“Not on you, my dear Mrs. McBrain—never a syllable on _you_. But go on, child; I have had the case of one of these vagrant wives in my hands, and know how mistaken has been the disposition to pity her. Men lean to the woman’s side; but the frequency of the abuse is beginning to open the eyes of the public. Go on, Anna dear, and let us hear it all—or all you have to tell us.” Very little remained to be related. Marie Moulin, herself, knew very little of that which had occurred since her separation from her present mistress in France. She did make one statement, however, that Anna had deemed very important; but which she felt bound to keep as a secret, in consequence of the injunctions received from the Swiss. “I should have a good deal to say about this affair,” observed Dunscomb, when his beautiful companion was done, “did I believe that we shall find Mary Monson on our return to my house. In that case, I should say to you, my dear widow—Mrs. McBrain, I mean—the devil take that fellow Ned, he’ll have half the women in town bearing his name before he is done—Well, Heaven be praised! he can neither marry _me_, nor give me a step-father, let him do his very best. There’s comfort in that consideration, at any rate.” “You were about to tell us what you would do,” put in the bride, slightly vexed, yet too well assured of the counsellor’s attachment to her husband to feel angry—“you must know how much value we all give to your advice.” “I was about to say that Anna should not return to this mysterious convict—no, she is not _yet_ convicted, but she is indicted, and that is something—but return she should not, were there the least chance of our finding her, on our return home. Let her go, then, and satisfy her curiosity, and pass the night with Sarah, who must be through with her first nap by this time.” Anna urged her mother to consent to this arrangement, putting forward her engagement with Mary Monson, not to desert her. McBrain driving to the door, from paying his last visit that night, his wife gave her assent to the proposition; the tenderest mother occasionally permitting another and more powerful feeling to usurp the place of maternal care. Mrs. McBrain, it must be admitted, thought more of the bridegroom, sixty as he was, than of her charming daughter; nor was she yet quite free from the awkwardness that ever accompanies a new connection of this nature when there are grown-up children; more especially on the part of the female. Then Anna had communicated to her mother a most material circumstance, which it does not suit our present purpose to reveal. “Now for a dozen pair of gloves that we do not find Mary Monson,” said the lawyer, as he walked smartly towards his own residence, with Anna Updyke under his arm. “Done!” cried the young lady—“and you shall _pay_ if you lose.”