The famous Uncle Tom had recently issued from the Boston press, and begun its illustrious journey through Christendom. Muriel handed the two volumes to Roux, who took them timidly, with a low bow, immensely gratified. The napkined meat and pie, she had already laid on the table, with the package of baby-clothes. “And that’s all,” said Muriel, arranging the remaining contents of the basket under the fond eyes of Harrington. “The other things are for our Irish cousins in North Russell Street. You, John, shall carry the basket out to the carriage. Now let’s go.” “Miss Eas’man,” said Roux, “I’m so much obliged”— “Never mind, Mr. Roux,” interrupted Muriel, smiling gaily, “I see all that. Good bye.” She stooped to kiss the children, then with a curtsey, glided from the room. Roux, timidly rubbing his hands one within another, bowed after her, almost servile in his reverence. Tugmutton, severely dignified, and swelling like the frog that tried to be an ox, with the proud consciousness that something great had been done, and that it was all due to him, stood in the centre of the floor, with the baby clasped against his shoulder, and serenely waved his big paw in token of his distinguished consideration. Emily smiled at him, and bowing to Roux, swept with a rich rustle of silk after Muriel, followed by Harrington with the basket. The Captain lingered to bounce up Tom and Josey once apiece to the ceiling, and to poke Roux in the ribs with an anti-slavery forefinger, and then, shaking his fist at the grinning Tugmutton, departed also. CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW OF THE HUNTER. Muriel and Emily were sitting on the back seat of the carriage as the Captain came down Roux’s steps, nodding as he passed, and went down the street alone. “Driver, North Russell street, and walk the horses,” said Harrington, leaping in on the front seat, beside the basket. The carriage immediately set off as directed, and Harrington, leaning forward, took Emily’s gloved hands in his, and looked fervently into her beautiful face. Emily did not turn away this time, but forgetting that she thought him her lover, in her perception of an expression which recalled the look he had flashed at her in the room a few moments before, gazed anxiously with a vague tremor into his countenance, in which the winged nostrils were lifting. “What is it, Harrington?” she faltered; “I’m afraid I have done something wrong, though”— “No, dear Emily,” interrupted Harrington; “nothing wrong. Only unfortunate. You spoke from impulse; but it would have been better not to have said what you did before Roux.” “I understand,” she replied, hurriedly. “I have raised hopes which may never be gratified. Heaven forgive me! O how thoughtless it was!” Muriel put one arm around her, and looked into her face, with tender sympathy.