BRESSANT TAKES A VACATION.

Friday, December 30th, was the day appointed for Abbie's ball, and the
morning of the 28th had already dawned. Bressant stood, with his arms
folded, at the window of his room, watching the downfall of a thickening
snow-storm which had set in the previous midnight. There had evidently
been no delay or intermission in the cold, white, silent business; to
look out-of-doors was enough to make the flesh seem thin upon the bones.

In spite of the snow, however, the little room was feverishly hot, owing
to the gigantic exertions of the small iron cylinder-stove. The round
aperture over the little door was glowing red, like an enraged eye; and
the quivering radiation of the heat from the polished black surface was
plainly perceptible to the sight. The room had lost something of the
neat and fastidious appearance which it had worn a few months before.
The colored drawing of a patent derrick, fastened to the wall by a tack
at each corner of the paper, had broken loose at one end, and was
curling over on itself like a withered leaf. The string by which the
ingenious almanac had been suspended over the mantel-piece was broken,
letting the almanac neatly down into the crevice between the wall and a
couple of fat dictionaries, which lay, one on top of the other, upon the
ledge. It was quite hidden from view, with the exception of one corner,
which was a little tilted upward, showing the hole through which the
faithless string had passed.

The terrestrial and astronomical globes bore the appearance of not
having revolved for a long time. A part of the pictured surface of the
latter had scaled off, disclosing a blank whiteness beneath. Even the
heavens, it seemed, were a sham; nothing more than a varnished painting
upon a plaster-of-Paris foundation. The flower-pots still stood in the
windows, but hot air and an irregular water-supply had made sad inroads
upon the beauty of the plants. The lower leaves were turned brown; some
of them had fallen off, and lay--poor, little unburied corpses--upon the
narrow circle of earth which, having failed to keep life green within
their cells, now denied to them the right of sepulture. A few of the
topmost sprouts still struggled to keep up a parody of verdure, and one
or two faded flowers had not yet forsaken their calices--a silly piece
of devotion on their part! Icy little blasts, squeezing in through the
crevices of the window-sash, whistled about the forlorn stalk