with a noise that made the room echo: but a cannon might have
been fired there, and Jones would not have heard it.

The person however who had thus unceremoniously opened the way to his
entrance, seemed perfectly indifferent whether his proceedings were
agreeable or otherwise. His first movement on entering the room was to
shut the door after him and lock it; his next was to look about it to see
whether it contained any other than the person of Jones. Having satisfied
himself on that score, he walked rapidly up to him and tapped him on the
shoulder.

Jones looked listlessly up at him, and then turning away, dabbled in the
ashes, without uttering a word.

'Hello! Bill Jones,' said the stranger, after waiting a moment or two in
evident surprise, 'what ails you?'

The man made no reply.

'Are you sulky?' demanded the other; 'Well, follow your own humor; but
answer me one question: where's Craig?'

Jones shuddered; and his hand shook violently. Rising up, half tottering,
he turned and stood face to face with his visiter.

'Good day to ye, Mr. Grosket,' said he, with a ghastly smile, and
extending his hand to him. 'Good day to ye. It's a bright day, on the
heels of such a night as the last was.'

'Good God! what ails you, man?' exclaimed Grosket, recoiling before the
wild figure which confronted him; and then taking his hand, he said: 'Your
hand is hot as fire, your eyes blood-shot, and your face covered with
blood. What have you been at? What ails you?'

Jones passed his hand feebly across his forehead, and then replied: 'I'm
sick at heart!'

He turned from Grosket, and again crouched upon the hearth, mumbling over
his last words, 'Sick at heart! sick at heart!'--nor did he appear to
recollect Grosket's question respecting Craig. If he did, he did not
answer it, but with his arms locked over his knees, he rocked to and fro,
like one in great pain.

'Are you ill, man, or are you drunk?' demanded Grosket, pressing heavily
on his shoulder. 'Speak out, I say: what ails you? If you don't find your
tongue, I'll find it for you.'

Jones, thus addressed, made an effort to rally, and partially succeeded;
for after a moment he suddenly rose up erect, and in a clear, bold voice,
replied:

'I'm not drunk, Mr. Grosket, but I _am_ ill; God knows what's the matter
with me. Look at me!' he continued, stepping to where the light was
strongest; 'Look at me well. Wouldn't you think I'd been on my back for
months?'

'You lo