isterous and triumphant, comes in.

* * * * *

Sunday morning: cold and clear. The December sun shines upon the glassy
turf, and upon trees all clad in armor of glittering ice. And the trees
creak and rattle in the north wind; and the icy splinters fall tinkling
to the ground.

The splendor of the morning gilds the Judge's estate. Everything about
the mansion smiles and sparkles. Were last night's horrors a dream?

There was danger, we remember, that the foolish youth might do a very
inconsiderate and shocking thing, and perhaps ruin the Judge. What if he
had really deposited his mortal remains at the gate of that worthy
man,--to be found there, ghastly and stiff, a revolting spectacle, this
bright morning? What a commentary on Gingerford philanthropy! For of
course some one would at once have stepped forward to testify to having
seen him driven from the door, which he came back to lay his bones near.
And Stephen would have been on hand to remember directing such a person,
inquiring his way a second time to the Judge's house. And here he is
dead,--to the secret delight of the Judge's enemies, and to the
indignation of all Timberville. At anybody else's door it wouldn't have
seemed so bad. But at Gingerford's! a philanthropist by profession!
author of that beautiful speech you cried over! You will never forgive
him those tears. The greatest crime a man can be guilty of in the eyes
of his constituents is to have been over-praised by them. Woe to him,
when they find out their error! and woe now to the Judge! The fact that
a dozen other influential citizens had also refused shelter to the
vagabond will not help the matter. Those very men will probably be the
first to cry, "Hypocrite! inhuman! a judgment upon him!"--for it is
always the person of doubtful virtue who is most eager to assume the
appearance of severe integrity; and we often flatter ourselves that our
private faults are atoned for, when we have loudly denounced them in
others.

Fortunately, the flower of the Judge's reputation is saved from so
terrible a blight. There is no corpse at his gate; and our speculations
are idle.

This is what had occurred. Not long after the lad had lain down, a
dream-like spell came over him. His pain was gone. He forgot that he was
cold. He was not hungry any more. A sweet sense of rest was diffused
through his tired limbs. And smiling and soothed he lay, while the storm
beat upon him. Was this