Thus far, the rattlings of Millthorpe, if producing any effect at all, had but stunned the averted Pierre. But now he started to his feet. A man with his hat on, stood in the door, holding an easel before him.

"Is this Mr. Glendinning's room, gentlemen?"

"Oh, come in, come in," cried Millthorpe, "all right."

"Oh, is that you, sir? well, well, then"; and the man set down the easel.

"Well, my boy," exclaimed Millthorpe to Pierre; "you are in the Inferno dream yet. Look; that's what people call an easel, my boy. An easel, an easel-not a weasel; you look at it as though you thought it a weasel. Come; wake up, wake up! You ordered it, I suppose, and here it is. Going to paint and illustrate the Inferno, as you go along, I suppose. Well, my friends tell me it is a great pity my own things ain't illustrated. But I can't afford it. There now is that Hymn to the Niger, which I threw into a pigeon-hole, a year or two ago- that would be fine for illustrations."

"Is it for Mr. Glendinning you inquire?" said Pierre now, in a slow, icy tone, to the porter.

"Mr. Glendinning, sir; all right, ain't it?"

"Perfectly," said Pierre mechanically, and casting another strange, rapt, bewildered glance at the easel. "But something seems strangely wanting here. Ay, now I see, I see it:- Villain! — the vines! Thou hast torn the green heart-strings! Thou hast but left the cold skeleton of the sweet arbor wherein she once nestled! Thou besotted, heartless hind and fiend, dost thou so much as dream in thy shriveled liver of the eternal mischief thou hast done? Restore thou the green vines! untrample them, thou accursed! — Oh my God, my God, trampled vines pounded and crushed in all fibers, how can they live over again, even though they be replanted! Curse thee, thou! — Nay, nay," he added moodily-"I was but wandering to myself." Then rapidly and mockingly-"Pardon, pardon! — porter; I most humbly crave thy most haughty pardon." Then imperiously-"Come, stir thyself, man; thou hast more below: bring all up."

As the astounded porter turned, he whispered to Millthorpe — "Is he safe? — shall I bring 'em?"

"Oh certainly," smiled Millthorpe: "I'll look out for him; he's never really dangerous when I'm present; there, go!"

Two trunks now followed, with "L.T." blurredly marked upon the ends.

"Is that all, my man?" said Pierre, as the trunks were being put down before him; "well, how much?" — that moment his eyes first caught the blurred letters.

"Prepaid, sir; but no objection to more."

Pierre stood mute and unmindful, still fixedly eying the blurred letters; his body contorted, and one side drooping, as though that moment half-way down-stricken with a paralysis, and yet unconscious of the stroke.

His two companions momentarily stood motionless in those respective attitudes, in which they had first caught sight of the remarkable change that had come over him. But, as if ashamed of having been thus affected, Millthorpe summoning a loud, merry voice, advanced toward Pierre, and, tapping his shoulder, cried, "Wake up, wake up, my boy! — He says he is prepaid, but no objection to more."

"Prepaid;-what's that? Go, go, and jabber to apes!"

"A curious young gentleman, is he not?" said Millthorpe lightly to the porter:-"Look you, my boy, I'll repeat:-He says he's prepaid, but no objection to more."

"Ah? — take that then," said Pierre, vacantly putting something into the porter's hand.

"And what shall I do with this, sir?" said the porter, staring.

"Drink a health; but not mine, that were mockery!"

"With a key, sir? This is a key you gave me."

"Ah! — well, you at least shall not have the thing that unlocks me. Give me the key, and take this."

"Ay, ay! — here's the chink! Thank 'ee, sir, thank 'ee. This'll drink. I ain't called a porter for nothing; Stout's the word; 2151 is my number; any jobs, call on me."

"Do you ever cart a coffin, my man?" said Pierre.

" 'Pon my soul!" cried Millthorpe, gayly laughing, "if you ain't writing an Inferno, then-but never mind. Porter! this gentleman is under medical treatment at present. You had better-ab'-you understand-'squatulate, porter! There, my boy, he is gone; I understand how to manage these fellows; there's a trick in it, my boy-an off-handed sort of what d'ye call it? — you understand-the trick! the trick! — the whole world's a trick. Know the trick of it, all's right; don't know, all's wrong. Ha! ha!"

"The porter is gone then?" said Pierre, calmly. "Well, Mr. Millthorpe, you will have the goodness to follow him."

"Rare joke! admirable! — Good morning, sir. Ha, ha!"

And with his unruffleable hilariousness, Millthorpe quitted the room.

But hardly had the door closed upon him, nor had he yet removed his hand from its outer knob, when suddenly it swung half open again, and thrusting his fair curly head within, Millthorpe cried: "By the way, my boy, I have a word for you. You know that greasy fellow who has been dunning you so of late. Well, be at rest there; he's paid. I was suddenly made flush yesterday:-regular flood-tide. You can return it any day, you know-no hurry; that's all.-But, by the way, — as you look as though you were going to have company here-just send for me in case you want to use me- any bedstead to put up, or heavy things to be lifted about. Don't you and the women do it, now, mind! That's all again. Adios, my boy. Take care of yourself!"

"Stay!" cried Pierre, reaching forth one hand, but moving neither foot-"Stay!" — in the midst of all his prior emotions struck by these singular traits in Millthorpe. But the door was abruptly closed; and singing Fa, la, la: Millthorpe in his seedy coat went tripping down the corridor.

"Plus heart, minus head," muttered Pierre, his eyes fixed on the door. "Now, by heaven! the god that made Millthorpe was both a better and a greater than the god that made Napoleon or Byron.-Plus head, minus heart-Pah! the brains grow maggoty without a heart; but the heart's the preserving salt itself, and can keep sweet without the head.-Delly."

"Sir?"

"My cousin Miss Tartan is coming here to live with us, Delly. That easel, — those trunks are hers."

"Good heavens! — coming here? — your cousin? — Miss Tartan?"

"Yes, I thought you must have heard of her and me;-but it was broken off, Delly."

"Sir? Sir?"

"I have no explanation, Delly; and from you, I must have no amazement. My cousin, — mind, my cousin, Miss Tartan, is coming to live with us. The next room to this, on the other side there, is unoccupied. That room shall be — hers. You must wait upon her, too, Delly."

"Certainly, sir, certainly; I will do any thing," said Delly, trembling; "but, — but-does Mrs. Glendin-din-does my mistress know this?"

"My wife knows all"-said Pierre sternly. "I will go down and get the key of the room; and you must sweep it out."

"What is to be put into it, sir?' said Delly. "Miss Tartan- why, she is used to all sorts of fine things, — rich carpets- wardrobes-mirrors-curtains;-why, why, why!"

"Look," said Pierre, touching an old rug with his foot; — "here is a bit of carpet; drag that into her room; here is a chair, put that in; and for a bed, — ay, ay," he muttered to himself; "I have made it for her, and she ignorantly lies on it now! — as made-so lie. Oh God!"

"Hark! my mistress is calling"-cried Delly, moving toward the opposite room.

"Stay!" — cried Pierre, grasping her shoulder, "if both called at one time from these opposite chambers, and both were swooning, which door would you first fly to?"

The girl gazed at him uncomprehendingly and affrighted a moment; and then said, "This one, sir"-out of mere confusion perhaps, putting her hand on Isabel's latch.

"It is well. Now go."

He stood in an intent unchanged attitude till Delly returned.