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is exactly that day week, toward the hour of five in the evening; Mr. Hartopp, alone in the parlor behind his warehouse, is locking up his books and ledgers preparatory to the return to his villa. There is a certain change in the expression of his countenance since we saw it last. If it be possible for Mr. Hartopp to look sullen—sullen he looks; if it be possible for the mayor of Gatesboro' to be crestfallen—crestfallen he is. That smooth existence has surely received some fatal concussion, and has not yet recovered the shock. But, if you will glance beyond the parlor at Mr. Williams giving orders in the warehouse, at the warehousemen themselves, at the rough faces in the tan-yard—nay, at Mike Callaghan, who has just brought a parcel from the railway, all of them have evidently shared in the effects of the concussion; all of them wear a look more or less sullen; all seem crestfallen. Nay, could you carry your gaze farther on—could you peep into the shops in the High Street, or at the loungers in the city reading-room; could you extend the vision farther still—to Mr. Hartopp's villa, behold his wife, his littelittle [sic] ones, his men-servants, and his maid-servants—more and more impressively general would become the tokens of disturbance occasioned by that infamous concussion.

Every where a sullen look—every where that ineffable aspect of crestfallenness! What can have happened? is the good man bankrupt? No—rich as ever! What can it be? Reader, that fatal event which they who love Josiah Hartopp are ever at watch to prevent, despite all their vigilance, has occurred! Josiah Hartopp has been ! Other men may be occasionally taken in, and no one mourns—perhaps they deserve it! they are not especially benevolent, or they set up to be