ng his head. "I am used to it,
sir."

"Not you! Who, then? Are you crying because somebody else is hurt,
pray?" asks Mr. Warrington.

"Yes, sir!" says the chaplain, with some spirit; "because somebody else
is hurt, and through my fault. I have lodged for many years in London
with a bootmaker, a very honest man: and, a few days since, having a
perfect reliance upon--upon a friend who had promised to accommodate me
with a loan--I borrowed sixty pounds from my landlord which he was about
to pay to his own. I can't get the money. My poor landlord's goods will
be seized for rent; his wife and dear young children will be turned into
the street; and this honest family will be ruined through my fault. But,
as you say, Mr. Warrington, I ought not to snivel like a woman. I will
remember that you helped me once, and will bid you farewell, sir."

And, taking his broad-leafed hat, Mr. Chaplain walked out of the room.

An execration and a savage laugh, I am sorry to say, burst out of
Harry's lips at this sudden movement of the chaplain's. He was in such
a passion with himself, with circumstances, with all people round about
him, that he scarce knew where to turn, or what he said. Sampson heard
the savage laughter, and then the voice of Harry calling from the
stairs, "Sampson, Sampson! hang you! come back! It's a mistake! I beg
your pardon!" But the chaplain was cut to the soul, and walked on. Harry
heard the door of the street as the parson slammed it. It thumped on his
own breast. He entered his room, and sank back on his luxurious chair
there. He was Prodigal, amongst the swine--his foul remorses; they had
tripped him up, and were wallowing over him. Gambling, extravagance,
debauchery, dissolute life, reckless companions, dangerous women--they
were all upon him in a herd, and were trampling upon the prostrate young
sinner.

Prodigal was not, however, yet utterly overcome, and had some fight left
in him. Dashing the filthy importunate brutes aside, and, as it were,
kicking his ugly remembrances away from him, Mr. Warrington seized
a great glass of that fire-water which he had recommended to poor
humiliated Parson Sampson, and, flinging off his fine damask robe, rang
for the trembling Gumbo, and ordered his coat. "Not that!" roars he, as
Gumbo brings him a fine green coat with plated buttons and a gold cord.
"A plain suit--the plainer the better! The black clothes." And Gumbo
brings the mourning-coat which his master had discard