, 'My wife says so too.'

"Adieu, my boy. We'll come to town next week, where Fan and I will
be delighted to have you call. With best regards from my dear
little wife, I am, old fellow,

"Your devoted friend,

"PAUL WARDEN."

Mr. and Mrs. Warden did come to town next week; but Mr. Maxwell didn't
call. In point of fact he hasn't called since, and doesn't intend to,
and has given his friend Paul the "cut direct." And that is how Paul
Warden got a wife, and Tom Maxwell his revenge.

FOR BETTER FOR WORSE.

"And all is gone?"

"Why, no, sir; no, Mr. Fletcher--not all. There's that six hundred a
year, and that little place down at Dover, that you settled on your
wife; you will save that out of the wreck. A trifle--a mere nothing, I
am aware, out of such a noble inheritance as yours, Mr. Fletcher--but
still something. Half a loaf you know, sir, is--"

He stopped abruptly at a motion of Richard Fletcher's hand. He was a
lawyer, and used to this sort of thing; and not much effected by the
story, he had run down from New York to tell Mr. Fletcher; his rich
client had speculated rashly, and lost--a common case enough. A week ago
he was worth half a million; to-night he is not worth a sixpence--that
was all. There were his wife's settlements, of course; but they were his
wife's--and Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher were two.

"I thought I had better let you know at once, Mr. Fletcher," the lawyer
said; "it's sure to be in everybody's mouth to-morrow. And now, if I'm
to catch the nine-fifty up-train, I had better be starting. Good-night,
sir. Worse luck now, better next time."

"Good-night," Richard Fletcher said, mechanically. He was leaning
against the low, iron gateway, his folded arms lying on its carved top,
and the black shadows of the beeches shutting him in like a pall. Up the
avenue colored lamps gleamed along the chestnut walks, blue, red, and
green, turning the dark November night to fairy-land. The wide front of
the stately mansion was all aglow with illumination, with music, and
flowers, and fair women; and fairest, where all were fair, its proud
young mistress, Marian Fletcher.

Two men, stragglers from the ball-room, with their cigars lighted, came
down through the gloom, close to the motionless figure against the iron
gate--only another shadow among the shadows--so close that he heard