illows of the bed. It was merely necessary to press it over
her face, hold it there till life was extinct, and creep away, a free
man!

It must have been the ever-watching Angel Guardian of that wretched man
who touched his heart at that moment of danger, by a sudden grace. He
faltered; threw down the pillow, and swiftly ran from the room and from
the house--pursued by remorse.

An hour later, when he ventured to return, he was met on the threshold
with the tidings that his wife had been found dead of heart failure.

For many a year after that horrible day Archie McLean was tormented by
his reproachful conscience. He regarded himself as a murderer in
desire, though actually guiltless of his wife's blood. The terrible
shock was his salvation. From that day he never more touched strong
drink. The formerly inveterate drunkard, a great portion of whose time
was spent in the cells, rose by degrees to the position of the smartest
soldier in his company. When his long service had to come to an end,
he took a situation as gardener for a time; but a desire which had come
upon him when his army service had been completed became still more
urgent. He longed to be able to devote himself to a penitential life,
as a means of making such atonement as was in his power for his past
transgressions. Even while in the army his life had been one of
rigorous mortification, dating from the day when he once more began to
practise his religion; he shunned no duty, however distasteful, and
shrank from no danger.

In response to the keen desire which dominated him, Archie threw up his
situation, and searching for some part of the country in which he would
not be known, yet where he should find life and surroundings not
entirely foreign to his experience, settled at length at Ardmuirland.
For about forty years his life was characterized by a rigorous
austerity. His pension was at once carried to the priest, as soon as
he received it, to be devoted to the offering of Masses for the soul of
his unhappy wife, and the relief of the poor--scarcely poorer than
himself. He never spent a penny upon his own needs; even the scanty
earnings of his labor, unless made in kind, went the same way as his
pension. The clothing, even, which charitable persons bestowed upon
him in pity soon passed into coin for the same end; no scolding of his
spiritual Father could prevail upon him to look better after his own
well-being.

"I've been a great sinne