man can't do much in the way of entertaining, especially if he has to work hard at the same time."
"Ah, poor fellow! no," my wife answered. "I suppose it's hard; only it's worse for the children: and he is such a dull-looking old fellow to be the father of these bright creatures."
She had hardly spoken when a servant whispered to me—a woman wished to speak to me in the hall. I had hardly got down the stairs when she came quickly towards me—a decent old woman, like a servant.
"You are Mr. Bryson?" she said. "Will you come in next door? The master is very bad; he wants to see you."
"I will be with you at once," I said. "Shall I call his son and daughter to come with us?"
"I'll send for them later on," the old woman muttered. "Let them be—let them be; the house is too full of noise as it is."
I followed the old woman to Walter Barrington's house. What first struck me on entering, in contrast to mine, was its utter want of taste in the little decoration I saw; the dinginess, the wear and tear upon every-
