'Good-night' and 'good-bye.' These words, uttered by Alston Griswold to certain departing guests as he stood on the top of what is called in New York the stoop (equivalent to our steps) outside his open door, gave a fresh turn to the last proceedings of the evening. Good-bye? Why, of course, he was going to Europe the next day; most of them had forgotten that, and many of them thought it a favourable opportunity for cracking another bottle of champagne to wish their host health, happiness, and a safe voyage. Those wishes for the prosperity of others, which always increase in fervour with the advance of the night and the circulation of the wine, were mingled with the expression of hopes from some that Griswold would not remain away long; that he was a representative New Yorker, one of their merchant princes, and a thoroughly good fellow, and of fears from others lest when he did come back he should be spoiled and Europeanised, as was the case with too many of them; but none of these expressions of doubt were whispered above the speaker's breath, while all the good-byes and God-speeds were loud and protracted, so that a man of less genial and kindly impulses than Alston Griswold might have been excused in indulging in a little self-gratification at the esteem in which he was held, and the regrets of losing him which were so loudly manifested. The last guest had gone, and Griswold, after waving his farewell to them from the door, had turned back into the hall, when it suddenly struck him that his wife had not been present at these final joyous ceremonies. To stand well in her eyes, to have her as the mute witness of the honours paid him in acknowledgment of his social and commercial position, was his greatest pride, and he was vexed and angry to think that the warm compliments of which he had just been the recipient had been unheard by her. He looked into the supper-room, but she was not there; into the ball-room, and there he found her on a seat at the far end, listless and dejected. 'Helen, what ails you?' And all his anger vanished in an instant as she lifted up her eyes, and he saw they were filled with tears. 'Helen, my darling, what is the matter? Has anything happened?' 'Nothing, dear,' she said, in a low flat voice. 'Tell me, are the people all gone? every one, I mean? O, I am so glad!' 'You are over-fatigued, child, that is all,' said he, bending tenderly down to her. 'I wish it were all,' said Helen, rising and throwing herself into her husband's arms. 'I am so horribly wretched!' 'Wretched!' he repeated, with infinite tenderness. 'What makes you wretched, dear?' 'You do, and no one else. You are going to leave me, and it seems cruel and unkind of you.' 'My sweet Helen, those are very hard words, and--' 'I don't mean them harshly, Alston; but you have no idea how I dread your absence. If I have any influence with you, you will give up these plans and stay with me.'