was not in
his heart to deprive him of it, however much he might feel the reasoning
to be false.

"I can never go back again," continued Arthur, "to what I once was. If
this were possible, I might, perhaps, endeavor to reform; but I am so
deeply steeped in sin, that its memory will be haunting me always,
always; and it is useless for me to strive to do aught but drown life
and memory in the same cup."

"Wrong reasoning, my brother, wrong reasoning," said Guly, impressively,
laying his hand on Arthur's arm; but he could say no more, his heart was
too full; and, lifting his head, he sat looking into the coals,
struggling to keep down his rising emotions.

Reaching out his hand, Arthur clasped Guly's in his and held it closely.
Thus they sat side by side once again, heart to heart, and hand in hand.
The bright fire-glow played and flickered on their thoughtful faces as
they called up old memories and thought of old scenes; while the coals
faded and died out--fit emblems of the dreams they were dreaming.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

"Oh! how this tyrant doubt torments my breast!
My thoughts, like birds, who, frightened from their nest,
Around the place where all was hushed before,
Flutter, and hardly nestle any more."

Otway.

From this night, Arthur's course was more swiftly downward than ever it
had been before. It seemed as if the last redeeming moment of his life
was passed, and that some strong arm was hurrying him fiercely forward
into the blackened pit of which he had dreamed one night long ago, when
slumbering sweetly at his brother's side, his cheek upon his hand!

Every succeeding night plunged him deeper beneath the waves of that sea
of dissipation upon which he had thrown himself. Theatres, dissolute
balls, the gambling saloon and billiard table, each with their attendant
quantity of exciting drinks, were his constant places of resort; and
though Guly pleaded, and prayed him to renounce them forever, and come
back to his old ways, 'twas in vain.

The Demon of Remorse was gnawing at his heart-strings for the crime he
had committed, and pride, that fatal pride, was stinging him into
silence and misery, withholding him from confessing, even to his Maker,
his sorrow and repentance. He had given his right hand to the Evil One,
and his left there was none to take.

Every morning, as Mr. Delancey's keen eyes searched that haggard and
bloated face, Guly expected to hear him dismissed; but as