we live.




THE WANDERER AGAIN.


Several racing men have warned me against the Wanderer, in their
peculiarly friendly way. They want me to bet with _them_. But I like the
Bohemian, the blackleg, better than I do better men. Moreover, though I
am carefully informed that he is a blackleg, I find him honest. His
story has long been hanging in my mind, and we may as well take it at
once.

Devine's runaway match turned out well for a time. When old Mr. Billiter
came home and heard what had happened he fell in a fit, and, on his
recovery, he went about for a long time moaning, "We'll never hold up
our heads no more." His friends thought he would lose his reason, for he
would stop people in the street, and say, "Have you a daughter? Kill
her, if you care for her. Mine's gone off with a hactor." But the young
couple were happy enough in reality, and Devine took the fancy of the
New Yorkers to such a degree that his engagement was extended over three
years. Letty Devine led a gay, careless life; her husband had plenty of
money, and she was introduced to pleasures that made the frowsy life of
home seem very repulsive. Devine was kind to her, and continued to play
the lover in his pompous style. She was proud of her man, too. He played
Claude Melnotte for his benefit once, and she longed to say to the
ladies in the theatre, "He belongs to me. How could she help being
fascinated with him? Where could you find such another princely being?"