One day, about this period, as Watson was walking with his father-in-law, they both paused to look at a handsome house that was going up in a fashionable part of Walnut street.  By the side of it was a large building lot.

“I have about made up my mind to buy this lot,” remarked Watson.

“You?” Mr. Johnson spoke in a tone of surprise.

“Yes.  The price is ten thousand dollars.  Rather high; but I like the location.”

“What will you do with it?” inquired Mr. Johnson.

“Build upon it.”

“As an investment?”

“No.  I want a dwelling for myself.”

“Indeed!  I was not aware that you had any such intentions.”

“Oh, yes.  I have always intended to build a house so soon as I felt able to do it according to my own fancy.”

Mr. Johnson felt a good deal surprised at this.  No more was said, and the two men walked on.

“How’s this?  For sale!” said Mr. Johnson.  They were opposite the elegant dwelling of Mr. Mortimer, upon which was posted a hand-bill setting forth that the property was for sale.

“So it seems,” was Watson’s quiet answer.

“Why should he sell out?” added Mr. Johnson.  “Perhaps he is going to Europe to make a tour with his family,” he suggested.

“It is more probable,” said Watson, “that he has got to the end of his rope.”

“What do you mean by that remark?”

“Is obliged to sell in order to save himself.”

“Oh, no!  Mortimer is rich.”

“So it is said.  But I never call a man rich whose paper is floating about by thousands on the street seeking purchasers at two per cent. a month.”

Just then the carriage of Mortimer drove up to his door, and Mrs. Mortimer descended to the pavement and passed into the house.  Her face was pale, and had a look of deep distress.  It was several years since Mr. Johnson remembered to have seen her, and he was almost startled at the painful change which had taken place.

A little while afterwards he looked upon the cheerful, smiling face of his daughter Flora, and there arose in his heart, almost involuntarily, an emotion of thankfulness that she was not the wife of Mortimer.  Could he have seen what passed a few hours afterwards, in the dwelling of the latter, he would have been more thankful than ever.

It was after eleven o’clock when Mortimer returned home that night.  He had been away since morning.  It was rarely that he dined with his family, but usually came home early in the evening.  Since seven o’clock, the tea-table had been standing in the floor, awaiting his return.  At eight o’clock, as he was still absent, supper was served to the children, who, soon after, retired for the night.  It was after eleven o’clock as we have said, before Mortimer returned.  His face was pale and haggard.  He entered quietly, by means of his night-key, and went noiselessly up to his chamber.  He found his