A quiet little apartment, lighted by a hanging lamp, whose mild beams softened the glare of the rich scarlet hangings. There was a sofa covered with red velvet, a table, on which stood a bottle, with two long necked glasses, and from an interval in the hangings, gleamed the vision of a snow-white couch. Altogether, a place worthy the private devotions of Leo the Tenth, or of any gentleman of his exquisite taste, and eccentric piety. "What's the matter child? You're pale, and have been crying,--" exclaimed Bulgin, as he bore her over the threshold, and paused for a moment to gaze upon her face, which was bare to the light, the cap having fallen from her brow. As he spoke his back was to the sofa. "There," was the only word which she had power to frame, and bursting into tears, she pointed over his shoulders to the sofa. Somewhat surprised, Dr. Bulgin turned on his heel, the white plumes nodding over his bulky face, and,---- There are some scenes which must be left to the imagination. On the sofa, sat three grave gentlemen, clad in solemn black, their severe features, rendered even more stern and formal, by the relief of a white cravat. Each of these gentlemen held his hat in one hand, and in the other a cane, surmounted by a head of white bone. As Bulgin turned, the three gentlemen quietly rose, and said politely, with one voice: "Good morning Dr. Bulgin." And then as quietly sat down again. The Doctor looked as though he had been lost in a railroad collision. He was paralyzed. He had not even the presence of mind, to release the grasp which gathered the young form of his lovely nephew to his side. The exact position of affairs, at this crisis, will be better understood, when you are informed, that in these three gentlemen, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin recognized Mr. Watkins, Mr. Potts, and Mr. Burns, the leading members, perchance Deacons of his wealthy congregation. The one with the slight form, and short stiff gray, hair,--Watkins. Mr. Potts, is a small man, with a bald head, and the slightest tendency in the world to corpulence. Mr. Burns is tall and lean, with angular features, and an immense nose. Altogether, as grave and respectable men as you will meet in a day's walk, from Wall Street, to the head of Broadway. But what do they in the TEMPLE, at any time, but especially at this unusual hour? That was precisely the question which troubled Bulgin. "W-e-l-l Gentle-m-e-n," he said, not exactly knowing what else to say. To which they all responded with a singular unanimity,--"W-e-l-l D-o-c-t-o-r!" "Did not I,--did not I,--tell,--tell you not to come in here?" sobbed the nephew,--that is Julia. Mr. Watkins arose and passed his hand through his stiff gray hair,-- "Allow me to compliment you upon the becoming character of your costume!" and sat down again. Then Mr. Potts, whose bald head shone in the light as he rose,--