ossession of the
letter was unwise.

Mr. Flint was in a brown study.

He walked up and down his sanctum solemnly, neglecting to watch Tim and the
book-keeper who had succeeded Mortimer. An half hour passed, and still he
continued his walk and reverie, without any visible intention of stopping.
His face lights up; he rubs his knuckles with ecstacy. He has got it! got
it at last. He will have Mortimer arrested; he will have Mortimer's name
suppressed, or give the newspapers a fictitious one. This will shield him
from Walters, whose heart he will wring some of these days. Ah! that will
be revenge.

It may strike the ingenious reader as strange that Mortimer, having charge
of Flint & Snarle's books, never came across his father's name. This would
have been the case, and somewhat interfered with our novel, if Mortimer,
when he applied for a clerkship with the firm, had not given Mr. Flint all
the particulars of his life. For reasons best known to himself, Mr. Flint
took every opportunity to strengthen Mortimer in the belief of his father's
death, and every precaution to keep Walters from meeting him. Once, indeed,
they stood face to face in the office; but, taking into consideration the
number of years they had been separated, and the circumstances under which
they met, it would have been most strange if a recognition had taken place.
As to Mr. Snarle, being profoundly ignorant of Mortimer's early history, he
could throw no light on Mortimer's mind; and everything worked to Flint's
satisfaction. Every circumstance seemed to mould itself to his will.

There is an evil spirit, and a very powerful one, that holds the wires
which move some of us puppets. The good are made to take the humblest seats
in the world's Synagogue, and the wily and the evil-hearted are clothed in
purple, fed on honey, and throned in the highest places. There will be a
surprising revolution some of these times.

As Mr. Sparrow-grass would say, a revolution is "a good thing to have in
the country."

XII.

_Why, true, her heart was all humanity,
Her soul all God's; in spirit and in form,
Like fair. Her cheek had the pale, pearly pink
Of sea-shells, the world's sweetest tint, as though
She lived, one-half might deem, on roses sopped
In silver dew; she spoke as with the voice
Of spheral harmony which greets the soul,
When, at the hour of death, the saved one knows
His sister angel's near: her eye was as