bed, and also as if he ought to get back into it again as soon as

possible. His face was very melancholy. The waves of laughter and

conversation broke upon it without affecting it any more than if it had

been a rock in the sea and the words and the laughter veritable waters.

He held his head down and looked ashamed. Some of the women cast

glances

of pity toward him from time to time in a furtive and half afraid way,

and some of the youngest of the men plainly had compassion on the young

fellow--a compassion exhibited in their faces but not in any more active

or compromising way. But the great majority of the people present showed

entire indifference to the youth and his sorrows. Marsh sat with his

head down, but one could catch the malicious gleam of his eyes through

his shaggy brows. He was watching that young fellow with evident relish.

He had not neglected him through carelessness, and apparently the table

understood that fact. The spectacle was making Mrs. Marsh very

uncomfortable. She had the look of one who hopes against hope that the

impossible may happen. But as the impossible did not happen, she finally

ventured to speak up and remind her husband that Nat Brady hadn't been

helped to the Irish stew.

Marsh lifted his head and gasped out with mock courtliness, "Oh, he

hasn't, hasn't he? What a pity that is. I don't know how I came to

overlook him. Ah, he must pardon me. You must indeed Mr--er--Baxter--

Barker, you must pardon me. I--er--my attention was directed to some

other matter, I don't know what. The thing that grieves me mainly is,

that it happens every meal now. But you must try to overlook these

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The American Claimant