with intense interest, felt something like the glow of hope animate his
breast; but these expectations were doomed to be annihilated, as the
miser again sunk down in his chair, and hastily concealed the key among
the tattered remains of his garments.

"Anthony, Anthony," he said, in a hollow voice, which issued from his
chest as from a sepulchre. "Cannot you wait patiently until my death? It
will all be your own, then."

"It will be too late," returned the agitated young man, whilst his
cheeks glowed with the crimson blush of shame, as a thousand agonising
recollections crowded upon his brain, and, covering his face with his
hands, he groaned aloud. A long and painful pause succeeded. At length a
desperate thought flashed through his mind.

He drew nearer, and fixed his dark expanded eyes upon his father's face,
until the old man cowered, beneath the awful scrutiny. Again he spoke,
but his voice was calm, dreadfully calm. "Father, will you grant my
request? Let your answer be briefly, yes--or no?"

"No!" thundered the miser. "I will part with my life first."

"Be not rash. We are alone," returned the son, with the same unnatural
composure. "You are weak, and I am strong. If you wantonly provoke the
indignation of a desperate man, what will your riches avail you?"

The miser instinctively grasped at the huge poker that graced the
fireplace, in whose rusty grate a cheerful fire had not been kindled for
many years. Anthony's quick eye detected the movement, and he took
possession of the dangerous weapon with the same cool but determined
air.

"Think not that I mean to take your life. God forbid that I should stain
my hand with so foul a crime, and destroy your soul by sending it so
unprepared into the presence of the Creator. It is not blood--but money
I want."

"Would not a less sum satisfy you?" and the miser eyed fearfully the
weapon of offence, on which his son continued to lean, and again drew
forth the key.

"Not one farthing less."

Mark glanced hurriedly round the apartment, and listened with intense
anxiety for the sound of expected footsteps. The sigh of the old trees
that bent over the hovel, swept occasionally by the fitful autumnal
blast alone broke the deep silence, and rendered it doubly painful.

"Where can the fellow stay?" he muttered to himself; then as if a
thought suddenly struck him, he turned to his eon, and addressed him in
a more courteous tone. "Anthony, I cannot give you this great,