“You have not heard?”

“I have heard nothing.”

“Pity my foolishness.  But my brother is in difficulty; he may fail; perhaps has failed even now.  Pray, don’t chide me for my fears.  All the world goes with the rich and the prosperous.”

“The world has very little company just now, then,” said Greenleaf, with a grim smile.  “But assure yourself,” he continued; “the dowry of my wife is a matter I have never considered. With the woman I love,” said he, with deep emphasis, “honest poverty is what I do not dread.”

Interpreting this fervent declaration in the natural way, Marcia reached forth her arms with sudden fervor, drew him nearer, and covered his forehead, lips, and cheeks with kisses.  Every kiss fell like a spot of mildew on his flesh; her caresses filled him with shame.  Could he undeceive her?  In her feeble condition, the excitement into which she had been thrown by her brother’s danger was all she could bear.  False as his position was, heartless and empty as his soothing words and caresses were, he must continue to wear the mask, and show himself as he was at some time when she had no other trouble to weigh her down.  Still she chid his gloomy reserve, his absent air, and mechanical movements.  Was he weak, if under such influences his fixed resolves bent?—­if his nerves felt the old thrill?—­if his voice took a softer tone?—­and if he parted from her with something of his former tenderness?  He tried to excuse himself to his conscience by the plea, that the deception once begun must be kept up until it could be ended with safety.  For he saw that her heart was really bound up in him.  She no longer kept up the brilliant fence of repartee; she had abandoned all coquettish arts, and, for once at least, was sincerely, fondly, even foolishly, in love.  Home he went, sadder than before, his conscience yet more aroused, and his resolutions farther than ever from accomplishment.

Poor little Alice!

CHAPTER XIV.

EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF.

Mr. Sandford walked towards his office, that fine autumn morning, in no amiable mood.  Nature seemed to protest against his angry violence; the very stones of the pavement seemed to say,—­“He need not thump us in that way; we can’t pay his notes.”  The trees along Mount Vernon Street rustled their leaves with a shudder, as he passed under them; they dropped no benison upon a face which even the golden morning could not lighten.  “Let him stride on!” said they; “we shall be more cheerful in company with the maids washing the sidewalks or taking out the children (blessed darlings!) for an airing.”  Canaries ceased their songs in the windows; urchins stopped their hoops and stood on the curbstones, eyeing the gloomy man askance.  When he passed the Granary Burying-Ground, he saw a squirrel dart down a tree, and scamper over the old graves in search of some one of his many stores;