ome good traits about you, Bill, and
that's more than Rust has. Good bye!' He extended his hand to the burglar.
Jones grasped it eagerly.

'Thank you! thank you, Mr. Grosket,' said he, the tears starting to his
eyes. 'If you only knew how I was brought up, how I suffered, what has
made me what I am, you wouldn't think so hard of me as some do. But there
is blood on me, now; that's worse than all. I'll never get over _that_. I
might, if it wasn't Tim's. Good bye, God bless ye, Mr. Grosket! My
blessing won't do you much good, but it can't hurt you.'

Grosket shook his hand, and left the room; and the desperate man, whom he
left melted by a transient word of kindness, which had found its way to
his rugged heart, buried his face in his hands, and wept.

Once in the street, Rust endeavored to bear up against his fortune. But he
could not. His mind was confused, and all his thoughts were strange,
fantastic and shadowy. He paused; dashed his hand impatiently against his
forehead, and endeavored to shake off the spell. No, no! it would not
leave him. Failure in his schemes! dishonor in his child! He could think
of them, and of _them_ only. Once on this theme, his mind became more
bewildered than ever; and yielding himself to its impulses, he fell into a
slow pace, and sauntered on, with his chin bent down on his breast.

From the thickly-settled parts of the town he went on, until he came to
streets where the bustle and crowd were less; then to others, which were
nearly deserted; then on he went, until he reached a quarter where the
houses stood far apart, with vacant lots between them. Still he kept on.
Then came fields, and cottages, and farm-houses, surrounded by tall trees.
Still on he went, still wading through a mass of chaotic fancies,
springing up, and reeling and flitting through his mind; shadows of things
that had been, and might be; ghosts of the past; prophets of the future.
He had become a very child. At last he stood on the bank of the river; and
then for the first time he seemed to awaken from his trance.

It was a glorious day, whose sunshine might have found its way even into
his black heart. Oh! how soft, and mellow, and pure, the hurricane of the
last night had left it! Not a cloud in the sky, not a breath to ripple the
water, or to wave the long trailing locks of the hoary willows, which
nodded over its banks.

Rust looked about him, with a bewildered gaze, until his eye became fixed
upon the water. 'I