Having deepened and settled this conviction upon his conscience-stricken dupe by a lengthened and grave silence, the Mayor added, consolingly: "In political life these things must be expected; of course no one is responsible for the casualties that may occur; no doubt this man was consumptive long before you ever saw him!" "I wish that he had never crossed my path, at any rate," replied the Alderman, almost sternly. "To my dying day I shall never forget that face! I do not know, I cannot think, how I was ever led into persecuting him. Smith wanted the appointment, true enough, and he had done something toward my election, but so had fifty others; how on earth did I ever come to take all this interest in his claim?" An expression that was almost a smile stole over the Mayor's lip, as he received this compliment to his consummate craft, and the two passed on. Meantime, the policeman returned from the Chief's office with a cloak, which was placed reverently over the body of poor Chester. The little girl crept close to the cart, and arranged the hair upon that cold forehead as the poor wife had loved to see it best. The cart moved on with its mournful lead, at last, and she followed after. How sad and heavy was that young creature's heart, as she drew near the once happy home! She began to weep as they stopped by the door. "Let me! oh, let me go up first. It will kill them to see him all of a sudden, in this way," she pleaded. The driver had lost much time, but he could not resist that touching appeal. "It is a dreadful thing," he said,--"let her go up first." Poor child! Heavy was her heart, and heavy was her step as she mounted the stairs. She paused at the door. Her hand trembled upon the latch; her strength was giving way before the terrible trial that awaited her. But, she heard them from below lifting in the dead. She heard the heavy cloak sweeping along the hall, and, wild with fear that it would all come upon poor Mrs. Chester while she was unprepared, she turned the latch and went in. The chamber was empty. Mary ran to the little bedroom. It was as still as a grave. The tumbled bed was unoccupied; the bed-clothes falling half upon the floor. Upon the stand was a glass of water, and a lump of ice lay near it. The loose night-dress which Mrs. Chester had worn, lay trailing across the door-sill, and a pillow rested upon the side of the bed, indented in the centre, as if some one sitting upon the floor had rested against it. When the three men came in, bearing Chester's body between them, Mary stood gazing upon this desolation in speechless and pale astonishment. "They are gone," she said, turning her wild eyes upon the men. "Some one must have told her what was coming, and she could not bear it." "No one here?" questioned one of the officers, "only this little girl to watch over him?--this is strange!" And the three men paused in the midst of the room, gazing upon each other over their mournful burden.