physical retribution is decidedly more moral, in the
sense of obvious fairness, than the so-called law of moral retribution
itself. For, while the hardened offender virtually escapes all pangs of
conscience, he can't escape the diseases and accidents which attend vice
and violence. The whole working of moral retribution, on the contrary, is
to torture the sensitive-souled, who would never do much harm any way,
while the really hard cases of society, by their very hardness, avoid all
suffering. And then, again, see how merciful and reformatory is the
working of physical retribution compared with the pitilessness of the
moral retribution of memory. A man gets over his accident or disease and
is healthy again, having learned his lesson with the renewed health that
alone makes it of any value to have had that lesson. But shame and sorrow
for sin and disgrace go on for ever increasing in intensity, in
proportion as they purify the soul. Their worm dieth not, and their fire
is not quenched. The deeper the repentance, the more intense the longing
and love for better things, the more poignant the pang of regret and the
sense of irreparable loss. There is no sense, no end, no use, in this law
which increases the severity of the punishment as the victim grows in
innocency.

"Ah, sir," exclaimed the doctor, rising and laying his hand caressingly
on the battery, while a triumphant exultation shone in his eyes, "you
have no idea of the glorious satisfaction I take in crushing, destroying,
annihilating these black devils of evil memories that feed on hearts. It
is a triumph like a god's.

"But oh, the pity of it, the pity of it!" he added, sadly, as his hand
fell by his side, "that this so simple discovery has come so late in the
world's history! Think of the infinite multitude of lives it would have
redeemed from the desperation of hopelessness, or the lifelong shadow of
paralysing grief to all manner of sweet, good, and joyous uses!"

Henry opened the door slightly, and looked into the retiring-room.
Madeline was lying perfectly motionless, as he had seen her before. She
had not apparently moved a muscle. With a sudden fear at his heart, he
softly entered, and on tiptoe crossed the room and stood over her. The
momentary fear was baseless. Her bosom rose and fell with long, full
breathing, the faint flush of healthy sleep tinged her cheek, and the
lips were relaxed in a smile. It was impossible not to feel, seeing her
slumbering s