“Hush! Step in here; the cook is always prowling in and out of that room. That’s right. Shut the door. You were asking about news. Yes, indeed, that boy was arrested yesterday. This morning an officer is after the old woman—two of the Laurence family are in for it. As for that girl, Eva, I’m afraid we can’t fasten on her just yet.” “Oh, we can wait for her. Mrs. Lambert’s agent was here this morning about foreclosing a mortgage on the house. They haven’t kept up the interest. I don’t think she’d order them turned out, much as she hates them. So I told him she was sick; but I’d take up his message, which was to ask for directions. She was asleep on the sofa, so I told him that she was not well enough to talk about business, but wanted this troublesome mortgage closed up at once, without bothering her again about it.” “That was a ten strike,” said the admiring Robert. “So, when they get back from prison, their shanty will be gone, and we shall have rooted them out, trunk and branch. I’m sure that must satisfy Miss Spicer.” “Yes. If she don’t pay the five thousand down after that, she’s no lady.” “Which she is,” answered Ellen, with emphasis. “Why, the very last night, she, knowing what was between us, Mr. Mahone, gave me a white-silk dress, only twice worn, with real lace on the sleeves and bosom, and a wreath of white flowers, which she says are just as fashionable for brides as orange-blossoms, which she hasn’t had any use for as yet—more’s the shame to Mr. Ivon, who behaves as no gentleman has a right to.” “Well, no one can say that we haven’t done our share. When will she pay over, my dear?” questioned Mahone, drawing Ellen tenderly toward him. “Just as soon as we are married. I asked her, and she said that.” “She did? Well, well! When will that be? With the wedding dress all ready, we might have it in the basement-parlor, within a week.” “Oh, Mr. Mahone, think of it? I couldn’t. The cake—the invitations.” “Hang the cake! and as for inform——I beg pardon, invitations; the genteel thing is a strictly private wedding.” “A private wedding, and that dress? _Such_ a silk! You could almost stand it alone!” “Yes, yes, I know. But who does a bride dress for but her admiring husband? I shall worship you in that bridal robe and them flowers; but don’t ask me to share the beautiful sight with any other man. I couldn’t stand it, being that jealous.” “Oh, Mr. Mahone, I had so set my heart upon it.” “Not as I have set my heart on you, Ellen. Just a carriage, with you and your adorer in it, the white-silk dress a rustling around your lovely person, trimmed with flowers white. Well, yes, white, as bridal flowers ought to be.” “What! Without bridemaids?—without witnesses?” “My love, I have thought of that. There is my friend Boyce, a genteel fellow, in the grocery line, who has a sweetheart of his own, a Miss Gorman, splendid old Irish name; not to be compared with yours of course, but still respectable on a certificate, very.”