Harrington meanwhile, up after four hours’ sleep, was closeted with Captain Fisher, telling him his night’s adventure, the astounded Captain swearing tobacco at every pause in the narrative, with his head all askew, like a marine raven who had been taught nothing but imprecations on slavery and slaveholders. Wentworth, exhausted by his night of suffering, had gone down to his studio, and lay there asleep on a sofa, pale and haggard, in the dim-pictured, shadowy room. Among the paintings and sketches around the chamber, was one canvas with its face turned to the wall. It was the unfinished portrait of Emily. On the easel, illumined by the pale slanting light from the single unshaded window, was the canvas which held, sketched in in dead colors, the Death of Attucks. Vaguely through its confused gloom, loomed one dark figure with arm uplifted in menace and defiance. Emily had appeared at the breakfast-table, calm and pale, with dark circles around the dimmed lustre of her eyes. To Mrs. Eastman’s anxious inquiries, she had simply pleaded indisposition, and after the meal, at which Muriel alone, paler than usual, was chatty and gay, she had retired to her room to collect her thoughts for the coming hour of confession and departure. Muriel, sinking from her assumed gaiety into sobriety, went to market near by in Mount Vernon street, returned in a few minutes, and, sitting alone in the library, resolutely shut out all thought for the present regarding the mysterious complication of affairs, and resumed the studies she had begun before breakfast, bent on pursuing them till Harrington came to go with her to Southac street. In the mean time things had come to a pretty pass in the private counting-room of Mr. Atkins’s office on Long Wharf. “Yes, sir, things have come to a pretty pass when such an infernal rascal undertakes to let a black beggar loose from aboard my brig,” foamed Captain Bangham, red with passion, and pounding the desk with his fist. The merchant sat in an arm-chair near the desk, looking at the captain, with iron-clenched jaws, his eyes sparkling with rage in his set blanched face. “If I ever heard of such a thing in all my life, Bangham!” he exclaimed, slapping both arms of his chair with his palms, and glaring all around the little mahogany-furnished office. “But where were you when this was done?”