“Yes, sir--blank.” At the word blank, the disappointed footman poured forth a volley of oaths, declaring that he should be in jail before night; to all which the lottery-office keeper only answered, “I can’t help it, sir; I can’t help it. It is not my fault. Nobody is forced to put into the lottery, sir. Nobody’s obliged to insure, sir. ‘Twas your own choice, sir. Don’t blame me.” Meanwhile, a person behind the footman, repeating the words he had addressed to the poor woman, cried, “You have your answer, sir; don’t stop the way.” Maurice was particularly struck with the agitated countenance of one man, who seemed as if the suspense of his mind had entirely bereaved him of all recollection. When he was pressed forward by the crowd, and found himself opposite to the clerk, he was asked twice, “What’s your business, sir?” before he could speak; and then could only utter the words--number 7? “Still in the wheel,” was the answer. “Our messenger is not yet returned from Guildhall, with news of what has been drawn this last hour. If you will call again at three, we can answer you.” The man seemed to feel this as a reprieve; but as he was retiring, there came one with a slip of paper in his hand. This was the messenger from Guildhall, who handed the paper to the clerk. He read aloud, “Number 7. Were you not inquiring for 7, sir?” “Yes,” said the pale trembling man. “Number 7 is just come up, sir,--a blank.” At the fatal word blank, the man fell flat upon his face in a swoon. Those near him lifted him out into the street, for air. “Here, sir; you are going without your change, after waiting for it so long,” cried the clerk to Maurice; who, touched with compassion for the man who had just fallen, was following those who were carrying him out. When he got into the street, Maurice saw the poor creature sitting on a stone, supported by a hackney-coachman, who held some vinegar to his nose, at the same time asking him if he did not want a coach? “A coach! Oh, no,” said the man, as he opened his eyes. “I have not a farthing of money in the world.” The hackney-coachman swore that was a sad case, and ran across the street to offer his services where they could be paid for: “A coach, if you want one, sir. Heavy rain coming on,” said he, looking at the silver which he saw through the half-closed fingers of Maurice’s hand. “Yes, I want a coach,” said Maurice: and bade the coachman draw up to the stone, where the poor man who had swooned was sitting. Maurice was really a good-natured fellow; and he had peculiar pity for the anguish this man seemed to feel, because he recollected what he had suffered himself, when he had been ruined at the gaming-table. “You are not able to walk: here is a coach; I will go your way and set you down, sir,” said Maurice.