"But the watchman," suggested Arthur.

"Oh, never fear a watchman such a night as this; he's snugly asleep somewhere, no doubt—and if he should come too near, this would 'his quietus make,'" said Clinton, displaying a glittering dagger.

Arthur shuddered visibly.

"You promised no murder, Mr. Clinton."

"And I'll endeavor to keep that promise, Mr. Pratt," laughed Clinton. "Now let's be going."

They went out without again seeing Clinton's wife.

The storm swept on unabated, and Quirk and Clinton, arm-in-arm, started on ahead, while Arthur, reluctant, and remorseful, but ashamed to betray his feelings, followed in their footsteps, the suffering victim of his own and another's pride.

The store was reached. The noise of the tempest rendered much caution unnecessary, for thunder, wind and rain were so loudly uniting their forces that almost any noise would but have seemed the natural effect of their fury. But it was with extreme caution that Arthur applied the key to the lock, opened the door and permitted Quirk to enter. The latter instantly stepped to the window, and assisted Clinton in taking down a shutter, and the last named gentleman, with file and saw, soon gave it the appearance of having been taken down by such instruments alone from the outside. He then proceeded to cut out one of the large panes of glass, while Quirk and Arthur, having opened the bolt sockets and fastened the door with lock and bolt, proceeded to collect the goods.

Suddenly Arthur stopped, and turning to Quirk, whispered faintly: "I can't go on. Oh, this is awful, awful! Think of my poor brother, sick, maybe dying, in that room yonder, and I engaged thus! Oh! I never, never can go on!"

"Furies!" muttered Quirk, between his teeth, "this is a pretty time for such thoughts! The brat in yonder is doing well enough, I'll be bound; but if you give him time to come out here and see you, he would die for certain. You may just as well yell out and give us all up to the police as to stop now—a nice body you are to take revenge."

That one last word acted as a spur, and Arthur again resumed the packing of the bags, and Quirk coming up to him, said, softly:—

"Now you're a man again—ain't ashamed of you now. Here's a mask for you, tie it on. I don't fear detection, but it won't do any harm to wear it. I've got one for myself."

Arthur obeyed mechanically, and tied the mask over his features and went on with his work. Boxes were rifled, drawers were emptied and shelves left vacant. The bags were filled. Everything light and valuable that could be stowed away in them had been, and Quirk and Arthur passed them up into the window for Clinton to set into the street. He lifted them all out, and wrapped them in oil cloth to prevent the goods from being damaged by the rain. He placed them in a pile beneath the window arch, so that they might be easily lifted away even by two strong pair of arms, and left them there, certain that the raging storm would prevent all chance of discovery. Quirk had crept out also, through the open pane, after having placed the goods in the window, and now seated himself upon the pile and wiped his brow, like one wearied with a long fatiguing task.

Arthur had wrapped his cloak around him preparing to leave, when Clinton again made his appearance at the window and vaulted into the store.

"I want to see if you have made a clean sweep," said he, taking Arthur's lantern from his hand, and passing lightly up through the store with a practised tread and running his eye eagerly over the shelves. "Velvets," said he, suddenly pausing to read the lable of a large box. "Why the devil didn't you get them?" and forthwith he drew it down and turned its rich contents out into an immense bandanna handkerchief which he drew from his breast.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake don't stop for them!" whispered Arthur, nervously, "let's be gone!"

"Zounds, man! here's a little fortune in itself," returned the other, carefully tying them up. "I'd be a fool to leave these."

Neither saw, so intent were they on what they were doing, the door of Wilkins' room swing slowly open, and a white-robed figure, bearing a night-lamp, glide ghost-like toward them. So feeble was the light it held, it scarcely served to reveal the way, and one trembling foot struck against a store stool, making sufficient noise to attract the attention of the robbers. They both turned suddenly, the light of their lantern fell that way, and they stood face to face with Guly.

In an instant Clinton's hand was on his dagger; it rose glittering high in air, and aimed at Guly's heart, descended with a fearful plunge toward that pure young breast.

"Murderer!" cried a voice behind him, and a counter blow from a well directed hand, sent the instrument of death clattering upon the floor.

At the sound of that voice, though it had come from beneath a mask, Guly uttered a cry of anguish a thousand times more heart-rending than would have been a death cry, and sank senseless upon the floor, the lamp going out in its fall.

Trembling with horror, Arthur felt himself pushed forward by Clinton's strong hand in wild haste to the window. Self-preservation was strong within him, he bolted through, Clinton followed, and they once more stood in the street.

"We'll take care of the bags," whispered Clinton, hurriedly, to Arthur; "you fly up that alley, get you to bed, and take care of yourself, you'll only hinder us if you go along—pull off your boots."

Loaded with their booty, Clinton and Quirk passed away like shadows in the stormy darkness, and bewildered, yet aware of the stern necessity for obeying Clinton's advice, Arthur drew off his boots and darted like light up the alley, noiselessly unlocked the small door, fastened it, and once more breathed in his own room. Quick as thought he rinsed the mud from his boots in some water he knew where to find, turned the India rubber cloak wrong side out and hung it on the peg whence he had taken it, undressed, all in that to him fearful darkness, and once more sought his pillow, without causing a break in the loud snoring of Jeff who still slumbered on his mattress, unconscious of the trouble soon to fall on his devoted head.

Clasping his hands upon his wildly beating heart, Arthur lay still to listen for any sound to indicate that life had returned to Guly, or that Wilkins had awakened. For the first time, he bethought him of his mask, and raising his hand to his face found it had fallen off, probably, he concluded, in his hurried flight through the window.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

"Who hath done this most foul deed?"

It were hard to tell, perhaps, what broke the head clerk's heavy slumber. It may have been Guly's wild cry, when he sank quivering to the floor, which reached his ear, even above the tempest-din. It may have been that instinct, which, sleeping or waking, teaches the heart to miss what it loves, or it may have been the natural effect of the drug, which had spent itself, that aroused him. He opened his eyes, turned heavily, and instantly became aware that the golden head no longer nestled on his bosom.

Alarmed, he sprang to his feet in an instant, wide awake. He reached for the lamp, but found it gone; and, with nothing but a lighted match in his hand, he started out to look for Guly. The match went out before he was half way down to the store, but he went on, groping in the thick darkness, till suddenly his foot struck Guly's body; and with a moan of agony, he stooped and lifted him in his arms, and bore him hastily back to his bed, where he laid him down, in wild suspense, not knowing whether he was alive or dead.

After several minutes he succeeded in finding a store-lamp; but the moment he lighted it the wind gushed through the open pane and blew it out, leaving him again in total darkness.

Cursing the luck, he turned to obtain another match, when another gust of wind rushed in, and swept across his face; and, like a lightning flash, the truth darted through his brain. Taking the lamp to his own room, he lighted it there, and finding, to his joy, that Guly still lived, he immediately applied the restoratives he deemed necessary; and soon saw the chest heave, the eyelids quiver, and the whole form once more wearing the glow and motion of life.

"Oh, Wilkins, such a dreadful dream! Horror! horror!"

"There, Guly, compose yourself. Don't tell me about it till you are better."

Guly obeyed, and lay quite still, trying to recall his wandering senses; and soon the truth rushed back upon his mind, in all its stern reality, and he felt it was no dream.

"Have you been in the store, Wilkins?"

"Only in the dark—to bring you back."

"Things are in wild confusion there. Oh, could I have only wakened you, it might have been different."

"Did you try, then, and fail?"

"Oh, yes; I could not thoroughly waken you, all I could do; you seemed to be in a sort of stupor. But I was certain that I heard a voice, something too human in its sound to be the fury of the storm. It was dark here, and the door was shut."

"The deuce it was! I left the lamp burning, and the door wide open; the wind must have done that work."

"It was as I tell you; and I went out, having lighted the lamp, and saw them in the very act, Wilkins, of finishing their robbery. Had I not been so weak and ill I would have cried aloud to you; but I came upon them so suddenly—so unexpectedly to myself, in the faint light, that I was surprised, for the moment, into silence, and then one turned, and raised his dirk to stab me; but the other, who had on his face a hideous mask, averted the blow."

"And you fainted?"

"I remember no more," said Guly, shuddering, as he rejected the too familiar tones, which, in that dread moment, had fallen on his ear.

"I fear," said Wilkins, kindly, "that this excitement has been too much for you. If you will remain here, and try to get some rest, I will look after the affairs in the store, and will call up Arthur and Jeff to assist me."

At the mention of Arthur's name, Guly looked anxious, but expressed his willingness to accede to this proposition. So, taking the lamp, the head clerk turned his steps toward the gloomy room at the stair-head, first taking a casual view of the confusion manifest in the store.

It was not without some slight suspicions, and many misgivings, that Wilkins went in search of Arthur; but as he pushed open the door, and looked into the room, an expression of immense relief passed over his features, and with a freer step he approached his bedside.

Arthur lay there, apparently in a profound slumber. One arm was thrown listlessly above his head, his dark curls, disheveled and tangled, were stroked back from his brow, and his cheeks, though hotly flushed, looked as if bearing the bright glow of some pleasant dream.

Wilkins laid a hand upon his arm, and awakened him. The young man started up in bed, impatiently asking the cause of his being thus disturbed. Wilkins told him in as few words as possible, and turned to awaken Jeff, while Arthur hastily proceeded to dress himself. To his surprise the head clerk found Jeff already awake, and trembling like an aspen leaf, as he sat up on his mattress, looking in dismay at Wilkins.

"What's the matter with you, Jeff?"

"Debbil, massa! Didn't I har you say de store broke open?"

"You did; and I want you to be up, and stirring quickly."

"Well, if dis doesn't beat de witches! Nuffin dis kin' eber happen afore. All jest 'cause dis nigger lef his post. See'f ole Massa don't say dat."

Wilkins bade him talk less, and dress quick; and in a few minutes the three descended the stairs together.

The fury of the storm was well-nigh spent; and the flashes of lightning, and loud peals of thunder, came at longer intervals. Faint streaks of light in the horizon, also told of scattering clouds, and approaching dawn. Closing the open pane as well as he could, so that he could carry his lamp without danger of its being extinguished, Wilkins, with Jeff and Arthur, proceeded to examine the "amount of damage done."

Suddenly Wilkins paused, and pointing out a number of clearly-defined tracks upon the floor, distinctly marked, in yet moist mud, he bade them be careful in preserving them as they might possibly give some faint clue to the robber, whoever he was. Jeff's quick eye caught at that moment what Wilkins failed to see—he observed that Arthur eagerly inspected the foot-prints, and cast a furtive glance from them to his own feet, as if to note if there were any similitude; and he saw, too, as the youth bent beneath the rays of the lamp, that his black curls, in one or two places, sparkled with heavy rain-drops. Jeff's ready mouth was open to speak; when the thought of Guly flitted, like a restraining angel, before him, and he remained silent; but, with his quick mind, convinced of Arthur's knowledge of the affair.

It was decided, that as soon as it was day, Jeff should be dispatched for Mr. Delancey; and, waiting for the dawn to break, they gathered round Guly's bed, to discuss the events of the night, and propose measures for the future.

When Mr. Delancey arrived he said but little, going about to see what goods had been taken—minutely examining the spot where the apparent entrance had been made, and silently drawing his own conclusions.

When the foot-print upon the floor was pointed out to him, he started, and turned slightly pale; inspecting it at the same time closely. There were marks of other feet, but they were mixed and confused, but this had gone higher in the store than the rest; there were tracks going and returning. The foot was small, elegantly-shaped, and, from appearance, with an instep so high that water might flow freely under without soiling the sole. After examining it for awhile, Mr. Delancey was observed to set his own foot on it, as if to note if there were any similitude. He turned away with a puzzled look, but in a few minutes called Jeff to him.

"How came you away from your post last night, eh?"

Jeff explained.

"Well, how came this handkerchief of yours, and this jack-knife, that I gave you the other day, lying near the broken pane, in the bow-window, this morning, eh! you black rascal? tell me that!"

Jeff trembled in every joint, and caught hold of a chair for support.

"Guy, Massa, dem tings was in my pocket last night, jis 'fore I went to bed; I remember usin' 'em 'fore Mr. Quirk went out; but I'se sure I know nuffin more 'bout 'em."

"Don't you lie to me, sir! If you've had a hand in this business, I'll have your black neck twisted off, I will. Get out of my sight!"

The expression of poor Jeff's face was pitiful to behold. He turned away, with his trembling hands clasped before him, and his great eyes looking upward, as if imploring mercy.

Mr. Delancey then went into Guly's room, and listened to his recital of what had occurred, so far as he knew, during the night.

"And you are sure you have seen this young man, who drew his dirk on you, before?"

"Positive of it, sir. I caught but a glimpse of him last night, but it was sufficient to show me who it was."

"If I send for an officer, you will describe him?"

"To the best of my ability, sir."

"Be up to-day, I s'pose, won't you?" added the merchant, putting his head into the room after he had gone out.

"Shall try to do so, sir."

"Sure you know nothing of that other scamp?"

"As I told you, sir, he was masked closely, and—"

The door closed without giving him time to finish the sentence; a fact, which Guly was not sorry for.

Mr. Delancey ordered the store to be kept closed until things could be put in proper order; gave Wilkins orders to purchase and replace, as far as possible, the stolen goods, then stepped into his carriage, and drove home to breakfast.

The merchant's commands were always promptly obeyed. The officer came to converse with Guly—the broken shutter and window-pane were mended or replaced—new goods wore purchased, and put in place of the old ones, and by afternoon no one would have suspected that a robbery had been committed at No. — Chartres-street.



CHAPTER XXIX.

"It requires swift foot."

Timon of Athens.

"Fly now, for your life fly," whispered Quirk, eagerly, to Clinton, as, rid of Arthur, they pursued their way through the thick darkness and pelting storm. "If the cry of that white-faced stripling has roused Wilkins, we're as good as lost, unless we outstrip him; for I'd about as soon have a dozen blood-hounds at my heels as him."

They sped on in silence—only now and then stopping to change hands with their heavy load—until they once more stood at the door of Clinton's house. Here, placing their booty upon the ground, Clinton lifted up a trap-door, concealed just under the steps leading up to the front entrance. With Quirk's assistance, he placed the bags of goods, one by one, in a sort of cellar, rather large than deep, thus made on account of the thinness of the soil, and closely stoned and cemented, in order to be perfectly dry. Closing the door cautiously, once more, Clinton locked it, placed over it some broken bricks, loose earth, and tufts of grass, so as effectually to conceal it, then crept out, and rubbing the dust from his clothes, prepared to enter. Quirk went in with him, and they seated themselves in the little back-room, which they had left two short hours before.

"A capital haul for one night," said Clinton, triumphantly, flinging off his great-coat, and drawing his chair to the grate, where a cheerful fire was burning, rendered necessary by the dampness.

"It isn't the first thing of the kind you were ever engaged in, Clin?"

"You know better," returned the other, with an easy confidence, but at the same time a grave look crossing his features.

"Believe me, I don't want to pry into private matters, but I couldn't help wondering to-night, as we came along, if this pretty little wife of yours knew the secret of your outgoings and your incomings."

"No, thank Heaven!" replied Clinton, with more earnestness that one would have deemed him capable of. "No, she hasn't a suspicion of such things."

"Glad of it," said Quirk, "she's happier; but I say, old boy, havn't you sometimes regretted the faithfulness to a poor girl which has deprived you of your inheritance, and forced you upon such deeds as to-night for a living?"

"No! My faithfulness to Marion has made a better man of me in some respects than otherwise I ever could have been, though it may have made me worse in others. I have in her a noble and excellent wife, with all the sterling good qualities, which, had I married a fashionable woman, I could never have found. As for my inheritance, I would care little had I but some honest trade by which to live—but that my father thought too plebeian to be introduced in the education of his fashionable son—however, if I can pick his clerk's pocket of a few more bank deposits, with my part of our spoils to-night, I'll do. I'm not always going to be so bad. If my life is spared till this business is settled, I shall spend the rest of my days in Havana. Even with the memory of my crimes in my heart, I believe I can be happy with such a treasure in my bosom as Marion. My father's pride has been my curse—my sins be upon his head."

"And if you're found out in this business, what do you think will be done?"

"Oh, I shall be bought up, without doubt. The old man's spirit could never brook to have it said he had a child in prison committed for burglary."

"Well, 'tis as well to be cautious; for I fear that young Pratt knew you, and he'll tell all he saw, I'll be bound. Reckon though if he knew he had a brother in the scrape he'd be tongue-tied. I have tried to turn suspicion on Jeff, the negro. I picked his pocket of a knife and a handkerchief, and threw them down there somewhere. I 'spose the boss would almost be tempted to string him up if he thought him guilty; however, a nigger more or less is nothing—but when it comes to such valuable members of society as you and I, caution is necessary." Here Quirk laughed coarsely.

"I'll wear whiskers awhile; that'll be disguise enough for me," said Clinton. "All that worries me is Arthur Pratt's proceeding—hope he's been good pluck."

"Never fear him; he's a little too conscientious yet awhile to be much of a b'hoy, but he'd be ashamed to show he couldn't do as well as the best of us. If that nigger didn't wake up when he went in we're safe enough in that quarter."

"Have as little to say to him as possible, to-morrow, and remember to be duly surprised at the news of the burglary."

"Trust me for that; I shall take proper care of our interests, I assure you."

"As for the disposal of the goods, that, I suppose, comes entirely upon my shoulders. I think I will dispose of this lot to Talbot; he is the best paymaster, and the first dark night I will get them away from here. After that, call for your dividends. If you are by any odd chance arrested before that, remember your oath—don't implicate anybody. Honor among thieves, you know."

"Aye, aye," returned Quirk, drinking deeply of some wine which stood upon the table. "You'll live long if you wait for me to hang you. Good night."

"Good night."

They shook hands and parted, and Quirk hurried away to his lodgings, in order to be able to say that he had occupied his own room, etc., etc., in case of trouble. As he strode away, a strange little figure enveloped in a long coat and a tattered old shawl, the better to protect it from the weather, appeared from the shadow of an adjoining building, and swung himself along between his crutches, muttering to himself: "Hih! hih! get the reward for these thieves—watch the papers I will—know all about 'em—get the reward, hih! hih! hih! hih!" and the darkness swallowed him up as it had done him who had gone before.



CHAPTER XXX.

But, Othello, speak— Did you by indirect and forced courses, Subdue and poison this young maid's affection? Or came it by request, and such fair question As soul to soul affordeth!

Shakspeare.

Mr. Delancey sat in his drawing-room conversing with General Delville; whom he was yet allowed to believe he might one day look upon as his son-in-law. The night was dark, and a penetrating, drizzling rain was falling, which rendered the cheerful scene in that vast appartment all the more bright and pleasant.

Suddenly there came a startling ring at the door bell, the sound of which sent the blood in a hot flush to Della's temples, as she sat there quietly between her mother and the General, with her thoughts wandering where they chose, though she seemed to be listening to the conversation.

A servant entered, saying that a gentleman desired to see Mr. Delancey.

"Tell him I am engaged."

"I did so, sir; but he insisted upon seeing you."

"Perhaps some one bringing you news concerning the robbery," suggested Madame D.

"Ah, perhaps so. Show him into the library and tell him I'll be with him in a moment."

Excusing himself to his guest, the merchant sought the library. A tall man, wrapped in a heavy cloak, his hat still on and drawn over his brows, was walking impatiently back and forth across the floor. Mr. Delancey turned his cold eyes upon him earnestly for a moment and withdrew them nervously.

"Mr. Wilkins, I believe?"

"The same, sir."

"And what brings you to my house to-night?"

"That which has never brought me here before, sir, and never will again—business of a strictly private nature."

Mr. Delancey looked somewhat disturbed, but drew a chair beside a large writing-desk, and motioning his visitor to be seated, placed himself in front of him.

"Nothing wrong about the last load of goods? No trouble with the boats, is there, Wilkins?"

"Nothing of the kind, sir; my business, as I told you, is of a strictly private nature."

"Proceed, I am ready to listen."

"And will you, sir, listen to me calmly; and make no sudden outbreaks or disturbance? I hate scenes, even with women, but with men, Heaven defend me!"

"I know of nothing you could say, sir, that would call forth any such ebullitions as you speak of; I am not a man of unnecessary words, as you well know."

"What I have to say can be told in a few words. I would, perhaps, do better to leave it unsaid; but I wish to repair, with what honor I can, a course, which in itself has not, perhaps, been strictly honorable. Do you know, sir, that I love your daughter?"

Mr. Delancey stared at the head clerk for a moment, like a man suddenly struck dumb; then every trace of color vanished from his face.

"My daughter, sir! You surely don't mean Della!"

"Have you, then, another daughter? I mean none other than Miss Della; and I this night come to ask your consent to our union. We have loved long and sincerely, and—"

"How dare you utter such words as these to me? You dare to tell me, that a child of mine has stooped to notice her father's clerk?"

"Aye! not only has one stooped to love a clerk, but has not the other wedded a clerk's daughter? Mr. Delancey, I come to you as man to man; put away the difference of your wealth, and I am as high as yourself; as much a man, as high in station, and more honorable than yourself. Thus I dare to seek your daughter's hand; and crave her father's blessing."

"Have a care, sir, of what you say—more honorable? you dare to tell me that?"

"You know it to be the truth."

The merchant turned slightly pale.

"Mr. Wilkins, you put such a proposition as this you have suggested, merely for—merely to try me; you surely do not, cannot mean it?"

"I mean it all, sir. I am not given to trifling on such matters, and I have come to you like an honest man to ask your child's hand, and gain consent or refusal."

"And Della loves you?"

"If I may believe her words, she does; and I have her sanction to tell this to you."

Mr. Delancey started to his feet.

"And how have you dared, sir, to steal into my child's heart, and rob me of her affections? how have you dared to come like a thief in the night, and steal that heart away? I had never a suspicion of this—never thought of it. Brute that you are, thus to abuse my confidence!"

"Beware of what you say, sir. I have abused no confidence. Had you ever made me a guest at your house, ever treated me as if I had been human, like yourself, this might never have been. At least I would have wooed like an honest man, and your influence with your child might have nipped it in the bud. You must put up with the consequences of your own folly."

"Where have you ever met my daughter?"

"Never in this house, as you well know. Abroad, riding, walking, in spite of duennas and guardians, I have wooed, and won her to myself."

"She must then have deceived you. I am certain she is the betrothed of General Delville, who this moment converses with her in the parlor."

"You, sir, may be the one deceived. Della would not leave you without giving you a knowledge of her love. She bade me come to you, to ask her of you openly, and to tell you all."

"Then, sir, once for all, let me tell you, you talk in vain; never will my pride permit my beautiful child—she whom I have educated and trained to grace the home of the first in our land—to become the humble bride of a hireling clerk. Out upon you, for daring to ask it!"

"And where would be the pride you boast of, should I choose to bruit to the world those tales that I could tell, of long years of practiced deception and guilt on your part—of wealth acquired by fraudulent means—of midnight hours of watchfulness, which have brought you ship-loads of contraband goods—of days and weeks spent in devising means to escape the vigilance of our Government officers, of—"

Wilkins stopped suddenly, for Mr. Delancey fell back in his chair, groaning aloud. The head clerk held a glass of water to his lips, and he slowly recovered, and looked up in his visitor's face with a beseeching glance in his cold gray eyes.

"I am in your power, but spare me! spare me! Have mercy on an old man, who is weak and erring, but whose withered heart clings to his only daughter!"

"You give me your consent?"

"Ask anything but that."

"And you prefer to have your name go forth to the world branded with shame and infamy, rather than give your daughter to an honest man, who will strive to make her a good husband, and whom she already loves?"

Mr. Delancey moaned, and covered his face with his hands.

"Rather would you that men point at you with the finger of scorn—that former friends despise you—that the world look down upon you, and speak your name with scoffing, rather this, than see your child happy with the man of her choice?"

"Yes!" cried the merchant, springing to his feet, "if that man be you, a thousand times, yes! Go; do your worst; cast forth my name like waste-paper on the winds, scourge it, brand, blacken it; do what you will. Though you curse me to the confines of purgatory, my daughter never shall be yours!"

"This is your final decision?"

"My last—leave my house, sir, and never do you dare to darken its doors again."

"You may regret, sir, what you have said to-night," said Wilkins, putting on his hat and cloak.

"I shall always abide by it. Begone, sir! Why do you tarry?"

The folds of the heavy cloak fluttered a moment in the door-way, then passed through it, and disappeared down the long stairs. Through those vast halls, with frowning brow and heavy tread, Bernard Wilkins strode, and the massive door closed after him for the first and last time, and he went forth into the silent streets.



CHAPTER XXXI.

"I do beseech you, send for the lady, And let her speak."

Othello.

"Send the girl, Minny, to me," said Mr. Delancey to Della, as she was about leaving the breakfast-table, to go to her own room, the morning after Wilkins' visit to her father.

Mr. Delancey, as was usual with him, had said not a word with regard to his interview with Wilkins, but he had thought of it deeply, and was now prepared to act.

Della flew to her room.

"Minny, dear Minny, papa wants you. He sent me for you, and I am certain something terrible is about to happen, his eyes look so strangely. I know Bernard must have come last night, as he said he would, and that is what has made papa seem so silent and angry. He wants to ask you about everything. Oh, Minny, tell him what you choose, but don't give up my precious letters—don't!"

Della sank sobbing upon a chair, and Minny, pale as a ghost, glided away, and entered the apartment where Mr. Delancey awaited her.

"So, girl, you have chosen to play the go-between for your mistress and a worthless fellow?"

Minny was silent.

"You who must know all, tell me what you know of this matter."

"Nothing, sir, dishonorable to my master or his daughter."

"No prevarication, minion. Whatever you know of, as having passed between Miss Della, and—and—this man, I wish you to state plainly here."

"I can tell you no more, sir, than you already know."

"By what means has this acquaintanceship been carried on? I know there has been no opportunity for much personal intercourse. Have you letters?"

"If I have, sir, they are the property of my young mistress, and as such, I will deliver them to no one without her consent."

"Fool! do you forget that you are my slave?"

"As such, my first duty is to the mistress you have bade me serve."

"Are the letters in your possession?"

"They are, sir; placed there for safe keeping."

"Bring me them instantly!" said Mr. Delancey, stamping his foot heavily upon the floor.

"No," said the girl, calmly folding her hands on her bosom; "whatever questions my master has to ask, I am ready to answer; but I can do no more."

"What do you mean?" cried the merchant, rising, and laying his hands upon her shoulders. "Go and do my bidding instantly. What did you confess you had them for, if you didn't expect me to get them? Any other of my negroes would have lied."

Minny's face flushed crimson.

"Your other negroes, sir, might act differently, under many circumstances, to what I would do—but," she continued, more calmly, "Miss Della taught me never to tell a falsehood, and these lips have never lied."

The merchant looked keenly at Minny for a moment, then said:—

"Do you know that if you disobey me I will use the lash? You are but a slave, if you have a paler skin. Do you hear? Either tell me where these papers can be found, or bring them to me yourself, or I will lash you till your back runs pools of blood."

"And I will bear it, sir, though you should make it run rivers. My mistress's confidence is more sacred to me than any drop of blood that circles round my heart, and I will shed it all sooner than betray her."

Mr. Delancey paused a moment, with a glance of something like admiration lighting up his cold eyes; perhaps he saw something of his own indomitable spirit in the girl's firm demeanor, and, perhaps, the thought that nature gave her a right to the possession of that spirit never entered his mind. With his anger every moment growing more intense, the merchant again laid his hand upon her arm.

"No more parleying, girl—bring me the letters."

"Never, sir."

"Dare you speak thus to me? I will have them."

"Not while it is in my power to prevent you, sir."

"Fool! Minny, slave, out of my way!"

Minny moved not a muscle.

"Do as I command you, or, by Heaven, I'll make you. Was ever such disobedience shown a master?"

Minny stood firm, but silent, her back against the door. Mr. Delancey laid his hand upon the bell-rope, and pulled it violently.

"Voltaire," said he, to the servant who answered it, "bring me the heavy whip, with the braided lash."

It was not often that Mr. Delancey punished a slave, but when he did he was very severe. In this case, pride, anger, and a feeling something like revenge, for what he deemed Minny's obstinacy, spurred him on. The refusal of the letters had made him determined to possess them, and nothing could now have turned him from his course. Reader, he was a father; and his daughter was his idol!

The servant brought the whip, laid it on the table, glanced pityingly at Minny, and went out with a shudder.

Mr. Delancey seized Minny by the arm, and pushed her on before him, until he reached an upper balcony, near the sleeping apartments of the domestics.

"Now, girl, down with you."

"No, sir; if you lash me, let me stand and bear it like a human being, not like a dog, with my face to the dust."

"Down with you, or I will knock you down! You shall take it, as would any other slave."

Minny threw back her curls, and knelt before her master.

"On your face, girl, down!"

He raised his foot, and pushed her forward on her face. She lay there, with her heavy curls falling round her like a mantle, entirely concealing the tearless, livid face.

Delancey raised his arm, and the heavy lash descended, whirring through the air, telling how fierce the hand that dealt the blow.

The tender flesh could almost be seen to quiver through the thin, light dress; but Minny moved not, uttered no moan, nor raised her head.

"How now, girl, does your spirit hold out? Will you give up the letters?"

"Never!"

Again the lash came down, and this time, across one fair, polished shoulder, gleaming out from among the curls, in her low-necked dress, was marked a braided cut, from which the blood oozed in small round drops, staining also the waist of the dress, where the lash had fallen.

"How now?"

There came no answer: Minny lay still and quiet. Again the enraged master raised the whip, and this time the strokes were a trifle lighter, but more frequent, with no power for questioning.

Della sat in her room waiting for Minny's return. Suddenly a strange sound struck upon her ear. She started, bent forward, and listened eagerly. It came again and again. She sprang to her feet, and darted like lightning down the stairs. She ran hither and thither, scarce knowing whence to trace the sound, when suddenly she met one of the servants.

"Voltaire, in Heaven's name, where are papa and Minny?"

"On the back gallery, Miss," returned the man.

With the speed of thought, Della sped through the long passages, up the stairs, and out upon the balcony. She gained the spot just as the strong arm was upraised to give another blow.

"Papa! papa! for the love of mercy, stop!"

At that sound Minny slightly raised her head, but dropped it again, and the blow came down.

Della sprang wildly forward.

"Papa! papa! what has turned you into such a demon!"

With an almost superhuman strength, she caught the whip, as it was again descending, in her own jeweled and delicate hands, wrested it from her father's grasp, and flung it over the railing into the court below.

Dropping upon her knees, she lifted the quadroon's head upon her lap. The eyes were closed, and the pallid face wore the appearance of death.

Minny had fainted.

Springing to a water-pipe, Della filled a basin, and drawing the girl tenderly upon her breast, rocked her gently, back and forth, as she bathed the blue-veined temples with the cooling fluid.

Still pale with anger, Mr. Delancey stood looking on.

"Poor child, poor Minny!" sobbed Della, as the tears rained down her cheeks; "all this you have suffered for me—poor thing, poor thing!"

Suddenly lifting her eyes, Della confronted her father.

"Not another night!" she exclaimed bitterly, "shall Minny stay beneath your roof. She is your own flesh and blood, papa; you know she is. You might as well have whipped me as to whip her. Oh! papa, that you should use your own child thus!"

Mr. Delancey started forward.

"Who has dared to tell you such a tale as this!—who has presumed to whisper such a falsehood in your ear?"

"It is no falsehood, papa; it is truth, all truth—would it were not! It requires no talking to see it. Has she not your look, your spirit, much of your pride? But none of your cruelty. No, no, poor Minny, you have indeed been a sister to me. Look, papa, at this poor bleeding back, see how this dress is dyed with blood; blood which you cursed her with, blood which you have drawn forth again with the lash! The lash—think of it; and she your own daughter!"

Untouched by his child's words, Delancey turned away, every vein swelling with the wrath which he could not conceal.

"I'll teach you both to carry on your private dealings with dastardly clerks. Back to your room, and leave this heap of bloody flesh and rags for the negroes to care for."

"Shame on you, papa. No! I shall not leave her for a moment. With regard to this poor child, your authority is as naught to me."

"That remains to be seen," returned Mr. Delancey, in his cold, deep tones; and, stepping to the stairhead, he called Voltaire to his presence.

At this moment Minny drew a long, shivering sigh, looked up, and met her mistress's tearful gaze with a smile.

"They are safe, Miss—all safe; he could not get them," she whispered, faintly.

"Hush, Minny, darling. Oh, you have suffered so terribly for my sake! This is dreadful, dreadful!"

"Anything for you, Miss Della, anything."

Della's only answer was a closer pressure of that young form to her heart.

"Now," said Mr. Delancey, approaching them, with Voltaire walking behind them: "now, Minny, up with you, and get yourself out of my sight; and, mark me! you may get your back ready for another scourging unless you give me those papers before to-morrow."

"Papa, you know Minny isn't able to walk. Let Voltaire carry her."

"Well, up with her, then. Take her to some of the negroes' rooms, and let her lie there till she repents of her obstinacy."

"Voltaire," said Della, stepping forward, "take her to my room, and put her upon my bed. Go!"

The negro obeyed, and Mr. Delancey offered no opposition. There was a look in his daughter's eye which he had never seen there before, an imperative manner which enforced command, and he allowed the man to pass him, bearing the bleeding and exhausted Minny in his arms.

"Now, Della," said he, turning to his child, "follow her. Until I can get this vile piece of romance out of your head, you shall remain a prisoner in your own room. Shame on you for your want of pride!"

"Thank Heaven, papa, that I have no more."

They parted—father and daughter there—both turning their heads, as they passed, to look back upon each other; then went from sight, silently and coldly.



CHAPTER XXXII.

"All the world's a stage."

"Oh, Massa Gulian," said Jeff, one day, following Guly, who had entirely recovered from his illness, to his room, "what shall I ever do, Massa Gulian, I'se so berry mis'ble?"

"And what has occurred, my poor fellow, to make you so unhappy?"

"Why, it's 'bout dis robb'ry, young massa. Don' you see dat old Master s'picions me? Tudder day, he said he bleeb'd I know'd suthin' 'bout it, 'cause he found dat knife of mine dar in de winder; and the Lord knows I'se innocent as a lamb, ob eben tinking such a ting."

"Mr. Wilkins, I think, convinced him of your innocence, Jeff. He told him every fact, concerning you, that he could think of, to prove you guiltless."

"Yes, but—but I heerd Master mutter to hisself dat he couldn't clar me in his own mind till somebody else was cotched, and proved guilty; and nobody has been cotched, and I'se berry wretched, 'deed, sah, I is."

Jeff looked all he expressed, and Guly pitied him in his heart.

"Be of good cheer, and trust in God; all will yet be well. It were impossible for any one to think you guilty, Jeff, of this."

"Seems to me dat de Lord has deserted me 'tirely. What makes my heart ache most, is Massa's manner; you see he allus used to be berry kind to me; fact is, he neber whipped me in the world, and he used to trust me with so many of his private affairs, and wus allus so kind of confidential like, long o' me, and sometimes sent me wid money to de bank, and all dat. Don't do it now; scowl on his face de minit he cum near me, and look so like a tunder cloud, I 'spects to be struck wid lightnin' ebery minit. If he'd tie me up, and whip me, and den be hisself agin, I wouldn't care; but de Lord knows I lub my Massa dearly, and can't bar' to hab him turn de cold shoulder to me, and show he hab no more confidence in his nigger, 'tall."

Guly tried to say something encouraging; but, though Jeff listened respectfully, it was very sadly; and several times he wiped the tears from his cheeks, while his young master was speaking.

"Massa Guly," said he, taking a small parcel from his pocket, "here's suthin' I found in de winder, de morning after de robb'ry, when dey was cleaning up. I 'spect it b'longs to de tiefs, but I don't want you to open it till some one's cotched, and then if it finds an owner, well and good; but if it don't, I want you to keep it to 'member me. It's a purty thing, an' it's mine if it don't get an owner, 'cause I found it; and, as I said, I want you to hab it."

"You are not going away, are you, Jeff?"

"Yes, young massa, berry fur."

"Why, how so?" said Guly, in surprise, "I had heard nothing of it."

"Well, please not to say nothin' 'bout it, massa; 'twouldn't do no good, an' I don't want it talked of. Ole Massa's plantation's a good way up de river, an' he sends all his bad niggers dar. Mebbe I won't see you 'gin, Massa Gulian, so good bye."

Gulian gave him his hand, and the negro took it in both of his, and bending over it, burst into a loud fit of weeping.

"Oh, Massa Guly, if I'se ever hurt your feelin', or done anyting berry wrong, I hopes you will forgive me. De Lord bress you, Massa Guly; you'se been de light ob mine eyes, an' de joy ob my soul, eber sin' you fuss cum here. De Lord bress you, foreber an' eber."

With a despairing, broken-hearted gesture, Jeff dropped the hand, and hurried from the room; and, at that moment Wilkins, who still retained his place as head clerk, called Guly a moment to his side.

"Guly," said he, laying his hands upon his shoulders, "do you remember the time you promised me, if ever I needed a friend, you would be that one?"

"Yes, Wilkins; and will fulfill my promise any moment!"

"Will you be at the Old Cathedral, with Blanche, at midnight?"

"Blanche! midnight! the Old Cathedral? I don't understand your meaning."

"I want you to meet me at that hour, with Blanche, at the Cathedral."

"Would she go?"

"Oh, yes; I have it all arranged with her; Old Elise will stay with her grandfather till she returns. You will be there?"

"Since you wish it—yes, without fail. You will explain matters when we meet there?"

"They will explain themselves. Don't forget."

The day wore on, and everything went on in its usual manner, until just before Mr. Delancey's dinner hour, when, to the surprise of all, the loud report of a pistol was heard, coming from the little court, just at the back part of the store. As its echo died away, all those clerks not at the moment engaged, rushed to the long windows, and sprang through into the court, to learn what the matter was. Guly was the first on the spot, and to his horror and amazement, found Jeff lying on the ground, weltering in his blood, but still showing signs of life.

"Jeff!" he exclaimed, bending over him, "what have you done!"

"Oh—Massa—Guly"—gasped the negro, turning his dimming eyes to the boy's face, "you'se come with your blue eyes to light me to Heaven. Couldn't lib longer, and hab de master dat I lubbed tink me a robber. I'se tried allus to be a good nigger, an' hope's I'll go to de good place."

"God grant it."

"Young Massa, is dis death?"

"'Tis coming, Jeff."

"Let me pray; I only knows one prayer, an' it's so short."

"Say it."

"'Now I lay me'—oh, I'se goin' fast, young massa."

"Go on."

"'Down to sleep'—Massa Guly dis long sleep."

Guly took his hand.

"'I pray de Lord my—soul—to keep; an'—should—I die'—Oh, dis is de wrong prayer—Bressed Lord, forgive my sins, and take me to dat Heaven where de white folks go, dat I may see Massa Guly, wid his white wings on. Good-bye, young massa. Last at my side in death, I'll be fust at yours in Heaven."

With a convulsive effort, the dying man turned upon his side, the limbs grew rigid, the death-rattle shook an instant in his throat, and poor Jeff was dead.

Guly left the negro's side, to acquaint Mr. Delancey, who had remained sitting stiffly in his chair, of the facts. The merchant listened unmoved, but ordered the body to be sent to his house, and a longer or better ordered funeral never passed through the streets of New-Orleans, than that which next day bore poor Jeff to his last resting-place. Whether or not that Master felt he had wronged a true and faithful slave, could not be told; but all he could do to show he honored his memory, was done; and as much expense and pomp were displayed in those last rites, as ever were lavished over a white man's bones.[A]

[Footnote A: A fact.]

"Everything ready now, Minny?" said Della, glancing tearfully around her sumptuous apartments.

"Everything is prepared, Miss. Shall we go?"

"Sure you are able to walk to the carriage, Minny?"

"Oh, yes, Miss; certain of it."

Once more Della turned to look upon those objects, which use and long association had endeared to her. There were her books, her birds, her flowers, the bed, where she had dreamed so many happy dreams, and the cushioned chair, where she had so often sat listless and happy. With a sigh, which she could not repress, she waved them a fond adieu, and, taking Minny's arm, crept out upon the balcony, down the stairs, and through the secret garden-door. Here was an outlet Mr. Delancey had never thought of; and while the guard, he had placed at her door, stood vigilant and wakeful, the bird flew through the window.

Once in the street, at night, and in darkness, Della grew timid, and clutched convulsively her attendant's arm; but they went on steadily, until arriving at an adjacent corner, a third person joined them, and helped them into the carriage, which stood waiting near by.

"Oh, Bernard!" cried Della, laying her trembling hand upon his arm, as he sat beside her in the carriage, with Minny, and they were being whirled through the almost deserted streets, "no hand can ever come between us again. I am yours at last."

"Nothing shall ever part us more," returned Bernard, drawing her fondly towards him. "You have given up much for me, but the aim of my life shall be to make you happy."

"I have lost nothing, Bernard, compared to the love I have gained. Only never let that swerve or falter, and I shall be the happiest wife that ever God looked down upon and blessed."

The carriage stopped at the door of the cathedral, and the party entered the church, where a priest was already in waiting. Blanche and Guly made their appearance from a side aisle, and Wilkins introduced them to Della, telling her he had engaged them, as dear friends of his, to officiate in the approaching ceremony. Della expressed her pleasure, and half-crying, half-smiling, kissed Blanche affectionately, telling her she hoped, since she was one of Wilkins' friends, that she would henceforth be a sister to her, and that they would all be very happy. Then Wilkins drew that fluttering hand in his, and led Della to the altar. Guly and Blanche stepped to their places, and the ceremony began.

Leaning against a pillar, a little in the shadow, behind the marriage-group, stood Minny, the quadroon; with face blanched to an almost unearthly pallor, she listened to the vows which fell from Bernard's lips. With chilled heart, again came back the memory of the hour when those same lips, in this very spot, had thus sworn to love and cherish her. But what of this? her heart had been legally broken, and she had no right to complain!

The ceremony ended, Bernard and his bride, and Minny, started for the lake shore, where, though late in the season, they intended to remain awhile, previous to returning to take up their residence again in the city. They set Blanche down at her own door, and Guly, who was waiting for the adieus to be over, stepped forward, and pressing Wilkins' hand, exclaimed:—

"Matters have indeed explained themselves, my friend; I little thought of this. May you be as happy as you deserve to be!"

"Thank you, Guly; I shall, no doubt, be much happier than I deserve to be." Then bending forward, he added, in a lower tone, "If the old gentleman is stormy to-morrow, at the loss of his daughter, remember you know nothing about the affair; you'll lose your place, I'm afraid, if you do."

"You surely don't mean 'tis Mr. Delancey's child?"

"Aye, the same."

"Can it be possible! It will, no doubt, be a bitter blow to him; but I believe you worthy of any man's daughter, Wilkins. God bless you."

Wilkins smiled at Guly's warmth, and, waving his hand, the carriage rolled out of sight; and Della, trustful and happy, laid her head upon the broad breast which had vowed to cherish her, and wept her tears, and smiled her smiles—a bride.

Guly, after seeing Blanche safely to her home, turned away, and hurried to his room, thinking over the strange events of the day, and wondering what the morrow would bring.

In wedding Della, Wilkins had accomplished two things; he gratified the love he really felt for her, and, at the same time, in so terribly wounding Mr. Delancey's pride, he had amply revenged himself for the long years spent in his service in that humility of manner which the merchant ever seemed to exact from his clerks, as though they were but slaves of a whiter hue.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

"Oh! that such a son should stand before a father's face."

Byron.

It was early in the morning, the day after Della's elopement, and Mr. Delancey, who had just risen, was walking back and forth upon the verandah, sipping his cup of strong coffee, nor dreaming of the shadow which had fallen on his hearth-stone. He was interrupted by a servant, who came to inform him that a messenger had just been sent, to say that one of the men, suspected of committing the robbery, had been arrested, and if he chose to see him, his case would come on the first one; and he might go early to the Recorder's Office of the Second Municipality.

Mr. Delancey decided to go; and without waiting for breakfast, which was always served late, he ordered his carriage, and drove directly to the spot.

When he entered the court-room, Guly was just giving in his testimony, and the crowd, that had congregated round, prevented the merchant from catching a glimpse of the prisoner. Guly gave his evidence in a clear, concise manner, recognizing the prisoner as the man he had seen in the store on the night of the burglary.

"I have here," he added, drawing a small parcel from his pocket, "something which was found by my employer's negro, in cleaning up the bow-window, the morning after the theft. He supposed it belonged to the burglars, and gave it me previous to his death, begging me to keep it, unless some one were arrested, whose property it might prove to be. I have not opened it, or looked upon it, and do not know even what it is."

He passed it to the judge, who, untying the paper, drew forth a small box, such as is usually used to contain articles of jewelry. Lifting the lid, he held up to view a superb diamond ring, the curious setting of which Guly recognized at once, as being the same as on a diamond ring, of like appearance, he had seen the prisoner wear. While examining it, some words engraved on the inside, caught the judge's eye, and turning it to the light, he read, in full, clear tones, the name of "Clinton Delancey."

At that moment there was a sudden opening in the crowd, and Mr. Delancey tottered forward, with features ashy pale, and the strong eyes softened almost to tears.

"My son, my son!"

A gleam of triumph shot into Clinton's gaze, as stretching forth his hand, he exclaimed:—

"Aye, father, behold your son! It was not here I thought next to see you when we parted last; but it is one of those retributive meetings, which come sometimes, God-appointed. What you see me, you have made me. By your own false pride I was forced to beg or steal. In taking from you, I felt I took but my just due. This shame be upon your own head!"

A dead silence fell upon all, and a glance of sympathy for Mr. Delancey ran round the court and the crowd of spectators; but, after a strong effort, the merchant drew himself to his full height, and, in a moment, all his coldness and flintiness of manner had returned to him. Turning to the Court, he said, firmly:—

"Let the law pursue its course," and passed from the room, striking his cane heavily down with each step, as Guly had often heard him do before.

The prisoner dropped his eyes, with a look of keen disappointment, and, at this moment, the strange figure of the dwarf forced itself in through the crowd, and, balancing himself on his crutches, stopped full in front of the judge.

"Hih! hih! Monsieur," he panted, turning his one eye up at the grave face of the officer, "I got something to say; please, sir, may I be heard?"

"Testimony with regard to this matter?"

"Yes, Monsieur; I hang round the courts, I find out what this man has done; I understand then something I saw him do. I may tell?"

The Court assented; and he went on to state where he had seen Clinton deposit the goods, on the night of the burglary, adding, that another man was with him, whom he did not know, but whose name the other had mentioned, and he remembered it was Quirk—Charley Quirk, he guessed, because sometimes Mr. Clinton addressed him as Charley, sometimes as Quirk, and he continued: "You go there, Mr. Court, you find ze goods where I tell you; hih! hih! you dig um up, an' give dis poor little wretch someting for his information."

The dwarf was dismissed, but waited to hear the end of the trial; and had the satisfaction of seeing Clinton, against whom the testimony was so strong, sentenced to five years' imprisonment; and the veritable Charley Quirk brought in under arrest, on the strength of his evidence. He then turned to go away, but catching sight of Guly, he advanced toward him, nodding his head, winking his great eye, and chuckling joyfully to himself.

"Hih, Monsieur; not seen you since that day you so sick in bed. Tink of you one great deal—miss you great deal—need your picayune a great deal—love me yet, Monsieur?"

"Yes, Richard," said the boy, kindly, laying his hand on his great ill-shaped head, as they went out together. "Have you suffered for want of my humble charity, in this great city, poor fellow?"

"No, Monsieur; I have lived on the dime the tall man gave me, in your room the other day. Hih, hih! but I've suffered for want of your face, Monsieur. Rare thing for poor Richard to look in any one's face, and remember he has said he loved such a dismal little thing as me; hih! rare thing that, yes."

Guly sighed as he listened to these touching, mournful words, and slipping some money into the dwarf's hand, bade him good-bye, telling him he would see him soon again, and hurried on to the store.

He missed Wilkins' kind face, as he passed his desk, and felt sad, when he remembered he might never see him there any more. Mr. Delancey was not in the store either, and there was evidence of the want of a presiding mind in the appearance of the whole store; clerks talking together in knots, while some of the customers were being neglected; goods still covered with the linen curtains, and counters undusted and unattended.

As Guly took his place, Arthur crossed over, and inquired, in a steady tone, but with an excited manner, how the trial had gone.

Guly informed him, at the same time telling him the fact of Clinton's proving to be Mr. Delancey's son.

Arthur started violently, and turned away to conceal the emotion which he could not repress, as he remembered he had unconsciously assisted a son to rob his own father! The thought brought so much remorse with it, that, seizing his hat, he started away to the nearest saloon, to procure something to drown the unpleasant memory. Guly looked after him with a deep sigh, feeling that what influence he might once have possessed over him, was gone for ever,—wrested from him by the overpowering hands of an honest pride, unjustly dealt with, and the attendant circumstances of evil society.

The memory of the voice, which came from beneath the mask on that fearful night, had never passed from the boy's heart; and though he studiously concealed his fears, he could but tremble at the conviction, that Arthur might, at any moment, share the fate of the unfortunate young man he had just seen convicted.

But, though Quirk and Clinton both were found guilty, they faithfully kept their oath, and threw no suspicion upon Arthur. Poor Jeff, who had felt convinced of his guilt, had allowed his secret to die with him, for Guly's sake; Wilkins had rejected any such idea he may have entertained, the moment he saw Arthur that night in bed, and Guly alone was left to his cruel doubts, with the memory of that familiar voice haunting him, always haunting him.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

"Is there no constancy in earthly things? No happiness in us but what must alter? No life without the heavy load of fortune? What miseries we are, and to ourselves! Even then, when full content sits by us, What daily sores and sorrows!"

Beaumont & Fletcher.

Mr. Delancey hurried from the court-room to his own house. He said nothing about what had occurred, to his wife, but, stern and silent, took his seat in the breakfast-room, waiting for the morning meal to be served.

"Go to Miss Della's room," said he, to a servant, who entered, "and tell her I wish her to fill her place at table this morning."

The servant returned in a moment, telling his master that he had knocked loudly, but received no answer, and he could hear no one stirring in the room.

"And has Ruth been by the door constantly, as I bade her?"

"She has, sir; but says she has heard no sound in the room since the usual hour for retiring last night."

"She can't be asleep at this hour," said Mrs. Delancey, looking up from the morning paper.

A sudden thought seemed to strike the merchant, and starting to his feet, he hurried away to his daughter's apartment; he knocked, but all was still; he tried the door, but it was locked.

"Go," said he, to a servant standing near, "and bring me the brass key lying on my dressing-table; it fits this lock."

The key was brought, and Mr. Delancey entered the room, closing the door behind him. All was silence and loneliness around him. He called his daughter's name, there was no responsive voice; he rushed to her sleeping-apartment, but the luxurious couch, unrumpled and unpressed, told it had known no occupant during the night. The balcony, the garden, belonging to her rooms, all were searched, but in vain; and the agonized father threw himself upon the chair Della had so often occupied, with all the terrible truth rushing across his heart. He buried his pallid face in his hands, and wept; aye, wept hot, burning tears, from those steady eyes that had never wept for another's woe, and rarely for his own. There was no note, no word, or line, left to tell him of her flight, but he knew all without; and bitter, bitter was the crushing weight upon his mighty pride.

He sent word to Mrs. Delancey, that she would breakfast without him; and two hours passed before he again stood in the presence of his anxious wife. None might know what fearful storms, what blighting whirlwinds, what earthquakes of passion, had passed over that strong heart in those two short hours. However fierce had been the struggle, it had been conquered, not by prayer and pleading at that Throne whence all mercy flows, but by the unbending power of that strong, indomitable will.

When he broke the news to Mrs. Delancey, the voice was calm and quiet, and no signs of emotion were visible. But with his wife it was different. She shrieked, and screamed, and tore her hair, and wept with a wild violence; Mr. Delancey looked upon her anguish with those same cold eyes; and when she went off in a fit of violent hysterics, he ordered her attendants to convey her to her own room, and then drove off to the store, as though nothing had happened. But what a hidden fire was scorching up the heart within! Shame and sorrow, remorse and wounded pride, all struggling and battling there, with their volcanic fires striving to burst forth, but smothered and kept down by the strength of the proud heart they lacerated.

Arrived at the store, he seemed to take no notice of Wilkins' absence, but went straight to his own high desk, and sat there with his eyes looking out of the door before him. Those who knew the result of the morning trial pitied him deeply, wondering at the calmness he displayed; but Guly, who knew how much more he had suffered by the flight of his only daughter, and sole remaining child, felt for him a deep and earnest sympathy which he longed to, but dared not, express.

Suddenly the merchant rose in his seat.

"Gulian Pratt, if disengaged I would like to see you here."

Guly bowed and advanced toward him; but it was with a heart bounding forebodingly, for he remembered he had been chiefly instrumental in getting his son convicted, and he fancied that the merchant was about to discharge him. He saw that Mr. Delancey looked ten years older than when he had seen him in the morning, and with a gush of sympathy in his warm heart, he gained the merchant's side and extended his hand.

Mr. Delancey took it, and for the first time pressed it kindly.

"Pardon me, sir, for touching upon a painful subject, but allow me to express the sincere sympathy I feel for you."

The merchant bowed, and for an instant both were silent, Mr. Delancey sitting with his eyes looking down.

"I sent for you," said he at last, speaking very quietly, and in a measured tone, "to ask you if you think yourself capable of filling the—the vacant place yonder?"

"The head clerk's."

"The same."

"I certainly think not, sir," replied Guly, blushing; "even though I were capable—which I think I am not—it might give rise to dissatisfaction among the other clerks."

"As for the dissatisfaction, that is my business. Did you ever study book-keeping?"

"I have, sir."

"Know something about it?"

"Something, sir."

"Then take your place at the desk yonder, and consider the situation and the salary yours."

Guly was utterly astonished. It was something so far from his expectations—a promotion he had only aspired to in the future; and to receive such unexpected good fortune was something for which he felt deeply grateful, and he told the merchant so.

But, as Guly was moving away, a sudden thought crossed his mind, and with a glance of sorrow, not for himself, but for the bereaved father, he said:

"Mr. Delancey, I fear if you knew all you would not feel disposed to do this for me. There are some circumstances I would feel happier to have you know, and then if you still feel thus inclined, I shall take the situation, feeling that I have acted honestly with you."

"Whatever you wish to say, speak; I am ready to listen."

"Last night I was there," said the boy, hesitatingly, scarcely knowing how to tell it; "I saw them married—in the old Cathedral—Mr. Wilkins and—"

"Enough!" said the merchant; starting violently; then with an effort regaining his calmness, "don't speak that name in my presence, ever. How came you, young man, to be present at a ceremony you knew was without my sanction or knowledge, and utterly against my will?"

"I knew nothing of the circumstances, sir, before hand; not even aware I was to witness a marriage ceremony till after I reached the Cathedral. But I like Mr. Wilkins—have been a warm friend of his since I've been here, and when I found he was to be married, I officiated with pleasure."

"Knowing it was my—knowing who the lady was?"

"No, sir, not till afterwards—just as they were about to leave; but when I found out the truth, I did congratulate my friend most heartily, for I deem him worthy of any lady in the land, and rejoiced to see him happy."

"And they seemed happy. Oh, curses on them!"

"Nay, do not curse them. Your daughter's view of happiness was but different from your own, and she has seen fit to follow it out. She shed many tears, no doubt, for her father; but she smiled also many times upon her husband, and I know must have felt much sorrow mingled with her joy. Had she but gone with her father's blessing, how unalloyed would her happiness have been."

"He took her for her fortune; curse him, I say! Not a cent of mine shall he ever touch. When poverty falls upon her head, she'll think of what she's lost by her disobedience."

"A father's curse is a fearful thing," said Guly with a shudder.

Mr. Delancey suddenly drew himself up as if just aware that he had been betrayed into saying a great deal more than he ever intended to, and at the same time cast a look of mute wonder upon Guly, who stood with his eyes fixed upon his face. It was rarely that any one dared to approach the merchant, (at least any of his subordinates,) as, cold and stern, he sat at his high desk during business hours, and none ever thought of differing from his opinions, or advancing any of their own. Guly's courage astonished him.

"Go to your place, young man."

"My old place, I suppose, sir."

"Didn't I tell you to take the head clerk's? what I say I mean. Do your best, and I shall be satisfied. I have no more daughters to lose," he muttered as he looked after Guly's retreating figure, "and nothing to fear."

With a blush, Guly took his place at Wilkins' desk, to the no small surprise of the clerks, but the first moment that the store was clear of customers, Mr. Delancey rose up, and formally stated that henceforth Gulian Pratt would occupy the situation of head clerk, and he hoped that all would look up to and respect him as such, and having delivered this speech in his peculiar formal manner, the merchant left, and drove home to dinner.

Guly's promotion gave general satisfaction, and as he sat there with his young face and golden curls bent over the great books, not an eye sought his, but had a warm glance of congratulation in it, and many pressed forward to express in words their gratification at the new arrangement. Now that Quirk was gone, not one in the establishment but loved and respected Guly; and, though there were many there older, who might perhaps more fitly have filled the important vacancy, all felt that it was held by one whose firm principles and noble heart would prompt him rightly to perform the onerous duties resting upon him. Guly, henceforth, occupied Wilkins' room with Arthur. Mr. Hull took Guly's old place, and a new clerk filled his own, and soon everything was again smoothly jogging on at No. — Chartres Street.



CHAPTER XXXV.

"'Tis but the just reward of merit that I give."

Old Play.

It was New Year's eve, and the brilliantly-lighted shops were thronged with purchasers of the innumerable articles exposed to tempt the purses of those able to buy. Any one who has been in New Orleans during the winter season, knows what a scene the thronged streets present on this night of nights.

Guly stood in the store-door, looking out upon the crowd of passers-by, when suddenly a liveried servant approached him from the mass, looked at him a moment intently, then thrust a small box in his hands, and disappeared. Surprised at the occurrence, Guly turned away, and waiting until the store was clear of customers, opened it. It contained an expensive gold watch, richly wrought and elaborately finished. Puzzled to know what it could mean, Guly was about to restore it to the box, when a small folded paper in the bottom caught his eye. It was directed to himself, and on unfolding it, Guly found but these simple words:

"To him who never sacrifices principle to profit."

Guly immediately remembered that the lady to whom he had pointed out the blemishes in her purchase, and thereby lost a sale, had never been in the store since; but that she remembered the occurrence distinctly and gratefully was evident. The boy had noticed the servant's livery and now recognized it, and hoped that this might afford him some clue to the name of his kind friend.

As soon as the store was closed he put his present in his pocket, and started forth to show it to Blanche. Arthur was so rarely in the store any more at evening, that he could not talk it over with him, and with light steps he hurried to the presence of the pretty brodeuse. She had become the light of the boy's existence, and he could dream of nothing else. He was young to love, but his heart was older than his years, and it gave out its affection with the strength of manhood.

"Oh! grandpapa, if you could only see Guly's gift, his New Year's gift!" said Blanche, enthusiastically, after examining it herself.

The old man smiled, and taking it in his hand, held it for awhile and returned it, saying it was very beautiful.

"And have you no clue to the giver?" said Blanche.

"Only what I told you."

"What did you say was the servant's livery?"

Guly described it.

"I remember a lady," said Blanche, musingly, "whose servants used to wear such livery as that. She was a dear friend of mamma's when we were rich, and they used to be just like sisters. Her name was Belmont—Mrs. Belmont."

"And what became of her?" asked Guly.

"Oh, she went to France just before all our troubles came upon us, and I suppose she is there still. She wrote once or twice to mamma, but she was too ill to answer the letters, and so it all dropped."

Guly put up his watch, and sat conversing with Blanche until the clock struck ten, when he took his leave, telling Blanche, as he pressed her little hand at parting, that it was the most delightful New Year's eve he had ever spent.

Blanche replied that she could say the same, and added that she supposed he knew Della and Bernard had returned.

Guly informed her he did not.

"Oh, yes," she said, "returned yesterday, and have taken a house in Esplanade Street, and are very happy I think. Della visited me, yesterday."

Guly expressed his pleasure at the good news, and left her, and returned home to dream of the mysterious donor of his New Year's gift and Blanche the brodeuse.

The winter glided pleasantly away; summer passed, and winter came again. Fortunately for the brothers, the first summer of their stay in the Pestilential City was free from epidemics of any kind, and they escaped all sickness, with the exception of a slight acclimating fever. All that Guly had to weigh upon his heart was Arthur's dissipation, which gradually grew worse and worse, and he dreaded lest one day he should have the pain of seeing Mr. Delancey discharge him.

Guly had retained the new situation which had been given him, and discharged its duties with honor to himself and to his employer. There was not a clerk in the store but what looked up to him with respect and affection, and since he had become head clerk there had never been a bottle of wine uncorked or a game of cards played under that roof. Mr. Delancey himself, with all his natural coldness and harshness of manner, could not conceal the high esteem in which he held him.

Guly frequently spent his evenings at Wilkins' house, and sometimes Arthur accompanied him; but he could not conceal from himself that those evenings that Arthur went with him were not the pleasantest, there being always a restraint in his presence, which was not felt when he was not there. Wilkins had always rejoiced at Guly's good fortune in obtaining his vacant situation, and loved to sit by him and talk over the past or chat about Blanche and the happy future.

The evening after the brothers had been visiting at Wilkins', Arthur passed his arm through Guly's, and said:

"I have quite lost my heart, Guly, with a pair of the brightest black eyes that ever shone; she's a pretty little witch, but I am afraid some one has stepped in before me, for I can't contrive to make myself agreeable, and every time I call she grows more and more distant. She lives but a little way from here; what say you to making a call with me? perhaps you could assist me immeasurably. What say you, will you go?"

It was not often now that Arthur make a confidant of Guly, and the younger brother was surprised to find him in such a mood to-night. He had, on his part, with a caution he could scarcely define, always studiously concealed from Arthur his visits to Blanche, and had not sought his confidence lest he might see fit to ask for his own in return; and he answered almost coldly:

"No, Arthur, not to-night. It is already late, and I hope you wouldn't think of calling upon any young lady at such an hour as this."

"Well, what can I do to pass the time between this and bed-time?"

"It is bed-time now, Arthur; but I'll tell you what to do. Mr. Hull has gone out to the opera to-night, and if we go back to the store we can be there by ourselves. Let's go and do what we have not done in a long, long time—sit down together like the two brothers we once were, and talk over old scenes, old friends, and old times; will you do so?"

After a moment's hesitation, Arthur signified his consent, and they went into the store together. Guly raked up the dying coals in the stove, threw on some fresh anthracite, and they sat down side by side.

"Oh!" exclaimed Guly, laying his hand upon his brother's, "Arthur doesn't this make your heart bound? There is such a glow of home about it, such an air of other days."

Arthur sighed deeply.

"There is, indeed, Guly; this is a socialness which we have not shared before for months, and never may again."

"Why do you speak so despondingly, Arthur? The brightness or blackness of the future lies with ourselves, I am inclined to think; and since we can be so happy in each others society, why should we do ought to prevent our constantly having this enjoyment?"

"You never will, Guly; it is me, all me—I have gone too far to return. I cannot tear myself away from the bonds which are dragging me down to destruction; evil companions, strong drink, and exciting play. Excitement is now necessary to my existence. I cannot live without it. This is why we have no more of this kind of enjoyment. To-night I relish it because I'm in the humor; but as a general thing it is unbearable—too tame and prosy."

"Oh!" exclaimed Guly, "I have so often felt that the day we left the Hudson home was a fatal one for us. I had rather have staid there and toiled in the most humble manner, than to have ever heard such words as these pass your lips, and in my heart be forced to feel their truth."

"It is useless to repine, Guly. Perhaps 'tis all for the best. Sometimes when I have looked upon your calm and tranquil face, and noted the high principles which have governed your every action, I have felt as if I would give worlds to be possessed of the same; but again I have thought, perhaps you could not have been thus sustained had it not been for my fearful example, such a terrible, terrible lesson in itself of an undisciplined and erring heart."

Guly was silent. If this thought could afford his brother any consolation for the downward course he had been pursuing, it was not in his heart to deprive him of it, however much he might feel the reasoning to be false.

"I can never go back again," continued Arthur, "to what I once was. If this were possible, I might, perhaps, endeavor to reform; but I am so deeply steeped in sin, that its memory will be haunting me always, always; and it is useless for me to strive to do aught but drown life and memory in the same cup."

"Wrong reasoning, my brother, wrong reasoning," said Guly, impressively, laying his hand on Arthur's arm; but he could say no more, his heart was too full; and, lifting his head, he sat looking into the coals, struggling to keep down his rising emotions.

Reaching out his hand, Arthur clasped Guly's in his and held it closely. Thus they sat side by side once again, heart to heart, and hand in hand. The bright fire-glow played and flickered on their thoughtful faces as they called up old memories and thought of old scenes; while the coals faded and died out—fit emblems of the dreams they were dreaming.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

"Oh! how this tyrant doubt torments my breast! My thoughts, like birds, who, frightened from their nest, Around the place where all was hushed before, Flutter, and hardly nestle any more."

Otway.

From this night, Arthur's course was more swiftly downward than ever it had been before. It seemed as if the last redeeming moment of his life was passed, and that some strong arm was hurrying him fiercely forward into the blackened pit of which he had dreamed one night long ago, when slumbering sweetly at his brother's side, his cheek upon his hand!

Every succeeding night plunged him deeper beneath the waves of that sea of dissipation upon which he had thrown himself. Theatres, dissolute balls, the gambling saloon and billiard table, each with their attendant quantity of exciting drinks, were his constant places of resort; and though Guly pleaded, and prayed him to renounce them forever, and come back to his old ways, 'twas in vain.

The Demon of Remorse was gnawing at his heart-strings for the crime he had committed, and pride, that fatal pride, was stinging him into silence and misery, withholding him from confessing, even to his Maker, his sorrow and repentance. He had given his right hand to the Evil One, and his left there was none to take.

Every morning, as Mr. Delancey's keen eyes searched that haggard and bloated face, Guly expected to hear him dismissed; but as yet that trial came not, and Guly felt that it was for his sake the merchant spared his brother, and the kindness sank deep into his young heart, never to be forgotten.

One night after the store was closed, Arthur sauntered up to Guly, and, laying his hand upon his arm, said:

"You remember the little black-eyed Creole I told you of one night some time ago?"

"The one you fancied had got your heart?" said Guly, kindly; "yes, I remember."

"Three nights ago, I proposed to her, offered her heart and hand, and told her, what was truth, that I loved her dearly, and, do you believe, she refused me flatly."

"She proved herself more prudent than you, Arthur. You should have known better than to ask a young girl to be your wife, when you have nothing, and will keep nothing, to support her.

"I'll risk the support," returned Arthur, with a short laugh, "if she had consented we could have managed to live, I fancy; and had we failed, we'd have called on our relations." Here Arthur cast a meaning, but half-mirthful glance at Guly, who, seeing that even then he was half intoxicated, shrunk away, not wishing to prolong the conversation.

"Do you know what I am going to do?" continued Arthur, again looking up.

"Nothing wrong, I hope, Arthur."

"You may think so. Since I can't get her by fair means, I'm bound to get her by foul; that's what I'm going to do."

"For pity's sake, my brother, if the girl is good and innocent do not wrong her; there are enough ready to gratify your idle whims, without robbing the pure and happy of their peace. Where does she live?"

"Perhaps you think I'll tell you that, and have you play the defender? Ah, I've got my senses yet."

"How did you get acquainted, and where?"

"How? By my own natural conversational powers, which called out hers. Where? In the street, in the first place, where I was so fortunate as to meet her just as she had dropped one of a number of parcels of herb medicine she was carrying. I had the pleasure of picking it up for her, and of relieving her of some of her load. Thus I found out where she lived, and then took it upon myself to call again; but she hasn't seemed to like me from the first—hang her pretty eyes; but I'll be revenged for her refusal—see if I'm not."

"Let me beg of you to give up this cruel idea, Arthur. Shame upon you for harboring it for a single moment."

"Pooh!" said Arthur, scoffingly, "it's no use talking, I shall embrace the first opportunity."

Guly turned away heart-sick; he felt it was useless arguing the matter, and knew that had not Arthur been half intoxicated at the time, he would never have given him so much of his confidence; for he rarely now took an opportunity to say anything to him unless it was when extra draughts of wine had taken all restraint from his tongue.

It being the busy season of the year, Guly had of late been so confined to business that it had been impossible for him to slip away and visit Blanche as he had done formerly. Occasionally, he had written her a note and sent it by his friend the dwarf, making such errands the occasion of a round remuneration to the miserable cripple.

He would always hobble his way back after performing the errand, although the walk was long, to say to Guly: "Hih, hih, Monsieur, but she's a beauty, one of her pretty smiles is as good as a picayune to me; bless her heart; I think, Monsieur, she make you very happy one of these days when you both get old enough for the priest to pronounce you man and wife; hih, hih, that I do."

These were honest words; the dwarf meant every syllable of them; and the reward he received in Guly's bright smile, and sometimes an additional bit of silver, had nothing to do with calling them out, however joyfully such tokens were received.

The second evening after Guly's conversation with Arthur, the former stood in the store door waiting anxiously for the customers to leave that he might "close up" and visit Blanche. Arthur had already gone out, and he felt a nervous and anxious dread for which he could not account, and which made him all the more eager to be free. As he stood thus, he felt some one sieze the hand which was hanging at his side, and looking down, beheld Richard the dwarf.

"Hih! hih! Monsieur, very long walk, very much tired. She looks more beautiful than ever to-night, though she sheds very much tears. She say to me to-day, when I went by: 'Come to me to-night, Richard, grandpapa is very ill; I may have a message to send by you.' So to-night I went; I tapped at the door with my longest crutch, she come out, cry very much, and tell me give you this."

Guly took the little note the dwarf handed up to him, and hastened up to the light to read it.

It merely stated that her grandpapa was very, very ill, and begged him to get word to Mr. Wilkins and sister Della, who were her only friends, beside himself, and old Eliza who gave her medicine for her poor sick grandpapa.

After he had read the characteristic and simple little note, Guly slipped a piece of money into Richard's hand, thanking him warmly for the service he had done him, and the little man swung himself away, talking pleasantly to himself as he went.

It was late before it was possible to shut the store, but the moment he could do so, Guly did; and then with a sinking heart took his way to Wilkins' house. Della and Wilkins were sitting by the grate when he entered, while Minny sat on a low stool just in front of her mistress, with one fair round arm thrown caressingly over Della's lap. It seemed too bright a picture to be disturbed, and Guly, who had entered unannounced, stood looking at it a moment before he did so.

The moment he told his errand, Della begged Wilkins to go and do all he could, to take Minny with him, and to give Blanche her dear love, and tell her she would have gone herself had she not felt too much indisposed.

Minny tied on her hat, threw a light shawl about her shoulders, and started away with Wilkins and Guly at a rapid pace. The moon was shining brightly, and as they walked briskly on, their shadows fell long and slender, marching on before them. They had approached within a few blocks of the house, when Guly's attention was attracted by the appearance of some dark object on the opposite side of the way, going slowly along in the shadow of the buildings, and evidently seeking concealment.

With his curiosity awakened, he pointed it out to Wilkins, and bidding Minny seek the shelter of an adjacent doorway, they crossed the narrow street to discover if possible what it was. As they approached, the object moved more quickly, but they soon drew near enough to see it was a female form, borne in the arms of a stout negro, and Arthur. As they passed an opening between two houses, the moonlight streamed down full upon the upturned face of the girl they were carrying, exposing her features clearly to Wilkins and his companion.

"Blanche! my own Blanche!"

Uttering these words, Guly sprang wildly forward. Arthur, finding he could not escape, turned short round and met him face to face.

The brothers grappled; all of Guly's meekness and forbearance was merged in the base insult which had been offered her he loved, and he seemed for the time gifted with almost superhuman strength. The struggle was brief; and Arthur was flung heavily upon the pavement. In an instant Blanche, whom Wilkins had released from the negro's grasp, was weeping on his bosom. With an effort, Arthur managed to pick himself up, and slunk away into the shadows, leaving Blanche with her defenders.

From that night the bonds of sympathy were broken between the brothers; and each trod his chosen path almost unheeded by the other.

"Tell me, Blanche," said Guly, as, rejoining Minny, they proceeded to her grandfather's house, "how this happened. What took you away from the sick-bed to be exposed to the craft of bad men?"

"Oh, I was so anxious and so unhappy," said Blanche, weeping bitterly, "I feared grandpapa would die before any of you came. I left Lilah, the little girl you sent me, Mr. Wilkins, to watch by grandpapa while I ran down the piazza steps to see if you were coming. The moment I reached the last step, that horrid negro threw his arm about me. I struggled and tried to scream, but the other forced a gag in my mouth, and carried me off. I gave myself up to die, but God sent you, dear Guly, to save me, and you, Mr. Wilkins, for the second time. This same bad man has hung about here for a week or more; but I have always tried to elude him, because I believed him wicked, though he pretended to love me and all that."

Guly shuddered as he felt it must have been Blanche of whom Arthur had spoken a few evenings before; but he said nothing, and stood once more in the little room where many times they had been so happy together. The old man's easy chair was empty now, and from an inner room came low faint moans of suffering.

Blanche hurried to the bedside, and stood bending over her grandfather, weeping bitterly. It was evident his hours were numbered, and they all gathered round, silent and tearful, to see the old man die. Blanche stood on one side of the bed, with Minny by her side, and Guly and Wilkins directly opposite. Slowly the breath came through those aged lips, slow and faint. In his effort to get air, the dying man threw out his arms upon the coverlet. His hands met those of Blanche and Guly, as they rested on the bedside. It might have been accident, but the trembling fingers clasped them tightly, and with a last effort folded them together above him. There came a shiver, a faint moan, and the grandsire was dead, with his chilling fingers still folding those two young hands together.

There seemed to be no bounds to Blanche's grief, and it was with the greatest difficulty she could be persuaded to leave for a moment the corpse of her grandfather. When she was at last induced to do so, Wilkins sent for an undertaker and had the body fitly prepared for its last resting-place.

Finding that Blanche would not think of taking a moments rest, or of remaining away from the corpse, Wilkins, and Guly, and Minny remained with her in that lonely and desolate room, where the shadow of death hung so darkly, until the morning sun streamed in through the little windows, robbing the chamber of some of its darkness and gloom.

It was not thought advisable to keep the body long, and the next afternoon the funeral took place. Guly attended it, as did Wilkins' family, and a few of Blanche's Creole neighbors.

When the last sad rites were over, Guly attended Blanche back to her lonely home. Wilkins kindly offered her a home in his house, an offer which Della warmly seconded; but Blanche had sufficient tact to see that Wilkins was poor, and had no little difficulty to support his own family comfortably, and she gratefully declined his invitation, stating there was much that required her attention for the present at home, but that she would soon visit them.

When she returned to the old spot, endeared to her by so many fond associations, her grief again burst forth, and Guly drawing a chair to her side strove to soothe and comfort her.

He could not leave her there without telling how deeply and truly he loved her, how faithfully his love would always endure, and how earnestly he desired that love should be returned.

Placing both her hands in his, Blanche told him in her own frank, innocent way, how dearly she loved him in return, and how fondly she had thought of him since the first day they ever met, and that she would never love any one else, never, never.

"And one of these days when I am a man, and have a nice little home to offer you, you will be my own dear little wife. Blanche, you promise?"

"I promise, Guly, I could never be happy as the dear little wife of any one else, and when you say, 'Blanche, I want you now,' then Blanche is yours."

Guly pressed her to his heart and they plighted troth. This was but boy and girl love, but it was a love which decayed not, neither did it fade, but flourished and grew, even with the hand of sorrow and trial crushing out its young life.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

"Will fortune never come with both hands full, But write her fair words still in fairest letters? She either gives a stomach and no food— Such are the poor in wealth; or else a feast, And takes away the stomach—such are the rich, That have abundance, and enjoy it not."