“No; I have been to see you often, but you are never at home.” “Ah! I did not hear of it. But if you really wished to see a husband who has survived the honeymoon, I suspect that home is about the last place where you should seek for him. Julia did the honors, I trust?” His eye stole upward, met mine, and sunk once more upon the floor. He answered faintly:-- “Yes, but I have not seen her for some days.” “Not since Mother Delaney's party, I believe?” The color came again into his cheeks, but instantly after was succeeded by a deadly paleness. “What a bore these parties are! and such parties as those of Mrs. Delaney are particularly annoying to me. Why the d--l couldn't the old tabby halter her hobby without calling in her neighbors to witness the painful spectacle? You were there, I think?” “Yes.” “I left early. I got heartily sick. You know I never like such places; and, as soon as they began dancing, I took advantage of the fuss and fiddle to steal off. It was unfortunate I did so, for Julia was taken sick, and has had a narrow chance for it. I thought I should have lost her.” All this was spoken in tones of the coolest imaginable indifference. Edgerton was evidently surprised. He looked up with some curiosity in his glance, and more confidence; and, with accents that slightly faltered, he asked:-- “Is she well again? I trust she is better now.” “Yes!” I answered, with the same sang-froid. “But I've had a serious business of watching through the last three nights. Her peril was extreme. She lost her little one.” A visible shudder went through his frame. “Tired to death of the walls of the house, which seems a dungeon to me, I dashed out this morning, at daylight, as soon as I found I could safely leave her; and, strolling down to the office, who should I find there but your father, perched at the desk, and seemingly inclined to resume all his former practice?” “Indeed! my father--so early? What could be the matter? Did he tell you? “Yes, i'faith, he is in tribulation about you. He fancies you are in a fair way to destruction. You can't conceive what he fancies. It seems, according to his account, that you are a night-stalker. He dwells at large upon your nightly absences from home, and then about your appearance, which, to say truth, is very wretched. You scarcely look like the same man. Edgerton. Have you been sick? What's the matter with you?” “I am NOT altogether well,” he said, evasively. “Yes, but mere indisposition would never produce such a change, in so short a period, in any man! Your father is disposed to ascribe it to other causes.” “Ah! what does he think?” I fancied there was mingled curiosity and trepidation in this inquiry.