THE SERPENT AT WORK.
One sole desire, one passion, now remains
To keep life's fever still within her veins.
For this alone she lives—like lightning's fire,
To speed one bolt of ruin—and expire.
—Byron.
Alden sat down at the table and began to carve a roasted chicken.
While he was intent upon his task, Mary Grey drew from her watch-pocket a little folded paper. With her eyes upon him, to be sure that he was not observing her, she deftly poured a white powder from this paper into one of the coffee-cups, and then quickly returned the empty paper to her watch-pocket.
Meanwhile he had taken off the liver-wing from the roasted chicken and placed it on a warm plate, which he passed to her.
"Will you have a cup of coffee now, or afterward?" she inquired, as she took the offered plate.
"Now, please. Coffee is the most refreshing of all beverages after a fatiguing journey," he added, as he received the cup from her hands.
It was a very nice supper, yet neither of them seemed inclined to eat.
Mary Grey trifled with her chicken-wing, tasted her milk-toast and sipped a little coffee. She looked pale, frightened and self-concentrated.