it was evident that he had been very intemperate. He had drifted
to New Orleans, and lead a most wretched life there; and at times he
had gone to sea. My brother asked him if he was ever in Rio; and at
first he denied it, and afterward confessed that he was there once,
and had seen Whiston in a boat, and had dropped over the side in the
dark to evade him, but when Jack questioned him about being at the
window, he denied it utterly. He said his ship sailed that day. It
might have been that he meant to commit a robbery, or that he really
told the truth, and that it was the first of poor Whiston's illusions.
Of course it was possible that Dunster might have swung himself down
from the flat roof by a rope, and they might have really met at other
times, it was not unlikely. But one can hardly conceive of
Mr. Whiston's perfect certainty, in such a case, that the glimpse he
had of his cousin's face was a supernatural vision.

My brother said, "I did not tell him what wreck and ruin he had made
unconsciously of Whiston's life,--at least the part he had played in
it; it would do no good, and indeed he is hardly sane, I think. It
would be curious if they had both inherited from their common ancestry
the mental weakness which shows itself so differently in the two
lives,--Whiston's, so cowardly and shrinking and weak; and Dunster's,
so horribly low and brutal. There is not much the matter with him, he
had a fall on board ship. The nurse told me he was very troublesome,
and had fairly insulted the chaplain, who had said a kind word to him.
It is a pity that shot had not killed him; and I suppose most of the
class who ever think of him will say he was a hero, and died on the
field of honor."

And my brother and I talked gravely about the two men. God help us!
what sin and crime may be charged to any of us who take the wrong way
in life! The possibilities of wickedness and goodness in us are both
unlimited. I said, how many lives must be like these which seemed such
wretched failures and imperfections! One cannot help having a great
pity for such men, in whom common courage, and the power of
resistance, and the ordinary amount of will seem to have been wanting.
Warped and incapable, or brutal and shameful, one cannot pity them
enough. It is like the gnarled and worthless fruit that grows among
the fair and well-rounded,--the useless growth that is despised and
thrown away scornfully.

But God must always know what blighted and hi