mr. vane was putting mrs. woffington into her chair, when he thought he heard his name cried. he bade that lady a mournful farewell, and stepped back into his own hall. he had no sooner done so than he heard a voice, the accent of which alarmed him, though he distinguished no word. he hastily crossed the hall and flew into the banquet-room. coming rapidly in at the folding-doors he almost fell over his wife, lying insensible half upon the floor and half upon the chair. when he saw her pale and motionless, a terrible misgiving seized him; he fell on his knees.

“mabel, mabel!” cried he, “my love! my innocent wife! oh, god! what have i done? perhaps it is the fatigue—perhaps she has fainted.”

“no, it is not the fatigue!” screamed a voice near him. it was old james burdock, who, with his white hair streaming and his eye gleaming with fire, shook his fist in his master's face—“no, it is not the fatigue, you villain! it is you who have killed her, with your jezebels and harlots, you scoundrel!”

“send the women here, james, for god's sake!” cried mr. vane, not even noticing the insult he had received from a servant. he stamped furiously, and cried for help. the whole household was round her in a moment. they carried her to bed.

the remorse-stricken man, his own knees trembling under him, flew, in an agony of fear and self-reproach, for a doctor!

a doctor?