that I was not, nor ever could be, so fallen from pride and self-respect as to borrow money from my friends to lavish on my charmer. But he had not foreseen, perhaps, the tornado of conflicting passion and emotion excited in my turbulent and wayward spirit by what I could but deem an act of cruel tyranny on his part. However, with an exhibition of quiet resolve as surprising to me as it was unusual in him, he stood out against my passionate burst of remonstrance and entreaty, doubtless believing that my excitement would soon spend itself by force of its own inordinate violence. And so it did; but alas! it left a terrible track of moral devastation in its wake, the more salient features of which will sufficiently develop themselves in the course of this narrative.

In the first place, let us take a preliminary view of my father's bank, a sort of topographical survey or reconnoissance of the premises. The building belonged to my father, and was, as has been said, a two-story structure, with exterior walls of granite. Excepting two large rooms on the ground floor and the vault, which were occupied by the bank, the house, though a very desirable one. for business, had for many years been tenanted by a quaint but worthy old bachelor, Mr. Elderby, who enjoyed the fullest confidence of my father and the community, otherwise he would not have occupied the house; for my father was, of course, careful as to whom he trusted so near his money-vault. About nine months before the date of my story, however, this worthy old gentleman was found one morning by his valet peacefully sleeping the long sleep of the just, his last will and testament clasped conspicuously in the cold hands that were decorously crossed upon his breast. Among the applicants for the lease after Mr. Elderby's demise was one who, though but slightly known to my father, had succeeded in obtaining the house by virtue of my voice and deciding influence in his behalf. He was a gunsmith and dealer in fire-arms and sporting apparatus, his store adjoining the bank. Craft was his name —" Major" Craft he was generally called, because of an understanding, originating nobody knew how or when, that he had formerly held that rank in some army somewhere. He had carried on business in Westwater for years, and was generally well-esteemed as a man of business, although extremely reticent, if not actually morose of manner. He had a wife - an extremely handsome woman, much younger than himself-but no children. What lent the Major importance and dignity in my estimation, however, was the fact that he held the legal relation of guardian to lovely Ruby Ringold, who in turn held the relation to me of my betrothed sweetheart, my wife that was to be, and — Aha! peeping over shoulder are you, Madam? Well, then, I'm tempted to punish you by giving an inventory of your charms as you now appear, aetat fifty. Item-one pair antique silver-mounted spectacles, very convex; item one white cap, with frills surmounting the plumpest, cosiest, dearest old sweetheart-wife that ever kept perennial honeymoon - There! Thank you! Heigh-ho! where was I? Forty years ago that was at least. Ruby was the orphan child of a well-todo jeweller who had been in life one of my father's warmest friends; wherefore the latter looked with special favor on our betrothal.

Poor little Ruby! thy steadfast but coquettish and despotic heart was cruelly torn by my graceless defection from the radiant sunlight of thy smile and stormy worship of "the rising star!" [N. B.- She isn't peeping now.] Inasmuch as my betrothed was a member of the Major's family, it will not be difficult to surmise my motive in seconding his application for the lease of the bank building. It was much nearer my father's house than their former residence, and besides offered to Ruby and me many opportunities for putting our heads together. As regards the habits of the family, Mrs. Craft was seldom seen abroad, and in fact they both appeared averse to society; although their hospitality, while rather formal in character and undemonstrative, still left the recipient no hook on which to hang complaint of grievance. Notwithstanding his relation to Ruby, and the fact that he warmly favored my suit, I could never quite bring myself to like Major Craft, and my dislike—if such it could be fairly called · was not mitigated by a quarrel that occurred between us under the following circumstances. Being seated one unusually pleasant afternoon, a month or two before the time to which my story pertains, in the open window of the rear room of the bank, my hat fell off my head into Craft's back-yard. The window-sill was not more than six feet above the ground, and I leaped down to recover my hat, alighting directly in front of Major Craft's cellar-door, from which he was in the act of emerging. With an appearance of anger or surprise, or both combined, entirely uncalled for by the occasion I thought, he hurriedly closed and locked the door, at the same time demanding rudely to know "What the I was doing there?" Unaccustomed to that eminently military style of address, I replied in a manner quite as angry, if less rude; whereupon he suddenly became abjectly apologetic, even deigning to excuse himself by the palpable falsehood that at first he did not recognise me. I was surprised and pained at this, but accepted his apology, and gave myself no further concern about the matter. Nevertheless, as may be supposed, I liked him none the better afterward. So much for the Major.

As regards the bank, its interior arrangements were admirably adapted to the purpose, having been made with an eye to convenience and security. Entering from the street, and making a half-circuit of an oval-shaped counter defended by lattice-work of stout wire surmounted by sharpened spikes of steel, within which enclosure the ordinary business of the bank was transacted, one passed through an arched doorway into the rear compartment, which was the private office of my father. On the left-hand side of this room was the entrance to the vault. Now this vault had been constructed under my father's immediate supervision, in accordance with a design of his own invention, and was deemed a very Gibraltar of vaults. Its outer door was of massive oak, heavily panelled, with appropriate carvings and a very peculiar lock, of which only my father and the cashier carried duplicate keys. Beyond this was an immense plate of solid iron, to move which on its hinges, even when unlocked, demanded a great exertion of strength. "Old Provocation" the bank employees dubbed it, on account of its irritating indifference to anything like hurry; certes, it did not answer to the talismanic name of Sesame,

but would yield only to " a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together." Having, however, gotten it open, one descended a short flight of iron steps to the iron floor of a small chamber or dungeon, walled and covered in with iron. Its dimensions as to width and length were five feet by ten, the height being a little under six feet. At the farther end of the vault, and built into it as a part thereof, was the safe, the sanctum sanctorum, which was in itself almost large enough to admit of a man's standing upright. The back of the safe was also the end wall of the vault. Surrounding this huge iron dungeon on all sides save the bottom, was a mass of cemented masonry fully three feet in thickness. Of the safe, as of the vault, my father and the cashier alone carried keys- the old-fashioned kind; for that burglar-puzzling device, the "combination lock," had not then been thought of. By permission of my father I habitually carried a key of the street-door; so likewise did old Tony Pincher, the trusty but eccentric watchman, who nightly mounted guard over the money vault. It was the old gentleman's standing boast that he “had kep’ an eye on these precincts night in an' night out more'n fifteen year, and nobody hadn't never ketched him a nappin', come when they might." The fact is, in all that time no attempt had ever been made against the bank, and consequently the old man's vigilance had gone untested and unchallenged. Quite of a piece with this was a pleasant fiction, of the truth of which mere force of iteration had more than half persuaded him, that he was accustomed to pass the weary watches in the perusal of a prettily-bound copy of Young's Night Thoughts, with which my father had presented him. That he ought to have been perfectly familiar with page 1 of that enlivening production is certain; for it was as well, i. e. badly, thumbed as my copy of Maga when my neighbors have done with it. That his poetical excursions ever extended beyond that page, however, is greatly to be doubted, if one might judge by the "internal evidence" referred to, or more properly the absence thereof.

As the hour for shutting up for the night approached, this odd personage would put in an appearance, and after filling and lighting his pipe, which operation like all he did was performed with ponderous deliberation and methodical exactness, he would make a great ado of unlocking a little private drawer of his own little table, wherein he kept amid odds and ends innumerable his nocturnal literary companion above mentioned, a prodigious pair of brass-mounted spectacles, a half-pint flask (always exactly half full) of "somethin' for the stomick," and lastly a huge, impracticable-looking contrivance which with a sort of stumbling jocularity he called his "columbiad,” but which might have been a cross between a bassoon and a blunderbuss. These articles being all taken out and arranged in a particular order on his own particular little table-excepting the flask of "something," which he made a transparent pretence of keeping secreted he would settle himself in his arm-chair and wait with manifest impatience for my father and the rest of us to leave. He would then lock himself in, put the key in his pocket, and settle himself for the night, spectacles on nose, Night Thoughts in hand, and “columbiad” within reach upon the table. There let us for a while leave him.

An hour or two after my father had so emphatically asserted the paternal authority, my grief and mortification were in some measure assuaged by the receipt of a billet-doux from my charmer, redolent of bouquet d'amour, and breathing a passion all-absorbing and reckless of possible consequences to herself, while manifesting the most tender solicitude for my reputation and welfare. In it I was informed that her engagement ending the following night, she would leave for New Orleans on the day thereafter, “carrying in her heart, as the dearest, the sweetest memory of her life, the ever-present thought of me and the precious moments passed in my society." At the same time, with consummate tact and delicacy, she hinted at the "Sicilian days" that might have been had not stern duty and a cruel fate decreed our separation. That missive was my coup de grâce: it finished me. My reply was prompt, and couched in language that rang the changes on the adjective "sweet" in a style that might have satisfied even Mr. Swinburne; and that night, though I did not disobey my father's injunction touching the theatre, and this not solely because I had tacitly implied a promise to him that I would not, but mainly because I lacked the means to take my usual box, and could by no means deign to put myself amid the "common herd," I nevertheless had a carriage in waiting for the fascinating Toulemême, and escorted her home after the performance. When I left her and betook myself homeward, it was with a resolute purpose, nothing less than grave crime, to be followed by reckless flight with a dangerous woman as much my superior in mental power as in age. That she entertained for me some degree of genuine passion, self-love and pride rendered it easy to pursuade myself; but that all such sentiments and considerations were almost completely merged in stronger motive — the desire for notoriety at my expense, as being the involuntary object of such uncontrollable passion, reckless worship and romantic pursuit as mine - I can not now stultify myself by denying.

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On reaching home I admitted myself by means of my latch-key; and without removing my boots, as was my custom when coming in late, I walked even more noisily than necessary to bed. I had to pass through my father's chamber to reach my own, and I half expected to find him awake, awaiting my return. Nor was I disappointed saluted me coldly, keenly scanning my countenance the while; a scrutiny which I endured with manifest impatience. I bade him "good night," and was passing through to my bed, when he arrested my steps by inquiring, sternly enough, whether it were "possible I had disobeyed his command ?"

"No, sir," replied I, in a tone so nearly defiant that I blush to recall it "but I have been in the company of a lady whom I esteem and admire despite your unjust and cruel aspersions!"

His face flushed deeply at the gross insult. "That is enough, sir, 'tis full time you were abed," said he; and to bed I went, omitting even the form of customary prayer, which I could but feel would be a mockery under the circumstances. Howbeit, I knew well that my father prayed for me in his chamber, while I lay love-mad in mine, plotting my own ruin and his dishonor.

No allusion, of course, was made to our difference in the servants'

presence at the breakfast-table next morning; and throughout that day I took care to avoid my father. In truth I spent nearly the entire day in playing billiards; though, toward nightfall, I entered. Craft's store and made a singular purchase: I bought a half-pint flask, an exact counterpart or fac-simile of Mr. Tony Pincher's. At a neighboring saloon I had this a little more than half filled with the strongest French brandy. At a drug-store I procured a small vial of laudanum, telling the druggist that I had been suffering all day with a horrible toothache. I then dined at a restaurant, and was at home and abed before my father came in from the bank. On coming up to dress for dinner, "What! my son, so soon abed?" he exclaimed, betrayed by loving sympathy into his usual tone; "I trust you are not ill?" Had he but continued to speak thus kindly, of a surety I had relented and foregone my fell purpose; but he checked himself on learning that I was but "slightly indisposed," and said no more.

On toward midnight, as I judged without consulting my watch, everything being still and silent throughout the house, save my father's sonorous snore, proclaiming him asleep, I drew from beneath my pillow the flask of brandy which I have mentioned, and swallowed a portion of its fiery contents. The pain thus self-inflicted was so acute for a moment that I could with difficulty refrain from crying out. Nevertheless, I lay back on my pillow, and deliberately awaited the expected action of the stimulant; nor had I long to wait. It coursed through my veins like liquid fire, and in less than thirty seconds I was. so excited as to feel actually alarmed at my own boldness. The reader may debate the paradox: I state the fact. Getting out of bed, I crept to the door of my father's room and peeped in. He was reposing on his left side, his back being toward me, and the regular time kept by his nasal orchestra left no ground to fear his unseasonable awakening. My object, now, was to possess myself of the keys,- to wit, those of the outer vault door, "Old Provocation" and the safe,— and I knew they were lying beneath the pillow nearest me, while my father's head rested on the other. Creeping softly to his bedside (I recall a horrible, sickening thought that struck me, as to how like a certain princely parricide I must have looked, about whom I had been reading a few days previously) I slipped my hand under the pillow and cautiously grasped the keys, which were lying close together; but despite my caution, they gave out a slight "click" as they were brought into contact. The sound, though scarcely louder than the ticking of my watch, or the tumultuous beating of my heart, smote with violence on my over-strung nerves, so that I shook and trembled like the guilty thing that I was. Nay, more; moved as to the dormant senses, perhaps, by some occult and mysteriously sympathetic warning of the ever-wakeful spirit, the sleeper stirred uneasily in his sleep, and gave utterance to indistinct murmurings in which I caught the words "My son "—" My Ralph." However, I secured the keys without mishap, hastily dressed myself, and with boots in hand, and well-packed valise, moved stealthily down the stairs. In the dimlylighted hall I drew on my boots, and consulting my watch, found the time to be three-fourths of an hour past midnight. On opening the street door, albeit I was muffled and "wrapped up" in a style to