I was sitting, with a newspaper in my hand--not reading, but musing--at the "Sickle and Sheaf," late in the evening marked by the incidents just detailed. "Where's your mother?" I heard Simon Slade inquire. He had just entered an adjoining room. "She's gone out somewhere," was answered by his daughter Flora. "Where?" "I don't know." "How long has she been away?" "More than an hour." "And you don't know where she went to?" "No, sir." Nothing more was said, but I heard the landlord's heavy feet moving backward and forward across the room for some minutes. "Why, Ann! where have you been?" The door of the next room had opened and shut. "Where I wish you had been with me," was answered in a very firm voice. "Where?" "To Joe Morgan's." "Humph!" Only this ejaculation met my ears. But something was said in a low voice, to which Mrs. Slade replied with some warmth: "If you don't have his child's blood clinging for life to your garments, you may be thankful." "What do you mean?" he asked, quickly. "All that my words indicate. Little Mary is very ill!" "Well, what of it?" "Much. The doctor thinks her in great danger. The cut on her head has thrown her into a violent fever, and she is delirious. Oh, Simon! if you had heard what I heard to-night." "What?" was asked in a growling tone. "She is out of her mind, as I said, and talks a great deal. She talked about you." "Of me! Well, what had she to say?" "She said--so pitifully--'I wish Mr. Slade wouldn't look so cross at me. He never did when I went to the mill. He doesn't take me on his knee now, and stroke my hair. Oh, dear!' Poor child! She was always so good." "Did she say that?" Slade seemed touched. "Yes, and a great deal more. Once she screamed out, 'Oh, don't! don't, Mr. Slade! don't! My head! my head!' It made my very heart ache. I can never forget her pale, frightened face, nor her cry of fear. Simon--if she should die!" There was a long silence. "If we were only back to the mill." It was Mrs. Slade's voice. "There, now! I don't want to hear that again," quickly spoke out the landlord. "I made a slave of myself long enough." "You had at least a clear conscience," his wife answered. "Do hush, will you?" Slade was now angry. "One would think, by the way you talk sometimes, that I had broken every command of the Decalogue." "You will break hearts as well as commandments, if you keep on for a few years as you have begun--and ruin souls as well as fortunes." Mrs. Slade spoke calmly, but with marked severity of tone. Her husband answered with an oath, and then left the room, banging the door after him. In the hush that followed I retired to my chamber, and lay for an hour awake, pondering on all I had just heard. What a revelation was in that brief passage of words between the landlord and his excited companion! NIGHT THE FOURTH. DEATH OF LITTLE MARY MORGAN. "Where are you going, Ann?" It was the landlord's voice. Time--a little after dark.