“It is too true,” was answered. “The Celeste arrived this morning, and her letter-bag was delivered at the post-office half an hour ago. Have you received nothing by her?” “I was not aware of her arrival. But I will send immediately for my letters.” Too true was the information communicated by the friend. The large commission-house of Toledo & Co. had failed, and protested drafts had been returned to a very heavy amount. Mr. Winslow was among the sufferers, and to an extent that was equivalent to ruin; because it threw back upon him the necessity of lifting over fifteen thousand dollars of protested paper, when his line of payments was already fully up to his utmost ability. For nearly five years, every thing had seemed to go against Mr. Winslow. At the beginning of that period, a son, whom he had set up in business, failed, involving him in a heavy loss. Then, one disaster after another followed, until he found himself in imminent danger of failure. From this time he turned his mind to the consideration of his affairs with more earnestness than ever, and made every transaction with a degree of prudence and foresight that seemed to guarantee success in whatever he attempted. A deficient supply of flour caused him to venture a large shipment to Rio. The sale was at a handsomely remunerative profit, but the failure of his consignees, before the payment of his drafts for the proceeds, entirely prostrated him. So hopeless did the merchant consider his case, that he did not even make an effort to get temporary aid in his extremity. When the friend of Mr. Winslow came with the information that the house of Toledo & Co. had failed, the latter was searching about in his mind for the means of lifting about five thousand dollars worth of paper, which fell due on that day. He had two thousand dollars in bank; the balance of the sum would have to be raised by borrowing. He had partly fixed upon the resources from which this was to come, when the news of his ill-fortune arrived. Yes, it was ruin. Mr. Winslow saw that in a moment, and his hands fell powerless by his side. He made no further effort to lift his notes, but, after his mind had a little recovered from its first shock, he left his store and retired to his home, to seek in its quiet the calmness and fortitude, of which he stood so greatly in need. In this home were his wife and two daughters, who all their lives had enjoyed the many external comforts and elegancies that wealth can procure. The heart of the father ached as his eyes rested upon his children, and he thought of the sad reverses that awaited them. On entering his dwelling, Mr. Winslow sought the partner of his life, and communicated to her without reserve, the painful intelligence of his approaching failure. “Is it indeed so hopeless?” she asked, tears filling her eyes. “I am utterly prostrate!” was the reply, in a voice that was full of anguish. And in the bitterness of the moment, the unfortunate merchant wrung his hands.