. But every turn brought him nearer and nearer to the little bed-room door, and at last, certain that he was unobserved, he laid his hand upon the knob and slipped in.

If ever the merchant displayed his awkwardness, it was in a sick room; the knowledge of which fact, perhaps, made him so rare a frequenter of such places.

As he stopped at Guly's bedside, with his long fingers pressed down among the pillows, the boy opened his eyes, and looked up in his face with a smile, expecting to see Wilkins or Arthur. He was greatly surprised at seeing his employer, but immediately extended his hand and said:

"Is it possible 'tis you, Mr. Delancey? This is an unexpected pleasure."

Mr. Delancey took the proffered hand in his, held it loosely for a moment in his bony fingers, as if unaccustomed to holding friendly hands, then let it drop back again upon the bed-clothes.

"Why is my presence so unexpected? Don't you suppose I ever look in on sick clerks?"

"I certainly hope so, sir; I scarcely expected it in my case; but I am very happy to be disappointed—sit down sir?"

The merchant seated himself, and said:

"So you got in a row last night."

"In trouble, sir; most unfortunately. I hope that it is the last case of the kind."

"Yes, bad to have your place empty—want all my men at their posts. Get about as soon as you can. Be up to-morrow, I 'spose?"

"Yes, sir, God willing."

"God willing! Do you always put that in?" said Mr. Delancey, half rising from his chair, then reseating himself.

"Yes, sir, always."

The merchant sat for a moment, with his cold eye fixed on his earnest face.

"Invariably you say that, eh?"

"Invariably, sir."

"Humph! I don't!" returned the other, rising abruptly from the chair, and, without another word, he slipped out of the little door as cautiously as he had entered, and again took his seat at his desk.

The day wore on with an occasional visit from Arthur, a frequent one from Wilkins, and numerous inquiries sent by all the clerks, who could not help but feel an interest in the young sufferer.

By the increased darkness of the room, Guly knew the day must be most gone, and he lay looking upon the little table where one night he had seen Wilkins writing, with the quadroon standing behind his chair—that night which he had remembered so distinctly and pondered on so much.

As he lay musing upon that event, his attention was attracted by a singular noise outside his door, and the next moment it was thrown open, and to Guly's utter astonishment the dwarf swung himself in upon his long crutches, with Wilkins, looking like a giant, walking smilingly behind him.

"Here's a friend that's true to you, Guly; he misses you, you see, as well as the rest of us."

"Hih! hih! Monsieur," chuckled the little man, reaching up and catching hold of Guly's fingers; "I have seen you nowhere to-day; I think you very sick or very dead. I get no picayune to-day, no bean soup. Hih! hih! Monsieur, I miss you very much."

"You are kind, to come and see me, my poor friend. It seems very natural to see your face. You are welcome."

"Me welcome?" squeaked the dwarf, climbing up with much difficulty into the chair Mr. Delancey had so recently left; "me welcome, Monsieur! Hih! that's mor'n has been said to me these many years—hih! poor deformed little devil that I am!"

Guly heard a sound, a strange sound, something between a schoolboy snivel and a sob, and looking up, to his amazement saw a bright tear rolling down his visitor's wrinkled cheek, and his one eye, seeming to lie out farther on his face then ever, was glistening with more.

"You have never told me your name," said Guly, hoping to divert his attention.

"No,'cause I never thort you cared to know it," returned the other, wiping his eye on the cuff of his coat. "The boys call me King Richard, because, as they say, he was stoop-shouldered like me, Monsieur. They daren't exactly call me humped for fear of my crutches, hih! hih! You can call me Richard, or Dick, or what you choose."

"You musn't talk too much to Monsieur," said Wilkins, kindly; "he is too ill to hear much conversation—hurts his head."

"Hih! no, I won't hurt him. A picayune, Monsieur: I've had no bean soup, to-day. Pauvre Richard!"

Wilkins dropped a piece of silver in the claw-like hand, and went back into the store.

The dwarf sat rubbing the dime on his sleeve, brightening it, and looking curiously at it with his one eye, as if to assure himself it was good—then disposed of it somewhere about his person.

"Are you hungry, Richard?" asked the boy, eyeing him pityingly.

"Oui, Monsieur, hungry and poor and friendless. Oh, Lord! but I've got a dime to buy bread now, hih! hih! hih!"

"I am your friend, Richard; never go hungry when you are destitute. I am not rich, but I always hope to be able to give you a piece of bread, and you musn't call yourself friendless ever again."

The dwarf hitched himself round on his chair, and fixed his great raw-looking eye inquisitively on the gentle face looking upon him.

"Friend to me, Monsieur, such a horrid little ape as me? Hih! hih! can't think that."

"Don't call yourself such names, Richard. The hand that made me, made you; and He has commanded us to love one another," said the boy, sweetly.

"And you can love me, you? Hih! no, no, no, I wasn't born to be loved, only to be kicked round the world like a football while I live, and when I die to be kicked into a pauper's grave. Hard lot! deformed, friendless, wretched, poor. Nothing to love, no one to love me, hih! wonder what I was born for. Monsieur, what hurt you?"

Guly smiled at the sudden transition in the dwarf's manner, and replied briefly that he had been hurt with broken glass.

"Hih! that's bad. I must get down and go away—make you talk too much—'hurt your head.' Always hurt people's heads, I do—that part where their eyes are. Adieu, Monsieur."

The dwarf, after some labor, reached the floor, and succeeded in tucking a crutch under either arm.

"Hope you'll get well, Monsieur."

"Be round to-morrow I hope, Richard; thank you."

"Hope so. Adieu."

"Adieu."

He swung away, and reached the door, but hobbled back to the bed again, and raising his red, skinny fingers, took Guly's hand in his.

"You meant what you said, Monsieur, about loving one another?"

"Yes. Truly so, Richard."

"And I may think of you as loving even me?"

"As loving you, Richard. As loving you for one of the Great God's cherished works, sent here expressly to call forth our love, and awaken the dormant sympathies of our nature."

"May that Great God, bless you, Monsieur. Hih! hih! Adieu."

Once more he gained the door, and this time it closed behind him, shutting him out. And Guly fell asleep, with the earnest blessing of the poor deformed one brightening his dreams, and the holy words, "Love ye one another," ringing sweetly through his heart.



CHAPTER XXVII.

"Nor heaven nor earth hath been at peace To-night."

Shakspeare.

The Friday night, which had been set aside by Clinton for his meeting with Arthur, arrived. It came in "clouds, and storm, and darkness," with darting lightning and crashing thunder, and all the wild fierceness which ever characterizes a thunder-storm in that climate.

Arthur had been nervous and ill at ease all day; a fact which all noticed, but which was attributed to anxiety on Guly's account, who, contrary to expectation, was still unable to be about.

Evening came, the store was closed, and all the clerks were out, save Quirk, Arthur, and Wilkins, who still lingered within, talking of Guly, and commenting on the unusual wildness of the storm. Through the day, Quirk had managed to slip a scrap of writing-paper into Arthur's hand, which had been duly read, and destroyed, and both now waited an opportunity to act upon what it contained.

Quirk quietly lighted a cigar, and, seating himself, turned good-naturedly to Wilkins, remarking:—

"I suppose you know, old boy, that I got my discharge from these premises t'other day."

"Indeed!" returned the head-clerk, coldly, striking a match to light a cigar for himself.

"Yes, cleared out, within a fortnight, bag and baggage; all on account of that deuced little spree we had here the other night. By-the-by, Mr. Wilkins, I believe you have had a finger in this pie. How could you treat a fellow so?"

"I told you I would report you."

"Well, 'twasn't hardly fair, I vum. I didn't do more than the rest, but I suffer all alone. However, I don't bear anybody any ill will, and hope when we part it will be on good terms."

"I hope so, I'm sure."

"I've a bottle of prime old Port left of the other night; what say you to taking a drink this stormy time, to our future good friendship?"

"I've no objections—most certainly."

Quirk went to the other end of the store, and took a bottle and some glasses from under the counter. He filled three of the glasses, and handed one to each of his friends, and kept the other for himself.

"Here's oblivion to the past, and brightness for the future."

Wilkins smiled, nodded, and the glasses were drained to the bottom.

At this moment Quirk caught sight of Jeff, who had just been in to see Guly, but who now stood with his great eyes fixed upon the group before him, with a mixture of wonder and sadness in his glance.

"Ah, Jeff! oughtn't to forget you to-night. Have some?"

"Don't care, massa."

Quirk filled another glass to the brim.

"Now, Jeff, you must give us a toast, or you can't have the wine."

"Guy, massa, who ever heard of a nigga's toastin' white folks," replied Jeff, showing his whole range of ivories.

"Must give us something."

"Well, den, massa, if I must, I must. Here's hopin' you'll never be less de brack man's fren dan now you am."

The negro's toast was drunk with a hearty good-will, Quirk only pausing, thoughtfully, to ask if he spoke in general terms of the colored race, or referred to himself singly; to which Jeff merely said "Yes," leaving the matter as obscure as before.

When his cigar was finished, Quirk buttoned his coat to the throat, and, taking an umbrella, shook hands with Arthur and Wilkins, and proceeded toward the door.

"You might stay, and share Arthur's bed to-night," said Wilkins, calling after him. "It's a dreadful storm to go out in, and he is alone, you know—Guly being in my bed."

"Thank you," returned the other, "not to-night."

"I wish you would," joined in Arthur; "that's a gloomy old room to be alone in, in such a noisy night as this."

"Hope you ain't afraid of spirits," laughed Quirk. "I would really like to stay, but I have an engagement to meet a friend at the St. Louis bar-room to-night, and I ought to have been there half an hour ago. Good-night."

He opened the door, and passed out, while a gust of wind and rain swept in through the opening.

Arthur shuddered. "Really," said he, speaking to Wilkins, "I believe I am nervous to-night; I feel as fidgetty as an old woman; yet I have seen the time when I could glory in such a storm as this, and climb to the summit of old Cro'nest, on the Hudson, in its midst."

"You have been dissipating a little of late, you know," returned the other, patting his shoulder; "that makes a difference. Then, you have, no doubt, been anxious about your brother, and that makes a difference. Perhaps Jeff had better take his bed to your room to-night, and lie there. He will be better than no company, with the lightning and thunder on such a spree about one's ears. What say you?"

"But Jeff is needed here."

"No, he isn't. He only lies behind that door in the capacity of a big watch-dog," returned the other, laughing, "to bark if he hears any one breaking in, and he hasn't had cause to do that since I've been here. Jeff, take your mattress to Master Pratt's room, and sleep there to-night."

Jeff obeyed, glad himself to be near somebody during this fierce battle of the elements; and Arthur told him to go on up stairs with the light, and he would be with him presently.

Leaving Wilkins smoking in the store, Arthur stole softly into Guly's sick chamber. A night-lamp was burning on the table, casting its mellow light faintly through the apartment, and displaying the sufferer's pale features, as he lay asleep, with his bright hair floating back upon his pillow.

Arthur knelt by the bedside, and took one of his brother's burning hands in his, and bowed his head upon it. He uttered no word, heaved no sigh, but knelt motionless and silent—so silent that his heavy heart-throbs were audible. When he raised his head, tears were on his cheeks, and, as he bent to press his lips to Guly's, those tears fell down upon that fair, pale brow, and glittered there like gems.

Dashing away these traces of what he deemed his weakness, Arthur passed out of the room, and shaking hands with Wilkins, as he bade him good-night, mounted the winding stairs, and entered his own chamber.

"Massa Pratt," said Jeff, turning on his mattress, as Arthur entered the room, "you don't think as how your brudder's gwine to die, do you?"

"Die! Heavens, Jeff, no! What put that in your head?"

"Don't know, sah! don' know nuffin' 'bout it."

Arthur slowly undressed, and placing his clothes near the bedside, lay down upon his pillow.

"Jeff, do you ever expect to get to sleep in such a tumult as this?"

"Guy, massa, guess I does. Neber was so sleepy afore in all my life. 'Spect it's dat wine dat makes it; I don't often git sich drinks as dat. Massa Quirk mighty good just on de ebe of lebin de business. Yah! yah!"

In a few minutes Jeff was asleep; and his loud breathing was audible, even above the howling of the storm. Arthur lay still for half an hour, restless, and with ear strained to catch the faintest sound coming up from the store below. But all was still, and he rose up, and dressed himself, throwing over his other garments a cloak, which he wrapped closely about him, as if preparing to breast the weather. He laid his hand on the small door, leading down the steep staircase into the court, and was about to pass forth, when, with a sudden impulse, he dropped the cloak from his shoulders, and opened the door leading down to the store instead. Arthur could not go out upon his mysterious errand, without casting one more look upon his brother's face. Perhaps he felt it might possibly give him strength to resist temptation, or might urge him to forego some premeditated evil; whatever it was that prompted him to seek his side, he obeyed it, and in a moment stood in the door of Wilkins' chamber. The light of the night-lamp revealed the form of the head clerk lying stretched upon his bed, sound asleep, and breathing heavily; one of his strong arms encircled Guly, and his broad breast pillowed the boy's head.

Arthur looked at them earnestly, fearless of their waking, for he had seen (what none of the rest observed) Quirk sprinkle into Wilkins' wine, as also into Jeff's, a few grains of a drug, intended to make their slumbers deep; and Guly, he knew, slept an invalid's sleep, heavy from weakness and exhaustion. After gazing at them for awhile, Arthur stepped to the table, and extinguished the lamp, then drew the door close after him, and groped his way back up stairs. Again he wrapped the cloak about him, drew his cap over his brows, and went down into the court. He paused once more, as he opened the alley-door with his pass-key, and turned his eyes back toward the spot he was leaving. The darkness was impenetrable, but he gazed earnestly back as if all were distinctly visible, then closed the door behind him, and went shudderingly forth into the tempest. He had crossed that threshold for the last time bearing in his breast a crimeless-soul, and he felt it instinctively.

Gaining the street, he hurried on till he had reached the saloon where he had seen Quirk and Clinton the night after the lost bank deposit. He hastily inquired of Quibbles if either of his friends were there, and on being informed that Quirk had just come in, he desired to be shown to his presence, and found him in the same room they had occupied before, smoking and drinking there by himself.

"Come at last, eh, Pratt? All snug?"

"All asleep—Jeff in my room, as you suggested."

"Good! Now for Clint."

"But what was the use of all these preliminaries at the store? I scarcely understand."

"Oh, you're a little springy as yet; after to-night you'll understand more about these things. Clinton will explain everything when we get there. Now, if you're ready, come along."

They went out together, Arthur first swallowing several glasses of wine, for the purpose, as he said, of keeping his spirits up.

The walk to Clinton's house was a long one, and on such a fierce night as this, particularly disagreeable; swollen gutters, slipping pavements, and deluged streets, rendering it next to impossible to keep one's footing.

Arriving, at last, at the door of a small but neat domicile, Quirk rapped, and they were admitted by a small black girl, who showed them into a pleasant little apartment, lighted cheerfully, prettily furnished, and tastefully arranged. A table stood in the centre of the apartment, and Clinton was sitting by it when they entered, reading to a young and pretty woman, who was busily engaged with her needle, and rocking a cradle, containing an infant son, with her foot.

She rose gracefully as Clinton introduced her as his wife, and received his friends with ease and dignity. Arthur felt not a little astonished to find Clinton a husband and a father, and told him as much. He blushed slightly, and replied that every one knew these facts that knew him well, and laughingly advised Arthur if he wished to be happy to become one too.

Mrs. Clinton then rose, and going to the sideboard, set out wine for the guests, and Arthur observed that it was served on a silver salver and in cut crystal—articles scarcely corresponding with the small house, and very pretty, but plain furniture.

"Is the back room lighted?" said Clinton to his wife.

"No, but it shall be, if you wish it."

"I do. My friends have a little business to transact with me."

Arthur noticed that when Clinton said this, his wife looked at him very penetratingly, as if she would read his thoughts, but turned away re-assured by the bright smile he gave her, and lighted the room.

"Now," said Clinton, when they were alone, "let's at once to business. I had intended this night only for planning; but we must plan and work both, to-night, for we may not have such another storm in a month. You've good pluck, eh, Pratt?"

"Same as ever."

"Good. You got my note and fixed the wine, Quirk?"

"Just so."

"And you are sure you're ready, Pratt, to help to carry out the plan I've laid for you?"

"Ready for anything short of murder."

"All right, then, there's no murder in the case, only a nice little game of lock-picking and so on. No backing out now, and beforehand we must all take this oath: that if any one of us is nabbed, and should by any chance suffer the penalty of the law, he shall not implicate any of the others."

"That's fair," said Quirk; "all stand the same chance."

The oath was administered, and each one laid his hand upon the Holy Book, saying: "I swear," "I swear," "I swear."

"Now," said Clinton, "what I propose is this: that we just walk into your boss's store this night, and walk out of it with goods enough to make us rich men. We can do it easy as guns."

Arthur turned pale and remained silent.

"What's the matter, boy," said Clinton, laughing, "you ain't going to play chickenheart, are you?"

"No," said Arthur, ashamed to confess his dislike to the plan, "but why can't you take some other store?"

"Because we havn't the men drugged in any other store, and, in case of detection, we're safer there than any where else."

"How so? I should think the chances in that case would be equal anywhere?"

"Oh, no. I'm somewhat related to the proprietor of your store, and when he found 'twas me, he'd hush the matter up—and let it go," said Clinton, quietly.

"Related to Mr. Delancey! Pray, how nearly?" asked Arthur in astonishment.

"Oh, quite near. But no matter about that now, maybe you'll find it all out one of these days. Another reason for choosing that particular store is, we can get in with less trouble. Look there."

Clinton, as he spoke, flung down upon the table a heavy brass key, which, to his amazement, Arthur saw was the one he had lost on his Carrollton ride.

"How in the world came you by this?"

Clinton laughed—"If you lost it, I must have found it; but no time is to be lost, and if we're all agreed let's go to work."

"All agreed," said Quirk; but Arthur was silent; sitting with his head bent down, as if closely examining the key, but in fact to hide the emotion he knew was visible in his face.

"Well, then," said Clinton, rising and unlocking an armoire which stood in one corner of the room, "here are some bags for us, which I have had prepared expressly. Each of us will take two; and with what else we can carry about our persons, they will be enough. Here, Pratt, are yours. What the devil ails you, man, to look so down?"

"Nothing ails me," replied Arthur, rising and taking the bags, with an effort to look interested and cheerful.

"Well," continued Clinton, "now, my plan is this: all you have got to do is to unlock the door and go in; for Quirk tells me that early this morning he managed to fill the bolt socket in the floor, so that the bolts wouldn't sink; and that he is certain Jeff was too fuddled with the wine he gave him to note the difference. If this was so, you can go in without the slightest difficulty, and as you two know all about the store, which I don't, while you are gathering the goods, I will saw off one of the window shutters, and cut out a pane of glass, so that it will seem the entrance was effected by that means. Here are the implements, you see," said he, holding up a saw and file.

"Aye," said Quirk, "but you'll need a diamond to cut the glass."

"I'll use this," said he, showing the ring on his finger.

"Just as it is?"

"Yes, as good so as any way. Now, the first thing you do after getting in, is to pull out that filling from the bolt sockets if you care to save yourselves, then pitch into the goods. Get the lightest and most valuable—silks, embroideries, rich laces, everything of that kind, but avoid the linens, cloths, and all that, as too heavy, and besides might be detected by the stamp. Lock and bolt the door after you when you go in, and you, Pratt, pocket the key; for no doubt it will be asked for to-morrow. I'll have a place ready for you to get out. And now let's be off—here are dark lanterns for you."