familiar with the ground, and without hesitation went directly
to the door of the house. It was locked. He drew a key from his pocket,
unlocked it, went in, and closed it after him. He groped his way along the
entry, until he came to the door of a room, which he opened. A few embers
were smouldering on the hearth, sufficient to throw out a dim light.
Lighting a candle, which stood on a table, he drew a chair to the fire and
sat down. The chamber was large, fitted up as a library, and filled with
massive book-cases of dark wood, elaborately carved, which gave a sombre
appearance to the room. Nothing that money could buy had been spared; for
this was the home of Rust's daughter, and that hard, reckless, griping man
had been alive but to one feeling--love to his child. In _her_ were
garnered up all his affections, and upon her he had lavished all that his
means could obtain.

For a long time he sat without changing his position, his eye fixed, his
mouth compressed, his brow knit, not a sound escaping him. At last he
started from his fit of abstraction, with a slight shiver; passed his hand
once or twice before his eyes, as if to dispel something that clouded his
sight; and said, in a whisper. 'Can all this be real?' The clock struck
three. He rose, cast a stealthy glance over his shoulder, and taking the
candle in his hand, held it up over his head, examining the room with a
suspicious look, as if he momentarily expected some form to start from
behind the heavy furniture. As his eye was wandering round the room, it
rested upon a picture in a carved frame, which hung against the wall. He
went to it, and held the light so that its rays fell full upon it. It was
the portrait of a girl of about seventeen. Could the child-like, innocent
face which gazed out from the canvass upon that fierce, passion-worn old
man, be that of _his_ child? Could aught so pure and beautiful have sprung
from such as him? And worse than all, could she have lost that purity
which was stamped on every line of her face?

With fixed and rigid features; with a hand that did not tremble, with a
heart that scarcely beat, he contemplated the picture; and then, slowly,
as if in a dream, replaced the candle, and took his seat. There was that
at work within him, however, which banished bodily repose; for in one
minute afterward, he was up and pacing the room, muttering and
gesticulating to himself; the _next_, he went to a mirror, and looked at
his own face. He