ns of
importance to the last of the letters. It has been discovered that Mr.
Matthew Sharpin left the house in Rutherford Street five minutes after
his interview outside of it with Sergeant Bulmer, his manner expressing
the liveliest emotions of terror and astonishment, and his left cheek
displaying a bright patch of red, which looked as if it might have been
the result of what is popularly termed a smart box on the ear. He was
also heard by the shopman at Rutherford Street to use a very shocking
expression in reference to Mrs. Yatman, and was seen to clinch his fist
vindictively as he ran round the corner of the street. Nothing more has
been heard of him; and it is conjectured that he has left London with
the intention of offering his valuable services to the provincial
police.

On the interesting domestic subject of Mr. and Mrs. Yatman still less
is known. It has, however, been positively ascertained that the medical
attendant of the family was sent for in a great hurry on the day when
Mr. Yatman returned from the milliner's shop. The neighboring chemist
received, soon afterward, a prescription of a soothing nature to make up
for Mrs. Yatman. The day after, Mr. Yatman purchased some smelling-salts
at the shop, and afterward appeared at the circulating library to ask
for a novel descriptive of high life that would amuse an invalid lady.
It has been inferred from these circumstances that he has not thought it
desirable to carry out his threat of separating from his wife, at least
in the present (presumed) condition of that lady's sensitive nervous
system.

THE SEVENTH DAY.

FINE enough for our guest to go out again. Long, feathery lines of white
cloud are waving upward in the sky, a sign of coming wind.

There was a steamer telegraphed yesterday from the West Indies. When the
next vessel is announced from abroad, will it be George's ship?

I don't know how my brothers feel to-day, but the sudden cessation of my
own literary labors has left me still in bad spirits. I tried to occupy
my mind by reading, but my attention wandered. I went out into the
garden, but it looked dreary; the autumn flowers were few and far
between--the lawn was soaked and sodden with yesterday's rain. I
wandered into Owen's room. He had returned to his painting, but was not
working, as it struck me, with his customary assiduity and his customary
sense of enjoyment.

We had a long talk together about George and Jessie and the future. Owen