J. COLE. 45

saw the thin, pale little face, that should
have been on the pillow hours before, lighted
up with triumph as the supposed guests de-
_ parted; the dumb show of folding the dinner
napkins belonging to myself and the master,
and putting them in their respective rings,
told us the ordeal was over. What a weird
scene it was,—the dim light, the silent house,
the spread table, and the empty chairs! One
could imagine ghostly revellers, visible only
to that one fragile attendant, who ministered
so willingly to their numerous wants. The
sort of nervous thrill that heralds hysterical
attacks was rapidly overcoming me, and I
whispered to my husband, “Let us go now;”
but he lingered yet a few seconds, and silently
drew my attention again to the window.

Joe was on his knees by his bedside, his
face hidden in his hands. What silent prayer
was ascending to the Throne of Grace, who
shall say? I only know that it were well
if many a kneeling worshipper in “ purple
and fine linen” could feel as sure of being
heard as Joe did when, his victory won, he
knelt, in his humble servant’s garb, and said