ness. Years ago, when I was a mere child,
toiling early and late in Flint's office, did you not take me to your home,
a poor hope-broken boy? Have I not grown up with Daisy, like your own
child? Not love you?"

Mortimer laid his face on the same pillow with the sick man's.

"I was not sent to prison," continued Snarle, with a shudder; "only my own
mind, and soul, and actions were prisoners. I was Flint's! Flint owned me!
That little paper which he guards so carefully is the title-deed. O,
Mortimer, as you hold my memory dear, destroy that paper--tear it, burn it,
trample it out of the world!"

With these words Snarle sank back upon the pillow, from which he had half
risen. He went on speaking in a lower tone:

"I have suffered so much that I am sure God will forgive me. Never let the
world know--never let my wife and Daisy know that I was a----"

"O, I will promise you, dear father," cried Mortimer, before he could
finish the dreadful word. "I will destroy the paper, though twenty Flints
guarded it. The man who steals a loaf of bread for famishing lips, is not
such a criminal in God's sight as he who steals a million times its value
by _law_ to feed his avarice. Think no more of it. The angel who records in
his book, has written a hundred good deeds over that unfortunate one. The
world's frown is not God's frown, and His heart is open when man's is
barred with unforgiveness."

"Thank you, thank you," said Snarle, brightening up a little. "Your words
give me comfort. I have not much more to tell. Flint took me into the firm,
but I was the same slave. I worked, and worked, and the reapings were his.
You have seen it--you know it. And this was his revenge. His wounded love
and pride have wrecked themselves on me. He has never crossed the threshold
of our door--never laid his eyes on my wife since the time when we were
thoughtless boys together. O, how cruel he has been to me! Evening after
evening, in midwinter, he has made me bring the last editions of the
_Express_ to his house, and never asked me in!"

This was said with such a ludicrous expression, that Mortimer would have
laughed if it had been anybody but poor Snarle. Exhausted with talking, the
sick man sank into a quiet slumber.

Mortimer sat by his bed-side for an hour, watching the change of
expressions in the sleeper's face--the shadow of his dreams coming and
going! Then his head drooped upon his bosom, and he slept so soundly that
he did not know that