Their steps echo faintly from the entry. Then the faint sound produced by the careful closing of the street door is heard. A pause of one or two minutes. Hark! The rolling of carriage wheels. All is still as death throughout the mansion and the street on which it fronts. Hours pass away, and once more the street door is unclosed, and carefully closed again. A step echoes faintly through the hall,--very faintly,--and yet it can be heard distinctly, so profound is the stillness which reigns throughout the mansion. It ascends the marble staircase, and is presently heard crossing the threshold of the bed-chamber. A pause ensues, and the taper in front of the mirror is lighted again, and a faint ray steals through the chamber. EUGENE LIVINGSTONE stands in front of the mirror. He flings his cloak on a chair, dashes his cap from his brow, and wipes the sweat from his forehead,--although he has just left the air of a winter night, his forehead is bathed in moisture. His slender frame shakes as with an ague-chill. His eyes are unnaturally dilated; the white of the eyeball may be plainly traced around the pupil of each eye. His lips are pressed together, and yet they quiver, as if with deathly cold. He does not utter a single ejaculation. A letter is in his right hand, neatly folded and scented with _pachouli_. It bears the name "_Joanna_," as a superscription. He opens it and reads its contents, traced in a delicate hand-- JOANNA-- _To-night,--at Twelve_.--THE TEMPLE. BEVERLY. Having read the brief letter, the husband draws another from a side-pocket: "There may be a mistake about the handwriting," he murmurs, "let us compare them." The second letter is addressed to "EUGENE LIVINGSTONE, ESQ.," and its contents, which the husband traces by the light of the taper, are as follows: _New York, Dec._ 23, 1844. DEAR EUGENE:--Sorry to hear that you have such sad news from Boston. Must you go to-night? Send me word and I'll try to go with you. Thine, ever, BEVERLY BARRON. Long and intently, the husband compared these two letters. His countenance underwent many changes. But there could be no doubt of it--both letters were written by the same hand. "He wrote to me early this morning, and to my wife about an hour afterward,--as soon as he received my answer. I found the letter to her upon the floor of this chamber, only two hours ago." He replaced both letters in his vest pocket. Then taking the taper, he bent his steps toward the room at the head of the marble staircase. The young nurse was fast asleep on the couch, near the cradle. Eugene bent over the cradle. Resting its rosy cheek on its bent arm, the child was sleeping there, its auburn hair still tangled about its forehead. He could not help pressing his lips to that forehead, and a tear--the only tear that he shed--fell from his hot eye-ball, and sparkled like a pearl upon the baby's cheek.