holding his hand, and viewing him with the solicitude of a sister, who hastens to embrace a brother returned after a long absence.  Letting fall his begrimed hand, she draws up the old-fashioned rocking chair, and bids him be seated.  He shakes his head moodily, says he is not so bad as he seems, and hopes yet to make himself worthy of her kindness.  He has been the associate of criminals; he has suffered punishment; he feels himself loathed by society; he cannot divest himself of the odium clinging to his garments.  Fain would he go to some distant clime, and there seek a refuge from the odium of felons.

“Let no such thoughts enter your mind, Tom,” says the affectionate girl; “divest yourself at once of feelings that can only do you injury.  You have engaged my thoughts during your troubles.  Twice I begged your mother to honor me with an interview.  We were humble people; she condescended at last.  But she turned a deaf ear to me when I appealed to her for your release, merely inquiring if-like that other jade-I had become enamored of—­” Maria pauses, blushing.

“I would like to see my mother,” interposes Tom.

“Had I belonged to our grand society, the case had been different,” resumes Maria.

“Truly, Maria,” stammers Tom, “had I supposed there was one in the world who cared for me, I had been a better man.”

“As to that, why we were brought up together, Tom.  We knew each other as children, and what else but respect could I have for you?  One never knows how much others think of them, for the—­” Maria blushes, checks herself, and watches the changes playing over Tom’s countenance.  She was about to say the tongue of love was too often silent.

It must be acknowledged that Maria had, for years, cherished a passion for Tom.  He, however, like many others of his class, was too stupid to discover it.  The girl, too, had been overawed by the dignity of his mother.  Thus, with feelings of pain did she watch the downward course of one in whose welfare she took a deep interest.

“Very often those for whom we cherish the fondest affections, are coldest in their demeanor towards us,” pursues Maria.

“Can she have thought of me so much as to love me?” Tom questions within himself; and Maria put an end to the conversation by ringing the bell, commanding the old servant to hasten dinner.  A plate must be placed at the table for Tom.

The antiquarian, having, as he says, left the young people to themselves, stands at his counter furbishing up sundry old engravings, horse-pistols, pieces of coat-of-mail, and two large scimitars, all of which he has piled together in a heap, and beside which lay several chapeaus said to have belonged to distinguished Britishers.  Mr. Soloman suddenly makes his appearance in the little shop, much to Mr. McArthur’s surprise.  “Say-old man! centurion!” he exclaims, in a maudlin laugh, “Keepum’s in the straps-is, I do declare; Gadsden and he bought a lot of niggers-a monster drove of ’em, on shares.  He wants that trifle of borrowed money-must have it.  Can have it back in a few days.”