"I have long been thinking of having a talk with you, Stephen, and I feel now is the time," said Mrs. Montgomery, in confidential tone, yet betraying some hesitation. "We all know Stephen, that your family is living beyond your means, and that you are robbing yourself of health, strength and peace of mind to keep up an extravagant appearance. I ask you if that is right?"

"Hester, it is this that is killing me by inches, yet I cannot prevent it. What can I do? I cannot breast the current that is carrying along everything with it in maddening fury. One day I must make the plunge!"

Mr. Verne buried his face in his hands and wept like a child, while Mrs. Montgomery sat motionless, her eyes fixed upon the quaintly carved case of the eight day clock, whose solemn tick made the stillness more oppressive.

Mrs. Montgomery was the first to speak. "Stephen, it is not too late to straighten up matters. Take my advice, and if you are not more prosperous a year hence I will give you the deed of 'Gladswood.'--a present on your next birthday."

Mr. Verne forced a smile, and grasping the woman's hand, exclaimed, "Hester, you are, indeed, a friend in the hour of need. I feel stronger already."

"It is growing late, Stephen, and you need rest; we will talk over the matter to-morrow," and bidding good-night, Mrs. Montgomery arose and retired to her own apartments, while Mr. Verne sat buried in thought until the clock struck the hour of midnight; then slowly he arose, and, with languid step, turned a sad face towards the door, musing, "It is all sent for some good. Teach me, oh God, to see things as I ought."

CHAPTER XXIII.

MRS. MONTGOMERY'S IDEAS OF SOCIETY, ETC.

Next morning Mr. Verne was astir at a very early hour. The rest of the household apparently wrapped in deep slumber, while the wearied man of business sat at his desk, his features fixed and immovable as the bronze productions of the inimitable Lysippus who had won the favor of the Great Alexander.

Scratch! scratch! scratch! went the pen over the lines with inconceivable rapidity, the writer occasionally glancing over his left arm at the document he was copying. The tortoise-shell cat sat at her master's feet with an air of self-importance and a look which seemed to say, "woe be to him who dare to drive me hence."

But there was another within the walls of Sunnybank who was also awake--Mrs. Montgomery.

She leaned on the side of her couch and listened to the faint sound that at intervals came from the office: "Well, well; what will be the end God alone knows! Matilda Verne, you will one day see the fruits of your folly and taste them in all their bitterness!"

"I must divert him from such work. It is killing the man by inches; surely there is some way out of the difficulty--where there's a will there's a way.'"

Mrs. Montgomery said the last words with a will--aye, with the spirit of a Leonidas, and hastily arranging her toilet descended to the silent, deserted parlors. She evinced no surprise when confronted by Mr. Verne. She had been calmly awaiting his presence.