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Des. Didn't I bring him into it?

Mad. V. Yes, and if things go on at this rate, he won't have much to thank you for.

Des. How do you know? How do you know, you foolish old woman you.

Manuel appears.

Man. Heyday! the only two friends I have in the world at high words? What can have caused this?

Mad. V. My lord, the Doctor says you—

Man. Me! my dear Doctor, you never were quarrelling about so unimportant a person, surely?

Des. No matter for that. But I have some business with the Marquis, if this very positive old lady will allow me the luxury of an interview with him—a private interview. Pray, ma'am, may I trespass on your indulgence?

Mad. V. Truly, Doctor, your campaign in the Crimea has improved neither your manners, or your beauty.

[Exit L. H.

Des. Confound her impudence! The attack on my manners I could forgive, but my beauty—that's a tender point.

Man. Ah, Doctor, you must pardon her brusque manner. If she's poor in courtesy, she's rich in a rarer gift—fidelity.

Des. Oh! hang her! let her go. And now to your affairs. Your father's death occurred while I was with the army, in the Crimea. Rumors reached me there, but I have never heard the full particulars. I would not willingly revive a painful theme, but as an old friend—

Man. Nay, I shall be more satisfied when you know the facts. When you left France you know what our position was, and what our style of living.

Des. All the luxuries that money could procure—a mansion in Paris, an ancestral chateau, and a stable that could boast the best blood in France.

Man. Two months after the death of my dear mother, I went to Italy, by my father's desire, and for several years I traveled through Europe, at my pleasure. During this time his letters to me were affectionate, but brief, and never expressed any desire for my return. Two months ago, on arriving at Marseilles, I found several letters from him awaiting me, each of them begging me to return home with all possible haste.

Des. I remember, it was some time previous to that, that I heard his name mentioned in connection with some unfortunate speculations in the stocks.

Man. I arrived at night. The ground was white with snow. As I passed up the avenue—made still darker by the old trees which overshadowed it—I could hear the frost shaken from the branches, seeming, as it fell around me, like a warning of bitter tears to come. Hardly had I crossed the threshold when my father's arms were around me. I could feel his heart beating against my own, with a force almost painful. He led me to a sofa, and placed himself directly in front of me, when, as if longing to reveal something which yet he dared not name, he fixed his eyes on mine with an expression of supplication, of agony, of shame, wondrous in a man so haughty and so proud. It was enough! The wrong he had committed, yet could not confess, I divined full well—God knows how fully, how freely I forgave it! Suddenly, that look, which never quitted me, became fixed, rigid. The pressure of his hand on mine became a grip of iron. He arose—the eyes wandered, the hand relaxed, and he fell dead at my feet!

Des. [After a pause.] Well, well, it is a sad history, for he left utter ruin for your portion. But come, you must not look back. "Forward" must be the watchword now. Mr. Faveau, your family lawyer, tells me that the little that remained to you, after paying your father's debts, you have appropriated to making a fine lady of your sister.

Man. To educate her, doctor.

Des. Well, well, same thing; so that you, yourself, have literally nothing to speak of—hardly enough to give you bread.

Man. Hardly.

Des. Under these circumstances you will perhaps be disposed to the favorable consideration of a proposal I have to make?

Man. Name it, sir, for at present, I confess I have formed no plans of my own. I was so little prepared to find myself quite a beggar. Were I alone in the world, I would become a soldier. But my sister, that would involve prolonged absence from her—perhaps an early death. My darling—I cannot endure the thought of knowing her compelled to suffer the privations, the labor, and the dangers of poverty. She is happy at her school, and young enough to remain there for some years to come. If I could but find some occupation by which, even were I obliged to impose the severest restraints upon myself, it would be possible to save enough for her marriage portion, I should be more than content.

Des. An employment to suit a man of your rank—

Man. Oh, my dear Doctor—rank—

Des. Well, well, of your education, then, is not easily found. Now, mark what I am going to say, and consider it well, before you come to a hasty conclusion. There is, among my patients, a retired merchant, one who has been able, by indefatigable industry in trade, to amass a very handsome fortune. His daughter, an only a child, and of course, the father's darling, has, by chance, become acquainted with the state of your affairs. Now, I have reason to know, (being on very confidential terms with them.) I say I have reason to know that this girl, ambitious, handsome, rich, and accomplished, would be happy to share your title. I have the father's consent, and only await the word from you to—

Man. Dr. Desmarets, my name is neither for sale, or to let.

Des. Humph! Do you know, my lord, that you bear a remarkable resemblance to your poor mother?

Man. You must be mistaken, sir. I have always been told that I was more like my father.

Des. Not a bit! The mother, the mother, sir, in every feature. But, bless me, it's near eleven o'clock and I have a most particular appointment. As you decline considering the proposal I have made, we must think of something else. Au revoir. [Aside.] The mother—eyes, nose, mouth. What the devil made that stupid old woman say he was like his father?

[Exit C.

Man. He's a kind man, though a little eccentric, and apart from his professional duty, seems actuated by a sincere desire to serve me, and yet—and yet I could not bring myself to ask his charity. Hunger—starvation—are not, then, mere empty words. Oh! if I do sin in my pride, I am punished, for I suffer much. This is the second day without food. Why, after all, I could go into any Restaurant and dine, for I am well enough known. I could say I had forgotten my purse—have done so without scruple in happier times, but then I had the means to pay, and now—no, no, my sister, not for life, not even for thee, will I descend to lie and cheat. How weak I am; this comes too soon upon my long sickness. If I could but sleep and so forget my agony. And there are human creatures who suffer every day as I do now. My sister, my little sister, I seem to see thy dear face looking down upon me, and bidding me be comforted. [Music.] Thou, at least, shall never suffer. But for those who hear their cries of hunger repeated from the mouths of starving little ones, well, well, God comfort them; I will not re—Oh—holy—charity—for—those—who—my sister—my—