lent, and
pale, her patient endurance is my perpetual reproach. I feel that my
crime is known to her, that her punishment is as terrible as my own. I
took up her Bible the other day from the little table on which she had
left it, and unclosing the volume, my eyes were arrested by these awful
words,--"The seed of the adulterous bed shall perish." I felt that I was
doomed--that the sins of my parents had been visited on me; and the
horrible thought brought consolation. I am but a passive instrument in
the hands of an inexorable destiny. Why continue this struggle with
fate? Conscience will not be cheated. Night came, and the delusion
vanished: the horrors of remorse are upon me. I feel that I am
responsible for the acts done in the flesh, "that as a man sows, so must
he reap." The burden of my soul is intolerable; when shall I find rest?

* * * * *

Another year has vanished into the grave of time. My mother, my poor
mother, is at last gone. She died calmly and full of hope. She told me
that she knew all--had known it since my illness. The sad conviction of
my guilt at first plunged her in despair, then brought repentance, and
repentance hope, forgiveness, peace. She had wept and prayed for me for
years. She trusted that I should yet find mercy through my Saviour's
blood.

It was not until she lay dead before me, that I knew how dear she
was,--what a dreadful blank her absence made in my home. I no longer had
her eye to dread; but, like the little children who huddle together in
the dark, was afraid of being alone,--afraid, even in noon-day, of
something I knew not what.

Benjamin, the old servant who has lived with me ever since I came to the
Porched House, grieves with me over the loss of a kind mistress. I used
to be sullen and reserved to honest Ben; I am glad to talk to him for
companionship. My dog, too, has become inexpressibly dear; he sleeps at
the foot of my bed at night. Oh, that he could scare away the demons
that haunt my pillow! Ben advises me to take a wife. He says that I
should be happier with a young woman to look after the house. He may be
right. But, alas! what can I do? Will any woman whom I could love,
condescend to unite her destiny with an old care-worn man like me? The
iron hand of remorse has bent my once active figure, and turned my dark
locks grey before my time. How can I ask a young girl to love and obey
me?

Tush!--I have wealth,--who knows my guilt? Have