Franconia has not forgotten that M’Carstrow is her husband; she has not forgotten that she owes him a wife’s debt of kindness.  She descends the stairs gently, leans over his besotted body, smooths his feverish brow with her hand, and orders the servant to bring a soft cushion; which done, she raises his head and places it beneath-so gently, so carefully.  Her loving heart seems swelling with grief, as compassionately she gazes upon him; then, drawing a cambric handkerchief from her bosom, spreads it so kindly over his face.  Woman! there is worth in that last little act.  She leaves him to enjoy his follies, but regrets their existence.  Retiring to the drawing-room, agitated and sleepless, she reclines on a lounge to await the light of morning.  Again the faithful servant, endeavouring to appease her mistress’s agitation, crouches upon the carpet, resting her head on the ottoman at Franconia’s feet.

The morning dawns bright and sunny:  Franconia has not slept.  She has passed the hours in watchfulness; has watched the negro sleeping, while her thoughts were rivetted to the scene in the hall.  She gets up, paces the room from the couch to the window, and sits down again undecided, unresolved.  Taking Diana-such is the servant’s name-by the hand, she wakes her, and sends her into the hall to ascertain the condition of the sleepers.  The metamorphosed group, poisoning the air with their reeking breath, are still enjoying the morbid fruits of their bacchanalianism.  Quietly, coolly, and promiscuously, they lay as lovingly as fellows of the animal world could desire.

The servant returns, shaking her head.  “Missus, da’h lays yander, so in all fixins dat no tellin’ which most done gone.  Mas’r seems done gone, sartin!” says the servant, her face glowing with apprehension.

The significant phrase alarms Franconia.  She repairs to the hall, and commences restoring the sleepers to consciousness.  The gentlemen are doggedly obstinate; they refuse to be disturbed.  She recognises the face of one whose business it is to reduce men to the last stage of poverty.  Her sensitive nature shudders at the sight, as she views him with a curl of contempt on her lip.  “Oh, M’Carstrow,—­M’Carstrow!” she whispers, and taking him by the hand, shakes it violently.  M’Carstrow, with countenance ghastly and inflamed, begins to raise his sluggish head.  He sees Franconia pensively gazing in his face; and yet he enquires who it is that disturbs the progress of his comforts.  “Only me!” says the good woman, soliciting him to leave his companions and accompany her.

Oh, you, is it?” he replies, grumblingly, rising on his right elbow, and rubbing his eyes with his left hand.  Wildly and vacantly he stares round the hall, as if aroused from a trance, and made sensible of his condition.

“Yes, me-simply me, who, lost to your affections, is made most unhappy-” Franconia would proceed, but is interrupted by her muddling swain.