“Why, Kitty, what is it?” he asked, as he stopped.

There was no answer.  Alarmed for a moment, he leaped up the stairs.  She stood waiting for him at the door of the room.

“Well!” exclaimed he, hastily.

“You forgot to kiss me, Abel,” she said.

He took her by the shoulders, and looked at her before him.  In her eyes there were pity, and gentleness, and love.

“Fool!” he said, half-pleased, half-vexed—­kissed her, and rushed out into the street.

CHAPTER LXXXVII.

A LONG JOURNEY.

Abel Newt ran to the ferry and crossed.  Then he gained Broadway, and sauntered into one of the hells in Park Row.  It was bright and full, and he saw many an old friend.  They nodded to him, and said, “Ah! back again!” and he smiled, and said a man must not be too virtuous all at once.

So he ventured a little, and won; ventured a little more, and lost.  Ventured a little more, and won again; and lost again.

Then came supper, and wine flowed freely.  Old friends must pledge in bumpers.

To work again, and the bells striking midnight.  Win, lose; lose, win; win, win, lose, lose, lose, lose, lose, lose.

Abel Newt smiled:  his face was red, his eyes glaring.

“I’ve played enough,” he said; “the luck’s against me!”

He passed his hands rapidly through his hair.

“Cash I can not pay,” he said; “but here is my I O U, and a check of my Uncle Lawrence’s in the morning; for I have no account, you know.”

His voice was rough.  It was two o’clock in the morning; and the lonely woman he had left sat waiting and wondering:  stealing to the front door and straining her eyes into the night:  stealing softly back again to press her forehead against the window:  and the quiet hopelessness of her face began to be pricked with terror.

“Good-night, gentlemen,” said Abel, huskily and savagely.

There was a laugh around the table at which he had been playing.

“Takes it hardly, now that he’s got money,” said one of his old cronies.  “He’s made up with Uncle Lawrence, I hear.  Hope he’ll come often, hey?” he said to the bank.

The bank smiled vaguely, but did not reply.

It was after two, and Abel burst into the street.  He had been drinking brandy, and the fires were lighted within him.  Pulling his hat heavily upon his head, he moved unsteadily along the street toward the ferry.  The night was starry and still.  There were few passers in the street; and no light but that which shone at some of the corners,-the bad, red eye that lures to death.  The night air struck cool upon his face and into his lungs.  His head was light.—­He reeled.

“Mus ha’ some drink,” he said, thickly.

He stumbled, and staggered into the nearest shop.  There was a counter, with large yellow barrels behind it; and a high blind, behind which two or three rough-looking men were drinking.  In the window there was a sign, “Liquors, pure as imported.”