you'll vote the Whig
ticket, Netty, when you get your rights."

"Will the Union be dissolved, then, pa-sy--when the Whigs are beaten?"

"Bah! you little plague," he growled, with a laugh. "But, then, you
women don't know anything about politics. So, there. As I was saying,
everything went wrong with me to-day. I've been speculating in railroad
stock, and singed my fingers. Then, old Tom Hollis outbid me, to-day, at
Leonard's on a rare medical work I had set my eyes upon having. Confound
him! Then, again, two of my houses are tenantless, and there are folks
in two others that won't pay their rent, and I can't get them out. Out
they'll go, though, or I'll know why. And, to crown all--um-m. And I
wish the devil had him! as he will."

"Had who, Beary-papa?"

"Him. I'll tell you. The street floor of one of my houses in Hanover
street lets for an oyster-room. They keep a bar there, and sell liquor.
Last night they had a grand row--a drunken fight, and one man was
stabbed, it's thought fatally."

"O, father!" Netty's bright eyes dilated with horror.

"Yes. I hope he won't die. At any rate, there's likely to be a stir
about the matter, and my name will be called into question, then, as I'm
the landlord. And folks will make a handle of it, and there'll be the
deuce to pay, generally."

He got back the stern, vexed frown, to his face, with the anticipation,
and beat the carpet with his foot. The ghost still watched from the
angle of the room, and seemed to darken, while its features looked
troubled.

"But, father," said Netty, a little tremulously, "I wouldn't let my
houses to such people. It's not right; is it? Why, it's horrid to think
of men getting drunk, and killing each other!"

Dr. Renton rubbed his hair into disorder, with vexation, and then
subsided into solemnity.

"I know it's not exactly right, Netty; but I can't help it. As I said
before, I wish the devil had that bar-keeper. I ought to have ordered
him out long ago, and then this wouldn't have happened. I've increased
his rent twice, hoping to get rid of him so; but he pays without a
murmur; and what am I to do? You see, he was an occupant when the
building came into my hands, and I let him stay. He pays me a good,
round rent; and, apart from his cursed traffic, he's a good tenant. What
can I do? It's a good thing for him, and it's a good thing for me,
pecuniarily. Confound him. Here's a nice rumpus brewing!"

"Dear pa, I'm afraid it's not a good thin