, driven
from thy hovel as a thunder-cloud dispersing, when Simon Jennings seized
the jar, hugged it as his household-god--and took it home with him--and
counted out the gold--and locked the bloody treasure in his iron-chest?

Fitly did the murderer lock up curses with his spoil.

And when God smote thine idol, dashing Dagon to the ground, and thy
heart was sore with disappointment, and tender as a peeled fig--when
hope was dead for earth, and conscience dared not look beyond it--ah!
Roger, did I judge amiss when I saw, or thought I saw, those eyes full
of humble shame, those lips quivering with remorseful sorrow?

We will leave thee in the cold stone cell--with thy well-named angel
Grace to comfort thee, and pray with thee, and help thee back to God
again, and so repay the debt that a daughter owes her father.

Happy prison! where the air is sweetened by the frankincense of piety,
and the pavement gemmed with the flowers of hope, and the ceiling arched
with Heaven's bow of mercy, and the walls hung around with the dewy
drapery of penitence!

Happy prison! where the talents that were lost are being found again,
gathered in humility from this stone floor; where poor-making riches are
banished from the postern, and rich-making poverty streameth in as light
from the grated window; where care vexeth not now the labourer emptied
of his gold, and calumny's black tooth no longer gnaws the heart-strings
of the innocent.

Hark! it is the turnkey, coming round to leave the pittance for the day:
he is bringing in something in an earthern jar. Speak, Roger Acton,
which will you choose, man--a prisoner's mess of pottage--or a crock of
gold?

CHAPTER XXII.

THE AUNT AND HER NEPHEW.

WHILE we leave Roger Acton in the jail, waiting for the very
near assizes, and wearing every hour away in penitence and prayer, it
will be needful to our story that we take a retrospective glance at
certain events, of no slight importance.

I must now speak of things, of which there is no human witness;
recording words, and deeds, whereof Heaven alone is cognizant, Heaven
alone--and Hell! For there are secret matters, which the murdered cannot
tell us, and the murderer dare not--let him confess as fully as he will.
Therefore, with some omnipresent sense, some invisible ubiquity, I must
note down scenes as they occurred, whether mortal eye has witnessed them
or not; I must lay bare secret thoughts, unlatch the hidden chambers of
the he