of vengeance that was gathering
over him, and had not been heard of since that period.

I saw him rarely, and for a short time, and I was a mere boy. Hence the
failure to recollect his voice, and to perceive that the voice of him
immured in the room above was the same with that of Colvill. Though I
had slight reasons for recognising his features or accents, I had
abundant cause to think of him with detestation, and pursue him with
implacable revenge, for the victim of his acts, she whose ruin was first
detected, was--_my sister_.

This unhappy girl escaped from the upbraidings of her parents, from the
contumelies of the world, from the goadings of remorse, and the anguish
flowing from the perfidy and desertion of Colvill, in a voluntary death.
She was innocent and lovely. Previous to this evil, my soul was linked
with hers by a thousand resemblances and sympathies, as well as by
perpetual intercourse from infancy, and by the fraternal relation. She
was my sister, my preceptress and friend; but she died--her end was
violent, untimely, and criminal! I cannot think of her without
heart-bursting grief; of her destroyer, without a rancour which I know
to be wrong, but which I cannot subdue.

When the image of Colvill rushed, upon this occasion, on my thought, I
almost started on my feet. To meet him, after so long a separation,
here, and in these circumstances, was so unlooked-for and abrupt an
event, and revived a tribe of such hateful impulses and agonizing
recollections, that a total revolution seemed to have been effected in
my frame. His recognition of my person, his aversion to be seen, his
ejaculation of terror and surprise on first hearing my voice, all
contributed to strengthen my belief.

How was I to act? My feeble frame could but ill second my vengeful
purposes; but vengeance, though it sometimes occupied my thoughts, was
hindered by my reason from leading me, in any instance, to outrage or
even to upbraiding.

All my wishes with regard to this man were limited to expelling his
image from my memory, and to shunning a meeting with him. That he had
not opened the door at my bidding was now a topic of joy. To look upon
some bottomless pit, into which I was about to be cast headlong, and
alive, was less to be abhorred than to look upon the face of Colvill.
Had I known that he had taken refuge in this house, no power should have
compelled me to enter it. To be immersed in the infection of the
hospital, and to be