w but ceaseless, and the hours are days to the unemployed
mind. We hum a tune and whistle to hurry time, but the indicating
fingers of the tediously ticking clock seems stationary, and time waits
for fair weather. The ladies love their chambers, and sleeping away the
laggard hours, do not feel the oppression of a slow, continuous, lazy
rain.

The morning has well-nigh passed, and the drawing-room is still
untenanted. The judge was busy in his office, looking over papers and
accounts, seemingly unconscious of the murky day; perhaps he had
purposely left this work for such a day--wise judge--a solitary man,
unloving, and unloved; hospitable by freaks, sordid by habit, and mean
by nature. Yet he was wise in his way; devoid of sentiment or sympathy
as a grind-stone, his wit was as sharp as his heart was cold. Absorbed
in himself, the outside world was nothing to him. He had work, gainful
work for all weathers, and therefore no feeling for those who suffered
from the weather or the world, if it cost him nothing in pence. He was
the guardian of his baby sister; but all of her he had in his heart was
a care that she should not marry, before he was ready to settle her
estate. The interest he felt in her, was his commissions for
administering her property with a legitimate gain earned in the use of
her money.

The guest of this strange man was restless, he knew not why; there were
books in abundance, and their authors' names were read over and over
again as he rummaged the book-cases he knew not for what. First one and
then another was pulled out from its companions, the title-page read
and replaced again, only to take another. Idly he was turning the pages
of one, when a voice surprised him and sweetly inquired at his elbow if
he found amusement or edification in his employment. "I must apologize
for my rudely leaving you last night. I hope I am incapable of deceit
or unnecessary concealments. I was hurt and angry, and I went away in a
passion. Yours is a gentle nature, you do not suffer your feelings to
torture and master you. I should not, but I am incapable of the effort
necessary to their control. It is best with me that they burn out, but
their very ashes lie heavily upon my heart. Our clime is a furnace, and
her children are flame, at least, strange sir, some of them are a
self-consuming flame. I feel that is my nature. Is not this an honest
confession? I could explain further in extenuation of my strange
nature. It was