one
unbroken circle of family domestics--live without labor, or terror of
the future. But would this be? I waited, as I still think I should have
done, for Mr. Bainrothe to take the initiative in this proceeding.

Impatient and sick-hearted, I saw day after day glide past, without an
effort on his part to explain or ameliorate my condition--one now of
excessive and wearing anxiety.

At last he came. For the first time in his life when a matter of
business was in question, he asked for me. I went to him alone at my own
instance, and somewhat to Evelyn's chagrin, I thought.

I found him in the library, of late our sole receiving-room; the rest
were closed and fireless. For, since the certainty of our misfortune, we
had received no society, and would not long be obliged to _decline_ it,
Evelyn thought. Her opinion of the world little justified the pains she
had taken to conciliate it.

I found Mr. Bainrothe buried in the deep reading-chair, always in his
lifetime occupied by my father, his hand supporting his head, his hat
and delicate ivory-headed cane thrown carelessly on the floor beside
him--his whole attitude one of deep dejection.

He started a little when I addressed him by name, as if reviving from
deep reverie--then arose and extended his hand to me, grasping mine
firmly when I gave it to him, which I did unwillingly I confess.

"Miriam," he said, "this is all very dreadful!" subsiding into his seat
again with a groan, and looking steadily and silently into the fire for
some minutes afterward. "Very dreadful!" he repeated, shaking his head
dismally; "wholly unforeseen!"

He glanced at me furtively once or twice to observe the effect of his
words--his manner. Disappointed probably by my silence and coolness, he
again affected to be absorbed in contemplation.

"Have we any thing left?" I asked quietly, at last--weary as I was of
this histrionic performance of his, and anxious for the truth.

"Nothing," was the gloomy reply that fell on my ear--on my heart like
molten lead; "nothing but what you know of. This house, this furniture,
well preserved it is true, but old and out of style. Your carriage and
horses--diamonds--in short, what you have in hand. That is all you have
left of the great estate of your mother."

"It is enough to keep the wolf from the door, at all events," I remarked
quietly, "and I am thankful for a bare competence; but why, under
existing circumstances, were you in such haste to remov