00 pounds at another. And, without his ships, could not
possibly pay a quarter of the money. If the banks in question were run
upon, and obliged to call in all their resources, his credit must go; and
this, in his precarious position, was ruin.

He had concealed his whole condition from his father, by false
book-keeping. Indeed, he had only two confidants in the world; poor old
Michael Penfold, and Helen Rolleston's portrait; and even to these two he
made half confidences. He dared not tell either of them all he had done,
and all he was going to do.

His redeeming feature was as bright as ever. He still loved Helen
Rolleston with a chaste, constant and ardent affection that did him
honor. He loved money too well. But he loved Helen better. In all his
troubles and worries it was his one consolation to unlock her portrait
and gaze on it, and purify his soul for a few minutes. Sometimes he would
apologize to it for an act of doubtful morality. "How can I risk the loss
of you?" was his favorite excuse. No. He must have credit. He must have
money. She must not suffer by his past imprudences. They must be repaired
at any cost--for her sake.

It was ten o'clock in the morning. Mr. Penfold was sorting the letters
for his employer, when a buxom young woman rushed into the outer office
crying, "Oh, Mr. Penfold!" and sank into a chair breathless.

"Dear heart! what is the matter now?" said the old gentleman.

"I have had a dream, sir. I dreamed I saw Joe Wylie out on the seas, in a
boat; and the wind it was a blowing and the sea a roaring to that degree
as Joe looked at me, and says he, 'Pray for me, Nancy Rouse.' So I says,
'Oh, dear Joe, what is the matter? and what ever is become of the
_Proserpine?'_

"'Gone to Hell!' says he. Which he knows I object to foul language.
'Gone--there--' says he, 'and I am sailing in her wake. Oh, pray for me,
Nancy Rouse!' With that, I tries to pray in my dream, and screams
instead, and wakes myself. Oh, Mr. Penfold, do tell me, have you got any
news of the _Proserpine_ this morning?"

"What is that to you?" inquired Arthur Wardlaw, who had entered just in
time to hear this last query.

"What is it to me!" cried Nancy, firing up; "it is more to me, perhaps,
than it is to you, for that matter."

Penfold explained, timidly, "Sir, Mrs. Rouse is my landlady."

"Which I have never been to church with any man yet of the name of Rouse,
leastways, not in my waking hours," edged in the lady.