and checked the tide of affection.  “Before all the servants—­so inconsiderate—­it was quite insulting!” With a heavy heart, Mrs Sullivan lighted the chamber candle, and went upstairs to bed.  Once she turned down the stairs two or three steps, intending to go to the counting-house door; but her pride restrained her, and she reascended.  In an hour Mrs Sullivan was in bed, expecting her husband every minute, listening at the slightest sound for his footsteps; but two o’clock came, and he was still away.  She could bear up against her suspense and agitation no longer; she rose, threw on her robe de nuit, and descended the stairs.  All the family had long retired, and everything was still:  her light foot made no noise as she tripped along.  As she neared the door she perceived the light gleaming through the key-hole.  Whether to peep or to speak first—­he might be fast asleep.  Curiosity prevailed—­she looked through the key-hole, and perceived her husband very busy writing.  After he had finished his letter he threw down the pen, pressed his forehead with both hands, and groaned deeply.  Mrs Sullivan could refrain no longer.  “William!  William!” cried she, in a soft, imploring voice:  but she was not answered.  Again and again did she repeat his name, until an answer, evidently wrung from him by impatience, was returned—­“It is too late now.”

“Too late, dear William!  Yes, it is very late—­it’s almost three o’clock.  Let me in, William—­pray do!”

“Leave me alone:  it’s the last favour I shall probably ever request of you.”

“The last favour!  Oh, William! you frighten me so:—­dear William—­do—­do let me in.  I’m so cold—­I shall die:—­only for one moment, and I’ll bless you.  Pray do, William!”

It was not until after repeated and repeated entreaties of this kind that Mr Sullivan, worn out by importunity, at last opened the door.

“Mary, I am very busy; I have opened the door to tell you so, and to request that you will not interrupt me.  Now oblige me by going to bed.”

But getting in was everything; and a young and pretty wife, in dishabille and in tears, imploring, entreating, conjuring, promising, coaxing, and fondling, is not quite so easy to be detached when once she has gained access.  In less than half an hour Mr Sullivan was obliged to confess that her conduct had been the occasion of a meeting being agreed upon for that morning, and that he was arranging his affairs in case of a melancholy termination.

“You now, Mary, must see the consequences of your conduct.  By your imprudence, your husband’s life is risked, probably sacrificed; but this is no time to be at variance.  I forgive you, Mary—­from my soul I do, as I hope for pardon myself.”

Mrs Sullivan burst into a paroxysm of tears; and it was some time before she could answer.  “William,” cried she, energetically, “as you well say, this is no time to be at variance, neither is it a time for falsehood.  What I stated to you this morning was true;—­if not, may I never hope for pardon! and may heaven never be opened to me!  You have been deceived—­grossly deceived; for what purpose, I know not:  but so it is.  Do not, therefore, be rash.  Send for all who were present, and examine them; and if I have told you a falsehood, put me away from you, to the shame and seclusion I shall so well deserve.”