that he was
still in the sulks, and had sat down to table without her, and
therefore, as he would not come--why, she went; but he was not at the
table. Every minute she expected him:--Had he been told?--Where was
he?--He was in the counting-house, was the reply. Mrs Sullivan
swallowed a few mouthfuls, and then returned up stairs. Tea was made--
announced to Mr Sullivan, yet he came not. It remained on the table;
the cup poured out for him was cold. The urn had been sent down, with
strict injunctions to keep the water boiling, and all was cleared away.
Mrs Sullivan fidgeted and ruminated, and became uneasy. He never had
been at variance for so many hours since their marriage, and all for
nothing! At last the clock struck ten, and she rang the bell.--"Where
was Mr Sullivan?"--"In the counting-house."--"Tell him that I wish to
speak with him." Mr Sullivan had not answered him, and the door was
locked inside. This intelligence created a little irritation, and
checked the tide of affection. "Before all the servants--so
inconsiderate--it was quite insulting!" With a heavy heart, Mrs
Sullivan lighted the chamber candle, and went up stairs to bed. Once
she turned down the stairs two or three steps, intending to go to the
counting-house door; but her pride restrained her, and she re-ascended.
In an hour Mrs Sullivan was in bed, expecting her husband every minute,
listening at the slightest sound for his footstep; but two o'clock came
and he was still away. She could bear up against her suspense and
agitation no longer; she rose, threw on her _robe de nuit_, and
descended the stairs. All the family had long retired, and every thing
was still: her light foot made no noise as she tripped along. As she
neared the door, she perceived the light gleaming through the key-hole.
Whether to peep or to speak first--he might be fast asleep. Curiosity
prevailed--she looked through the key-hole, and perceived her husband
very busy writing. After he had finished his letter he threw down the
pen, pressed his forehead with both hands, and groaned deeply. Mrs
Sullivan could refrain no longer. "William! William!" cried she, in a
soft imploring voice: but she was not answered. Again and again did she
repeat his name, until an answer, evidently wrung from him by
impatience, was returned--"It is too late now."

"Too late, dear William! Yes, it is very late, it's almost three
o'clock. Let me in William,--pray do!"

"Leave me al