oughts;
and worse than either, the infamy which would for ever attach itself to
his name.

He determined to see his father for the last time, and if he failed in
moving his compassion, he had formed the desperate resolution of putting
an end to his own life in his presence; a far greater crime than that
for which he dreaded receiving a capital punishment.

"Clary," he said, hastily thrusting the letter into his pocket,
"business of importance calls me away to-night. Do not be alarmed if I
should be detained until the morning."

"You cannot go to-night, Anthony. It has rained all the afternoon; the
ground is wet. The air is raw and damp. You are not well. If you leave
the house you will take cold!"

"Do not attempt to detain me, Clary, I must go. I shall leave a letter
for your brother on the table, which you must give him if I do not
return."

"Something is wrong. Tell me, oh, tell me what it is!"

"You will know all to-morrow," said Anthony, greatly agitated. "I cannot
speak of it to-night." He took her hand and pressed it sadly to his
heart. "Should we never meet again, dear Clary, will you promise to
think kindly of me; and in spite of the contempt of the world, to
cherish your cousin's memory?"

"Though all the world should forsake you, yet will I never desert you,"
sobbed Clary, as, sinking into his extended arms, she fainted on his
breast.

"This will kill you, poor innocent. May God bless and keep you from a
knowledge of my guilt." He placed her gently upon the sofa, and kissed
her pale lips and brow, and calling Ruth to her assistance, sought with
a heavy heart his own chamber.

He sat down and wrote a long letter to Frederic, explaining the
unfortunate transaction which had occurred during his absence. This
letter he left upon the study table, and putting a brace of loaded
pistols into his pocket he sallied out upon his hopeless expedition.

It had been a very wet afternoon. The clouds had parted towards
nightfall, and the moon rose with unusual splendor, rendering every
object in his path as distinctly visible as at noonday. The beauty of
the night only seemed to increase the gloom of Anthony Hurdlestone's
spirit. He strode on at a rapid pace, as if to outspeed the quick
succession of melancholy thoughts, that were hurrying him on to commit a
deed of desperation. He entered the great avenue that led up to the back
of the Hall, and past the miser's miserable domicile, and had traversed
about half