ity, such a trustful, happy
look of hopefulness, that he could not restrain the cheering smile of
encouragement, which came up to his lips in answer.

A great change had taken place in Arthur's face--or rather in its
expression. There was no longer the glance of proud defiance in the
eye--the flash of wounded pride upon the cheek, or curl of scorn upon
the lip. All was subdued and quiet, and seemed to whisper of a peaceful,
contrite heart. Still he studiously avoided the eye of Charley Quirk,
and also seemed to wish to appear oblivious of the presence of the
flint-eyed being sitting stiffly at the high desk.

He could not trust himself to meet the gaze of either, lest the storm of
pride and revenge, so lately banished from his breast, should return
again in full force,--sweeping away, with its ocean strength, all the
great resolves of future good, which he had piled up as a barrier
against the door of evil in his heart.

Though his sleep in a degree refreshed him, his head still ached; and
throughout his whole frame he experienced that feverish debility and
painful soreness ever attendant upon a night of dissipation and
exposure.

With a firm heart Arthur filled his place, and performed his duties
unshrinkingly, cheered and encouraged by the beaming face of his
brother, which ever and anon was turned toward him, with such a look of
happy confidence and love, that it could not fail to carry inspiration
with it.

Then night came; and after the goods, which during the day had been
pulled down, were properly replaced, Guly took his brother's arm, and
started out for a walk.

They strolled slowly along toward the Place D'Arms, which then possessed
all that natural beauty, in the shape of its green lawns and ancient
sycamores, which fashion has since seen fit to regard as an eyesore, and
to remove for ever thence.

They were silent; for the mind of each was busily occupied with its own
reflections; reflections good and effective in themselves, yet to which
neither wished at that moment to give utterance, and no allusion,
however distant, was made to the events of the previous day.

Suddenly, a trembling hand was laid on Guly's arm, and a supplicating
voice murmured humbly: "Un picayune, Monsieur; in pity, Monsieur, one
picayune to buy me bread."

By the light of a street lamp, Guly saw a pale and wrinkled face, in
which deep lines of grief or misfortune were deeply traced, raised
pleadingly toward him. The face wa