ly and mounted the
staircase.

On gaining his old apartment in the gable, Richard seated himself
on the edge of the cot-bed. His shoulders sagged down and a stupefied
expression settled upon his face, but his brain was in a tumult. His
own identity was become a matter of doubt to him. Was he the same
Richard Shackford who had found life so sweet when he awoke that
morning? IT must have been some other person who had sat by a window
in the sunrise thinking of Margaret Slocum's love,--some Richard
Shackford with unstained hands! This one was accused of murdering his
kinsman; the weapon with which he had done it, the very match he had
used to light him in the deed, were known! The victim himself had
written out the accusation in black and white. Richard's brain reeled
as he tried to fix his thought on Lemuel Shackford's letter. That
letter!--where had it been all this while, and how did it come into
Taggett's possession? Only one thing was clear to Richard in his
inextricable confusion,--he was not going to be able to prove his
innocence; he was a doomed man, and within the hour his shame would
be published to the world. Rowland Slocum and Lawyer Perkins had
already condemned him, and Margaret would condemn him when she knew
all; for it was evident that up to last evening she had not been
told. How did it happen that these overwhelming proofs had rolled
themselves up against him? What malign influences were these at work,
hurrying him on to destruction, and not leaving a single loophole of
escape? Who would believe the story of his innocent ramble on the
turnpike that Tuesday night? Who could doubt that he had gone
directly from the Slocums' to Welch's Court, and then crept home
red-handed through the deserted streets?

Richard heard the steam-whistles recalling the operatives to work,
and dimly understood it was one o'clock; but after that he paid no
attention to the lapse of time. It was an hour later, perhaps two
hours,--Richard could not tell,--when he roused himself from his
stupor, and descending the stairs passed through the kitchen into the
scullery. There he halted and leaned against the sink, irresolute, as
though his purpose, if he had had a purpose, were escaping him. He
stood with his eyes resting listlessly on a barrel in the further
corner of the apartment. It was a heavy-hooped wine-cask, in which
Lemuel Shackford had been wont to keep his winter's supply of salted
meat. Suddenly Richard started forward