(she would under no other circumstance have parted with for uncounted gold,) she in time seduced Mr. Israel Moses to make a small advance.  Duty, stern and demanding, called her to New York.  Forced to reduce her generosity, she, not without a sigh, made up her mind to give only thirty dollars to each of the institutions she had made so many sacrifices to serve.  And thus, with a reduced platform, as our politicians have it, she set about preparing for the grand journey.  Regards the most distinguished were sent to all the first families; the St. Cecilia had notice of her intended absence; no end of tea parties were given in honor of the event.  Apparently happy with herself, with every one but poor Tom, our august lady left in the Steamer one day.  With a little of that vanity the State deals so largely in, Mrs. Swiggs thought every passenger on board wondering and staring at her.

While then she voyages and dreams of the grand reception waiting her in New York,—­of Sister Slocum’s smiles, of the good of the heathen world, and of those nice evening gatherings she will enjoy with the pious, let us, gentle reader, look in at the house of Absalom McArthur.

To-day Tom Swiggs feels himself free, and it is high noon.  Downcast of countenance he wends his way along the fashionable side of King-street.  The young theologian is at his side.  George Mullholland has gone to the house of Madame Flamingo.  He will announce the glad news to Anna.  The old antiquarian dusts his little counter with a stubby broom, places various curiosities in the windows, and about the doors, stands contemplating them with an air of satisfaction, then proceeds to drive a swarm of flies that hover upon the ceiling, into a curiously-arranged trap that he has set.

“What!—­my young friend, Tom Swiggs!” exclaims the old man, toddling toward Tom, and grasping firmly his hand, as he enters the door.  “You are welcome to my little place, which shall be a home.”  Tom hangs down his head, receives the old man’s greeting with shyness.  “Your poor father and me, Tom, used to sit here many a time. (The old man points to an old sofa.) We were friends.  He thought much of me, and I had a high opinion of him; and so we used to sit for hours, and talk over the deeds of the old continentals.  Your mother and him didn’t get along over-well together; she had more dignity than he could well digest:  but that is neither here nor there.”

“I hope, in time,” interrupts Tom, “to repay your kindness.  I am willing to ply myself to work, though it degrades one in the eyes of our society.”

“As to that,” returns the old man, “why, don’t mention it.  Maria, you know, will be a friend to you.  Come away now and see her.”  And taking Tom by the hand, (the theologian has withdrawn,) he becomes enthusiastic, leads him through the dark, narrow passage into the back parlor, where he is met by Maria, and cordially welcomed.  “Why, Tom, what a change has come over you,” she ejaculates,