to provoke a comparison with Curtis, would have been blind to his faults, or, at least, forgiving. Had his fault consisted in his neglect of professional duties, in his fondness for pleasures, in his excessive indulgences in wine and society, in his passion for gaming, his carelessness in the enjoyment of his domestic comforts, or the absolute decay of his tenderness: all these could have been forgiven; but personal indignity; positive neglect; gloomy indications of suspicion expressed in the averted eye, or the mocking smile; the disjointed expression; the mysterious and wicked inuendoes which dropped at times from his excited lips: these things were beyond endurance; and under their crushing influences, Beatrice, the tender, the gay, the bright, the affectionate, the devoted, came by degrees to be Beatrice, the estranged, the gloomy, the proud, the rebellious.

"It is two o'clock, my dear," said Beatrice to her husband, as he entered her chamber after a night of intense gambling.

"If it is nothing to you, it is nothing to me," she replied, as she turned over and buried her face on her pillow.

Curtis was too much excited to observe the tones with which she uttered the mournful sentence that seemed to come, husky and sepulchral, from a crushed heart. He had no ear for the music of a broken lute.

"I can not live much longer this way," she said, as she broke into unsuppressed sobs.

He had removed his boots, and was sitting in his slippers and gown. His head was not very clear or steady. Dim, misty visions floated before him. But he remembered his heavy losses; and himself and his folly came in for the bulk of the curses which, in his zigzag mind, he was dealing out promiscuously. There was a devil in him as big as an elephant. "It is always this way," he exclaimed. "I am

received with a frown whenever I come."

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'Not frowns, my dear," said Beatrice. "I do not mean to frown. But I can not help weeping-indeed, I am very unhappy-I am wretched-and it is all on your account. You could make me so happy if you would only stay with me. I am left alone too much and too long. I can not bear it. do you come to me until nearly day. pose I have no uneasiness about you?”

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Not a night

Do you sup

Not much, I guess--you need not; I am able to take care of myself."

"It did not use to be this way," said Beatrice. "You have plenty of company," he replied; "you enjoy yourself in my absence. You have everything you wish. I do not attempt to restrict your plea. sures. You need no attentions which are not ever at hand. Sterling and his page are always at your command."

Bea

There was some bitterness in this last phrase. There was a sneer in his manner and tone. trice felt herself accused.

She sprang from the bed,

lighted a taper and left the chamber, saying, "I will leave you to your reflections."

Beatrice staggered into her sister's room. The sweet child, little Helen, was lying asleep. The sudden appearance of the light and the noise of her sister's entrance, awoke her.

"What's the matter, sis?" said Helen, as she sprung up in bed.

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Nothing; I have come to sleep with you."

"Is the doctor come home yet?" said Helen.

"Yes; he will sleep alone to-night," said Beatrice. She placed the taper on the bureau, and staggering towards the bed where Helen was lying, fell upon the floor as if dead! Helen screamed to the utmost of her voice! She sat up in the bed as if unable to move. Her unconfined hair covered her neck and shoulders, as she threw her curls back out of her face. She moved not, but continued her frantic cries, until Curtis rushed into the room.

"What's the matter?" he exclaimed.

"There! there!" said Helen, pointing to her sis

ter.

Beatrice was lying on her face, her right arm under her bosom. Curtis kneeled by her and lifting her body in his arms, said, "Bring water, Helen, quick!"

Water was freely applied; Beatrice revived, uttered a loud laugh, and looking searchingly into Curtis's face, threw her arms around his neck and strove to hide her head in his bosom in the folds of his gown. "No, no!" she said, sobbing-" You didn't mean it. I know you did not mean that?''

"Mean what?" said Curtis.

"Nothing, oh nothing," said Beatrice.

"But I

was hurt, love? How long have you been home? Is it day? Where's the hearse?"

This incoherence, with the wild glare of her excited eyes, and the clasping ardor of her arms, as they passed in irregular jerks around his neck, alarmed Curtis.

"Dead, dead," she replied. "I have been expecting it-they killed him-he was walking in the dark-they murdered-help! help! murder!" she cried out, and sprung upon her feet, striving to tear herself away from Curtis.

'Let me go, you wretch," she shrieked, as she drew back her hand and slapped him in the face with all her power.

Let me go-let me go," and she tore herself away. Drawing herself up to her full stature, and folding her arms upon her bosom, she surveyed Curtis with an expression of intense scorn, saying:

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What is your accusation, sir?"

"Nothing, my dear," he said, approaching her with expressions of tenderness.

"Tis false, sir; tis false! You have not the manliness to make an open charge, but you shelter yourself under the shadow of hints and intimations. Your cowardly nature has revealed itself. I despise you. Your degradation is complete, when you seek a bed which your own false and wicked imagination has polluted. Henceforth, sir, we occupy separate apartments. Will you leave me, now?"

Poor Helen was amazed. Her eyes and her mouth were open! her features expanded into all the expressions of bewilderment.

"Sister, please hush."

"Will you leave us, Dr. Curtis?" said Beatrice, calmly. "I am not excited; I desire to be left alone with my sister, the balance of the night."

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'Brother, brother," said Helen, "leave us; sister is not angry now; will you?"

Curtis left the room. He felt rebuked and cowed; disgusted with himself. His whole course of living for the last few months rose up before him. He had grievously erred. The imperious spirit of his injured wife, towering to the height of supreme scorn, had confronted him with such composed indignation, that his heart sunk within him. She had told him that she despised him." He felt convinced that he deserved to be despised. She had told him that he was a coward," and had commanded him to leave her presence.

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And all this had been done so suddenly! Heretofore she had been all meekness, all gentleness, all amiability. It was the first time that she had exhibited so much temper, so much emotion, such frantic excitement! Was she deranged?

Floundering upon his uneasy couch, Curtis lay until daylight. A thousand harrowing thoughts agitated him. He had gambled himself into a beggar. His money was gone. His practice was gone. His character was soiled. His pride was rebuked. His heart was bowed to the earth. His hopes recently,