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“I wonder if she has any property of his in her hands?” queried the gambler.

“Why?”

“Why?–Why because I’ll have my own out of it if she has. I have his note, payable in a week, for money lent; and if he has got a dollar here, I’ll have it.”

“You’ll not turn his wife out of doors, will you?”

“Will I?”–and his face grew dark with evil thoughts.–“Will I?–yes!–what care I for the whining wench! I’ll see her to-morrow, and know what we have both to expect.”

“Coulson!” said the clerk, in an excited but firm voice–“You shall not trouble that helpless, unfortunate woman!”

“Shall not? ha! Pray, Mr. Sympathy, and how can you hinder me?”

“Look you to that, sir. I act, you know, not threaten.”

The gambler’s face grew darker, but the clerk turned away with a look of contempt, and resumed his employment.

That night he sought the dwelling of Mrs. Warburton. He found her boarding at a respectable house on–street. He named his business at once, and warned her not to allow herself to get in the power of Coulson, who was a gambler, and an abandoned villain.

When he understood her real situation–that she was in debt for board, and without a dollar, forsaken of her husband, and among strangers, his heart ached for her. Himself but on the salary of a clerk, he could give little or no assistance. But advice and sympathy he tendered, and requested her to call on him at any time, if she thought that he could aid her. A kind word, a sympathising tone, is, to one in such a sad condition, like gentle dews to the parched ground.

“Above all,” was his parting admonition, “beware of Coulson! He will injure your character if he can. Do not see him. Forbid the servants to admit him. He will, if he fixes his heart upon seeing you, leave no stone unturned to accomplish it. But waver not in your determination. And be sure to let me know if he persecutes you too closely. Be resolute, and fear not. I know the man, and have crossed his path ere this. And he knows me.”

Early on the next day, Coulson called, and with the most insinuating address, asked to see Mrs. Warburton.

“Ask him to send up his name,” was Mrs. W.’s reply to the information of the servant, that a gentleman wished to speak to her.

“Coulson,” was returned.

“Tell him that I cannot see him.”

To this answer he sent back word that his business was important and urgent.

“Tell him that I cannot see him,” was the firm reply.

Coulson left the house, baffled for once. The next day he called, and sent up another name.

“He is the same person who called himself ‘Coulson’ yesterday,” said the servant to Mrs. W.

“Tell him that I cannot be seen.”

“I’ll match the huzzy yet!” he muttered to himself as he left the house.

It now became necessary for Mrs. Warburton to rally all the energies of her nature, feeble though they were, and yet untried. The rate of boarding which she was required to pay, was much beyond what she could now afford. At first she nearly gave up to despair. Thus far in life, she had never earned a single dollar, and, from her earliest recollection, the thought of working for money seemed to imply degradation. But necessity soon destroys false pride. Her greatest concern now was, what she should do for a living. She had learned to play on the piano, to draw and paint, and had practised embroidery. But in all these she had sought only amusement. In not a single one of them was she proficient enough to teach. Fine sewing she could not do. Her dresses had all been made by the mantua-maker, and her fine sewing by the family sempstress. She had been raised in idle pleasure–had spent her time in thrumming on the piano, making calls, tripping about the streets, and entertaining company.