George Cruikshank's 'Bottle' will, because every one
knows that they are the exception, and not the rule; that the
Atheist generally dies with a conscience as comfortably callous as a
rhinocerous-hide; and the rake, when old age stops his power of
sinning, becomes generally rather more respectable than his
neighbours. The New Testament deals very little in appeals ad
terrorem; and it would be well if some, who fancy that they follow
it, would do the same, and by abstaining from making 'hell-fire' the
chief incentive to virtue, cease from tempting many a poor fellow to
enlist on the devil's side the only manly feeling he has left--
personal courage.

But yet Lancelot was affected. And when, on the night of the
colonel's funeral, he opened, at hazard, Argemone's Bible, and his
eyes fell on the passage which tells how 'one shall be taken and
another left,' great honest tears of gratitude dropped upon the
page; and he fell on his knees, and in bitter self-reproach thanked
the new found Upper Powers, who, as he began to hope, were leading
him not in vain,--that he had yet a life before him wherein to play
the man.

And now he felt that the last link was broken between him and all
his late frivolous companions. All had deserted him in his ruin but
this one--and he was silent in the grave. And now, from the world
and all its toys and revelry, he was parted once and for ever; and
he stood alone in the desert, like the last Arab of a plague-
stricken tribe, looking over the wreck of ancient cities, across
barren sands, where far rivers gleamed in the distance, that seemed
to beckon him away into other climes, other hopes, other duties.
Old things had passed away--when would all things become new?

Not yet, Lancelot. Thou hast still one selfish hope, one dream of
bliss, however impossible, yet still cherished. Thou art a changed
man--but for whose sake? For Argemone's. Is she to be thy god,
then? Art thou to live for her, or for the sake of One greater than
she? All thine idols are broken--swiftly the desert sands are
drifting over them, and covering them in.--All but one--must that,
too, be taken from thee?

One morning a letter was put into Lancelot's hands, bearing the
Whitford postmark. Tremblingly he tore it open. It contained a few
passionate words from Honoria. Argemone was dying of typhus fever,
and entreating to see him once again; and Honoria had, with some
difficulty