d people owed
you so many thousands."

"It is not necessary for you to know. Women can't understand these
things."

"But women feel their effects, and it's a pity they could not learn
about what concerns them."

"Will it change your situation at once?" asked Mrs. Sandford of her
brother.

"I can't say; probably not at once; but without some aid, all I have
must go."

"What! the house?" exclaimed Marcia.

"Yes,--the house, Marcia, and the furniture. We shall be stripped."

"The deuse!" said Charles.

"Heaven help us! what shall we do?"

"I haven't had time to form any plan. I trust, indeed, that Heaven will
help us, as you rather lightly wished."

His face wore a touching look of faith and resignation, while at the
same time his hand rested with secret satisfaction upon his pocket-book.

The conversation was disagreeable to Charles, and he sauntered off to
the drawing-room.

Mrs. Sandford inwardly determined to return to her home, or at least
to go elsewhere in the city, so as not to be a burden to her
brother-in-law; but she remained silent. Mr. Sandford balanced his
knife, sliced his bread into figures, then hummed and beat a tattoo upon
the table,--sure indications of forgetfulness in one so scrupulous
as he. At length, with a bland voice, but a sharp, inquiring eye, he
said,--

"How is it about this painter, Marcia? Are you going to marry him?"

She looked fixedly, as she replied,--

"Why do you ask? You know I am going to marry him."

"Oh, it's settled, is it? You know, sister, you have had similar
intentions before,--several times, in fact,--intentions that haven't
come to much."

She did not answer further; a flush of anger came, then went, leaving
her pale face with a rather sterner expression.

"While I was prosperous, I was not disposed to be mercenary; though I
did think you were not worldly-wise. Now that I am destitute, you can
see that to marry a man not worth a dollar, and with a precarious
profession, is not what it would have been."

"Mr. Greenleaf earns a good income, doesn't he?"

"He hasn't sold a picture, except to friends whom I persuaded to buy."

"You have friends and influence still?"

"I don't know; a man's friends don't last long after his money is gone.
Besides, nobody wants to buy now. Raphael himself couldn't sell a
picture here till times improve. A painter is a pretty butterfly for
fine weather; what is he to do with his flimsy wings in such a hurricane
as th