"Dead!" said Captain Lovelace, in a kind of whisper. "Dead!" The color all went out of his face, and he had his hand on the counter as if to sustain himself. "Even so," said Rebecca, calmly. "She passed away at day dawn, praying for forgiveness to her murderers with her latest breath, if that be any comfort to them." Captain Lovelace did not look as though it were any comfort to him. I never saw a more horrified face. He stood looking at Rebecca as though she held the gorgon's head in her hand instead of a bottle of lavender water. "Well, well, my good woman, we do not wish to hear her funeral sermon. You may tell Mrs. Thorpe from me that if she expects the patronage of ladies of fashion, she must not make her house an asylum for ranters. She will not find her account in it, as I for one shall withdraw my custom." Now Rebecca was a little deaf, and, like some others in the same case, she could make her deafness serve her turn when she did not wish to hear or to understand. She did so in this instance. "Account—didst thou wish for thy account? Oh yes, I can give it thee at once," said she, and, opening a drawer, she drew forth a formidable looking paper of several pages. "Friend Thorpe has had it ready for several days. Perhaps thou wouldst like to take it home and look it over, or if thou dost prefer, I can send it to thy husband." "Pshaw!" said Lady Throckmorton. "The woman is deaf and stupid as a post. Captain Lovelace, will you come home and dine with us, or shall I set you down any where?" "Your ladyship must excuse me," said Captain Lovelace. "I—I am too disordered to be fit company for your ladyship. I feel myself very unwell." And, not even waiting to hand her ladyship to her carriage, as she evidently expected, he pulled his hat over his brows and walked away. That very afternoon, Mr. Cheriton received a twenty-pound note, with an anonymous request that he would apply it to the funeral expenses of Mrs. Edwards, and give the remainder, if any, to her husband. The next day, the town was ringing with the news that Captain Lovelace and some other gentleman, after a deep carouse, had fallen out over the gaming table, had fought a duel at daybreak, and were both lying dangerously wounded—Captain Lovelace probably fatally so. Truly the sorrow of the world worketh death. He did not die, however. After a very long and tedious illness, he was able to be abroad once more, and for the rest of his life, was as remarkable for sobriety and earnestness as he had formerly been for the reverse.