w his wife's arm within his own.

The old man sat quietly, only turning his head toward the noise, and
looking at the struggle without appearing to see it.

Finding himself mastered, Abel swore and struggled with drunken frenzy.
After a little while he was entirely exhausted, and sank upon the floor.
Lawrence Newt and Gabriel stood panting over him; the rest crowded into
the hall. Abel looked about stupidly, then crawled toward the staircase,
laid his head upon the lower step, and almost immediately fell into
a deep, drunken slumber.

"Come, come," whispered Gerald Bennet to his wife.

They took Mrs. Newt's hand and said Good-by.

"Oh, dear me! isn't it dreadful?" she sobbed. "Please don't, say any
thing about it. Good-night."

They shook her hand, but as they opened the door into the still moonlight
midnight they heard the clear, hard voice in the parlor, and in their
minds they saw the beating of the bony fingers.

"Riches have wings! Riches have wings!"

CHAPTER LXXII.

GOOD-BY.

The happy hours of Hope Wayne's life were the visits of Lawrence Newt.
The sound of his voice in the hall, of his step on the stair, gave her a
sense of profound peace. Often, as she sat at table with Mrs. Simcoe, in
her light morning-dress, and with the dew of sleep yet fresh upon her
cheeks, she heard the sound, and her heart seemed to stop and listen.
Often, as time wore on, and the interviews were longer and more delayed,
she was conscious that the gaze of her old friend became curiously fixed
upon her whenever Lawrence Newt came. Often, in the tranquil evenings,
when they sat together in the pleasant room, Hope Wayne cheerfully
chatting, or sewing, or reading aloud, Mrs. Simcoe looked at her so
wistfully--so as if upon the point of telling some strange story--that
Hope could not help saying, brightly, "Out with it, aunty!" But as the
younger woman spoke, the resolution glimmered away in the eyes of her
companion, and was succeeded by a yearning, tender pity.

Still Lawrence Newt came to the house, to consult, to inspect, to bring
bills that he had paid, to hear of a new utensil for the kitchen, to see
about coal, about wood, about iron, to look at a dipper, at a faucet--he
knew every thing in the house by heart, and yet he did not know how or
why. He wanted to come--he thought he came too often. What could he do?

Hope sang as she sat in her chamber, as she read in the parlor, as she
went about the house, doing her