I looked up, and saw at a short distance from the house, and approaching, a young lady, in whose sweet, modest face, I at once recognized Flora Slade, Five years had developed her into a beautiful woman.  In her alone, of all that appertained to Simon Slade, there was no deterioration.  Her eyes were as mild and pure as when first I met her at gentle sixteen, and her father said “My daughter,” with such a mingling of pride and affection in his tone.  She passed near where I was sitting, and entered the house.  A closer view showed me some marks of thought and suffering; but they only heightened the attraction of her face.  I failed not to observe the air of respect with which all returned her slight nod and smile of recognition.

“She’s a nice girl, and no mistake—­the flower of this flock,” was said, as soon as she passed into the house.

“Too good for Willy Hammond, in my opinion,” said Matthew.  “Clever and generous as people call him.”

“Just my opinion,” was responded.  “She’s as pure and good, almost, as an angel; and he?—­I can tell you what—­he’s not the clean thing.  He knows a little too much of the world—­on its bad side, I mean.”

The appearance of Slade put an end to this conversation.  A second observation of his person and countenance did not remove the first unfavorable impression.  His face had grown decidedly bad in expression, as well as gross and sensual.  The odor of his breath, as he took a chair close to where I was sitting, was that of one who drank habitually and freely; and the red, swimming eyes evidenced, too surely, a rapid progress toward the sad condition of a confirmed inebriate.  There was, too, a certain thickness of speech, that gave another corroborating sign of evil progress.

“Have you seen anything of Frank this afternoon?” he inquired of Matthew, after we had passed a few words.

“Nothing,” was the bar-keeper’s answer.

“I saw him with Tom Wilkins as I came over,” said one of the men who was sitting in the porch.

“What was he doing with Tom Wilkins?” said Slade, in a fretted tone of voice.  “He doesn’t seem very choice in his company.”

“They were gunning.”

“Gunning!”

“Yes.  They both had fowling-pieces.  I wasn’t near enough to ask where they were going.”

This information disturbed Slade a good deal.  After muttering to himself a little while, he started up and went into the house.

“And I could have told him a little more, had I been so inclined,” said the individual who mentioned the fact that Frank was with Tom Wilkins.

“What more?” inquired Matthew.

“There was a buggy in the case; and a champagne basket.  What the latter contained you can easily guess.”

“Whose buggy?”

“I don’t know anything about the buggy; but if ‘Lightfoot’ doesn’t sink in value a hundred dollars or so before sundown, call me a false prophet.”