house the demands upon the property of Margaret were made without apology or explanation.  He asked, and he obtained.  The refusal of aid, on the part of the London house, terrified him when it came, and caused him to rush, with a natural instinct, to the quarter whence he had no fear of denial and complaint.  He drew largely from her resources.  The money was sucked into the whirlpool; there was a speedy cry for more; and more was got and sacrificed.  It would have been a miracle had Allcraft, in the midst of his crushing cares, retained his early vigour of mind and body, and passed through ten years of such an existence without suffering the penalties usually inflicted upon the man prodigal of the blessings and good gifts of Providence.  In his appearance, and in his temperament, he had undergone a woful change.  His hair—­all that remained of it, for the greater part had fallen away—­was grey; and, thin, weak, and straggling, dropped upon his wrinkled forehead—­wrinkled with a frown that had taken root there.  His face was sickly, and never free from the traces of acute anxiety that was eating at his heart.  His body was emaciated, and, at times, his hand shook like a drunkard’s.  It was even worse with the spiritual man.  He had become irritable, peevish, and ill-natured; he had lost, by degrees, every generous sentiment.  As a young man he had been remarkable for his liberality in pecuniary matters.  He had been wont to part freely with his money.  Inconsistent as it may seem, notwithstanding his heavy losses through his partners, and his fearful expenditure, he was as greedy of gain as though he were stinting himself of every farthing, and secretly hoarding up his chests of gold.  He would haggle in a bargain for a shilling, and economize in things beneath a wise man’s notice or consideration.  For a few years, as it has been seen, Allcraft had denied himself the customary recreations of a man of business, and had devoted himself entirely to his occupation.  It was by no means a favourable indication of his state of mind, that he derived no satisfaction at the grand mansion, either alone or in the mere society of his wife.  He quitted the bank daily at a late hour, and reached his home just in time for dinner.  That over, he could not sit or rest—­he must be moving.  He could not live in quiet.  “Quietness”—­it was his own expression—­“stunned him.”  He rushed to the theatre, to balls, concerts, wherever there was noise, talk, excitement, crowds of people; wherever there was release from his own pricking conscience and miserable thoughts.  And then to parties; of course there was no lack of them, for their society was in great request, and every one was eager for an invitation in return to Eden—­such being the strange misnomer of their magnificent prison-house.  And, oh, rare entertainments were they which the suffering pair provided for the cold-hearted crew that flocked to partake of their substance!  How the poor creature smiled upon her guests as they arrived, whilst her