l that her father should be affected by the
death of the fisherman, who, after saving his life, had perished in
the attempt to bring rescue, although she thought his expressions
exaggerated. She felt pained at his self-reproaches, but doubted not
that soon the keenness of regret would lose its edge. In order the
sooner, therefore, to produce this result, she attempted to divert his
thoughts into another channel.

"You are unjust to yourself, father," she said. "How many are there to
bless you for charities known only to themselves and you?"

"Mention them not, Faith, crumbs from my superfluity, like those that
fell from the other rich man's table. Besides, of what avail will
any charities, as you call them, of mine be? They will serve only to
convey the curse that attaches itself to me. I tremble to think you
are my daughter."

"And I," said Faith, "can never be thankful enough for having such
a father. Ah, how happy we might be, if you would only banish these
fancies from your mind!"

"Thus it is," said Armstrong. "Did I not say right? Like an evil
spirit I scatter only gloom around one. I will remove a presence that
blasts whatever it meets."

So saying he rose, and in spite of the tearful entreaties of his
daughter, walked into the hall, and taking his great coat from the
hook that held it, put it on and passed into the street.

Faith, upon his departure, sunk into a chair, and allowed free
course to her tears. They brought relief, and after a few moments she
recovered composure. "This is very foolish," she said to herself, "to
cry like a child. My dear father is nervous, and I do not wonder, that
shocking accident agitates him. I am glad he is gone, for it is
better he should seek the society of his friends, than sit here making
himself melancholy with me. I must be cheerful to receive him when he
returns. At least, he shall see no trace of tears."

Meanwhile, Mr. Armstrong walked down the street, but shunning
the sight of others, he turned at the first opportunity into an
unfrequented road. It led towards the Severn, and hardly knowing how
it happened, he crossed a bridge, and soon found himself in the woods
that skirt the left bank of that river. Unconsciously, and as if
attracted by some spell, he was directing his course towards the scene
of the late disaster. The walk and the solemn silence of the woods,
in which no sound was heard except the cawing of a watchful crow,
some sentinel placed to give noti