d rousing one from a dreamless sleep. One evening soon
after, he stood before the merchant, who was sipping his choice cordials,
as you were to-night, Flint, and the sailor asked for the child. The man
replied: 'The child is dead; you left it in the cold, and it died, or you
threw it into the river. I saw a body at the dead-house, weeks afterward,
which looked like the child. You committed murder; it was your own act.
Suppose you were to be hung for it!' Have I a good memory, John Flint?"

And the man turned his wild eyes on Mr. Flint, who gave no other evidence
of not being a statue than a slight tremor of his upper lip.

"What did the madman say to the merchant? He took the cool, calculating
villain by the throat, and cried, 'Write me out, in your round, clerkly
hand, a full avowal of your guilt in this matter, or I'll strangle you!'
The merchant knew he would, so he wrote this document with trembling
fingers, and he signed it JOHN FLINT!"

Then the sailor drew from his pocket an old stained letter, and held it up
to the light. He looked at it sadly, and then his mind seemed to wander off
through a gloomy mist of memories, for his eyes grew gentle and dreamy.

He spoke softly, almost tenderly:

"John Flint, you never saw me weep. Look at me, then. I am thinking of an
old country-house which stood in a cluster of trees near a sea-shore. It
once held everything that was dear to me--my children. Three years ago I
stood with my hand on the gate, and looked into the little garden. It had
gone to waste; the wind had beaten down the flower frames; the honeysuckle
vines were running wild, and there was the moss of ten years' growth on the
broken chimney-pots. The rain had washed the paint off the house, and the
windows were boarded up. There was something in the ruin and stillness of
the place which spoke to me. Twilight added a gloomy background to the
picture. I broke the rusty fastenings of a side door, and entered the
deserted building. It may have been fancy, but I saw two forms wandering
from room to room, and through the darkened entries; now they would pause,
as if listening for foot-steps, then they would move on again, sorrowfully,
sorrowfully. In the bedroom over the front door, I saw the shadow of a
little coffin! _She_ used to sleep there. Where were my children? Where was
trustful old Nanny, that she did not come to me? The house was full of
strange shadows, and I fled from it. I did not dare go to the village