The cradle came, all nicely packed and tucked in with its beautiful white quilt—and in Mr. Short popped it into the box—nailed down the cover with a flourish of triumph, and left it to the tender mercies of the cartman—thoroughly exhausted, and sick with his unusual exertions and the reaction of the tremendous excitement of the day. Knowing that it would be some hours before his wife and the lieutenant would reach home, he strolled, or rather tumbled, into an oyster-cellar, and ate his first meal that day. A glass of punch followed the oysters, and Mr. Short, quite refreshed, emerged from his subterranean paradise, just as the sun stepped across the Hudson and lay down for a nap in the Elysian Fields. Hastening to his new home in Dishwater Place, to see whether his wife and the big box had arrived in safety, he found Bridget busy as a certain personage in a gale of wind, patting things “to rights” in the most notable manner; but neither box nor wife had arrived. “Well, Bridget, how do you get along?” “Oh, purty well, I thank ye, Mister Short—but the cartman’s been here, and says the box is stuck fast in Chatham Street, and can’t be got out till morning. And here’s a letter, sir, came this few minutes gone.” The letter is short, but will materially assist in conducting us to the end of our short story. It was as follows: “My Dear Sir,—You know I never loved you, and you will not be surprised, therefore, to hear that I have concluded to accept the protection of Lieutenant Long through life. Pursuit will be quite in vain. Yours, truly, Julia.” “P. S. Remember me to Baby—take good care of the precious darling for my sake.” “The baby! Heavens and earth! Where _is_ the baby then? Bridget, didn’t your lady take the baby with her this morning?” “Oh no, sir—she took somebody she likes a great deal better than him, sir, I’m thinking.” “But where is the dear creature? tell me this instant!” shouted the now infuriated man. “Mercy, mercy, yer honor’s glory! But as I’m a livin’ sinner, it’s in the cradle, packed in the big box, that he is!” * * * * * MIDNIGHT, AND DAYBREAK. BY MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL. I.—MIDNIGHT.