he brought out an old, dilapidated bank-book, and
throwing it open on the counter, asked me, with an indifferent manner,
to write down my name.

"I'll take a pen, if you please."

"Oh, yes!" And he hunted about again in the desk, from which, after a
while, he brought forth the blackened stump of a quill, and pushed it
toward me across the counter.

"Ink," said I--fixing my eyes upon him with a look of displeasure.

"I don't believe there is any," he muttered. "Frank," and he called the
landlord's son, going to the door behind the bar as he did so.

"What d'ye want?" a rough, ill-natured voice answered.

"Where's the ink?"

"Don't know anything about it."

"You had it last. What did you do with it?"

"Nothing!" was growled back.

"Well, I wish you'd find it."

"Find it yourself, and--" I cannot repeat the profane language he used.

"Never mind," said I. "A pencil will do just as well." And I drew one
from my pocket. The attempt to write with this, on the begrimed and
greasy page of the register, was only partially successful. It would
have puzzled almost any one to make out the name. From the date of the
last entry, it appeared that mine was the first arrival, for over a
week, of any person desiring a room.

As I finished writing my name, Frank came stalking in, with a cigar in
his mouth, and a cloud of smoke around his head. He had grown into a
stout man--though his face presented little that was manly, in the true
sense of the word. He was disgustingly sensual. On seeing me, a slight
flush tinged his cheeks.

"How do you do?" he said, offering me his hand. "Peter,"--he turned to
the lazy-looking bar-keeper--"tell Jane to have No. 11 put in order for
a gentleman immediately, and tell her to be sure and change the bed
linen."

"Things look rather dull here," I remarked, as the bar-keeper went out
to do as he had been directed.

"Rather; it's a dull place, anyhow."

"How is your mother?" I inquired.

A slight, troubled look came into his face, as he answered:

"No better."

"She's sick, then?"

"Yes; she's been sick a good while; and I'm afraid will never be much
better." His manner was not altogether cold and indifferent, but there
was a want of feeling in his voice.

"Is she at home?"

"No, sir."

As he showed no inclination to say more on the subject, I asked no
further questions, and he soon found occasion to leave me.

The bar room had undergone no material change, so far as its fur