For three hours, while the candle burned toward its socket, she meditated upon the contents of that letter. At last she rose, and took from a closet near the door, a mantilla of black velvet, the only garment which the pawnbroker had spared. It was old and faded; it was the only relic of better days. She resumed her bonnet and wound the mantilla about her shoulders and kissed her IDIOT FATHER on the lips and brow. He had fallen into a dull, dreamless sleep, and looked like a dead man with his fallen lip and half-shut eyes. "'THE TEMPLE!'" she exclaimed and attentively perused the card. Then extinguishing the candle, she wound a coverlet about her father's form and left him there alone in the garret. She passed the threshold and went down the marble stairs. God pity her. Yes, God pity her! CHAPTER III. "DO THEY ROAR?" At nine o'clock, on the night of December 23d, 1844,---- "Do they roar?" said Israel Yorke, passing his hand through his gray whiskers, as he sat at the head of a large table covered with green baize. It was in a large square room, on the second story of his Banking House--if Israel's place of business can be designated by that name. The gas-light disclosed the floor covered with matting, and the high walls, overspread with lithographs of unknown cities and imaginary copper-mines. There were also three lithographs of the towns in which Israel's principal Banks were situated. There was Chow Bank and Muddy Run, and there in all its glory was Terrapin Hollow. In each of these distant towns, located somewhere in New Jersey or Pennsylvania--or Heaven only knows where--Israel owned a Bank, a live Bank, chartered by a State Legislature, and provided with a convenient President and Cashier. Israel was a host of stockholders in himself. He had an office in New York for the redemption of the notes of the three Banks; it is in the room above this office that we now behold him. "Do they roar?" he asked, and arranged his spectacles on his turn up nose, and grinned to himself until his little black eyes shone again. "Do they roar?" answered the voice of Israel's man of business, who sat at the lower end of the green baize table--"Just go to the window and hear 'em! Hark! There it goes again. It sounds like fourth of July." Truth to say, a strange ominous murmur came from the street--a murmur composed of about an equal quantity of curses and groans. "There's six thousand of 'em," said the man of business; "The street is black with 'em. And all sorts o' nasty little boys go about with placards on which such words are inscribed: '_Here's an orphan--one o' them that was cheated by Israel Yorke and his Three Banks._' Hark! There it goes again!"