ied with her pleasing duties as hostess,
and flushed with drinking crusty old Port and "Lafitte 1844," did not
hear. Some sudden impulse or vague prescience moved Marcia to open the
door herself. It was Greenleaf. Notwithstanding the untoward state of
affairs, she could not deny herself the pleasure of meeting him, and
ushered him into the parlor, then fortunately vacant.

A cooler observer would have noticed something peculiar in his carriage
as he crossed the hall,--an unnatural pallor, a sharpness in the angles
of his mouth, a quicker respiration, and a look of mingled firmness and
sorrow in his eyes. A stranger might have thought him in a state of
chronic nervous irritability or mild insanity. And truly, a sensitive
man, perplexed between conflicting duties, spurred by conscience, yet
wanting in courage to do its bidding, presents a pitiable spectacle; it
is a position of sharp suspense which no mind can hold long;--relief
must come, in heartbreak or darkness, if in no other way.

When Greenleaf parted from Marcia, the morning before, he intended to
wait a week at least before telling her of his changed feelings. He did
not know what a burden he had undertaken to carry; he staggered under
it, like the pilgrim in Bunyan's immortal story. Besides, after he had
once come to a determination, he was impatient to see Alice and implore
her forgiveness. Minutes were days while he waited. To pass a week in
this way was not to be thought of, unless by means of ether or mesmerism
he could fly from himself and find peace in oblivion.

"My dear George," Marcia began, "it is so kind of you to come with your
sympathy! We are dreadfully cast down. What is to be done I don't know."

"You surprise me! What has happened? I have scarcely been out of my
studio since I last saw you."

"But it's in all the papers!"

"I haven't seen a paper."

"What I told you yesterday has come to pass. Henry has failed; so
has the Vortex,--and Mr. Fayerweather, the President,--and Mr.
Stearine,--and everybody else, I believe. We shall probably leave the
house and take lodgings."

Every word was a pang to Greenleaf. Again his heart, full of sympathy
for the woman's distress, whispered, "Wait! don't wound the stricken
deer!" But he hugged his resolve and steeled himself against pity.

"I am truly sorry to hear of your brother's misfortunes. But with his
talents and reputation, and with his troops of friends in business
circles as well as in the v