gan to whimper); "I had a babe of my own
once; died of convulsions in teething. I thought that child would have
supplied its place, and I dreamed of the York Theatre; but"--here
his voice was lost in the folds of a marvellously dirty red
pocket-handkerchief.

Mr. Gotobed having now, however, learned all that he cared to learn, and
not being a soft-hearted man (first-rate solicitors rarely are), here
pulled out his watch, and said,

"Sir, you have been very ill-treated, I perceive. I must wish you
good-day; I have an engagement in the City. I cannot help you back to
your L100, but accept this trifle (a L5 note) for your loss of time in
calling" (ringing the bell violently). "Door,--show out this gentleman."

That evening Mr. Gotobed wrote at length to Guy Darrell, informing him
that, after great pains and prolonged research, he had been so fortunate
as to ascertain that the strolling player and the little girl whom
Mr. Darrell had so benevolently requested him to look up were very bad
characters, and had left the country for the United States, as happily
for England bad characters were wont to do.

That letter reached Guy Darrell when he was far away, amidst the forlorn
pomp of some old Italian city, and Lionel's tale of the little girl not
very fresh in his gloomy thoughts. Naturally, he supposed that the boy
had been duped by a pretty face and his own inexperienced kindly heart.
And so, and so,--why, so end all the efforts of men who entrust to
others the troublesome execution of humane intentions! The scales of
earthly justice are poised in their quivering equilibrium, not by huge
hundred-weights, but by infinitesimal grains, needing the most wary
caution, the most considerate patience, the most delicate touch, to
arrange or readjust. Few of our errors, national or individual, come
from the design to be unjust; most of them from sloth, or incapacity to
grapple with the difficulties of being just. Sins of commission may not,
perhaps, shock the retrospect of conscience. Large and obtrusive to
view we have confessed, mourned, repented, possibly atoned them. Sins of
omission so veiled amidst our hourly emotions, blent, confused, unseen,
in the conventional routine of existence,--alas! could these suddenly
emerge from their shadow, group together in serried mass and accusing
order,--alas, alas! would not the best of us then start in dismay, and
would not the proudest humble himself at the Throne of Mercy?

CHAPT