It was about three o’clock of the day that Mr. Smith got possession of the certificates of deposit, that he entered the room of his friend, Perkins.  He looked agitated and irresolute.

“Well, Smith, how are you?” his friend said.  “Have you sold that stock yet?”

“Yes.”

“Indeed!  So you have triumphed over your wife’s scruples.  Well—­what did you get for it?”

“Only eight thousand dollars.”

“That was a shameful sacrifice!”

“Indeed it was.  And it puts me into a terrible difficulty.”

“What is that?”

“Why, I owe at least that sum; and I cannot stay here unless it is paid.”

“That is bad.”

“Out of the fifty thousand I could have squared up, and it would not have been felt.  But I cannot use the whole eight thousand, and look Margaretta and her aunt in the face again.  And if I don’t pay my debts, you see, to prison I must go.”

“You are in a narrow place, truly.  Well, what are you going to do?”

“A question more easily asked than answered.  Among my debts are about, four thousand dollars that must be paid whether or no.”

“Why?”

“They are debts of honour!”

“Ah, indeed! that is bad.  You will have to settle them.”

“Of course!” Then, in a loud and emphatic whisper, he said—­

“And I have settled them!”

“Indeed!  Well, what next?  How will you account to your wife for the deficiency?”

“Account to my wife!” and as he said this, he ground his teeth together, while his lip curled.  “Don’t talk to me in that way, Perkins, and cause me to hate the woman I have deceived and injured!”

“But what are you going to do, Smith?”

“I am going to clear out with the balance of the money in my pocket.  I can’t stay here, that’s settled; and I’m not going away penniless, that’s certain.  Margaretta’s old aunt has money enough, and can take care of her—­so she’s provided for.  And I’ve no doubt but that she’ll be happier without me than with me.”

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere down South.”

“When?”

“At four o’clock this afternoon.”

“Well, success to you.  There are some rich widows in the Southern country, you know.”

“I understand; but I’m rather sick of these operations.  They are a little uncertain.  But good-bye, and may you have better luck than your friend Smith.”

“Good-bye.”  And the two young men shook hands cordially and parted.

At four o’clock Mr. Smith left for Baltimore—­not the happiest man in the cars by a great deal.

Since that day the confiding young creature who had thrown all into the scale for him has neither seen him nor heard from him.  To her the light of life seems fled for ever.  Her face is very pale, and wears an expression of heart-touching misery.  She is rarely seen abroad.  Poor creature!  In her one sad error, what a lifetime of sorrow has been involved!