“And what is the latest morceau?” inquired Mr Aylett, indulgently, when Mabel had gone.

He was standing by his wife’s chair, and she leaned her head against him, her bright eyes uplifted to his, her hair falling in a long, burnished fringe over his arm—­a fond, sparkling siren, whom no man, with living blood in his veins, could help stooping to kiss before her lips had shaped a reply.

“You wouldn’t think it an appetizing morsel!  But I listened with interest to our unsophisticated Mabel’s account of her Quixotic expedition to what will, I foresee, be the haunted chamber of Ridgeley in the next generation.  Her penchant for adventure has, I suspect, embellished her portrait of the hapless house-breaker.”

“A common-looking tramp!” returned Winston, disdainfully.  “As villanous a dog in physiognomy and dress as I ever saw!  Such an one as generally draws his last breath where he drew the first—­in a ditch or jail; and too seldom, for the peace and safety of society, finds his noblest earthly elevation upon a gallows.  It is a nuisance, though, having him pay this trifling debt of Nature—­nobody but Nature would trust him—­in my house.  There must be an inquest and a commotion.  The whole thing is an insufferable bore.  Ritchie has given him up, and gone to bed, leaving old Phillis on the watch, with unlimited rations of whiskey, and a pile of fire-wood higher than herself.  But I did not mean that you should hear anything about this dirty business.  It is not fit for my darling’s ears.  Mabel showed even less than her usual discretion in detailing the incidents of her adventure to you.”

Flattery of his sister had never been a failing with him, but, since his marriage, the occasions were manifold in which her inferiority to his wife was so glaring as to elicit a verbal expression of disapproval.  It was remarkable that Clara’s advocacy of Mabel’s cause, at these times, so frequently failed to alter his purpose of censure or to mitigate it, since, in all other respects, her influence over him was more firmly established each day and hour.

Old Phillis, Mabel’s nurse and the doctress of the plantation—­albeit a less zealous devotee than her master had intimated of the potent beverages left within her reach, ostensibly for the use of her patient should he revive sufficiently to swallow a few drops—­was yet too drowsy from the fatigues of the day, sundry cups of Christmas egg-nogg, and the obesity of age, to maintain alert vigil over one she, in common with her fellow-servitors, scorned as an aggravated specimen of the always and ever-to-be despicable genus, “poor white folks.”  There was next to nothing for her to do when the fire had been replenished, the bottles of hot water renewed at the feet and heart, and fresh mustard draughts wound about the almost pulseless limbs of the dying stranger.  She did contrive to keep Somnus at arm’s length for a while longer, by a minute examination of his upper clothing, which, by Dr. Ritchie’s