n every limb. The conversation was not carried on in
whispers; in fact, Marcia heard every word.

"Sorry to disturb you, Ma'am, especially as Mr. Sandford isn't at home;
but duty is duty, and must be 'tended to. My orders is, to 'tach the
furnitur', and stay till I git a receipter."

Mrs. Sandford's reply was inaudible. The voice proceeded:--

"Can't help it, Ma'am. Won't be back to-night, won't he? Bad, cert'in.
But duty is duty, as I said afore. I'll bunk here on the sofy, an'
to-morror we'll see what's to be done."

Another pause.

"Oh, you won't run off 'ith anythin'? I s'pose not. But duty is duty,
as I said afore, and I must mind orders. 'Stick by till you git a
receipter,' sez he. 'I will,' sez I,--an' I must.--Never mind about
bedclose. I c'n sleep jest ez I be. You jest go up-stairs. I'll make
myself 't home."

Glad to be out of the society of the officer, Mrs. Sandford started to
go upstairs, but was recalled by the voice.

"I say, Ma'am! A long night afore a chap, all by himself."

Mrs. Sandford trembled with mingled terror and rage.

"No 'bjection to light the gaas, I 'spose, so's't a feller can read a
paper? Thought o' that, and brought the 'York Herald' and 'Clipper.' If
you don't like tobarker, you c'n shet your doors and the smell won't git
in."

"Do what you like. I can't prevent you."

"Oh, well, no 'fence, I hope? Good-night, Ma'am."

Mrs. Sandford found Marcia walking about the room in great excitement.

"The odious wretch!" exclaimed Marcia. "If Henry were only here, or even
Charles, he should be horsewhipped, pitched out of the house. To sleep
with his dirty clothes on my sofa! I'm glad it's to be sold. I never
could touch the filthy thing again. Then his pipe! Good heavens, what is
to be done? The abominable wretch! I smell the tobacco now, worse than
an Irishman's. The smoke will be all through the house. Faugh! it
suffocates, nauseates me!"

"Be calm, Marcia. We will go to the upper chambers, shut the doors, and
open the windows for fresh air. It's only for one night. We can't go
away, you know; and we can't get the fellow away, of course."

"I wish I had died when I was sick. This disgrace, this infamy, this
shocking barbarity, is worse than death. What are we to do? and where
are we to go? Ruin is a light thing to talk about, I have read of ruin
in the papers, until it has become a matter of course;--I begin to know
what it means."

It was a changeful, terrible beauty that