“Tut, tut—­no more of that!” said he, impatiently; “I cannot do it without betraying myself.  If I gave it back to them, what would become of you and George, and how am I to stop the clamours of that cormorant?  No, no! it is useless to talk of it—­I cannot do it!”

“There would be still enough left for George, after restoring them their own, and you might give this man my share of what is left.  I would rather work day and night,” said she, determinedly, “than ever touch a penny of the money thus accumulated.”

“I’ve thought all that over, long ago, but I dare not do it—­it might cause inquiries to be made that might result to my disadvantage.  No, I cannot do that; sit down, and let us be quiet now.”

Mr. Stevens lay back upon his pillow, and for a moment seemed to doze; then starting up again suddenly, he asked, “Have you told George about it?  Have you ever confided anything to him?”

“No, papa,” answered she soothingly, “not a breath; I’ve been secret as the grave.”

“That’s right!” rejoined he—­“that is right!  I love George, but not as I do you.  He only comes to me when he wants money.  He is not like you, darling—­you take care of and nurse your poor old father.  Has he come in yet?”

“Not yet; he never gets home until almost morning, and is then often fearfully intoxicated.”

The old man shook his head, and muttered, “The sins of the fathers shall—­what is that?  Did you hear that noise?—­hush!”

Lizzie stood quietly by him for a short while, and then walked on tiptoe to the door—­“It is George,” said she, after peering into the gloom of their entry; “he has admitted him self with his night-key.”

The shuffling sound of footsteps was now quite audible upon the stairway, and soon the bloated face of Mr. Stevens’s hopeful son was seen at the chamber door.  In society and places where this young gentleman desired to maintain a respectable character he could be as well behaved, as choice in his language, and as courteous as anybody; but at home, where he was well known, and where he did not care to place himself under any restraint, he was a very different individual.

“Let me in, Liz,” said he, in a thick voice; “I want the old man to fork over some money—­I’m cleaned out.”

“No, no—­go to bed, George,” she answered, coaxingly, “and talk to him about it in the morning.”

“I’m coming in now,” said he, determinedly; “and besides, I want to tell you something about that nigger Garie.”

“Tell us in the morning,” persisted Lizzy.

“No—­I’m going to tell you now,” rejoined he, forcing his way into the room—­“it’s too good to keep till morning.  Pick up that wick, let a fellow see if you are all alive!”

Lizzie raised the wick of the lamp in accordance with his desire, and then sat down with an expression of annoyance and vexation on her countenance.