On whirled the carriage through the deserted streets; deserted--save by some inveterate pleasure-seeker like herself, from whom pleasure forever flees. Occasionally a lamp twinkled from some upper window, where a half-starved seamstress sat stitching her life away, or a heart-broken mother bent over the dead form of a babe, which her mother’s heart could ill spare, although she knew not where to find bread for the remaining babes who wept beside her. Now and then, a woman, lost to all that makes woman lovely, flaunted under the flickering street-lamps, while her mocking laugh rang out on the night air. Mary shuddered, and drew back--there was that in its hollowness which might make even devils tremble. Overhead the sentinel stars kept their tireless watch, and Mary’s heart grew soft under their gentle influence, and tears stole from beneath her lashes, and lay like pearls upon her bosom. “You need not wait to undress me,” said Mary to the weary-looking waiting-maid, as she averted her swollen eyes from her gaze--and taking the lamp from her hand, Mary passed up to her chamber. So noiseless was the fall of her light foot upon the carpet, that Mark did not know she had entered. He sat with his back to the door, bending over the cradle of his child, till his snow-white locks rested on its rosy cheeks; talking to it, as was his wont, to beguile his loneliness. “Mary’s forehead--Mary’s eyes--Mary’s mouth--no more like your old father than a rosebud is like a chestnut-burr. _You_ will love the lonely old man, little one, and perhaps _she_ will, by-and-by; who knows?” and Mark’s voice trembled. “She will--she does”--said Mary, dropping on her knees at the cradle of her child, and burying her face in Mark’s hands; “my noble, patient husband!” “You don’t mean that?” said Mark, holding her off at arm’s-length, and looking at her through a mist of tears; “you don’t mean that you will love an old fellow like me? God bless you, Mary--God forever bless you! I have been very--very lonely,”--and Mark wept for sheer happiness. * * * * * The gaping world, the far-sighted world, the charitable world, shook its wise head, when the star of fashion became a fixed star. Some said “her health must be failing;” others, that “her husband had become jealous at last;” while old stagers maliciously insinuated that it were wise to retire on _fresh_ laurels. But none said--what _I_ say--that a true woman’s heart may always be won--ay, and kept, too--by any husband who does not consider it beneath him to step off the pedestal of his “_dignity_” to learn how. BREAKFAST AT THE PAXES’. “Morning paper, John?” “Didn’t come this morning, mem; I inquired at the office as I came up with the breakfast, mem; none there, mem.”