"Yes," said the Mayor, lighting a cigar, "the mortality has been very great at Bellevue, especially among the young doctors. They are peculiarly exposed, however." "I should think," said the stranger, laying down his cigar, for he could not find the heart to smoke quietly, when conversing on a subject so painful, "I should suppose it would be difficult to find persons ready to meet almost certain death, as these young men are sure to do. It must be a painful task to you, sir, when you sign their appointments. It would seem to me like attaching my name to a death warrant." "Yes," replied the Mayor, taking out his cigar and examining the end, for it did not burn readily; "it is very disagreeable. Why, sir, the city has paid, already, nearly five hundred dollars for funeral expenses; and there is no knowing how far it may be carried." The stranger looked up in surprise; he could not believe that he had heard aright--that the Mayor of New York was absolutely counting, as a subject of regret, the funeral cost attending the death of those brave young men who had perished amid the pestilence, more bravely a thousand times, than warriors that fall on the battle-field. But as he was about to speak again, several aldermen who still lingered at the table, called loudly for the Mayor. "I say," said the Alderman, who has been particularly presented to the reader, leaning over the back of his chair, with a glass of wine in one hand--"I say, have you settled that Chester yet? My man is getting impatient." "Hush!" said his honor; "not so loud, my good friend. Bring in the nomination to-morrow--I gave Chester his quietus this afternoon." And so he had; for while this scene was going on at the City Hall, the two pictures we have given, were stamped upon the eternal pages of the Past, and so was this. CHAPTER XI. CHESTER'S HOME IN THE MORNING It is dancing--dancing--dancing, Oh, the little purplish sprite! Now moving, shining, glancing Through the mazes of the light. The grey morning dawned gloomily on Chester's desolated home. Isabel awoke and looked around with dull and heavy eyes. The beauty of her young face was clouded by a night of sharp anxiety and broken rest. Mary sat opposite, leaning with both elbows on the table, and regarding the poor child with a haggard and sorrowful countenance. "Has he not come back--oh, Mary, is he not here yet?" Mary shook her head. "I have been awake all night, every moment. He has not come!" "And I--how could I sleep with my poor father away, and mamma so ill? I did not think that anything could make me sleep at such a time, Mary!" "But, you were so tired; oh, I was glad when your head drooped on the table; it looked so pitiful to see you growing paler and paler, while she kept muttering to herself. I was glad that you could sleep at all, Isabel."