The young man bent his head silently, he could not answer; then he turned for one last, wistful look at his darling, his pink Rose, as he had loved to call her. For the first time since their parting in the warm September dusk, their eyes met. “Louis!” her white arms went out to him with the cry, and with one step he was upon his knees beside her, and they were holding each other so closely, it seemed that death itself would have been powerless to part them. Another roar, another cry of “Randolph! Randolph!” and Louis rose to his feet. “I must go, darling,” he said; then, with his wistful eyes upon her father, “You will forgive me, sir. I could not help it; I have loved her all my life.” Still holding her lover’s hand, Pinkie stood up. “Papa,” she said, “I’m going to marry Louis. I don’t care if he _is_ a shoemaker! I’d marry him if he was a rag-picker.” “Your own education having especially fitted you for the pursuit of rags,” said Mr. Randolph. “But I’ve no time to discuss such folly now. Louis Metzerott, are you coming?” “I am coming,” said Louis. “Don’t be frightened, darling; there is no danger for me, and I will take care of your father.” “It is very bright here,” he said to Mr. Randolph, as they passed into the hall. “I think I would not let them see more of the house than could be helped. Some of them scarcely know what it is to have a roof over their heads; others are starving”— “Ah! I see,” said Henry Randolph; “turn down the gas, John.” In the new darkness, the lovers kissed each other again, then Louis placed the girl’s hand in Edgar Harrison’s. “Take care of her, doctor,” he said. Then the bolts rattled; the key turned; the heavy door swung back on its hinges just far enough to permit them to pass through; then, with a bang and jar, it closed behind them. Outside, in the red glare and dense smoke of the torches, the mob stood waiting. Most of them knew Henry Randolph by sight, yet such was the darkness that only the sound of his voice made them certain of their prey. As for the slighter, more youthful figure that stood beside him, whose fair hair had shone for an instant in the dim gaslight from the hall, not a man there doubted that Frank Randolph had chosen to share his father’s danger; and _one_ man felt that his hour of revenge had come. No one could ever guess, on such a night, and from such a throng, the source of a stray bullet; and he was certain of his aim. He had prepared himself for this moment; the weapon in his bosom was as familiar to his hand as the tools of his lawful trade. Fritz would be avenged, and Gretchen’s fair fame be all untouched. “Well, men,” said Henry Randolph, “I think I heard my name called; may I ask what I can do for you?” “Blank your impudence!” returned a rough voice; “you’ll soon find out what we want.” “Where’s my wife?” cried a thin, shrill voice, “where is Tina Kellar, you”—