l, and rang it violently.

Burrage came to answer it.

"Monster!" exclaimed his master, gazing at him spitefully, "have you
no heart--no feeling left within you? How could you do it?"

"Do what, sir?"

"Rob that poor old man. Plunder and kill that hoary unoffending
creature. Why did you take his miserable earnings? Why did you rob his
little ones? Why clutch the bread from his starving grandchildren? He
will die of a broken heart, and will plead against me at the
judgment-seat. Why was that old man's money taken?"

"We must take all, or nothing, sir. You forbade me to speak a
syllable."

"Speak--speak! Yes, but could you not have given him a look, one
merciful look, to save his life, and my soul from everlasting ruin?
You might, you could have done it, but you conspire to overthrow me.
Go--but mark me--breathe not a word, if you hope to live."

The poor clerk held up his hands, shook them piteously, sighed, and
went his way again.

It was six o'clock in the evening, and every soul connected with the
bank, except Michael and Burrage, had left it. They were both in the
private room, which the former had not quitted during the day. Michael
was writing a letter; the clerk was standing mournfully at his side.
When the note was finished, directed, and sealed, Allcraft turned to
his old friend and spoke--

"I shall not sleep at home to-night, Burrage. I have business which
must be seen to."

"Indeed, sir, you had better go home. You are very unwell."

"Silence, once more. I tell you, Burrage, it cannot be. This business
must not be neglected. I have written to Mrs Allcraft, explaining the
reason of my absence. You will yourself deliver the letter to her,
with your own hands, Burrage. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir," faltered Burrage, wishing himself deaf.

"Very well. I have no more to say. Good-by--good-night."

"Good-night, sir," said the man, walking slowly off.

"Stay, Burrage. You are a true old friend--my oldest. Give me your
hand. I have spoken unkindly--very harshly and cruelly to-day. Do not
think ill of me. My temper has been soured by the troubles of life.
You forgive me for my anger--do you not?"

The old man did not answer. He could not. He held the hand of his
master tightly in his own. He drew it to his lips and kissed it; and
then, ashamed not of the act, but of his unmanly tears, he walked
slowly to the door, and quitted the room--his head bending to the
earth, whence it never again was raised.