“But why not to-day?” inquired one of the trustees.  “We are anxious to get through with this unpleasant business.”

“I said to-morrow,” Mr. Morton replied, while a red spot burned upon his cheek.

The trustees looked at each other, and hesitated.

“Surely,” said the debtor, “you cannot hesitate to let me have a single day in which to prepare my family for so painful a duty as that which is required of me.”

“We should suppose,” remarked one of the trustees, in reply, “that your family were already prepared for that.”

The debtor looked the last speaker searchingly in the face for some moments, and then said, as if satisfied with the examination—­

“Then you are afraid that I will make way, in the mean time, with some of my plate!”

“I did not say so, Mr. Morton.  But, you know we are under oath to protect the interest of the creditors.”

An indignant reply trembled on the lips of Morton, but he curbed his feelings with a strong effort.

“I am ready now,” he said, after a few moments of hurried self-communion.  “The sooner it is over the better.”

Half an hour after he entered his house with the trustees, and sworn appraiser.  He left them in the parlour below, while he held a brief but painful interview with his family.

“Do not distress yourself, dear father!” Constance said, laying her hand upon his shoulder.  We expected this, and have fully nerved ourselves for the trial.”

“May he who watches over, and regards us all, bless you, my children!” the father said with emotion, and hurriedly left them.

A careful inventory of the costly furniture that adorned the parlours was first taken.  The plate was then displayed, rich and beautiful, and valued; and then the trustees lifted their eyes to the wall—­they were connoisseurs in the fine arts; at least one of them was, but a taste for the arts had, in his case, failed to soften his feelings.  He looked at a picture much as a dealer in precious stones looks at a diamond, to determine its money-value.

“That is from Guido,” he said, looking admiringly at a sweet picture, which had always been a favourite of Mr. Morton’s, “and it is worth a hundred dollars.”

“Shall I put it down at that?” asked the appraiser, who had little experience in valuing pictures.

“Yes; put it down at one hundred.  It will bring that under the hammer, any day,” replied the connoisseur.  “Ah, what have we here?  A copy from Murillo’s ‘Good Shepherd.’  Isn’t that a lovely picture?  Worth a hundred and fifty, every cent.  And here is ‘Our Saviour,’ from Da Vinci’s celebrated picture of the Last Supper; and a ‘Magdalen’ from Correggio.  You are a judge of pictures, I see, Mr. Morton!  But what is this?” he said, eyeing closely a large engraving, richly framed.

“A proof, as I live! from the only plate worth looking at of Raphael’s Madonna of St. Sixtus.  I’ll give fifty dollars for that, myself.”