As Fanny sank back into her chair, pale and appalled, May took her hand and began to talk with her in a low, murmuring tone.  The others fell into a fragmentary conversation, constantly recurring with their eyes to Mr. Newt.  The talk went on in broken whispers, and it was quite late in the evening when a stumbling step advanced to the door, which was burst open, and there stood Abel Newt, with his hat crushed, his clothes soiled, his jaw hanging, and his eyes lifted in a drunken leer.

“How do?” he said, leaning against the door-frame and nodding his head.

His mother, who had never before seen him in such a condition, glanced at him, and uttered a frightened cry.  Lawrence Newt and Gabriel rose, and, going toward him, took his arms and tried to lead him out.  Abel had no kindly feeling for either of them.  His brow lowered, and the sullen blackness shot into his eyes.

“Hands off!” he cried, in a threatening tone.

They still urged him out of the room.

“Hands off!” he said again, looking at Lawrence Newt, and then in a sneering tone: 

“Oh! the Reverend Gabriel Bennet!  Come, I licked you like—­like—­like hell once, and I’ll—­I’ll—­I’ll—­do it again.  Stand back!” he shouted, with drunken energy, and struggling to free his arms.

But Gabriel and Lawrence Newt held fast.  The others rose and stood looking on, Mrs. Newt hysterically weeping, and May pale with terror.  Alfred Dinks laughed, foolishly, and gazed about for sympathy.  Gerald Bennet drew his wife’s arm within his own.

The old man sat quietly, only turning his head toward the noise, and looking at the struggle without appearing to see it.

Finding himself mastered, Abel swore and struggled with drunken frenzy.  After a little while he was entirely exhausted, and sank upon the floor.  Lawrence Newt and Gabriel stood panting over him; the rest crowded into the hall.  Abel looked about stupidly, then crawled toward the staircase, laid his head upon the lower step, and almost immediately fell into a deep, drunken slumber.

“Come, come,” whispered Gerald Bennet to his wife.

They took Mrs. Newt’s hand and said Good-by.

“Oh, dear me! isn’t it dreadful?” she sobbed.  “Please don’t, say any thing about it.  Good-night.”

They shook her hand, but as they opened the door into the still moonlight midnight they heard the clear, hard voice in the parlor, and in their minds they saw the beating of the bony fingers.

“Riches have wings!  Riches have wings!”

CHAPTER LXXII.

GOOD-BY.