WOMAW S
L O T -
“Thanks, but I hare no desire to leave New Fork—quite impossible to exist elsewhere.”
“You cannot remain here! I am very willing to help you; I have always felt an interest in ou; I assure you money will be no object, and am certain that my secret-”
“My dear Mr. Lawrence, how little you know me! I have completely forgotten the events of last night, or shall have done so when we have replaced that little check—we will not refer to it again. I am glad to have met you this morn¬ ing—in the confusion of business men have no time to become acquainted. I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you thus again?*'
“Nothing would gratify me more,” returned the merchant, with trembling lips. “Mrs. Law¬ rence receives every Saturday—I shall be happy to present you.”
“And I to avail myself of the invitation. You know Mrs. Ransom?”
“The authoress? yes, very delightful woman.” “A most intimate friend of mine; nothing would gratify her so much as to know that you considered me your friend.”
“Delighted to hear that; she so seldom goes out—genius has its peculiarities.”
The wretched man was so ghastly and white that his appearance might have softened his deadliest enemy; but the youth in whose power he found himself knew no relenting, he liked to taste his revenge drop by drop, and would never cease while there was still a chord in his victim's heart that could be wrung.
“By-the-way, Mr. Lawrence, do you know Mr. Bentley?”
“Well, very well; an extremely rich man.”
“I know that he has a charming daughter,” replied Hurst, laughing again, “1 met her at Mrs. Ransom’s. Perhaps you would present me there?”
The merchant paused for a moment, writhing under that assumption of power; but Hurst's eyes were still fixed upen him, and he could only falter out,
“With pleasure, of course.”
“Indeed I must say good morning,” Horst said, rising. “On Saturday you say Mrs. Law¬ rence receives?”
“But this thing—you understand!” exclaimed Lawrence, catching him by the arm. “Tell me that my secret is safe—money—anything—name your terms.”
“Do not insult me,” returned Hurst, coldly, “between equals such offers are not endurable.”
“Excuse me—I- At least the check shall be sent down.”
“Of course, of course!”
“May I mention one fact?”
“I shall listen with pleasure.”
“I shall be delighted to receive you at my house; but it is quite possible that you might prefer to give up your situation—I shall always be willing to assist you in any way.”
“I am infinitely obliged. If I decide to leave your establishment, I will come and talk the matter over with you. Good morning, Mr. Lawrence! On Saturday? Till then, au revoir.”
He passed out of the room with the same care¬ less ease and went down stairs.
The merchant fell back in his chair completely exhausted by the excitement of the last hour. He looked like a man just recovering from a ter¬ rible illness. When he strove to rise from his seat he fell back, covering his face with his hands, and murmuring broken words of despair.
Hurst left the house and returned to his home. His face was lit up with fierce exultation, and his eyes fairly blazed with light.
“This is the beginning,” he muttered, “and it promises well! The fair Gillian is almost reached—patience, patience, the end is not far off.”
(to be continued.)
WOMAN'S LOT.
BY MRS. PIDSLEY.
To feel that she is slighted
By one meet dearly prized—
That all her self-devotion
la nothing in his eyes—
To hear the words of anger,
Tho’ she deserves them not;
To bear with harsh unkindness,
Is often woman's lot.
To see her slightest error
Converted into crime.
Whilst even then she dares not
Weep, murmur, or repine;
To know his vow Is broken—
That he is faithless now—
And yet to be upbraided.
If grief is on her brow;
To soothe the boor of anguish,
And be repaid with scorn;
To hear severely chidden
The tears from sorrow drawn,
To feel her long enduring,
Her patience—all as naught,
TUI hope itself is blighted,
Is often woman's lot.
