Ormiston looked at him distractedly, uncertain whether to try moral suasion or to take him by the collar and drag him headlong down the stairs, when a providential but rather dismal circumstance came to his relief.

A cart came rattling along the street, a bell was loudly rang, and a hoarse voice arose with it: "Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!" Ormiston rushed down stair to intercept the dead-cart, already almost full on it way to the plague-pit.

The driver stopped at his call, and instantly followed him up stairs, and into the room.

Glancing at the body with the utmost sang-froid, he touched the dress, and indifferently remarked: "A bride, I should say; and an uncommonly handsome one too.

We'll just take her along as she is, and strip these nice things off the body when we get it to the plague-pit." So saying, he wrapped her in the sheet, and directing Ormiston to take hold of the two lower ends, took the upper corners himself, with the air of a man quite used to that sort of thing.