“In the dumps?  I declare, Monroe, I shouldn’t have thought it of you.”

“I am really ill, my friend.”

“Pooh!  Don’t let your troubles make you believe that.  Cheer up.  You’ll find employment presently, and you’ll be surprised to find how well you are.”

“I hope I shall be able to make the experiment.”

“Well, suppose you walk out with me.  There is a tailor I want you to see.”

“A tailor?  I can’t sew or use shears, either.”

“No,—­nor sit cross-legged; I know that.  But this tailor is no common Snip.  He is a man of ideas and character.  He has something to propose to you.”

“Indeed!  I am much obliged to you.  To-morrow I will go with you; but, really, I feel too feeble to-day,” said Monroe, languidly.

“Well, as you please; to-morrow it shall be.  How is your mother?”

“Quite well, I thank you.”

“And the pretty cousin, likewise, I hope?”

“She was quite well this morning.”

“Isn’t she at home?”

“No,—­she has gone out.”

“Confound you, Monroe! you have never let me have a glimpse of her.  Now I am not a dangerous person; quite harmless, in fact; received trustfully by matrons with grown-up daughters.  You needn’t hide her.”

“I don’t know.  Some young ladies are quite apt to be fascinated by elderly gentlemen who know the world and still take an interest in society.”

“Yes,—­a filial sort of interest, a grand-daughterly reverence and respect.  The sight of gray hair is a wonderful antidote to any tenderer feeling.”

“I am very sorry not to oblige you; but the truth is, that Cousin Alice, hearing of my losses, has left the house abruptly, to earn her own living, and we do not know where she has gone.”

“The independent little minx!  Now I rather like that.  There’s the proper spirit.  She’ll take good care of herself; I haven’t a doubt.”

“But it is a most mortifying step to us.  It is a reflection upon our hospitality.  I would have worked my fingers off for her.”

“No doubt.  But she will merely turn hers into nutmeg-graters, by pricking them with her needle, and save you from making stumps of your own.  Oh, never fear,—­we shall find her presently.  I’ll make a description of her, and leave it with all the slop-shop fellows.  ’Strayed or stolen:  A young lady answering to the name of Alice; five feet and no inches; dressed in black; pale, blue-eyed, smiles when properly spoken to; of no use to any person but the owner.  One thousand dollars reward, and no questions asked.’  Isn’t that it?  It won’t be necessary to add, that the disconsolate advertiser is breaking his heart on account of her absence.”

“My dear Easelmann, I know your kindly heart; but I cannot be rallied out of this depression.  I have only the interest of a cousin, a friend, a protector, in the girl; but her going away, after my other misfortunes, has plunged me into an abyss.  I can’t be cheerful.”