s Simon.

The man innocently enough stretches out his palm towards us, not
perceiving Simon's end.

"There!" cries Simon. "What said I? Is that a hand that ever did a day's
honest work?"

"'Tis no worse than mine," says Moll, regarding the hand which in truth
was exceeding smooth and well formed. "Come," adds she, still more
kindly, "you see I am no harsh judge. I would not deny a fellow-creature
the pleasure that is not grudged the coney that runs across my lawn.
Tell me you were there but to gratify a passing caprice, and I'll
forgive you as freely as I'll believe you."

This gentle appeal seemed to move the young man greatly, and he made as
if he would do more than was demanded of him, and make that free
confession which he had refused to force. But ere a word could leave his
parted lips a deadly shade passed over his face, his knees gave under
him, and staggering to save himself, he fell to the ground in a swoon.

Then, whilst all we men stood fixed in wonderment, Moll, with the quick,
helpful impulse of her womanhood, ran swiftly from her place to his
side, and dropping on her knees cried for water to be brought her.

"Dead of hunger," says Don Sanchez, in my ear. "Fetch a flask of
brandy."

And then, laying hold of Simon by the shoulder, he pointed significantly
to the open door. This hint Simon was not slow to take, and when I
returned from the buttery with a case of strong waters, I found no one
in the room but Don Sanchez, and Moll with the fainting man's head upon
her lap, bathing his temples gently. Life had not come back, and the
young man's face looked very handsome in death, the curls pushed back
from his brow, and his long features still and colourless like a carved
marble.

Then with a "lack-a-day" and "alas," in bustles Mrs. Butterby with a
bottle of cordial in one hand and a bunch of burning feathers in the
other.

"Fling that rubbish in the chimney," says the Don. "I know this
malady--well enough," and pouring some hollands in a cup he put it to
the dead man's parted lips.

In a few moments he breathed again, and hearing Moll's cry of joy, he
opened his eyes as one waking from a dream and turned his head to learn
what had happened. Then finding his head in Moll's lap and her small,
soft, cool hand upon his brow, a smile played over his wasted face. And
well, indeed, might he smile to see that young figure of justice turned
to the living image of tender mercy.

Perceiving him out of dang