ain, tell Richard, and I will come; but I
do not wish to be in the way. He, I see, can do every thing I could do,
and far more. I thought a daughter could draw so near a father's heart!"

I stopped, choked with emotion which seemed contagious, for Richard
turned aside and took up his handkerchief, which had dropped upon the
bed. St. James was agitated. He gave the hand which I extended a
spasmodic pressure, and looked from me to Richard, and then back again,
with a peculiar, hesitating expression.

"Forgive me," said he, in a gentler accent than I had yet heard him use,
"my harsh, fierce words; as I told you, it was a demon's utterance, not
mine. You would have saved me, I know you would. I made you unhappy, and
plunged into perdition myself. No, you had better not come again. You
are too lovely, too tender for this grim place. My boy will come; and
you, you, my child, may pray for me, if you do not think it mockery to
ask God to pardon a wretch like me."

I looked in his face, inexpressibly affected by the unexpected
gentleness of his words and manner. Surely the spirit of God was
beginning to move over the stagnant waters of sin and despair. I was
about to leave him,--the lonely,--the doomed. I, too, was lonely and
doomed.

"Father!" I cried, and with an impulse of pity and anguish I threw my
arms round him and wept as if my heart was breaking; "I would willingly
wear out my life in prayer for you, but O, pray for yourself. One prayer
from your heart would be worth ten thousand of mine."

I thought not of the haggard form I was embracing; I thought of the
immortal soul that inhabited it; and it seemed a sacred ruin. He clasped
me convulsively to him one moment, then suddenly withdrawing his arms,
he pushed me towards Richard,--not harshly, but as if bidding him take
care of me; and throwing himself on the bed, he turned his face
downward, so that his long black hair covered it from sight.

"Let us go," said Richard, in a low voice; "we had better leave him
now."

As we were passing very softly out of the cell, he raised his head
partially, and calling to Richard, said,--

"Come back, my son, to-morrow. I have something to tell you. I ought to
do it now, while you are both here, but to-morrow will do; and don't
forget your mother's Bible."

Again we traversed the stone galleries, the dismal stairs, and our
footsteps left behind us a cold, sepulchral sound. Neither of us spoke,
for a kind of funeral silence s