“Well?” said old Wiseman as he received the glass from Ishmael’s hand and sat it down.

“I thank you; it has done me good; I feel much better; you are very kind,” said Ishmael.

“I wish you would really think so, and go into partnership with me.  My business is very heavy—­much more than I can manage alone, now that I am growing old and stout; and I must have somebody, and I would rather have you than anyone else.  You would succeed to the whole business after my death, you know.”

“Thank you; your offer is very flattering.  I will think it over, and talk with you on some future occasion.  Now I feel that I must return home, while I have strength to do so,” replied Ishmael.

“Very well, then, my dear fellow, I will let you off.”

And they shook hands and parted.

Ishmael, feeling soothed, strengthened, and exhilarated, set off to walk home.  But this feeling gradually passed off, giving place to a weakness, heaviness, and feverishness, that warned him he was in no state to appear at judge Merlin’s dinner table.

So when he approached the house he opened a little side gate leading into the back grounds, and strayed into the shrubbery, feeling every minute more feverish, heavy, and drowsy.

At last he strayed into an arbor, quite at the bottom of the shrubberies, where he sank down upon the circular bench and fell into a deep sleep.

Meanwhile up at the house changes had taken place.  The wedding guests had all departed.  The festive garments had had been laid away.  The decorated dining room had been shut up.  The household had returned to its usual sober aspect, and the plain family dinner was laid in the little breakfast parlor.  But the house was very sad and silent and lonely because its queen was gone.  At the usual dinner-hour, six o’clock, the family assembled at the table.

“Where is Ishmael, uncle?” inquired Beatrice.

“I do not know, my dear,” replied the judge, whose heart was sore with the wrench that had torn his daughter from him.

“Do you, papa?”

“No, dear.”

“Mamma, have you seen Ishmael since the morning?”

“No, child.”

“Nor you, Walter?”

“Nor I, Bee.”

Mr. Brudenell looked up at the fair young creature, who took such thought of his absent son, and volunteered to say: 

“He had a case before the Orphans’ Court to-day, I believe.  But the court is adjourned, I know, because I met the judge an hour ago at the Capitol; so I suppose he will be here soon.”

Bee bowed in acknowledgment of this information, but she did not feel at all reassured.  She had noticed Ishmael’s dreadful pallor that morning; she felt how much he suffered, and she feared some evil consequences; though her worst suspicions never touched the truth.

“Uncle,” she said, blushing deeply to be obliged still to betray her interest in one whom she was forced to remember, because everyone else forgot him, “uncle, had we not better send Powers up to Ishmael’s room to see if he has come in, and let him know that dinner is on the table?”