ho had heard
of his possessions, of his funded gold, and whose grasping soul was sick
to handle and secure them. Abraham Allcraft, hunks as he was, was reputed
wealthy. For years he had retained a high position as the opulent banker
of the mercantile city of ----. His business was extensive--his habits
mean, penurious; his credit was unlimited, as his character was
unimpeachable. There are some men who cannot gain the world's favour, do
what they will to purchase it. There are others, on the other hand, who,
having no fair claim at all to it, are warmed and nourished throughout
life by the good opinion of mankind. No man lived with fewer virtues than
Abraham Allcraft; no man was reputed richer in all the virtues that adorn
humanity. He was an honest man, because he starved upon a crust. He was
industrious, because from morn till night he laboured at the bank. He was
a moral man, because his word was sacred, and no one knew him guilty of a
serious fault. He was the pattern of a father--witness the education of
his son. He was the pattern of a banker--witness the house's regularity,
and steady prosperous course. He lived within view of the mansion in which
Mildred breathed his last; he knew the history of the deceased, as well as
he knew the secrets of his own bad heart. He had seen the widow in her
solitary walks; he had made his plans, and he was not the man to give them
up without a struggle.

It was perhaps on the tenth day after Mildred had been deposited in the
earth, that Margaret permitted the sun once more to lighten her abode.
Since the death of her husband the house had been shut up--no visitor had
been admitted--there had been no witness to her agony and tears. It should
be so. There are calamities too great for human sympathy; seasons too
awful for any presence save that of the Eternal. Time, reason, and
religion--not the hollow mockery of solemn words and looks--must heal the
heart lacerated by the tremendous deathblow. Abraham Allcraft had waited
for this day. He saw the gloomy curtains drawn aside--he beheld life
stirring in the house again. He dressed himself more carefully than he had
ever done before, and straightaway hobbled to the door, before another and
less hasty foot could reach it. A painter, wishing to arrest the look of
one who smiles, and smiles, and murders whilst he smiles, would have been
glad to dwell upon the face of Abraham, as he addressed the servant-man
who gave him entrance. Below the