Lady Tryon pushed her way forward in the gallery that she might be as near as possible to the table. Harry had to leave her. He went round into the centre space, and stood under the part of the gallery where she at length found a seat. With trembling hands, Lady Tryon sat with the numbers of her tickets before her. She kept those also which she professed to give to Harry. As the numbers were loudly proclaimed a change came over the countenance of the eager spectators. When the tickets turned up blanks a look of satisfaction beamed on the faces of all, except the unhappy holder of the number, whereas when a prize was announced, each one present felt that his or her chance was lessened of obtaining the wished-for wealth. Sometimes a _groan_ of despair succeeded the drawing of a number. To purchase that number yon wretched man has been hoarding perhaps for months past, nearly starving himself and those dependent on him, or may be he has been robbing his employer, intending to repay when he should become the possessor of the mighty prize which has been the dream of his midday thoughts and nightly slumbers for so many weeks past. Occasionally, at small intervals, shouts arose from a small group--they had divided the sixteenth part of a ticket among them, and it had turned up a prize. They might be seen shaking hands and laughing strangely, and running into each other's arms, as their feelings prompted them. Too probably, however, the greater part of the amount would be spent in other tickets, to turn up blanks. A young man was there standing near Harry with haggard countenance, his eager eye fixed on the wheels. A number was cried out. He gazed at a paper before him and ran out, frantically striding his forehead. A pistol shot was heard outside the hall, but the sound scarcely moved one of the eager crowd. Harry afterwards heard that the young man had shot himself, utterly ruined. Such has been the fate of many a man after losing his all at a gambling-house. Such in reality was the use to which the Guildhall of London was at that time put. As the numbers were called out, Harry guessed by the expression of Lady Tryon's countenance that one after the other of those she held in her hand had turned up blanks. Even the rouge on her cheeks could not conceal the deadly pallor which was creeping over her countenance. Her hands trembled more and more. She dropped paper after paper. At length she held but one in her hand. Some hours had already passed since they entered the hall: no wonder that she was fatigued. Each time another number was called out she glanced at her paper. And now, in the same indifferent voice as before, the crier announced another number. A piercing shriek was heard. "The old lady has fainted!" cried some of the females in the gallery near her, and Harry saw his grandmother falling back from her chair. "Help! help!" was cried. "She is dying!"