University of Virginia Library

HENRY TEMPLE:
OR,
A FATHER'S CRIME.

BY J. H. INGRAHAM.

Entered according to Act of Congress by Williams Brothers, in the Clerk's
Office in the District Court of Massachusetts.

1. CHAPTER I.

It was Christmas night. The cold
wind whistled through the streets,
heaping the light, icy snow into drifts
and blocking up the passages into the
narrow lanes. But few persons save
the well-clad watchmen were abroad,
though the nine o'clock bell had not yet
rung. Here and there only, a passenger,
muffled to the eyes, hurried on his
way. The street lamps burned dimly,
the glasses being nearly coated with a
stratum of fine snow, through which the
rays came feebly. The windows that
faced the streets were closely curtained,
and those which had blinds were closed
by them as if the inmates would exclude,
in the sense of comfort within, the consciousness
of the storm that was raging
without.

Near the corner of a street with a
broad, open space at his left, stood a
watchman nestled under a door-way.
He was a tall, heavily-built man, and
his naturally large size was augmented
by the huge buffalo skin overcoat and
cap which enveloped his form and came
down about his ears and eyes. The
shelter he had sought did not protect him
from the snow, which, whirling and eddying
around the corner, fell upon him
and covered him with so thick a white
coat of it, that he resembled more a
huge polar bear standing upon his hind
legs, than a human being. His arms
were folded upon his chest, and beneath
one of them was visible the handle of
his weapon of office, a short, heavy
staff of white oak, shod with a spear
head and hook of polished iron.

He had been standing there for some
time, like a statue in a niche,—so long,
indeed, that the fast falling snow had
obliterated upon the pavement the deep
track of the last passer-by. The part
of the city where he was stationed was
the most ancient portion and intersected
by numerous narrow and crooked streets
and alleys, built up on either side with
closely-crowded wooden buildings, mostly
with their gable ends to the street,
and seldom more than two stories in
height. The house in the door nook of
which he sought shelter, was one of the
oldest in the town. It was built not unlike
an ancient block-house, the lower
story being many feet less in breadth
and length than the second, thus leaving
the floor of the second projecting tar
over the first, giving room for many
persons to stand underneath its piazza-like
ceiling. This old building stood on
the corner of a street and a square, and
its second story projected several feet
over the sidewalk on both sides. Above
the second story the house towered sharply
into three separate gables, on one of
which was the date of its construction,
1689. The front was rough stuccoed
and painted a dark blue color. The
lower story was much sunken into the
earth by age, and the support at the
angle seemed ready to yield and topple
the whole quaint old pile over into the

street. But the watchman from his
composure and air of security did not
seem to feel any such apprehensions. It
was a good shelter for him and doubtless
had been for his successors for full
a century and a half.

The prospect from his position was
by no means a very interesting one. Old
buildings congregated in odd groups
were faintly visible by the fitful glare of
the street lamps; and to his left, down
the square, towering darkly to the skies
till its cupola was lost in the gloom of
the atmosphere, stood Faneuil hall, solemn
and stern.

`It's a tough night to stanb watch, or to
move abroad either way,' said the watchman,
talking to himself by way of beguiling
the time and cheering his loneliness.
`I hope I shall get through my
beat without being disturbed by rogues
breaking in. What is that? Oh, only
a shutter of this old three-cornered house
creaking in the wind. It sounded like
the creaking of a man's shoe. Confound
these snow-storms! they get up all sorts
of sounds, At one moment I hear some
chap a whistling. I listen, and it's the
wind. Then, by-and-by I hear a whispering
as if two thieves were planning
together. I creep along to surprise 'em,
and it's the wind again, sighing, perhaps,
between loose shingles. Then I hear a
buzzing of gruff voices, and when I
think they are just upon me, I find it
has been the wind. Then again I sometimes
think I hear a baby crying, and
then a distant shriek like a woman hollering
murder. So the wind keeps it up
and gives a poor devil more trouble than
all the rogues in the city put together.'

Here an unusually heavy blast tore a
loose shutter from a window of the old
house, and hurled it with violence and
great uproar, to the ground at his feet.

The watchman at first startled, in a
moment recovered himself, and was leav
ing his nook to pick it up when, the wind
lifting it, turned it over two or three
times and left it in the street.

`Let it lay. It is not worth the going
after. I dare say it is a hundred years
old. If people can't keep their shutters
fast it is none of my business to pick 'em
up for 'em if they are blown away. Hulloa!
here comes some one through the
storm, who looks ae if she would blow
away in earnest. I wonder what can
bring any body out such a night as this
is. Nothing but death or the doctor.'

The watchman ceased speaking, and
watched the person who was approaching.
It was a female, and by the faint rays of
the lamp she was scantily dressed. A
small hood and a thin dress that the wind
entwined about her limbs was all her
covering. She seemed scarcely able to
struggle against the storm, yet still held
on her way with perseverance. She came
nearer and nearer the watchman, when
her eyes fell on the shutter already halt
buried in the drift. With a sharp, glad
cry she sprung towards it and drew it
from the snow, and raised it in her arms.
The force of the wind bearing upon it
overthrew her with it; but with a struggle
she rose again, and placing it edge-wise
to the wind, she turned back the way
she had come, and hurried like a spectre
across the dark square.

`That poor woman has got only what
is God's gift,' said the watchman. `I
will let her go off with it, even if I have
to pay old Jarvey for it myself if he
should ask me what became of it after it
was blown off.'

`Thief! stop thief! Ho, watchman?
ho! Where are you?' cried a shrill,
cracked voice from the window which
had parted with the shutter. `Stop her:
stop her. There she runs across the
square with my shutter. Stop thief, stop.'

The watchman sprang out from his
shelter into the street, and looked up to

the window, at which, with a lantern in
his hand, that shot its feeble glance out
into the snowy atmosphere, stood a little
shrivelled old man with a white worsted
night-cap on, covering his ears, and an
old green baize wrapper gathered by the
fringes with one hand close about his
throat. The snow was beating into his
sharp, thin face, and the wind sweeping
his long, coarse, gray locks about his eyes.

`What is the matter, Uncle John?'
cried the watchman.

`Matter? Thieves! Robbers!' cried
the old man in the same sharp, angry
tone, sharper and more angry than the
winds that howled about his domicile.
The wind has torn off one of my shutters.
I heard it go. I got up to look, and what
should I see but a woman—a thief carrying
it off—running away with it as fast
as she could go. Stop her, watch! stop
her! She has gone up Flag Alley. She
went in that direction. Thieves, I say!
thieves! Why don't you run after her,
and bring back my shutter.'

And the little man danced up and
down with furious excitement, shook his
lantern at the watchman, and then his
fist, and sputtered unintelligible words
which the storm drowned.

`Let the woman go, Jarvey. She, I
dare say, wants it for fire-wood.

`Wants it for fire-wood. Wants my
shutter for fire-wood! Yes, yes! a pretty
how to do. Because people want, they
may steal. A pretty pass. I'll complain
of you. You connive! You are an
abetter! What are you there for if not
to catch thieves! and here you let one
go without moving a foot.'

`The shutter is not worth a ninepence,
Mr. Jarvey,' answered the watchman.
`I'll pay you for it.'

`A ninepence! It's worth two dollars.
Well, well, I'll report you, sirrah. I'll
break you. If you don't do your duty
I'll do it for you.'

With these ominous words uttered in
a tone of the bitterest rage, and in a voice
that sounded more like the creaking of
a rusty hinge than human articulation;
John Jarvey, the miser, and dealer in old
iron, rags and feathers, shut down his
window and disappeared from it.

`Now, I shall get into a scrape,' said
the watchman, just for being good natured
and having pity on that poor woman;
for poor she was I know by her scanty
dress; poor she was I know by her picking
up a shutter; poor she was or she
would not have been abroad in this cold
storm; and I saw her pale thin face was
full of sorrow. How it brightened at the
sight of the old shutter. But if I don't
go after it I shall lose my place, for old
Jarvey is merciless, and I am too poor
myself to lose the dollar a night I earn.
He is stumbling down stairs. I will tell
him I will go after the woman and get
his shutter.

As he spoke the bolt inside of the door
against which he had been leaning was
drawn sharply back, and the old iron
dealer appeared, wrapped in an old black
short cloak and a battered fur cap pulled
down on his ears, so that only his little
grey, hard eyes and the tips of his nose
and chin were visible. Thick mittens
were on his hands. In one hand he held
a small bull's-eye lantern. His height
was about five feet and an inch or two,
and his thin legs were shrivelled to the
mere anatomy of the bones.

`You are a pretty watchman, sirrah!'
croaked Mr. Jarvey; `we'll see to-morrow!'

`I will go after the woman, if you say
so,' said the watchman.

`Say so! I do say so! You must
go, or I will—you can follow her by her
tracks in the snow.'

`I'll pursue her,—you go in again and
I will bring back the shutter.'

`Bring it back aint enough,—you must

bring her back,—you must arrest her!
To let the thief go is a criminal offence.
Bring back the thief too!

`I will try and catch her.'

`You must catch her—I'll go with you
and you shall catch her! Come, sir,
come! A pretty to do when a citizen
has to get out of his bed o' nights, and
such a night as this! to pursue thieves
that steal right under a watchman's
eyes!'

`Well, sir, I'll take her, you may be
sure,' answered the watchman, who felt
like pitching the little miserly old fellow
into the snow drift. He would gladly
have let the woman escape; but he saw
that unless he pursued her and recovered
the shutter, he should be reported by
Jarvey and lose his place, which he could
not afford to part with, as he had a large
family of his own.

He, therefore, prepared to go after the
wretched woman, but his heart burning
with resentment against the inexorable
cruelty of the man who would compel
him to arrest her. He felt too that he
must try diligently and earnestly to find
her and recover the shutter, and also take
her into custedy; for if he purposely delayeo
or slighted the pursuit to give her
time to get quite away, and the snow
time to cover up her tracks, he would be
blamed for not having caught her when
he could have done so, and so equally
be subjected to the censure of the city
authorities.

Therefore he felt that if he pursued at
all he must pursue in earnest; though
it was going heavily against his heart to
do it.

`You had best not go, Mr. Jarvey,'
he added, seeing the old man step out of
the door.

`Yes, yes—I'll go to! I want to see
that you do your duty. A pretty pass
when citizens have to watch the watchmen!'

As he spoke he removed the key of
his door from the inner side of the lock,
and placing it in the outer wards, locked
the premises and placed the key in his
pocket.

`Now, come—come! I'll follow the
tracks with my lantern. Look sharp
you too,—if she aint found you'll have to
answer for it to the city.'

`I'll find her, Mr. Jarvey!' answered
the watchman in a deep tone, as if he
spoke with strong feeling. `I'll find her,
sir, if she's above the earth!'

And David Dalton, the stout, honest
watchman, firmly resolved to execute his
purpose to the letter. He knew that unless
he arrested the woman, his own
hearth-stone would need firewood also;
and he had many little bodies to keep
warm, and many hearty mouths to feed.

The miser took the lead across the
square, with the lantern, holding it close
to the ground. They passed under the
lofty walls of Fanueil Hall, and so entered
the narrow avenue known as Flag
Alley. The foot-prints of the woman
were traced up the Alley, and once was
seen the imprint of the end of the shutter,
where it had dropped from her grasp into
the snow. Half way up the Alley the
footsteps were obliterated by the wind,
as if the same kind power which had unhinged
the shutter and cast it into the
street for her, would now favour her
escape, covering her foot-prints with
friendly fingers.

`I've lost 'em,' said old Jarvey, poking
about with his bull's-eye lantern close to
the ground.

`Perhaps you can't see without your
glasses—I'll find them,' answered David,
with a sort of stern sadness in his tones.
`I have a lantern brighter than yours.'

As he spoke he took a dark-lantern
from beneath his coat, raised the slides,
and cast a bright glare upon the snow in
the Alley. The faint trace of the track

was now visible, and following it a few
yards, they saw it turn into a narrow
passage, between a wretchedly old house
and a high board fence. David entered
the narrow way, closely followed by the
iron-monger, scuffling at his heels and
muttering,—

`To steal my shutter! I'll have her
put in prison for this, that I will—for life,
if I could! Bread and water and hard
labor—nothing less!'

2. CHAPTER II.
THE ABODE OF POVERTY DISCOVERED.

Old Jarvey and the watchman followed
the track up the narrow passage
way, between a row of old houses and a
high board fence. The miser kept his
body stooping close to the snow that he
might not miss the tracks, notwithstanding
Dalton went on before and kept
them in sight by the aid of his lantern.

`Do you still find 'em?' shrieked out
the little man. Look sharp coz she may
ha' turned in some o' these dog holes,
or climbed the fence.'

`Don't fear, old gentleman,' responded
David, with utter contempt for the
miserable wretch who was using all this
vigilance to recover an old broken shutter
that was not worth a sixpence for any
thing but fire word, and to find and
throw into jail the miserable creature
who had taken it from the snow where
the charitable winds had cast it.

`There is the mark here where she
set it down to rest,' said David. `She
must ha' been a poor, weekly thing, Mr.
Jarvey, not to be able to carry it, for it
was dried till it was like pith for lightness.
It is three times we've seen the
mark where she has set it down in the
snow. Suppose, sir, we let her go.
Doubtless she needed it to warm her
children or cook by.'

`Children? Humph! what business
has a poor woman with children if she
can't support 'em without stealing? why
don't she give 'em to the poor house?
No, no! Cook by? Any body that
has vittals to cook can get fire-wood.
They are not so poor. But if she was—
if it was to keep her from starving and
freezing to death. I tell you, I will have
my shutter and have her in gaol for
thieving.'

`You are a hard-hearted man, Mr.
Jarvey.'

`Hard-hearted! Yes, yes! I would
rather be hard-hearted then soft-hearted
if looking after one's own is hard hearted.
The best reputation a man can
have is that of being hard-hearted. People
will let him alone. He'll never lose
his money and property. There was
my father, now, had the reputation of
a `clever man!' It was the ruin of
him. Every body borrowed his tools
and never brought 'em back because he
was a clever man! They borrowed
money and never paid, him because he
was a clever man. He would ride
through the streets in his market-wagon,
and all the boys in town would climb up
upon it and steal his apples and nearly
break his horse down because, forsooth,
he had the reputation of a `clever man.'
It was the ruin of him, sir. His kindness
was his destruction. He died not
worth a penny!'

`I would rather be the father than the
son, nevertheless,' said David.

`Yes, yes: I dare say, but I would'nt,'
chuckled the iron-monger. `But we've
got to the end o' the alley. What do
you find? Look sharp, David Dalton,
for if you slack your duty from pity, I'll
complain to the town. So you've got to
find the thief or lose your place.'

`Don't threaten me, Mr. Jarvey. I'll
find her don't fear,' answered David,
hardly able to suppress his indignation,
but feeling that he must find her or lose

his place; and when he thought of his
little family at home he nerved himself
anew to the search.

He had come to the end of the alley
where a narrow broken flight of steps
led to a sort of plank platform running
round the second story, of an old wooden
tenement on the alley. By lifting his
lantern above his head he could see that
a door opened from this loose platform
into the upper rooms of the house. The
stairs inclined so, that he thought no one
could ascend them in safety, until he discovered
upon the steps the tracks of the
pilferer of the shutter. The marks of
the shutter as it was dragged up after her,
were also visible.

`Here the poor wretched woman lives,'
said the humane watchman to himself.
`I would rather lose ten dollars out-right,
poor a man as I am, than follow her any
farther. But it must be done. I can't
lose my place, and I shall lose it, if Jarvey
makes oath that I let the thief go
without pursuing her. Nothing can save
me, but I shall be dismissed, and then I
may have to go and hunt up shutters to
burn; for in these hard times there is
five men to do one man's work, and the
four have to live as they can.'

`I see the tracks! Oh, see 'em!'
cried the little man pressing forward, as
David stood by the stairs reluctant to go
up. `She's gone up these steps! I see
the marks where she dragged my shutter!'

`Yes. I see them, too, Mr. Jarvey!'

`Hark! they are splitting it up. Don't
you hear 'em? What bold thieves!
Every soul of 'em in the house ought to
go to gaol, if they aint bigger than a baby
a week old. The whole hoard shall go.
Come, push on and stop 'em splitting it
up; coz I shan't get pay for it, and I
want to get it back whole. I can't afford
to lose my shutter. If they spoil it you
shall pay for it, David Dalton. Up! up!
Quick! You go first.'

David began to mount the steps, the
miser cowardly withdrawing behind, so
that if any danger menaced the worst of
it should fall upon the watchman. The
steps bent and creaked beneath the heavy
tread of David, and when he had gone
up five of them, he stopped fearing they
would give way. But shaking the frame
work strongly, and finding it stand the
shock he continued to mount up, followed
by the timid, but cruel and hard-hearted
iron-monger.

The platform on which they arrived,
was a narrow gallery such as is often
built along the sides of carpenters' and
other shops in country towns. It was
covered a foot deep with snow, and at the
farther end of it it had drifted to a level
with the window. A door and this window
were all the openings in the side of
the tenement, which was an old fashioned
gable, two and a half stories in height.
The eves were so low that David's hat
came even with them, and he could lay
his hand upon the roof.

There were no steps in the snow upon
the platform save those of the person
who bore the shutter. These though
half-drifted over again led directly to the
door; and by the side of the door was
visible the mark in the snow where she
had rested the shutter while she lifted
the latch.

`Softly, or she may take the alarm and
we shall lose her,' said old Jarvey laying
his hand upon the watchman's arm as he
was about to lift the latch.

`I have made up my mind old man to
arrest the woman, so do not plague me
with your doubts,' answered David angrily;
and in his heart, as he saw the miser
slip a little upon the snow and got his
foot through a crack between the boards,
he wished that he would tumble down
and break his neck.

A faint light now began to glimmer
through the window upon the snow
mouldings of the railings of the gallery,
and the sounds of breaking boards fell
upon the ears, while the light waxed
brighter, and then the cheerful crackle
of the flames were heard.

`Quick, quick! They will burn up
my shutter!' cried old `Feather-Few,'
such being his popular designatum in the
town, from a habit he had of giving short
weight in the feathers sold.

David, however, instead of opening
the door ot once, moved softly along to
look in at the window. Jarvey seeing
his object stepped along after him. The
window was much broken and filled up
with paper and rags, but between them
were many little openings by means of
which David got a peep into the interior
of the room.

He gazed a minute or two and then
removing his face from the aperture said
in a husky voice,

`Look in there, Mr. Jarvey.'

The old man stood on tiptoe and peered
in. They could not be seen from the
interior inasmuch as the snow and dirt
heaped upon the few remaining panes,
destroyed their transparency.

`I see the thief! She has half-burnt
up my shutter!' cried Jarvey, in a querulous,
angry tone. `You shall pay for it,
David Dalton. It is good for nothing
now. I'll have her in gaol, but you shall
pay for it.'

`Hist, I will pay for it. Look there
in silence awhile, and I will watch them
too, through this opening,' he said, finding
an aperture by softly drawing out the
sleeve of an old jacket.

The old man's eyes rested only upon
the blazing fragments of his shutter, as
they sparkled and crackled on the fire-place—a
wretched fire-place it was—
whose bleak and rude aspect the light
plainly revealed. It revealed also the
miserable apartment and furniture, if a
table, two or three chairs, a broken bedstead
covered with a straw pallet, and
three or four utensils for cooking could
be called furniture. The walls which
had once been plastered now revealed
the lathing in huge scathes along the
walls, while the ceiling was entirely divested
of it. The floor was of rough
boards and black with age, and the fireplace
of crude brick-work, the mantle
and all the carpenter-work having been
piece by piece taken down and consumed
in the fire-place by children of poverty,
either those who now crouched about
the burning shutter, or the former tenants
of the ruined room.

David turned his eyes from the wretched
walls and furniture, with the firelight
in all their barren poverty, to rest
them upon three figures hovering over
the flames upon the hearth.

Upon the side of the fire-place towards
the window, sat upon a broken stonejar,
a very large framed, broad-backed
woman, her head tied up in an old red
and blue cotton pocket-handkerchief, the
ends of which hung down her forehead,
even below her eyes. She sat down to
the fire from time to time, putting upon
the cheering warm flame, a piece of
Father Few's shutter, which lay by her,
and which she tore to pieces as the flame
needed feeding. She would then stretch
her hands out to warm them with the
additional heat. Her profile could only
be seen, and that but uncertainly, on account
of the corner of the low-falling
handkerchief, and a patch over the eye.

In front of the fire-place sat a small,
delicate, fragile woman, pouring from
a paper parcel, about a pint of beans into
a stew-pan, which was filled with snow.
David instantly recognised her as the person
who had taken the shutter. She was
about thirty seven or eight years of age,
with dark soft eyes, and the remains of

beauty destroyed by starvation and sorrow.

She was speaking to the other, but
David could not hear for the wind and
storm what she said, but he saw that she
looked glad and happy, as she raised
her eyes to the other's face, and continued
to prepare the mess of beans. He
then put his ear to the opening instead of
his eye, and heard her say the following
words, in a pleasant manner:

`Don't put on too much wood, dear,
for it is hot enough to melt the snow and
boil the beans! Oh, what a nice meal
we shall have after eating nothing since
morning, and then only a herring. God
sent that shutter for me!' she said, putting
the pan with the little mess of beans
on the fire, with an air of satisfaction as
if it was the nicest dish ever cooked for
a King's table.'

`Do you hear that, Feather-Few?'
asked David in his stout blunt way, for
he said that the Iron-monger following
his example had turned his ear to the
broken pane. `She says God sent for
the shutter, and I believe so too! I should
think it woold make your heart feel good
to see what happiness your old shutter
has produced. See! how they enjoy
the fire it makes! Bless them, how
warm they are getting! It is a good end
the old shutter has come too, Mr. Jarvey;
and as it is the first time any thing
belonging to you has done any body any
good, I would if I were you just let em
enjoy it, just to feel how a charitable act
makes a man feel about the heart. It
must be a new feeling to you Mr. Jarvey!'

`The women both shall go to jail,'
answered Feather-Few who could think
of nothing, heed nothing but the destruetion
of his property before his eyes.
`Come, ain't you goin' to break in upon
em,' I'm shiverin standin here!'

`Suppose we let 'em cook their mess,
Mr. Jarvey. It'll do em good! I don't
like to take em looking so starved. But
bless me, what is thst an angel!'

`A gal!—another jail bird! Three
on em!'

The person who had called forth the
exclamation of surprise and admiration
from David was a young girl of seventeen
or eighteen years, of exquisite beauty.
In feature and figure, she was faultless,
though her dress was of the most ordinary
description. She had just come
into view from behind the jam of the chimney
where she had been hitherto concealed
by it. In her hands she held a
flat piece of tin in which was spread a
corn cake, which from her bare arms
and the meal upon her hands she had
been mixing upon a sort of shelf the edge
of which was visible, protruding beyond
the chimney flue.

As the fire light shone upon her face,
as she stooped to place the cake so that
it might bake at the glowing coals of
Feather-Few's shutter, David thought
that he had never seen a face so beautiful,
not even that of his own daughter
whom in his paternal pride he believed
the handsomest lass high or low in Boston.

She spoke, and David substituted his
ear again for his eye. Her voice was
extremely musical.

`Do you not feel chilled quite through,
dear mother?' she said, looking up
fondly into the face of the female who
had taken the shutter from the street.
`It was a fearful night for you to go
out!'

`No, I am quite warm! The exertion
in bringing it here warmed me completely,
dear Anny. And then it made
me warm to think how we could have a
fire and have our meal cooked!'

`I feel that Providence directed you
to this shutter! I think we should have
perished without it, and poor Henry too!

He will have something to eat when he
wakes! Now he is getting better his
appetite is coming to him!'

`Poor dear boy! I wish I had something
to give him to eat whenever he
wants it! But we must not complain!
we shall always find food and shelter,
my child! God will not wholly desert
us!'

`To-morrow, now I can leave Harry,
I shall try and get some work, if it is to
make a shirt for three cents! Three
cents will keep us from starving, mother!
The employers at the shop will
give me that, though they said that for
every article they wanted made there
were a dozen applicants, ready to take it
at any price!'

`These are, indeed, periless hard
times! And then we have such a cloud
hanging over us on account of poor
John!'

`Mother! Anny!' called a voice from
the bed in the corner.

David turned his glance in that direction
and saw a boy, about twelve years
old, rise up on his elbow, and gaze bewildered
towards the group at the fire.
He looked wasted by sickness, but his
countenance was as handsome as that of
the maiden.

`I'm coming, dear mother,' responded
Annie; and as she hastened to the
bed-side, David saw, with a shock of
deep emotion, that she was lame. Lovely
in face and figure as she was, she
was after all a cripple! This at once
accounted to him for her remaining
within when the delicate mother braved
the storm to seek fire-wood.

`What a brave fire! Did God send
it?' he asked, in tones so touching, that
tears came into David's eyes.

`Yes, brother! And you shall have
something good to eat in a few minutes,'
she answered, patting him upon the temples
and kissing them. `Mother would
go out in the snow to find wood, and she
saw a shutter in the street and brought
it home!'

`Blessed shutter!' cried the little fellow.
`I shall eat and you will eat, and
we shall be warm and happy. Blessed
shutter!'

`Hear that, sir! Hear those words
Mr. Jarvey!' demanded David, in an im,
pressive tone.

3. CHAPTER III.
THE CIRCLE ABOUT THE HEARTH-STONE.

The tall, stout woman in the corner
was in the meanwhile breaking up in her
hands, piece by piece, one the panels of
the shutter, and laying it upon the fire,
not with lavish waste, but with an air of
close, calculating economy of the fuel.
The mother watched cheerfully the
seething stew, and occasionally reached
over to see how the maiden's corn-cake
was coming forward. Altogether, it was
a scene of happiness! Poverty, cold and
starvation had been driven from the spot
by Feather Few's shutter.

`Do you see, Mr. Jarvey, how much
good your shutter has done? You have
not done so much yourself in all your
life. So let the good that is here done
be done, and let us go our way; though
first I would recommend you, if you
want to sleep sound, to leave with them
a five dollar note. They can buy wood
and food with it, and will not be tempted
to steal; though I do not call this stealing,
what has been done to-night!'

`You're as bad as the rest,' cried Jarvey,
in a loud tone. A pretty watchman,
to defend theft! I want to know
if you're going to go in and take up that
woman? Do it at once, or lose your
place, David Dalton!'

This was spoken in an elevated tone;
and David, who was still looking through
the window, saw by their startled looks,

that they had overheard his words above
the racket of the storm. Every eye
was turned quickly and alarmingly to
the window.

`Yes, I must do it, I suppose,' answered
David, `and now as well as
any time.'

He left the window and approached
the door. Feather-Few came close to
his heels. David opened his lantern to
find the latch, and then pressed upon
the door to open it, as the latch did not
lift up.

`Is it fastened?' asked Jarvey,
quickly.

`Yes, it seems so!'

`Then kick it in! you're a strong
man! kick it in! It is old and rickety!
Break it down! The law will allow it,
because you are an officer in discharge
of your duty. Pity but you'd discharged
it better and I should'nt been
out in this snow-storm at this time o'night
running the risk of the umbago
and rheumaties!'

David's children and his wife starving
and calling upon him for bread rose to
his mind.

`It is either they so dear to me or
these!' he cried! If I let these escape
mine will suffer! God forgive me!'

With this ejaculation he drove his iron
heel against the door. It burst from its
hinges, opening the reverse of its natural
mode, for the fastening upon the latch
was stronger than the rusty hinges and
screws. He found himself in a dark
passage. The floor creaked and bent
alarmingly to his weight, for David was
a large formed man as well as a large
hearted man.

He opened his lantern and saw that
the place that he was in was a square
entry with a door-way before him, the
door gone, probably for fire-wood,
and a vacant room beyond. On his
right was a closed door, which he knew
from its situation must open directly into
the room where he had seen the wretched
and interesting family rejoicing over
the fragments of the miser's shutter.

The miser stood behind him shivering
with the cold, yet in his own chilliness
he felt not for others who suffered from
cold. He was too selfish to feel the
woes of his fellow-beings. Nothing was
evil unless it were evil to himself? Instead
of pitying, those in the room saw
that he felt on his own form how painful
cold was, even when unaccompanied by
hunger, he cursed them for heing the
cause of his sufferings; when the true
cause was his own avarice and inhuman
revenge that brought him out of his
bed at night. Bad men are always inclined
to make many distinctions. It is
a pleasure to correct that made by Mr.
Jarvey.

He stood shivering behind David, and
grasping in one hand a stout cudgel. He
stood behind David because he was a
timid man, and liked to be second when
danger might be before him; and he
grasped the cudgel because he was a
coward; for he did not know, his craven
soul whispered, but that the woman
might show fight—might seize some
murderous weapon to defend herself,
and perhaps kill or do him damage. He
knew that men had been killed by women;
and a woman that was poor
enough to steal a shutter was bad
enough to murder him when he come
after it.

So between cowardice and avarice
Feather-Few trembled and kept close
behind the tall stalwart watchman. His
tremors were lest he should be harmed,
yet his avarice kept him close to David,
that if the woman attempted to escape
he might be in the way to knock her
down with his cudgel.

David knocked upon the door, and
pausing two or three seconds, raised the

latch and entered. His quick eye showed
him at a glance, that the tall stout female
with the handkerchief about her temples
had disappeared.

The young girl was standing by the
bed-side clasping her arms around the
boy as if to encourage him, while at the
same time her cheek was pale, and her
fine dark eyes expanded with alarm.

Yet she stood firm, and gazing upon
the open door and at the figures of the
watchman and his companions.

The woman who had taken the shutter
was standing by the fire with the
cake in her hand as if just about to place
it upon the table. David saw that her
cheek was flushed, and that she looked
very much frightened, yet tried to assume
a look of composure. Indeed, he
thought she had caught up the cake to
appear, to whoever entered, to be quietly
engaged about domestic duties. There
was more than sudden surprise at being
intruded upon at such an hour in such a
manner, he thought visible in the features
of both; a certain manner like
that of suspicion; precisely, it occurred
to him like the aspect guilty persons
would wear at the appearance of officers
of justice. But that it was guilt he
could not believe; for he was confident
that the woman in taking the shutter
from the snow, took it without the least
idea that she was committing a theft.
If, then, it was guilty apprehension that
alarmed them, he felt that it must be
for something else, besides fear of being
called to account for the shutter.

Jarvey saw with his quick, jealous
eyes this expression of guilty alarm, at
least, so he interpreted it, and calling
out in a shrill, savage voice, in which
was mingled a tone of triumph, said,

`So, so! you may well look guilty!
Caught in the very act of burning up
my shutter! You must go to jail for it.'
And Feather-Few brandished his cudgel
as he spoke, and running up to the
hearth, tore from the flames a piece of
the shutter that had just began to ignite.
`Seize 'em, watchman!'

`It is only for the shutter then, thank
God!' exclaimed the woman, looking
very much relieved.

David heard the exclamation, and saw
the instant change in her manner with
surprise.

`There is something they have done
worse than taking the shutter then,' he
thought to himself. `But that is not my
affair.'

He looked around again searchingly
for the broad-shouldered woman, but
could neither see her, nor see where she
could have disappeared. He thought it
strange she should have hidden herself;
but as his business lay with the one who
remained, he turned his attention to her,
where she still stood before the hearth
with the half-baked cake in her hands,
her eyes fixed upon his face with mingled
alarm and curiosity.

`I am very sorry, ma'm, said David,
but I fear I shall have to take you off
to the watch-house. I don't like to
trouble poor folks, for poverty is burden
enough, but you were seen to take—'

`Steal, Dalton, steal!' interrupted the
little iron-monger, looking at the poor
woman as if he would annihiiate her
with his eyes.

`Well steal then, though I don't look
upon it in that light, Mr. Jarvey. You
were seen ma'm to steal the shutter as
it was blowed off from the window, and
I have tracked you here, and found the
shutter burning on your hearth.'

`Yes, woman, and you must go to
jail for it!' cried the little man. `It is
my shutter! my property! The wind
blew it down and you catches it up and
runs of with it. Downright larceny!
Take her watchman!'

`Indeed sir,' answered the woman

trembling and looking very much frightened
at the mention of the jail, `indeed
sir,' and she turned her large tearful
eyes upon the iron-ribbed visage of the
dimunitive looking iron-monger, `indeed
sir, I did not steal it. I saw it lying upon
the snow. I was out searching for fire-wood,
hoping that the blast would unloose
some shingles, or cast something
up that I might have wherewith to make
a fire to cook food, for we have been
nearly perishing.'

`A pretty excuse! I tell you it's no
excuse at all! Every thief might plead
that he wanted what he stole! a pretty
pass the world would come to! What is
your poverty to me? I don't know you.
You are no relation to me that I should
have to supply you with fire-wood; and
if you was I wouldn't. Relations are
blood-suckers! I havn't but one in the
world, and I'll make more out o' him
than he ever will out o' me! I hate
poor people! Come, no whining, you
must go! Lay hands on her, Dalton.'

`I'll arrest her, Mr. Jarvey, but I'll
not lay hands on any woman save in
kindness, answered David. `Come ma'm
put on your things, for you must go with
me to the watch-house.'

Oh! sir, have compassion!' cried the
poor woman clasping her hands. `You
look like a kind man; you look as if
you pitied our poverty; you speak mildly.
Oh! do not drag me away from my
child! See my dear boy there! he has
been lying for weeks ill with the typhus
fever. He is just beginning to get well,
and he would have been well long ago
if I could have given him proper nourishment.'

`Oh, do not tear me from my children.
I did not steal—oh, I did not intend to
steal your shutter, sir,' she cried turning
from David to the miser, and clasping
her hands before him. `Do not send me
to jail, I cannot go. I will work and pay
for your shutter; I knew not that it was
good for anything but to burn; I found
it in the street, and in the snow. Have
pity on me and mine!'

`You can't move me, woman,' said
Jarvey with a cold smile. `I have heard
women talk, and don't mind tears and
stage-action. You stole the shutter, this
watchman here saw you; if it had been
no more than a shingle blown from my
roof, you had no right to it; it was mine.
So, stop your cries, and come along with
us.'

`Mother, dear mother, you shall not
be torn from us,' cried the boy springing
from the bed and flying to her side, where
he stood with his thin hand clenched and
his bright sick eyes flashing with proud
defiance.

`Sir,' exclaimed the young girl approaching
David, and laying her hand
upon the sleeve of his rough coat, and
gazing up into his face with earnest looks,
`oh do not take away my mother; she is
innocent of any intention of wronging
any one. Sir, we are very poor, and
suffering for every necessary of life.—
My mother weut out in the storm hoping
Providence would direct her to some fuel
that we might not perish for want of fire
and of food. She found this shutter in
this street; she seized it and brought it
home with scarce strength to lift it;
yet joy gave her the strength she had
not else. Had you seen her face lighted
with smiles as she entered with it, sir,
and witnessed our joy at the thought that
we should have fire, and could took the
little food we had to eat. She did not
mean to take what was of value to another.
Do not drive her to prison, sir!
She is our mother, and poor as we all
are, we live only in being together. If
you take her you will only increase our
wretchedness, already more than we can
well bear! You look kindly, sir, I know
that you are not hard-hearted; tears

tremble in your eyes, even now. Oh sir,
be pitiful and have compassion on a
wretched family, for though very poor,
sir, we are honest.'

`Gammon!' ejaculated Jarvey in a
tone of contempt.

`Silence, Mr. Jarvey,' cried David with
stern indignation. `You have no right
to insult misfortune. I believe on my
soul you have got no more heart than a
fish.'

`I want to know are you goin' to take
this woman, or not, David Dalton? If
you aint then I'll go and see if I can't get
an officer, and if I cross that are thresh-hold
to go after one, you are no longer
one o' the city watchmen if I can get you
broke.'

`You see, ma'am how it is,' said David
with evident emotion. `Mr. Jarvey says
if I don't take you off, he'll get me turned
out o' my place. I saw you take the
shutter, and didn't trouble you, for I
knew that you wanted it, or you wouldn't
have been abroad in such a night so
poorly clad. But the owner heard the
shutter blow off, and saw you take it and
go away with it. He came down, as
you see him in cap and coat, with his
lantern, and said I must pursue you or
he would inform against me, and get me
turned out. I would gladly have refused
ma'am, but I am a poor man, and have a
family and I don't know what else I could
do, as in these hard times, my trade,
which is that of a house-wright is overrun
and I can't get work, for nobody's
building. All I live by is my watchman's
wages. So I had to come, and I would
rather now pay three dollars than make
you go with me; but what can I do? I
offered to pay him for the shutter, but he
won't have nothing less than the mean
revenge of putting you into jail. It goes
against my heart to do this, but either
you or I must be the victim.'

`Then I will go,' answered the woman
firmly. `You have shown yourself to be
a good and honest man and I see that
you feel for me, and are only doing your
duty.'

`Hear that, Mr. Jarvey. Do you see
what a noble creature you would drag to
jail for taking a piece of wood to keep
her family from perishing. Come, Jarvey,
be a man for once, and see how it
feels to do a good action. Let the woman
alone, and let us go.'

`I tell you I will not yield an inch,'
answered the iron-monger. `If you
won't take her I will,' and he extended
his hand to place it upon the woman's
shoulder, when the boy, who all the while
stood before her in an attitude to protect
her, struck him a blow in the face so that
he staggered back. He uttered a yell of
fury, not pain, for the blow was not
heavy though given with will, and made
a stroke with his cudgel at the head of
the woman. It was caught by the open
palm of David.

`Stop, Feather-Few; you have only
got what you deserve, and I only wish
it had been a little more. Dare to harm
either of them and I will take you in my
arms and toss you through the window
as I would a cat.'

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE ARREST.

The miser muttered some words
which David neither understood nor
cared to understand; for while he yielded
to his wish in arresting the woman
he entertained towards him, as his blunt
language showed, feelings of the most
thorough contempt.

`Now, ma'am,' said David, `as you
see how matters are with me, if you
will just suffer me to escort you to the
watch-house, I'll promise you shall come
to no harm. In the morning I'll see the
Justice and tell him all about the matter

and get you off. Don't fear but all will
come out right in the end.'

`My mother shall not go to gaol,' said
the boy, very positively and clinging
closer to her.

`Oh, sir,' cried Annie to the iron-monger,
her beautiful faced bathed in
tears, `oh, do not proceed to this extremity.'

`David Dalton, I am tired of this
farce. Are you going to take the
woman?'

`You must come, ma'am. I see no
other way,' answered David, with emotion.
`I'll see that you are treated as
respectfully as if you were my own wife.'

`Do not say a word, Henry, my boy.
I must go. I am innocent of theft, and
I shall not be detained,' said the woman,
trying to appear composed at that dreadful
moment when the horrors of a goal
stared her in the face. `I shall be
back to breakfast.'

`Breakfast?' responded the young
girl, sadly. `We shall have no breakfast
to welcome you, mother! But your
presence will be more joyful than food
to us!' And she cast her arms about
her and kissed her. `Sir,' she said to
David, `you see my mother is not strong.
Take me in her stead. I will bear all
the punishment!'

`No, Anny, you must stay to take
care of Henry. You are his sole nurse.
He will miss you more than he will me.
Besides the watch-house is no place for
virtuous young girl. I have made up
my mind to go with the good watchman.
Do no fear on my account. I shall be
protected. In the morning I shall be suffered
to come back to you. Good bye,
dear children. Now, sir, I am ready,'
she said, with wonderful firmness.

`Well; I think you have delayed long
enough,' squeaked the iron-monger impatiently,
moving towards the door and
drawing the ear-laps of his cap over his
ears to prepare for the cold to which he
was to expose himself.

`Ready?' repeated David, looking at
the thin dress and at the shawl-handkerchief
which she put hastily about her
neck, and then at a wretched hood she
held in her hand. `You will perish
without more clothing.'

`It is all I have, sir. Doctors' medicines
and food have taken every thing,
piece by piece, for money, to pay for
them.'

`You are very yoor. I will lend you
my over-coat,' he said, taking it off and
throwing it around her. `You will
perish without it.'

`Good watchman,' said the boy, taking
him by the hand, `will you bring my
dear mother back in the morning.'

`I will, my boy, if I can.'

`I know you can.'

`Where shall I find her, sir, if she
does not come home?' asked the young
girl, grasping his other hand.

`God bless my heart. It will break
out-right with this; said David, almost
sobbing. `Take heart, good children,
your mother shall return in the morning,
or I will come and tell you. I swear to
you, Feather-Few, that I would not lay
finger upon her to take her to the watch-house,
if I didn't feel sure the Justice
wouldn't detain her in the morning when
he hears the case; and he shall hear it,
to your confusion.'

`We shall see to whose confusion,'
answered Jarvey. `Judges don't wink
at larcenies. They hav'nt soft hearts
like your's you'll, find. I'll swear the
woman stole my shutter and you must
say you saw her do it, and that we found
the shutter half burned up on her
premises. I'll put a stop to stealing
from me. She shall be an example.
I'll make the poor people fear me as
they would a hyena. She shall be made
an example of. Not three days ago a

boy stole three ten penny nails from my
floor, and I had him sent to the house
of correction for six months. The judge,
like a wise man, said he ought to go; for
though the nails wern't of much vally
they might have been; and the boy that
would steal three nails would steal three
cents or three iron hoops. Come, tramp,
woman!'

`Don't be alarmed, good woman, about
your children here. Here is a half dollar
which I will give the boy. It will
help along a little till better turns up.
Now come, ma'am. Don't hold on your
mother, my little fellow. Be a man and
let her go with me.'

`I wish I were a man,' answered the
little fellow, `I would not let her go!'

David opened the door, out of which
Feather-Few darted, for he thought the
boy's eye flashed dangerously, and he
did not know what he might not do in
his resentment. David followed, taking
the woman by the hand. She strove to
suppress her own griefs and to comfort
her children.

`One word with my daughter,' said
she as the outer-door was reached: and
stepping back she whispered a few words
into the ears of the weeping girl.

`Tell him, Annie, not to expose himself
on my account, that they will let me
come back again!'

`Yes, mother!' I wid not let him
run any risk! Oh, it seems to me as if
Heaven had filled our cup now to the
brim!'

`It can be still worse, remember, Annie,
if he's taken!' she said impressively.

`Yes, indeed it can! Oh, may God
have pity on us!'

`He will in his good time! Good
night, dear, and keep them both up in
heart!'

`I will try to me, though I am ready
to sink myself!'

David spoke, and the poor woman,
embracing once more her daughter and
boy, turned and followed the watchman.
The storm still filled the atmosphere,
and the wind was piercing cold. It
chilled the body of the poor woman as
she stepped forth upon the gallery. The
snow was drifted knee deep upon it.

`You are a little woman, ma'am, let
me convey you down the steps to the
alley,' said David, suiting the action to
the word; and gently he bore her down
the shaking stairs as if she had been an
infant, and almost as easily.

The iron-monger went down first, and
with his lantern opened lighted the way
before them through the narrow alley.

`Let me down, now, I can walk,' said
the poor woman. `I thank you for your
kindness, sir!'

`Not at all, ma'am! I will do any
thing I can for you to show you kindness.
I hope you see how it is! I must
do my duty!'

`I see it, sir!'

`I am glad you are so sensible a woman
as to understand my situation, as I
see you do! If that miserable little
man before us had a heart that could be
seen in a needle's eye, if one looked
sharp for it, I shouldn't have to perform
such an unpleasant business as this!'

`Do you think, sir, the judge will keep
me?' she asked as she walked on by
his side down Flag Alley, the little iron-monger
turning round every fifth step to
see if they were coming.

`No, ma'am, he wont, I'm sure! He
shan't if I can say a word to be heard.
Bless me! there you are down! You are too weakly, ma'am, to foot it through
this deep snow,' he added as he raised
her again upon her feet! I have half a
mind to go back with you and let old
Feather's do his worst!

`No, let me go on now? I wouldn't
have you lose your place, sir!'

`What a good-hearted woman you are!

You deserve a better fate. But, ma'am,
to fall into old Jarvey's clutches is as bad
as falling into old Cloven Hoofed's. I
never heard any body say a good word
of him yet; and you have had a specimen
of him to-night!'

`Come on, watchman! Don't lag behind!
It's a plaguey cold night! Push
on with the prisoner!'

`I shall take my own time, Mr. Jarvey!
I can't walk faster than the poor
woman, and I don't mean to drag her to
please no man! She'll be at the watch
house in good time, for I'm resolved you
shan't have the satisfaction of getting me
put out o' my place. You can't say a
word now, for I've got her, if I didn't
follow her when she took the infernal
shutter!'

They now crossed Dock Square, and
came opposite the old house where Jarvey
lived—from one of the windows of
which the shutter had been blown into
the street. Here the iron-monger came
to a stand.

`Go on with her! I shan't foller, for
I'm near froze to death, as it is,' he
said. `If you see fit to let her escape,
Mr. Tender-heart, you'll be the sufferer.
I shall be up to the Police bright and
early to enter my complaint, and if she
isn't there to answer, then I guess there'll
be a complaint entered against the watchman
of this beat, David Dalton by name!
So good night!'

With these words, squeaked out in a
shrill, malicious alto tone, the little
wretch fumbled at the door of his house
with his key, which with some difficulty,
on account of the numbness of his fingers,
he at length got into the lock. He
then darted in and disappeared from
Dalton's sight.

`Well, ma'am, there is one comfort,'
said David, as he moved on in the direction
of the watch-house, `and that is
that God above will judge that man for
this night's deeds. I'll yet punish him
for it some day before he dies; for I am
as great a sufferer, ma'am, in compelling
you to go to the watch-house, almost as
great a sufferer as yourself, ma'am!—
But I must do it or lose my place, ma'am,
and I hope you'll forgive me, you and
yours!'

`Indeed, sir, I have nothing against
you,' answered the poor woman, `for I
see this evil man has you in his power
quite as much as he has me!'

`That is the truth, ma'm. When I
think of my wife and children—I have
five of them, ma'm, and good children
they are too—I feel that I ought not to
run the risk of losing my place, which is
the only way I have had the last eight
months to support them, ever since those
great bank-failures and hard times came
upon us all. My heart bled when I
looked on your two and thought of
mine; but I could'nt help doing what I
have. I should'nt wonder if you cursed
me; and you don't know how it
relieves me to see you feel so kindly and
seem so to understand the matter. But
I only take you, ma'm, just to keep my
place, and in the morning I shall be the
first to see the judge and tell him your
case exactly, and I think if he has a
man's heart in his breast he will let you
go at once!'

`Indeed I hope so! My poor, poor
family at home! If I am sent to jail
or—'

`They can't send you to jail, ma'am!
It'll only be to the House o' correction
perhaps for sixty days!'

`Sixty days! What will become of
me and mine?'

`The judge won't do it, ma'm! I only
mean to say what is the most that he can
do, if they make out you stole the shutter
which they can't do!'

`The House of Correction is, I am
told worse than the jail or as bad!'

`It amounts to the same thing. I'd
as lief be put in one as the other! There,
now we're round this corner the wind
don't blow so hard as in Ann street and
the snow hasn't drifted, so you can walk
along better! Are you tired, if you be
I will car'y you, ma'm!'

`No, sir, I can get on very well!'

`Hold firm to my arm. That is it!
What became of that other woman at this
fire, ma'm?' asked David who had several
times before set out to ask this
question but it escaped his mind.

`Sir! what woman?' she asked with
quick, nervous apprehension, and releasing
his arm with the suddenness of surprise.

`The large stout woman! I looked
through the window before going in and
saw her. She was breaking up the shutter.
But when I entered the room she
was gone!'

`Did you see her face! Did you—'

`Why, ma'm, how your teeth chatter!
You must be chilled to death! The
watch-house is but a few steps further
on. Shall I carry you the rest o' the
way!'

`No, sir! I can walk! Did you say
that it was a woman you saw?' She
asked with emphasis upon the word.

`Yes, with a red handkerchief tied
about her head! She was tall and larger
but I could'nt see her face well!'

`Yes, there was such a person;' she
replied as if suddenly relieved by his answer.
`She left as soon as you were
heard at the out-side door!'

`Oh, a neighbor, perhaps!' answered
David; `yet his curiosity not by any
means satisfied; for in looking about
the room he had seen no place where
the individual would have disappeared.
The bed was a low truckle and would
hardly have taken a cat under it. There
was no door but that by which he entered;
and so the mystery of her disap
pearance perplexed him and excited his
curiosity. He now saw that his captive
was greatly embarrassed by his inquiring,
and not wishing to annoy her
he let her pass, though puzzled to guess
how she had escaped from the room,
and why she should have escaped and
not the others if they had been guilty of
any acts which they anticipated would
bring officers upon them.

`You are sure that it it was a woman?'
demanded the female in such an earnest
and peculiar manner that the suspicion
that she might not have been a woman
flashed irresistably upon David's mind.
But woman or man where had the individual
vanished? He did not, however,
reveal to her his suspicion. He simply
answered:

`Yes; it was not the boy for he was
in the bed! But have we one at the watch
house?'

`Stop, sir! Stay, good watchman one
moment she cried earnestly.

`Well, ma'm! what do you wish to
say?' he asked kindly.

`I know you are kind and honest and
generous and wish evil to no one, Of
your goodness of heart I have had proof,
though I am at this moment your prisoner!
Now will you promise me that you
will never allude to this woman! Will
you give me your promise good watch
man, that you will not speak of having
seen a woman there?'

`Certainly I will, ma'm! If it will
gratify you!'

`It will indeed, sir! Oh you know
not what depends upon secrecy! That
evil man! Did he see her too?'

`Yes; but he thought of nothing but
his shutter! He will not think of her
again. But why shall I promise?'

`I cannot tell you. Yet I should not
fear to trust you. I may have to trust
you yet!'

`If you do ma'm, be sure I will be

your friend,' answered David, as he
opened the door of the watch house.

5. CHAPTER V.
THE INMATES OF THE WATCH HOUSE.

The place to which David conducted
the woman was a low wooden edifice,
one story in height, and situated at the
corner of Hanover street and a narrow
lane. It had a door and window on the
street, both defended by heavy shutters
with bars and bolts.

Upon opening the door he entered a
room about fourteen feet square in the
centre of which was a stove. Around it
sat two or three watchmen upon a semicircular
bench, and in an arm-chair, directly
in front of the door sat a stout
fleshy man in red whiskers, who was the
lieutenant of the watch for that ward.—
The watchmen had evidently just come
in, as they were covered with snow and
were warming their hands and feet at
the stove. The lieutenant was wrapped
in an ordinary surtout, his heavy apparel
for out doors hanging upon a peg within
reach. About the room on the walls
were suspended to rows of pegs, heavy
watch-coats, glazed hemlets, watchmen's
short staves armed with hook and spear,
gloves, caps, mufflers and other apparel.
Gver each peg was a number indicating
the peculiar ownership of what hung
upon it.

The room was comfortably warm, and
the party about the stove, which at one
corner was heated red hot, seemed to
be in the best of humors, as they were
laughing very loud when David entered.

`Ah here is number 8 come with a
cove,' said one of the watchmen, looking
at David and his charge.

The lieutenant of the watch, who was
called by courtesy Captain, by his men,
hereupon half turned his eye, and said
composedly,

`Ah, Davy, what have you there?'

`A poor woman, captain, who found
a shutter in the street which had blown
off from one of old Jarvey's windows.—
The old miser said she must be pursued
and I had to go after her, or lose my
place, though I would gladly let her gone
off clear. You see she is a poor body,
and she needed fire-wood this cold night,'
added David, removing his coat from her
person. `Stand back, Jeffrey, and let
her warm herself. She hasn't seen a
fire like this, in an age, I'll warrant
me!'

The poor woman drew near the stove
with an air of humility and shivering with
cold. Jeffrey's the scotchman moved
back and gave her a place on the bench.
She hesitated to take it!'

`Sit there, good woman,' said David
kindly. `Get well warm before you go
into the lodging room!'

`So, mistress, you stole a shutter, eh?'
observed the red-whiskered lieutenant,
eyeing her from beneath his shaggy
brows. His manner was authoritative
and disagreeable, like that of bitterness in
the possession of temporary power.

`Sir, I did not steal it, answered the
woman fervently. `I found it in the
street. My family were perisning with
cold and for food and—'

`Hush old woman! The same old
tale.'

`No it is not the same old tale, Captain,'
said David stoutly. The shutter was an
old rickeny affair not worth fourpence.
I saw it blown off into the street and did
not think it worth while to pick it up,
when this poor woman come shivering
along in the blast and catching it up with
a glad cry fled with it as if she had found
the treasures of the Indies! So I let her
go with it, for it was no theft and not
worth the trouble of calling to her; besides

unless the poor body had wanted it
very much she would not have taken it.
So I felt glad that she had found it.

`Too tender-hearted by half, Davy,'
ejaculated the lieutenant emitting a cloud
of smoke from his mouth for he had just
lighted a pipe. `Your humanity, as you
call it, Dalton, 'll lose you your place yet.
You remember the sassenger-case.'

`Yes, I do; and I would do the same
again, captain.'

`Well, you might but I would'nt,' said
one of the watchmen with No. 2 on his
helmet. `I would let a man go to jail if
he was old as methusalah afore I'd pay
for what he stole!'

`But the old man that took the sausages
from the door was starving to death;
for he began to eat them down raw as I
would eat a carrot,' answered David.
`Besides I only had to pay the shop-man
forty cents to let him go.'

`I would'nt have done it,' answered
No. 3. `A man caught pilfering ought
to be taken up.'

`I would rather have paid twice as
much rather than lugged that white-headed
old man to the watch-house!'

`Yet you like to have lost your place
for not doing it when the head captain of
the watch knew it,' said the lieutenant.

`But I did'nt lose it, lieutenant after
the captain heard all the case.'

`But in this case old Jarvey would'nt
take pay, oh?'

`No. He made me follow the track
of the woman and went himself with me,
and I found the house, and the shutter
half-burned up on the hearth. But it
was such a wretched place and the family
seemed to suffer so that I felt that I
should rather take two dollars and give
to the poor woman to buy wood and
food rather than take her off. But
Feather Few insisted she should be arrested
and brought here or he would
complain of me, he said, for winking
at theft. So I had to bring her. But I
mean to see the Judge early in the
morning, and I know I shall get her
clear in spite of Jarvey who means to be
there to prosecute her!

`There ant no use talking to the
Judge, Davy,' answered the Captain,
knocking the ashes from his pipe; and
looking into it and seeing that it had
gone out he said, pompously, `No 3,
give me a coal if you please.'

No 3 took up a coal in a small pair of
iron tongs and dropped it respectfully into
the bowl of the Captain's pipe.

`There ant no use blarneying his
honor,' he resumed when he found that
his pipe drew again; `he is case hardened
to such things. And it's natral he
should be seein' as many as from ten to
twenty brought up every morning. He,
by and by, begins to think they are all
alike and lump 'em all together.'

`I don't believe the Judge is such a
man,' answered David, warmly. `He
has the reputation of being a humane
and just Judge!'

`Well, you try him to-morrow. He 'll
ask you did the woman take the shutter
and carry it off. You must say yes.
Jarvey will swear that he saw it half
burned up on her fire, and the Judge, as
a matter of course, will send her up for
sixty days, or three months, and call the
next case. You may tell him she was
poor and freezing. He will answer you
that of course she was, he supposed that,
or she would'nt have taken the shutter.
So, good woman,' said the Captain, with
a sort of patronizing majesterial air,
`you may look upon yourself as hooked
for sixty days and your board paid out of
the public purse!'

The poor woman who had listened
with intense interest in this conversation,
buried her face in her hands and sobbed,
audibly, `My poor children!'

`Do not despair, ma'am,' said David
kindly, going up to her and laying his
hand upon her arm. `Things won't be
vuite so bad, if they be I'll see that your
children wont suffer, if I have to eat only
half a meal myself.'

`Oh, sir, God in Heaven will reward
you!' cried the poor woman in thrilling
tones of gratitude.

`If the prisoner is got warm and comfortable,
Davy, you can show her in to
the lodging room; for I guess you've
been off your're beat about long enough.
Come, woman, get up and foller him into
that door!'

This command issued from the lieutenant
as he sat at his case with his feet
raised upon an iron fender that surrounded
the stove. She rose tremblingly and

looked at David with an air of helplessness.

`She don't seem to feel at home,' observed
No. 3, coarsely. `I guess she
ha'nt slept in a watch-house afore. But
ma'am, you'll find comfortable quarters
and no mistake. We provide well for
the town's children while they is under
our particular charge!'

`Come, ma'am, I will show you the
room,' said David.

`Oh, do not leave me!' she cried,
pressing his arm and looking round
alarmed upon the harsh unfeeling brows
of the three men.

`You will be safe, here! No one will
harm you, ma'am,' answered David,
opening one of the two doors that were
on the back side of the room.

It was a greasy, dirty looking door,
and one of the panels had been replaced
by a rough piece of board nailed upon
the mounting. Over this door was the
words, `Female Apartment,' and over
the one next to it a similar sign, having
upon it the words, `Male Apartment.'

Both doors opened into long narrow
rooms, separated by a plank partition;
and walls of the room were seats and
`bunks,' or low berths for the persons
detained through the night. Into the
male apartment the two watchmen, at the
stove, had just turned in two men whom
they had caught prying about a shop
window, under circumstances of suspicion,
and upon whom they found burglars
tools. These men were now very
noisy and were banging at the door, and
were calling upon the watchmen to bring
them something to drink. The sound
of their voices was so near that the poor
woman thought she was about to be
placed with them.

`I hope I am not to be put with those
men, good Mr. Dalton!' she cried, drawing
back as he opened the door.

`No, ma'm. Do you see these words?'
he added, pointing to the sign over the
door. `You will find only women in
here!'

`Thank you, sir!' she said, entering
the dimly-lighted room with a sort of
cheerful alacrity, and appeared as if
much relieved from her fears.

`Good night, ma'am. I'll be here
right and early, and go up to the court
with you,' said David. `Old Jarvey
shant have his wish, be assured of it.
You will at once be dismissed as soon as
the judge sees you, and hears what I've
to say about you.'

`God will bless you, sir, for your goodness,'
answered the woman, gratefully,
as David gently closed the door upon
her.

What a sinking of the heart: what a
dying away of hope she felt as the pleasant
and sympathising face of this friend
disappeared. She realised for the first
time all her destitution and the horrors
of her situation. She was a poor helpless
female in the hands of rude men,
and she was to be arraigned in the
morning for a crime! Crime? She
felt she had committed none. She felt
that in the eye of Heaven and of humane
beings she was innocent. In her own
heart and intent she was innocent. But
still she trembled. She knew that if the
judge listened to the Iron-monger's tale,
that she would be sentenced. She knew
well that the law in its stern impartiality
took no account of the circumstances
that led the guilty to do crime. She
knew that the law took cognizance only
of the fact—the asked fact. If, therefore,
Jarvey could make out to the satisfaction
of the judge that she stole the shutter,
all David's influence would not benefit;
nay, she felt that, on the contrary, every
word he should speak in her favor might
injure himself, as it would be regarded
by the court as an effort to exculpate his
conduct in not pursuing and arresting
her in the outset.

The room was lighted by a japanned
lamp, hanging against an upright beam
in the centre of the long-room. The
funnel from the stove in the front apartment
traversed the room along the ceiling
and warmed the air of it. By the
faint muddy light of the lamp, she saw
that two of the bunks were occupied by
women of the most wretched appearance.
One had her head bound up, and the
other was intensibly drunk. Upon a
bench sat a short stout female and a
young girl of fourteen. The elder individual
had a bloated face, and looked
like a virago. The girl who was about
fourteen, had a handsome face, but it
bore a reckless, dissipated expression as

if she had been early initiated into vice.

The stout woman, seeing the new
comer stop and regard her, and hesitate
whether to advance to the bench, cried
out in a coarse way,

`Go, don't be afraid cozzy; we aint
goin' to whip yer. Forge along here on
your thin shanks, and take a seat. What,
have the Charlies got you in jar?'

`Charlies, marm?' repeated the woman,
taking a seat rather as a measure
of securing herself from insult than as
desirable in such suspicious company.

`Charlies are Hookies, woman. You
are a green one! Never was here afore,
I'll swear.'

`No, I never was!' sighed the poor
female.

`Well, you're here now, and there's
always a first time, though you've waited
till you're pretty old. Why I was in a
watch 'us afore I was sixteen!'

`I ain't fifteen yet, Bess,' cried the
girl with a tone of decided self-approbation
and triumph at having beat her mature
friend by a year or more.

`What have they got you up for, they?'
demanded rather than inquired Bess,
looking at her with a hard eye and a superior
kind of air, as if she took in at
once what a poor, sickly, meek, virtuous
being was in her presence.

`I am accused of stealing,' answered
the poor woman, faintly. `But I did
not steal!'

`So every thief says. It's a mean
game, stealin', unless one can lay her
flippers on coin—then it's an honor!—
Now, this young girl was taken up for
taking a watch and a purse to-night from
a youngster that called to see her.'

`And what a row he made when he
found it out, interrupted the young girl,
laughing. `He hollared to the watch
till he had a dozen round, but I have hid
the jumbles where he won't be the wiser,
though they've got me!'

`They'll send you up for six months,
Juley,' said Bess, in a careless but encouraging
tone,' and then when you
have served your time honestly out, you
can have your watch and money to go
upon.'

`That I mean to do,' answered the
youthful thieveress, in a very decided
tone, confirming her resolution with a
very round oath.

`I suppose you'd like to know what I
am in for,' said the stout woman to the
stranger, who had listened with a shrinking
heart, shocked beyond measure, at
being in the presence and contact with
such depravity.

`Indeed, I am not anxious to know.'

`Well, I'll tell you, so if you have a
husband, you'll know whose example to
foller. I'm tuck up jist for givin' my
old 'un a confounded whippin'. I keeps
a tavern, ye see! and he must come and
borry money from the till without leave,
sir! and I gives him a backhander and
he hits me a tipper under the peepers!
I breaks his head with a porter bottle,
and he hollers murder, and then there's
the devil to pay! Charlies run in. I
fight hard. No use! They fight harder,
three to one, and here I is!'

6. CHAPTER VI.
A SCENE IN THE LOCK-UP.

When David returneed to the store,
after letting the woman he had charge of
into the bunk-room, the captain said, with
the tone and air of a connosieur,

`Davy, that is a pretty little woman
of yours, though something pale; but
good points, good points! She seems
not to like here much. But sixty days
in the House of Commons over to South
Boston will wear off the squeamishness.'

She is a very nice woman captain,
and a very virtuous, lady-like person I
am sure, poor and bad off as she is now,'
said David, feelingly. `I hope you will
see that she is treated kindly, for she is
not used to this.'

`Don't you fear, Davy. She isn't so
young and handsome that there's any
danger I shall look at her a second time.
Yet, as I'm a gentleman, she has been
handsome. She has points! Her eye
is good and her mouth fine!'

`You are altogether too free and easy
in your talk, captain, for an officer of
the watch,' said David, in a tone of grave
reproof.

`I think, Dalton, we will have you appointed
Chaplain to our Ward, said the
captain, with a laugh.

David made no reply, but hanging his
club upon his arm by the hook, he went

out and was closing the door after him,
when the other watchmen joined him,
and together they moved along towards
their respective beats.

As soon as they had left, the lieutenant
of the watch rose to stop a loud
clamor among the men detained in the
male apartment. There was much loud
swearing and shouting, and the confusion
of a very respectable uproar. Taking a
pistol and cocking it, he opened the door
and called out in a loud, thundering tone,
for silence. There was an instantaneous
lull of the tempest. Some of the
men, for there were six or seven in all,
slunk to their berths, while the rest stood
quiet and gazed upon him.

`What an infernal noise,' he cried, in
a stern voice. `If I hear any thing more
like it, I will blow somebody's brains
out! So mind your eyes there among
you. Some of you devils, I see, have
been hoping to get out; but I'll just publicly
express my private opinion in a
personal way to you, my dears, that
there's no kind o' use trying on't! It's
no use! You can't come it! Stronger
men than any o' you mean looking scoundrels
here, and more of 'em too, have
tried the same game with a rush, but it
didn't hang well—not a bit! They had
to bite their thumbs, just as I adwise you
to do, and go to bed. If I hear any
more of sich a catawampus, I'll make
some o' ye wish Dick Crabtree (that's
my name, gentlemen) hadn't been born
afore you was well dead. So now you've
got my private 'pinion of the case, you
know which side your bread is buttered.'

With this brief and characteristic
speech, Mr. Crabtree slammed the door
too, dropped across it a very heavy iron
bar, uncocked his pistol and hung it
upon a peg by the side of it.

`Captin' dear!' cried a sort of boatswain's
voice with the asthma, through
a crevice in the door leading to the women's
lodge.

`There's the women now. It's as
much as a man's conscience is worth to
keep such a place. What do you wan't
in there?'

`It's me. It's Bess!'

`I don't thank you fur the information
—you've been here till you're no stranger.
What do you want, Bess?' he de
manded, though not in such a gruff tone
as he had at first pitched his voice.—
And as he put the question, he unlocked
the door.

`I want a little whiskey, if you please,
Captin'.'

`Not a drop this night for love nor
money. It's agen' the law, Bess!'

`I don't want it for myself, Captin'.
The woman is faintin' and I'm 'fraid
she'll die.'

`What woman?'

`The slender, thin cove as come in
last? Don't you see her layin' with her
head on the beach? If you don't believe
me, see with your own eyes.'

`It's all a flam, got up between ye to
get rum.'

`I swear to jubilee it out, Crabtree!
She's goin' off like a gaspin' fish.'

`I'll see—I'll see! I knows sham
from natur!' and the stout Captain
forced his round, puncheon-like body
through the much too small door and approached
the fallow form of the poor
woman whom David had brought in.—
She was lying upon the floor, with her
head upon the bench from which she
had sunk down. She seemed to have
fainted, for her eyes were half closed
and glassy, and her face as white as marble.
Near her stood the young girl who,
as Bess was talking with the Captain had
been very diligently, under color of aiding
her, foraging in the pockets of the
poor woman's dress for whatever she
might be so fortunate as to find; but to
her surprise and disappointment they
contained absolutely nothing to reward
her charitable activity.

`You have done this, Bess,' said the
lieutenant of the watch, as he saw that
it was `natur' and no sham. `You've
been fighting and knocked her down.'

`As I have a soul to be saved—'

`Doubted! You needn't swear it.—
How was it, Juley, girl!'

`I don't know I'm sure. It was all at
once. We were talking, Ben and I,
about William Wilson and his killing
young Henry Temple, when all at once,
when we wern't sayin' any thing to her,
she kind o' gave a sigh, and down she
went there just as you see her.'

`That's the livin' truth, Crabtree, I'll
take my oath on it,' asserted Bess, with

round emphasis, and a rounder oath that
cannot be here recorded.

`I dare say she's half starved and
grieved to death,' said the lieutenant with
more sympathy than was promised from
his previous exhibitions of character.—
`I'll get some rum and we'll try to bring
her to!' he added, going to the officer,
and returning with a portly jug. He
stooped down, and poured some into her
mouth, while Bess and Juley bathed her
head and hands, pouring some of the
liquid into their palms, and then carrying
the well-filled socket of the hand
thrice to their own thristy lips, while they
gave her head and hands the benefit of
the rest.

At length the poor woman revived,
and looked around with a fearful and
uncomprehending gaze. The burly figure
of the captain of the watch, the vice-impressed
countenances of the woman Bess
and the young girl, brought at once the
whole force of her condition to her mind.
She groaned deeply, and murmured—

`Oh, my poor children! What have
I done so wicked as to bring me to this?'

`Cheer up, marm, cheer up,' said
Crabtree, with a disposition to assuage
the miserable woman's grief. `I have
seen worse cases than yours—you'll only
be hauled up afore his honor in the
mornin,' and perhaps at the outside, be
sent up for sixty days.'

`She's a mere green 'un, said Bess,
with a toss of her head. `I never saw
a woman have so little grit. I'm blessed
if I ever felt so bad for being here, as
I don't, if I'd let the officer see it, and
expose myself so afore him. Come, be
a man, or what is better, be a woman,
and snap your fingers at them as I do.'

Hereupon the amazon suited the action
to the word, and caused Dick Crabtree
to step back, to save a smart rap
with the nimble ends of her fingers upon
the cheek.

`I'll have a pair of bracelets on your
wrists, Bess, if you are not civil,' answered
the captain, with an oath. I
don't mean to have my dignity treated
with despise by any o' your tramps. So
keep quiet. You know me, Bess, and
I know you.'

Here he caused his staff to perform
sundry evolutions above her head, at
which she neither moved nor winked,
while the girl Juley amused herself in
making mock courtesies to the officer.

`I'd like to have you both sent up for
a year, for you are both of a piece!' he
cried, with angry vexation. `They are
enough to corrupt you, marm, and I'd
advise you to have nothing to say to 'em.
You seem to be a pretty decent body,
and I dare say wont be in here again in
a hurry.'

`Indeed, sir, I was not aware that I
was doing any thing to bring me into such
a place!' said Mrs. Wilson, shuddering.
`I feel I have done nothing, and I know
the judge will acquit me.'

`Well, that's his look out. Mine is to
take care of such folks as is brought here
till the judge sends for them. So good
night, all. Bess, if I hear from you
again, it shall be the last time. If they
trouble you, marm, just sing out to me.
That's all.'

With this quiet menace, the Captain
of the watch took up his lantern and left
the lock-up, firmly securing the door as
he shut it. Bess contented herself with
shaking her huge masculine fisl after him
—while Juley turned a pivouette, as if
glad to get rid of his presence.

`Now, we have the coast clear,' said
Bess, walking with long strides up and
down the apartment, with her arms akimbo.
`If I had seven women like myself,
I'd drive every watchman out of this
watch-house, and keep the ground too,
till I was killed or taken. Juley, it takes
a woman for fightin'. But not such a
mealy-faced thing as that ere one,' she
added, pointing with her right elbow towards
Mrs. Wilson. `It is sitch soft
one's as that as destroys our sex, and
makes the men think they can rule over
us. Juley, you are young now, and
many years maybe is afore ye. Let me
give ye one piece o' advice, as will be o'
use to you as long as you live.'

`Well, Bess, what is it?' asked the
young girl, stopping after one or two
more whirls upon her toe a la Elssler.

`Always hit first!'

`I'll remember it, Bess,' answered
her pupil, executing a pas that would
have excited the envy of Taglioni.

`Now, Juley, let's sit down, and talk
with this ere woman, and see what she

is,' and she instantly approached the poor
woman.

`I beg you will not disturb me, good
people,' she said, shrinking. `I am not
well.'

`Send for the Doctor, Bess,' cried
Juley, with unfeeling raillery.

`Pra'ps, sheld like the parson best,
seein' as she looks sert o' religious. Well,
let her alone; for she'll up and yell,
and then old Crabtree 'll be in here, and
put the mittens on us. So let's be quiet.
Put some wood into the stove, Juley,
for its gettin' as cold here as a rich man's
garret.'

The order was obeyed and the two
females drew near to the stove, and began
to court its genial warmth. Mrs.
Wilson would have gladly drawn nigher
to it, for she was suffering, but she preferred
to be chilly as she was, to being
in the society of such depraved persons
of her own sex; for their brutality and
oaths shocked her modest, pure mind; for
though poor she was virtuous and moral,
and a stranger to the vices that, alas!
too often are the attendants upon poverty.
In a little while she sank into a sort of
dreamy state, half sleep, half wakefulness,
but a state of mental consciousness
of suffering. The two females at the
stove soon began to talk together, as if
not heeding her or supposing her to be
asleep, yet she heard every word they
said, and when she heard her husband's
name uttered, she was all ear and the
keenest attention.

They spoke low and cautiously, but as
she was within five feet of them behind,
she heard distinctly.

`Then you think he will be hanged if
he is taken, Bess!'

`Yes, Juley; and nothin' on the roun'
earth can save his neck.'

`But he'll say he did it in defendin'
himself,' said the young girl.

`That won't help him. Don't you
know in law-courts, the prisoner ant allowed
to say nothin' for or agen himself.
He ant bleived if he says he's guilty;
and much more if he says he's innocent.
Courts is curus things, gal, as you'll find
when you've had as much 'sperience of
om as this ere hoss!'

`I'd like to find Wilson and get the
three hundred that has been offered for
him.'

Here the poor woman started, but instantly
recovered her appearance of
sleep, and listened with the most painful
intensity, to every word that followed.

`Who wouldn't? But there's the difficulty.
No body knows where he is;
though Dick Nevers said yesterday he
believed he was hid somewheres in the
city. Well, that Henry Temple was a
proper nice young man, though he had
a good deal too much devil in him when
he had the wine in. You know'd him,
though, Juley.'

`Didn't I? He gave me and two
others a champaigne supper ony the night
afore but one that he was killed.'

`Was Ann Wilson among you?' asked
the woman, taking out a short smoke
burnt pipe from her deep bosom and filling
it with tobacco from a tortoise shell
box drawn from the same ample receptacle.

`No, not that night; I never saw her
but once.'

`When was that?'

`Out to the races at Cambridge? Harry
had her in his phæton along side of
him. She was veiled close all the time,
except once the wind took her veil right
up and blowed it over the top of her
bonnet. My! how quick she got hold
of it and pulled it down and looked as
blushy as a red-herrin'.'

`Was she as handsome as they say
she is?' asked Bess, taking up a bright
coal with the bowl of her pipe, and
placing the short bit of stem in her
mouth.

`Yes, she was handsome and no mistake,
Bess. But Temple seemed plaguey
ashamed she was seen; for he meant no
body should know but she was a tip-top
lady he had with him.'

`He might have knowed, rich as he
was, no genteels would ride with him,
he'd got to be so dissipated. I wonder
where he hid her? It's the strangest
thing neither she nor her father has been
found since Harry's murder, and it's now
most six weeks.'

`I shouldn't wonder if she had been
made way with, Bess.'

`I shouldn't either. It's a pity if she
has; for with her face she'd ha' made

her fortin. I don't blame her father
much for killin' him. It was nat'ral for
a man who had his daughter seduced
away by a rich young fellow that way,
to want satisfaction.'

`I don't think so, Bess. She was ony
a poor sewing-girl, and he ought to have
felt himself honored that sich a respectable
young gentleman as Harry Temple
noticed her at all.'

`Well, Juley, I hopes they'll catch
him, coz; I'd like to hear how it all
came out on the trial. They do say as
how the father of Ann Wilson was pecooliarly
agawated to do what he did.
Some say as how Harry passed himself
off as a young journeyman printer, and
so won her affections. Coz, she'd have
been shy on him if he'd come in his
kids and gold chains, and driven his
buckish horse and baroosh up to her
father's door.'

`Yes, Harry was always cute. I
heard he did something o' the kind.'

`Well, if he did, he deserved what he
got. I can't stand one o' your men
under false colours. I like every thing
fair and above board. Every one in
his own skin, I say. If a man is a sinner
let him swear! If a man is pious
let him pray! But none of your cross
handed fire for me. I never disguises
myself; I'd scorn it. What I am all
the world knows, and the devil too! I
always act out my nat'ral character,
and would be ashamed to pass myself
off for a vartuous woman, when I knows
I aint one. If Henry Temple come it
over the father of Ann Wilson that way,
as people say he did, he got his desarts,
and the old man aint to blame! Still
I hopes he'll be cotched, coz, as I told
you afore I want to read the trial.'

`Well, Bess, I'm sleepy,' ejaculated
Miss Juley with a yawn.

`So am I! so let's bunk. There's
that pale-faced flummock as fast as a
turnkey after dinner.'

With these remarks the two ladies
rose, and each finding an empty bunk
got into it; and in a little while the
lock-up was perfectly quiet.

7. CHAPTER VII.
THE POLICE COURT-ROOM.

Early on the ensuing morning, just
as the day began to dawn, the slumbers
of the inmates of the lock-up were rudely
broken by a loud voice at the grating of
the door, calling out—

`Turn up, turn out. Bear a hand
and get rigged in less than no time to
go to Court.'

This command was instantly followed
by a general movement in the apartment
occupied by the female prisoners.
As they had all turned in without removing
an article of clothing, their
toilet was soon arranged. Bess and her
young protege grumbled a little at being
called so early, and the former told the
officer that she would not stir her stumps
without a naggin of bitters.

`You'll get your bitters, old 'un after
you get to the p'lice-court,' said the
officer with a laugh. `No stopping
now for such things, Come, move on,
for the carriage is waiting.'

`Bless us! am I to be a lady and
ride in my coach. Hear that, Juley.'

We are ladies and they knows how to
treat us,' answered the young girl, as
she passed out.

`Come, woman,' said the officer,
looking at poor Mrs. Wilson, who after
a restless night had awaked to the painful
consciousness of her situation, and
was now weeping violently at the thought
of her family, and her own disgrace.—
`Come, you must not stay here. `You
will be like to get only sixty days on
that matter, if it was only a shutter you
stole.'

These words were spoken by the officer
in tones of kindness, as if he felt the
woman was far from being depraved
like the most of those who were placed
there, and really deserved sympathy.

Mrs. Wilson raised her head, and
wiping away her tears advanced tremblingly,
for she was really weak from
hunger and sorrow, and went out into
the office where all the other women
were gathered with several watchmen
about the stove, for the cold of the morning
was intense. The old hacks at the
door, drawn by wretched horses, received
the captives of the night, and
went off with them to the court of justice.
Mrs. Wilson sat in one corner,
covering her face with her hands, and
paying no regard to the opprobrious

epithets with which the others saw fit
to notice her.

At length they alighted at the court
house and were ushered into the presence
of the judge. It was past sunrise
and he was then in the act of taking
his seat.

The cases of the prisoners who had
accompanied Mrs. Wilson were soon
disposed of, and sentences given. Her
case was resumed last, as old Jarvey the
miser, had not yet come to appear
against her. At length he entered muffled
to the eyes in furs and woolen comforters
out of which his long peaked
nose protruded with remarkable conspicuousness.
The case was called and
the old man entered his complaint
charging her with stealing his shutter
from the street with which the wind had
blown it during the storm of the night
before.

`What have you to say, woman, to
this charge of theft?' demanded the justice,
sternly, eyeing the shrinking, trembling
form before him.

`Sir, I have nothing to say. If the
gentleman says that it was stealing, I
then have stolen; but sir,' she continued
with touching earnestness; `but,
sir, God above knows that I was innocent
of any intention to steal from him,
or from any other living person in the
world! I and my family at our poor
home were perishing for a fire both to
warm us and to cook what little food we
had left. I was the only one that could
bear the storm and I went out to gather
wood!'

`Where did you expect to find wood,
woman? It does not grow in the
streets!' said the Justice, sternly.

`No, sir! But I was in hopes the
wind would have torn off some old
shingles or bits of boards or broken a
branch from some of the trees by the
side-walks, so that I could bring home
a little something!'

`I dare say; and if you had not found
any of these things, doubtless you were
ready to tear off the shingles or boards
and break off the branches if you
thought you could do it safely. I have
had enough of your quality here before
now!'

`Indeed, sir, I am no thief. I would
not have taken a shingle new or old
from any man's house. I hoped to find
somewhat in the street. So I went
along scarcely able to bear up against
the wind and snow, and was near perishing
and had almost resolved in my
heart to go home again and die there
rather than in the streets, when I saw
before me half buried in the snow what
I thought was a piece of board. I flew
to get it, when I saw that it was an old
shutter much broken and fit only for
fire-wood!'

`Fit only for fire-wood, hey?' repeated
old Jarvey, making a step towards
her and shaking his cane in her
face. Impudent huzzy! Do you dare
to say that my window shutters are fit
only for fire-wood! You won't get off
this way. Your honor, I hope that you
see that she is a liar as well as a thief.'

`You live in a very old house, I believe,
Mr. Jarvey,' said a man who sat
near the prisoners and towards whose
benevolent face poor Mrs. Wilson's eyes
had been more than once turned with
an undefined feeling that he would not
see her wronged if he had power there.

`Yes, Mr 'Gustus, but that is nothing.
You'll please let the justice go on, and
not intermeddle here. This is a case
that don't come under your province, so
you will oblige me by keeping quiet.
The woman is a thief! She stole my
shutter! I followed her home! I saw
her break it up and throw it in her fire!
No matter if the shutter was not worth
more than a sixpence, that sixpence
worth I'll have justice for!'

`That will do, Mr. Jarvey,' said the
Justice. `I will pursue the examination
myself. So, then Madam, you acknowledge
that you stole the shutter?'

`I did not steal it sir! I took it, not
thinking it was good for any thing.'

`Except to burn,' said the Justic with
a slight sneer.

`That is all, sir!'

`And that is all wood is good for.'
If you had gone to my wood-pile and
stolen half a cord of wood, you might
have offered the same plea with equal
justice, that it was only fit to be burned!
The shutter then being acknowledged
by you to be fire-wood, has a value like

other fire-wood! you are therefore guilty
of theft!'

`Good? There you have her, Mr.
Justice, like a rat in a pair of tongs!'
exclaimed the little miser rubbing his
hands together partly from glee, and
partly from cold, for the court room
was something chilly.

`But sir,' plead the poor woman who
thought of her family and their wretchedness
and the danger too that would
befal one of them if she were sent to
prison,' but sir, the shutter was in the
street. I found it half buried in the
snow!'

`No excuse! Is what is found in the
street the property of the finder's, answer
me that?'

`N—n—no, sir,' said the poor woman
with hesitation, feeling her perfect
helplessness under the subtle power of
the law. `No, sir, if it is valuable like
money.'

`Or like wood!' responded the justice
with a look of ironical triumph upon
his face. `You see that you can't better
the matter, woman. If a dozen
sticks of wood had fallen from a cart,
would you have been at liberty to pick
them up and carry them home as your
own?'

`No, sir, but —'

`But to pick up a shutter and carry
it home and burn it, is a far greater offence.
It is true the shutter had been
blown from the building to which it appertained
and lay in the street half-buried
in the-snow. But this accident
did not destroy the owner's property in
the shutter. It was his still, and would
have been his where ever he could have
found and identified it. He saw you
pick up the shutter!'

`Yes, with my own eyes, and so did
this honest watchman,' cried Jarvey,
giving this appellation to David Dalton
out of gratitude at his having consented
to appear in the Court against her; but
the reader has seen with what reluctance
the kind hearted man had yielded
to circumstances he could not control.
David was present. He stood a little
back from the box in which Mrs. Wilson
stood to go through her examination
before committal. He leaned upon the
top of one of the seats, wrapped in his
watch-coat, his arms folded across his
breast, his tall, athletic form conspicuous,
and overtowering the diminutive
miser, who was a pace or two in advance
of him, leaning upon his staff.—
Directly in front of the miser was seated
the benevolent looking man, who was
closely and shrewdly watching the progress
of events. Jarvey carefully evaded
this person's calm, clear eye, and more
than once shifted his position to avoid
its penetrating glances. David also
watched the progress of the examination
with painful interest. He could not
help hating the man who had compelled
him to bear testimony to condemn the
poor woman whose poverty should have
opened every heart to compassionate
her.

The words of the miser drew all eyes
upon David. He could not help colouring
with shame at the idea that they
would think he had voluntarily given
his testimony or arrested the woman at
first, for so slight an offence, if offence
it could be called. Having done his
duty in arresting and appearing against
her, he now resolved to yield to the dictates
of his honest nature. So when the
Justice turned to him and said,

`So; you are the watchman that
caught her stealing the shutter!' he
answered firmly,

`I am the watchman, your honor,
that arrested the poor woman; but if I
had my own way, I would not have
done it. But I had to do it, or lose my
place, and I am not rich enough to lose
it; so I thought I would arrest her and
leave it to the humanity of this court to
have her honestly discharged from custody!'

`Honestly discharged! What! Did
she not steal the shutter?' demanded
the judge with a look of surprise. `Mr.
Jarvey, did you not say this man saw her
do it?'

`Yes, I did, your honor,' answered
Mr. Jarvey, his face glowing with indignation
at the bold position which David
had now taken; for he saw that he
having performed his painful duty to the
letter was beyond his power. `He can't
deny it.'

`I do not deny, your honor, that I

saw the poor creature take the shutter
and bear it off.'

`And you did not follow her?'

`Not till I came down stairs and compelled
him to do so, yer honor,' yelled
Jarvey in his cracked, squeaking voice.
`I told him if he refused to pursue and
arrest her, I would have him complained
of and discharged!'

`And you would have only done your
duty, Mr. Jarvey,' said the justice. `It
is well for you, watchman, that you
obeyed him. You should have acted
promptly at first. Your duty is to protect
the property of citizens!'

`I know it, your honor,' answered
David firmly. `I have never been once
complained of in the years I have been
a watchman for neglect of duty. I have
arrested more rogues than any other
man in the corps, though I say it!'

`I am aware of your good character,
Dalton,' said the justice. `I am, therefore,
surprised that you should wait until
a citizen calls upon you, before you
perform your duty. Nay, until that
citizen threatens you.'

`Your honor, I did not consider that
my services were called for. It was a
bleak, fierce night as ever I walked my
beat in. The snow and wind were
driving through the streets with terrible
violence. As I was wrapped in my
warm coat and partly sheltered, I was
thinking of the sufferings of the poor at
such a time, when I saw a dim-looking
figure struggling along through the
tempest. As it came nearer, I saw
that it was a woman thinly clad. There
lay in the street, half hidden by the
snow, a fragrant of a window shutter
which the wind had a few minutes before
hurled from the shackly old building
on the corner where I was standing.'

`Shackly old building!' repeated the
miser in a rage, and shaking his stick at
David.

`Why did you not pick it up?' asked
the justice, paying no attention to the
miser's angry vehemence.

`Because, your honor, I did not regard
it as of any value. I should not
have thought of it again, but that I saw
the woman run to it, draw it from the
snow, and hurry off with it.'

`And what did you say?' asked the
justice.

`I said in my heart, Go, poor woman.
The wind has been God's angel
to thee and thy cheerless hearth!'

`Humph! And did you not think of
following her?' continued the justice
with a frown, for the noble sentiments
of humanity are not always welcome in
a halt of `Justice.'

`I did, your honor, think of following
her to place a little money in her hand
to buy food and fuel, for I thought that
one of her sex who was forced to go
abroad on such a night to seek wind-drifts
must be poor indeed. But she
was gone before I could pursue her.'

`You see this, your honor,' cried
Jarvey. `You see that by his own confession
he is her partner in the crime!'

`It looks very like it, Dalton,' said
the justice, compressing his lips and
looking very severely. `It is well for
you you went after her, even at Mr.
Jarvey's threats; for you would not
only have lost your place, but I tell you
plainly I should have committed you.
You have just saved yourself. A narrow
escape.'

`I think he ought to he committed as
it is, your honor,' said Jarvey. `However,
if I get the woman sent up for six
months, (it ought to be State's prison for
three years) I will let it pass. The city
should employ watchmen that haven't
soft places in their hearts.'

`Mr. Jarvey,' said David, `I would
rather have that soft place in my heart
which led me to pity this poor woman,
and be begging by the highway, than
have that hard place in your heart and
own the mines of Mexico!'

`Silence,' said the justice, rapping
upon the desk before him. `David
Dalton, you testify that you arrested this
woman in the act of breaking up and
burning the shutter which you saw her
steal out of the street soon after it fell
from the house occupied by the plaintiff?'

`I arrested her burning the old shutter
I saw her take out of the snow in
the street,' answered David, laying a
strong emphasis upon the word `take'
in contradiction to the term `steal.'

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE SENTENCE AND THE RELEASE.

The answer of the stout-hearted
watchman did not by any means please
his honor. He frowned and bit his lips.
He had himself used the word `steal,'
not `take,' and that the witness should
thus substitute one word for another,
was not gratifying to him. It is true
that he had no right to have used the
word `steal,' thus declaring a theft to
have been committed, when his duty
was only to decide upon the truth given
in. But there are some justices who always
assume that the prisoner brought
before them is guilty, especially if they
be poor and friendless. Such was the
case in the present instance. It was
clear to all present who were disinterested,
that he would have been very
much disappointed to find the prisoner
guilty. He seemed to take delight
in condemning. To acquit any one
went sorely against his nature. Instead
of regarding himself as a protector of
the innocently accused, who might be
brought before him, he no sooner confronted
a prisoner than he assumed a
frown to inspire terror and brow-beat.

He did not now like the bold bearing
of the honest watchman. If he had
dared to have stretched his authority, he
would forthwith have ordered a committal
for him; but as David had faithfully,
though reluctanctly, performed his duty,
in arresting the woman, he could charge
nothing against him. The Justice, after
being a few moments silent, as if
considering what he should do, for in
his heart, he felt that the poor woman
was no thief, and that her case called
for commisseration rather than punishment,
looked up uneasily at the benevolent-looking
man and then fixing his
eyes on the prisoner said sternly,

`Prisoner, you have been accused of
stealing a shuter, and the accusation
has been fully proved. You have
plead poverty and the valueless character
of the article stolen. But neither
of these pleas are admissible in a court
of justice, as I trust this is. If poverty
were an excuse for theft then no persons
would be convicted; for want it is
that leads to the commission of almost
every theft. The man who steals a
loaf of bread, though he were perishing
with hunger, is equally guilty with the
man who robs the vaults of a bank.
Theft is theft. Ahem.—Nor is the plea
that the thing stolen is of no value. It
has a certain value to the thief, or why
should it be coveted. The shutter may
not have been worth to Mr. Jarvey a
sixpence.'

`Your honor, I would not take one
silver dollar for it. It will cost me two
dollars to have a new one made.'

`Very well. You see, prisoner, that
the value of your theft is two dollars:
a very grievous crime, you perceive.
But under the circumstances if you are
willing to pay him the value of the
shutter and the costs of your arrest, &c.,
which will amount to about a `five,' you
are at liberty to go to your home;
otherwise I shall commit you for three
months. An example must be set. Justice
mnst not be too lenient. The dignity
of the laws must be maintained.'

`Oh, sir, I have no money,' cried the
poor woman, clasping her thin hands
together, and looking towards him with
a tearful face. `I have not one penny
in the world. I am wretchedly poor.
I have a family at home who are at this
moment perishing for food and warmth.
Oh, sir, be merciful to me, as you hope
to have mercy at the bar of God!'

`Don't talk to me here, woman, of
the bar of God! We recognise here
only our own tribunal. You will gain
nothing by sacrificed speeches and tears.
We are used to that blarney here. Pay
the five dollars, or Mr. Officer take her
off to the House of Correction.'

`Mercy! mercy!' cried the poor woman,
shrinking from the officer's touch,
throwing herself upon her knees before
the inexorable justice. `Do not bar me
from my children. I meant not to steal.'

`Three months, woman. You have
your sentence. Officer, do your duty?'

`Stop, sir,' said David Dalton, stepping
up, and extending one arm between
her and the officer, while with the
other he raised her from her knees.
`There is no need to go to extremities
in this affair. The poor woman has
friends, though she can't find justice.
Keep up courage, ma'am. They shan't

harm yon. It was through me you
came here, and I'll get you free, if five
dollars will do it. Your honor,' he added,
in a voice deep with generous emotion,
and laying, as he spoke, five dollars
upon the table, `there is the five
paid. The poor woman is free from
your clutches, God be thanked.'

`What, fellow!' cried the justice with
flushed cheeks, `do you contemn and
insult this court?'

`No, your honour!' answered David,
standing erect in the dignified attitude
of an honest man; `I mean to insult no
man. What I said came from my
heart and my lips would utter it. If
you choose to commit me, I am ready
as soon as I see this poor woman safe
home!'

`You have lost your berth as a watchman,
fellow, if I have influence enough
to eject you from it,' answered the enraged
justice, his face looking even redder
than its usual brandy hue.

`My good man,' said the benevolent
looking gentleman, rising and taking
David's large hand in his own and
smiling kindly, almost sweetly, upon
him, `you need not fear any ill consequences
from your generous and fear
less conduct this morning. If his honor
should succeed in getting you dismissed,
though I do not see what charge he
can bring against you, I will take care
that you find employment. I have been
watching your face during this examination.
I was pleased to see the deep
interest you take in the case of the poor
woman, and I only delayed to advance
the five dollars in her behalf, knowing
from your manner that you would certainly
do it, and I was willing that you
should have the satisfaction of doing it.'

`Sir, you are very kind. I would
not have been prevented for a good
deal from paying the money, poor as I
am; for by my means she is here before
this justice's court. If I had not have
been so afraid of losing my place she
would have escaped!'

`Mr. Justice,' now cried out the little
miser, who had been looking from one
to the other and listening to what was
said with his blood boiling over, `Mister
Justice, I protest against this mode of
settling the matter. I did not say I
would take two dollars for the shutter.
I only said it would cost that to have a
new one! Two dollars won't satisfy
me. It won't pay for my trouble last
night, my trouble here this morning,
and my wear and tear of mind and
body, besides a three penny candle that
burned all night in my entry because,
in my excitement, I forgot to blow it
out! Sir, I demand justice. I demand
that the thief be sent to jail for at least
six months!'

`Mr. Jarvey,' said the justice, `the
case being decided and the money paid,
there is no reversion. You must submit
as you best can. If you had made
out a bill of damages you should have
had full recompense, but as it is I can
do no more in the matter.'

`I will appeal to the criminal court!'
cried the little man, taking up his hat
and thrusting it down hard upon his
head and stamping noisily and angrily
strode out of the room.

`Oh, sir, can he prosecute me farther?'
cried poor Mrs. Wilson, who had
been overwhelming David with her
grateful thanks for what he had done
for her.

`No, madam,' answered the benevolent
man, kindly taking her hand. You
are now safe.'

`Are you sure he can do nothing?'
asked David, making a step as if he
were about to pursue the miser. `If I
thought he could I would follow him
and give him a lesson that would make
him repent any such intention as he
has upon his mind.'

`He can do nothing, my good man.
The case is dismissed and can be prosecuted
no farther.'

`Hear that ma'am!' said David,
with exultation.

`I do indeed, sir!' she answered,
with looks of grateful happiness that
caused even her pale wan checks to
wear, for the moment, an aspect of
beauty.

`Is there a coach at the door, David?'
asked the gentleman, who had taken
such an interest in the fate of the
prisoner.

`I will see, sir,' answered the generous
watchman, hastening from the
room, while the justice putting on his

hat and cloak prepared to go home to
his breakfast, having got through with
the examinations of the night-captives.
He had sentenced Bess to pay a fine of
three dollars and to promise good behaviour,
and had sent the young girl,
Juley, to the House of Correction for
sixty days. If he had sent the poor
woman, Mrs. Wilson, up for the same
time he would have gone home to his
breakfast with a better appetite; but
there was something in the countenance
of the benevolent gentleman, who was
closely watching the examination, which
restrained him from following out the
dictates of his bosom with reference to
her. But for his presence he would
have sent her up for six months. But
his own judicial power feared before
the moral power of that good man's, to
carry itself fully out. Would that every
court of justice had a human-angel
watching closely the judges, and guarding
the helpless and the innocent from
the vigours of relentless justice and the
wanton exercise of power. The proceedings
in some of our courts would
disgrace the judiciary of a Turkish
court of justice. The common idea of
justice is to make it the synonyme of
punishment. Justice holds the shield
as well as the sword; and should protect
as well as chastise. Justice is no
longer blind. It knows the rich from
the poor when both stand before its tribunal!
Its brow is ever bent into a
frown instead of being expanded with
benevolence and sympathy. Instead
of presuming every one innocent till
proved guilty, it presumes them guilty
and fears, as it would seem, that they
may be proved innocent. It seems to
stand gaoler at the great prison-houses
of the land and to cry `more, more!
Give us more!' It delights to condemn
rather than to acquit. It looks upon
innocence as its foe! Such is `justice'
in many of the petty courts of our great
cities. Through them hundreds of incent
persons have been condemned
with the guilty. In one of the tribunals
of one of the cities of this land, there
stands, day and night, a man at the right
hand of the judge whose self-imposed
province it is to act as a mediator between
the prisoner and the judge!
Hundreds of the poor and the unfortunate,
and friendless have been saved by
his interpoition, and restored to society.
His watchful eye scans closely the proceedings.
His availing arm is stretched
forth to save and defend. His presence
is like that of angels there! Justice is
purified by it, and more cautiously administered.
Is not the very fact of this
benevolent interposition a proof that
justice needs to adorn itself with humanity
as with a garment of righteousness.
Does it not show to the world
that more benevolence is needed in the
administration of our tribunals. If
humanity, charity, and love ruled over
the decisions of the judges what need
is there for a `Daysman' between the
prisoners and the bench? Remember,
oh, ye Judges! that misfortune is the
legitimate mother of crime, and that
pity and charity should ever temper the
severity of justice!

David now came in saying that the
coach was ready. The gentleman then
took Mrs. Wilson, poor and wretchedly
clad as she was, by the hand and led
her out of the low, dark court room,
and assisting her into the coach, got in
after her, while David got up with the
driver to show him the way to her house,
and at the same time to have the pleasure
of seeing her once more restored
to her home.

The morning was bright and clear.
The sunshine sparkled upon the surface
of the snow and produced a brilliant effect,
reflected from roofs, windows, cornices
and trees. The street, early as it
was, was filled with many sleighers, and
musical with the jingling of bells. The
hack in which they rode was upon runners,
and glided swiftly and smoothly
along the snowy streets.

`I learn from the watchman, madam,'
said the benevolent gentleman, whom
we shall call Mr. Gustavus, addressing
her to stop her expressions of joy and
gratitude which to a true benevolent
heart are annoying, `I learn that you
are called Mrs. Wilson. From your
appearance and your conduct in the
court I am satisfied you are an honest
person, and that you intended no crime.'

`Indeed, sir, I did not. Do you, sir,
think it was a crime, then?'

`No, dear madam, not in God's eye.
In the eye of human laws it is a crime
to take the property of another wherever
we may find it. There was no guilt
in taking the shutter from the street,
for I know you would not have torn it
from the window had you seen it hanging
by one hinge only, and ready to
fall.'

`No, indeed, sir, I would not,' she
answered earnestly.

`Well, we won't speak of it any
more. It is all over, and you are safe
from the perils to which it has exposed
you.'

`And through your goodness, sir, and
that of the good watchman. Sir, you
have both done an act that I cannot reward
you for, but God will reward you.'

`I am content for all that I have done
or may do for you to await that reward,'
answered Mr. Gustavus with a
smile. `You live, you say, in a small
court out of Flagg Alley?'

`Yes, sir.'

`We shall hardly be able to get near
your abode in the coach. We will stop
at the foot of the alley. Are you married?'

The woman hesitated, looked embarrassed,
but not guiltily so, and then answered
hurriedly,

`Yes, sir.'

`Have you children?'

`Two—three, sir!'

`You have represented yourself as
very poor. Is your husband not able to
maintain you?' he asked, without appearing
to notice her confused answer.

`Yes—yes, sir!' she answered, in
the same embarrassed manner.

`Perhaps he is ill?'

`No, sir. That is—'

`Well, I will not pry too closely into
your domestic affairs. I am convinced
you are an honest woman. I
wish to go to your house to see how
you live and how I can improve your
situation; for it will never do for one so
feeble as you are to be forced abroad in
a stormy night after drift wood to keep
your family from perishing. But the
coach is now at the foot of the alley.
We will alight here.'

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE SECRET DISGUISED.

The party alighted at the part of the
alley, David opening the door, and assisting
the poor woman to get out.—
Never had poverty two stauncher friends
than had this helpless female in this her
hour of misfortune. Mr. Gustavus offered
her his arm, while David went forward
leading the way, and kindly and
carefully beating aside the snow with
his boots, that she might walk easier;
for the narrow passage through which
they were passing was very much
blocked up, and she was as fragile as a
willow rudely blasted by the storm.

`Indeed, sir,' said Mrs. Wilson to her
benefactor, `you need not take so much
trouble. You have done more for me
than I could hope for. I can never repay
your kindness. Besides, my house
is too wretched for a gentleman like
you to enter it.

`I nevor yet, dear Madam, saw poverty
so low that charity could not stoop
as low. You have greatly interested
me in yourself and your circumstances.
I wish to see how you live, that I may
know how to aid you. You must let me
do as I wish in this matter,' he added
smiling; `for I assure you I am very
stubborn in such cases as this!'

David now turned out of the alley into
a narrower passage up which the
house stood. As he went along, he saw
the marks made by the shutter, as she
dragged it through the snow the night
previous. He silently pointed it out to
Mr. Gustavus, who perfectly comprehended
him.

`Here is your house, ma'am,' said
David, `and I trust after this, now that
you have found so good a friend as Mr.
Gustavus here, you will enjoy more
happy days in it, than you seem to have
done!'

`God, I see, has raised me up friends,'
she answered warmly, with tears sparkling
in her eyes. `How shall I ever
repay you, sir.'

`Don't think of me. Five dollars is
nothing compared with your staying six
months in prison. I should not have
slept or eaten in peace had you gone
there; for I was a coward in letting old

Jarvey's threats make me act against
my conscience. It would have been
better, ma'am, for me to have lost my
place and trusted to Providence, than
to have taken you up and had you sent
to prison for no crime at all. Good
morning, ma'am; I must go home and
look after my little ones, for they'll
not know what has become of me, for
I'm in usually by day light.'

`David, where is your house?' asked
Mr. Gustavus.

`In a little court that runs out of
Cambridge street, sir!' answered the
watchman.

`What court?'

`It is called Finney Place, sir!'

`I know it. I will not forget you.
Your good conduct to this poor woman
has made me esteem you. Here is the
five dollars again that you have paid
for her. You cannot afford to lose it!'

`I cannot afford to take it, sir! I
am poor, that I know, sir! But I am
richer without that money than I should
be with it! I paid it from my hear.!
Keep it, sir! Will you not let any one
have the pleasure of doing good but
yourself?'

`Then I will not urge you. I know
the gratification that fills the soul from
a generous action. I will not deprive
you of this high enjoyment. It is possible,
Mr. Dalton, that the Justice and
Mr. Jarvey, by their combined influence,
for I see that both are your enemies,
may succeed in getting you dismissed
from your station as a watchman.
If so, do not fear but that you will find
some other employment. This I will
see to myself. Good morning!'

`Good morning, sir!'

`Take the silver and pay the coachman
as you go out, and dismiss him!'

David now took his leave of them,
and Mr. Gustavus followed the poor
woman up the tottering steps that led to
the door of her dwelling. She looked
as if something was on her mind aside
from the present events. She appeared
perplexed and trembled and several
times looked at her benefactor before
she opened the door, with an expression
in which the deepest gratitude seemed
to be struggling with a reluctance to
admit him into the house. He saw
this, but being resolved to do her good,
he did not seem to regard it. He supposed
that she had some secret domestic
grief that she wished to keep from him;
perhaps, an intemperate husband, or,
as he strongly suspected was deserted
by her husband and wished to keep his
conduct from his knowledge.

`Sir, I would rather you would not
take the trouble to enter my cheerless
abode,' she said, as she laid her hand
upon the latch.

`Pardon me, but I wish to know all,
so that I can do you all the good you
need,' he said, kindly, but firmly. `If
you have any thing you wish to keep
secret do not divulge it; for I do not
desire to know what you may wish to
keep back. I only wish to learn sufficiently
to be of real service to you;
for from what I can understand you are
wholly without friends, and are suffering
for the very necessaries of life.'

`Sir, I will not say any more! I may
yet confide in you wholly; for I see
that I can have from you nothing to
fear.'

She then opened the door, which led
into a small entry, from which a second
door opened into the room occupied by
the family. She had no sooner touched
the latch of the outer door than the
inner door was opened by the lad we
have already seen. Upon seeing his
mother, his large, lustrous, half-sunken
eyes blazed with joy and he cried out,

`Mother! dear mother!' and sprang
into her arms.

`Mother!' repeated the daughter
Anny bounding to meet her. `Oh, has
mother returned?' But as she saw behind
her mother, the face of the stranger,
she checked her bound of joy and
stood gazing upon him with looks first
of fear and then of confidence. She
saw that he was not an officer—not an
enemy, but a friend. Benevolence,
peace, and kindness were engraven in
heavenly lines upon his countenance.—
She bounded forward without fear, and
clasped her mother about the neck and
wept in her bosom.

For a few moments the three remained
thus intertwined in one another's
embrace, their hearts throbbing with tumultuous
joy.

`Oh, my dearest mother, how happy
we are,' said the boy, lifting his dark,
expressive eyes to her pale face which
was fondly bent over him with natural
love in every lineament. `Sister was
just going to ask the judge to forgive
you, and tell him all about it, how you
didn't mean to do naughty, when you
took that shutter that made us all so
warm!'

`Oh, mother, how is it that you are
restored to us again?' asked the young
girl, raising her pale, beautiful face all
bathed with tears and beaming with happiness.

`Through God's mercy in sending
me two friends in my extremity, my
child! Knee, both of you, and bless
this gentleman; and I would that the
generous and noble watchman were here
also.'

`And so do I, madam, that he might
have witnessed this joyful meeting as I
have done.'

`I have witnessed it, sir,' answered
the husky and tremulous voice of David
close at his back. `I would not have
missed it for another five dollars, sir!
I came back to ask you if I had not
better step in the market, and get a little
something for them to eat, and a few
bundles of firewood just to begin upon,
for from what I saw last night they have
not enough in their larder for a kitten's
luncheon, and as to firewood, the old
shutter must be pretty well used up by
this time.'

`You are right, David. Here is money.
Use it at your discretion. You will
know what to buy.'

`Yes, sir; poor men can buy best for
the poor,' answered David, taking the
five dollar note and hastening from the
house, his eyes filled with tears at the
scene which he had witnessed.

Anny, the lovely lame girl, would
have knelt with her wasted brother at
the feet of the stranger; but he raised
them up and taking a chair—a broken
one which he had to keep on its feet by
the aid of his own,—he placed the boy
upon his knee and kissing his pale brow,
spoke to him in words of kindness and
sympathy. Anny stood near clasping
her mother's hand, and regarded the
gentleman with looks of mingled curi
osity and surprise. Kindness and
sympathy were very strange things to
her.

`Now, dear madam,' said Mr. Gustavus
after glancing around the almost
naked room and seeing that the family
was in the lowest poverty, `I beg of
you to tell me exactly your situation.—
I am your friend, and will do all I can
to relieve you.'

`Oh, sir, you are so good,' exclaimed
the mother with emotion.

`Have you any fire wood at all?' he
asked, addressing Anny, upon whose
lovely countenance he gazed with the
deepest interest, wondering how it was
that so sweet a flower should ever have
unfolded itself in so uncongenial a
soil.

`We have only this fragment, sir,'
she answered, blushing deeply as she
pointed to a piece of the shutter; `we
did not burn it after they took mother
away, because we feared it would be
wrong.'

`And so you have remained in the
cold.'

`We went to bed and cuddled under
the old quilt, sir,' said the boy. `It
kept us pretty warm, all but my back.'

`Poor child. You look almost frozen
now. In a few minutes the good
watchman will be here with wood.—
Have you got anything to eat in your
house?'

`No, sir,' answered Anny.

`Madam,' said Mr. Gustavus, turning
to the poor woman. `I see you are in
need of every thing. I will do what I
can for you, but I should be glad to
have your confidence fully. You told
me that you had a husband. Where is
he?'

At this question Mrs. Wilson started
and looked distressed; while the face of
Anny and of the boy betrayed alarm
and agitation. Mr. Gustavus felt his
hand tremble in his own; and he could
not but see that he had touched a painful
chord. There was evidently some
mystery—some painful fact which related
to the unseen husband. He was
not disposed to be inquisitive merely
from idle ouriosity. He felt that this
poor family had some secret source of
sorrow even greater than its poverty, if

it were possible. He felt a benevolent
desire to arrive at the knowledge of it
that he might alleviate it by his advice,
or by pecuniary aid.

`My dear good woman,' he said in a
voice of kind persuasion, `I can hardly
assist you as I would wish, unless I
know the sources of your destitution.
Be assured you can confide in me without
fear.'

`Mother, let us tell the good gentleman
all about it,' said the boy earnestly.
`I know he is a friend to you and us.'

`Yes, mother, said Anny, with a face
brightening with trustfulness, `we can
trust this benevolent man. I know he
will never betray us. His advice may
do us good.'

`But we should involve him in the
responsibility of our secret, Anny,' answered
Mrs. Wilson. `He would feel
it a duty to inform, whence we feel it
a duty equally sacred to conceal.'

`I will put an end to the difficulty at
once, dear wife,' said a voice behind
them.

It was the voice of a man; but Mr.
Gustavus, on looking round, to his surprise,
beheld a tall woman, or at least a
person in a gown, shawl and hood.
Mrs. Wilson uttered a cry of fear, and
ran to him, while Anny and the boy
both exclaimed `father,' with looks of
surprise and terror.

`Do not fear, children. Do not fear,
Mary,' said the disguised man; `only
keep the door fast while I am in here.
This gentleman I know well by sight,
and by reputation. I would trust him,
as I am about to do, with my life. It
is Mr Gustavus the friend of the unfortunate.
I overheard his voice, and knew
it, and peeping from my hiding place,
saw him. I heard all that was said, and
made up my mind that it was best to
make a confidant of one who, if he
could not aid us, would never betray
us. Mr. Gustavus, though you see
me appear dressed as a female, I am
the husband of this woman.'

`Who are you, sir, and what circumstances
have rendered it necessary
that you should thus conceal yourself
in such disguise?' asked Mr. Gustavus
looking at first at him, and then at the
displaced boards through which he had
entered the room.

`My name, Mr. Gustuvus, when you
hear it will perhaas make you start with
feelings of revulsion; but before you
condemn me, know my defence.'

`I will hear you and judge impartially,'
answered Mr. Gustavus with surprise,
and wondering what revelation
was about to be made. There was
something in the tones of the man's
voice and in his countenance that prepossessed
him in his favor.

`You have not forgotten the death of
young Temple?' said the man, still
wrapped in his hood and shawl, and
furtively watching the door lest any one
should enter.

`No, sir, I have not.'

`You have heard the name of William
Wilson as the person who killed
him?'

`Yes.'

`That is my name! I am the man,
Mr. Gustavus!' said the disguised father
and husband in a firm tone.

`You! Are you the murderer?'
cried Mr. Gustavus with surprise and almost
with horror. `I was prepared for
some painful revelation, but not for the
bold confession of a murder!'

`Mr. Gustavus, I have made this confession
not boldly, but from a desire to
let at least one important person know
the whole truth. I feel that you will
be my friend as you seem to be that of
my family; and indeed, the friend of
the friendless everywhere. You are
the only man living that I would have
appeared before, as I now do, and acknowledge
myself to be William Wilson—the
man hunted by the police, who
are inspired to almost superhuman exertions
by the large reward that is offered
for my arrest. Will you listen to
me while I relate the circumstances
which led to that deed?'

`I will; and the more willingly, as I
begin to believe from your appearance
and manner that you will be able to
show some mitigating circumstances
that will lessen the horror of the act.'

`I trust I shall do so sir,' answered
the man as he seated himself upon the
low truckle-bed, his wife taking a seat
by his side, and closely watching with

alternate glances, the face of her husband
and that of her listener. Charles
still sat confidingly on the knee of Mr.
Gustavus; while Anny stood near the
window, her countenance expressing
the deep interest she felt in what was to
follow.

10. CHAPTER X.
THE STORY OF WILLIAM WILSON.

As William Wilson was about to
begin making his revelation to Mr. Gustavus,
a heavy step was heard without
the door. Anny looked through the
dusky glass and exclaimed,

`A man, father! a stranger! Hide
quickly!'

Mr. Gustavus rose to hasten to the
door to see who it was, while the disguised
Wilson concealed himself. His
wife stood trembling and anxious till the
opening of the door showed in the entry
the tall form and honest countenance
of David Dalton. Instantly the expression
of alarm changed to one of
joy and gratitude. Still, she was glad
William had got out of the way; for
she did not like to have his secret known
to another, however good that other
might be.

David was laden down. In one hand
he held a large basket in which, upon
half a bushel of potatoes, were placed
three nice fish, a pieca of fresh veal,
and a large turkey with sundry little
brown paper parcels. Over his shoulder
was slung a bam and a large sack of
wood and charcoal. His face fairly
shone with benevolence and joy.

`I am here, you see, sir,' said he to
Mr. Gustavus. `I hope I have got what
is needed. The turkey will do cold
for two or three meals, and the ham is
a good stand-by in a poor man's house.
Here, ma'am, is a pound of coffee and
a half pound of tea, four pounds of
sugar, and a pound of butter, besides
four loaves of fresh bread. You have
got enough to last you in plenty for a
week. I have brought you back, sir,
two dollars and twenty three cents out
of the five you gave me! There,
me'am!' added David, setting down his
basket and then laying from his shoulder
the sack of wood and charcoal and the
ham. `There, ma'am, you have prosperity
under your roof again, thank
God and Mr. Gustavus. I see your fire
is out, and I'll just take the liberty to
kindle one up and put the pot on to
boil.'

`Oh, sir, you have been too kind
already,' said Mrs. Wilson hardly, able
to articulate her thanks she was so overcome
at the shower of blessings that
were falling upon her. `Anny will do
all—she is very handy and active.'

`But I would rather, ma'am. Your
daughter looks weakly.'

`Yet I am stronger than you think,'
answered Anny pleasantly, and hastening
to gather from the dry wood enough
to set the fire agoing.

`Well, I'll let you do it, Miss. I dare
say you will be happier doing it. I
must'nt forget my own family in looking
after yours, ma'am, so I'll go home.
I saw a neighbour in the market who'll
tell my wife not to be alarmed. I'll
call to-night as I go on my beat to see
how you all do. Food and fire will do
wonders in a day.'

`David Dalton shall be a confidant in
my confession and defence, also, for
there is not a truer man in Boston.
David, remain awhile and hear what I
have to say.'

At these words, spoken so suddenly,
David started and turned round. Upon
beholding a tall female figure just,
emerging from the opening in the
planks, he looked amazed, and more
especially as the voice was that of a
man.

`What can this be?' he exclaimed.

Mrs. Wilson looked terrified; but
Anny said, in an earnest tone and with
a smile,

`Dear mother, do you fear? He
will never betray him!'

`Him? Who is it?' cried David,
looking at William as he advanced towards
the fire-place, after first securing
the door.

`It is me, David Dalton! You
knew me in better days!' As he spoke
he threw back his hood entirely from
his head and revealed a manly but haggard
countenance. He seemed to have
suffered immensely from hunger and
anxiety. His visage was so ghastly

that Mr. Gustavus, who had not before
seen it fully revealed, uttered an exclamation
of the deepest commisseration.
David did not recognise him. `Have I
then so altered, David?'

`I do not know you. You are a man
but in woman's gear. Yet I think I
have seen those eyes before.'

`I am William Wilson!'

`Wilson, the murderer?' repeated
David, with a step or two back; and
with looks strongly expressive of his
horror.

`Yes, and the William Wilson you
once knew.

`The carpenter?' asked David, still
standing aloof.

`Yes.'

`And are you the same William Wilson
that killed young Henry Temple?'

`I killed him!'

David stepped back a pace or two
farther, and regarded him a moment in
silence. Mrs. Wilson feared he would
betray him. It was a moment of intense
anxiety to all. At length David
said:

`I have often wondered if the William
Wilson who did that deed, was the
same person who served his time as apprentice
under the same master with
me—I am sorry to find that he is!
You bid fair to turn out better, So,
then, ma'm, this is your husband?'

`Yes, sir; but oh! for my sake—'

`I shall not add to your wretchedness
by informing upon him. It is sorrow
enough to have, in addition to your
poverty, a husband who is pursued by
justice for so great a crime. I don't
wonder you have been driven to poverty.
I wish you had been happier than I see
you are!'

`David Dalton,' said the husband, `I
may seem, in your eyes, to be a very
guilty man! It is an awful thing for a
man to slay his fellow-man; but he who
kills another is not always guilty of murder.
I wish you to hear my defence.
I was about to begin it to Mr. Gustavus
when you came in. He has kindly promised
to hear me impartially.'

`And so will I, William!' answered
David, less severely than he had hitherto
spoken. `Whatever may be said by
you, I shall turn it to no harm. I will
listen, also—for I should like to have
you acquit yourself so far as you can.
Ma'm, I wish you would tell me first
one thing?'

`Well, sir, will you please say what
it is you wish?'

`Was not the old woman I saw here
last night your mother?'

`Yes, sir.'

`That is all I wanted to know. I can
now account for her sudden disappearance
when I entered—I see through it
all now!'

`Mr. Wilson,' said Mr. Gustavus,
`proceed now with what you desire to
make known. We are friends to you
and yours, and be assured that whatever
can be done for you shall not be withheld.'

`Thanks, sir—thanks for myself and
my poor wife and children!' answered
William. `You shall now learn all the
circumstances connected with the death
of the young man for which I am now
hunted by the laws. I need not inform
you, sir,' said William Wilson, addressing
himself chiefly to Mr. Gustavus,
though glancing often towards David
also,—`I need not inform either of you
that Henry Temple was a young man
who, at the age of twenty-one, came
into the possession of a fortune of
seventy thousand dollars. His parents
had died when he was yet young, and
he had grown up with little or no control,
and in the free indulgence of his
passions and pride. After he came into
the possession of his money, you are
aware that he commenced a course of
extravagant licentiousness;—this the
newspapers have proclaimed to the
world.'

`Yes, I am aware of all this,' answered
Mr. Gustavus. `Proceed.'

`One of the first steps which he took
was to take a splendid suite of apartments
in a fashionable quarter of the
city, and gather around him that class
of young men to be found in all large
cities, who are willing to merge their
own independence in slavish submission
to the whims and arrogant pretensions
of a young man with money. The career
he ran with these is also well known.
His extravagant dinners and suppers,
his expensive equipages, his gaming saloon—these

are but lesser features of
his pastime. United to his love of display
and reckless expenditure of his
money, was the low passion of debauchery;
to gratify which he left no means
untried—regarded no expense, however
enormous. No sooner would his lustful
eye fall upon the fair face of an innocent,
unprotected girl, than he would
set to work with the subtlety and guile
of Satan when he plutted the seduction
of Eve, to compass her rein. I need
not say that I am repeating facts well
known to the world, sir.'

`The character of Henry Temple has
been made familiar to the public since
his sudden death; still this cannot excuse
the crime. It is no defence to say
that the man you have killed was a bad
man!'

`True, sir; but I shall show to you
that it was the wickedness of Henry
Temple that brought his death upon
him, though by my hand! After he
had accomplished by fiendish arts the
ruin of three young girls, who are now
living a life of infamy, his baleful eye
fell upon a lovely and innocent maid, as
she was passing homeward from the
shop where she worked as a milliner's
apprentice.

`Anny, dear,' said William Wilson,
addressing the young lame girl his
daughter; `perhaps you had better go
and try to borrow a tea-kettle of Mrs.
Traney in the house down the alley.'

`No, father! I know all you would
tell Mr. Gustavus and Mr. Dalton,' answered
the interesting girl with downcast
eyes. `I can bear all! I prefer
remaining that I may listen to your vindication.
I will cook the breakfast; so
do not heed me!'

`You are a good girl and a blessing
to any father. As I was saying, sir,
Temple's glance fell upon the modest
girl I have spoken of. She was extremely
beautiful, and as modest and
discreet as she was handsome. Her
modesty tempted him to endeavor to
effect her ruin. He followed her home
secretly and found out by the poverty
of her abode that she was a poor girl.
This was in his favor; but the humble
station to which he saw she belonged,
he had experience enough to know
would be a bar to his success if he
pressed his attentions upon her in his
true character and under his own name.
Her face showed she was too pure and
good to listen to one who could only
seek to ruin her; and convinced him
that it would be impossible to make her
acquaintance as Henry Temple. Besides,
too, he found cut that she had a
father who might not like to see a gay
young man of the town prowling about
his lowly sheep-fold.'

`That father, William Wilson, was?
—'

`Myself, Mr. Gustavus.'

`And that maiden, thy daughter?'

`Yes, sir! But not this one! for I
see your eyes are turned upon my poor
and innocent child there. No sirs, it
was her twin sister. Once as pure and
innocent as—as she. Forgive me, sir,
I can't but shed a few tears. It is a
painful subject sir, for me to speak of,
but you must know all.'

`I am deeply interested, Mr. Wilson,'
answered Mr. Gustavus pressing his
hand.

`And so am I, William,' said David
Dalton. `I think I am beginning to see
how it will come out.'

`When you have heard all, judge me,
gentlemen, answered William firmly.
I will bring my story to an end as briefly
as I can in justice to myself and my
conduct. Henry Temple having seen
my daughter and resolved to seek her
ruin proceeded in this manner. He
found a poor shoe-maker who kept a
small boot shop in Hanover street, and
at the same time worked on his bench
with two apprentices in the back shop
Money can accomplish anything. He
went o this man, whom he knew to be
simple and honest, and told him he was
a young man without any trade and
some money; and wished to marry a
young lady whose father objected to the
match because he had no trade wherewith
to support her in case of a reverse
of fortune. Now,' said Temple to him
`I want you to assist me in this affair.
I will purchase your stock-in trade, and
hire you as my head workman. I will
pay you double the price of everything.
All I want is a shop, and for my intended
father-in-law to see me at work in

its for I shall work an hour or so, just
so I can say it is my trade.'

`How did you learn so much?' asked
Mr. Gustavus.

`From the shoemaker's own lips, sir.
But you shall hear all. The shoemaker
at once consented to the arrangement,
pledging himself to secrecy, and Henry
Temple at once installed himself into
the shop as a boot and shoe-maker and
seller. He assumed the name of Edward
Carter which he put over the door.
He dressed according to his trade in
plain clothes, appearing at the shop in
the forenoon for three or four days very
regularly. You will now see, sir, the
object of all this. The millinary establishment
in which my daughter industriously
worked, was only two doors
from the shop which Temple occupied,
and which he had chosen from its neighborhood
to my child. He always made
it a point to stand in the door when she
passed and repassed at her meals so as
to attract her attention. On the second
day he even went into the shop where
the worked to make some purchases.
On the third day she passed his door,
when he hastened after her with an elegant
cambric handkerchief, saying politely,
`Miss you have dropped this.'—
She looked up and saw that it was the
handsome young boot-dealer, whose attentive
glances and manner had not
passed unnoticed by her, and doubtless
awakened some interest in her bosom
towards one who appeared to be pleased
with her. But to this moment they had
never spoken. Would to God, it had
been the last. She answered him modestly
that he was mistaken, that the
handkerchief was not hers, and thanking
him for his politeness, she walked
on: but he followed her saying. `It
must be yours if your name is Ann
Wilson, as I believe it is.' `It is my
name, sir, but the handkerchief is not
mine,' she answered. `Here is your
name upon it, Miss,' he said, exhibiting
her name before her eyes upon one
corner of the laced handkerchief. She
was struck with surprise, but answered
as before, that it was not her's, but probably
belonged to some other person of
the same name. In vain he urged her
to take it—she firmly refused, and he
left her. As she returned from dinner
he was standing in his door—the handkerchief
was in his hand. He stepped
out and said to her politely, `Miss Wilson,
I can find no other owner of this
than yourself. Keep it, at least, till an
owner is heard from—mine it is not.
If you refuse it, when your name is
upon it, I shall cast it into the street.'
`Well,' answered my daughter with a
smile, `I will take it and keep it for the
owner, though it is not mine, as you
think.'—Fatal consent!' added Wilson,
with a sigh.

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE BRIDEGROOM AND BRIDE.

Mr. Gustavus had listened thus far
to William Wilson's narrative with the
most absorbing interest; and he now
only interrupted him to inquire how he
had learned such minute particulars of
what passed between his daughter and
the young pseudo boot-dealer.

`From her own lips, sir,' answered
he. `After all was lost, she made a
full confession to me. The acceptance
by her of the laced handkerchief was
the first step to an acquaintance with
her which ultimately ledto her ruin.—
When a young lady suffers a young
man, a stranger, to speak with her once,
it is difficult to break off further aquaintance.
When she came home, she exhibited
before her mother and myself
the handkerchief, and told how it came
into her possession; at the same time
speaking in such terms of praise of the
politeness of the young boot-dealer, that
I saw she was pleased with him. That
he was other than he seemed, or that he
had prepared this handkerchief with her
name upon it on purpose to open an acquaintance
with her, I never suspected
until afterwards.

`The next evening, as she passed his
shop to come home, he came out and
joined her with some words about his
being still unable to hear of any other
person bearing her name; and telling
her that he was satisfied the handkerchief
was hers, but she had capriciously
refused to have it back from him after
he had found it. Thus they talked about

it, he playfully accusing her, and she as
playfully defending herself. He escorted
her to the door, and then asked
permission to call and walk with her to
church the next evening, which was a
Sabbath evening. Ann said that he was
a stranger to her, and she would rather
wait till they were better acquainted.—
He then bade her good evening. When
she came into the house, she told us all
that had passed, and I saw from her
manner that she was more and more
pleased with the young man. I, therefore,
resolved to ascertain something
about him, and the next day went into
his boot-shop. I found the old man
there, who gave me such a good account
of him and of his business that I felt a
secret desire that he might yet address
Ann and marry her; for it struck me
that it would be a good match for her.
I, therefore, told Ann if he came home
with her again to let me know it at the
door, and I would step out and ask him
plainly what his intentions were. The
next evening he accompanied her home,
and she came in while we were at supper,
saying that he had done so; but had
left her at the entrance of the alley.
The next night he came with her to the
door, and she invited him in?'

`Did your daughter know your resolution
respecting the young man, that it
was your purpose to ask him what his
intentions were?' asked Mr. Gustavus.

`No, sir. She did not suspect my
object. She had not any idea that I
looked forward to a probable marriage.
She would never have asked him in or
permitted me to put such questions to
him. When he came in and she introduced
him, I was pleased with his
appearance, and so was my wife. He
made himself very agreeable to us all;
seemed to be very intelligent and modest,
and to show a very tender respect
to Anny, my other daughter here, who
you see is lame, poor child! He spent
the evening with us. He told us his
father was a farmer in Vermont, that
he had recently came to the city with
three thousand dollars to go into business,
and liked very much. His name
he told us was Edward Carter.

`That night my wife and I lay and
talked over the probable marriage of
this young man with our child; for we
saw that she was quite as much attached
to him as he seemed to be to her. We
congratulated ourselves upon his fine
prospects in the world; and even in anticipation
looked forward to seeing the
old farmer, his father, down at the wedding.

`The intimacy between my daughter
and this young man continued for a
week or ten days, each evening he accompanying
her home and passing an
hour or two with us. Sometimes she
would walk out with him to a confectionaries,
and once he went to church
with her. We found that her heart was
wholly wrapped up in him, and that he
seemed to think of nothing but her.—
Still he did not propose to her, and I began
to wonder at it, for he was evidently
in circumstances to marry at once, and
he seemed so much in love with our
child that it did not appear that he would
be willing long to delay the marriage.
Still, to all my questioning, she answered
that he had not yet formally proposed,
though indirectly hinted at marriage;
and once laughingly asked how
her father would like a boot-maker for
his son-in-law.

`One Sunday forenoon, two weeks
after her first acquaintance with him, I
and Mrs. Wilson were walking to
church, for we used to be in better circumstances,
then, and could be clad decently,
sir,—as we were walking to
church with Ann and her brother
Charles before us, I saw a handsome
phœton with two horses, dashing past,
driven by a young gentleman dressed in
the height of Fashion. My wife and I
at the same instant exclaimed, “What
a resemblance to Mrs. Carter!” We
saw from Ann's face that she had also
seen him, and was struck with the wonderful
likeness.'

`I should have believed that was him,
Ann,' said Mr. Wilson, were it possible.
But it couldn't be.'

`That was young Harry Temple,'
said a neighbor who was walking on
before us. `He drives in fine style for
a Sunday.'

`Well, I declare,' said my wife `I
never saw such a likeness. Ann, wan't

you struck with it?' she asked, addressing
my daughter.

`Yes, mother,' continued Ann, who
had not yet recovered from her confusion
at the sudden surprise of seeing a
face so like her lover's. But that it
could be Harry Carter neither of us believed
for a moment. He was dressed
differently, drove an elegant equipage,
broke the Sabbath, (and Edward Carter
had represented himself as a member
of the church,) and we had been told,
moreover, that it was young Temple,
whose name for his extravagancies and
debaucheries was in everybody's month.'

`The same evening the young boot-dealer
arrived at the house to ask Ann
to walk out to an evening meeting. My
wife told him laughingly how we had
almost believed we had seen him driving
out in a splended phæton with
dashing horses, and rallied him upon
his likeness to the young roue Temple.'
`And how did this affect him?'
asked Mr. Gustavus.

`He changed countenance and colored,
and then answered,

“I do not feel it to be a compliment
at all!” seemed a little confused for
some minutes, but suspecting no wrong,
we referred it to his mortification at
being thought to look as much like a
young man whose character for vice
was so notorious. He went out with
Ann, and I sat up till their return, resolved
if he did not speak to Ann about
marrying her, that night, I would open
the subject to him. But he left her at
the door, and when my daughter entered
I saw from her happy looks that
something unusual had happened.—
Upon questioning her, she told me that
she had accepted if her parents gave
permission. This intelligence was
highly gratifying to us, sir, for we were
assured that the match was one every
way advantageous for our child. Anna's
happiness was reflected from our
own hearts. The next day I went to
the boot-store to talk with him. He
was not there, for it only suited his purposes
to be there when he could see
Ann passing, so that he could see her
and walk with her home. But I found
the old man there who spoke so highly
of his employer that I was more pleas
ed than ever with my daughter's good
fortune.'

`Do you think that the old man was
also deceived respecting him?' asked
Mr. Gustavus.

`Yes. He very naturally spoke
highly in praise of a young man who
had bought and paid cash for his stock
of goods, and seemed to be so well off
and agreeable in his manners. He did
not, till afternoon, make known to me
the fact that he had been requested to
keep secret, that he was merely learning
the business to please a man whose
daughter he was engaged to. This the
old man kept from me; but what he
told me otherwise respecting him, he
firmly believed himself.

`The same evening I was formally
waited on by the young man, and a proposal
was made to me for my daughter's
hand. As I had no objection to offer, I
gave my consent; and as he desired
that the wedding should take place the
next week, as soon as the “publishment”
was out, which would be two
weeks. I consented to this, provided
Ann was willing. I found her nothing
loth, and the next day their names were
handed by me to the clerk's office for
record according to law.'

`He gave his name, you say, as Edward
Carter?' asked Mr. Gustavus,
pointedly.

`Yes, sir. You will find it on the
records now so written,' answered William
Wilson with emphasis. `Every
preparation was now made for the marriage.
We saw the young man every
evening and were more and more
pleased with him; for he had great powers
of entertaining when he chose to
exert them; and he had now a prospect
before him—the ruin of my child—of
sufficient importance to lead him to
make himself agreeable. The day of
the marriage came. At his request the
marriage was to be privately performed
before only my family and a neighbor's,
whose daughter was about Ann's age,
was to be brides maid. A young man,
whom Temple introduced as a leather-dealer,
was his groomsman. He also
was to bring the clergyman, who, he
said, was the pastor of the church in
Vermont where he lived, and whom by

great good fortune he had found in the
city.

`The marriage, if such can be called
the infernal mockery that was put upon
me and mine, took place. I and my
wife thought ourselves the happiest of
parents, as we embraced our daughter
as a bride. How shall I go on, Mr.
Gustavus?' said William Wilson with
strong emotion; while the sobs of his
wife were audibly heard. But I will
let you know all; for there is no shame
to us. The day after the marriage,
Temple proposed, as he said to take
his wife on a visit to Vermont. They
were to leave the same afternoon, and
after dinner a coach came for them.—
We bade them a tearful good-bye, hoping
to see them again in three weeks,
when he promised to return.

`Now, sir, comes the most painful
part of my narrative. Three days after
the marriage, and when we were expecting
that our child and her husband
had about reached his fathers, I thought
I would call in at his shop to see how
things went. I found the old man there
with a stranger, and to my amazement
I was told that Mr. Carter had sold out
the day after he married, and had no
further interest there. The sign was
taken down, and the name of the new
purchaser was hung up in its place.

`I was somewhat surprised that my
son-in-law had not told me of this; but
supposed he intended when he came
back to begin business anew in some
other part of the city. But I shortly
found out that he had not left the city
at all.'

`So I guessed!' observed David Dalton.

`I discovered it in this way. I was
at dinner, and my neighbour Mr. Felton
came in and said bluntly,

`Neighbour Wilson, you remember
once about saying how much your son-in-law,
that now is, looked like that dissipated
Temple?'

`Yes,' I answered.

`Well, I have discovered something
still more stronger. I met, not half an
hour ago, riding with this Temple, one
who looks as like your son-in-law, and
a young woman, who is the very image
of your daughter, only a little paler and
less lively. Now if this double resemblance
isn't remarkable I don't know
what is.'

`I assure you, Mr. Gustavus, that I
could not help thinking it remarkable;
and perhaps you will be surprised when
I say that I had not the most distant
suspicion of any thing wrong. I believed
him to be all that he seemed, and
that they were then two hundred miles
from Boston in Vermont. Still I could
not help thinking a good deal about what
had been told me, and closely questioned
the person who told me, who said
that had he not known my daughter was
out of town, and could never have been
known to such a person as Temple, he
should have said, that she looked more
sad than Ann was used to, that it was
she herself.'

`During the day I forgot the matter
entirely, for there being no suspicious
in my mind, it soon died out. But just
at dark my little boy, Charles here,
came running in out of breath, saying
that he had seen his sister Ann at a
window of a fine house, and that she
beckoned to him, and seemed to be
weeping; and a man, that looked just
like her husband, Edward Carter, but
wasn't he, pulled her angrily away,
and dropped the curtain. I was surprised
at this, and should have doubted
what he said, supposing he had mistaken
some other person for her, but instantly
what my neighbour had told me
at noon rushed to my mind. I felt at
once a strong desire to see for myself
who this person was. I spoke with my
wife about it, and the more we talked
the heavier our hearts grew; but from
what reason we could not tell. We felt
sad, and a sort of foreboding of evil oppressed
my spirits. Still, there was nothing
defined, nothing that took the
shape of suspicion that all was not right
with our daughter.

`Nevertheless,' said I to my wife, `I
will go to this house where Henry saw
this female, for I feel that I can't sleep
till I satisfy myself about her. I do not
believe it in Ann; still there is a feeling
about my heart that won't be removed
till I know all about this! Come,
Charles,' said I, taking my hat, come and
show me the house where you saw the

young woman who looked so like your
sister. He said he could find it at once
and we went out together, my wife praying
that we might not bring back any
evil reports for it seemed to her that
some unknown evil was hanging over
us like a cloud.'

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE DISCOVERY.

`The night was clear and frosty, and we
had to work sharp to keep ourselves warm,'
said William Wilson, resuming his narrative
of the circumstances which had led to
the death of Henry Temple. `My boy told
me that the house in which he had seen the
young woman so like his sister, was in H—
street, near the State House. At length we
reached the street, and came in front of the
dwelling. It was a large, three-story house,
and very gentel-looking. Its blinds were
all closed, but on crossing the street and going
near, I could see that lights shone
through the curtains of the front windows.
I asked Charles to tell me at which window
he had seen the young woman when she
beckoned to him, and whom he was firmly
persuaded was his sister, and he pointed to
one in the second story over the door. I
was resolved at loast to find out who lived
there, and there being a grocery on the corner
a few steps distant, I walked in and
purchased a penny worth of tobacco, and at
the same time asked who lived in the house
in question.

`That,' said the man, with a significant
smile, `is Temple's house—they call it his
seraglio!'

`What Temple?' I asked.

`The rich young Temple.'

`As soon as I heard this name I recollected
what my neighbor had said about the
young woman, so like Ann, who was riding
with Temple, and I now saw that my boy
had also seen her at his window, and struck
by the likeness, had taken her to be his sister.
I, therefore, left the shop, and resolved
to return home. But as I repassed the
house I could not help asking myself why
she should have beckoned to Charles, which
he continued to repeat most positively that
she did.

`I stopped before the house with an irresistable
desire to enter it. It seemed to me
that my peace of mind was in some way
hanging upon the occupants. Impulsively
I approached the door, ascended the steps
and rung. Before I could frame an inquiry,
the door opened, and so immediately upon
my ringing, that I knew some one had his
hand upon the knob to come out. There
were two young men in caps and cloaks,
who stared at me and passed out, calling
back and saying, “Good night, Temple.”

` “Good night!” said a voice in the hall,
that made my heart leap from my heart to
my brain. It was the voice of my daughter's
husband. The next moment Temple,
richly dressed, stood in the door which he
was about to close after his guests who had
walked rapidly away, when he saw me by
the light from the hall lamp. I had my little
boy by my hand. The light shone
clearly upon us. He recognized me at
once, and exclaimed in mingled anger and
alarm,

` “The infernal devil! He here! I am
caught now!”

`If he had not uttered this exclamation,
Mr. Gustavus, and thus betrayed his knowledge
of me, I might have been deceived by
him into the belief that he and Carter were
two different persons. If he had betrayed
no sign of knowing me, as doubtless he
would have done, had I not taken him so
completely by surprise, I should have easily
been deceived. But his exclamation, his
tone and manner assured me that I had in
some manner been that man's victim. Still,
how, in what way, I had no definite idea.

` “Is your name Temple?” I asked, hardly
knowing how to act or what to say; for I
had yet no suspicion of the truth that was
soon to overwhelm me.

` “It is, fellow—what do you wish?” he
demanded all at once, assuming his self-possession.

` “Do you know a young man by the
name of Edward Carter?”

` “I know no such person,” he haughtily
said, closing the door, but which I pressed
open again; for Charles whispered and said
it “was Edward himself!” This I began to
believe, though I was greatly bewildered.

` “How came you to know me?” I asked,
greatly agitated.

` “I do not know you. Don't keep me
here in the cold. You have impudence
enough to come to a gentleman's door to
ask after your low cronies. Begone.”

` “Edward Carter had a scar directly over
his eye-brow`” continued William Wilson,
“and though small, it was a very peculiar
one. I had often noticed it. A sudden recollection
of this came upon me. I stepped
closely up to his face and looked at him fixedly.
I saw the scar there, and my be wildering
suspicions were confirmed.

` “Young man,” I cried, laying my hand
firmly upon his arm, “I know you and you
know me. You cannot deceive me.—
Whether your name be Temple or Carter,
you are the person who married my daughter.
Do not say you do not know me.—
There is villainy somewhere. I will finit

out and you too. Where is my daughter?”

“`I know nothing about your daughter,”
he answered, turning as pale as death, and
endeavoring to free himself from my hold:
but the grasp of an injured father is closer
than iron. We stood in the hall together,
the door having closed as he struggled.—
We stood face to face.

“`My daughter! Where is my child?”
I demanded, “for you are the person who
took her from me. I am a victim to thy
treachery. Why art thou here, when I supposed
thee in Vermont? Speak, and unfold
all this mystery.”

“`I have no mystery to unfold.” he answered.
“I have not seen your daughter.”

`At this instant Charles, who is naturally
bold and intelligent above boys of his age,
shouted to me from up stairs, whither he had
run as we struggled, to see if his sister was
not in the chamber in which he beheld her
at the window. He now called out, “Father,
Ann is here. She is locked up.”

`I had no sooner heard this cry than I
dashed the villain from me across the hall,
and hastened up stairs. I found Charles at
a door. He said his sister was within, calling
upon him by name. I also heard her
voice, “Father, father, save me!”

`With the strength of a lion, and with
something of the lion's rage, I dashed in
the door by kicking against it. There was
my daughter, indeed. I beheld her upon
her knees and in tears. She shrunk from
me, crying, “Forgive me! oh, forgive me.”
I clasped her to my heart. I did not ask
her what I should forgive. The extent
of the evil that had befallen her I did not
know or imagine. “Take me home,” said
she, “take me home, and you shall know
all.”

“`Is not your husband a villain?” I asked
her.

“`He is not my husband!” she cried
in tones of anguish that pierced my bosom.
“He has deceived me by a false name, a
false priest, and a false marriage. The Edward
Carter I supposed I had married was
Edward Temple in disguise. The disguise
and the shop he assumed to effect my ruin;
and God knows how thoroughly he has accomplished
his end. I am degraded and
lost.”

`Such,' continued William Wilson, ` were
my daughter's words to me in the hurried
moments of our meeting. My blood boiled
within me. I saw at once all the villainy of
the impostor, and I did not stop to reflect.
I bade her follow me with her brother, and
hastened down stairs to confront the villain
and avenge myself for the deep wrongs he
had done me. But he had flown, dreading
the vengeance he knew that he so well mer
ited. I took my weeping daughter home
with me. I will not attempt to describe to
you the scene that passed when her mother
met her and learned all that had happened.
We all for a while seemed stupified, so sudden
was the shock, so unlooked for, such a
fall from happiness to infamy and wretchedness.

`None of us slept that night. My daughter
related to us all that had passed. She
said that instead of leaving town when she
took leave of us, that Temple drove to the
house where I had found her. Upon her expressing
her surprise, he said that they were
rooms he had fitted up for her to take possession
of as soon as they returned from
their trip to Vermont; and that he intended
to remain there till the next day, as business
compelled him to delay their departure.—
This explanation was satisfactory to a young
and confiding wife, for wife she supposed
she was, and she went in with him, greatly
delighted and surprised at the elegant style
in which the rooms were furnished. After
she had been there an hour she expressed a
desire to return to her home and let us
know she remained in town. But he said
that it would only make a second parting
necessary; and besides he needed her there
to entertain a party of his friends whom he
had invited to celebrate his wedding. So
as evening arrived several young gentlemen
came,' said my daughter, `each accompanied
by a very handsome young lady, all of
whom she received with kindness and hospitality.
An elegant supper was prepared
to which all sat down, and the evening passed
away in great festivity. But she set all
this gaiety down to the unusual occasion of
a wedding supper; and her suspicions were
not awakened. It is true she thought the
young ladies were rather bold and the young
gentlemen somewhat free in their conversation;
but Temple told her not to mind it,
it was the champagne.

`By some excuse or other he managed to
keep her in the house two days, during all
which time her suspicions were not awakened.
On the morning of the third day he
promised to start for Vermont with her, and
she accompanied him in a carriage out of
town; but it was only to meet the same party
at a fashionable resort in the country a
few miles. Here she began to suspect that
she had married a dissipated man; but no
further did her fears extend. It was on her
return that she was seen by my neighbors.
The crisis now approached when the veil
was to be withdrawn by which she had
been blinded. After she had reached the
house again, she began to urge Temple
with tears to permit her to go and see her
parents. But this he refused, saying they
should leave the next day for Varmont.—

She represented to him how often he had
promised this, and she feared that there
was something wrong. He laughed and
told me not to fear, she would by and by be
the happiest woman in Boston. He then
left her to go away with one or two friends
who called for him. He had no sooner
gone than she resolved she would secretly
pay us a visit. So she put on her hat and
shawl and hastened down stairs: but was
met in the hall by a servent who told her
she could not go out. `Am I a prisoner?'
she asked surprised. `I have orders to keep
you from going out, Miss.' said the man.

`Miss,' repeated my daughter. `I am a
married woman and beg you will address
me with the respect due to me!'

`At this, the man laughed coarsely and
was about to make some insulting answer,
when the door-bell rang. He went to open
it and admitted a young gentleman who was
a frequent visitor and whom my child had
taken a strong aversion to, from seeing the
bold and lawless admiration with which he
regarded her. She was about retiring up
stairs on beholding him when he called out
to her:—

`Is Temple at home, my dear?'

`He is out,' answered the servant.

`Then I will wait for him. His beauty
here will entertain me pleasantly enough!'

`With these words he approached my
daughter, who alarmed, she hardly knew
why or wherefore, hurried up the stairs. In
three bounds he was by her side and his
arm about her waist, his lips pressed to
hers! She shrieked and endeavored to
break from him. She called on the servant
for aid, who laughed and merely said, `You
had better be cautious, `sir, Mr. Temple
wont like this if she tellshim!'

`I shall certainly inform my husband of
this outrage!' she said releasing herself.

`Your husband, pretty one,' he answered
with a sneer. `Pray who is your husband?'

`Mr. Edward Carter, sir. He will avenge
this insult.'

`Mr. Edward Carter my dear, is none
other than Harry Temple,' said he. `Has
Harry kept up the game so long. I thought
he had told you by this time. Well, as the
cat is out, I may as well tell you that your
supposed husband is the fashionable Harry
Temple. These are his rooms. He pretended
to be a boot-maker to get you to
marry him! But it was no marriage, my
dear; for Dick Shuffle was the priest. The
fact is, my dear, you are Temple's mistress,
and by and by I hope you will be mine.—
He will tire of you in a week and be led off
by some other attraction.'

`The whole truth now flashed with
arrows of fire upon my daughter's senses.
She had heard him called Temple and Har
ry, but he had explained it by saying to her
that he so strikingly resembled Harry Temple
that his friends, in jest, often called him
by the same name! This satisfied her at
the time, but now, all at once, the fearful
truth forced itself upon her mind. Her
head swam, and she sank to the floor insensible.

`When she revived she found this young
man bending over her. She had consciousness
enough to know who it was, and
strength enough to break from his caresses.
She flew to her chamber and locked herself
in. At length Temple returned. She
threw wide the door to admit him, and charged
him with his guilt. At first he was surprised,
but he laughed and confessed that
all she charged him with was the truth. He
then endeavored to soothe her and to induce
her to submit to her fate; but finding it in
vain he left her with curses. He locked
her in. It was shortly after this that Charles
saw her at the window weeping which led
to her discovery and release.'

13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE SURRENDER.

`Your account of Temple's villainy,' said
Mr. Gustavus to William Wilson,' has
painfully interested me. I begin already
to see the heavy causes which led to his
death by your hand. Will you inform me
how this occurred?'

`Although I have made my story so very
long,' answered Wilson, `still this remains
to be told. By this time I see that both of
you look upon me with more sympathy
than before. I trust I shall show you that
I have done only what every man placed
in my situation, would have been strongly
tempted to do. I have told you that the
same night I brought her home, none
of us slept. I walked the room till dawn,
planning some mode of vengeance—some
way of punishing the offender. I had been
wounded most grievously in my honor,
as a father and a man! My daughter, by
a false and inquitous marriage had been
degraded. I thought of an appeal to the
law; but what could the law do? He
was rich, I was poor. I should be defeated,
perhaps; and ruin would follow disgrace.
Day broke upon me before I had
resolved what course to pursue. I ate no
breakfast. I sallied out and hastened to
the old bootman's. I resolved to ascertain
how far he had been a partner in this false
scheme of guilt against me and mine. I
soon found he had been deceived, and when
I told him what had been done he was
overcome with surprise and indignation.
He advised me to take the law of Temple.

Leaving him I went straight to the dwelling
of the imposter, hoping to find him in,
and resolved to compel him to marry my
child honestly. For the purpose of enforcing
my resolution, I armed myself with
a small hatchet, that I took from my workshop.
I had no intention of using it, but
only to intimidate and compel him to do
as I wished. He was not home. The
servant said he had not been in since the
the day previous, and had probably gone
to New York. I left the house filled with
grief and a burning desire of vengeance
upon the head of the despoiler. More
than once I resolved to start at once for
New York, and I was only deterred from
going by a suspicion that the villain was
still in the city. I wandered about all
day. I could not bear to return to my now
wretched home. I went into every resort
frequented by dissipated youth, in hopes to
meet him. Night came upon me, and I
slowly sought my dishonoured roof. I
entered and sat down in silence. My wife
seeing my distressed looks did not speak.
But I observed she wished to say something,
and I at length asked what it was.—
She asked me if I had seen Ann. This
was the name of my poor child. I inquired
if she was not home; she said that
she had left soon after breakfast, saying
she would soon be back. There was new
cause for grief, sir. The idea flashed upon
my mind that she had gone to drown herself.
This I suggested to my wife, and
thus filled my house with lamentations.—
`Better die, than live a dishonored life,'
said I; but I rose up and went forth to
seek her, not knowing where to go. But
walking, and the air out of doors helped
the pressure upon my heart.'

`Sir,' said Mr. Gustavus, pressing his
hand in his, `be assured I deeply feel for
you.'

`If I ever pitied a man in my life,' said
David Dalton, `it is you, William Nelson.
I don't blame you now, if you had met and
killed the villain. He deserved it.'

`No man, Mr. Dalton,' said Mr. Gustavus,
should take the law into his own
hands. Whatever may be the grievance,
the law of the land should be appealed to
for protection.'

`You are right, sir,' said William Wilson,
`I feel that you are right. I should
have left my case in the hands of my country;
but you shall hear what followed.—
After I left my house I bent my steps instinctively
towards the residence of Henry
Temple. I came opposite the house and
stood in the shade of the building, on
the other side of the street watching it.
I stood there an hour brooding over my
wrongs. I felt that the destroyer of my
peace was there concealed; I resolved to
enter the house by force and search for
him. I crossed the street with my hatchet
in my hand to batter the door in; for I believe,
sir, I was not exectly in my sane
mind, else I should not have adopted such
a course which would at once have placed
me under arrest, but I did not reflect. I
had but one idea, that of my child's disgrace,
and vengeance upon the wrongdoer;
just as I was about to ascend the
steps, I heard two persons coming along
the walk: I drew back into a recess adjoining
the house to wait till they should
pass. As they came near, I overheard
their conversation, and hearing Temple's
name uttered I was all ears. They stopped
at the door and continued to talk, for
they were to separate there; from their
words I learned that Temple was in town,
and that my daughter had taken up with
a life of prostitution She had fled, it
appeared, from my house, for the purpose
of finding Temple, to urge him to redress
her great wrong hy marrying her—instead
of meeting him, she met at the house of one
of his friends who deceitfully promised
to see her righted; and told her if she
would go to his rooms he would send for
Temple, and there compel him to marry
her. She believed him, and went along
with him, but the result was that she soon
found herself deceived. She, at length,
finding her ruin inevitable, and dreading to
return to home consented, in a sort of despair,
to remain with him upon the terms
he proposed to her. Gladly would I pass
over this revelation of my child's sudden
descent into depravity. These facts I
learned from the conversation I overheard,
for it was wholly about Temple and my
lost child. One of the young men was the
person who had thus beguiled her—they
parted, and the young fellow went on,
while the other entered the house. I followed
the former to ascertain where my
child was, and saw him go to his house.—
As he entered, I entered with him, and
found my child, but she fled on seeing me.
I implored her to return with me, when
she answered that her destiny was fixed,
and that all I could say would not move
her; she said she was lost, and that she
could never dishonour my roof by returning
to it.

`I then left the house in despair, and my
bosom on fire with vengeance, and thus
lost my child for ever, and I had but one
desire left, and this was to avenge myself
upon her destroyer. I knelt in the street,
and raising my hands to heaven, swore that
I would neither eat nor drink until I had
avenged my dishonour.

`I went back to his house, for I was

fully persuaded he was there; I did not
approach by the street but in the rear; I
climbed the area fence, and descended into
the yard, and then stole up the steps
of the back piazza. I took off my shoes
and noiselessly crossed it; I could see the
faint glow of a light through the crimson
curtains of the back parlour windows.—
These windows reached to the floor of the
piazza.

`I listened at one of them. I heard
laughter. Temple's voice reached my ears.
It had a terrible effect upon me. I heard
him boasting of his deed of villainy. I was
maddened. I did not stop to see whether
the window was fastened. I raised my
hatchet, and in three blows dashed in the
sash, and, amid the wreck of glass I leaped
into the room. He had been seated at a
supper table with two of his companions,
but all three sprung with alarm to their
feet on my entrance in this manner. He at
once recognized me, and seeing me armed
with the gleaming hatchet, uttered a cry of
alarm, and fled from the room followed by
his friends. I pursued. I came up with
him in the hall. I seized him by the throat
and with one blow of my hatchet I struck
him to the floor. I clove his skull. He fell
dead without a groan, at my feet. What
followed I hardly recollect, till I found myself
wandering on the Common. Doubtless
the instinct of self-preservation had led
me to effect my escape as soon as I found
I had killed him; but I do not recollect escaping.
I had reached the Common, I
know not how. I still held the bloody weapon
in my hand. I threw it far from me
into the pond. I then conceived the idea of
surrendering myself to justice. I felt glad
at the act. My revenge had been satisfied.
I had punished with death the despoiler of
my house. I had wiped off the dishonor in
his blood. I walked towards Tremont
street. I saw a watchman and approached
him to tell him what I had done, and surrender
myself. But the thought of my poor
wife and children came over me. I hesitated.
I turned aside, resolving at first to go
home and see them, and do something to
provide for their safety and support, ere I
left them destitute. My wife was sitting up.
I told her all that I had done—of the utter
loss of our child, and of the murder of her
destroyer.

`She prevailed on me, at length, to conceal
myself. I yielded to her tears and
prayers and those of my children. For several
weeks, I have been hiding under various
disguises. I have been on the verge
of arrest repeatedly. No less than nine
times have the officers of justice been
searching the house; but the devotion of
my wife has saved me from discovery. In
the meanwhile my family has been reduced
to poverty and want. I resolved this morning
that I would hide no longer, but give
myself up and bear the worst. Your goodness,
gentlemen, to my family, has inspired
me to make a full disclosure to you. Mr.
Gustavus, I have now made all known
to you. Your advice I will abide by, as I
know that you will advise me wisely. I do
not seek to palliate my crime. I have told
you the whole of the circumstahces, that I
may show you that the deed I have committed
was not unprovoked.'

`Your account, Mr. Wilson, said Mr.
Gustavus, has been listened to by me with
the deepest interest. I am glad you have
told me all. Your guilt is greatly extenuated
by the circumstances. Believe me
that a jury of your country will acquit you
when they have heard all the circumstances
as I have heard them. My advice to you
is, that you surrender yourself to-day into
the hands of justice. I will see the judge
at once, and inform him of all you have told
me, and an officer shall call for you and
take you quietly away to prison. During
your detention there I pledge myself so see
that your family is in want of nothing.'

`Sir, you are too generous.'

`By no means. I will see that you have
able counsel. Your case shall be managed
with justice and equity, and I promise you
an acquital before the tribunal of the land.
Are you willing to abide a trial?'

`I will do it most cheerfully, sir. I shall
feel far better, whether I am condemned or
acquitted, than I do now. So long as I
have nothing to fear on my poor wife's account,
I will cheerfully go to jail.'

`I think this is your best course, William,'
said David Dalton. `You will have
every husband and father in town on your
side, believe me. I don't blame you. I
should have done the same. He deserved
death; but I wish it had been by the hangman
rather than by your hand. But as his
crime was not capital, he would have escaped
with a fine, which he was well able to
pay. I agree with Mr. Gustavus, that a
man better not take the law in his own
hands, 'specially such a serious thing as
killing a villain: but as you have done so,
I think for one you will be justified, and a
jury will acquit you on what is called justifiable
homicide.'

`Hardly, Mr. Dalton,' said Mr. Gustavus,
smiling, `hardly on that ground. Mr. Wilson
will be acquitted I trust, on the ground
of mercy and sympathy with a father who
in a state of phrenzy, and under excitement
of mind amounting to insanity, punished
with death the dishonorer of his child.'

`So he is acquitted I care not how it is,'
answered David stoutly, rising up as Mr.

Gustavus had done, to go. `Take heart,
ma'am. Nobody blames your husband.—
He will come out bright. Don't doubt it.'

`Indeed, sir, I cannot doubt it. It was a
fearful thing for him to take the life of
another, but I do hope and believe he will
be acquitted when all the provocation he
had is known. It is better he should give
himself up. His mind will feel easier; and
since you speak so encouragingly, I shall
not say a word against his going to prison.'

Mr. Gustavus in a few moments left, after
bidding William Wilson to keep up good
courage. David went with him, saying he
meant to be back again after he had been
to his family, and go with him and the officer
to the prison.

We shall not describe the feelings of
mingled sadness and hope which filled the
hearts of this family after the departure of
their two kind benefactors William Wilson
dressed himself in his ordinary male
attire, shaved, and calmly waited for the officer
to whom he was to deliver himself.—
Anny busied herself in mending some of
his clothing, and in preparing something
for him for him to eat before he should go.
Charles plead earnestly to be permitted to
accompany him, but was finally content to
remain when his father told him how useful
he would be to his mother.

At length the carriage arrived, and Mr.
Gustavus, David, and a pleasant looking officer
came in together. William rose, and
going up to the officer, said,

`I surrender myself to you, as I suppose
you have come for me.'

The parting was sorrowful with his family;
but when Mr. Gustavus assured his
wife and children that they could see him
every day, they dried their tears and surrendered
him with hope and prayers of
faith to the custody of the law. In a few
minutes afterwards they all entered the carriage
and drove away towards the prison.

14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE WINDING UP OF EVENTS.

The arrest and imprisonment of William
Wilson created no little excitement in the
community. The penny papers the next
morning came out with columns headed
by large capitals announcing the event;
and newsboys proclaimed in shrill tones to
every passer-by, that their papers contained
a full account of the arrest and confession
of `Wilson the murderer of Henry
Temple.'

For a day or two this subject was the
oaly one talked upon. Some hoped he
would be hanged, while others believed
hat he would escape conviction. All
seemed to agree in the opinion that Temple
had deserved his fate; for the fact that
he had ruined Wilson's daughter now came
out.

In the meanwhile the unhappy man remained
an inmate of the prison to the custody
of which had voluntarily surrendered
himself. Through the agency of Mr. Gustavus,
excellent council was engaged for
him in the person of a gentleman of the
highest order of talent, and who had more
than once devoted it to the defence of the
innocent and unfortunate. The papers at
length got hold of the true merits of the
case, and publishing the whole story of
Temple's deceptions, enlisted public sympathy
in favor of the prisoner.

In the solitude of his cell he was not
without consolation. Although he condemned
himself for his hasty act and regretted
deeply at having taken the life of a
human being, when the law was open to
avenge and protect, still the innate consciousness
that Temple had mortally
wronged him and brought his death upon
himself by his own crimes, lessened much
the weight of guilt upon his mind. He was
daily visited by the lovely Anny, who
brought him many little comforts, and
books, and sat and read to him, mostly out
of the bible. At home his wife's situation
he knew was made more endurable by the
kindness of Mr. Gustavus, who also daily
visited him and encouraged him with the
hope of acquital, or, if he should be convicted,
of prompt pardon by the Governor.

The enemies of William Wilson were
active in their efforts to bring him to the
gallows. They were the relatives of Temple,
and were actuated by all that better
hostility which so often exhibits itself in
the revenge which is taken up by kindred
for one of their own blood. They had engaged
the most effectual council they could
obtain, and openly expressed their confidence
that Wilson would yet swing for the
crime he had been guilty of.

While so many individuals were interested
in this matter, did it not produce any
effect upon the young girl, Ann Wilson,
who was indirectly the couse of all that
had transpired? Did not the death of her
lover—the wretched flight of her father
pursued by justice—his arrest and imprisonment,
and his approaching trial for
his life, move her?

We will follow her and seek her out and
learn whether these things impressed her.
It was late the morning after her father's
arrest that she came down stairs into a
parlor, gorgeously furnished, but every
thing now strewed around in the utmost
confusion. The curtains were closely
drawn, and shutters closed,

ten o'clock. A lamp burned dimly upon
the side-board, which was covered with
wine glasses and decanters, some of them
overturned. A table in the midst of the
room was strewn with cards and splashed
with spilled wine. Cards were upon the
carpet also. A chair was upset, and a
broken wine glass near it had been crushed
under the heel and gronnd into the carpet.

The young girl who entered paused as
she advanced a step into this bacchanalian
chaos, and looking around her, curled her
lip with scorn and contempt.

`This is very fine,' said she. `I will
teach George better doings than this. He
invites a set of his friends here who keep
me awake till day-break, and then go off,
leaving uproar behind them. George,' she
said, stepping acrsss the room to a sofa
where tay stretched out in deep sleep a
young man in his vest and shirt-sleeves.
He did not answer, as she stood and bent
her eyes fixedly upon him, as he lay with
his head partly hanging over the side of
the sofa.

She looked very beautiful as she thus
stood bending intently and with an anxious
air over him. She was youthful, scarce
seventeen years having gone over her head
—years of innocence and peace until within
two months past, when the despoiler came
and hurled her with himself into the vortex
of guilt. She was a bolder and handsomer
likeness of her lovely twin-sister,
Anny. She had all Anny's delicacy of features,
but with more fire in the eye—more
decision in the lip. Perhaps the events of
the last few weeks had stamped a new
character there. It is likely it was so.—
Woman, once fallen, falls low! If a stain
come upon the robes of her virgin purity,
she does not hesitate to plunge into the
fountain of guilt and dye them all over.
Her fall is like that of a star, sudden, brilliant,
and darkness all! No sooner had
Ann Wilson, naturally a proud girl, found
herself degraded through the deceit and
wickedness of her lover, than with a recklessness,
all unaccountable, yet common to
her sex in such circumstances, she gave
herselt up without reserve to the current of
her fate. She became, after Temple's
death, the mistress of a gay young gentleman,
and gave herself up to a life of the
wildest, maddest enjoyment. She seemed
suddenly to have been converted into a
Circe. There was no excess of guilty
pleasure that she did not take the lead in.
The horrible death of Temple, instead of
appalling her, only seemed to inspire her
with ferocious joy. Those who knew Anny
Wilson in her maiden modesty would
never have recognised her now.

Proud of his conquest, proud of her wit
and beauty, George — took her with
him to New York and other places. She
was about four weeks pursuing a round of
pleasure of the most exciting kind. She
returned only the afternoon of her father's
arrest. She had not wholly forgotten her
home. She resolved that she would go
and see them that very evening, and give
them money, for she knew that they were
poor. That evening there was a supper at
George Shelton's rooms, and she was detained
by him to preside.

The guests remained late, and departed,
leaving him upon the sofa insensible
through wine; but one of them before quitting
took care secretly to steal his pocket-book.
It was now ten o'clock, and still he
slept. She bent over him with an anxious
earnest air. For a moment she thought he
was dead. She repeated his name nervously
again, when he opened his eyes and
fixed them vacantly upon her.

`Come, George, it is the middle of the
forenoon: I am going out, and you must
get up.'

He rose to his feet, and looking at her
sternly, said:

`You are not going out!'

`I am,' she responded firmly. `Do you
suppose I have forgotten my mother and
my father? I am not quite so lost as that.'

`If you go out of this house you shall
never enter it again!'

`Very well—there are enough that I can
enter,' she answered with a smile that he
did not like.

`I will give you an hour.'

`I shall come back when I choose—I am
not your slave, George Shelton!'

At this moment the lazy servant-girl
brought in the morning paper, which had
been for the last three hours stuck in the
latch of the street door.

`Give it to me,' said Shelton; and taking
it from her he sat down and opened it, at
the same time ordering her to bring him
coffee. `Ha! what is this? Here is news
for you, Anny,' he said abruptly.

`What is it?' she eagerly asked.

`I see that they have nabbed your father.
Look there! He is in jail, and will be tried
for his life!' As he spoke he showed her
the paragraph; which she had no sooner
read than she burst into tears.

`My poor father!'

`I hope they will hang him—he deserves
it for killing such a fine fellow as Temple!'

`If my father's hand had not avenged
me, mine should!' she answered with a
spirit that made him start.

`Your's!'

`Yes, mine! He deserved the death he
got. He was base, craven, and full of guilt.

I am only sorry that his death should put
in jeopardy my father's life. Had he fallen
by my hand, willingly would I die, feeling
that I had lived long enough.'

`Why, Ann, you are a perfect little demon—I
am really afraid of you!'

`You have not injured me as Henry
Temple did—I neither fear nor love you.
Him I first loved and then hated. My poor
father! Oh, that I could save him. I will
hasten to him.'

`He would spurn you, you well know.'

`True—you speak too truly, George. He
would refuse to see me—he knows that I
have thrown myself away. But I will see
my mother; she will receive me—she will
forgive me! I have a sister and a brother
too, who still will love me. This news of
my dear father's imprisonment has brought
all back again. Oh, that I were once more
what I have been!'

`Ann, where is my pocket-book?' he
said, missing his money.

`I do not know.'

`It had three hundred dollars in it in
bills. You have taken it: you mean to desert
me, and have stolen it.'

`Had I such an intention I should not
first have waked you,' she answered with
scorn and an expression of contempt on
her fine features. `If you have lost it, it
has been taken by some one of your
cronies.'

`They were gentlemen! It is in your
possession—give it back to me!' he cried in
anger.

`I have not seen it; do not anger me,
George.'

`I will have you arrested! Surrender it
and I will say nothing more.'

`I know nothing about it,' she answered.
`Seek it among your friends.'

As she spoke she turned away from him,
as if to leave the house. With a deep oath
he sprung after her and caught her by the
shoulder; she escaped from him up stairs.
He followed and came up with her in her
chamber, but not before she had caught up
a dirk that lay upon the toilet table. It
was a jewelled toy of his own. She confronted
him with it upraised. He struggled
to get possession of it, and received it to
the hilt in his breast! With a cry of horror
and pain he fell backward, and expired
cursing her as the cause of his death. For
a moment she remained gazing upon the
bleeding corpse of her paramor, and with
a shriek of despair buried the ensanguined
weapon in her own heart, and fell dead
upon his body!

The tragic end of his child was not made
known to Wilson until three days after it
had occurred, and then he read it in the
sad looks of Ann, the lovely lame girl who
so affectionately devoted herself to him.
It required all the encouragement of Mr.
Gustavus, David, and the sight of his destitute
family, to enable him to bear up under
this new trial. At length he became
composed, and seemed to rejoice in her
death, saying,

`It is better that she is gone! She will
have less guilt to answer for at the bar of
heaven! Wife, I care little to live—I shall
be glad if I am condemned to death. When
I am gone, you will find friends. It will
grieve me to part from you, and Ann, and
Charles; but my heart is broken—my spirit
crushed! I can never hold up my head
again. It is better that I should be found
guilty, and be mercifully sent out of a
world where I find only misery. As for
you and my two little lambs, God will temper
to you the winds, and bless you!'

The day of the trial came; but notwithstanding
the talents of his counsel, the efforts
of the benevolent Mr. Gustavus, the
sympathy of the public, he was convicted,
but recommended to the mercy of the
court. The judge gave sentence of death
upon him; but the same night waited on
the governor, and prayed him to exercise
his prerogative and pardon him. Numerous
similar applications were made, but
without success. Several criminals had
been pardoned of late by the executives of
other States, and great complaints were
made by the press about it. The governor
felt that it was necessary to make an example,
and turned a deaf ear to all the appeals
which were daily made to him. His
answer invariably was:

`Men must know that while there are
laws in the land, they must not take vengeance
into their own hands!'

So, in order that men might learn this
wholesome truth—and not for his crime—
William Wilson was hanged. His wife
the same day died of a broken. Ann ha
since become the wife of Mr. Gustavuss
and Charles is a promising civil engineer,
and engaged to be married to the youngest
daughter of David Dalton.