ble foe sees fit to
interfere, 'Epilepsy,' as Evelyn called it, and perhaps with reason--God
alone knows!--what then? Well, I will hazard it--that is all--I will
charge nothing for lost days, and try to be zealous in the interval;
besides, it is a long time since one of these obliteration spells
occurred; for I shall ever believe Evelyn dosed me for her own purposes
on that last occasion! Fiend!--fiend!--and yet my little sister _must_
remain in such hands for a season, protected by her guardian angel
only."

I passed a feverish night, employing the first part of it in quilting my
diamonds into a belt which I placed about my waist; and the remainder in
putting together as many useful, as well as a few handsome clothes, as
my travelling-trunk would contain; bonnets, evening-dresses, which
require room to dispose of, and the like vanities, I abandoned to
Evelyn's tender mercies. I rose early and, as usual whenever the weather
permitted, sallied forth before breakfast, but this time unaccompanied
by my usual attendant, Charity.

The "Mansion House" was at no great distance from our own residence.
The beautiful home of the Bingham family, then converted into an hotel,
destroyed by fire at a later period, like our own house, was situated in
the ancient part of the city, from which fashion had gradually emerged,
and shrank away to found new streets and dwellings.

I rang at the private door, and asked the porter for "_Somnus_;" at the
same time sending up a card, on which was written:

"'Miriam Harz,' applicant for the post of teacher."

A few moments later a grave, copper-colored servant, respectably clad,
and with an air of responsibility about him that was almost oppressive,
invited me solemnly to follow him up the winding marble stair--so often
trodden by the feet of Washington and his court, when a gracious
assemblage filled the halls above--and ushered me into a small but lofty
parlor at its head, in which a gentleman sat reading the morning
journal.

Very wide awake, indeed, seemed he who affected the title of the god of
sleep, as he arose courteously from his chair, still holding his paper
in one hand, and waved me to a seat on the worn horse-hair sofa between
the windows.

He was a tall, thin, sallow, hooked-nosed gentleman, of middle age, with
a certain air of distinction about him in contrast with his singular
homeliness.

"Miss Harz?" he said, interrogatively, glancing at the card over the
mantel-shelf-