“But doctor, he didn’t know, the child had fever when he went out, but neither of us thought much of it till I was awakened by his strange and unnatural breathing.  I sent for you as soon as I could rouse the servants.”  “Well rouse them again, and tell them to go down to Anderson’s and tell your husband that his child is dying.”

“Oh! no not dying doctor, you surely don’t mean it.”  “Yes Jeanette,” said the old family doctor, tenderly and sadly, “I can do nothing for him, let me take him in my arms and rest you.  Dear little darling, he will be saved from the evils to come.”

Just as his life was trembling on its frailest chords, and its delicate machinery almost wound up, Charles Romaine returned, sober enough to take in the situation.  He strode up to the dying child, took the clammy hands in his, and said in a tone of bitter anguish, “Charlie, don’t you know papa?  Wouldn’t you speak one little word to papa?” But it was too late, the shadows that never deceive flitted over the pale beauty of the marble brow, the waxen lid closed over the once bright and laughing eye, and the cold grave for its rest had won the child.

Chapter XIX

[Text missing.]

Chapter XX

If riches could bring happiness, John Anderson should be a happy man; and yet he is far from being happy.  He has succeeded in making money, but failed in every thing else.  But let us enter his home.  As you open the parlor door your feet sink in the rich and beautiful carpet.  Exquisite statuary, and superbly framed pictures greet your eye and you are ready to exclaim, “Oh! how lovely.”  Here are the beautiful conceptions of painters’ art and sculptors’ skill.  It is a home of wealth, luxury and display, but not of love, refinement and culture.  Years since, before John Anderson came to live in the city of A.P. he had formed an attachment for an excellent young lady who taught school in his native village, and they were engaged to be married; but after coming to the city and forming new associations, visions of wealth dazzled his brain, and unsettled his mind, till the idea of love in a cottage grew distasteful to him.  He had seen men with no more ability than himself who had come to the city almost pennyless, and who had grown rich in a few years, and he made up his mind that if possible he would do two things, acquire wealth and live an easy life, and he thought the easiest way to accomplish both ends was to open up a gorgeous palace of sin and entice into his meshes the unwary, the inexperienced, and the misguided slaves of appetite.  For awhile after he left his native village, he wrote almost constantly to his betrothed; but as new objects and interests engaged his attention, his letters became colder and less frequent, until they finally ceased and the engagement was broken.  At first the blow fell heavily upon the heart of his affianced, but