"Well, Bunce, are you ready? We shall be off now in a couple of hours or so, and you must not keep us waiting. Pack up at once, man, and make yourself ready."

"I guess you're in a little bit of a small hurry, Master Colleton, 'cause, you see, you've some reason to be so. You hain't had so easy a spell on it, no how, and I don't wonder as how you're no little airnest to get off. Well, you won't have to wait for me. I've jest got through mending my little go-cart—though, to be sure, it don't look, no how, like the thing it was. The rigilators made awful sad work of the box and body, and, what with patching and piecing, there's no two eends on it alike."

"Well, you're ready, however, and we shall have no difficulty at the last hour?"

"None to speak on. Jared Bunce aint the chap for burning daylight; and whenever you're ready to say, 'Go,' he's gone. But, I say, Master Ralph, there's one little matter I'd like to look at."

"What's that? Be quick, now, for I've much to see to."

"Only a minute. Here, you see, is a letter I've jest writ to my brother, Ichabod Bunce, down to Meriden. He's a 'cute chap, and quite a Yankee, now, I tell you; and as I knows all his ways, I've got to keep a sharp look-out to see he don't come over me. Ah, Master Ralph, it's a hard thing to say one's own flesh and blood aint the thing, but the truth's the truth to be sure, and, though it does hurt in the telling, that's no reason it shouldn't be told."

"Certainly not!"

"Well, as I say, Ichabod Bunce is as close and 'cute in his dealings as any man in all Connecticut, and that's no little to say, I'm sartin. He's got the trick, if anybody's got it, of knowing how to make your pocket his, and squaring all things coming in by double multiplication. If he puts a shilling down, it's sure to stick to another; and if he picks one up, it never comes by itself—there's always sure to be two on 'em."

"A choice faculty for a tradesman."

"You've said it."

"Just the man for business, I take it."

"Jest so; you're right there, Master Colleton—there's no mistake about that. Well, as I tell'd you now, though he's my own brother, I have to keep a raal sharp look out over him in all our dealings. If he says two and two makes four, I sets to calkilate, for when he says so, I'm sure there's something wrong in the calkilation; and tho' to be sure I do know, when the thing stands by itself, that two and two does make four; yet, somehow, whenever he says it, I begin to think it not altogether so sartain. Ah, he's a main hand for trade, and there's no knowing when he'll come over you."

"But, Bunce, without making morals a party to this question, as you are in copartnership with your brother, you should rather rejoice that he possesses so happy a faculty; it certainly should not be a matter of regret with you."

"Why, how—you wouldn't have me to be a mean-spirited fellow, who would live all for money, and not care how it comes. I can't, sir—'tain't my way, I assure you. I do feel that I wasn't born to live nowhere except in the South; and so I thought when I wrote Ichabod Bunce my last letter. I told him every man on his own hook, now—for, you see, I couldn't stand his close-fisted contrivances no longer. He wanted me to work round the ring like himself, but I was quite too up-and-down for that, and so I squared off from him soon as I could. We never did agree when we were together, you see—'cause naterally, being brothers and partners, he couldn't shave me as he shaved other folks, and so, 'cause he couldn't by nature and partnership come 'cute over me, he was always grumbling, and for every yard of prints, he'd make out to send two yards of grunt and growls, and that was too much, you know, even for a pedler to stand; so we cut loose, and now as the people say on the river—every man paddle his own canoe."

"And you are now alone in the way of trade, and this store which you are about to establish is entirely on your own account?"

"Guess it is; and so, you see, I must pull with single oar up stream, and shan't quarrel with no friend that helps me now and then to send the boat ahead."

"Rely upon us, Bunce. You have done too much in my behalf to permit any of our family to forget your services. We shall do all that we can toward giving you a fair start in the stream, and it will not be often that you shall require a helping-hand in paddling your canoe."

"I know'd it, Master Colleton. 'Tain't in Carolina, nor in Georgy, nor Virginny, no—nor down in Alabam, that a man will look long for provisions, and see none come. That's the people for me. I guess I must ha' been born by nature in the South, though I did see daylight in Connecticut."

"No blarney, Bunce. We know you—what you are and what you are not!—good and bad in fair proportions. But what paper is that in your hand?"

"Oh, that? That's jest what I was going now to ax you about. That's my bill of particulars, you see, that I'm going to send on by the post, to Ichabod Bunce. He'll trade with me, now we're off partnership, and be as civil as a lawyer jest afore court-time. 'Cause, you see, he'll be trying to come over me, and will throw as much dust in my eyes as he can. But I guess he don't catch me with mouth ajar. I know his tricks, and he'll find me up to them."

"And what is it you require of me in this matter?"

"Oh, nothing, but jest to look over this list, and tell me how you 'spose the things will suit your part of the country. You see I must try and larn how to please my customers, that is to be. Now, you see, here's, in the first place—for they're a great article now in the country, and turn out well in the way of sale—here's—"

But we need not report the catalogue. Enough, that he proceeded to unfold (dwelling with an emphatic and precise description of each article in turn) the immense inventory of wares and merchandises with which he was about to establish. The assortment was various enough. There were pen-knives, and jack-knives, and clasp-knives, and dirk-knives, horn and wooden combs, calicoes and clocks, and tin-ware and garden seeds; everything, indeed, without regard to fitness of association, which it was possible to sell in the region to which he was going.

Ralph heard him through his list with tolerable patience; but when the pedler, having given it a first reading, proposed a second, with passing comments on the prospects of sale of each separate article, by way of recapitulation, the youth could stand it no longer. Apologizing to the tradesman, therefore in good set terms, he hurried away to the completion of those preparations called for by his approaching departure. Bunce, having no auditor, was compelled to do the same; accordingly a few hours after, the entire party made its appearance in the court of the village-inn, where the carriages stood in waiting.

About this time another party left the village, though in a different direction. It consisted of old Allen, his wife, and daughter Kate. In their company rode the lawyer Pippin, who, hopeless of elevation in his present whereabouts, was solicitous of a fairer field for the exhibition of his powers of law and logic than that which he now left had ever afforded him. He made but a small item in the caravan. His goods and chattels required little compression for the purposes of carriage, and a small Jersey—a light wagon in free use in that section, contained all his wardrobe, books, papers, &c.—the heirlooms of a long and carefully economized practice. We may not follow his fortunes after his removal to the valley of the Mississippi. It does not belong to the narrative; but, we may surely say to those in whom his appearance may have provoked some interest, that subsequently he got into fine practice—was notorious for his stump-speeches; and a random sheet of the "Republican Star and Banner of Independence" which we now have before us, published in the town of "Modern Ilium," under the head of the "Triumph of Liberty and Principle," records, in the most glowing language, the elevation of Peter Pippin, Esq., to the state legislature, by seven votes majority over Colonel Hannibal Hopkins, the military candidate—Pippin 39, Hopkins 32. Such a fortunate result, if we have rightly estimated the character of the man, will have easily salved over all the hurts which, in his earlier history, his self-love may have suffered.

But the hour of departure was at hand, and assisting the fair Edith into the carriage, Ralph had the satisfaction of placing her beside the sweetly sad, the lovely, but still deeply suffering girl, to whom he owed so much in the preservation of his life. She was silent when he spoke, but she looked her replies, and he felt that they were sufficiently expressive. The aunt had been easily persuaded to go with her niece, and we find her seated accordingly along with Colonel Colleton in the same carriage with the young ladies. Ralph rode, as his humor prompted, sometimes on horseback, and sometimes in a light gig—a practice adopted with little difficulty, where a sufficient number of servants enabled him to transfer the trust of one or the other conveyance to the liveried outriders. Then came the compact, boxy, buggy, buttoned-up vehicle of our friend the pedler—a thing for which the unfertile character of our language, as yet, has failed to provide a fitting name—but which the backwoodsman of the west calls a go-cart; a title which the proprietor does not always esteem significant of its manifold virtues and accommodations. With a capacious stomach, it is wisely estimated for all possible purposes; and when opened with a mysterious but highly becoming solemnity, before the gaping and wondering woodsman, how "awful fine" do the contents appear to Miss Nancy and the little whiteheads about her. How grand are its treasures, of tape and toys, cottons and calicoes, yarn and buttons, spotted silks and hose—knives and thimbles—scissors and needles—wooden clocks, and coffee-mills, &c.—not to specify a closely-packed and various assortment of tin-ware and japan, from the tea-kettle and coffee-pot to the drinking mug for the pet boy and the shotted rattle for the infant. A judicious distribution of the two latter, in the way of presents to the young, and the worthy pedler drives a fine bargain with the parents in more costly commodities.

The party was now fairly ready, but, just at the moment of departure, who should appear in sight but our simple friend, Chub Williams. He had never been a frequent visiter to the abodes of men, and of course all things occasioned wonder. He seemed fallen upon some strange planet, and was only won to attention by the travellers, on hearing the voice of Lucy Munro calling to him from the carriage window. He could not be made to understand the meaning of her words when she told him where she was going, but contented himself with saying he would come for her, as soon as they built up his house, and she should be his mother. It was for this purpose he had come to the village, from which, though surprised at all things he saw, he was anxious to get away. He had been promised, as we remember, the rebuilding of his cabin, by the men who captured Rivers; together with sundry other little acquisitions, which, as they were associated with his animal wants, the memory of the urchin did not suffer to escape him. Ralph placed in his hands a sum of money, trifling in itself, but larger in amount than Chub had ever seen at any one time before; and telling him it was his own, rejoined the party which had already driven off. The pedler still lingered, until a bend in the road put his company out of sight; when, driving up to the idiot, who stood with open mouth wondering at his own wealth, he opened upon him the preliminaries of trade, with a respectful address, duly proportioned to the increased finances of the boy.

"I say, now, Chub—seeing you have the raal grit, if it ain't axing too much, what do you think to do with all that money? I guess you'd like to lay out a little on't in the way of trade; and as I ain't particular where I sell, why, the sooner I begin, I guess, the better. You ain't in want of nothing, eh? No knife to cut the saplings, and pare the nails, nor nothing of no kind? Now I has everything from—"

Bunce threw up the lid of his box, and began to display his wares.

"There's a knife for you, Chub Williams—only two bits. With that knife you could open the stone walls of any house, even twice as strong as Guy Rivers's. And there's a handkerchief for your neck, Chub—Guy'll have to wear one of rope, my lad: and look at the suspenders, Chub—fit for the king; and—"

Where the pedler would have stopped, short of the display and enumeration of all the wares in his wagon, it is not easy to say, but for an unexpected interruption. One of the outsiders of the Colleton party, galloped back at this moment, no other indeed, than our former acquaintance, the blacky, Caesar, the fellow whose friendship for Ralph was such that he was reluctant to get him the steed upon which he left his uncle's house in dudgeon. Ralph had sent him back to see what detained the pedler, and to give him help in case of accident.

Caesar at once divined the cause of the pedler's delay, as he saw the box opened, and its gaudy contents displayed before the eyes of the wondering idiot. He was indignant. The negro of the South has as little reverence for the Yankee pedler as his master, and Caesar was not slow to express the indignation which he felt.

"Ki! Misser Bunce, aint you shame for try for draw de money out ob the boy pocket, wha' massa gee um?"

"Why, Caesar, he kaint eat the money, old fellow, and he kaint wear it; and he'll have to buy something with it, whenever he wants to use it."

"But gee um time, Misser Bunce—gee um time! De money aint fair git warm in de young man pocket. Gee um time! Le' um look 'bout um, and see wha' he want; and ef you wants to be friendly wid um, gee um somet'ing youse'f—dat knife burn bright in he eye! Gee um dat, and le's be moving! Maussa da wait! Ef you's a coming for trade in we country, you mus' drop de little bizness—'taint 'spectable in Car'lina."

The pedler was rebuked. He looked first at Caesar, then at Chub, and finally handed the boy the knife.

"You're right. There, Chub, there's a knife for you. You're a good little fellow, as well as you knows how to be."

Chub grinned, took the knife, opened both blades, and nodding his head, made off without a word.

"The etarnal little heathen! Never to say so much as thank ye."

"Nebber mind, Misser Bunce; dat's de 'spectable t'ing wha' you do. Always 'member, ef you wants to be gempleman's, dat you kaint take no money from nigger and poor buckrah. You kin gib um wha' you please, but you mustn't 'speck dem to be gibbing you."

"But in the way of trade, Caesar," said the pedler, putting his horse in motion.

"Der's a time for trade, and a time for gib, and you must do de genteel t'ing, and nebber consider wha's de 'spense of it, or de profit. De nigger hab he task in de cornfiel', and he hab for do um; but 'spose maussa wants he nigger to do somet'ing dat aint in he task—dat's to say in de nigger own time—wha' den? He pays um han'some for it. When you's a trading, trade and git you pay, but when you's a trabelling with gemplemans and he family, da's no time for trade. Ef you open you box at dem times, you must jest put in you hand, and take out de t'ing wha' you hab for gib, and say, 'Yer Caesar—somet'ing for you, boy!'"

"Hem! that's the how, is it?" said the pedler with a leer that was good-humoredly knowing. "Well, old fellow, as you've given me quite a lesson how to behave myself, I guess I must show you that I understand how to prove that I'm thankful—so here, Caesar, is a cut for you from one of my best goods."

He accompanied the words with a smart stroke of his whip, a totally unexpected salutation, over the shoulders, which set the negro off in a canter. Bunce, however, called him back; holding up a flaming handkerchief of red and orange, as a means of reconciliation. Caesar was soon pacified, and the two rode on together in a pleasant companionship, which suffered no interruptions on the road; Caesar all the way continuing to give the pedler a proper idea of the processes through which he might become a respectable person in Carolina.

There are still other parties to our story which it is required that we should dispose of according to the rules of the novel.

Let us return to the dungeon of the outlaw, where we behold him in a situation as proper to his deserts as it is new to his experience. Hitherto, he has gone free of all human bonds and penalties, save that of exile from society, and a life of continued insecurity. He has never prepared his mind with resignation to endure patiently such a condition. What an intellect was here allowed to go to waste—what fine talents have been perverted in this man. Endowments that might have done the country honor, have been made to minister only in its mischiefs.

How sad a subject for contemplation! The wreck of intellect, of genius, of humanity. Fortunate for mankind, if, under the decree of a saving and blessing Providence, there be no dark void on earth—when one bright star falls from its sphere, if there is another soon lighted to fill its place, and to shine more purely than that which has been lost. May we not believe this—nay, we must, and exult, on behalf of humanity—that, in the eternal progress of change, the nature which is its aliment no less than its element, restores not less than its destiny removes. Yet, the knowledge that we lose not, does not materially lessen the pang when we behold the mighty fall—when we see the great mind, which, as a star, we have almost worshipped, shooting with headlong precipitance through the immense void from its place of eminence, and defrauding the eye of all the glorious presence and golden promise which had become associated with its survey.

The intellect of Guy Rivers had been gigantic—the mistake—a mistake quite too common to society—consisted in an education limited entirely to the mind, and entirely neglectful of the morale of the boy. He was taught, like thousands of others; and the standards set up for his moral government, for his passions, for his emotions, were all false from the first. The capacities of his mind were good as well as great—but they had been restrained, while the passions had all been brought into active, and at length ungovernable exercise. How was it possible that reason, thus taught to be subordinate, could hold the strife long, when passion—fierce passion—the passion of the querulous infant, and the peevish boy, only to be bribed to its duty by the toy and the sugarplum—is its uncompromising antagonist?

But let us visit him in his dungeon—the dungeon so lately the abode of his originally destined, but now happily safe victim. What philosophy is there to support him in his reverse—what consolation of faith, or of reflection, the natural result of the due performance of human duties? none! Every thought was self-reproachful. Every feeling was of self-rebuke and mortification. Every dream was a haunting one of terror, merged for ever in the deep midnight cry of a fateful voice which bade him despair. "Curse God and die!"

In respect to his human fortunes, the voice was utterly without pity. He had summed up for himself, as calmly as possible, all his chances of escape. There was no hope left him. No sunlight, human or divine, penetrated the crevices of his dungeon, as in the case of Ralph Colleton, cheering him with promise, and lifting his soul with faith and resignation. Strong and self-relying as was his mind by nature, he yet lacked all that strength of soul which had sustained Ralph even when there seemed no possible escape from the danger which threatened his life. But Guy Rivers was not capable of receiving light or warmth from the simple aspects of nature. His soul, indurated by crime, was as insusceptible to the soothing influence of such aspects, as the cold rocky cavern where he had harbored, was impenetrable to the noonday blaze. The sun-glance through the barred lattice, suddenly stealing, like a friendly messenger, with a sweet and mellow smile upon his lips, was nailed as an angelic visiter, by the enthusiastic nature of the one, without guile in his own heart. Rivers would have regarded such a visiter as an intruder; the smile in his eyes would have been a sneer, and he would have turned away from it in disgust. The mind of the strong man is the medium through which the eyes see, and from which life takes all its color. The heart is the prismatic conductor, through which the affections show; and that which is seared, or steeled, or ossified—perverted utterly from its original make—can exhibit no rainbows—no arches of a sweet promise, linking the gloomy earth with the bright and the beautiful and the eternal heavens.

The mind of Guy Rivers had been one of the strongest make—one of large and leading tendencies. He could not have been one of the mere ciphers of society. He must be something, or he must perish. His spirit would have fed upon his heart otherwise, and, wanting a field and due employment, his frame must have worn away in the morbid repinings of its governing principles. Unhappily, he had not been permitted a choice. The education of his youth had given a fatal direction to his manhood; and we find him, accordingly, not satisfied with his pursuit, yet resolutely inflexible and undeviating in the pursuit of error. Such are the contradictions of the strong mind, to which, wondering as we gaze, with unreasonable and unthinking astonishment, we daily see it subject. Our philosophers are content with declaiming upon effects—they will not permit themselves or others to trace them up to their causes. To heal the wound, the physician may probe and find out its depth and extent; the same privilege is not often conceded to the physician of the mind or of the morals, else numberless diseases, now seemingly incurable, had been long since brought within the healing scope of philosophical analysis. The popular cant would have us forbear even to look at the history of the criminal. Hang the wretch, say they, but say nothing about him. Why trace his progress?—what good can come out of the knowledge of those influences and tendencies, which have made him a criminal? Let them answer the question for themselves!

The outlaw beheld the departing cavalcade of the Colletons from the grated window. He saw the last of all those in whose fortunes he might be supposed to have an interest. He turned from the sight with a bitter pang at his heart, and, to his surprise, discovered that he was not alone in the solitude of his prison. One ministering spirit sat beside him upon the long bench, the only article of furniture afforded to his dungeon.

The reader has not forgotten the young woman to whose relief, from fire, Ralph Colleton so opportunely came while making his escape from his pursuers. We remember the resignation—the yielding weakness of her broken spirit to the will of her destroyer. We have seen her left desolate by the death of her only relative, and only not utterly discarded by him, to whose fatal influence over her heart, at an earlier period, we may ascribe all her desolation. She then yielded without a struggle to his will, and, having prepared her a new abiding-place, he had not seen her after, until, unannounced and utterly unlooked-for, certainly uninvited, she appeared before him in the cell of his dungeon.

Certainly, none are utterly forgotten! There are some who remember—some who feel with the sufferer, however lowly in his suffering—some who can not forget. No one perishes without a tearful memory becoming active when informed of his fate; and, though the world scorns and despises, some one heart keeps a warm sympathy, that gives a sigh over the ruin of a soul, and perhaps plants a flower upon its grave.

Rivers had not surely looked to see, in his dungeon, the forsaken and the defrauded girl, for whom he had shown so little love. He knew not, at first, how to receive her. What offices could she do for him—what influence exercise—how lighten the burden of his doom—how release him from his chains? Nothing of this could she perform—and what did she there? For sympathy, at such a moment, he cared little for such sympathy, at least, as he could command. His pride and ambition, heretofore, had led him to despise and undervalue the easy of attainment. He was always grasping after the impossible. The fame which he had lost for ever, grew doubly attractive to his mind's eye from the knowledge of this fact. The society, which had expelled him from its circle and its privileges, was an Eden in his imagination, simply on that account. The love of Edith Colleton grew more desirable from her scorn;—and the defeat of hopes so daring, made his fierce spirit writhe within him, in all the pangs of disappointment, only neutralized by his hope of revenge. And that hope was now gone; the dungeon and the doom were all that met his eyes;—and what had she, his victim, to do in his prison-cell, and with his prison feelings—she whom Providence, even in her own despite, was now about to avenge? No wonder he turned away from her in the bitterness of the thought which her appearance must necessarily have inspired.

"Turn not away!—speak to me, Guy—speak to me, if you have pity in your soul! You shall not drive me from you—you shall not dismiss me now. I should have obeyed you at another time, though you had sent me to my death—but I can not obey you now. I am strong now, strong—very strong since I can say so much. I am come to be with you to the last, and, if it be possible, to die with you; and you shall not refuse me. You shall not—oh, you will not—you can not—"

And, as she spoke, she clung to him as one pleading herself for life to the unrelenting executioner. He replied, in a sarcasm, true to his general course of life.

"Yes, Ellen! your revenge for your wrongs would not be well complete, unless your own eyes witnessed it; and you insist upon the privilege as if you duly estimated the luxury. Well!—you may stay. It needed but this, if anything had been needed, to show me my own impotence."

"Cruel to the last, Guy—cruel to the last! Surely the few hours between this and that of death, are too precious to be employed in bitterness. Were not prayer better—if you will not pray, Guy, let me. My prayer shall be for you; and, in the forgiveness which my heart shall truly send to my lips for the wrongs you have done to me and mine, I shall not altogether despair, so that you join with me, of winning a forgiveness far more important and precious! Guy, will you join me in prayer?"

"My knees are stiff, Ellen. I have not been taught to kneel."

"But it is not too late to learn. Bend, bow with me, Guy—if you have ever loved the poor Ellen, bow with her now. It is her prayer; and, oh, think, how weak is the vanity of this pride in a situation like yours. How idle the stern and stubborn spirit, when men can place you in bonds—when men can take away life and name—when men can hoot and hiss and defile your fettered and enfeebled person! It was for a season and a trial like this, Guy, that humility was given us. It was in order to such an example that the Savior died for us."

"He died not for me. I have gained nothing by his death. Men are as bad as ever, and wrong—the wrong which deprived me of my right in society—has been as active and prevailing a principle of human action as before he died. It is in his name now that they do the wrong, and in his name, since his death, they have contrived to find a sanction for all manner of crime. Speak no more of this, Ellen; you know nothing about it. It is all folly."

"To you, Guy, it may be. To the wise all things are foolish. But to the humble heart there is a truth, even in what are thought follies, which brings us the best of teachings. That is no folly which keeps down, in the even posture of humility, the spirit which circumstances would only bind and crush in every effort to rise. That is no folly which prepares us for reverses, and fortifies us against change and vicissitude. That is no folly which takes away the sting from affliction—which has kept me, Guy, as once before you said, from driving a knife into your heart, while it lay beating against the one to which yours had brought all manner of affliction. Oh, believe me, the faith and the feeling and the hope, not less than the fear, which has made me what I am now—which has taught me to rely only on the one—which has made me independent of all things and all loves—ay, even of yours, when I refer to it—is no idle folly. It is the only medicine by which the soul may live. It is that which I bring to you now. Hear me, then—Guy, hear the prayer of the poor Ellen, who surely has some right to be heard by you. Kneel for me, and with me, on this dungeon floor, and pray—only pray."

"And what should I pray for, and what should I say—and whom should I curse?"

"Oh, curse none!—say anything you please, so that it have the form of a prayer. Say, though but a single sentence, but say it in the spirit which is right."

"Say what?"

"Say—'the Lord's will be done,' if nothing more; but say it in the true feeling—the feeling of humble reliance upon God."

"And wherefore say this? His will must be done, and will be done, whether I say it or not. This is all idle—very idle—and to my mind excessively ridiculous, Ellen."

"Not so, Guy, as your own sense will inform you. True, his will must be done; but there is a vast difference between desiring that it be done, and in endeavoring to resist its doing. It is one thing to pray that his will have its way without stop, but quite another to have a vain wish in one's heart to arrest its progress. But I am a poor scholar, and have no words to prove this to your mind, if you are not willing to think upon the subject. If the danger is not great enough in your thought—if the happiness of that hope of immortality be not sufficiently impressive to you—how can I make it seem different? The great misfortune of the learned and the wise is, that they will not regard the necessity. If they did—if they could be less self-confident—how much more readily would all these lights from God shine out to them, than to us who want the far sense so quickly to perceive and to trace them out in the thick darkness. But it is my prayer, Guy, that you kneel with me in prayer; that you implore the feeling of preparedness for all chances which can only come from Heaven. Do this for me, Guy—Guy, my beloved—the destroyer of my youth, of all my hope, and of all of mine, making me the poor destitute and outcast that you find me now—do this one, one small kindness for the poor Ellen you have so much wronged, and she forgives you all. I have no other prayer than this—I have no other wish in life."

As she spoke, she threw herself before him, and clasped his knees firmly with her hands. He lifted her gently from the floor, and for a few moments maintained her in silence in his arms. At length, releasing her from his grasp, and placing her upon the bench, on which, until that moment, he had continued to sit, he replied:—

"The prayer is small—very small, Ellen—which you make, and I know no good reason why I should not grant it. I have been to you all that you describe me. You have called me truly your destroyer, and the forgiveness you promise in return for this prayer is desirable even to one so callous as myself. I will do as you require."

"Oh, will you? then I shall be so happy!—" was her exclamation of rejoicing. He replied gravely—

"We shall see. I will, Ellen, do as you require, but you must turn away your eyes—go to the window and look out. I would not be seen in such a position, nor while uttering such a prayer."

"Oh, be not ashamed, Guy Rivers. Give over that false sentiment of pride which is now a weakness. Be the man, the—"

"Be content, Ellen, with my terms. Either as I please, or not at all. Go to the window."

She did as he directed, and a few moments had elapsed only when he called her to him. He had resumed his seat upon the bench, and his features were singularly composed and quiet.

"I have done something more than you required, Ellen, for which you will also have to forgive me. Give me your hand, now."

She did so, and he placed it upon his bosom, which was now streaming with his blood! He had taken the momentary opportunity afforded him by her absence at the window to stab himself to the heart with a penknife which he had contrived to conceal upon his person. Horror-struck, the affrighted woman would have called out for assistance, but, seizing her by the wrist, he sternly stayed her speech and action.

"Not for your life, Ellen—not for your life! It is all useless. I first carefully felt for the beatings of my heart, and then struck where they were strongest. The stream flows now which will soon cease to flow, and but one thing can stop it."

"Oh, what is that, Guy?—let me—"

"Death—which is at hand! Now, Ellen, do you forgive me? I ask no forgiveness from others."

"From my heart I do, believe me."

"It is well. I am weak. Let me place my head upon your bosom. It is some time, Ellen, since it has been there. How wildly does it struggle! Pray, Ellen, that it beat not long. It has a sad office! Now—lips—give me your lips, Ellen. You have forgiven me—all—everything?"

"All, all!"

"It grows dark—but I care not. Yet, throw open the window—I will not rest—I will pursue! He shall not escape me!—Edith—Edith!" He was silent, and sunk away from her embrace upon the floor. In the last moment his mind had wandered to the scene in which, but an hour before, he had witnessed the departure of Edith with his rival, Colleton.

The jailer, alarmed by the first fearful cry of Ellen succeeding this event, rushed with his assistants into the cell, but too late. The spirit had departed; and they found but the now silent mourner, with folded arms, and a countenance that had in it volumes of unutterable wo, bending over the inanimate form of one whose life and misnamed love had been the bane of hers.

THE END.