his distress as the lake. Was there any God?

There was one hope. Westcott might die. He wished he might. But Charlton
had lived long enough to observe that people who ought to die, hardly
ever do. You, reader, can recall many instances of this general
principle, which, however, I do not remember to have seen stated in any
discussions of mortality tables.

After all, Albert reflected that he ought not to expect Kate's lover to
satisfy him. For he flattered himself that he was a somewhat peculiar
man--a man of ideas, a man of the future--and he must not expect to
conform everybody to his own standard. Smith Westcott was a man of fine
business qualities, he had heard; and most commercial men were, in
Albert's estimation, a little weak, morally. He might be a man of deep
feeling, and, as Albert walked home, he made up his mind to be
charitable. But just then he heard that rattling voice:

"Purty night! By George! Katy, you're divine, by George! Sweeter'n honey
and a fine-tooth comb! Dearer to my heart than a gold dollar! Beautiful
as a dew-drop and better than a good cigar! He! he! he!"

At such wit and such a giggle Charlton's charity vanished. To him this
idiotic giggle at idiotic jokes was a capital offense, and he was seized
with a murderous desire to choke his sister's lover. Kate should not
marry that fellow if he could help it. He would kill him. But then to
kill Westcott would be to kill Katy, to say nothing of hanging himself.
Killing has so many sequels. But Charlton was at the fiercely executive
stage of his development, and such a man must act. And so he lingered
about until Westcott kissed Katy and Katy kissed Westcott back again, and
Westcott cried back from the gate, "Dood night! dood night, 'ittle girl!
By-by! He! he! By George!" and passed out rattling the keys and coins in
his pocket and singing:

"O dear Miss Lucy Neal!" etc.

Then Albert went in, determined to have it all out with Katy. But one
sight of her happy, helpless face disarmed him. What an overturning of
the heaven of her dreams would he produce by a word! And what could be
more useless than remonstrance with one so infatuated! How would she
receive his bitter words about one she loved to idolatry?

He kissed her and went to bed.

As Albert Charlton lay awake in his unplastered room in the house of
Plausaby, Esq., on the night after he had made the acquaintance of the
dear, dear fellow whom his sister loved, he busied himself with var