She tottered out of the office, and stole home with an enfeebled step. "Forsaken!—forsaken!"—was all the form her thoughts would take, until she met the sweet face of her babe, and then her heart felt warmer, and not all forsaken.
"Poor thing! how I pity her," said the clerk in the stage-office, when Mrs. W. had retired. "Her husband is a scoundrel, that's all I know about it," responded the gentleman-gambler, who had sent Warburton out on a swindling expedition.
"The more the pity for his poor wife."
"I wonder if she has any property of his in her hands?" queried the gambler.
"Why?"
"Why?—Why because I'll have my own out of it if she has. I have his note, payable in a week, for money lent; and if he has got a dollar here, I'll have it."
"You'll not turn his wife out of doors, will you?"
"Will I?"—and his face grew dark with evil thoughts.—"Will I?—yes!—what care I for the whining wench! I'll see her to-morrow, and know what we have both to expect."
"Coulson!" said the clerk, in an excited but firm voice—"You shall not trouble that helpless, unfortunate woman!"
"Shall not? ha! Pray, Mr. Sympathy, and how can you hinder me?"