Altogether, that old-fashioned dwelling looked as much out of place in that silent street of trade, as a person attired in the costume of the Revolution,--powdered wig, ruffled shirt, wide skirted coat, breeches and knee-buckles,--would look, surrounded by gentlemen attired in the business-like and practical costume of the present day. And while the monotonous edifices on either side, only spoke of Trade--the Rate of Exchange--the price of Dry Goods,--the old dwelling-house had something about it which breathed of the associations of Home. There had been marriages in that house, and deaths: children had first seen the light within its walls, and coffins, containing the remains of the fondly loved, had emerged from its wide hall door: dramas of every-day life had been enacted there: and there, perchance, had also been enacted one of those tragedies of every-day life which differ so widely from the tragedies of fiction, in their horrible truth. There was a story about the old dwelling which, as you passed it in the day-time, when it stood silent and deserted, while all around was deafening uproar, made your heart dilate with involuntary curiosity to know the history of the ancient fabric, and the history of those who had lived and died within its walls. Gaspar Manuel ascended the marble steps, and with the knocker sounded an alarm, which echoing sullenly through the lofty hall, was shortly answered by the opening of the door. In the light which flashed upon the pallid visage of Gaspar Manuel, appeared an aged servant, clad in gray livery faced with black velvet. "Take these letters to your master, and tell him that I am come," said Gaspar in a prompt and decided tone, marked, although but slightly, with a foreign accent. He handed a package to the servant as he spoke. "But how do you know that my master is at home?"--The servant shaded his eyes with his withered hand, and gazed hesitatingly into that strange countenance, so lividly pale, with eyes unnaturally bright and masses of waving hair, black as jet. "Ezekiel Bogart lives here, does he not?" "That is my master's name." "Take these letters to him then at once, and tell him I am waiting." Perchance the soft and musical intonations of the stranger's voice had its effect upon the servant, for he replied, "Come in, sir," and led the way into the spacious hall, which was dimly lighted by a hanging lamp of an antique pattern. "Step in there, sir, and presently I will bring you an answer."