e to him.

He was a tall, slender man, pale from sickness, decently
dressed, and with an intelligent, benevolent countenance. He was
one of those whom Rodney had observed looking out of the window.

"What is the matter?" said he; "what has brought you into this
horrible place?"

The confidence of the boy was easily won. He had felt an
inexpressible desire to talk to some one, and now he was ready
to lay open his whole heart at the first intimation of sympathy.

"I ran away from home," was the frank and truthful reply.

"But they do not put boys in jail for running away; you must
have done something else."

"I was charged with something else; but indeed, indeed, I am
innocent!"

"That is very possible," said he, with a sigh; "but what did
they charge you with doing?"

And Rodney moved closer to him, and leaned his head upon his
breast, and told him all. There was such an evident sincerity,
such consistency, such tones of truth in the simple narrative,
that he saw he was believed, and the sympathizing words and
looks of the listener inspired him with trust, as though he was
talking to a well-known friend.

For several days, they were constantly together; the stranger
waited upon Rodney, and gave him his medicine, and helped him
from his cot, talked with him, and manifested for him the
kindness of a brother. From several conversations, Rodney
gleaned from him the following history.

Lewis Warren,--so will we call him--(indeed, Rodney never knew
his true name),--was born and had lived most of his life in a
New England village. He was the son of a farmer; a pious man,
and deacon of a church, by whose help he received a liberal
education. Soon after he had graduated at ---- College, he came
on to Philadelphia, with the expectation of getting into some
business. At the hotel where he stopped, he became acquainted
with a man of very gentlemanly appearance and address, who said
that he, too, was a stranger in the city, and proposed to
accompany him to some places of amusement. Warren went with him
to the theatre, and, on succeeding evenings, to various places
of amusement. As they were one evening strolling up Chestnut-street,
this friend, Mr. Sharpe, stopped at the well-lighted vestibule
of a stately building, that had the air of a private house,
although it was thrown open, and proposed that they should go
in, and see what was going on there. Warren consented, and,
after ascending to the second floor, and passi