She kissed him gently on the brow, and crept noiselessly to her own room, and soon was asleep, the image of Randolph prominent in her dreams.
Poor Eleanor!
Leaving Randolph, his sister, and those connected with their fate, our history now turns to other characters.
Let us enter the house of the merchant prince.
[CHAPTER XI.]
IN THE HOUSE OF THE MERCHANT PRINCE.
It was near eleven o'clock, on the night of December 23d, 1844, when Evelyn Somers, Sen., sitting in his library by the light of the shaded candle, was startled by the ringing of the bell.
"The front door-bell!" he ejaculated, looking up from his labors, until the candle shone full upon his thin features and low forehead. "Can it be Evelyn? Oh! I forgot. He returned only this evening. One of the servants, I suppose—been out late—must look to this in the morning."
He resumed his pen, and again, surrounded by title-deeds and mortgages, bent down to his labors.