“The letter,—do you choose to give it back?” “If, after reading it, I think proper to send it to its address, it shall be sent. Give yourself no further concern about it.” Mrs. Charlton advanced with folded arms, looked him unblenchingly in the face, and gasped forth, with a husky, half-chocked utterance, “Beware!” “Truly, madam,” said the astonished husband, “this is a new character for you to appear in, and one for which I am not prepared.” “It is for that reason I say, Beware! Beware when the tame, the submissive, the uncomplaining woman is roused at last. Will you give me that letter?” “Go to the Devil!” Mrs. Charlton threw out her hand and clutched at the manuscript, but her husband had anticipated the attempt. As she closed with him in the effort to recover the paper, he threw her off so forcibly that she fell and struck her head against one of the protuberant claws of the legs of her writing-table. Whatever were the effects of the blow, it did not prevent the lady from rising immediately, and composing her exuberant hair with a gesture of puzzled distress that would have excited pity in the heart of a Thug. But Charlton did not even inquire if she were hurt. After a pause she seemed to recover her recollection, and then threw up her head with a lofty gesture of resolve, and quitted the room. Her husband sat down and read the letter. His equanimity was unruffled till he came to the passage where the writer alludes to the gold casket she had put aside for little Clara. At that disclosure he started to his feet, and gave utterance to a hearty execration upon the woman who had presumed to circumvent him by withholding any portion of her effects. He opened the door and called, “Wife!” No voice replied to his summons. He sought her in her chamber. She was not there. She had left the house. So Dorcas, the one overworked domestic of the establishment, assured him. Charlton saw there was no use in scolding. So he put on his hat and walked down Broadway to his office. Here he wrote a letter which he wished to mail before one o’clock. It was directed to Colonel Delaney Hyde, Philadelphia. Having finished it and put it in the mail-box, Charlton took his way at a brisk pace to the house of old Toussaint. That veteran himself opened the door. A venerable black man, reminding one of Ben Franklin in ebony. His wool was gray, his complexion of the blackest, showing an unmixed African descent. He was of middling height, and stooped slightly; was attired in the best black broadcloth, with a white vest and neckcloth, and had the manners of a French marquis of the old school. “Is my wife here?” asked Charlton. “Madame is here,” replied the old man; “but she suffers, and prays to be not disturbed.” “I must see her. Conduct me to her.” “_Pardonnez._ Monsieur will comprehend as I say the commands of Madame in this house are sacred.” “You insolent old nigger! Do you mean to tell me I am not to see my own wife?”