love still?"

"Yes, indeed; more than ever."

"Odd way of showing your love, coming to a gambling-house. Any children?"

"One little girl. But allow me to explain. I came here with my month's salary to try and make money enough to pay off Markham, who has been my ruin. Now I have not a dollar to go home with, and how we are to live I do not know."

Mr. Smith took a dozen twenty-dollar gold pieces out of his purse.

"Take these," he said.

"You will lend them to me?" cried Clarence, delightedly.

"I give them to you. What is the use of lending money to a pauper? I give this to you just as I would give an alms to a beggar."

"Your words are very bitter," said the young man, as he shivered visibly.

"There is no necessity for me to be silver-tongued with you," was the reply. "Go home to your wife. I will call and see you soon."

Mr. Smith threw himself into a chair, and appeared to take no further notice of Clarence, but he was seated in a manner which permitted him to have a good view of the gambling-table.

At first Clarence Holt hurried toward the door, as if full of virtuous resolution to return home.

Then he paused, and turned off toward the lunch table, where he ate a little salad and drank some wine.

The gold pieces were burning a hole in his pocket.

They were amply sufficient to live upon for a month; but if he could only double them!

Surely his bad luck could not stick to him all the evening.

He would try again.

"What time is it?"—he looked up at the clock—"only eleven!" Elise, his little wife, has got the baby to sleep by this time and is probably reading, while eagerly expecting his return home. Another hour will make no great difference.

He goes to the table and buys some checks, with which he begins to speculate.

Mr. Smith laughs with the air of Mephisto, and says to himself:

"I knew it. Score one to me again for having some knowledge of character. He is a weak man and easily led. So much the better for me."

Presently a lady, thickly vailed, entered the saloon and looked timidly around her.

Evidently she was searching for some one.

Seldom, indeed, was a lady seen in the saloon, for it is not the custom for the fair sex to gamble in America, whatever they may do in Europe.

The negro in charge of the lunch-table advanced toward her.

"What you want heah, ma'am?" he asked.

"I am looking for a gentleman," she replied, in a nervous tone.

"Plenty ob gen'elmen come and go all night. It's as hard as de debble to find any one in dese ar rooms."

"He is my husband. Perhaps you know him. His name is Clarence Holt," continued the lady.

"Oh! yes, for suah. I know him."

"Then I implore you to tell me if he is here. Where is the room in which they play?"

"No place for ladies, dat; besides, Marse Holt him been gone an hour or more with Marse Markham."

"Is he with that bad man? Ah, me! what future have I and my child now?"

She pressed her hands to her face and sobbed, while the negro held the door open.

Suddenly there was a loud cry from the inner room, in which the game was progressing.

"By heaven. I win! Give it me. It is all mine. All—all," shouted a man.

Mrs. Holt uttered a scream.

"'Tis he!" she cried. "Wretch, you have deceived me. Stand on one side. I heard my husband's voice, and I will see him."

She pushed past the negro, who would fain have stopped her had he been able to do so, but her movements were too quick for him to intercept her.

"This is becoming decidedly interesting," observed Mr. Smith; "Elise has come after Clarence. By Jove!" he added, as she raised her vail, "she justifies his description of her. A prettier creature I never saw!"

The luck had changed, and Clarence had been fortunate enough to win largely, as a pile of gold by his side fully testified.

The young wife tapped him on the shoulder.

"Clarence," she whispered.

"You here?" he cried, while a flush of annoyance crossed his face.

"Oh, yes; forgive me. Come home, will you not?"

"How dare you follow me here?"

"I was so lonely. I found a note from Markham appointing a meeting here, and I knew you had your salary with you. We have no food in the house, and——"

"Confound you!" he interrupted, almost fiercely. "Do you want every man here to know our private affairs?"

"What are these men to you, Clarence?"

"Go home. I will come when I am ready. You distract me. Go!" he exclaimed.

Sadly she turned away. Her tears flowed fast, and so broken-hearted was she that she did not bestow one glance at the feverish and excited face of her erring and misguided husband.

At the door she was confronted by Mr. Smith, who bowed politely.

"Madame," he exclaimed, "permit me to have the honor of escorting you to your carriage."

Elise Holt looked up in surprise.

"I have no carriage, sir," she answered.

"Then I will get you one."

"But I have no money to pay for one."

"My purse is at your service."

"Oh, sir," she exclaimed, blushing, "it would not be right for me to accept a favor from a perfect stranger."

"Pardon me, I am a friend of your husband."

"Is that so? Well, if you know Clarence, will you not persuade him to come home?"

She looked pleadingly at Mr. Smith.

"I will do more than that," he rejoined.

"How?"

"I will see to it that he does come to you in half an hour. Come, take my arm."

Elise did not hesitate any longer, but timidly placed her little delicately-gloved hand on the arm of the handsome stranger, who was so kind and generous.

"Ah!" she thought, "if I had married him instead of Clarence!"

They descended the stairs together, and her tears ceased to flow.

CHAPTER II.

A SURPRISE.

In the street they saw a carriage, which Mr. Smith hailed, and when it drove up he placed Mrs. Holt inside.

"Drive this lady to No. 113 Mission Street," he exclaimed.

Elise opened her eyes wide with astonishment.

"You know where we live!" she ejaculated.

"Certainly I do. Good-evening. Clarence shall be home in half an hour."

He handed the driver two dollars, and Elise was taken to her apartments in a luxurious style which was entirely new to her.

Mr. Smith returned to the gambling-saloon, much impressed with the modesty and beauty of Elise.

"Decidedly, she is too good for Clarence," he muttered.

Once again in the gilded saloon of vice he looked in vain for Clarence among the players.

"Where is the young man who was winning?" he asked of the dealer.

"He has dropped out," was the answer.

"A loser?"

"Yes. He staked his pile on one card, and somehow it didn't come up as he expected."

"Fool!" remarked Mr. Smith.

He walked through the suite of handsomely-furnished rooms to see where Clarence was, because he could not have left the place, or he would have been met on the stairs.

In an inner apartment he saw a sight which startled, though it did not surprise him.

Mr. Smith was a man of the world, whom it was difficult to surprise, as it was part of his education and temperament not to exhibit emotion at anything.

Kneeling before a large mirror, his face pale and haggard beyond expression, was Clarence Holt.

In his right hand he held a pistol, and in his left a photograph of Elise, which he was kissing passionately.

It was a sad picture, and showed to what desperate straits drink and gambling can reduce their votaries.

Suddenly he dropped the picture and placed the muzzle of the pistol to his temple.

"God forgive me," he prayed, "and help the widow and the orphan. Elise, my darling, my life, my all, farewell."

Mr. Smith rushed forward and knocked up his arm, so that at this most critical