man deserve who leaves his wife with a child of a week
old, to run after a swindler in foreign parts--eh, puss?' said he aloud,
viciously tweaking the old cat's whiskers; then, as she shook her ears
and drew back, too dignified to be offended, 'Ay, ay, while wheat and
tares grow together, the innocent must suffer for the guilty. The better
for both. One is refined, the other softened. I am the innocent sufferer
now,' added he; 'condole with me, pussy! That essay would have been
worth eighty pounds if it was worth a sixpence; and there's a loss for a
striving young man! I cannot go on to Worthbourne without recovering it;
and who knows how Jane will interpret my delay? While I live I'll never
carry another manuscript anywhere but in my pocket, and then we should
all go to the bottom together, according to poor Arthur's friendly wish.
Ha! that's not it sticking out of my great-coat pocket? No such good
luck-only those absurd papers of poor Arthur's. I remember I loaded my
coat on him when we were going to land. What a business it is! Let us
overhaul them a bit.'

He became absorbed in the contemplation, only now and then giving vent
to some vituperative epithet, till he suddenly dashed his hand on the
table with a force that startled the cat from her doze.

'Never mind, puss; you know of old

'I care for nobody, and nobody cares for me.'

So now, good night, and there's an end of the matter.'

The first thing he did, next morning, was to walk to Cadogan-place, to
return the papers. He had long to wait before the door was opened;
and when James at length came, it was almost crying that he said that
Colonel Martindale was very ill; he had ruptured a blood-vessel that
morning, and was in the most imminent danger.

Mr. Fotheringham could see no one--could not be of any service.
He walked across the street, looked up at the windows, mused, then
exclaimed, 'That being the case, I had better go at once to Folkestone,
and rescue my bag from the jaws of the Custom-house.'

CHAPTER 9

She left the gleam-lit fire-place,
She came to the bedside,
Her look was like a sad embrace,
The gaze of one who can divine
A grief, and sympathize.
Sweet flower, thy children's eyes
Are not more innocent than thine.

--M. ARNOLD--Tristram and Yseulte.

At last there was a respite. The choking, stifling flow of blood, that,
with brief intervals, had for the last two hours thr