ight, a nice little supper
awaited me in the kitchen. These repasts she would sometimes share with
me, for, like a sensible woman, she was fond of all the good things of
this life, including good eating and drinking. Anderson would join us
occasionally, and a snug, cosy little party we made. Mrs. Raymond, the
pretty widow, was not backward in testifying to me how grateful she was
for my silence with reference to her frailty. She made me frequent
presents of money, and gave me an elegant and valuable ring, which I
wore until the "intervention of unfortunate circumstance" compelled me
to consign it to the custody of "my uncle"--not my beloved relative of
Thomas street, (peace to his memory, for he has gone the way of all
pork,)--but that accommodating uncle of mine and everybody else, Mr.
Simpson, who dwelleth in the _Rue de Chatham_, and whose mansion is
decorated with three gilded balls. Kind, convenient Uncle Simpson!

Ah! those were my halcyon days, when not a single care cast its shadow
o'er my soul. As I think of that season of unalloyed happiness, I
involuntarily exclaim, in the words of a fine popular song--

"I would I were a boy again!"

Three years passed away, unmarked by the occurrence of any event of
sufficient importance to merit a place in this narrative. When I reached
my fifteenth year, the fashionable boarding-house of Mrs. Romaine became
the scene of a tragedy so bloody, so awful and so appalling, that even
now, while I think and write about it, my blood runs cold in my veins.
That terrible affair can no more be obliterated from my memory than can
the sun be effaced from the arch of heaven; and to my dying day, its
recollection will continue to haunt me like a hideous spectre.

But I must devote a separate chapter to the details of that sanguinary
event. I would gladly escape from the task of describing it; but, of
course, were I to omit it, this narrative would be incomplete. Therefore
the unwelcome duty must be performed.

CHAPTER III

_In which is enacted a bloody tragedy._

I began to observe with considerable uneasiness, that Mr. Romaine
stealthily regarded his wife with looks of intense hatred and malignant
ferocity; then he would transfer his gaze from her to Mr. Anderson, who
was altogether unconscious of the scrutiny. My employer was usually a
very quiet man, but I knew that his passions were very violent, and
that, when once thoroughly aroused, he was capable of perpetrating
a