"Oh! Zulette, Zulette," and as she spoke the great tears rolled down the cheeks, "You have now done all that He requires; have given your heart to Him; asked Him to save. And see! He's coming. There is no form that I can clearly fix my eyes upon, but the power is descending to rest on you. Oh! Zulette," and here the voice was as of æolian music chiming through the night, "make ready for the bridegroom. He is coming to fill you with Himself. Hear what he says, "Though your sins are as scarlet they shall be white as wool. Come unto Me, all ye who weary and are heavy laden, and ye shall find rest for your souls.' Only believe. Only take Him at His word. Only give your heart away."

A tender silence reigned. Without the moon was shining over broad, snow-covered fields, as if on beds of frosted silver. The maiden twined her pure arms around the neck of the quadroon and whispered, "Come nurse, rise and kneel. You are now in the dark valley. Beyond it shines the sun. Come, nurse, your sins have gathered together to keep the Savior out, but your heart is ready to receive Him. Cry, Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly.'"

Like some wan shape, who, buried in a trance that men mistook for death, yet feels that all is not dead, and half revives, with heaving chest and tingling limbs, to burst its coffin lid, to tear from its face the close, confining bandages, and then, still immured within the vaulted grave-chamber, to cry for one to unbolt those ponderous doors and lead her out to friends, and tender kisses, and sweet air and genial, refreshing heat,-the pallid woman, rising as it seemed. within herself, cried aloud, "Oh, God of Mercy, I give myself to Thee! Drive away my sins; pardon me; give me peace!"

Suddenly, as when iron vault doors are unbolted, and the husband enters to the fair girl who is his bride, whom Death had seemed to claim, and who had been buried from his

sight, and lifts her from the broken casket where earth's beauty is all hid away at last to mingle with the elements,and calls her his own, and bears her in his manly arms, and soothes her still with gentle kisses, and whispered words of peace, till her own home receives her to its bliss,—so came the Viewless One, the latchets of whose shoes we are not worthy to unloose. So, clasping in spirit that broken-hearted penitent, He took her to Himself. He claimed her soul.

"The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou canst not tell whence it cometh nor whither it goeth; so is every one that is born of the Spirit."

A smile of heavenly rapture rested upon the uplifted face of the mourner; the heart, a moment since one tumult of remorse and fear, grew preternaturally still. Charity, who knelt by her, partially supporting the exhausted frame, at length arose and murmured words of thanksgiving. Still as was the night, if Holy Oracles are true, melodious bliss reigned far above us. Is there not joy in Heaven among the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth?

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE BROADWAY CHAMPAGNE CELLAR.

Under a massive warehouse where fashionable ladies, waited on by obsequious clerks, beheld the richest of Parisian goods spread out for their inspection, its character indicated without by a flaming, transparent sign of many colors, gay nymphs of the pavé, prowling after nightfall for their prey, entering not by the broad staircase on the main throughfare but from a side street, found sumptuous supper rooms at their command. Loathing to breathe for a moment this polluted air, we must nevertheless point out at least one scene transpiring on a March night within its precincts.

The theatres are out. The last loaded omnibuses rattle past. The good, the virtuous, the industrious, if abroad at this late hour, plod hastily to their homes. A drowsy policeman may be seen here and there, his profession denoted by a star.

The windows of the establishment, partially hidden by the pavement, reveal nevertheless a tempting display of meats and wines, while huge baskets of oysters loll upon the iron steps or half lean against the pillars. A large screen within, covered with play bills, is so arranged that while the tippling bar, with its brilliant array of cut glass decanters and shining goblets and seductive paintings, shall invite the passer-by, the persons of those partaking of its beverages may yet be concealed.

Within we find an open saloon, one side divided into little stalls, each arranged with cushioned seats and a marble

table in the center, and heavily curtained to seclude the guests. A youthful Israelite, as betokened by beaked nose. and dark eyes, is compounding steaming punches while we enter. The place reeks with tobacco and the huge spittoons swim with saliva or are choked with remnants of cigars.

A richly dressed female cautiously draws a curtain which seems suspended over the doorway at the remote end of the long apartment. Her bold, flashing eyes dart a searching glance. The door is slightly ajar. She beckons to the bar-keeper. We must listen to their colloquy.

"Who are the three men whom you are mixing those toddies for? I saw them enter but did not make out fully who they were."

"Thieves on a lay. One of them weak on his pins; the others in prime condition."

"How do you know they are on a lay?"

Here the toddy mixer grinned and crooked his finger and with it drew down the under lid of the sinister eye till the whitish yellow ball stared from its place, before he answered, "That's a professional secret, gall. They are old stagers, flush. Who have you got in number three ?"

"A jewsharp. Didn't you hear me play him down the stairs? He's a raw boy from up the river. His daddy sent him with a load of poultry and I've sweetened his lemonade for him. Send in raw oysters and a bottle of champagne."

While this dialogue takes place, cautiously peer, good reader, through this red curtain. You have seen the gentlemen before. The one with the jug of punch and the oyster stew was called when we met him last Col. Tofton. They address him as Gooseneck, this being a professional soubriquet. Those opposite, their faces in the shadow, though now with beard and whiskers colored differently from when we saw them last, are the murderer's associates,

Cunning Joe and Handy Ben, each with a steaming glass before him. Major Chelmsford is known by the name of Tim Malmsey, his friend is Ducklegs. They pass for pugilists.

"Gentlemen," says the barkeeper, slightly removing the drooping folds, "sorry to trouble you," and here he made a knowing sign which indicated caution. A policeman was sauntering down the steps, apparently with no other object than that of lighting a segar held carelessly in the hand.

The three ate and drank in silence. Again the drapery moved and Mordecai, this time with another curious motion, whispered, "Brown Lize has a pigeon: number three." Here his eyes glistened, while he added, "Snacks and mum; but don't tickle him on the premises."

Chelmsford looked at his right hand neighbor. Ben gruffly replied, "She'll dose him twenty hours good. Small fry. Howsumdever let's look at him."

Bearing politely on a waiter a second bottle of champagne, followed by the thief the barkeeper vanished through the little door. If there is any comedy in sin, that walks blindfolded to its ruin, it was here. Upon the plush sofa, filling all one side of the snug room, sat a verdant youth gobbling oysters. Near him, on a slender chair, emptying a smoking bowl of the same delicious bivalves, painted to the eyes, her low and sensual forehead whitened till the flakes fairly glittered, sat the shameless one.

The fresh bottle is opened and placed between the two, Handy Ben meanwhile listening behind the door.

Bumpkin. "We don't have no such sweet cider up in our diggins. It makes a feller feel fine. Do you like dough nuts? Cause, if you do, there's nigh abeout half a peck in the old yaller chest in the sloop's cabin. Kind a guess you'd have lost your way, would'nt you, in that big street, with all them stages rattling abeout? Maybe some feller would a hooked you? That puts me in