et out on his return. 'If it had been me,' said
he, pausing to take a last look at the lonely house, 'if it had only been
Edward Kornicker who was thus cast adrift, to kick his way through the
world with empty pockets, and without a soul to say to him God speed, or
'I'm sorry for you,' it would have been right and proper, and no one would
have any cause to grumble or find fault; but this being a girl, with no
money, and consequently with no friends, no experience, as _I_ have, it's
a very hard case--a very hard case, indeed.'

Having arrived at this conclusion, Kornicker took off his hat, wiped his
forehead, snuffed, and set out on his return.

Day after day for several weeks he prosecuted his inquiries without
success; and just when he was in despair, chance led him to success. In
the course of his rambles, he encountered a person who had been at Rust's
trial, and happened to speak about him; for now that the criminal was dead
and in his grave, when public opinion could be of no service to him, many
who had hunted him down began to view less harshly the crime which had led
to his death; and this man was one of the number. He said that, although
he deserved punishment for his previous evil deeds, yet the best and
purest act of his life had been that by which he had struck down the
destroyer of his child.

'Poor thing!' said he, 'she must have led a miserable life since her
father's death. I have met her several times since then in the street, but
that was several weeks ago; and then she was very feeble, scarcely able to
walk: perhaps she's dead now.'

Kornicker waited only long enough to ascertain that she lived in a certain
out-of-the-way part of the town, which the man designated, and thither he
directed his steps, and resumed his search; and after several days spent
in fruitless inquiries, he discovered her.

The house in which he found her was a small ruinous building, sagged and
jutting forward, as if struggling to sustain itself against time and
dilapidation. The windows were broken; the doors and shutters unhung,
except a solitary one of the latter, which creaked as it flapped to and
fro in the wind; and this was the home of Rust's child.

Kornicker ascended the ricketty stairs and paused at the door of a room,
which a slipshod woman had pointed out as that of the 'murderer's
daughter.' He knocked, but there was no reply; he knocked again, but all
was silent. Then he opened the door and looked in.

It was