the vice
close around his larynx. Week by week, at the high religious festivals,
I could see his face was blacker and blacker. At length the hated tyrant
died. The leeches called it apoplexy. I did not undeceive them. His
guards sacked the palace. I bagged the diamonds, fled with them to
Trebizond, and sailed thence in a caique to South Boston. No more! such
memories oppress me.

Her voice was hushed. I told my tale in turn.

THE CONDUCTOR'S STORY.

I was poor. Let this be my excuse, or rather my apology. I entered a
Third Avenue car at Thirty-sixth Street, and saw the conductor
sleeping. Satan tempted me, and I took from him his badge, 213. I see
the hated figures now. When he woke, he knew not he had lost it. The car
started, and he walked to the rear. With the badge on my coat, I
collected eight fares within, stepped forward, and sprang into the
street. Poverty is my only apology for the crime. I concealed myself in
a cellar where men were playing with props. Fear is my only excuse. Lest
they should suspect me, I joined their game, and my forty cents were
soon three dollars and seventy. With these ill-gotten gains, I visited
the gold exchange, then open evenings. My superior intelligence enabled
me to place well my modest means, and at midnight I had a competence.
Let me be a warning to all young men. Since that night, I have never
gambled more.

I threw the hated badge into the river. I bought a palace on Murray
Hill, and led an upright and honorable life. But since that night of
terror the sound of the horse-cars oppresses me. Always since, to go up
town or down, I order my own coupe, with George to drive me; and never
have I entered the cleanly, sweet, and airy carriage provided for the
public. I cannot; conscience is too much for me. You see in me a
monument of crime.

I said no more. A moment's pause, a few natural tears, and a single sigh
hushed the assembly; then Bertha, with her siren voice, told--

THE WIFE OF BIDDEFORD'S STORY.

At the time you speak of, I was the private governess of two lovely
boys, Julius and Pompey,--Pompey the senior of the two. The black-eyed
darling! I see him now. I also see, hanging to his neck, his blue-eyed
brother, who had given Pompey his black eye the day before. Pompey was
generous to a fault; Julius, parsimonious beyond virtue. I therefore
instructed them in two different rooms. To Pompey, I read the story of
"Waste not, want not." To Julius, on the other hand,