ivory, he bent down before the image of his
Redeemer.

Even while he was buried in his devotions, praying perchance for the
soul of that sinning yet sainted lady whose memory was never absent from
his thoughts, or the prosperity of that family to whom he had dedicated
his faithful life, the noise of ascending footsteps was heard in the
sudden stillness, and immediately a loud knocking at the door of his
outer chamber.

Surprised at this unaccustomed interruption, Glastonbury rose, and
enquired the object of his yet unseen visitor; but, on hearing a
well-known voice, the door was instantly unbarred, and Ferdinand
Armine, pale as a ghost and deluged to the skin, appeared before him.
Glastonbury ushered his guest into his cell, replenished the fire,
retrimmed the lamp, and placed Ferdinand in his own easy seat.

'You are wet; I fear thoroughly?'

'It matters not,' said Captain Armine, in a hollow voice.

'From Bath?' enquired Glastonbury.

But his companion did not reply. At length he said, in a voice of utter
wretchedness, 'Glastonbury, you see before you the most miserable of
human beings.'

The good father started.

'Yes!' continued Ferdinand; 'this is the end of all your care, all your
affection, all your hopes, all your sacrifices. It is over; our house is
fated; my life draws to an end.'

'Speak, my Ferdinand,' said Glastonbury, for his pupil seemed to have
relapsed into moody silence, 'speak to your friend and father. Disburden
your mind of the weight that presses on it. Life is never without hope,
and, while this remains,' pointing to the crucifix, 'never without
consolation.'

'I cannot speak; I know not what to say. My brain sinks under the
effort. It is a wild, a complicated tale; it relates to feelings
with which you cannot sympathise, thoughts that you cannot share. O
Glastonbury! there is no hope; there is no solace.'

'Calm yourself, my Ferdinand; not merely as your friend, but as a priest
of our holy church, I call upon you to speak to me. Even to me, the
humblest of its ministers, is given a power that can sustain the falling
and make whole the broken in spirit. Speak, and speak fearlessly; nor
shrink from exposing the very inmost recesses of your breast; for I can
sympathise with your passions, be they even as wild as I believe them.'

Ferdinand turned his eyes from the fire on which he was gazing, and
shot a scrutinising glance at his kind confessor, but the countenance of
Glastonbury was