Was it not far better, Ned thought, to be at home, singing with his mother their simple songs about the Good Shepherd, according to their wont in those evenings when he was at leisure from the office? The kettle used to join in with a will and make the duet a trio; the fire would roar it into a chorus; the monkey-stove would get red hot with sheer good will; his mother's face, usually so pale, would glow like a rosy girl's; the two-year-old sister would babble her admiration of the kerosene lamp. And he would feel that, being the only son of his mother and she a widow, he occupied a highly responsible and dignified position, and that it behooved him to be frugal and steady and sensible, and hard-working like a man, for his father, a Scotch emigrant, in dying had left his family quite alone in this western country. Thus Ned would infuse his importance into his quavering alto as he sang, until it seemed, to him and his mother at least, as sonorous and as grand as the biggest double bass. Ah,--surely, surely better these gentle innocent joys than any stolen pleasures. He began to think of trying to escape by the window at which he had entered. Then a frantic terror seized him. Was the man still lying there where he had been thrown? Ned had heard the heavy thud on the flagging of the alley,--had any one heard the man walk away? He had been severely beaten, and that, too, while intoxicated. He had been hurled out of the window,--a serious fall! Had he risen?--would he ever rise again? Ned began to shiver. He concluded to await the close of the performance and follow the employees out of the side door,--there must surely be some such exit if only he knew where to find it. He could not have explained why he was afraid to seek to escape by the window, but he said to himself that if the man had been killed by the fall he would not be the first to discover it. His own wrong-doing here to-night had made him sensitive to suspicion, for wrong-doing always fosters cowardice. A brave heart implies a clear conscience. He strove to pacify his impatience as he waited. "I was mighty sharp-set to come!" he said sarcastically. Once or twice he gave a sudden start and sat upright on the crimson cushions of the great luxurious chair. Once or twice shadows wavered across the brilliantly lighted stage,--he rubbed his eyes. The words he heard meant nothing; the figures he saw became grotesque, mingled, ill-defined. They were suddenly gone,--an interval,--an utter blank-- * * * * *