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EMMA C. EMBURY.

a moderate salary by writing for Mr.——, and this is of some consequence to me.”

The old man looked inquiringly, and Maurice answered the silent question.

“You know enough of our family, sir, to be aware that my father’s income died with him. A few hundred dollars per annum are all that remains for the support of my mother and an invalid sister, who reside in Connecticut. Of course, if I would not encroach upon their small means, I must do something for my own maintenance.”

The Captain s look grew pleasanter as he replied, “I do not mean to be guilty of any impertinent intrusion into your affairs, but it seems to me that you share the weakness of your fellows, by thus working like a slave and spending like a prince.”

Maurice laughed. “Perhaps my princely expenditures would scarcely bear as close a scrutiny as my slavish toil. I really work, but it often happens that I only seem to spend.”

“I understand you, but you are worthy of better things; you should have courage to throw off the trammels of fashion, and live economically, like a man of sense, until fortune favours you.”

The young man was silent for a moment, then, as if to change the subject, asked, “What was your object in inquiring about my morning walks?”

“I merely wanted to know if you ever met Mrs. Howard in Broadway in the morning.”

“Never, sir; but I am so seldom there, that it would be strange if I should encounter an acquaintance among its throngs.”

“I am told she goes out every morning at nine o clock, and does not return until three.”

“I suppose she is fond of walking.”

“Humph! I rather suspect she has some regular business.”

“Quite likely,” said Maurice, laughing heartily, “perhaps she is a bank clerk,—occupied from nine to three, you say,—just banking hours.”

The Captain looked sternly in the young man’s face, then uttering his emphatic “Fudge!” turned upon his heel, and whistling