University of Virginia Library

KATE, THE ACCOMPLICE.

1. CHAPTER I.
The Burglar's Home.

Midway between Cross and Blackstone
streets, and nearly parallel to
them, is a short, narrow, disagreeable
avenue, connecting Hanover street with
Ann. It is but a minute's walk from one
end of this alley to the other, but there are
many objects within its narrow limits to attract
the notice of the most careless passenger.
To say nothing of the stores and shops
of various descriptions huddled together
there, the dwelling houses offer much food
for curiosity and study. Some of these appear
to be making sickly attempts at respectability,
but for the most part they are dirty,
miserable abodes, fit only for the very dregs
of society.

The most remarkable of the latter class
of dwelling houses, and, in fact, the most
prominent object in the whole street, is a
small, oblong block of three story wooden
buildings, quite isolated from the other structures
in the vicinity. One end of this row
fronts on the street, while entrance is gained
to the houses in the rear by threading an
open space which surrounds the entire block.
Nothing can be more uninviting than the
outward appearance of these miserable houses,
unless it be the scene that usually presents
itself within. The exterior was evidently
once painted yellow, but the clapboards
have been so worn by the winds and
rains of half a century, that their color
at present appears to be in a very unsettled
state.

At the period of the opening of our tale,
the block in question was crowded with tenants
of various descriptions. Some were
the families of sailors, others were poor laborers,
others were dissolute and vicious
occupants, who existed in a mysterious manner,
but in one respect all seemed alike,
whatever difference there might be in their
characters and pursuits. All were poor.

Let us view the interior of one of these
houses. Entering a dilapidated doorway,
and mounting a dark, dingy creaking staircase,
we find our nostrils saluted by odors,
and our ears by sounds, which, to those unaccustomed
to them, would at first be rather
disagreeable. The walls are smoky and
the wood-work worn and broken in numerous
places. Grotesque figures have been
drawn by wanton hands upon the doors, and
erased in a careless, slovenly manner. Let
us mount two flights of stairs, and enter one
of the rooms to visit its inmates.

It was night, and there was but a dim
light in the chamber. It was a narrow, miserable
apartment, with a small stove near
the centre, a low bed in one corner, and a
cupboard on the side opposite the door.—
The floor and walls stood much in need of
washing, and the old and scanty furniture in
the room showed a great lack of neatness
and order.

There was but one individual in the chamber,
and he was sitting near the stove, in
which there was a small fire. He sat leaning
over the glowing coals, gazing intently
through the black grate, and listening to the

ncessant singing of an iron kettle on the
stove, like one who is either overcome by
drowsiness, or occupied with deep thought.
But Isaac Gordon was evidently far from
sleeping, if we may judge from the lustre of
his keen black eye, as the fire shone upon it.
That eye twinkled with deep cunning, and
indicated the shrewd, daring, avaricious
character of its possessor.

Isaac Gordon was about forty years of
age, dark complexioned, well formed, and
athletic. His coarse features denoted a
predominance of the baser passions in his
nature, while they were still marked with
intelligence and firmness. His dress was of
coarse material, and somewhat worn, but after
all it seemed too good to correspond with
the surrounding objects in the room.

He had been sitting in the position in
which we have described him for near half
an hour, when with a muttered curse he arose
impatiently, and walked across the
room.

`What in h—can keep her away so long?'
he growled, looking at a heavy, old fashioned
silver watch he drew from his waistcoat
pocket. `It is now near eight o'clock, and
she said she would be back at seven. The
lying hag! She knew that Kate would be
gone to-night, and that I'd rather starve than
cook my own supper.'

Gordon was about to give way to his impatience
in divers expressions we need not
repeat, when he heard a sound of footsteps
on the stairs.

`Her at last!' he exclaimed, his quick
eye lighting up with eager curiosity. `I
wonder what luck she has had.'

The door opened and an old woman appeared
upon the threshold. She was very
tall and strong for one of her sex, and her
features were bold and irregular. She was,
perhaps, no older than the man, but her hair
was thin and gray, her brow wrinkled, and
her complexion sallow, which made her appear
at least a dozen years older than she
really was. Yet her form was erect, and
she had lost none of the strength or activity
of her younger days.

Throwing off her rude bonnet and coarse
shawl, this being advanced to the fire and
began rubbing her long bony hands over
the coals, without deigning a single answer
to the questions Gordon asked on the moment
she entered. At last, having sat down
and motioned him to a chair, she appeared
ready to speak.

`I have had some success,' she said, in a
low, guttural tone, raising her small twinkling
eyes to the face of her companion.

`Well you might!' retorted Gordon, with
a sneer; `for you have been gone an age.—
What kept you so long?'

`Your business more than mine,' replied
the old woman, sullenly.

`Well, I don't mean to find fault; only, I
want to hear how you made out. Is there
such a man living anywhere in the place?'

`There is one Henry P. Acton there—
and I have reason to believe—'

`That he is my man,' interrupted Gordon,
eagerly. `Well.'

`I have seen him,' said the woman. `His
appearance corresponds with your description
of him.'

`Then it is him!' exclaimed Gordon,
clapping his hands with delight. `Henry
P. Acton—not a very common name—Maggy,'
he cried, suddenly interrupting himself,
`this discovery is worth a thousand dollars
to us!'

`It is worth something, at least,' returned
his companion, in a significant whisper—
'For, even though you are building castles
in the air, I have a scheme which will—'

`Never mind your schemes,' interrupted
Gordon, impatently, `for I am sure of mine
—and that is enough. I tell you I am in
possession of some secret knowledge about
this Action, which will command his dollars
as long as he has any, or I am alive. But
tell me how he looks.'

`As you described him, nearly. He is
tall, of a delicate constitution, thin in flesh,

but handsome—and a little gray, though he
can't be more than five and thirty years of
age.'

`The natural color of his hair—'

`Is jet black.'

`And the scar?'

`As you said, there is a scar on the left
cheek, near the ear.'

`He is my man!' exclaimed Gordon, unable
to conceal his delight. `Oh! I tell
you, Maggy, if he is as rich as I have heard
he is, or as he once was, our fortune is
made!'

`And he is rich, or there is no such thing
as riches!' returned the old woman. `He
lives in a beautiful house, has a fine garden
and an orchard, and keeps a carriage. His
family—'

`Ah! yes—his family!'

`He has an angel for a wife, and a son—
a proud, handsome little boy, about eight
years old. There is a girl about eighteen
living with him; she is either his or his
wife's sister.'

`How did you learn all this?'

`Of one of the domestics, whom I managed
to get into conversation with. By the
way, let me tell you of the scheme I have
formed. To-morrow, one of Mr. Action's
servant girls goes away, as she is to be married
in a week; we must get Kate to fill the
vacant situation.'

`Nonsense!' sneered Gordon.

`Why so?' demanded his companion,
sharply; `I tell you we can take advantage
of the circumstance, so that whether your
plans fail or not, we will be bettered by it.
Let Kate once get into the family, and we
shall have a spy over there that'll be worth
the while. If there is money or plate in the
house, she can find it out, and without being
herself suspected, she can manage to
help you break the nut and get the meat.'

Having made this proposition in a bold,
confident manner, the old woman fixed her
keen eyes intently upon her companion, who
seemed absorbed in deep thought.

`What do you say?' she demanded, after
a pause.

Gordon raised his eyes to hers, and asked
in a cool, significant tone—

`Will Kate go?'

`If I say so, she will!' replied the old woman,
with a haughty toss of the head. She
has always obeyed me.'

`To her remorse and shame,' added a
low, reproachful voice at the door.

The two turned, and beheld the object of their remarks standing upon the threshold.

She was a girl about twenty years of age,
tall and slender, but well proportioned, and
beautiful, notwithstanding her cheek was
pale and care-worn. Her features were regular
and delicately chiseled, her hair of a
beautiful auburn, and her eyes of a soft deep
blue, large and full of expression. She was
thinly clad, and the faded plaid shawl, dirty
calico dress, and old-fashioned straw bonnet
she wore, indicated a carelessness in regard
to her appearance which ill accorded with her natural charms.

Such was Kate Munson: and before we
proceed farther with our narrative, it would be well for us to say a few words in explanation
of her present situation, and of her
relationship with the two individuals with
whom the reader has already become acquainted.

Kate's parents were dead, and she had
lived for several years with the woman we
have already introduced, who was her aunt
by marriage. Her history we shall dwell upon
on some future occasion, but suffice it to
say, at present, that it resembled that of too
many of her sex. She was once virtuous—
but being exposed to temptation, which her
aunt assisted in laying before her, she fell,
and sunk into the wretched thing we now
behold her. Her aunt had been married,
but her husband having died some years before,
and she being naturally prone to evil,
a relationship had been established between
her and Gordon, of the most intimate, though
of no very moral, nature. As the reader ha

probably divined, Gordon was one of those
individuals who look upon the world as owing
them a living, which they are determined
to have in spite of both law and justice.
He was a gambler and house-breaker; but
having been most unfortunate in pursuing
the former profession, he chiefly devoted his
time and talents to the latter. The old woman
assisted him, and Kate occasionally
lent her hand; for having fallen, and become
an associate with the vicious, she experienced
few scruples of conscience when called
upon to do as the vicious did.

These three individuals lived together in
the house in Centre street we have described,
and occupied two rooms, one of which was
the apartment where the foregoing scene
took place. The other room was Kate's, it
being quite small and uncomfortable for
more than one; while the other was of sufficient
dimensions to serve both as a bed room
for Gordon and Margaret, and a kitchen for
the three, to say nothing of other uses to
which it was occasionally put.

`I have been influenced by you and obeyed
you to my shame and sorrow,' repeated
Kate, entering the room abruptly.

She fixed her reproachful eyes upon her
aunt, who looked up to her with a sneer upon
her lips.

`What now?' asked Margaret, contemptuously.
`Has the conscientious creature
suddenly been struck with the magnitude of
her sins?'

`No more than I have always been,' replied
Kate, sullenly; `I am bad enough, you
know as well as I—and I delight in being so
—but I can't help thinking, sometimes, how
good and happy I might now be had you not
prevented me, and helped to bring about my
ruin.'

Kate spoke bitterly, and her aunt replied
not for some seconds, as if she feared to
rouse the spirit she knew the girl possessed.
It was her policy to humor her on the present
occasion, in order to prevail upon her to
act according to her wishes, for Mag had
formed almost a romantic idea of the advantages
to be gained by establishing her
as a domestic, or rather as a spy and an accomplice,
in the family of Mr. Acton. She
made the proposition in a kind way, and represented
it in its most attractive point of
view, endeavoring to make Kate believe it
was more for her interest than for her own
that she should comply.

Leaving the girl to reflect and conclude,
Mag set about preparing supper—a rude
meal which consisted of roasted potatoes,
fried pork, and baker's bread. Gordon
seemed to care little whether Kate went or
not, for he sat by the fire, his head upon his
hands, a smile of triumph on his features,
and an expression of eager avarice and deep
determination in his eye.

2. CHAPTER II.
The Deception.

MAG MUNSON was busily engaged
preparing the evening meal, Kate
was sitting by the stove, with her
bonnet in her hand, looking sadly and drowsily
into the fire, and Gordon's brain was
teeming with bright dreams of the golden
fruits he was to gather by the secret knowledge
he possessed of Mr. Acton, when the
door was opened and a fourth individual entered
the room.

A young man about three and twenty
years of age, straight, well-made, strong
and active; his complexion dark, his features
bold, intelligent, and handsome, though
marked by dissipation, and his bearing reckless.
He wore a cloth cap, which sat carelessly
on his finely shaped head, a checkered
shirt, the collar of which was turned
loosely over a black cravat, a coat of fine
cloth that was getting somewhat threadbare,
and pantaloons of a corresponding quality.

Such was the appearance of Joseph Jenks,
better known to his associates by the name
of Light Joe. Young as he was, he was old

in iniquity, and gloried in the same profession
as Gordon. He was on the most intimate
terms with the characters we have introduced;
especially with Kate, whose accepted
lover he was.

Joseph advanced into the room in the
most familiar manner, and kicking Gordon's
shins as he passed him, went directly up to
Kate.

`Come, my chick,' said he, playfully, without
noticing the curse Gordon bestowed upon
him for his impudence; `what the devil
ails you that you look so down in the mouth?
What are you dreaming about?'

`About you,' replied Kate, smiling sadly.

`The deuce you are!' exclaimed Light
Joe, kissing her. `I must say you are a good
girl, and you like me, I am sure,' he added,
in an under tone; `but cheer up now, and
talk with me, Kate. In the first place, what
is the matter?'

To avoid giving any other answer, Kate
replied that she was going away; and when
he expressed his surprise, she explained to
him her aunt's reasons for placing her in a
situation, without telling what private reasons
she might have for complying with
Mag's wishes.

Notwithstanding the depravity of Kate
and her lover, there was something like true
affection in their feelings towards each other,
and it was accordingly with regret that
Joseph thought of her going away, even for
a limited time.

`How far is it,' he asked, `to where this
Acton lives?'

`Five miles, I should say, at least,' replied
Mag. `It may be more.'

`The devil it is!' exclaimed Joe. `Why,
Kate, do you suppose I'd care enough about
seeing you to go that distance, even though
there was no difficulty in having an interview
with you?'

`I hope so,' said Kate, `for I have concluded
to go, provided I can get the situation.'

`Which isn't very probable,' returned
Joe. `These people always want good recommendations,
and I'm sure nobody'd take
you without.'

`I leave that to Mag.'

`And Mag will get you the situation; see
if she don't,' put in the old woman, confidently.
`I have my own ideas of things,
and my own plans, and I don't often fail,
you all know.'

`You're shrewd, the devil knows,' retorted
Joe, contemptuously, `but you may as
well not try your cunning in this, for you'll
be sure to lose character.'

Old Mag deigned no reply to this remark,
but continued about her work, leaving Joseph
and Kate to have a season of private
conversation undisturbed.

`This is a new start,' said Joe, in a whisper,
`and I can't understand it. Are you
determined to go?'

`Yes,' replied Kate, firmly.

`Yes! and you never consulted me about
the matter, at all! I have given up every
girl for you, and I have thought I would marry
you some day, and this is the way you
treat me!'

`Joseph,' said Kate, candidly, `I did
wrong to say I would go without asking you
—and now, if you `say no, why, I'll stay
here.'

`And do you think I'll say so? No, Kate;
go, if you think best, but—don't forget me,'
added Joe, seriously. `You are not a changing
creature, I know, Kate, but when I
think that you loved Dick Marvin once, and
hate him now—'

`Marvin deceived me—lied to me and betrayed
my innocence!' interrupted Kate, vehemently,
`and that is why I hate him!—
You have always used me well and been
frank with me, Joseph, and, although you
have done nothing to restore me to virtue, I
cannot blame you for anything. I became
yours deliberately—you have not deceived
me—and now, whether you marry me or not,
I cannot complain. With Marvin it is different—'

`I saw him to-night,' interrupted Joseph,
anxious to change the conversation. `He's
as proud, daring, and dissipated as ever.—
He has been unfortunate in play, lately, and
has contracted some debts, which have caused
his creditors to look around to find where
he lives. How strange, Kate, that as long
as we have known him, we have never been
able to learn his place of residence!'

Kate made no reply, but sat musing in
her chair until the old woman called her to
supper. Joe whispered a few words of privacy
in her ear, and soon after departed, leaving
the three gathered around a low miserable
table, partaking of their humble meal
in silence.

It was near ten o'clock when Gordon went
out, to join the society of some of his vicious
companions, and pursue his secret midnight
occupations. Left alone together, Mag
Munson and her niece busied themselves in
preparing a few articles of decent clothing
for the latter, that she might appear as respectable
as possible at her first interview
with the family of the Actons.

The sun had but just risen on the following
morning, when Kate and her aunt, both
dressed in their most respectable clothing,
left their miserable abode in Centre street,
and pursued their way at a quick pace towards
Ann street.

It was a beautiful October morning, but
the air was cold and biting, and only the
roofs of the houses were warmed by the rays
of the sun. Men were abroad in their overcoats,
and the shop girls that hurried along
the street were, for the most part, warmly
clad. Kate was quite comfortably dressed,
and Margaret was accustomed to such weather,
so that neither suffered very severely
from the cold.

The two women were soon in Washington
street, pursuing their way, on foot, towards
Roxbury. As they passed along, Margaret
was continually talking to Kate in low, hurried
accents of their plans, and teaching her
how she should act on the occasion of her
appearance before the Actons. She endeavored
to impress her niece with the importance
of her playing the hypocrite in the
most subtle and cautious manner, and of
keeping her eye continually upon her own
interest, and that of her friends. Kate
promised every thing her aunt required, although
her mind was far from being on the
subject nearest to Margaret's heart.

It is a long walk to Roxbury, but the two
were soon beyond the Neck, for they traveled
rapidly, and were accustomed to fatigue.
But they had not yet reached their journey's
end. Striking out boldly into the country,
they pursued an uneven, winding road, which
conducted them into the midst of beautiful
scenery, and offered a cheering contrast to
the crowded streets of the town. The air
was still cold, but the sun's rays fell warmly
on the earth, and added fresh charms to the
country through which they passed. Kate
delighted in such scenery, but it made her
melancholy by the reflections it called up,
for she could not forget the difference between
her lot and that of the young girls
she there saw so happy.

They passed by several beautiful residences,
until they came to one that pleased
Kate more than all the rest. The house itself
was not very large, but it was built in
the most tasteful style of architecture, and
every thing about it bore the appearance of
care, neatness, and taste. The grounds were
well laid out and extensive, and the whole
was situated in the most romantic portion of
the country.

`This is the place,' said Margaret, opening
the gate; `how do you like it?'

Kate sighed, and without replying to the
old woman's question, followed her in silence
along the path that led to the house.

Margaret did not enter at the front door,
but like one already acquainted with the locality,
sought out a back passage, which
gave her admittance to the kitchen.

A middle aged, plainly dressed, good natured
looking woman met our adventurers on the

threshold, and took Margaret cordially by
the hand. She was the domestic the old
woman had conversed with on the day before,
and by her cautious deceit had succeeded
in interesting in her favor.

`I am glad to see you again,' said Mrs.
Barnes, leading them into the kitchen; `is
this the girl you was speaking about?'

`Yes, this is my niece,' replied Margaret,
looking at Kate with a well feigned appearance
of affection; `ever since you first
spoke of there being a vacant situation here,
I have become every time I thought of it
more and more anxious the poor girl should
fill it. Her health is poor, and a residence
in the country is the very thing she needs.'

`Poor girl!' exclaimed Mrs. Barnes, casting
a pitying glance at Kate, who dropped
her eyes, looking confused.

Poor girl, indeed; for, depraved as she
had become, she could not give countenance
to a lie without feeling abashed.

`Are you used to house work?' asked
Mrs. Barnes, addressing Kate.

`Yes, ma'am,' faltered the girl.

She said so, however, without lying, for
when young she had learned to do every description
of work in a dwelling house.

`Then I think you would suit us,' pursued
the domestic, `for I like your looks
very well. I will speak to Mrs. Acton.'

Kate and her aunt could not but look at each
other and smile, after Mrs. Barnes had left
the room; but their countenances resumed
their serious expression when that respectable
matron returned in company with the
mistress of the house.

Mrs. Acton was near thirty years of age,
but time had destroyed none of her youthful
beauty. Her complexion was as fair and
brilliant, her brow as smooth, and her eye as
bright and full of expression, as they had
ever been; and that was saying much. She
was in every respect a lovely woman, and
as amiable and intelligent as she was beautiful.
In disposition she was benevolent,
mild, and kind; yet there was a spirit of
dignity and noble pride within her, which
gave her greater strength of character than
one would have supposed, from her appearance,
she possessed. Nothing could be more
winning than her smile, although she was
never gay. Mrs. Barnes used to say she
had never seen her otherwise than mild and
pleasant, but that there was always a melancholy
expression in her countenance,
which she could not understand, it was so
sweet and winning.

Such was the lady who accompanied the
housekeeper to the kitchen, where Kate
and her companion sat waiting. She looked
at Kate kindly, and seemed pleased with
her appearance, for the girl never looked
more beautiful than on that occasion. Her
walk in the cold air had given a rosy tint to
her delicate cheek which it rarely possessed,
and her dress, although very plain, was tastefully
arranged, and displayed her form to the
best advantage. She had an appearance of
modesty, too, which was not feigned, for she
could not look upon the pure and beautiful
lady before her without feeling a confusing
sense of her own depravity.

After speaking a few words to Kate, Mrs.
Acton turned to Mrs. Barnes and asked her
if she thought the girl could supply the place
of the domestic who was about going away,
and on being answered in the affirmative,
inquired of Kate if she had brought recommendations
of character and ability.

`Her last employer,' put in Margaret, readily,
`gave her no recommendations, because
there was some difficulty between them.'

`Indeed!' exclaimed Mrs. Acton.

`I dislike to mention it,' pursued Margaret,
`but he was a bad man, and insulted the
poor girl; which drove her away before her
time was up. He was offended, and would
neither pay her her just dues, nor give her
a recommendation. However, if it is necessary,
I think I can get a satisfactory character
for her of a former employer, who was
every way pleased with her.'

This lie was uttered with such profound

dissimulation, and with such apparent truthfulness,
that Mrs. Acton was thrown entirely
off her guard. She looked at the blushing
Kate with more of pity than distrust,
and to the great delight of Margaret, said
the girl's appearance was sufficient recommendation,
and that she did not hesitate to
take her on trial.

`Can she commence to-day?' asked Mrs.
Barnes.

`As well as any time,' replied Margaret.
`I will bring her her clothes, or send them,
in a day or two, for I've no doubt but she'll
suit you.'

`I hope she will,' said Mrs. Acton, leaving
the room, `for I like her already.'

Margaret soon after took her leave, and
Kate was duly installed in the household of
the Acton family, under the supervision of
the excellent Mrs. Barnes.

3. CHAPTER III.
Acton Hall.

TO a young girl accustomed to household
duties, the situation Kate had engaged
to occupy was all that could be
desired. The family was small and pleasant,
and her labors light; and the excellent
housekeeper, Mrs. Barnes, she found to be
a most agreeable companion.

Kate was naturally intelligent and active,
and having been accustomed, some years before,
to housework, she was soon able to perform
any duties that devolved upon her; so
ready, indeed, did Mrs Barnes find her,
that, scrupulous and particular as she was
in domestic matters, she did not hesitate to
give her her unqualified approbation.

Kate, too, found her duties less tedious
than she had dared expect. She liked the
country air, its freshness and purity contrasted
so advantageously with the stagnant atmosphere
of her residence in town. She
even began to feel an exhilarating joy, occasioned
by the active, innocent course of
life she was leading, and the calm pleasures
of a country residence, when the reflection
that she had introduced herself into that
happy family for a most unrighteous purpose,
turned all her joyful sensations into feelings
of remorse and bitterness.

Kate could not but love the family it was
her design to rob, or assist in robbing. Mrs.
Acton won her affections at the first interview,
and she was no less pleased with Edith
Irving, Mrs. Acton's sister. This young
lady was scarcely eighteen, and her appearance
was very much as one would have imagined
her sister's to have been at that age.
In disposition, too, they were alike, although
Edith was, perhaps, more impetuous than
Mrs. Acton had ever been, and united more
power of will with the excellent qualities
she possessed in common with her sister.—
To a mere admirer of beauty, the heart having
nothing to do with the question, it is
difficult to say which would have appeared
to the best advantage, Edith or Mrs. Acton;
for, although much alike, the soft beauty
and pleasing melancholy of the latter contrasted
strangely with her sister's more brilliant
charms, her innocent gayety and freshness
of spirits.

Having said thus much of the family in
question, it would be unpardonable in us
were we to pass on without bestowing a moment's
attention upon its head, who, by right,
should have been mentioned first.

Mr. Acton, who may be considered one
of the principal characters in this history,
was a gentleman of the most agreeable manners,
although cold and distant when it was
not his humor to be civil. He was seldom
influenced by the generous impulses which
governed his wife, yet he had the reputation
of being a benevolent man. Although
wealthy, it could never be laid to his charge
that he had horded up or made a bad use of
his riches, for his selfishness consisted in
other things. He had never been taught to
deny himself aught that could administer to
his individual happiness, and it may be seen

in the course of this history, that he sometimes
gratified his desires at the peril of
some occasional pangs of conscience. Mr.
Acton loved his wife devotedly, and perhaps
she was the only being on earth who
possessed any influence over his disposition;
for, although independent, cold, and severe
before the world, he was quite the contrary
whenever he came in contact with her. In
fact, he valued her love and esteem more
than he would have done the homages of
the world.

Kate could not but respect Mr. Acton, although
she dreaded his presence, and did
not like him. She saw at once that he was
not altogether happy, surrounded as he was
by all that can make life agreeable, and
judged that there must be some secret family
trouble which caused both him and his
wife to appear so melancholy.

Kate, the reader will observe, was not so
depraved as to be dead to the finer feelings
of our nature. She had sympathies which
could be aroused, and affections that she
could not govern. She had resolved, before
hand, to dislike the whole family, so that
when the time came for her to wrong them,
she could do so without a pang; but before
she had been with them a day, she found
that she felt something like love for them
all, Mr. Acton excepted. In the whole family
there was none, perhaps, she felt stronger
affection for than little Robert Acton—
her employer's only child. He was a pale,
delicate boy of four years, but spirited and
intelligent beyond his age.

Kate had been three days in this family,
and no suspicions on the part of her employers,
or fears of discovery on her own part,
had been awakened. An incident, however,
came near deranging all her schemes on the
fourth day of her residence in the country.

There was a young clergyman of talent
and respectability paying his addresses to
Edith Irving, and he was looked upon as a
favored suitor. His features were bold and
irregular, yet handsome; his eye quick and
full of expression; his forehead broad and
lofty; and his form possessed of manly proportions.
He was an Englishman by birth,
and nothing was known of him except what
he himself had given out; but he had been
placed at the head of a respectable congregation,
and had always conducted himself
with propriety before the world, thus gaining
a reputation for sobriety and piety, which
it grieves us to say, young, unmarried clergyman
do not always possess.

One day the young clergyman had been
conversing with Mrs. Acton and her sister,
in the parlor, when Kate, in obedience to
Mrs. Barnes' directions, entered to put some
wood on the fire. She did not look up until
she had disposed of the fuel, when she
turned to listen to Mrs. Acton, who wished
to give her some directions.

For the first time her eye fell on the
young clergyman, and with a shriek, turning
as pale as death, she sank fainting to the
floor.

`What is the meaning of this?' asked
Mrs. Acton, alarmed. `Edith, call Mrs.
Barnes—the poor girl has fainted!'

She lifted Kate in her arms, and applied
to her lips and brow the contents of a small
vial, which revived her immediately.

`Where is — oh, God!—' murmured
Kate, incoherently, opening her eyes in
alarm.

They rested on the young clergyman, and
she closed them again, shuddering.

`What can be the matter?' asked he, betraying
no emotion save that of curiosity.

`Did she ever see you before?' asked
Mrs. Acton.

`Not to my knowledge,' replied the clergyman,
coolly; `I have not the least recollection
of having seen her anywhere.'

`It was at sight of you she fainted,' said
Edith—`at least, it appeared so to me.'

`Ask her if she ever saw me before,' returned
the clergyman, self-possessed as ever.
`I am curious to know.'

Mrs. Acton put the question, but Kate

made no reply. Mrs. Barnes had now arrived,
and the girl was taken out of the
room. If she had thought Everett—the
young clergyman—knew her, and would expose
her, she was quite mistaken; for he
denied all knowledge of her, and convinced
Mrs. Acton and Edith that her fainting
could not have been caused by his presence
—or, at least, that he knew nothing of the
matter.

Kate, on being questioned afterwards,
said that her fainting was quite accidental,
she being subject to such fits on the most
trifling occasions.

Thus the incident passed off unnoticed.

But it had a strange effect on Kate. She
was agitated during the whole day, and when
night came she could not sleep.

`He here!' she said to herself. `My
God! who would have thought it?'

On the following day a young man called
at Acton Hall, and enquired for Kate.

`I have a message from her aunt,' said
the visitor; `can I see her?'

As the young man had a bundle of clothes
for Kate, Mrs. Barnes called her, and told
her a person at the hall door wished to see
her.

`Ha! my bird, cried Light Joe; `what's
the best word? How do you like your situation,
eh?'

Kate looked around to see that there was
nobody listening, then placing her arm upon
his shoulder, whispered in his ear.

`No!' exclaimed Joseph, starting and
turning pale.

`True!' whispered Kate. `I saw him
yesterday—and it was so sudden—you can't
imagine what an effect it had upon me.'

`He will not expose you to the Actons,
will he?' asked Light Joe.

`He dares not!'

`Right! he dares not! But where does
he live?'

`You can learn that easily.'

Joe's features brightened.

`This is good news,' he resumed, after a
moment's reflection. `Now is the time for
revenge! Have you reflected, Kate, that
we have him in our power? The Reverend
Mr. Everett! ha! ha!'

`Hush!' exclaimed Kate in an agitated
whisper—`there he comes!'

In effect, the Reverend Mr. Everett was
approaching the house, and Kate had discovered
him through the half-opened door.

`The devil will be to pay if he sees me!'
exclaimed Joseph, grasping the arm of the
trembling Kate. `Where can you hide me?'

A happy thought struck him, and before
Kate could reply, he dodged into the corner
and opened the hall door, which swinging
around concealed him from the view of any
person in the hall.

Kate, pale and agitated, endeavored to escape
to the kitchen, but the clergyman overtook
her before she had traversed half the
hall.

`The villain!' muttered Joe, peeping out
from his hiding place; `the damnable hypocrite!'

The preacher held Kate by the arm, and
his keen, piercing eyes were fixed with a
look of terrible meaning upon the girl's pale
features.

`Kate Munson!' he exclaimed, in a passionate
whisper; `we know each other—
but let there be an end to our acquaintance!
You know my character—it is revengeful!
Need I say more?'

Kate made no reply, but trembled, and
shrunk from his touch with a look of terror.

`Hear me!' pursued the preacher. `If
you dare even hint at what you know of me,
before the Actons—if you give me the
slightest cause to suspect that you will expose
me, you shall repent it to the last hour
of your existence!'

So saying, with a flushed cheek and flashing
eye, the clergyman pushed Kate from
him rudely, and composing his features with
great self-control, walked leisurely into the
presence of Edith Irving.

`Ha! ha!' laughed Joe, nervously darting
from his hiding place. `The Reverend
Mr. Everett, Kate,' he continued, rubbing
his hands, `is cool; devilish cool. But I'll
warm him one of these days—see if I don't!
ha! ha!'

`Go, Joe—go!' whispered the agitated
girl. `I have much to say to you—but not
now! Meet me this evening, at dusk, in
the corner of the orchard. I shall be at
liberty then. But leave me now—you must!'

The next moment the hall-door was closed,
and Light Joe was walking rapidly down
the road.

4. CHAPTER IV.
The Rendezvous.

AT sundown, on the same day, Joseph
Jenks stepped out of one of the Boston
and Roxbury omnibuses, at the latter place,
and took the road that led to the residence
of the Actons.

Arrived there, he found Kate already at the
place of rendezvous, agreeably to their plan,
she having excused herself to Mrs. Barnes,
and stolen into the orchard unobserved.

It was a secluded spot, but a short distance
from the road, and one in which the
two could meet without fear of being surprised.
It was already dark when Light
Joe arrived, but the moon arising, gave promise
of a beautiful and brilliant night.

`What more of the Rev. Mr. Everett?'
asked Joe, after having greeted his mistress
with becoming tenderness.

`The villain!' exclaimed Kate, `I am
afraid he has won the affections of Miss Irving—for
she knows nothing of him whatever.
If she should marry him, and learn afterwards
what a man he is, it would kill her
—break her heart!'

`That is none of our business,' said Joe.
`Let him work. We will not forget him—
revenge will yet be ours. I have just learned
where he lives, and I shall be down upon
him soon. But how is the business I came
to speak with you about? Have you found
where they keep the plate?'

`Yes,' replied Kate, stifling her conscience
and strengthening her heart to carry
out her original design against the Actons.
`It is a rich haul for you, Joe, I assure you.'
And the girl proceeded to name over certain
articles of silver ware, at which Light Joe
could not conceal his interest and delight.

`But the money—have you found where
he keeps it?' asked the young burglar, eagerly.

`Not yet. I have my eye on a place
which I suspect contains a treasure, but I
ain't certain. It was chiefly on this account
that I wanted to see you to-night. You must
give me the keys you mentioned, and I will
try them on the bureaus and chests I can
get access to, and if they fit I'll soon be able
to tell you where you'll find the money.'

`I come prepared,' returned Joe; `Here
is a good assortment I've brought on purpose
for you. Be cautious, Kate, and shrewd—
be devilish shrewd—for recollect your interests
are mine and mine are yours. Gordon
and I are to divide the spoils between us—
old Meg shares with him, and you with me.
Find out where the money is—get keys to
fit all the doors, drawers and safes that contain
any thing valuable; then lend a hand
to help Gordon and me off with it, and—
What the devil is that?'

This sudden interruption, and rough remark
were occasioned by a rustling movement
in the leaves close by, and a deep
growl scarce a dozen feet from the spot
where Joseph stood.

By the light of the newly risen moon, the
startled couple beheld a large, black, ferocious
looking dog ready to spring upon
them.

`By —!' muttered Joe, snatching a
dirk-knife from his pocket and opening it in
an instant. Stand away, Kate, and let him
come.'

`Instead of complying, the girl, without

losing her presence of mind, advanced boldly
towards the dog, spoke to him, and patted
him on the neck. The fierce animal was
tame and peaceable as a lamb.

`It's Pluto, Joe,' said Kate. `I forgot to
mention him. He is a faithful friend, but a
terrible enemy—not one of the barking
breed, but one that is not afraid to bite.—
Mr. Acton keeps him shut up by day, and
let's him out nights. He knows me, you
see, for I feed him, and do all I can to make
him like me. He's a good fellow.'

`Good fellow, and be d—!' exclaimed
Joe, who had not yet recovered from his excitement.
`It wouldn't be a very pious notion
to have him about our ears when we
come for the plate and money. The devil
take the black imp! he would just knock our
plans all in the head if we should attempt to
break into the house when he was loose.—
Kate, you must manage some way to get rid
of him.'

Pluto was beginning to smell of Joe, as if
glad to make his acquaintance, and Joe was
caressing him, while, Judas like, he was at
the same time plotting against his life, when
suddenly the dog pricked up his ears, as if
he heard some suspicious noise, and uttered
a deep growl.

`Hush, Pluto!' said Kate.

And the animal was silent.

It was well for Joe and his mistress, however,
that the dog was with them, for his
quick ears had discovered the approach of
two persons, and given the couple timely
warning which enabled them to couceal
themselves before the new comers suspected
their presence. They withdrew at once to
the shadow of a fence, which hid them effectually
from the view of the two strangers.
Kate called the obedient Pluto with her, and
made him lie down by her side.

`Now speak,' said one of the new comers,
`we are alone. What business have you
with me?'

`If you knew me, you could guess,' replied
the other, significantly.

`If I knew you? I have never seen you
before!' retorted the first speaker.

`You are mistaken, Mr. Acton. You
know me well. Look at me now!'

And the speaker removed his cap from his
brow, and by the light of the moon, which
cast its bright silvery rays upon his face,
discovered to the eyes of the astonished listeners,
the features of Isaac Gordon.

Yet Mr. Acton did not seem to know him.
He looked full into his face, and scrutinized
his features closely, still failing to recognize
them.

`I know you not,' said he. `Who are
you?'

`Would you know my name?' asked Gordon
with a malicious grin.

`Speak!'

Gordon looked cautiously around him, as
fearing lest his secret should be overheard,
then placing his hand on Acton's arm, and
looking him full in the face, whispered a single
word in his ear.

Mr. Acton started back, and staggered as
if smitten by a deadly blow.

`Do you know me now?' demanded Gordon,
still holding him by the arm.

And he continued to gaze at him with a
look of malicious triumph.

Mr. Acton was pale as death, but in a moment
he recovered his self possession, and
shook off the hold of the burglar with disgust.'

`Yes, I know you!' he muttered through
his teeth—`I know you too well, curse of
my existence! what would you with me
now?'

`That your wife—'

`Silence, villaiu!' interrupted Acton,
fiercely.

`Can I not see her?' demanded Gordon,
nothing moved.

`I would cut your throat first!' exclaimed
Acton in a tone of terrible meaning.

`I don't doubt it,' said Gordon, coolly. `I
believe you love her—and if so, you would
not have her detest you as you deserve'

Before Gordon could finish his sentence,
Acton, wrought to desperation, seized him
by the throat and shook him fiercely.

`Fiend!' he muttered, `you will tempt
me to destroy you!'

Gordon became black in the face before
he could shake off his grasp; then pale as a
corpse his eye flashed with suppressed rage,
and his ashy lips quivered with passion.

`Serpent!' he hissed through his set teeth,
`I will be revenged on you for this! do you
consider that I could make you detested of
her?'

`By —!' exclaimed Acton, `if you goad
me thus, I shall be sure to kill you! Beware!'

`Do you think I fear you? No, for I have
you in my power! And it is to tell you this,
that I am come—to torment you with fears
lest Maria should discover—'

Gordon knew not the desperation of the
man he had to deal with, else he was foolishly
rash. Acton's spirit was roused, he felt
that the wretch before him had him in his
power; that his character—his honor and
his happiness were at his mercy. Could he
—should he suffer such a man to live and be
his curse? A terrible thought—a desperate
purpose took possession of his soul.

`By —, Kate,' whispered Joe, who had
heard and seen all—`Murder will come of
this—but keep back the dog!'

Even as Joe spoke, Acton snatched a pistol
from his pocket, and quick as thought
presented it to Gordon's breast and fired.
Gordon dashed it aside the moment it was
discharged, and threw himself upon Acton,
as if he would have crushed him. Down,
they went, falling heavily to the ground;
and the next moment Pluto, whom Kate
could no longer control, burst away and

`Like Mountain Cat that guards her young,'
darted fiercely at his master's antagonist.
His fangs were already at Gordon's throat,
when Acton shouted to him to desist. The
animal obeyed, and the two antagonists arose
to their feet.

Kate had taken advantage of the confu
sion to fly to the house, but Joe still remained
in his hiding place.

`You would murder me, eh?' said Gordon,
with a ghostly attempt at a laugh. `Ha!
ha! that is a rich joke—but you shall pay for
it, Acton, true as there is a devil in hell!'

`A rich joke, indeed!' thought Joe, who
was getting exceedingly nervous; `a devilish
rich joke!'

`Think you,' said Acton, that I can tamely
submit to your insults, and that I can suffer
to be tormented by you at your pleasure?
By heavens! you do not know me!'

`Nor do you know me;' retorted Gordon,
`if you think that while you are rolling in
riches and I am crushed by poverty—'

`Ha?' cried Acton, his features brightening,
`It is money you want!'

`It is money I must have!' exclaimed
Gordon.

`How much, wretch! will buy you to secrecy?'
demanded Acton, in a contemptuous
tone.

`Had you treated me as you would have
treated an old friend,' replied Gordon, `I
would have said five hundred—'

`Five hundred!'

`But as it is,' pursued Gordon, `I shall
double that amount. One thousand dollars
—not a penny less—will save you from dishonor.'

`A rich joke indeed!' muttered Joe. `A
cool thousand! Bravo, Gordon!'

`Exorbitant!' exclaimed Mr. Acton.

`Think of it!' said the burglar. `What
is one thousand dollars to you? It will purchase
you what nothing else can—security!
The moment the money is in my hands, I
promise never to trouble you again. Think
of it!'

`I will,' said Acton, `Come here day after
to-morrow evening at ten o'clock, and
I will give you an answer. Not before.'

And before Gordon could arrest him, Mr.
Acton followed by Pluto, hastened away in
the direction of his house.

5. CHAPTER V.
Highway Robbery.

GORDON watched the shadow of the
retreating Acton for a moment, then,
when it had disappeared with a light chuckle
he himself turned to leave the spot.

`There's a good seed planted,' he muttered
to himself, rubbing his hands, `and if it
don't grow to something handsome, it'll be
owing to some accident; that's all. Ha, ha!
a thousand dollars! To-morrow evening—
no—the evening after, he said,—well, I shall
be here, and be prepared too, for all his tricks
and traps. A thousand! ha, ha!'

`Ha, ha!' echoed a cautious laugh behind
him; and at the same time there was a light
touch upon his shoulder. `A cool thousand!
ha. ha, ha!'

Gordon wheeled about with a start, instinctively
carrying his hand to his breast
pocket—for what purpose the reader can
imagine—and throwing himself into attitude
of self-defence.

`Light, Joe!' he exclaimed in surprise,
`the devil!'

“Light Joe and the devil!' exclaimed his
companion,—`that is to say, you and I—for
damme, Gordon, if you ain't a most accomplished
child of Satan! A cool thousand!
ha, ha! A rich joke, by my soul!'

`Not bad, is it?' returned Gordon with a
chuckle. `But how the devil does it happen
that you are here?'

Joe explained.

`And you have overheard —' began Gordon.

`Every word,' said Joe, `every word—
seen the whole of the play from the first to
the last.'

`I hope not,' returned Gordon, with a grin.
`You've only seen the second act. The first
act was played a long time ago, and the best
is yet to come.'

`It's a deep tragedy, eh!' suggested Joe.

`Very deep,' said Gordon.

`Joe looked inquiringly at his companion,
who shook his head significantly—as much
as to say—`Deeper than you imagine.'

`Tell me the first act,' said Joe, `I'll be
secret, and perhaps can help you on your
benefit night,' added he with a laugh.

`My benefit night,—a good word! exclaimed
Gordon. `You shall come in for a
share then, Joe—but I declare I durst n't
let you into the plot, and I be d— if I will!'

Finding persuasion vain, Light Joe willingly
changed the topic of conversation.
He told Gordon of his interview with Kate,
and they proceeded to mature their plans for
the robbery of Mr. Acton's house as soon as
they were sure of success. They had soon
reached a retired spot on the road, when
they paused.

`It may be some time before these golden
dreams are realized,' said Joe.

`True, it may,' replied Gordon.

`And we both want money.'

`True, still!'

`We ought to have some to-night.'

`I'd be devilish glad of an opportunity to
get some,' said Gordon.

`Supposing then we try our hand—'

`At what?'

`At robbery!'

Gordon looked at Joe, and Joe looked at
Gordon again, as if they understood each
other perfectly.

`You're a rum chap, Joe!' exclaimed the
old burglar; `bold as a tiger! I was just
thinking of such a thing myself, but I was
afraid you would decline, for it is ticklish
business, robbing is—and we ain`t so much
used to it as to another sort. But what do
you say?'

Joe made no reply, but producing a pistol
went through with a little pantomime, which
appeared quite picturesque in the moonlight,
and pleased Gordon infinitely. It was a
silent way of expressing the significant sentence—`Money
or blood!'

The two friends took another road, and
proceeded still farther into the country.
They chose a spot at a distance from any

house, where they could lie concealed in the
shadow of a woody hill-side, and discover
the approach of travellers in good season.

It was a chilly night, but the robbers were
warm-blooded and hardy to endure. They
waited patiently for the approach of some
traveller worthy their attention. Several
passed them unmolested, for they were either
too poor in appearance or too well attended
to please the two adventurers. At
last, a gentleman, alone on horseback, came
riding by.

The moonlight streamed full upon the
face and person of the traveller, at sight of
whom the robbers promised themselves a
rich if not an easy prey.

His dress was plain but costly; and this,
to the adventurers, was a surer indication
that he carried money in his pocket, than
the most extravagant foppery and display.
In appearance the traveller was dignified,
easy, deliberate and firm. A dark complexion,
handsome features—the most remarkable
of which was his black, piercing eye—a
strong, well-proportioned frame, a well trimmed
but heavy mustache of the same color,
and a profusion of raven locks that shaded
his broad, intellectual forehead, made up
the striking exterior of the traveller's person.

Such was the individual who was riding
deliberately along towards Boston, when
suddenly two men sprang up before him,
like two tigers eager for their prey.

The horse was a powerful animal, and he
reared violently, but Light Joe seized him
by the bridle and held him fast.

The traveller, calm and self-possessed, put
spurs to his horse, at the same time levelling
a pistol at Joe's head. The young robber
would probably have then met with a most
tragical end, had not Gordon, springing to
the other side of the horse, seized the traveller
unawares, and dragged him forcibly to
the ground.

`A word and you die!' muttered Gordon,
planting his knee upon the traveller's breast.
`Give us your money, and you can go your
way. Be quick!'

The fallen man made no reply, but with a
sudden and most powerful effort, turned upon
his side, and threw the robber, who was
wholly unprepared for such a movement, directly
over his head.

At that moment Light Joe loosed his hold
of the frightened horse, then, as the traveller's
hand was raised to deal Gordon a blow
with the stock of his pistol, he leaped upon
him from behind, striking him with a slung
shot. The blow did little execution, and
before the young robber could repeat it, he
was thrown violently to the ground, and the
traveller's fingers were at his throat and his
knees upon his breast. As if careless of his
own life while he took vengeance on Joe,
the traveller struck him twice on the head,
regardless of Gordon who came to the rescue.
There was a flash of bright steel in
the moonlight, and Gordon's knife was buried
in the traveller's side.

It was the work of desperation, for there
was a fourth individual hastening to the
scene of the struggle.

The traveller's hold relaxed, and Joe rose
heavily to his feet while his companion kept
the new comer at bay. This last individual
was unarmed, but with a strong hand he seized
Gordon's wrist and pushed him backwards.

Seeing that Joe was fairly on his feet and
recovered from the shock he had suffered,
Gordon suddenly wrenched away the grasp
of the fresh comer, and escaped with his
companion.

`Tear open my vest,' said the wounded
man to his deliverer. `I have a cut in my
side which bleeds profusely.'

The traveller was seriously wounded, but
his voice was as calm as if he had merely
received a rent in his dress, or a scratch upon
his hand. He sat upon the ground while
the other hastened to stanch the blood that
flowed from his side, with his handkerchief.

`Shall I cry for assistance?' asked the
young man; `or do you think you could
walk a short distance with my help alone
I live not more than sixty rods farther on—
and there is where you must go, or be taken,
added the youth.

`I can walk,' said the traveller, gaining
his feet. `Give me your arm and I will try
to get along. You are very kind.'

`Did the robber strike you more than
once?' asked the young man.

`Thanks to you, I got but one stab,' replied
the traveller. `Did you see what became
of my horse?'

`He dashed by me like the wind,' said the
other. `I thought there was foul play somewhere,
and ran on to have a share in it.'

Thus the two continued to converse as
they proceeded on their way. The traveller
leaned heavily on the young man's arm, but
he uttered not a word of complaint, although
ready to faint at every step.

They arrived in the course of a few minutes
in front of a small, neat white cottage,
which the young man said was his home.
He assisted the wounded traveller along the
gravelled walk by which it was approached,
and led, or rather carried him to the door.

The traveller fainted on the threshold.

`Quick with a light, mother!' cried the
young man.

Startled by her son's agitated tones, a middle
aged lady flew to the door.

`What is the matter, Frederic?' she cried
in alarm.

The light fell upon the form of the traveller,
whom the young man held in his arms,
and she started back with a suppressed cry.

`What have you there?

`A traveller,' replied Frederic, `who had
been wounded by robbers. Throw open the
door.'

The woman complied, and lifting the stranger
in his arms, the young man carried him
to an apartment in the house and placed him
n a bed. In a short time they succeeded
in restoring him to consciousness, and Fred
ric, who happened to be a young practitioner
of the medical art, proceeded at once
to dress his wounds.

Frederic Farley was a pale, noble looking
young man, with light blue eyes, light hair,
handsome and finely moulded features, and
a slight but athletic form. He was naturally
excitable and impulsive, but possessed of
sufficient self-command to govern his feelings
on most occasions. Although scarce
five-and-twenty years of age, he had already
graduated at two colleges, and commenced
the practice of his profession. Yet he was
poor, his new business being barely sufficient
to support himself and mother in their humble
country residence.

Mrs. Farley was a widow, whose greatest
fault was her pride; not pride in worldly
goods, not pride in her own qualities, not
pride of rank or faith, but pride in the only
being she loved on earth—her son. In her
blind devotion to him, she could not see a
fault in his character, nor believe but that he
approached as near perfection as it is possible
for mortals to do. Yet maternal tenderness
did not banish other feelings from her
nature, for she had the reputation of being
one of the most benevolent, kind, simple-hearted
creatures that heaven ever placed on
earth as a contrast to its coldness, selfishness
and deceit.

It was into such hands that the wounded
traveller had fortunately fallen; and such
were the two individuals who devoted their
cares and labors to relieve a stranger's pain
and to promote a stranger's comfort, as if he
had been an old and dearly beloved friend.

6. CHAPTER VI.
Who is the Stranger?

THE traveller was dangerously wounded,
yet Frederic Farley had no doubts of
his recovery.

`You must be quiet,' said the young practitioner,
`else the consequence of your misfortune
may be more serious than we imagine.'

`I put myself under your charge,' said the
traveller; `do with me as you like.'

He had seen enough of Frederic to be
convinced of his skill and judgment, and to
feel perfectly safe in his hands.

The young man colored slightly at the
compliment, and warned the stranger not to
place such reliance in his science as to think
no care was to be taken on his own part,
during his confinement from his wound.

After Frederic had made every necessary
arrangement for the comfort of his guest, the
latter begged of him one more favor.

`If it is not asking too much'—said the
traveller.

`Do not fear,' returned Frederic, `I am
ready to do anything for you in my power.'

`I reside for the present in Boston,' said
the traveller, `and would like to send there
to-night. Will you allow me to write a letter?'
he asked with a smile.

`Indeed!'

`Only three lines,' pursued the traveller.

Frederic brought a desk to the stranger's
bedside, and placed paper, pens and ink before
him. With an effort so strong that the
young doctor was alarmed, the wounded man
laid his right hand upon the desk and took
the pen. He wrote no more than a dozen
words, then, having signed his name he requested
Frederic to fold the latter.

`You can look at the signature,' said the
traveller.

Frederic glanced at the page, which he
perceived was written in French, and ran
his eye along to the signature.—

`Gustavus Burnam.'

It was the name of one Frederic already
knew by reputation, but whom he had never
seen before; and he could scarcely realize
that the fortunate adventurer who had lately
arrived at Boston, and was creating such a
sensation in the first society of that sober
town, was the inmate of his humble cottage.

`Gustavus Barnum!' he repeated, glancing
in surprise at his guest then turning his
eye upon the name again, `Am I mistaken?
You are the Barnum who has excited the
curiosity and wonder of the Yankees to a
degree—'

`You flatter me,' interrupted the stranger.
`There was some talk about me, it is true,
when I first arrived, but it was only because
the good people of Boston wanted something
to talk about. But that is all over with now.'

`Not quite, I should judge,' returned
Frederic, smiling, `for it was only yesterday
that I saw an article in one of the papers
which dwelt upon the originality and independence
of character of the princely Gustavus
Barnum.'

`All folly,' said Barnum with a smile.
`Because I am not like most people—but a
little eccentric perhaps—there are those foolish
enough to speculate about me, and look
upon my plain, straight forward course of
life as mysterious. It's all folly. Will you
have the goodness to pass me a pen?'

And Barnum with the greatest sang froid
imaginable, superscribed the letter. Frederic
had folded and handed it him again.

`If you can find a man to carry that to its
address to night,' said he, `I will reward
him handsomely and be obliged to you.”

Frederic, after calling his mother and giving
her a formal introduction to his guest,
left the house to send the letter to its address.

Mrs. Farley felt highly gratified to think
that her humble cottage was honored with
the presence of so remarkable an individual,
and her motherly pride was flattered to
have that individual an acquaintance and a
patient of her, son. Then how her eye sparkled
with delight, when she heard Burnam
speak of Frederick in terms of commendation
and respect!

`Oh! you do not know him yet!' she exclaimed.
`I am his mother, and may be
deceived,'—she had not the least idea that
she was, however—`but I am sure you must
like him better as you become acquainted
with him. He is too generous; that's his
greatest fault.'

`An amiable fault,' said Burnam, `if it is
one.'

`He will never allow that he is so himself,'
pursued Mrs. Farley; and she added, with a
smile of pride, `but you shall judge for
yourself, Mr. Burnam.'

At a glance Burnam read the character of
the lady before him, and saw her in all her
motherly vanity, simplicity, and kindness of
heart, as plainly as if he had known her for
years.

In a short time Frederick returned, and
his mother left the room.

`Mr. Farley,' said Burnam, `if I have
been rightly informed, there is a Mr. Acton
living at no great distance from here.'

`Henry P. Acton—'

`The same. I have heard of him, and
would like to know him. Although I don't
want it to get noised about that I am here,
if you could manage to induce Mr. Acton—
with whom you are acquainted, of course—'

`Certainly'

`If you can induce him to call here and
see a wounded traveler—you understand—
you would do me a great favor.'

`There would not be the least difficulty
in doing so—or even in getting the whole
neighborhood to flock here, if I were to mention
your name.'

`That would be the trouble—the whole
neighborhood! You see, I want nobody but
Mr. Acton, and him at all hazards. I hear
he has a beautiful wife?'

The features of the wounded man, usually
so stoical and firm, expressed uncommon
interest as Frederick was about to reply,
and his keen eye was fixed upon the young
man's face as if it would have read his
heart.

`His wife is a most amiable woman,' said
Frederick.

`Did you ever hear her maiden name?'
pursued Burnam.

`Maria Irving, I believe,' replied the other.

Burnam's features betrayed no emotion—
but his heart beat quicker than usual.

`Has she children?'

`A son—an only child.'

`Or other relations?'

`A sister, named Edith.'

`She is young, is she not?'

`About eighteen.'

`And beautiful?'

Frederick blushed as he replied, that she
was very fair. He seemed to know that his
patient could read his thoughts, and blushed
more deeply still. Upon which, he warned
Burnam not to over-exert himself talking,
and politely declined answering more questions.

`You should go to sleep,' said he.

`As I am to follow your directions scrupulously,
I shall do so,' said his patient.

He closed his eyes, and in less than two
minutes, Frederick had reason to believe he
was sleeping soundly.

Early on the following morning, a young
man appeared at the cottage, and inquired
for Mr. Burnam. He was a shrewd, active,
intelligent individual, who spoke with a
French accent, and with a plentiful sprinkling
of French words and idioms in his imperfect
English.

`I be his valet de chambre,' said he to
Frederick. `He send for me last night, and
I come for see him.'

Frederick spoke to his patient, and told
him of his visitor.

`Ah! it is Louis, my man,' said Burnam.
`Show him in.'

Louis entered the house, but never removed
his hat until he came into the presence
of his master.

Their conversation was brief, and in the
French tongue, which Burnam spoke fluently.
Louis heard his master's orders with
the most respectful attention, and bowing
low as when he entered, took his leave.

Shortly after this, Frederick left home,
and did not return again until noon. But
Burnam, during this time, was not alone.—

Mrs. Farley had been with him a portion of
the time, and about eleven o'clock he received
a visitor.

This was Mr. Acton. Burnam, who was
sitting in an easy chair, at a window, when
he entered, raised his black, piercing eyes
to his face, and in a moment had scanned
him from head to foot.

Mrs. Farley gave the two individuals an
introduction to each other, and mutual compliments
passed between them. Burnam
was very pale—more so, indeed, than before
his visitor entered—but he betrayed no
agitation.

`I am sorry for your misfortune,' said Mr.
Acton, `although it is owing to it that I have
the pleasure of making your acquaintance.
How many robbers attacked you?'

`Two,' replied Burnam.

And at Mr. Acton's request, he went on
to describe the robbers so minutely, that his
visitor, while he was astonished at his powers
of observation, was satisfied that one of
the highwayman was Gordon.

`Would the wretch had been killed!' tho't
he. `It would be one adder removed from
my path; but as it is, there is not only danger
of being robbed by him myself, but of
having my character ruined through his
treachery. One, you say, was quite young?'
he added, speaking aloud.

`I should judge him to be but little more
than twenty.'

`An accomplice!' thought Mr. Acton.—
`Heaven grant that he knows nothing of
the secret!'

Mr. Acton spent nearly an hour with his
new acquaintance, who exerted himself to
his utmost, without appearing to do so, however,
to please his visitor. In this, Burnam
succeeded so well that Mr. Acton was quite
fascinated, deeming him the most extraordinary
man he ever knew, and feeling much
flattered by the attentions and familiarity of
so remarkable an individual. When they
parted, Mr. Burnam urged his visitor to call
on him again that day, if possible; which
Mr. Acton promised to do.

No less than three times during the day,
was the sick man waited on by Louis, his
valet de chambre, who never remained with
him more than ten minutes at a visit.

Towards evening, Mr. Acton again appeared,
and once more gave himself up to
the fascinating conversation of his new acquaintance.
Burnam seemed to have read
him thoroughly, and to know precisely how
to interest, flatter, and please him. In the
course of their conversation, the sick man
skilfully alluded to Mr. Acton's family, and
without appearing at all anxious or interested
in learning particulars about them, induced
his visitor to dwell upon his domestic
affairs until he had discovered all he wished
to know. Little, indeed, did Mr. Acton
imagine that every word he uttered—aye,
his every look and action—was listened to,
and watched, with eager interest by his new
acquaintance, and weighed and noted down
in his heart among the things to be remembered.
Truly, that Burnam was a strange
and extraordinary man!

7. CHAPTER VII.
Discoveries.

IT WAS natural that Mr. Acton should
converse with his wife about the distinguished
stranger whose acquaintance he had
made, and it is by no means to be wondered
at that, knowing her husband's character as
she did, she should be surprised at the influence
Burnam already began to exert over
him, and should feel a lively curiosity to see
that remarkable individual. Both she and
her sister Edith were deeply interested in
his account of Mr. Burnam, and compared
it with sketches of him which they had seen
in the Boston papers.

Mrs. Acton had observed that her husband,
since his interview with Gordon, of
which she had not the slightest suspicion,
had been frequently lost in thought, and

wholly absorbed by dark reflections; and,
hoping to restore his spirits, she encouraged
his acquaintance with Mr. Burnam, whose
society was so fascinating and enlivening.

On the following day Mr. Acton visited
his new friend, but he spent a greater part
of it in Boston.

In the evening, true to his appointment
with Gordon, he was early at the place of
rendezvous, awaiting the burglar's arrival.

It was a pleasant night, although frequent
clouds obscured the moon, and cast their
dark shadows along the earth.

Mr. Acton walked impatiently to and fro,
for Gordon did not appear at the hour.—
Soon, however, a dark figure might have
been seen among the trees, stealing towards
the spot; and the next moment Acton and
his evil genius stood face to face.

`You've come at last,' said Acton, gruffly'
`When you play such stupendous games as
that, one would suppose you would be more
prompt.'

`Are you in a hurry to hand over that
snug little bribe?' asked Gordon, with a
sneer.

`I had a good will not to come here at
all,' said Acton, abruptly.

`Do you know what I would have done if
you hadn't?' asked Gordon, with a grin.

`Well?'

`I should have presented myself to your
wife!'

Mr. Acton turned upon his tormentor so
fiercely, and with a look of such terrible
passion, that the villain instinctivey started
back and raised his hand, as if to ward an
expected blow.

`Fear not,' said Acton, through his teeth,
and in a tone of bitter irony; `I can bear
your taunts—anything! I cannot resent
them! Oh! go on—there is no danger!'

Gordon did not go on, however, for the
strange manner of his companion made him
shiver with fear and dread. He saw how
desperate he had made his victim, and felt
sure that he would as soon take his life as
bear another taunt.

`Why should we be enemies?' he asked.
`We were once friends.'

`Friends! friends!' echoed the other,
with a scornful, bitter laugh; `ha! ha!'

`At least,' pursued Gordon, `we were
not at open enmity, and interest kept us together.'

`That time,' said Acton, `is at an end.—
We both profited by our former connection,
and you now come down on me as if I alone
had been benefited, and that at your expense.'

`Did you not gain by it more than I?'
demanded Gordon. `Was it not through
me that you won—'

The burglar checked himself, for Mr. Acton
turned upon him again so fiercely, that
he dare not utter the word that trembled on
his tongue.

`You think,' said Mr. Acton; `indeed
you said, that you have me in your power,
and that I dare not resent your insults. I
tell you I dare, and that you are in my power
rather than I in yours. How easy would
it be for me to shut you up in prison!'

`You!'

`For the affair of night before last. There
was a robbery—or, rather, an attempt—'

`Where?' interrupted Gordon, turning
pale.

`You need not pretend ignorance, for I
have proof you have no suspicion of. You
are the man who wounded Mr. Burnam.—
Don't attempt to deny it, for I know it. But
deal honorably with me and I will not expose
you. Answer me this question: are
you not a robber by profession?'

`A devil, perhaps,' replied Gordon; `but
that is nothing here nor there. You dare
not expose me, for you know my spirit.—
But let us be friends; the world has dealt
better by you than by me, and now that I
am poor, it is no more than right that you
should help me. Give me one thousand dollars,

and you shall never hear from me, or
be troubled by me again.'

`So you said twelve years ago,' returned
Mr. Acton. `But you have spent the money
I gave you then, and now you must have
more; and so it will be in ten years hence
if I give you money now. How do I know
when I am safe? What reliance can I place
on your word?'

`I swear that I will never ask you for
money again; and I never even promised
you this before. I pledged myself never to
return to you where you then lived, and that
was all. Now I swear never to demand anything
of you again, provided you grant me
this.'

Mr. Acton looked the robber full in the
face, as if with those keen, flashing eyes of
his, he would have pierced his soul.

`Can I trust you?' he demanded, looking
as if he would murder him if he lied.

`Yes,' answered Gordon, firmly.

`Then take this,' said Mr. Acton, putting
a package into his hand, `and remember
well what I tell you. If you ever cross my
path again in any way like this, I will kill
you as if you were a serpent or a dog!'

The two parted; not with friendly adieus,
but with curses on each other. Gordon
clutched the package with a grin of triumph,
and slunk away, glancing behind him, as if
he feared Acton would anticipate his perjury,
and carry his last words into execution.

With a heart filled with bitterness and
self-reproach, Acton strode back towards
his house, his hands clenched, and his teeth
pressed angrily against his bloody lips. He
was goaded to desperation.

Gordon, fearing lest Acton was not alone
in being convinced of his guilt, and nervously
anxious to get off with his prize, hastened
back to Boston. Not a little excited
by imaginary fears, he did not take a stage,
deeming it unsafe to come in contact with
more than one man at a time, but walked or
ran the whole distance to his house in Centre
street.

A dark figure had followed Gordon all
the way from Acton's house to his own miserable
abode, sometimes near, and sometimes
at a distance, but always keeping him
in sight; and now, while the burglar was
eagerly tearing open the package he had received
of Acton, anxious to know that there
was no deception, that dark figure turned
upon its heel and hurried back by the road
it came. Once more in the country, it passed
by Acton's house again, and by the very
spot where the interview we have described
took place, then hurrying onward still, arrived
at the door of Frederick Farley's
house.

A minute after, that figure was alone with
Gustavus Burnam in his apartment.

`Louis!' exclaimed Mr. Burnam, his eye
brightening; `you have brought good news
—let me hear it quickly.'

In the dark, mysterious visage that was
revealed to Burnam in the light of a lamp
that burned dimly upon the table, no stranger
could have read a single thought, or divined
from the expression there whether it
had feelings of triumph or despair; but
Burnam's penetrating eye discovered at a
glance that his servant was the bearer of
good tidings.

`I have seen a strange sight,' said Louis,
speaking in French—which we give in our
own English, not such as he would have
used.

`A strange sight, eh?' said Burnam, in
the same tongue. `What was it?'

`Le diable m'importe si je sais,' replied
the valet de chambre—`the devil may take
me if I know—but I will describe it to you.
Monsieur, and perhaps you can understand
it. I kept watch as you ordered—'

`Yes—'

`And followed Acton after I saw him go
out. He met another man in the orchard
and I overheard what was said, and saw all
that passed. I have found out who robbed
you night before last, and have learned
where one of the villains lives.'

And at the request of his master, who listened
to him with deep interest, Louis went
on to relate all he had seen and heard, comprising
nearly all that passed between Mr.
Acton and the burglar.

The intelligence was of more importance
even than Louis had anticipated. It mattered
very little with Burnam that he knew
who had attempted to rob him, but having
learned that there was some mysterious connection
between that individual and Mr. Acton,
he could not conceal his satisfaction.

`Tu as bien fait, Louis,' said he. `You
have done well. And now, if you will find
out who this robber is—for it is probable
Acton was right in charging him with being
such—if you will find out who he is, and
bring him in contact with me at some convenient
time, you will complete your good
work. If he is the man I suspect him to be,
judging from his conversation with Acton,
your discovery will be worth more to me
than any gold. Now leave me, for it is getting
late. Take good care of my apartments
in Boston, for I shall return to them
soon. I do not say this because I have ever
found you neglectful, but because your zeal
in my private business might cause you to
neglect matters of less importance. You
have done well, Louis, you can go.'

The valet de chambre bowed and withdrew.
There was no smile upon his face,
nor look of triumph in his dark eye; but in
his heart he felt more joy at the praise bestowed
upon him by the master whom he
loved, than the adulations of thousands could
have caused.

After he was gone, Gustavus Burnam sat
for half an hour in his easy chair, his hands
crossed upon his breast, his eyes closed, and
his whole frame as motionless as if he was
enwrapped in a deep sleep. At the end of
that time he started up, exclaiming with
more impatience than was his wont:—

`Would this wound were cured, for I long
to fathom this mystery! Yet it is owing to
the wound that I have discovered what I
have, and I ought rather to bless the accident
than curse my fortune. Henry Acton
—Maria Irving—the day of retribution is
at hand!'

8. CHAPTER VIII.
The Test.

The following day was warm and pleasant,
and Gustavus Burnam, for the first
time since his wound, walked out into the
open air, leaning upon Frederick's arm.

Without any previously expressed intention,
both, as if with one accord, directed
their steps towards Mr. Acton's house.

Burnam had already learned that Frederick
loved Edith Irving, and Mrs. Farley
had informed him that that lady was so blind
to exellence as to show a preference for the
Rev. Mr. Everett. Burnam saw how matters
stood at once; both the clergyman and
doctor would gladly have won Miss Edith,
but the former having been first and longest
at the siege, had made the greatest impression
on the citadel of her affections. She
liked them both, but if either had her love,
it was the preacher.

It so happened that Burnam and the young
physician met Everett at the house of Mr.
Acton. Edith and these three gentlemen
were at first alone together, and Burnam
had an opportunity of studying the characters
of the young lady and the two suitors,
and of comparing those of the young men.
He was not mistaken in the high opinion he
had formed of Edith, but found her an admirable
woman in every sense of the term.
With regard to Frederick, he liked him the
better the more he saw of him, and never
had he seen him to better advantage than in
the presence of her he loved. The clergyman
was intellectual, brilliant in conversation,
and easy in address; but Burnam, after
contemplating him long, set it down in
his mind that learned though he was, and
good though he appeared, he wanted the noble
qualities of his rival, and was less worthy
than he to be her accepted suitor.

In a short time Mr. Acton entered with
his wife, and introduced her to the distinguished
stranger.

Why was Burnam, who possessed such
self-command, so agitated then?'

None remarked his emotion, for, although
he was very pale, that fact was attributed to
his recent wound.

In a short time Burnam had recovered his
self-possession, and then he became the life
of the company. His conversation was varied
and easy, his wit brilliant, and his reflection
deep. He was near thirty-five years
of age, and a good portion of his life had
been spent in foreign lands, where he had
gathered a rich store of useful and entertaining
knowledge. Mrs. Acton and her
sister listened to his words enraptured; Mr.
Acton and Frederick, as they had always
done since they had made his acquaintance;
and even the Rev. Mr. Everett was obliged
to acknowledge the superior intellect and
extraordinary powers of the fascinating
stranger.

Burnam and Frederick Farley remained
only an hour at Mr. Acton's, but during
that short space of time the former had seen
more and reflected more than most men
would have done in years!

On the following morning Burnam visited
the Actons again, unaccompanied by
Frederick, and in the afternoon Louis, his
valet de chambre, came for him in a carriage,
and he returned to Boston.

At his hotel, he found his apartments in
order, Louis having made sumptuous arrangements
for the comfort of his master.—
The faithful servant was again rewarded by
the brief but cheering words which sounded
so sweetly to his ears when uttered by
Mr. Burnam—

`Tu as bien fait—you have done well!'

Burnam's apartments were of an extraordinary
character. In his library were books
of every description; grave and gay; scientific
and polite; historical and fictitious;
in many languages. And Burnam understood
them all.

In his cabinet were curiosities from almost
every quarter of the globe; natural
and artificial; rude creations of savages—
together with the most exquisite works of
art; old swords of curious workmanship,
and slender rapiers; delicate silettoes and
rude bowie-knives; rifles, pistols, and other
weapons of defence.

During his master's absence Louis had
neglected nothing, but had kept his wardrobe
as free from dust, the ottomans as scrupulously
clean, and every piece of silver or
steel as bright as if Burnam had been ever
there to overlook his work.

`You have done well,' repeated Burnam,
reclining amid the luxuries of his apartments.
`And now for the private matters
I have entrusted to your charge. I must
know whether this Gordon is indeed the
man I suspect him to be. There is one way
of ascertaining; can you be my agent in
this also?'

`I will try to serve you,' said Louis.

`One word,' pursued Burnam, `spoken
in the hearing of this Gordon, will give the
information I desire. It is a single name.—
If he starts at it, or betrays any emotion,
he is the individual I suspect. If, on the
other hand, he hears it as he would any other
name, with no emotion, I am wrong.—
You must repeat it in his hearing, Louis,
and report to me the effect it produces.'

The valet bowed, and waited for his master
to proceed.

Burnam then taught him to pronounce a
single word—a name—which the Frenchman
soon learned to speak as distinctly as
any in his own tongue.

`Now go, Louis,' said his master, `and be
cautious.'

From the luxury and splendor of Burnam's
residence we must now descend to one
of the lowest haunts in Boston—a grog-shop
in Ann street.

It was evening, and there was a goodly

company assembled in a low but spacious
room, which offered convenience for drinking,
dancing, and carousing. The walls
were smoky and disfigured, the windows
covered with dust which supplied the want
of curtains, and the floor exceedingly rough
and dirty, except in such places as had been
worn smooth by `hornpipes,' `pigeon-wings,'
and `double shuffles.'

The proprietor of this respectable establishment
was the fat, red faced, coarse looking
gentleman who stood in the bar dealing
out `drinks,' and eyeing his customers with
his bloodshot orbs of vision as the serpent
watches its prey.

The principal man in the room, the venerable
landlord excepted, was an old acquaintance
of the reader. Gordon had
money, and felt its value. Instead of using
the sum he had extorted from Mr. Acton
to some good purpose, or reforming and engaging
in some respectable business, the
grovelling wretch only became the more degraded
by its possession. He was not miserly,
yet he had ever concealed from Mag
Munson the fact that he had money, and
kept it carefully hid in a snug corner at
home. He used it freely, however, to the
glory of himself, and the infinite gratification
of his low companions.

On the evening in question he had been
drinking with his old associates, and treating
them until there were but few individuals
in the room who could conscientiously
be called sober.

Joe was Gordon's favored friend, for he
had kept his secret, and had not asked to
share his money; yet Joe was cautious, and
although repeatedly urged to drink, he scrupulously
kept within the bounds of sobriety.
He, too, had a part to play.

There were two other sober individuals in
that gay company, who deserve the attention
of the reader.

The most remarkable of these was a
young man who seemed made for better society.
There were no marks of dissipation
on his countenance, and his dress was in
some measure superior to that of his companions.
He wore heavy black whiskers,
and hair that quite conccaled his intellectual
brow; and his keen eyes were disguised
by green glasses.

This individual had the reputation of being
a `good fellow,' although a `hard nut,'
and of having `seen a thing or two' in the
world. His name was Marvin, and he it
was who had the satisfaction of knowing
that he had been the means of Kate Munson's
ruin. He had evidently seen good society,
but had either been expelled from respectable
circles, or sought the company of
the vicious for variety, and from choice.

The other individual we mentioned as being
sober, was none other than Louis, Burnam's
valet de chambre. He was sitting on
a low bench by the stove, looking about with
an air of reckless listlessness, as if he were
one of the company; but he was in fact disgusted
with the scene, and instead of gazing
around him with no object, he was
watching with a penetrating eye the actions
of Gordon and his associates.

Louis had been sitting on the bench alone
for some minutes, when Light Joe and Marvin,
the man in the green glasses, came and
sat down immedtately in front of him.

`Where is Kate, now?' asked Marvin.—
`Have you seen her lately?'

`Why do you ask about her?' returned
Joe, sullenly. `You care nothing about
her.'

`Oh, of course not,' said the other; `I
have given up my claims to you. Only, as
an old friend, I'd like to know where she
is.'

`Well,' said Joe, `I suppose there can be
no harm in telling you. You won't mention
it, I'm sure.'

Joe said something in a low tone, of
which Louis could distinguish only one
word—`Acton'—at which he started, and
leaned forward, in order to hear more distinctly.

`The fact of it is,' said Joe, `Kate is going
to reform;' and as he spoke he looked
Marvin full in the face, watching the expression
of his features with an eagle eye;
`she is really going to reform. Then you
see, when she gets to be a good respectable
girl, I shall adopt some sober profession—
the pulpit, perhaps—and marry her. What
d'ye think of that, eh? How would it sound
—the Rev. Joe Jenks and lady? or, perhaps,
I'd change my name, and be called—'

The next word Joe whispered in Marvin's
ear. What it was Louis could not tell, but
it was doubtless something potent, for the
man in the green glasses started as if a
dagger had pierced him, giving Joe a look
like that of a wounded snake. That look
was full of surprise, hatred, and revenge.

`What do you mean?' he asked in a moment,
having recovered his self-possession.

`Nothing in particular, of course,' replied
Joe, whittling a stick with his knife.
`Wouldn't that sound well? What do you
think?'

`I must postpone my answer until another
time,' replied Marvin, looking meaningly
at Joe. `I shall see you soon and have
a talk with you. Meanwhile, let me say if
you do get to be a minister, don't forget
me, your old friend.'

This was uttered in such a light tone that
Louis was thrown off his guard, and felt
that his first suspicions must have been without
foundation.

At that moment Gordon came that way,
to the great relief of Joe, who felt that he
was getting in deep water, and urged the
whole company to `step up and drink.'

`Plenty of money!' he exclaimed, jingling
some silver in his pockets—`good liquor—good
company—hurrah!'

Thus the inebriated fellow ran on, wild
with artificial joy, until, above his own voice
and the confused sounds about him, there
arose a full, deep ominous voice, that pronounced
a single word.

In an instant Gordon's joy was turned to
terror. He looked about him, shivering
with dread, his eyes starting from their sockets,
and his countenance deathly pale.—
Nobody seemed to have heard that voice
except himself, and none present to have
given utterance to that terrible word. Yet
he heard it plainly as if he himself had spoken
it, and could not be deceived.

Could it be that there was something supernatural
in it—that it was a warning,
which Heaven intended should recal to his
startled soul all his dark career of crime
and its fearful close?

9. CHAPTER IX.
`The Root of all Evil.'

GORDON sank upon the bench by the
side of Louis, who alone of the entire
company knew the cause of the sudden
change in the drunken man.

Half an hour afterwards, Louis was in the
presence of his master.

`I have succeeded,' said he, bluntly, without
the slightest expression of triumph on
his face.

`You spoke the word?' cried Burnam, eagerly.

`Yes.'

`And the effect?'

`One would have thought,' said Louis,
`that poison was mixed with the liquor he
had quaffed, and that the consequences were
sudden and fatal.'

`Louis!'

`Monsieur, he staggered like an ox that
the butcher strikes suddenly dead,' pursued
the valet. `I left him on the bench which
received his weight as he fell.'

`Louis!' said Burnam, his eyes flashing
with joy, `you have served me well. This
knowledge, which I owe to you, affords me
greater satisfaction than untold sums of gold
could do. Now all that remains for you to
accomplish, is to bring about an interview
between me and this Gordon, whom I must
see face to face.'

`That I will endeavor to do, Monsieur.'

`Then success is certain, Louis,' said his
master. `You are a host.'

When the valet had retired, Burnam paced
his room with rapid strides.

`Oh! I will clear up this mystery!' he
said—`then let the guilty beware!'

Let us return to Gordon and his companions.

For a moment the burglar lay upon the
low bench upon which he had fallen, in a
state of bewilderment, for the voice which
pronounced the fatal word seemed to have
come from Heaven. He was aroused by the
landlord—if the proprietor of such a grog-shop
merits the appellation—who struck
him rudely upon the shoulder.

`Come Gordon, what ails ye?' said the
red faced man. `You're as white as a toadstool!
and I'll be d—d if you doesn't
tremble! You hain't seen a ghost, hey?'

Gordon grasped his arm, and pulling him
eagerly towards him, whispered in his ear:

`You haven't seen one?'

`Ha! ha! no! I doesn't deal in them animals.'

`Nor heard one?' pursued Gordon, eagerly.

`What the devil d'ye mean?' cried the
bloated man, contemptuously. `Do you
mean to insult my honor by hintin' that I
keeps ghosts? D—n me if this hain't
too respectable an establishment for them 'ere
critters to ha'nt. But you're gassin' old
cock.'

`No,' said Gordon, `I feel sick.'

`Wall, that sounds better—that does.—
D'ye know what'll cure ye? A horn of
brandy, Gordon; a horn—a good stiff horn
—nothin' better.'

Gordon, now thinking the terrible word
he had heard was in his own imagination,
concluded to follow the red faced man's advice,
and stepped up to the bar to drink.

Meanwhile, in a retired corner of the establishment,
two individuals were conver
sing in a low tone. They were Marvin and
Light Joe.

`It is not for myself I ask it,' said Joe,
`but for her. You have been her ruin, and
it is no more than just that you should make
some amends. And this you must do! I
have taken her under my protection, and I
shall see that you do right by her. Give me
two hundred dollars for her, or give it to
her yourself, and we will never trouble you
more. Refuse at your peril!'

`But I have not that sum with me,' said
the man in green glasses. `Only give me
time—'

`You can get the money easy enough,'
interrupted Joe, `and you must.'

`When?'

`Before to-morrow night.'

`True as Heaven, I cannot!'

`So much the worse for you then!' exclaimed
Joe, `for mine is no idle threat!'

Marvin bit his lips in perplexity.

`One word more,' pursued Joe, buttoning
his coat and pulling his cap over his
face.

`Well.'

`I want you to understand that she has
nothing to do with this; and that if you attempt
to injure her in any way, it will be
ten times worse for you.'

So saying, Joe left the house.

`The devil is against me!' exclaimed the
man in green glasses. `Would I had killed
the girl a month ago! That would have
saved me from—ruin! That d—d Joe
will be sure to keep his word, unless I get
him the money. How shall I raise it? Ah!
I have it! Gordon has gold, and he is just
drunk enough to be desperate. I must win
of him.'

Gordon was talking with the bloated proprietor
of the establishment, across the greasy
counter. Marvin touched him on the
shoulder, and whispered in his ear.

`To be sure I will!' exclaimed Gordon.
`Ninepence the stake, did you say? I can
play higher than that, if you like.'

`Come on then,' said Marvin.

Five minutes after, the two were seated at
a small table in one corner, placed there expressly
for the accommodation of those who
chose to play at cards for small stakes, or
shake the dice-box.

`What will you play for?' asked Marvin,
shuffling the cards.

`For what you please,' replied Gordon,
with an air of recklessness.

Marvin laid down twenty-five cents.

The cards were dealt, they played, and
Gordon won. Upon which, the latter proposed
to double the stakes, to which his opponent
agreed. This time Marvin won, and
offered to bet a dollar on the next game.

At the end of half an hour the two stood
precisely as they did at the commencement,
but Marvin had succeeded in exciting his
opponent, and the stake had been raised to
five dollars.

That being rather higher playing than the
frequenters of this respectable establishment
were accustomed to witnessing, the
whole company crowded eagerly about the
players, watching the game with interest,
and casting avaricious glances at the money.

For some time the play went on with
nearly equal success, but at last Marvin began
to win, and in playing six games took
fifty dollars.

Gordon's face was flushed, his eyes twinkled
with excitement, and his fingers trembled.
He laid down ten dollars—it was the
last he had about him—and Marvin placed
ten beside it. The cards ran even, and the
players held nearly equal hands. The stake
depended upon the last trick that was taken.
Gordon played the king of trumps,
and from the way his opponent had played,
he made sure that he would not go above it,
but he was mistaken; Marvin threw down
the ace.

With an oath Gordon sprang from his
seat.

`Stop here till I come back,' he whis
pered in Marvin's ear. `I will win back
what I have lost, or I will lose more!'

`Very well.'

And Marvin quietly gathered up his money,
while Gordon rushed from the room. It
took the burglar but a minute to reach his
residence on Centre street, where he found
Mag Munson alone.

He threw down twelve and a half cents
upon the table, and ordered her to go out
and buy a bottle of whiskey. She saw that
all was not right with him, and at first refused
to go, but he uttered such a terrible
threat, and appeared so desperate and resolved,
that she took the bottle and left the
room. This was all Gordon wanted. He
hastily moved the cupboard from its place
against the wall, pried off with the shovel a
portion of the wainscoting, and took from
behind it a compact bundle. This he undid,
put about half the contents in his pocket,
and returning the remainder to the crevice
from which he had taken it, nailed up the
wainscot again, and put the cupboard in its
place.

All this time there was a pair of glaring
eyes in the dark passage beyond the door,
watching eagerly the movements of the burglar.
No sooner had Gordon replaced the
wainscot and the cupboard than those red
eyes disappeared, and a dark figure glided
down the stairs. It was Mag Munson.

Gordon hastened back to the spot where
he had left Marvin.

He found his opponent waiting, and soon
the play went on again as before. And once
more the burglar's brain was lost in a whirlwind
of excitement, of eager hope and nervous
fear, of alternate triumph and despair;
and once more the spectators crowded about
him, watching the game as closely as if they
too were concerned in the result.

Gordon lost—lost—lost!

`Shall we go on, or stop?' Marvin would
occasionally say, as he coolly added his winnings
to his increasing pile of money.

`Go on! go on!' the infatuated man

would exclaim. `It is all luck—every bit
of it—it will be my turn soon!'

But his turn never came!

In an hour the man in green glasses had
won from him more than three hundred dollars.
Gordon had but fifteen dollars remaining
in his pocket, and this he dashed upon
the table in a fit of desperation. He dealt
the cards himself, and caught them up eagerly
to see if his luck had changed.

A quiet smile passed over the features of
the man in the green glasses as he looked at
his cards, while Gordon dashed his upon the
table with an oath of rage.

`The money is yours,' said he, `but you
have cheated.'

`I have played fair,' said his opponent,
coolly.

`You lie!' thundered Gordon with a fierce
oath, shaking his fist at Marvin.

No sooner had he spoken than the man in
glasses was upon his feet, and laid Gordon
prostrate on the floor. He struck him down
as easily as if he had been a tottering child.

Stung to madness by the pain occasioned
by the blow, the burglar got up as soon as
he conveniently could in the scattered state
of his senses, and reeled towards his opponent.
The latter, having secured the money
so that the spectators could not easily
snatch it from him, in case there should be
a row, coolly folded his arms awaiting his
approach.

`For shame!' cried the gentlemanly proprietor
of the shop. `This is too bad!—
What! a fight in my respectable establishment!
Who'd ha' tho't it? No, no! 'twon't
do, no how!'

With these words, the red faced man
caught Gordon's arms, and restrained him
from doing further damage to the reputation
of his house—and the person of the man in
glasses.

The burglar saw his error in a moment,
and instead of making any hostile demonstration
towards his opponent, defied him to
await his return and play with him again—
adding fiercely that he would lose all, or win
all back once more.

Once more he entered his abode in Centre
street, and found Mag there again alone.
He cared not now if she did discover the
place where his money was concealed, for
it was his intention to take the last dollar.

Mag was sitting by the cupboard.

`Get away!' he muttered, fiercely.

His brow was black, his face flushed, his
eyes swollen and bloodshot, and his demeanor
throughout was that of a desperate villain.

Mag dared not disobey.

The burglar removed the cupboard and
once more wrenched away the wainscot.—
He thrust his hand into the cavity—

The money was not there!

With an oath he bounded upon Mag—
struck her to the floor—and grasped her
throat.

`You've got the money!' he thundered,
shaking her fiercely, and choking her till
her face was black. `Tell me where it is,
or you die!'

`The cupboard—the top shelf—' gasped
Mag.

The burglar bounded to the cupboard and
ransacked it, searching eagerly for the money;
then with a howl of disappointment and
rage, he turned fiercely about, and would
have struck the woman dead that instant.

But she was gone!

10. CHAPTER X.
The Sequel.

DURING Gordon's absence, the man in
glasses treated the whole company, and
drank himself, though with great moderation.
He waited long for the burglar, but
that individual not making his appearance,
he began to think he should not have the
pleasure of winning any more money from
him that night, and proposed to take his
leave.

`You doesn't go I hope without giving the
company all one more nipper,' observed the
red-faced proprietor of the establishment.—
`Gen'lemen should be gen'rous, when they
makes sich winnins as you have here to-night.'

And the speaker began to set glasses and
liquor upon the counter, taking it for granted
Marvin would act in accordance with his
friendly and disinterested suggestion.

At that moment, even the red-faced proprietor
himself, who prided himself on his
coolness, was startled by an unexpected incident.

Gordon burst into the room, pale, haggard
and perfectly desperate. He fixed his eyes
at first on Marvin, and did not look aside as
he advanced, but gazing at him with a look
of determined revenge, approached and
grasped his arm.

`I have lost all!' he whispered fiercely;
`not by you, but it has been stolen! You
must lend me now fifty dollars, to give me a
chance to win back what I have lost; and if
I lose that, I will repay you within a week.'

`I am sorry for you,' said the man in
glasses, coolly lighting a cigar and giving
the landlord change, `but I am no Jew—I
never lend money. I should be happy to
win another fifty from you, it is true, but I
could not think of lending it to you for the
purpose. So you will have to wait till some
other time, my good fellow—when you get
that fifty, for instance.'

Gordon, deathly pale, fairly trembled with
rage, but Marvin kept his keen, dark eye
upon him, which awed him and kept him
quiet. Marvin stepped boldly towards the
door, regardless of the dark looks not only
of Gordon, but of the whole avaricious,
desperate crew that coveted the money they
knew that he possessed.

Marvin passed down Ann street, until he
came to a long, narrow court, formed by a
mass of low, old fashioned, disagreeable
houses, which seemed ashamed to front the
street. Approaching one of these, and using
his knuckles as a knocker on the door,
he aroused an old woman, who appeared
with a light. She was a little, dried up,
sharp-featured specimen of humanity, that
had passed, by considerable, the middle age,
and appeared to have tallied her years upon
her face in wrinkles.

`Who now?' she cried, sharply. `There's
somebody always disturbin' us quiet, harmless
people, just at this time o' night—and
who is it this time, I'd like to know?'

`Hold your clatterer, old one,' returned
the man in glasses with an oath. `I am no
policeman; so don't try to appear needlessly
respectable, for I know you, hag—is Joe at
home—Joe Jenks?'

`He ought to be at this time of night, I
hope!' snarled the old woman.

`Very good; I want to see him.'

`It's too late—you can't come in—'

At that moment Marvin slipped a small
piece of silver in the woman's hand.

`Oh! it is you, is it?' she pursued, quite
pleasantly. I didn't know you afore. Come
in, do. Don't stumble over them chunks
of wood.'

And she held the light with the kindest
condescension to facilitate Marvin's entrance.

`Joe! Joe!' she screamed in the passage.

`Who the devil wants Joe, cried a sharp
voice from above, where all was dark and
gloomy.

`A gentleman what wants to see you!'

answered the old woman in a shrill key.—
`So open your door and show a light, or he
will break his neck gittin' up stairs.'

Shortly after, at the head of a dilapidated
staircase, there appeared a dim lamp, and
then the face and shoulders of Light Joe
protruded from a hole in the wall.

`Come up if you want to see me!' cried
Joe, `for it isn't convenient for me to come
down. Who are you? what the devil are
you after?'

Without answering, Marvin stumbled up
the creaking staircase.

`Good!' exclaimed Joe, recognizing him.
`Come in.'

To obey this last injunction, the man in
glasses had to stoop very low and make his
body very small, in order to accommodate
his dimensions to those of a cramped and
narrow passage, that must be passed by
those who would enter Joe's apartments.—
With some difficulty he succeeded in crowding
his body through, and was soon in the
sanctum sanctorum of the young burglar.

The room was much more comfortable
than one could have expected before enterit;
Joe having overlooked the inconvenience
of getting access to it, in view of the accommodations
of the interior. It was somewhat
dirty and contracted, it is true; and the
walls were very much worn; the floor rough
and bare; but, as Joe remarked to his visitor,
`what better could be expected on such
reasonable terms?'

There was but one chair in the room.—
This Joe shoved along the floor to Marvin;
he himself sitting on the bed.

`I have got some money for you,' said the
visitor.

`The d— you have!' exclaimed Light
Joe, starting to his feet. `How much?'

`One hundred dollars. That's all I could
raise.'

`It ain't enough!'

`I can't help it. If that don't suit you,
I'll not give you a cent.'

`Very well,' said Joe, with a toss of the
head. `If that's the case, you can crawl
through that hole again as quick as you
like. I must have two hundred, or you are
a ruined man before two days are over.'

`D— you!' exclaimed Marvin, impatiently.
`You are a snake—a blood-sucker
—a pest! But you shall have no more
than one hundred from me, I swear!'

Joe was firm. Marvin was at last obliged
to come to his terms. He gave the young
burglar two hundred dollars, for which Joe
gave a receipt, pledging himself to pay it
over to Kate, and never to trouble Marvin
again. This gentleman knew Joe to be an
honorable rogue, and a man of his word;
and felt in consequence much more at his
ease than before he paid him the money.

`Now,' said Joe, clutching the money eagerly,
`I'd like to know by what miracle
you came by this to-night.'

`Cards!'

`From whom?'

`Your particular friend, Gordon.'

`The deuce you did!' exclaimed the
young burglar in surprise. `You gulled him
then straight! I knew he had money, and
thought he'd keep it, but the poor devil
can't, it seems. Did you take all he had?'

Marvin gave Joe a full account of the
game, and repeated what Gordon had said
about a part of his money being stolen.

`I hope not,' said Joe; `that would be
too bad. He was so smart in getting it.—
But if he has lost it all, what a rich joke it is
all round; the cream of which is, I have a
couple of hundred for Kate, whom I shall
marry some day!'

Joe's mind was occupied with these agreeable
reflections as his visitor once more
crowded his body through the hole and groped
his way down stairs into the street.

Scarce had Marvin left the court when a
man closely muffled about the face issued
from the shadow of a house where he had
lain in wait, and stepping softly and cautiously
behind him, followed him along the
street.

It was near midnight, and the streets were
for the most part deserted; yet the spy followed
Marvin so carefully, and at such a
respectful distance, that although they were
frequently the only two passing, the man in
glasses did not suspect that he was the object
of pursuit.

They passed through several streets, and
still the spy came no nearer Marvin; but at
last the latter entered a dark, narrow, and
deserted alley, and in an instant the other
bounded to his side.

Marvin had keen ears, and was on his
guard. He wheeled about at the moment
the robber aimed a blow at his head with a
`slung shot,' and grasped his arm. A struggle
ensued, in which the robber drew his
knife, but before he could make use of it,
Marvin struck him senseless to the ground.

`I expected something like this,' said the
man in glasses, and he coolly dragged the
robber back to the entrance of the alley.—
`The fool might have known I would be on
guard, and that it would take more than one
to rob me. But who have we here?' he continued,
as he pulled the man towards the
light. Just as I thought—Gordon!'

The burglar staggered to his feet, Marvin
still holding him by the throat.

`Kill me and done with it!' muttered
Gordon. `I meant to have done the same
by you. I am mad to night, and would as
lief die as live.'

`I should think so!' returned Marvin.—
`You must be insane. What the devil do
you mean by coming upon me in this manner?'

`You have got all my money!' replied
Gordon, sullenly. `I meant to take back at
least a part of it, for I haven't a penny in
the world. I have lost a thousand dollars
this night—and all by foul means! You
cheated me and another robbed me!'

`Wretched simpleton!' exclaimed Marvin,
`you scruple not to rob others, and are driven
mad when robbed yourself. You win
giadly from others, but when you lose, you
attribute it to foul play. Now let me advise
you to go your way and be quiet, and to bear
your losses like a philosopher. In the morning
you will be sober, and be ashamed of
this. Good night.'

With these words, Marvin disappeared in
the dark passage, leaving Gordon rooted to
the spot. The burglar ground his teeth with
rage, and shook his clenched hand at the
retreating figure, but dared not follow the
powerful man again.

After a pause of some minutes, he turned
sullenly away and stalked back to his home
in Centre street.

Arrived there, he found the door of his
apartments locked and bolted on the inside,
and he could not enter. He struck the
clattering pannels with his fist, and with a
savage oath called upon whoever might be
within to open. No voice replied.

`By —!' thundered Gordon, stamping
the floor till the house jarred; `it is you.
Meg, in there; and if you don't open. I'll
break down the door, and crush you to atoms!'

Still there was no answer.

With all the force hatred and determined
rage supplied, the burglar threw himself
against the door. The lock was burst away
—the bolts cracked—the door swung upon
its hinges—but a strong chain clanked
across the entrance, preventing the door
from opening more than just sufficient to allow
him to look through the crack into the
room.

By the light of a lamp burning within, he
saw Meg Munson, standing erect in the centre
of the apartment, a smile of triumph on
her grim features, and a glittering knife in
her strong right hand. In her left she held
a small bundle over the hot coals in the uncovered
stove.

With a yell of rage Gordon saw that it
was a bundle of bank-notes.

`Back!' screamed the woman, glaring at
the red eyes that gleamed through the crevice
of the door, and brandishing the knife.

`If you break through I'll drop these bills
into the fire and stab you with this knife!'

Gordon ground his teeth with rage, but
dared not force the door, knowing as he did
the terrible temper of the woman within.

`Here,' pursued Meg, shaking the bank-notes
over the coals, is your half of the money.
I have taken my share because you did
not offer it to me willingly; and it is where
you will never find it unless I point out the
spot where it is hidden. Promise not to
harm me, and you shall come in and have
your money; and if you behave yourself,
you may have the rest some day.

For some minutes Gordon made no reply,
but Meg could see a pair of fiery eyes in the
dark passage without the door, and she could
hear him grind his teeth and foam at the
mouth. His rage was terrible, and she
knew it well, but she knew too that when
he saw her firm it would subside.

She was not mistaken. In a short time
Gordon spoke to her again, asking her to
let him in, and soon, promising all she required,
he entreated her to put up the knife
and undo the chain that barred his entrance.
She then spoke kindly yet friendly to him in
return, and handed him the money through
the crevice, which he clutched as the hungry
lion does his prey.

When she saw him perfectly sober she
took away the chain and let him in, still
holding in her strong hand her keen weapon
of defence, and warning him not to break
his promise.

Gordon threw himself heavily upon a
chair, and with his money grasped in his
brawny hands, and his brow gathered into a
frown, sat for half an hour gazing fiercely
and silently at the dying embers in the
stove.

Meg, meanwhile, leaving him alone, went
into Kate's room, and threw herself upon the
bed to sleep, with the knife still clutched in
her hand.

11. CHAPTER XI.
The Housebreaker.

IT WAS towards noon of the day succeeding
the night on which the incidents
we have related took place, that Light Joe
boldly made his appearance at Acton Hall,
and inquired for Kate. The girl came forward
on hearing his voice, and conducted
him into the kitchen, where they were
alone.

The young burglar gave her a full account
of the incidents of the preceding night,
and dwelt at length on his interview with
Marvin. He had seen Gordon who had related
to him all his troubles, and consulted
about making an immediate attack upon the
hidden treasures at Acton Hall. It was on
this important business, chiefly, that Joe had
come to visit Kate, that final arrangements
might be made for the robbery; and it was
also to bring the girl the glad intelligence
that Marvin had given her two hundred dollars,
which he, Joe, had put in the bank in
her name.

Kate was in good spirits, and the presence
of the reckless youth she loved inspired
her to be as reckless as himself. Her
better feelings were smothered in her heart
as she coolly plotted with the young burglar
for the robbery of her master.

She put into his hands the keys she had
found to fit certain locks, and giving him
concise directions where to find money,
plate and other valuables, let him fully into
the plan of the house.

`Recollect, Kate,' said Joe, `that you
must know nothing about the affair. You
will, of course, be asleep while we break into
the house without any of your assistance.
Lock and bar the doors carefully before going
to bed, so that none can suspect that you
have anything to do with the robbery. We
must enter the kitchen first, for that window
will be easily raised, there being only a

spring and a button to fasten it. But the
dog?'

`I was just going to speak to you about
Pluto,' said Kate, `and ask if you could
send me some sure poison this afternoon.'

`I always come prepared for such emergencies,'
replied Light Joe, producing a
small package from his vest pocket. `One
quarter of this is sure—if Pluto takes it, he
will go to the shades of his namesake instanter.'

`I feed him,' said Kate, `and I will see
that he takes the dose. But won't I be suspected?'

`By no means. He'll die suddenly, and
nobody will mistrust that he was poisoned
till after the robbery takes place; then it
will be said that the burglars managed to
dose the dog and get rid of him before-hand.'

`Very well,' said Kate; `the dog shan't
trouble you. What time have you set for
the work?'

`We shall probably be here at one or
two o'clock to-night. I hope the family
will enjoy a good night's rest!'

Soon after Light Joe took his leave, having
every thing prepared for the burglary.

Kate did not allow her conscience to
trouble her for her black-hearted treachery,
but stifling it when it would have chidden,
determined boldly to carry out the work she
had commenced.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, Mr.
Acton's coachman came to the house in great
haste, informing the family that Pluto was
acting strangely, appearing to be in great
pain. Mr. Acton went to the kennel with
the man, and found the dog just in the agonies
of death.

Ten minutes after, Edith, Irving and Mrs.
Acton went out to look at the faithful animal,
that had just breathed his last. Kate
and Mrs. Barnes also stole into the yard to
get a glance at him.

`What can have been the matter with
him?' Kate heard Edith ask of Mr. Acton.

`He has been poisoned!' replied his master.

`Who could do such a deed?' exclaimed
Mr. Acton with a shudder.

Kate became pale as death, and would
have fled, but Mrs. Barnes drew her along
towards the dead animal, and she dared not
resist.

`It is impossible to say,' replied Mr. Acton;
`some secret enemy perhaps—or rather,'
he added quickly, `villains who mediate
a robbery, and would have the dog out of
their way.'

Kate trembled violently.

`What is the matter, Catherine?' asked
Mrs. Acton, glancing at her as she came
up.

`Poor Pluto!' she murmured.

`Ah! you are a kind-hearted girl,' said
Edith, `and I knew you loved the dog. But
you are pale.'

`Mr. Acton spoke about robbers,' put in
Mrs. Barnes, coming to the girl's relief. `It
makes me shudder to think of them, myself.'

`I shall be prepared for them to-night, and
for several nights to come,' said Mr. Acton,
turning away. `You will look well to the
doors and windows, Mrs. Barnes.'

Kate was agitated, fearing no longer her
own detection, but the failure of the enterprise
of her accomplices, and their arrest.
There was no way to send them word to
warn them of their danger, and no way she
could devise to throw Mr. Acton off his
guard.

Towards night she saw Mr. Acton give a
pair of pistols to Stevens, the coachman, telling
him to scour them and make them ready
for use. She began to fear not only the
arrest of her friends, but she trembled to
think Joe might lose his life. And still she
could think of no way to warn him of the
danger!

At a late hour the anxious girl retired—
not to sleep, but to pass a night, of terror

and suspense, expecting, as she did, to bear
at every moment the report of pistols, and
the noise of bloody combat.

The family had all retired save Mr. Acton,
who now went about the house, carefully
examining all the locks and bolts, and
window springs, to see that all was fast.—
Having done this, and satisfied himself that
it would be no easy task for robbers to enter
the house, he placed his pistols on a stand
within his reach, and threw himself in an
easy chair by his wife's bedside.

Meanwhile, true to their purpose, Gordon
and Joe Jenks were pushing forward to perpetrate
the contemplated robbery.

It was a night well suited to their purpose
—dark, cold and windy. Although they
imagined that the roughness of the night
would drown in its continual clamor all lesser
sounds occasioned by their work, they
were not the less cautious or silent on that
account.

It was past two when they arrived at Mr.
Acton's house, and Joe conducted his companion
at once to the kitchen window in
the rear, upon which they intended to make
the first attack.

`Be devilish sly,' whispered Joe, as he
turned to his accomplice, after pointing out
the window in question; `and be ready with
your knife—for if the dog should'nt be
dead—'

`I'll manage him,' muttered Gordon.

The window was very low, and the burglars
had an excellent opportunity of effecting
an entrance in that quarter.

Gordon took from a bag he carried with
him several instruments, and handed them
to Light Joe, who being the more skillful of
the two, naturally took the lead.

In a hasty, yet in the most delicate and
noiseless manner, Joe removed a pane of
glass, and gave it to Gordon to dispose of.
The moment after the young burglar inserted
his hand terough the vacant square, and
with the same despatch and stealth, took
away the fastenings and raised the window.

`Wait for me here,' he whispered to Gordon,
`until I can explore the premises.—
This would be a tight place to leap through
in a hurry, and we must have a front door
open, in readiness, in case of alarm.'

So saying, the young burglar crept cautiously
through the window, and placed his
feet upon the floor. He wore India-rubbers,
and his step was as noiseless as that of a
cat, as in the midst of the impenetrable
darkness, he groped his way to the interior
of the house.

He was soon in the hall; no longer erect,
but creeping like a serpent along the floor;
and then his hand was upon the door.—
With the utmost caution he withdrew the
bolts, turned the key which had been left in
the lock, and noiselessly essayed to ascertain
if the door would open.

The next moment the cold night air breathed
through the narrow crevice into the
Hall. Leaving the door so that it could be
easily opened, Joe crept back to the kitchen
to inform Gordon of his success.

`Come on now with the bag,' he whispered.
`Softly! or our plans are knocked in
the head at once! Follow me!'

`Joe!' whispered Gordon, pulling him by
the sleeve.

`What?'

`Remember what I told you about your
pocket light. Don't spring it if you can get
along without. Now go on.'

A minute after both burglars were in the
hall. It was pitchy dark, and Gordon felt
as much lost as if he had been in the catacombs
of Egypt. Joe having led him to
hall door, however, and back again to the
door which opened into the rooms it was
his intention to visit, he began to feel quite
at home, and anxious to go about his work.
He now knew about as much of the house
as his young companion, Joe's knowledge of
the apartments having been obtained entirely
from the explanations of Kate; yet the
most delicate part of the work was left to
the young burglar.

Leaving Gordon near the hall door, Joe
once more set out to explore the ground of
his proposed operations.

Gordon knew that Joe entered another
room, and that the door through which he
passed was open. Yet so silent was every
thing throughout the house that he doubted
whether his companion had stirred half a
dozen feet from the door. He waited for
him full ten minutes, hearing no sound save
that of the hoarse winds without, and the
monotonous tickings of a clock in one of
the inner apartments. Once he heard, or
fancied he heard, the grating of a lock, but
it might have been anything else but that—
the cocking of a pistol he thought.

At last, when Gordon was little thinking
his companion was moving near him, there
was a light touch upon his knee, and he
heard a suppressed whisper.

`Here is a bag of gold—it must be gold
—I found in the chest Kate spoke of. I
could find no money in the drawers. Put
this lump in your bag, and I'll search for
the plate. Then if we're prospered, I'll venture
into Acton's bed-room, and rifle his
pockets.'

`Go on,' said Gordon, `I leave it all to
you.'

Once more Joe crept along the carpeted
floor, noiselessly and slow, and Gordon was
left alone in the hall.

Five minutes more passed, and he returned
with his hands full of silver-ware—salvers,
vases, plates and spoons.

`This is not all,' he whispered, as Gordon
slipped it into his bag. `Kate said it was a
good haul, and she was right.'

And he returned again to his work.

Acton! watchful man! art thou sleeping
now, whilst the villains thou didst prepare
thyself to meet are robbing thee of thy riches?

Joe's last expedition was as successful as
the other, and he had the pleasure of putting
into the hands of Gordon a load of silver
no less valuable than the first.

`This is the last,' said Joe. `Now we
must venture on more dangerous ground—
Acton's private apartments. Leave your
bag at the door, Gordon, when you can catch
it up as you pass out—for I charge you with
that—and follow me. If Acton should
awake, both of us could master him in an
instant, and dash out of the house with our
booty; while one alone would stand a fair
chance of meeting with unpleasant opposition.

Gordon obeyed, and was soon groping his
way behind Joe, towards the sleeping chamber
of Mr. Acton. Arrived at the door, Joe
arose slowly to his feet, and cautiously tried
the latch. The door was not locked, and
Joe pushed it slowly open. In an instant he
started back in surprise on seeing a light
burning in the room. It gleamed through
the doorway upon him, and by its dim rays
the burglars looked at each other, but too
bold to retreat, they resolved to see what
dangers lay in their way.

Joe pushed the door open still farther,
and gazed within. Thore sat Mr. Acton in
his arm-chair, sleeping, and upon the table
by his side lay his pistols, ready for use.—
Upon the bed lay a beautiful woman, at
sight of whom Gordon's features lit up with
a diabolical smile.

He had seen that fair countenance before,
and strange associations were called up by
the view. She was sleeping, like her husband.
Gordon glanced at her for a moment,
then turned to Light Joe, beckoning him to
go on.

Creeping close to the carpet once more,
the young burglar entered the bed chamber,
and approached the table. The lamp burned
dimply, and with a wave of his hand he
made the flickering flame leap up, and fall,
and quiver, as if it scarce could cling to its
parent wick. He touched it, and the room
was in total darkness.

It was Joe's intention to break open a
strong chest in the room, before doing which
he thought it best to remove the pistols from

Acton's reach. He touched one—he laid it
carefully on the floor under Acton's chair—
he felt for the other to put it in his own
pocket, when, with a sudden spring, Acton
bounded to his feet.

Joe darted towards the door, and Acton,
firing at random in that direction, made the
whole house ring with the sharp report, and
saw by the pistol's flash the retreating forms
of the two burglars.

He rushed upon them. With the lightness
of a cat Joe darted through a side
door; then, in order to divert the pursuit
towards himself and enable Gordon to escape
with the booty, he stumbled along towards
the kitchen, where all was dark and
silent. He heard no sound in all the house,
for the flying footsteps of Gordon and their
pursuer had suddenly ceased.

The young burglar leaped through the
window and escaped alone.

12. CHAPTER XII.
The Spectre.

For several minutes, Light Joe prowled
about the house, waiting for his accomplice
to appear. He waited in vain. The
burglar had either got off before him, else
he was detained by unaccountable circumstances
in the house. Still, all within was
silent and dark; and Joe was on the point
of entering the hall to carry off the booty,
which Gordon, even had he escaped, could
not have taken with him, when, glimmering
through the curtains in various parts of the
house, he saw lights, several in number, moving
to and fro.

Still there was no sound; and hoping Gordon
had got off before him, the young burglar
hastened from the spot.

His accomplice was less fortunate. Instead
of finding his way safely into the hall,
and thence into the open air, confused by
Joe's escape towards the kitchen, Gordon attempted
to follow him, trusting to his young
companion to lead him safely to the hall
door. In the darkness he neither found the
kitchen nor the hall, but rushed blindly on,
until, reaching a back doorway, he took a
terrific leap, and went whirling over and
over—down—down—striking against jagged
walls, projecting timbers, and rough-hewn
planks, and falling with a heavy jar upon a
cold, solid, earthy floor.

For more than a minute, he lay like a
corpse upon the ground, motionless as if every
bone in his body had been crushed by
the fearful fall. At last, with a groan, he
lifted his hand to his bursting forehead, then
slowly raising himself to a sitting posture,
rolled his strained eye-balls in their aching
sockets, and stared at the rayless gloom of
the black chaos into which he had fallen.—
All was dark and noiseless as the tomb.

Where was he? A faint recollection of
stepping blindly upon a floorless space, and
of being hurled headlong down, broke upon
his mind, and then came the startling remembrance
of the manner in which he had
met with the terrible fall. The truth flashed
upon him. He had fallen into a deep,
dark, dismal cellar.

Fortunately no bones were broken, and in
a few minutes he began to recover from the
shock. Feeling for his pocket lantern, he
was rejoiced to find that it had not been
crushed. He hesitated before he opened it;
then he let a ray of bright light stream into
the surrounding blackness, pointing out the
horrors of his situation, and closed the lantern
again in a moment.

He was in the midst of barrels, bins and
boxes, stone jars and iron bound casks, all
of which were surrounded by cold and mouldy
walls, that showed, as the beam of light
quivered around upon them, innumerable
pearls of sparkling frost upon their jagged
sides. Above him, arose a steep flight of
stairs, down which he had been precipitated;
and on either side, cut in the top of the wall,
were narrow grated windows. At the right
was a ponderous plank, locked and defended

by heavy bars of iron.

Gordon was debating in his mind which
of three things he should do; endeavor to
escape into the open air through the plank
door; to dash boldly up the stairs, and striking
down all opposition, rush from the
house; or to lie secreted among the boxes
and casks until a more convenient time;—
when a circumstance caused him to decide
on adopting the latter course.

A light appeared at the head of the stairs,
then there was a sound of footsteps on the
topmost plank. Gordon crouched down behind
a group of barrels, awaiting the approach
of the nocturnal visitor.

Slowly down he came into the dismal cellar;
a glaring light in his left hand, and a
pistol grasped in his right; his features
deathly pale, yet his lips compressed, and
his eyes flashing with determined courage.

It was Mr. Acton!

Scarce had he reached the foot of the
stairs, and taken three steps upon the cold
earthy floor, looking cautiously about him,
when, suddenly starting from the shadows
which the flickering light failed to penetrate,
there arose before him the grim and ghastly
features of the burglar.

For an instant those two men, between
whom there was such a mysterious connection,
stood gazing at each other, motionless,
pale and speechless as two marble statues.
Then with a deadly fire flashing in his eye,
Acton leveled his pistol at Gordon's breast,
his features working with an expression of
determined hatred: yet he did not fire.

Gordon stood proudly up before him, his
arms folded upon his broad chest, and a
scowl of defiance darkening his brow.

`Fire—and be d—d forever!' muttered
the burglar, without moving a muscle. `You
dare not! for, look you, she would surely
have a curiosity to behold the corpse of the
daring robber—and think you she would not
recognize me? Fire—if you dare do such
a murder!'

Acton dropped the weapon by his side, biting
his lips with rage.

`It is well you spoke of her,' he whispered
hoarsely, `else I had blown your heart
out, as I once threatened to do if you ever
crossed my path again. Damnable villain!
was it not enough that you extorted a thousand
dollars from me by treachery? But
you shall suffer for this!'

`How so?' sneered the robber. `Will
you keep me a prisoner now that you have
me in your power? Ha! ha! I'd laugh to
see you attempt a thing like that. A prisoner!
Know that prisoners have influence in their
way, and that mine would be a terrible one,
should I exert it against you. Could I no
contrive to communicate with her? Ha!
ha!'

It was a hoarse laugh and a ghastly smile
that shocked the senses of Mr. Acton, for
the burglar, not yet recovered from his fall,
was feeble and pale as a corpse The light
trembled in Acton's clenched hand, and the
muscles of his face worked with the conflicting
emotions of his breast, as the dauntless
robber thus hurled defiance in his teeth with
the assurance that he durst not resent the
insult.

`Have done with your foolish boasting!'
muttered Acton, with fierce impatience.—
`Tell me what you would have.'

The robber smiled disdainfully.

`Since, instead of getting off with my
booty, I have tumbled into this hellish pit, all
I can ask is, that you conduct me safely into
the open air, and promise to do your utmost
to get me free, should I unfortunately
be arrested.'

Acton ground his teeth with rage at the
thought that he could do no less than favor
the escape of a villain who, having already
done so much to injure him, would on the
present occasion have robbed his house.—
He felt forced to let him go.

`Come,' growled the burglar, `if you act,
act quickly. Go up and see that the way is
clear, then when all is ready, come down

and let me know, and I'll make my exit.'

Acton returned up the stairs with the
light, and finding nobody in the room above
save Stevens, who had sprung out of bed
the moment there was a pistol fired, he managed
to send him away, and returned to
the cellar.

`Now, begone!' he exclaimed, grasping
the robber by the shoulder; `begone! and
never,' he added in a hoarse whisper, shaking
him fiercely; `never, if you value your
life, cross my path again. I'd rather kill
you, and suffer the worst that could happen,
than be thus maddened by suspense. Remember
my words and begone!'

With a grim smile of triumph, Gordon
turned away, and reeling from the stunning
effects of his fall, staggered to the staircase
which he climbed, watched by Acton, who
held the light to assist his escape.

The burglar had disappeared above, and
Acton was beginning to breathe quite easily,
when a shriek and a fall on the floor
above awakened his worst fears. With headlong
haste he mounted the stairs, and rushed
into the room from whence the shriek had
come.

His wife lay senseless on the floor, with a
broken lamp beside her on the carpet. Acton
raised her in his arms, calling loudly
for help. In a moment Edith Irving was by
her side, and Mrs. Barnes, Kate and the
coachman soon crowded into the room.

Mrs. Acton, restored to consciousness,
cast a wild and haggard look about her,
shuddering at the sight of her terrified
friends, and clasped her husband's hand
conclusively. They placed her in an easy
chair, and she soon recovered her faculties
sufficiently to speak.

`Stay with me,' she whispered to her husband.
`Let the rest go.'

Edith and the servants left the room.

`Did you see it?' asked Mrs. Acton, eagerly,
with a wild stare at her husband's
face.

`No—what was it?' asked Mr. Acton,
pale and agitated.

`A ghost!' whispered his wife, shuddering.

`A ghost!'

`If ever there was a ghost—which I begin
to believe. How it terrified me!'

`Speak! Explain yourself!'

`Oh! would that you had seen that form
—those features!' exclaimed Mrs. Acton.—
`So white! so ghastly! and so like—'

`Like whom?' interrupted Acton.

She whispered a word in his ear.

`Impossible!' he exclaimed in a voice he
intended to be firm, but which trembled in
spite of himself. `You must have been
dreaming.'

`No—no! I am sure—I know a being—
whether earthly or unearthly, I cannot say
—arose before me as I entered the room.—
The features were his! though so deathly
pale that they looked unnatural! You may
deem it weakness in me to faint as I did at
sight of him, but his countenance was so
grim and horrid, and bore such a resemblance
to—'

`I understand—'

`That I believe if you had seen him, you
too would have been terrified. Then he
looked at me with such a savage grin! oh!
'twas terrible!'

`Which way did he go?'

`He arose as if from the cellar, and glided
away—I know not whither, for I fainted.'

`Do not mention this, my dear,' said Mr.
Acton. `That man was probably a robber
who had remained hidden in the house; and
his resemblance to one who is dead was all
in your imagination.'

`It must be so,' assented his wife, `but I
must confess I had the weakness to fancy it
was a ghost at first sight. How foolish! do
not mention it!'

Mr. Acton was no less agitated than his
wife, but from a different cause. He knew

too well that the resemblance she had mentioned
was no production of the fancy!

The alarm caused by the robbers had so
disturbed the household that sleep, for the
remainder of the night, was out of the question.
While Mr. Acton and his wife, together
with Edith, were conversing upon the
subject that had so excited them all, Mrs.
Barnes, Kate, and the coachman, assembled
in the kitchen, were talking in whispers
about the daring robbery.

They were sorely tormented by a curiosity
to know the cause of Mrs. Acton's fainting,
not being altogether satisfied with the
explanation that one of the robbers, having
remained in the house, passed through the
room she was in.

Kate, who had already a knowledge of the
connection existing between Gordon and
Mr. Acton, although she did not understand
the nature of it, came nearer than the others
in her surmises, yet she wisely kept her
opinions to herself.

While Kate felt greatly rejoiced that her
friends had escaped from the house, she could
not but feel disappointed in the failure of
their plot. Yet, as she reflected on the circumstances
of the case, and thought of all
the Actons had done for her, she shuddered
at her own black ingratitude, and felt a secret
joy—something she could not explain
even to herself—at the ill success of her
treachery. The fact of the case was, Mrs.
Acton and her sister Edith, had both talked
to her frequently, endeavoring in a kindly
manner to instil lessons of virtue into her
mind; and often, when free from the influence
of her evil associates, all the better
feelings of her nature had been awakened,
and she had resolved to try to become as
good as they.

13. CHAPTER XIII.
An important Link in the Chain.

The failure of the attempted robbery of
Mr. Acton's house was a great disappointment
to Gordon and his accomplices.
Not an article of value was taken away, and
the burglars had the satisfaction of knowing
that all their deep laid plans and golden
hopes had been in vain.

Of them all, Mag Munson was, perhaps,
the greatest sufferer from the ill success of
the plot. This had been projected by her,
and she had fondly trusted in the skill of
Gordon and Light Joe to reap the harvest of
her schemes. When the failure was made
known to her, she was at first in a great
rage, but at last another plan of making
money out of the Actons, and of having a
sort of revenge on them, entered her head.
She mentioned it to Gordon, who, ready to
grasp at anything, approved of it, and on
the morning following the incidents related
in our last chapter, she set out to have a conference
with Kate.

This wretched girl, in whose heart the
balance of Good and Evil was in such a precarious,
varying state, forgot the good resolutions
she had made when there were no
bad influences to lead her astray, and once
more promised to lend her assistance to do a
work of evil.

Mag Munson then left her, their plans
having been completed, and a time set for
carrying them out.

In the afternoon there was a visitor at Acton
Hall. Mr. Acton and Edith Irving had
gone to Boston, and Mrs. Acton received
him alone. It was Gustavus Burnam.

It was on this occasion that the talents of
that distinguished gentleman shone in all
their brilliancy. Had there been hundreds
listening to him, he could not have displayed
the powers of his intellect to greater advantage.
Yet there was no effort—at least,
there appeared to be none—in his conversation
or his manners. He seemed at once

the perfect gentleman, the accomplished
scholar, the man of observation, and the profound
thinker.

He had been conversing for some time
on the subject his friends most loved to have
him dwell upon—viz: his travels—when
Mrs. Acton remarked in a careless manner:

`I believe there is not a quarter of the
globe worth visiting that you have not visited,
and of which I have not heard you relate
some interesting incident; but I think
I have never heard you say in what part of
the world you were born.'

`I am an American,' returned Gustavus,
briefly.

`I supposed so, but what part of—'

Burnam knew she was about to inquire
the place of his birth, and anxious to avoid
giving an answer to such a question, interrupted
her as if he had not heard her.

`I am an American,' said he, `and I glory
in the name. In all my travels I have
never seen a land I would more gladly own
as that of my nativity, than this. There are
no institutions like ours, no laws superior
to our own in the wide world. I speak this
from conviction, for, had I cause of prejudice,
it would probably be against that code
by which I myself have been made a sufferer—that
is, the American code of laws.'

Mrs. Acton started and looked at her visitor
earnestly, as if eager to hear an explanation
of his words.

`Start not,' pursued Gustavus, `when I
tell you that years ago, I suffered injustice
from the laws of my own country. An innocent
man, I was charged with murder,
convicted, and sentenced to be hung!'

Mrs. Acton sank back in her chair, and
became pale as if Death had that moment
breathed a pestilence upon her, marking her
for the tomb. Her frame became rigid, her
lips ashy, and a cold perspiration started
from her ghastly brow; and then she sat
motionless and dumb, her eyes fixed, as if
never to be removed thence, upon her visitor's
face.

Burnam, meanwhile, appeared as if nothing
had happened, and went on with the
same reserved coolness as before.

`I was condemned to be hung for a crime
of which I had not dreamed until it was announced
to me, and I was charged with it.
I was tried; circumstances were strong
against me; I was judged guilty. Before
the day set for my execution arrived, however,
I escaped from prison, and fled my native
land.

`I fled my native land, America, because
I had nothing to keep me here. I was in
despair, for I was not only deemed guilty
by the world at large, but—which was worse
by far!—by a lady whom I loved. She
thought me a criminal; she spurned me—
changed her love—for once she loved me
well—to bitter hatred; and I left her, keeping
as a sole remembrance of her inconstancy
and distrust, a jewel she had given me as
a memento of her love—THAT RING!'

And Burnam, having placed, unobserved,
a diamond of peculiar brilliancy, set in a
ring of purest gold, upon his hand, now held
it out before Mrs. Acton's eyes.

`That ring!' she shrieked—`I gave it to
you—I know it well—and you are—'

`The man you spurned as a criminal!'
interrupted Burnam with a bitter smile.

It was no time then for triumph or reproach,
for Mrs. Acton had fainted.

Gustavus took from his pocket a small
flask, the contents of which, the moment
it was applied to Mrs. Acton's lips, restored
her to consciousness. In an instant she
sprang to her feet and flew across the room,
as if to escape from the presence of a monster.

Burnam stood with folded arms and composed
features, following her with his stern
and steady gaze.

`Be seated,' said he, calmly, `I do not
intend to injure you in any way, but only to
convince you that I am not the guilty man
you have believed me to be till now. Had
you visited me in prison, and conversed with

me after my arrest, I might have convinced
you long ago; but you shunned me as if I
had been a reptile, and with admirable dispatch
united yourself to my rival, Mr. Acton.
Now I have the proofs of my innocence
within my reach, as well as the proofs
of another's guilt.'

Mrs. Acton quailed before the magic influence
of Burnam's stern black eye, and
sat down upon the sofa, burying her face
in her hands.

Burnam sat down by her side, and in winning
tones and eloquent language, endeavored
to soothe her, and calm her perturbed
spirit. His efforts were not in vain. Soon
she forgot that she had ever deemed him
guilty, and hung upon his words with the
same interest and delight as before she was
aware of his identity with him, who, years
before, was sentenced to suffer death. She
did not look upon him as her former lover,
nor as the despised criminal, nor as the accomplished
stranger whose acquaintance she
had recently made; but rather as a man of
a noble nature that had been foully wronged,
of deep feelings that had been deeply
wrung, and of a superior soul, that, when
the world would have depressed it, soared
beyond the scope of common mind, grasping
at all knowledge, and waxing but the
brighter from the clouds by which it had
been oppressed. If once she loved him,
she now regarded him with admiration and
awe. She could not pity him for what he
had suffered, for we have no such feeling for
those we consider superior to ourselves, but
she felt forced to respect him the more highly
for all he had endured. At times she
could not realize the identity between Burnam
and her old lover, and then again, the
truth would flash upon her mind, startling
her with the thought of the connection existing
between him and that strange man.

`Had you never,' asked Gustavus, at last,
`suspected who I was before to-day?'

`Your features, I often thought, resembled
some one I had seen before,' replied
Mrs. Acton, `but they are greatly altered
— as much so as I ever saw features alter in
the space of twelve years. The expression
— except of the eye alone, perhaps — is
changed entirely. Yet, now I think of it,
your countenance is the same, with the exception
of the sternness and dignified authority
time has added to it, and the dark hue
it has caught from the ardor of torrid climates.'

`And have you ever thought you recognized
me?' asked Burnam.

`I should have thought so sometimes,' answered
Mrs. Acton, `had not your assumed
name, and other circumstances, rendered
such a thing out of the question.'

`And Mr. Acton —'

`I never heard him speak of you except
as a new acquaintance, and do not think he
has any suspicions of who you are.'

`That is well,' replied Gustavus, `and for
the present I would not have him know me.
The time is not yet come for me to bring
forward proofs of my innocence, and until
that time comes, none but you must be entrusted
with the secret.'

Burnam's influence over Mrs. Acton was
almost supernatural, and she was readily
brought to promise that her husband should
know nothing of what had happened that afafternoon.

It was evening before the interview between
Mrs. Acton and Gustavus Burnam
was ended and the latter took his leave.

Meanwhile important events were taking
place in another quarter, to which we will
now turn our attention.

At dusk Kate went out to walk, and to
amuse Robert, Mr. Acton's only child.—
She played with him and ran with him until
they had got some distance from the house,
when they sat down together upon a rock
by the road near a rugged hill-side covered
with thickets.

`What noise is that?' asked Robert, hearing
a peculiar whistle in the bushes a short
way up the hill.

Kate was agitated, and as she made no reply,
the boy asked her if she was frightened.

`No,' she answered, `but what noise was
it? Sit here, Robert, and I will go and
see.'

`Go quick, dear Kate,' said he, `and I'll
wait for you here.'

Kate disappeared. Following the sound
which was again repeated, the girl soon
came in sight of an object crouched down
in the thicket. She approached it and it
advanced to meet her. It was not so dark
but that one could have seen plainly that it
was the form of a large and powerful woman.

`The child is there,' said Kate, `but I
beg of you not to take it. The more I think
of it—'

`Hush, your nonsense!' exclaimed Mag
Munson—for it was she—`you are always
prating about your conscientious scruples,
which you ought to be above. You've done
well to keep your promise, and now don't
spoil it all by feeling bad about it. Stop
here till I can get off with the boy, and then
make your way back to the house and tell
the best story you can.'

So saying, Mag Munson shook off the
girl rudely, and hastened down the hill.—
Kate covered her eyes with her hands, and
sobbed violently. Bitterly did she repent
having lent her hand to mischief, but it was
too late to atone for the error.

She heard a struggle and a cry, and heard
Robert call her by name for help, and then
there was a sound of rapid footsteps that
died away in the distance.

With a bursting heart she descended the
hill, to find that both Margaret and the boy
had disappeared. All about her was silence
and deep gloom, that filled her guilty soul
with terror. She would have fled, whither
she cared not—any where to avoid the presence
of those who had treated her so kindly,
and had been so foully wronged by her in
return—but the appearance of a carriage
caused her to return to Mr. Acton's house.

14. CHAPTER XIV.
The Stolen Child.

MR. ACTON and Edith Irving had just
returned home, and it was upon their
ears that first fell the cries of Mrs. Barnes—

`Robert is lost! Robert is lost!'

In a minute the whole house was in alarm
Mrs. Acton, pale from the effects of her
recent agitation, rushed forward to know
the truth of the report.

`Who says Robert is lost?' she cried.

`I say so,' replied Mrs. Barnes, dragging
the trembling Kate into the room. `This
poor girl has been hunting for him, she says,
for the last half hour, thinking he had gone
but a little way, and not wishing to give you
any needless alarm. But the boy ain't to
be found, she says; and she is frightened to
death about it, poor thing! Robert! poor
Robert! he is lost!'

Inquiries and immediate search were
made, but Robert was no where to be
found, and none could throw any light upon
his fate.

Leaving his friends maddened with anxiety
to know what had become of him, and
harassed by forebodings that something terrible
had happened to him, let us follow the
boy himself, and watch him in the dangers
through which he may pass.

The child screamed lustily when he saw
a strange dark female approaching, issuing
from the bushes among which Kate had disappeared.
He ran but a step when she
caught him up, and placing her hand upon
his mouth, hurried away.

Margaret kept in by-places, where none
would observe her, until it was quite dark,
when she sought the open road, and hurried
on towards Boston. Robert struggled at
first with all his might, but he was soon worn
out and exhausted, and lay like an infant at
repose in the arms of the old woman.

At last she set him upon his feet, and told
him gruffly that he must walk; for she was
tired of carrying him, she said.

`I'm glad of it,' said Robert, `I didn't
want you carry me at all.'

`But you must walk now!'

`Who are you to talk to me so?' he asked
proudly.

`Never mind who I am,' replied Mag,
`but take my hand and come along.'

`I want to go home!' said the child suddenly;
`and I won't stir a step unless you
take me there. You had no right to carry
me away; indeed, it was very wrong, and
mother will tell you so.'

`Let us go to your mother, and see what
she will say.'

`I'll go to her, but I'll walk alone,' said
Robert. `I won't be seen taking your
hand!'

`You won't? Why, you little imp?'

`Because I don't like you.'

`And why not?'

`Because you don't look good. You was
n't kind to me either when you put your
hand over my mouth and squeezed me so!'

Seeing that he was determined not to
walk, Mag Munson dragged the child along
by the wrist; and then when he screamed
with pain, she caught him up angrily in her
arms, and struck him on the cheek.

`I'll teach you, you saucy imp!' she muttered,
stopping his cries with her brawny
hand. `Now, be still, or I'll kill you!'

`You may,' screamed the boy, `but I
won't be still!'

Once more the heavy hand was upon his
mouth, and he was borne powerless away.

In a little while they came to where the
houses stood more closely together, and carriages
were more frequent, and the way was
thronged by many men on foot. Here Robert
screamed and struggled again, but nobody
noticed him, and Margaret still carried
him on.

Several times the old woman tried, by
promises and threats to induce him to walk,
but he obstinately refused, telling her she
might kill him if she liked, but that he would
not take one step to please her. So she was
obliged to carry him in her arms through the
town which she did putting him down to
rest but four times before she reached her
home in the centre of the city.

`Put me down! I want to go home!'
screamed Robert, terrified at the sight of the
filthy localities through which he was carried.

`This is your home,' said Mag, as she
dragged him up the dilapidated stair case to
her abode in Centre street. `This is your
home now.'

`This ain't my home!' retorted Robert,
`I never lived in such a nasty place as this,
and never will.'

`Not with me?' sneered Mag.

`With you!' exclaimed the child contemptuously.
`I wouldn't live with you in
a palace, you ugly old monster!'

Mag laughed disdainfully, and dragged
the child into her room on the second floor.
Gordon was there, and by the flickering light
of a dim lamp, the boy could take a fair
survey of his new home, and of those who
were to be his tyrants.

`It's too bad!' he muttered, bursting into
tears of rage. `To take me away from my
pretty home and all kindred friends, and to
bring me here to shut me up in this ugly
hole! You old monster!' he continued, his
eyes flashing through his tears at Mag, `I
wish I was a man, big enough to tear you
into pieces!'

And he stamped the floor with his little
foot, spitefully, as if he imagined he had the
old woman beneath his heel, and was crushing
her to atoms.

But as yet he had suffered only the commencement
of the indignities that were to be
heaped upon him. After sitting down and
laughing heartily at the child's rage, Mag
dragged him towards her, and began to take
off his clothes. Resistance would have been
vain, so Robert suffered the indignity in sullen

silence. His embroidered collar, his
pretty velvet coat and figured vest were taken
away, and then the remainder of his clothing
even to his stockings and shoes. Spitefully
then did he clench his little fists and grind
his teeth as he saw his garments rolled together
in a heap, tossed upon a pile of dirty
rags in one corner of the room.

But this was not all! Oh! that such an
indignity should be thrust upon a proud spirited
fiery boy like Master Robert Acton! he
was not allowed even the common habiliments
of the male sex, of which he flattered
himself he was no mean specimen; but a
ragged, faded calico frock that had been
worn out by some ugly, dirty faced girl; a
clumsy pair of shoes that gaped open at the
toes as if they were laughing at his sorry
plight; and a colorless, tattered cotton bonnet,
were the only garments in which he, his
father's only son, was shamefully attired.

`This is your home, and these are your
clothes,' said Mag, when she had finished
dressing him.

Robert made no reply, but having cast
one angry glance at the unseemly rags that
hung so loosely about his slender, delicate
limbs, clutched his little fingers in the unworthy
dress, and rent it asunder as if it had
been made of paper.

`Very good, said Mag, laughing. `You
shall wear it now as it is.'

In a fit of passion Robert threw himself
upon the floor, where, except that his bitter
frowns at long intervals convulsed with heart
breaking sobs, he lay as motionless as a
corpse

Meanwhile Gordon and Mag disputed with
each other, about what should be done with
the child until a convenient time arrived for
claiming the reward that would be offered
for his restoration; which dispute—as was
often the case with disputes between that
amiable pair—ended in a quarrel. Gordon,
who had contended that it was dangerous to
keep the boy in the house that night, owing
to the possibility of his being traced thither,
suddenly snatched him up as he lay upon the
floor, and without informing Mag what he
intended doing with him, rushed with him
from the house.

`Oh!' exclaimed Robert, gratefully, `you
will carry me home, won't you?'

`I'll carry you away from her,' muttered
Gordon.

`Thank you!' said Robert. `She is a
monster! I hate her; don't you?'

Gordon didn't know what to say, nor hardly
what he said; but answered—

`Yes!'

`I thought you must. But what do you
live with her for?'

This time Gordon didn't see fit to answer
him at all, but hurried along.

`I'll walk now, if you want me to,' said
the boy. `I wouldn't walk for her, because
she wasn't kind to me, but since you are
going to take me home, I'll do as you say.'

Gordon put down his burden, and Robert
trotted along by his side as fast as he could
in the awakward dress he wore.

`You are very good to me,' said the child,
as Gordon led him along a brilliantly lighted
street. `I wish you'd tell me what that monster
is going to do with my clothes.'

`Sell them, of course,' replied Gordon.
`That is what she carried you off for: To
get your clothes.'

`And you will take me home now?'

`I don't know where your home is. I'll
take you to a house where you can stop to-night
and in the morning I'll find out where
your father lives and take you to him.'

Thus the burglar went on to fill the heart
of the poor child with vain hopes, as he conducted
him along many different streets, until
he came to a disagreeable court, leading out
of Purchase street, near the Sailor's Home.
This place is known to the citizens in that
quarter of the town as Spear's Alley, and it
is one of those by-places in the midst of a
great city, where poor families huddled together
on account of the cheapness of the
rents.

`You ain't going to leave me in any of
these houses?' said the boy, shuddering.

`For a day or two, perhaps,' replied Gordon,
leading him into a small yard, through
which he was obliged to pass to gain entrance
to the house it was his purpose to
visit.

Mrs. Craft was a widow woman, residing
at No. 5, who managed to support herself
and children—she had two—by doing any
little jobs, it mattered little what, that fell
in her way. Professionally, she was a washerwoman,
but we have no hesitation in saying
she did a better business by dealing with
such men as Gordon, than at her legitimate
trade. She was a small, crooked, sharp featured
woman, with a cast in her eye that
gave to her the appearance of looking at you
and your shadow at the same time.

Gordon took Mrs. Craft aside and talked
to her confidentially for some time, when,
returning to Robert, he said to him:—

`This is a good woman who has promised
to take care of you until I can find where
your father lives and carry you to him.'

Robert looked first at Gorden, then at the
woman, and finally glancing, at his torn and
faded garments burst into tears.

`I hope you'll find him soon,' he said,
`but I'd thank you to bring my own clothes
first, for I'm ashamed to be seen in such a
mean, nasty dress as this! Will you bring
my own clothes soon?'

Gordon made no reply, but hurried away,
leaving Robert alone with his new acquaintance.

15. CHAPTER XV.
The Stratagem.

From the residence of Mrs. Craft, No. 5
Spear's Alley, Gordon hastened back to his
own quarter of the town. Instead of returning
to his abode in Centre street, however,
with a pious dread of Margaret Munson's
angry tongue, he resolved to visit his boon
companions at the grog-shop in Ann street,
into which we have already introduced the
reader. At that good natured and respectable
establishment he found many of his gay
acquaintances assembled, several of whom
were present on the night he lost such sums
of money to the man in green glasses. These
he had not seen since the time when they
witnessed his ill-luck at play, and the remembrance
of the passion he had showed on
the occasion caused him to enter their presence
with a sort of shame.

`Ha! ha!' laughed the worthy proprietor
of the place, as Gordon, to keep up appearances,
offered to treat one of his particular
friends.—`Here is one of our monied men;
one of our golden 'ristocrats. I don't believe
there's any bottom to his purse at all.
Do you want to try your hand at cards again
to-night?'

`I'll play with anybody but the devil,'
muttered Gordon. I tell you, that Marvin is
a very fiend to gamble with. I do believe
there is some magic in the way he cuts or
deals the cards; for you may hold ever so
good a hand, he's sure to hold a better, and
you may spot ever so high on a trick, he'll
be sure to spot a little higher and take it up.
I'm willing to play with anybody but him—
or the devil himself.'

`By dam!' exclaimed a smooth voice close
to his ear, `I will play wiz you and I care no
more devil as youself. You come wiz me,
Monsieur, and I give you ye shance of to
win one, two, three hundred dollar.'

`And who the devil are you?' demanded
Gordon, gruffly.

`Zat is my own affair Monsieur,' replied
the Frenchman; `but you come wiz me,
and you shall learn zat I am one zhontleman
ver' honorabl'. Do you come? bien?'

`Yes, by —!' replied Gordon, fiercely.
`But look you, Monsheer, if this is a trap for
me of any kind, I'll cut your heart out, sure
as there's a devil in hell. Now, lead on, and
I'll follow to the house you want to play in,

if it is any reasonable place. But mind what
I told you.'

`Certainemong, Monsieur,' returned Louis,
with the same calm, sober expression of
countenance he always wore.

And forthwith, accompanied by the burglar,
he issued into the street.

`Now, where the devil are you going?'
demanded Gordon.

`I show you,' replied Louis, `quicker you
I can explain.'

And this was all Gordon could get from
him on the subject. However, he resolved to
follow him,and learn the end of the adventure
feeling perfectly safe, and in no danger from
traps. Still, as Louis continued to conduct
him toward the most respectable quarter of
the city, the burglar began to feel like getting
beyond his depth, and more than once
reminded Louis of his threat. The only an
swer he received on such occasions were
simply, `Very good,' or `certainemong,
Monsieur,' which afforded him but little satisfaction
on the point in question.

Thus the two kept on, Louis leading the
way, until they arrived in front of Burnam's
hotel. The valet de chambre would have
entered without hesitation, but Gordon paused,
shrugging his shoulders.

`What 'ave you?' asked Louis.

`That!' answered Gordon briefly, showing
the hilt of a dirk he carried with him.
`Now go on and—remember!'

The look of terrible meaning the burglar
cast at the valet de chambre would have
startled any man of weaker nerves than
Louis, who was altogether immovable by
threats.

He went on, and introduced Gordon into
one of the apartments of his master. It was
a richly furnished room, the splendor of
which caused the burglar's eye to sparkle
with avarice.

`I must lock you in here,' said Louis,
coolly.

In an instant the right hand of Gordon
clutched the handle of his dirk, and he
glared revengefully at his stranger guide.

`You see,' continued the valet de chambre,
cool as if nothing had happened, `I
must go out a minute for some money to play;
and I must lock you in here zat you may not
run off—'

`Call somebody to stay with me then, if
you're afraid of that,' growled the burglar;
`I'll not be locked up by any body.'

`Very good,' said Louis. `We will not
play you.'

Gordon reflected a moment.

`Go on then,' he muttered sullenly.—
`Lock me up, but mind that you come back
soon.'

Louis quietly left the apartment, turning
the key upon the burglar.

During the absence of the valet de chambre,
Gordon busied himself in staring about
the room, and making professional observations
on the situation of the apartments,
and on the dimensions of divers keys belonging
to locks he longed to open.

Upon the table was a small box of rosewood,
of curious workwanship, which looked
so tempting that he could not resist
the desire he had to open it. The key
was in the lock, and Gordon, quick as
thought, gave it a professional turn, which
placed the contents of the box at his mercy.

He listened to see if there were footsteps
approaching, then carefully raised the lid.

A deafening explosion followed, and flame
and smoke burst from the box. Gordon
was unhurt, but he started back aghast.

Before the burglar could recover from the
amazement into which the unlooked for explosion
threw him, the door was opened, and
there entered—not Louis, but a stranger.

Gordon clutched the handle of his knife,
and threw himself into a posture of defence,
while Burnam—for he it was—fixed his stern
eye upon him as he advanced into the room.

`What is the meaning of this?' demanded
Gustavus. `Who are you?'

`What right have you to question me?'
retorted Gordon.

`Do you know that you are in my apartments?'
asked the other, sternly.

`I care little whether I am or not,' answered
the burglar, smiling. `I was conducted
here by one d—d Frenchman, who
shall suffer for this if I find it to be a trap.'

`Did he give you liberty to be prying into
boxes?'

`I took that liberty.'

`Very well; and I take the liberty now of
saying to you that the Frenchman you have
mentioned is a man in my employ; that he
has acted in accordance with my orders;
and that if you offer him the shadow of an
injury, you shall dearly repent it.'

Gordon could not but quail before the
stern look of Gustavus, but yet he had the
audacity to attempt to laugh at his threat. It
was a ghostly laugh, however, and the hand
of Gordon, that griped the hilt of his dirk,
trembled in spite of his boasted strength of
nerve.

`You do not know that you are in my
power?' pursued Burnam.

Gordon answered with the same ghostly
attempt at a laugh.

`You have no idea, I suppose, that I could
throw you into prison to-morrow!'

`No!' muttered the burglar, a shade paler
than before, `nor can you.'

`You do not know me then?'

`I'm sure I do not.'

`Well, I'm the man you attempted to rob
a short time since, in the vicinity of a gentleman's
house of the name of Acton.'

`Burnam!'

`That is my name?'

Gordon shuddered, but soon regained in
part his self-possession, and armed himself
with his accustomed audacity.

`I heard of your robbery,' he said, `but
you are mistaken in the man.'

`I have the proofs of your guilt,' returned
Burnam with a smile of cool contempt;—
`and that is not the only crime you have
committed to my knowledge, Mr. Gordon.'

`Impossible!' exclaimed the startled burglar.

`Who attempted to rob Mr. Acton's
house!' asked Burnam.

Gordon became paler still, and more agitated
even than before.

`I can prove those crimes against you,
and others of greater magnitude. Can you
inform who stole Mr. Acton's child this very
night—'

`I did not!' exclaimed Gordon in a husky
voice.

`Nor do you know the villain I suppose,
who led the boy, dressed in rags, to a miserable
house, in a place called Spear's Alley?'

Gordon looked at Burnam as if he had
been the arch-fiend himself.

`What more do you know about me?' he
demanded, after a pause.

`Much—more, I believe than any other
man alive, one excepted. I know who you
are, what you have been, and what there is
great danger of your becoming. You will
understand me when I say I know the mystery
of the power you have over Mr. Acton—'

`Liar!' hissed the excited barglar; `you
know nothing—you—'

`Silence!' exclaimed Burnam, as if he
were talking to a dog that had disobeyed
him. `Another such word as that, and I
make use of the knowledge I possess. On
the contrary, if you would escare punishment
for certain crimes I need not mention,
let me advise you to be frank with me, and
submit without a word to my orders. It is
not probable Mr. Acton will be foolish
enough to let you extort any more thousands
from him, so the best thing you can do is to
accept my offer of friendship.'

`First,' said Gordon, leaning against the
wall for support—such was his agitation—
`first tell me who you are, and prove to me
that what you say is true.'

`Very good,' said Burnam, `you shall
know who I am. You may perhaps have
heard of a person who, some years ago, was
charged with the murder of one Caleb
Crowl—'

The blood rushed back upon Gordon's
heart, as if Burnam had spoken his doom
He stared at Gustavus with eyes starting
from their sockets, and features as pale as
death.

`You recollect the circumstance, I see,'
continued Burnam with a bitter smile.—
`Well, I am the man condemned to be
hung for the murder of that Crowl.'

`You—that man—you—' gasped the burglar.

`I am Charles Chivers!' said Gustavus,
calmly.

Gordon stared at him fixedly.

`Charles Chivers!' he repeated in a whisper.
`I see—I know you now—'

`And fear me, too,' I see!' added Gustavus—for
we shall continue to call him by
his assumed name — `why, you tremble
as if you were the escaped convict—the
man accused of murder! I wonder,' he added
with a bitter smile, `if you had anything
to do with putting that wretch, Crowl,
out of the way!'

`Have done with this raillery!' exclaimed
the burglar, gruffly. `You know me, and
there is no need of dallying thus with me.
You need not speak to tell me how I have
wronged you either,' he added, `for I confess
all; but tell me quickly what you want
of me, and I will serve you if it is in my
power.'

The burglar spoke with courage and resolution,
for having recovered from the consternation
into which Burnam's revelations
had thrown him, the thought of his own
guilt, and the power of the man he had
wronged, made him desperate.

`You have spoken wisely,' said Gustavus,
`You have been instrumental in causing me
much misery—nay, you have, in one sense,
changed my destiny—but I promise now
that all shall be forgiven, and pass unpunished,
provided you make a full confession
of your guilt, under oath, and remain with
me, subject to my orders, for one week more
or less, as circumstances may require. What
say you?'

Gordon reflected but a moment, then answered
firmly—

`I will serve you for two reasons. One
is, I have done you wrong enough; then,
again, it is for my interest to stand by you
now. Charles Chivers, I am your man!'

16. CHAPTER XVI.
The Search and the Reward.

HE CAN do what he likes with the brat!'
exclaimed Meg Munson, sullenly, as
Gordon left the house bearing Robert in his
arms. `I've done my part, and shan't
trouble myself any more about the matter.'

In the course of half an hour, however,
the old woman changed her mind; and as
Gordon did not return, she began to think it
would be full as well for her to know what
had become of the stolen child.

Another hour passed, and still Gordon did
not appear. Meg was beginning to grow
impatient.

At last there was a sound of footsteps on
the stairs. Meg had her mind made up to
give Gordon a severe lecture, but it chanced
that the comer was not Gordon.

The man in green glasses entered. The
old woman knew him and asked him what
he wanted; at the same time shoving a
chair towards the spot where he remained
standing.

`Where's Gordon?' he asked.

`The devil knows better than I do,' returned
Meg. `What do you want of him?'

`I want to see him on my own business,'
answered Marvin.

`Ha! ha!' laughed the old woman. `You
want to win the rest of his money, I suppose.
Very well. Hunt him up, and you are welcome

to every penny you can get out of
him.'

`There he comes,' returned Marvin, with
a smile of cool satisfaction, as he heard
footsteps mounting the stairs.

`That is not his step,' said Meg, not a
little startled. `Who can it be?'

Marvin hastily concealed himself in the
corner occasioned by the cupboard and the
wall, where the dim lamp failed to penetrate
with its dismal light, and drew the folds of
an old dress, that hang upon a nail, over his
face and chest.

The visitor entered.

It is impossible to say which was the most
startled at sight of the pale features of the
new comer, the old woman, who looked him
full in the face as she sat with her back to
the light, or Marvin, who looked cautiously
through his green glasses from the dark
nook in which he was concealed, until the
ashy countenance of the visitor met his
view. With a start Marvin drew the dress
over his eyes, and shrunk back into the shadowy
corner, while Meg, confused and alarmed,
sprang to her feet.

The visitor was Mr. Acton.

Having learned where Gordon lived, and
firmly believing that the villain had been instrumental
in stealing his child, Mr. Acton
had ventured to go alone in the night directly
to the residence of the burglar, in hopes
of finding his son. Meg recognized him at
once, and trembled at the possibility of his
recognizing her. Thanks to her dress, and
the imperfect light in the room, Acton was
not aware that he had ever seen her before.

`One Gordon lives here I believe,' said
he, after casting his eye about the room.

His voice was low but earnest, and Meg
felt compelled to make answer in the affirmative.

`Can I see him?'

`He is not at home.'

`Has he been out long?'

`It is about two hours since he left,' replied
the old woman.

She saw that Mr. Acton had no suspicions
of her, and satisfied that the child had been
traced to her house, she thought she might
as well tell the truth about Gordon, as to
make up a story for the occasion.

`Do you expect him soon?' continued Mr.
Acton.

`He may not be here to-night,' replied
Meg, anxious to drive him away.

Having removed towards the centre of the
room, Mr. Acton once more cast his eyes
about him, and perceived in the exact spot
where Marvin was concealed, what struck
him forcibly as being the outlines of a man's
lower extremities.

Marvin, meanwhile, saw with no little
trepidation, as he looked through a rent in
the garment before his face, the visitor approaching
him, and riveting his searching
eyes upon his uncovered feet. There was
but one way to escape discovery, and that
Marvin resolved boldly to adopt.

As Acton's hand was extended to lift the
garment that concealed his features, Marvin
burst from his hiding place, tore down the
old dress and threw it over Mr. Acton's
eyes, and dashing across the room, extinguished
the light before Mr. Acton could
cast a single glance at his face.

The room was in total darkness. Mr. Acton
sprang forward to grasp the fugitive, but
Marvin was upon the stairs before his pursuer
reached the door.

`Strike a light, quick!' cried Mr. Acton,
as he dashed against the wall in the darkness,
and went staggering across the room.

Meg fumbled about the room for some
time, and at last succeeded in lighting the
lamp.

`Was that Gordon?' demanded Mr. Acton,
grasping her arm.

`No,' answered Meg, sharply.

Mr. Acton, anxious to clear up the mystery,
and to find his child, pressed the old woman
to speak frankly, and tell him all she

knew of Gordon's late transactions, but
finding her obstinate in her refusal to tell
him more than he already knew, he reluctantly
left the house.

It was late when Mr. Acton reached
home. His wife, agitated by the events of
that afternoon, was alone in her room, awaiting
his return. Mr. Acton entered; their
eyes met; and in the look of both was the
anxious inquiry,

`Has the child been found?'

And the expression of hopeless grief, anxiety
and fear that followed, was the only reply.

`Our friends,' said Mrs. Acton, `have
made thorough search in every direction, far
and near, but the poor boy is no where to be
found. God grant that the morning may
bring some intelligence of what has become
of him!'

But the morning came, and still there was
no news of the absent Robert.

In the forenoon the search was continued
with the same success as on the night before.
There was now no longer any room to hope
that the child had not been stolen.

Before the night again set in it was known
that Mr. Acton had offered a reward of
one thousand dollars for the restoration of
his son.

It was not until the day following that
Meg Munson saw the announcement, in
print, of the boy's disappearance, and of the
sum that would be paid to any one who
would bring him back safely to his parents;
and that announcement served only to fire
her avaricious heart with uncontrollable passions.
Like the hungry wild beast that is
allowed the sight and smell of flesh he cannot
reach, she was wrought into a fury.

That golden reward she could not claim.

`Ye fiends!' she muttered through her
teeth set with rage, `assist me to find the
child! Bring Gordon back to me, if it is
with a rope around his neck!'

She had not heard from the burglar since
the hour of his disappearance, when he car
ried Robert away in his arms; and what he
had done with the boy Meg Munson could
not divine.

She raved like a maniac. After originating
the plot himself, and stealing the child,
to have him stolen from her, and the reward
withheld from her hands, was maddening in
the highest degree to an avaricious nature
like hers.

In the midst of her trouble she knew not
whom to apply to for assistance. As she
was considering the practicability of letting
some of her associates in crime into the secret
and requiring their aid, she was visited
by an old acquaintance of the reader.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon that
Light Joe came swaggering up the stairs.

`Where's Gordon?' he asked.

`Bless us!' exclaimed Meg, `I was just
going to you to see if you couldn't tell me
what has become of him. If you don't
know—'

`I know? Lor'! I havn't seen him in an
age!'

`Then he is gone to the devil; that's
all!'

`Very probable.'

`I wish I had him beneath my feet!'
growled the old woman striking her hand
with her brawny fists.

`Why, my dear Meg, what's the matter?'
asked Joe.

The old woman fixed her basilisk eyes upon
his face, and grasping his arm, said in a
passionate whisper,

`I formed the plan—I stole the child myself—I
brought him here—and now Gordon
has carried him off, and will he get the reward.'

`The reward!' echoed Joe.

`Mr. Acton,' pursued the old woman,
slowly and distinctly, `has offered one thousand
dollars—'

`For the child?'

`Yes; for as worthless a thing as that;—
and now that the reward is to be had,' added

Meg in the bitterness of her anger,—
`neither Gordon nor the child can I find!'

`What can I do for you?' asked Joe.

`Find Gordon!'

`Where shall I look for him?'

This was a question the old woman could
not answer. She at last told him to go to
Kate, and learn if she had heard from either
Gordon or the child.

`Why don't you go yourself?' asked Light
Joe.

Meg related the events of the evening
when Mr. Acton visited her, and replied that
she feared being recognized.

Under such circumstances, Joe promised
to go himself to visit Kate.

It was not without some scruples that the
young burglar ventured upon ground he had
trod in the capacity of house-breaker, being
impressed with the possibility of such a
thing as detection; but he was a brave youth,
and shaking off all foolish fears, he boldly
called for Kate at Acton Hall.

He found her very pale and very sad.

`What ails you?' asked Joe, when they
were alone.

`I know you'll think me very weak, dear
Joe,' she replied, brushing away a tear, `and
you will laugh at me perhaps when I tell
you.'

`Let's hear it,' said the young burglar,
kindly.

`Had it been a mere robbery,' pursued
Kate, `I shouldn't have cared; but to think
I have helped rob them of a child—a dear
and only child!'

And the poor girl sobbed aloud.

`Fie, fie!' exclaimed Light Joe, with an
attempt at a laugh; (he brushed away a
tear, however, as he spoke,)—it ain't all
your fault. Besides, they'll get the boy
again soon.'

`That is possible; but to see such an agony
of grief and suspense they are in now,'
sobbed Kate; and to think I was the cause
of it, after they have been so kind to me!'

It seemed that the poor girl's heart would
break beneath its load of sorrow and self-reproach.

`Do they suspect you?' asked Joe.

`Suspect me? no!' replied Kate, `I wish
they did, for it would not make me feel so
bad as it does to have them think my sadness
now all arises from pure sympathy with
them.

`Kate,' said Joe, with more feeling than
was his wont, `you are a better girl than I
believed you once. You are too good for
the life you lead, by far. You have a kind
heart, and I love you far better for it. I
swear never to tempt you to do wrong again
as I live, and I will reform myself, if I can
conveniently. Then, dear Kate, we will be
married, and try to live honestly. Mine is
a ticklish profession, and I hate it.'

`Dear Joe,' said the girl, `dont you think
people are happier when they are honest and
virtuous? I do—in fact, I know they are
happier. Oh! I would give worlds of wealth
if I was as innocent and happy as I once
was!'

Kate covered her face with her hands,
weeping bitterly; Joe brushed away a second
tear that glistened in his eye, as if half
ashamed to be seen there, and drawing Kate
gently to his bosom imprinted a fond kiss upon
her lips. Then, with a strange feeling
in his heart, such as he had seldom experienced
before, he hastened back to town, to
inform Meg that he could hear nothing of
Gordon.

17. CHAPTER XVII.
The two Suitors.

THAT evening Mr. Acton received a
note from Gustavus Burnam, in which
that gentleman apologized for not having
called on his family or written to him before,
saying that he had been prevented by circumstances
he could not well explain; he
also spoke very feelingly concerning the recent
loss of their child, and ended by extending
an invitation to Mr. Acton and his lady
to take dinner with him on the following
day.

Mr. Acton would have accepted the invitation
without hesitation, but Maria, knowing
now with whom they had to deal, and
fearing some terrible outbreak when Burnam
should make himself known to her husband
as Charles Chivers, did all in her power to
dissuade him from his purpose. However,
as she could not advance any tangible reason
for not accepting the invitation, and
feared awaking her husband's suspicions,
she yielded at last, and it was resolved that
on the following day they should take dinner
with Mr. Burnam in town.

As Gustavus merely wished Mr. Acton to
remember him to Edith Irving, and did not
extend the invitation to her, she was left
alone on the afternoon in question. Her
sister and Mr. Acton went to Boston at an
early hour, and she had all the afternoon before
her, which looked long and tedious in
the prospect, as she thought of the enjoyment
they would experience in the fascinating
society of Gustavus Burnam.

Edith Irving had much to occupy her
mind besides that which related to the whole
family. True, her personal anxieties had
been wholly absorbed of late in her sympathy
with Mr. Acton, and Maria for the loss
of their only child, but yet on the afternoon
in question, when she was alone, her
thoughts would revert to her private perplexities.

Two young men of equal standing in society,
of equal talents as near as she could
judge, and of apparently equal worth, bestowed
upon her attentions of too marked a
character, for her to consider them as merely
on the ground of friendship. They were
both very agreeable to her, but before she
allowed her affections to centre on either of
them, she candidly weighed the question in
her own mind—

`Which is the worthier?'

Dr. Frederick Farley—the Rev. Mr. Everett—which
should she choose?

She had known the clergyman the longest,
and his claims had been presented first.
She felt that she could love him passionately
did she but allow her affections to go out to
him, and this decided her in his favor.

She had given neither of her suitors a
final answer as yet, and she was debating in
her mind how she could do this with the
most delicacy, when a visitor was announced.
It was no other than Frederick Farley,
whom she had resolved to reject.

The young doctor called, he said, to learn
if anything had been heard of Robert; to
see how Mrs. Acton's health withstood the
shock of his loss; and to perform many other
little neighborly duties, which was very
natural and very kind in him to do; but any
person with half an eye would have seen at
once, by a certain confusion in his appearance,
that he was thinking more of Edith
than of her sister, or of her sister's child.

In fact, Frederick, who had desired an
opportunity of speaking with Edith alone,
on a subject we need not name, was glad to
find her, on the present occasion, disengaged,
yet he suffered not a little embarrassment
on finding himself subject to the full fire of
those eyes he so much admired. We need
not weary the reader with details of the
manner in which Frederick introduced the
subject he longed to speak with her upon,
nor depict the embarrassment of both parties
when he asked her to pronounce the

significant monosyllable on which his destiny
hung.

`Could she love him?'

`No.'

Kindly and feelingly; but it was not the
less a decisive answer—`no!'—she could
not love him except as a highly respected
friend; and what consolation was that to an
impassioned nature like his own?'

Frederick had recovered his self-possession
when Edith gave him her final answer,
and great as was the effect it had upon him,
he succeeded in preserving his calmness to
an admirable degree, and thanking her for
her frankness, he expsessed a wish that the
circumstance might be forgotten, and that
they might be friends to each other as they
had been before.

She said it should be as he desired; but
are such circumstances easily forgotten.

After Frederick had gone, Edith, remembering
how very pale he was when he took
his leave, and how agitated by emotions he
endeavored to suppress, knew that he must
love her well, and half regretted her refusal.

It was a sad half hour Edith Irving spent
—that immediately following Frederick's departure.
Alone, she now longed for some
friend with whom to converse, that her mind
might be diverted from its gloomy reflections.

Whilst her feelings were in this state, Kate
had occasion to enter the room. She was
going out again directly, when Edith, remarking
how pale and sad she looked, called
her back.

`What has happened to cause you sorrow?'
she enquired, taking the girl kindly by the
hand.

`Nothing—not much—' stammered Kate,
turning away.

`And yet you are very sad. Ever since
the night Robert disappeared—'

Kate's pale features suddenly became
crimson.

`Can it be,' pursued Edith, `that his loss
alone makes you so melancholy?'

Kate made no answer, for she could not
lie, and she dared not tell the truth.

Edith urged her; kindly, yet with firmness.

`Oh!' sobbed Kate, unable longer to restrain
her feelings—`I am such a bad girl!'
And she wept like a child.

`My dear Catherine,'—Edith spoke with
much feeling, her own tears flowing the
while—`something troubles you of late.—
Why not confide in me? Tell me your
griefs, and I doubt not but I can do something
for you—console and comfort you at
least. Speak freely now, Catherine, let
what will be the matter. I know you are
not bad by nature, and if you have been
guilty of faults, I can forgive them in one
like you.'

`You don't know how bad I have been—
how bad I am!' murmured Kate, still sobbing.
`Oh! you would despise me as I deserve.'

`Not if you are repentant, surely,' said
Edith, in tones so kind that, while they made
Kate weep more violently than before, caused
her heart to yearn towards her companion,
and to love her as if she had been her
guardian angel. `Think rather that I would
give you the advice and consolation of a
friend,' added Miss Irving.

Kate raised her head, and brushing away
the hot tears that streamed down her cheeks,
looked for a moment full in the face of her
companion; it was a look full of earnest
entreaty, gratitude and timid hope—one that
seemed to read the soul of Edith, to learn if
she could indeed confide to her the secrets
of her heart.

`Tell me your history,' urged Edith, as
Kate once more bowed her face upon her
hands. `Let me know who you are and
what you have been?'

`I have been virtuous as you,' sobbed
Kate.

`I don't doubt it.'

`But I was thrown in the way of temptation—'

`Well.'

`Oh! it is a sad tale,' murmured Kate.

`Go on,' said Edith, kindly.

`I am an orphan—'

`Poor girl!' thought Edith, but strongly
pressed Kate's hand to encourage her to go
on.'

`I have lived with my aunt since I was
quite young. She is a bad woman, for it is
through her that I was ruined.'

`Ruined! through her influence!'

`Yes, alas! I was earning my bread by
honest labor, and we were very poor, when
one evening I received a letter.'

`A letter?'

`Yes—and I have kept it till now, in remembrance
of him who wronged me. I always
carry it here.'

And Kate drew from her bosom a worn
and faded letter, which she gave to Edith.
It read as follows:

`Although we are unknown to each other,
I love you. When and where I have
seen you, I need not explain, but I have beheld
you often, and never without longing to
speak with you, and to make known to you
the sentiments of my heart. Excuse this
mode of addressing you, and grant me an
interview to-night at your own house.

`And you received him by request?' said
Edith.

`Yes—but not from my own choice,' replied
Kate. `I should not have noticed the
letter, but my aunt said I ought to know
who Mr. Marvin was before I passed judgment
upon him, and absolutely commanded
me to receive him that night. I did so—I
found him agreeable—more of a gentleman
than any man I ever knew. I suspected
nothing, but invited him to call again. He
came to see me frequently for a long time
making both my aunt and me rich presents

My aunt believed him wealthy. She was
avaricious, intriguing and unprincipled.—
Her influence over me was fatal. I had
learned to love Mr. Marvin, and to confide
in him. I believed his fair promises. I
could not think he would even desert me.
Oh! then I had a double temptation to overcome—nay,
the temptation was three-fold.
When he was away my aunt poisoned my
soul with her own immoral principles; and
he, with the cunning of the serpent, let no
opportunity pass of inspiring me with voluptuous
dreams of guilty pleasure. Added to
this was the natural sinfulness of my own
nature to be resisted—my own selfishness
and my own passions.'

`No wonder that you fell!' exclaimed
Edith, in a tone of pity

Kate bid her face in her hands, and for a
moment neither spoke nor moved.

`Go on,' said Edith, kindly as before.

`Would you believe me?' murmured Kate.
`That man who professed to love me so, betrayed
me, and deserted me!'

`As men too often do!' exclaimed Edith.
`You are one of thousands—but you are
better than many unfortunate ones, for there
is much goodness still remaining in your
heart, while the greater part of those who
fall, are plunged into ruin inevitable, and
instead of repenting and reforming, became
more depraved than ever.'

`It was so with me, alas!' sighed Kate.
`I became as bad as it is possible for a creature
to become. I associated with the worst
of my own sex, and with the criminal and
guilty of the other.'

`But now you regret it?'

`How bitterly do I!'

`And would become virtuous once more?'
said Edith.

`Miss Irving,' replied Kate, earnestly; `if
I had all the wealth of this world at my
command, I would give it to blot out the

past from my memory, and become as pure
in heart and happy as I once was!'

`And what hinders you?' asked Edith.
You have been frank with me, and have put
confidence in my friendship, and you shall
not be disappointed in your trust. I will
assist you, Catherine; you shall live with
me, and I will be your friend rather than
your mistress. I promise you, if you are
virtuous, you shall be happy. Associate
with the vicious no more, but live a life of
innocence and peace.'

Thus Edith went on to pour sweet words
of consolation into Catherine's ears, and by
her sympathy and kindness, to awaken in
her heart stronger sensations of joy she had
never felt before.

`One thing,' said Kate, after a long pause,
`I now feel compelled to confess to you. If
I die for telling it to you, you shall know a
secret that may save you much sorrow and
regret. This Marvin—I should have told
you that he is one of those who delight in
vice for its own sake; who, while they are
able to move in the first society, often seek
out the company of the low and degraded
out of choice.'

`Well?'

`You know him!'

Edith started.

`I know no one by that name,' she said,
after a pause.

`But he has another name.'

`What is it?'

`It is a name you respect,' said Kate; a
name that will startle you when you hear it.'

`Speak!'

`It is the Reverend Mr. Everett.

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
Revenge.

MEANWHILE, Mr. Acton and Maria
were in the company of Gustavus Burnam.

The dinner, which was served up in the
most sumptuous style, had been partaken of
by Mr. Burnam and his two visitors, and the
three had withdrawn to an apartment furnished
with the greatest elegance and simplicity
of taste.

Thus far Gustavus had succeeded in entertaining
his guests in the most agreeable
manner. His brilliant conversational powers,
and his polite and fascinating manners
were never better appreciated than by Mr.
Acton and his lady on the present occasion.
To Maria, Gustavus was very attentive, and
she appeared so sensitive in his presence,
and so to admire the man, that Mr. Acton,
little dreaming what was the true cause of
her visible confusion, and to feel not a little
jealous of Mr. Burnam's fascinations.

`I have chosen this occasion, Mr. Acton,'
said Gustavus, after the conversation had
run for some time on general subjects, to
make known to you a secret that will surprise
you not a little.'

Mrs. Acton anticipated what was coming,
and shrank back in her chair, pale with agitation,
while her husband regarded Burnam
with a look expressive of interest
alone.

`The secret relates to my own history,'
pursued Gustavus, `a portion of which I
have a desire to relate to you.'

`You do me an honor,' remarked his
guest.

Burnam smiled as he went on.

`You have no idea perhaps of ever having
seen me before?'

`No,' replied Mr. Acton, astonished at the
question.

`My features, then, have undergone a surprising
change,' said Burnam, `else your
memory of persons is poor.'

Mr. Acton looked at him earnestly. His
color changed, for memory began to recall
the image of one, who bore, he thought, a
slight resemblance to Gustavus, and whom
he would not have met for the world.

`You do not remember me?' asked Burnam,
with a strange smile. `Look again!'

Acton looked again, and recognized him
then! It was with fearful agitation that,
with forced calmness, and in a low, husky
whisper, he murmured—

`You are—Charles Chivers!'

`The same,' said Burnam, coolly.—
`Charles Chivers, whom you know before
he was condemned to be hung for the murder
of Caleb Crowl.'

Mr. Acton glanced at his wife, whom he
beheld pale and motionless as if suddenly
changed to marble, then fixed his eyes once
more on his host, who was smiling at the
consternation he had caused.

`Is it possible!' exclaimed Mr. Acton, recovering
a portion of his self-possession.—
`I was not prepared for this!'

He turned away to avoid the piercing
look Gustavus gave him, and in a moment
he had resolved on the course to pursue.

`Maria,' said he to his wife, `let us begone.
We have been deceived in this man.
Recollect he's an escaped convict—that he
is a murderer!'

`You will not go yet,' said Burnam, with
the same calm, strange smile. `When old
acquaintances met like this, they should not
part so suddenly. Be seated, and hear what
I have to say.'

Trembling with agitation, Mr. Acton continued
standing, with his arms folded on his
breast, in the centre of the room.

`Speak quickly,' he said in the tone of
one impatient to know the worst.

`Yes, and briefly,' replied Gustavus.—
`You may remember the circumstances on
which my destiny has turned, but I will review
them briefly, to refresh your memory.

`Twelve years ago, Maria Irving had two
suitors. One was rich and the other was
poor; but the richer of the rivals was not
the favored one.

`The rich suitor was yourself, Mr. Acton;
and you she refused. I, the poorer one in
this world's goods, enjoyed her love, and
was accepted. Well do I understand your
rage, Mr. Acton, on finding yourself supplanted
by one like me!

`I was to be married to Miss Irving, when
a strange and terrible event snatched her
from me and gave her to you.

`In the town where we lived, there also
resided one Caleb Crowl. He was a rough,
selfish, unfeeling man, who had done me
some wrong, and whom I detested and hated
with my whole soul. We were frequently
thrown in each other's way, and once or
twice we quarreled, and I had been heard to
threaten him.

Thus, I had two bitter enemies in the
persons of Caleb Crowl and Henry Acton.

`One day I met Crowl on the banks of
the rapid stream which runs through the
town. It was towards evening, and I did
not recognize him until he accosted me,
and then I should have passed him, had he
not offered me a deliberate insult. Angry
words passed between us, which were overheard
by persons who were passing by all
the time. We did not come to blows, but
it was dark before we parted. I returned
home, and thought no more of the matter
until I was arrested for the murder of
Crowl.

`He had been killed, it was said, and I
alone could have done the deed. I was seen
with him last, near the very spot where there
was found blood, and where his body had
evidently been dragged on the grass to be
thrown into the river.

`Other circumstances, which I need not
repeat, formed, together with this, sufficient
grounds on which to arrest me and commit
me for trial.

`While I lay in prison, Maria Irving either
could not or would not visit me; and

before my trial came on, such efforts had
been made by my rival, Mr Acton, to prejudice
her against me, that it seemed she was
firmly convinced that I was guilty of the horrid
crime of which I was accused.

`My trial came on; you remember that
I was found guilty and sentenced to be hung.
The belief in my guilt was general, and few
pitied me. Yet I had friends who knew
that I was innocent, and who felt it their
duty to assist me to escape. I was bold and
ingenious, and soon contrived a plan of effecting
my escape, which required no open
aid from any one. You remember, perhaps,
the astonishment occasioned by the intelligence
spread one morning that the cell of
the convict, Chivers, was empty.

`I was concealed by my friends in town
for some time, when I made good my escape
by flying to foreign lands. I changed
my name; I have become wealthy; and
now I am returned to seek vengeance for
the wrong I have suffered.'

`Or to be hung?' muttered Acton.

`And for what?' demanded Gustavus,
with a smile of cool contempt.

`For the murder of Caleb Crowl!'

`Which you know that I never committed!
Out upon you!'

`I will not dispute with you,' said Mr.
Acton, turning away. `It is enough for me
to say it was proved against you.'

`And it is sufficient for me, then, to bring
forward a stronger proof than any—a proof
which the evidence of all the fiends combined
could not set aside!'

`What is it?' demanded Acton, fearfully
agitated.

Gustavus regarded him with a smile of
withering contempt.

`The proof,' said he, `that I did not
murder Crowl is—that Crowl is still
alive!'

Mrs. Acton clasped her hands and started
up, while her husband appeared for the moment
ready to sink into the earth.

Desperation often supplies us with cour
age and presence of mind. Thus it was
with Mr. Acton.

`It is false,' said he, advancing boldly towards
Gustavus. `Crowl is not alive.'

Burnam smiled, but made no reply, as he
threw open the door of an adjoining room,
and revealed to the astonished eyes of Mr.
Acton and Maria, the form and dark features
of the so called Isaac Gordon.

`Caleb Crowl stands before you!' said
Burnam, as the burglar stalked into the
room.

`Caleb Crowl!' echoed Maria—`it is he!
the man—the robber who terrified me so
one night, because I thought him dead!'

`I am that man!' said Gordon, with a
grim smile.

`The wretch!' muttered Mr. Acton, his
ashy features distorted with rage. `This is
a foul plot against me; but I will suffer it
to trouble me no longer. Maria, come
away.'

`Not so fast,' replied Burnam. `Let us
see if there is a plot; and if there is, let us
know about it. Speak Caleb Crowl—or
Isaac Gordon, if you prefer that name—
speak and tell us if you know of any
plot.'

`I know of but one,' answered Gordon,
as we shall continue to call him, `and that
you and Henry Acton know as well as myself.'

`But Mrs. Acton does not,' said Burnam.
`Clear up this mystery to her, that she may
know the true character of the man she has
for a husband!'

Mrs. Acton listened with intense interest,
while her husband, unable to utter a word,
stood apart, biting his lips and grinding his
teeth with rage.

`I may as well speak out now,' said Gordon,
bluntly. `It is of no use to say I was
never murdered, for people don't come to
life again after that little ceremony has been
performed on them once. But you'd like to
know, perhaps, what became of me when it
was given out that I had been killed and

thrown into the river. There was blood
found on the bank of the stream, it is true,
but that was'nt my blood; and if my hat
was found washed ashore farther down, it
was no sign that I had gone to the bottom.'

`Come to the point,' interrupted Burnam.

`You see,' pursued Gordon, `all this had
been contrived in order that Charles Chivers
might be accused of the murder!'

`What villainy!' murmured Mrs. Acton.

`I know it—but it was done, on my part,
for revenge. Yet I was not alone in it.—
There was another eager to see the ruin and
disgrace of Chivers.'

`Who?'

Gordon pointed to Mr. Acton.

`It was to destroy a rival that Henry Acton
offered me fifteen hundred dollars to disappear
in the mysterious manner I did, and
never to return to that part of the country
again. I gained a double object in accepting
the offer—the revenge and the reward.
Having arranged everything in such a way
that suspicions would fall upon Chivers without
fail, I escaped from the country in the
right time, and was far away when the report
of any death was spread through the
town.'

`This is enough,' said Burnam. `My revenge
is now complete, for Maria knows
the character of the man, who won her by
plotting to ruin me. I shall take no legal
steps against you, Mr. Acton; I am satisfied
with the assurance that I could have no
sweeter vengeance than this:—HENCEFORTH
YOU ARE DESPISED BY YOUR WIFE!'

19. CHAPTER XIX.
The Wounded Spirit.

MR. ACTON had not the face to deny
the assertions of Burnam and Gordon.
He felt that he could not make his wife believe
him innocent of the villainy she was
charged with, and he knew how she despised
everything of that description. Yet he had
a hope that she would some day forgive him,
and love and respect him as before. Without
appearing to notice Gordon or Gustavus,
more than as though they had not been
there, he advanced and took Maria's hand.
She withdrew it coldly, and turned to Burnam,
who regarded her with a look of interest
and pity.

`I may never see you again, Charles,' she
said in tones of deep earnestness, `so before
we part, let me hear you say that you forgive
me for ever suspecting your innocence,
and for uniting myself with the man by whom
you have been so foully wronged. Believe
me, I was deceived. You know that I loved
you onca and must know that my heart too
was wrung by the villainy of which you were
the victim. Oh! say that you forgive me!'

Unable to restrain her feelings, Maria
sank upon her knees before Gustavus, and
covered her face with her hands.

`I forgive you freely,' said Burnam, raising
her gently from the floor. `We have
been alike the victims of a villainous plot.
But for him we might have been happy together,
but as it is we must bid each other
farewell. May Heaven bless you!'

So saying, he drew her arm through his
and conducted her to her carriage.

`Adieu!' said he, as she took her seat
within.

`Adieu, Charles!' she murmured, `adieu!'
And throwing herself back into the carriage,
she burst into tears.

Mr. Acton brushed by Gustavus without
uttering a word, and getting into the carriage

and taking his seat by Maria's side,
ordered the coachman to drive away.

Meanwhile Gordon was endeavoring to
make out some half a dozen words Mr. Acton
had taken an opportunity to write, with
a trembling hand, upon a piece of paper,
which he slipped into the burglar's hand as
he passed out to his carriage.

The words were as follows:

`To-night—at nine o'clock—in the orchard—for
your interest and mine—'

Gordon had scarcely read this laconic but
significant epistle, and put the paper in his
pocket, when Gustavus entered.

`I have no more use for you, Crowl,' said
he. `As I promised you shall not be punished,
through my influence, for any of your
past offences, but you are at liberty to go
where you please. Yet listen to a word of
advice. Give up your dishonest profession,
and earn your living lawfully, else you will
meet with worse fortunes than heretofore.
If I find you ready to reform, you may count
upon my assistance; but if otherwise, I shall
be the worst enemy you can have, for I shall
have an eye upon you.'

Gustavus rang for Louis, who appeared
immediately.

`Conduis cet homme a la porte,' he said to
the valet de chambre; and to Gordon—
`Good bye. When I hear from you again,
let it be as an honest man.

Gordon stammered something, but Gustavus
waved his hand and Louis hurried him
out of the room.

Meanwhile, Mr. Acton's carriage was
rolling along Washington street. Mr. Acton
was seated by Maria's side, but as yet neither
had spoken since they left Burnam's house.
Their feelings we leave to the imagination
of the reader, who cannot but picture to
himself something of the agony by which
their souls were racked.

`Maria,' said Mr. Acton at length.

Until now she had not looked at him nor
noticed him in any way, more than as if he
had not been there; but when he spoke, she
raised her head, and turned her eyes, from
which she had dried the tears, full upon his
face.

`Maria,' repeated Mr. Acton, shuddering
at the look of icy coldness which she gave
him, `why do you appear thus to me?'

Mrs. Acton's pale features exhibited not
the least emotion, and not a muscle moved
as she answered in a tone of startling calmness.
`I leave that question for your own
heart to answer.'

She turned away her eyes, so cold and so
full of the silent eloquence of that sorrow
which hath no hope, and not another word
was spoken by her until she reached home.

Mr. Acton made no reply to her last remark,
but sat there by her side with his
hands clenched together, his teeth set, and
his features wrought into an expression of
rage, hatred and angry disappointment.

Truly had Burnam had his revenge, for
Mr. Acton could have endured any thing
better than the scornful indignation of her
he loved so devotedly.

And she despised him, and she felt that
she must hate him!

He dared make no attempt at an apology,
for he knew her firm and lofty spirit too
well to think she would forgive him easily.

Arrived at his own house, Mr. Acton
waited on his wife with the tenderest attention,
for which she thanked him coldly, as
she entered her own apartment.

Mr. Acton was left alone. For an hour
he paced hurriedly to and fro in his solitary
chamber, muttering deep curses on Barnum,
on Gordon, and on himself.

Thus do our evil deeds, designed for the
injury of others, turn in time against ourselves;
and sin its own punishment.

With angry impatience Mr. Acton waited
for the hour of nine. Evening at length
came on. He was still alone, pacing to and
fro, and biting his lips in the bitterness of
remorse and rage. Every five minutes he
looked at his watch, cursing the slow-paced
moments that dragged so wearily along.

Scarce had the clock tolled nine when
Mr. Acton was in the orchard, waiting for
Gordon.

It was a cold night, and billows of black
clouds rolled across the sky, heaving in the
gale, like the billows of the deep.

Gordon appeared at length.

The burglar was well armed, for knowing
Acton's revengeful nature, he had good
cause to fear his rage.

The two men, facing each other, could
see, by the uncertain light, the expression
of each other's countenances. The one was
of remorse, vengeance and despair, the other
was of avarice, triumph and deceit.

`Crowl,' said Mr. Acton, passionately;
you are a damnable villain! After all your
promises you have betrayed me!'

`Not willingly,' said Gordon. That devil
of a Chivers was too much for me. He got
me into his power, and then I had the satisfaction
of being told that he knew who I
was, and had proofs of every piece of sly
work I ever did. I was obliged to do as I
do, or he would have sent me to rot in prison.
As it was, he had me shut up in his
own house until he had occasion to make
use of me, which was to day.'

`You have done me wrong, Crowl,' returned
Mr. Acton, `but as you are a professed
villain, I must let it pass. You would
do almost anything for money, I believe!'

`And you are not far out of the way! added
Gordon with a grim smile.

`Then we may still make it our interest
to be friends,' said Mr. Acton. You know
what cause I have to hate that Chivers?'

`I think I do.'

`And can probably guess what I want of
you. I must have vengeance on him, and
you are the man to serve me.'

`I understand you,' replied Gordon; and
he added in a whisper—`That Chivers must
be put out of the way, eh?'

`Whether by poison, powder or steel, I
care not,' said Mr. Acton; `I leave that to
you. Recollect, I have nothing to do with
the deed—you and I don't even know each
other; but when I hear of Chivers' death,
the sum of twelve hundred dollars is yours.'

`I understand you.'

`Then begone, and let me not see your
face again until I hear that you have earned
your money!'

Five minutes after, Gordon was hurrying
back to Boston, and Mr. Acton was in the
presence of his wife. His proud spirit was
crushed, but yet he was not sufficiently humble
to ask her to forgive him the wrong he
had committed, She was civil to him, but
very cold.

`Maria,' said he, `it is not becoming in a
wife to treat her husband in this manner.'

`Once for all, let me say to you.' she answered
in calm, firm tones, `that it is better
for us to drop the subject which has occupied
our minds this afternoon. We understand
each other better now than we ever
did before; and you must know my feelings.
You are my husband, and as such I shall always
endeavor to obey you, and to do nothing
to cause you displeasure; and after
what has passed, you can expect nothing
more. I beg of you now to let this subject
rest.'

Acton bit his lips, but remained silent.—
At last he said—

`I am not sure, I understand you, madam;
but if you mean to say that it is your
intention to treat me henceforth as you do
now, we cannot live together.'

`That will be as you desire, answered
Maria with the greatest indifference `I am
anxious to do everything to please you, and
you will find me ready to obey, whatever may
be your commands.'

`Shall we separate then?' demanded Mr.
Acton in a tone of suppressed passion.

Maria answered with the same imperturbable
calmness as before—

`That will be as you desire.'

Mr. Acton looked at her fixedly for a moment;
then with a smile—the first that had
curled his lip that evening; and it was a

smile of bitter hate—he turned and left the
room

Mr. Acton did not close his eyes once,
that night, to sleep, but all the time his brain
was racked by indescribable torments occasioned
by the various passions that possessed
his soul. In the morning he threw himself
upon a sofa, and enjoyed—if we may use the
term—a short slumber, which was broken
by hideous dreams.

20. CHAPTER XX.
Sorrows come not singly.

Let us return to Edith When Kate
made known to her that the man to
whom she had resolved to give her entire
heart—on whom she had determined to bestow
her hand, as upon one she deemed worthy
of all respect and love—when Kate told
her that he, the Rev. Mr. Everett, a professed
follower of Christ and a preacher of his
word, was a black hearted hypocrite and a
practiced villain, she was thunderstruck,
stupified by the startling news.

She dropped Kate's hand, which she had
held in hers, and gazed at her so strangely
with her piercing eye, that the poor girl
shuddered with fear.

`Oh, Miss Irving!' sobbed Kate, `forgive
me for telling you—or for not telling you
before—about Mr. Everett.'

`You have done right,' said Edith, after
a long silence. `But you are not deceiving
me?'

`How could I?' cried Kate.

`You speak the truth, then?'

`If ever I spake truth in my life! This
Everett is the same man who ruined my innocence—the
same who disguises himself so
that many would not recognize him, and visits
the haunts of vice, where he is known as
Richard Marvin.'

`I believe you now, for I recollect some
circumstances which go to prove the truth
of what you say,' returned Edith; but why
have you not told me of this before?'

`Because,' murmured Kate, `I met him
one day in the hall, when he threatened to
take my life if I exposed him. I was afraid
to tell you.'

`And have you no fears now?'

`Yes—but if I knew he would strangle
me for it, I could n't help telling you—you
have been so kind to me.'

`I thank you,' said Edith. `You shall
not suffer for having done your duty. I expect
this Everett here shortly. Stand by
me then, and I shall be under great obligations
to you.'

Edith was calm—but oh! how much she
felt! Her love and pride had received a
terrible wound, but she had sufficient self-command
to shut her sorrow up in her own
breast. To think she had reposed confidence
and centred her affections in a villain,
turned all her love and joy to bitterness.

Mr. Everett had promised to visit her that
afternoon, and she expected him every minute.
He kept his word; and when he arrived
Edith had everything prepared for his
reception.

Edith was polite, though somewhat cold,
while he on the other hand was more tender
towards her than he had ever appeared before.

`I am glad to see you,' said Edith. `Have
the goodness to look at this paper, and tell
me if you know that hand-writing.'

She gave him the letter Kate had left in
her possession.

The characters were greatly faded, but
at a glance Everett recognized his own
hand-writing, and the truth flashed upon
his mind. His villainy was discovered!

Edith's piercing eye observed a momentary
and almost imperceptible change in the
countenance of the preacher, but in an instant
the wonted color returned, and he raised
his eyes to Edith with an expression of
perfect coolness and unconcern.

`This appears to be a love-letter,' said he,
carelessly. `Nobody, I hope, has had the
impudence to send such to you?'

`I asked if you knew the hand-writing?'
said Edith.

`I am sure I do not.'

`You never knew then an individual named
Marvin—Richard Marvin?' pursued
Edith with a searching look.

She could perceive that Everett was a little
disconcerted. However, he answered
firmly and calmly that he knew no such
man.

`Who is he?' he asked.

`I am told,' replied Miss Irving, `that he
is a preacher like yourself, who bears a respectable
character in high society, but who,
in disguise, often visits the haunts of vice
from the mere love of vice itself.'

`I never heard of him before.'

`Come this way,' said Edith.

She approached a door leading into another
apartment, threw it open, and discovered
to the eyes of the clergyman the poor girl
whom he had betrayed.

`Did you ever hear of her?' asked Edith.

`Never till I came here,' answered Everett,
still unmoved.

`It is false!' sobbed Kate. `Heaven
knows you speak an infamous lie!'

`What is the meaning of this?' asked the
clergyman, turning to Edith.

`This,' replied Edith; `that she has told
a deliberate falsehood, which can avail her
nothing, or that you are the man who penned
this letter, which was sent to her by you.—
You can deny the charge she brings against
you, but if it is true, it will be readily proved;
if false you can make your innocence
appear. Until I am satisfied, let me not see
your face again.'

She left the room.

The clergyman was alone with Kate. He
looked cautiously about him at first, then
approached the girl.

`Shameless wretch!' he muttered through
his teeth; have you forgotten my threat—or
what I am? Did I not swear to be revenged
if you exposed me? Now, by the Almighty!
if you don't unsay all that you have said,
and convince Miss Irving that I am not the
man, you die within a week!'

So saying, he shook her rudely, while she
did nothing but sob and struggle to get free.
His rage against her was so furious that he
was tempted to tear her in pieces.

Now I am satisfied!'

Everet started at the sound of that voice
and turned quickly about. Edith Irving
stood before him, pale with indignation, and
his dark eyes flashing with scorn.

`Now I am satisfied,' she repeated, `that
you are a villain. I need no stronger proof
than this, Mr. Marvin. Heartless hypocrite!
after ruining this poor girl, you threaten
to destroy her bodily because she has
had the courage to expose your villainy to
me! But hear me before you take a single
step. Promise never to enter this house
again, and to leave this vicinity as soon as
possible, and I give you my word that as far
as I am concerned, there shall be no hindrance
to your doing so honorably—to all
appearances. I will not expose you publicly.
On the other hand, if you seek my presence
again, or if you linger near here, making
dupes of a whole congregation of Christians
who put confidence in you, or if you offer
an injury, whether serious or slight, to this
girl whom you have ruined, the world shall
know of your villainy, and you shall be
branded wherever you go. Remember my
words and leave the house at once.'

Everett would have spoken, but Edith was
gone in an instant, and Kate had already
disappeared.

The clergyman's eyes flashed with revenge,
but he opened not his lips. His
whole scheme of marrying a wealthy and respectable
lady had fallen to the ground, and
he found himself exposed, and in danger of
being publicly disgraced His anger knew

no bounds, yet he dared not give it vent.—
With a quick step he left the house.

It was shortly after this event that Mr.
Acton and Maria returned from Boston.

It was not Edith's intention to whisper
her discovery to even her sister, nor did she
mean that her look should betray that any
secret sorrow preyed upon her mind. If she
did not look so cheerful as usual—her disposition
was naturally gay—yet her brow
was unclouded as she went to meet her sister.

`Are you ill, Maria?' she asked. `You
are very pale.'

`I am not ill,' replied Mrs. Acton.

`How did you enjoy yourself at Mr. Burnam's?'
pursued Edith.

`Do not question me now, sister,' returned
Maria. `It was a fatal visit—you will
never see Mr. Burnam in this house again.'

`Indeed! why not?'

`Because, Edith, henceforth he and Mr.
Acton are mortal enemies.'

Edith started with surprise.

`What has happened?'

`To-morrow you shall know the whole
history,' replied Mrs. Acton. `But leave
me alone to-night. I have need of repose
to restore calmness to my mind, and to meditate
on the course I ought to pursue.'

Edith urged her no longer, but left her as
she desired.

On the following morning Mrs. Acton and
her sister sat down to the breakfast table
alone, not to partake of the food set before
them, but to review the history of the past,
and to advise with each other on what the
future and the present required of them.—
Maria told the secret of who Burnam was,
and of her own husband's guilt, and Edith
listened to the narration with all the interest
and sympathy of a sister.

Meanwhile Mr. Acton breakfasted alone,
and set out for Boston at an early hour,
without having spoken to his wife since the
day before.

The little sleep he had enjoyed had wrought
a wonderful change in his appearance and
feelings. All hope had passed, and he
was sunk into the depths of despair. He
felt weary of an existence which had no longer
a charm for him. Every tie that bound
him to earth was severed. He had lost his
child and worse than lost his wife; and his
self-respect was changed to remorse and
self-contempt. He scarcely knew what he
said—he was half insane.

At noon he returned home.

For three hours he was shut up in his
room, where he occupied himself in writing.
He had not eaten a morsel since the morning,
when his breakfast consisted of a cup
of coffee and a morsel of biscuit.

The sun was going down, and his golden
rays, melting richly on the dark brown
woodland and hill-side of faded gray, penetrated
the smoky October air and streamed
through the window of his room.

Mr. Acton sat gazing out upon the melancholy
scene presented to his view, and the
expression of his features became more calm
than they had been before since his last interview
with Burnam. And as the soft sunlight
faded in the red October sky, he seemed
looking his last farewell to the great luminary
of the world.

The day had gone out in the west, but its
light still lingered on the earth. Mr. Acton
then calmly arose, took a small neatly folded
paper from his pocket-book, and emptied a
powder it contained into a glass. Having
burned the paper, he added a few spoonsfull
of water to the powder, and without hesitation
drank the whole. He then carefully
washed the glass, and scrupulously destroying
every trace of the fatal powder, drew a
heavy sigh and threw himself upon a sofa,
groaning under the weight of his despair.

21. CHAPTER XXI.
Crime's Recompense.

After his last interview with Mr. Acton,
Isaac Gordon—or Caleb Crowl, as
the reader pleases—hastened back to Boston.
Since the night on which he consigned little
Robert to the safe keeping of Mrs. Crabb in
Spear's Alley, he had been, until that afternoon,
a sort of prisoner in the house of
Gustavus Burnam, and he had not ventured
near his agreeable companion, Meg Munson,
after his release. Now, however, he was
resolved to return home to cheer the heart of
that respectable lady.

It was late in the evening when he arrived
in Centre street, and groped his way up the
dark staircase leading to his beloved home.
He found the door locked, but a dim light
glimmered through divers crevices, proceeding
from within. He shook the door, which
hung loosely in its place, and shouted to
Meg to give him admittance:

`Who's there?' cried the shrill voice of
that individual.

`I—Gordon—don't you know me?' —
shouted the burglar. `Come! let me in!'

`You don't deserve to be let in at all,'
muttered Meg, as she sullenly unfastened
the door. `Where have you been?'

`I've been where I couldn't help myself
to get away,' replied Gordon; `it was a sort
of prison.'

`What have you done with the child?'
demanded Meg.

`I left him with mother Crabb, in Spear's
Alley,' said the burglar. She promised to
take good care of him until I called for
him.'

`And have you seen him since?'

`No.'

`You knew that a reward had been offered?'

`Yes,' replied Gordon, rubbing his hands.
It's a thumper, ain't it? We are sure of
that Meg. I'll arrange things in the morning,
so that the reward can be got without
our being suspected of the theft.'

Gordon could not sleep that night on account
of two important projects that occupied
his brain. Said he to himself—

`First of all, I'll get the reward for the
child, through some confidential friend who
can steal it from Mrs. Crabb, and restore it
to its friends without being suspected of
having had anything to do with stealing it in
the beginning. Afterwards, I'll put that
devil of a Chivers out of the way, and get
the twelve hundred Acton has promised me
for doing that dirty piece of work.'

After spending the greater part of the
night in maturing his plans, Gordon dropped
asleep, and did not awake until broad
daylight on the following morning. Meg
was still asleep. Without awakening her,
he stole out of the house and directed his
footsteps towards the residence of Mrs.
Crabb.

The citizens residing in Spear's Alley
were already astir, and divers ragged children
were gathering about the doors in that
quarter. Gordon hastened on to No. 5,
when he had the pleasure of meeting Mrs.
Crabb upon the threshold.

`What's the news?' said he. `How's the
child I left with you?'

Mrs. Crabb beeame very pale.

The child—you left—' she stammered, `I
am sorry to say—'

`What?' demanded Gordon, fiercely; `he
is not dead—'

`No—but—'

`Speak!'

`He has run away!'

Gordon uttered a curse of angry disappointment,
and laid his hand roughly on
Mrs. Crabb's shoulder, looking at her with
an expression so full of revenge and hate
that she trembled with fear.

`You lie!' muttered the burglar, fiercely.
`You have sold the child, or—'

`As true as I stand here—' (as Mrs. C.
spoke she was on the point of falling with
affright)—as true as I stand here I don't
know what has become of the child. He
run away, and I can't find him no where!'

`When was that?' demanded Gordon.

`The very day after you left him here.'

`But you promised to keep him in sight.'

`I did, I know; but he slipped away; I
can't tell how; but all at once, when I looked
for him, he was gone.'

After some farther parley, Gordon bestowing
all sorts of maledictions on his old
friend, Mrs. Crabb, left her and returned to
Centre street.

If he had been enraged at Mrs. Crabb,
for the loss of the child, Meg was in turn
furious in her imprecations against him.—
He silenced her, however, by showing the
handle of his dirk, accompanying the action
with a dark, revengeful look, the meaning of
which she could not but understand.

After partaking of a hasty breakfast, the
burglar left the house.

Half an hour after, he was at the residence
of Gustavus Burnam.

`He is engaged,' said a servant; `you
must call again.'

Gordon went away, and three hours after
made his appearance again. This time Burnam
was not at home, and the burglar was
told he would net return before evening.

`Call at seven,' said the servant.

Gordon was there again at the hour, and
had the satisfaction of finding the gentleman
of whom he was in search.

He was shown into Burnam's apartment.

`How now, Crowl?' said Gustavus, showing
him a chair? You wished to see me.
What can I do for you?'

`Much,' said the burglar. `You can tell
me, I suppose, what has become of the child
I left at No. 5, Spear's Alley.'

`Mr. Acton's boy, Robert?'

`Yes.'

`What should I know about him?'

`He has disappeared,' said Gordon, soberly.
`You are the only person that knew he
was there, besides myself, and I mistrust
you know what has become of him now.—
You heard he was stolen from his parents
an hour after that event took place, and then
your servant watching for me to bring me
here, saw me carry the boy to Spear's Alley.
You promised that night that you would no
betray me, nor give information where the
child was; and now, if you have been the
means of carrying him away, I ask it as a
particular favor (Gordon laid great stress
on these two words) that you should deliver
the child into my hands once more.'

`What object would it be for me to carry
off the child?' asked Burnam with a smile.

`That's it,' replied Gordon; `it can't be
for your interest to have the boy, while the
reward is an object for me; that's why I
was so bold as to ask of you to give him to
me again, if you had carried him off.'

`Why should I carry him off?' asked Burnam;
`do I want anything of the child myself?
do I want the reward? or do I hold
myself under obligations to do Mr. Acton a
favor?' What could I do with the boy?'

`Then you have not got him?' asked the
burglar.

`Nq.'

Gordon's features wore an expression of
disappointment and perplexity.

`Yours is a thankless profession,' said
Burnam with a smile. `You meet with
many disappointments, no doubt, and are
never safe.'

`True—true!'

`Why don't you try something better—
something more worthy of a man?'

`It is not in my power.'

`Have I not offered to assist you?'

`Yes; but you did not tell me how.'

`Why,' said Burnam, `if you would only
become an honest man, I would do more for
you than you dream of. Promise me to reform,
and I will begin to-night.'

`I do mean to reform,' replied Gordon.

`Then come with me this evening,' said
Gustavus, `and I will introduce you to a
man, who, if he finds you honest, will put
you into the way of making your fortune.'

`To-night?' said Gordon; and his heart
bounded with joy when Gustavus answered
in the affirmative, and added that he would
go out with him in half an hour. They
were to walk, and no one was to accompany
them.

`Now, then, for my work!' muttered
Gordon.

It was about eight o'clock in the evening
when Gordon followed Burnam along some
of the principal streets of Boston, and proceeded
at length to a more retired portion
of the city.

There were no carriages passing, and
their footsteps alone fell upon the pavement.
The street lamps were not lighted, for there
was a moon which shed its mellow light upon
the city, when unobscured by the clouds
that swept over the sky.

Gordon walked on the left hand of Burnam,
and close to his side, though a little
behind. The right hand of the burglar
grasped a dirk which he had concealed under
his coat. Half a dozen times, with his
mind made up to do the foul deed he meditated,
had he clutched his weapon, ready to
plunge it into the bosom of his companion,
but each time, some movement on the part
of Gustavus, or some trifling occurrence in
the street, turned him from his purpose.

At last Burnam, suspecting his design,
suddenly tore open the burglar's coat, and
discovered the weapon clutched by his brawny
hand.

`Ha!' laughed Gustavus, scornfully; `you
would assassinate me, I see!'

`Yes!' muttered Gordon.

And in despair at finding himself detected,
the burglar aimed a blow at Burnam's
breast with a fierce and deadly purpose.

Quick as thought Gustavus grasped his
arm with his left hand, and with his right
struck the ungrateful monster to the ground.
Gordon was but an infant in the grasp of
that powerful man. In an instant the dirk
was wrenched from his hand, and his throat
was beneath the heel of his adversary.

`Arise!' exclaimed Gustavus.

Slowly and painfully Gordon regained his
feet.

`I did not think you such a villain,' pursued
his companion. `But I am prepared
for you now. It is a dangerous undertaking
te do good to man like you, for like an ungrateful
cur you bite the hand that feeds you.
Now follow me, as before; and know that an
attempt to escape me, or to injure me, will
be your death.'

Without saying a word, the burglar followed
Gustavus, in obedience to his own
commands, like a crest-fallen slave.

Soon they were passing along Commercial
street, Burnam leading the way, yet
keeping his keen, watchful eye upon the
burglar.

`You must go with me on board yonder
vessel,' said Gustavus, as he conducted his
companion across the street, towards a ship
which lay alongside one of the long, broad
wharves in that quarter of the town. `I
think I will find a place for you where you
will be compelled to be honest for a little
while. Come along.'

The two were passing along the wharf towards
the ship, so near the water that they
could hear the hoarse waves dashing against
the stones and planks beneath them. All
else was still around them, save the panting
of the engine of a ferry boat that was crossing
the river before them, and the voices of
a crew of carousing sailors in the street
near by. Gordon glanced into the dark water,
and stepped still closer to Burnam's
side.

`He is off his guard now,' thought he.
`If I could only push him off I might escape

before he could get out of the water.

Springing at Gustavus with all his might,
he seized him and dragged him to the edge
of the wharf, before he could bring his
strength to bear against the burglar, who
had him to a great advantage. But Burnam
was quick and athletic. He planted his
foot firmly in the ground, wheeled suddenly
about, unclasping Gordon's hold at the same
time, and hurled him from him with all his
force.

Gordon's foot tripped, and he was thrown
headlong from the wharf. There was a
heavy splash in the water beneath, and the
burglar had disappeared.

In a short time, however, he arose again
to the surface, and east a look of agony at
Burnam, who stood watching him from
above. He could not swim, but flung his
arms wildly about him, calling out for help,
while the waves dashed over him and bore
him down. At last he touched something—
he grasped it with the eagerness of despair;
but his efforts were vain. His hand touched
nothing save the slippery side of a tall, dark
vessel, under the bows of which he lay.—
He gasped, shrieked, and beat the water in
agony, but the waves sucked him down, and
he sank to rise no more!

22. CHAPTER XXII.
A Change.

IT IS MIDNIGHT. There are strange
movements in Mr. Acton's house at this
late hour. Pale faces, trembling hands and
hurrying footsteps.

What means it all?

Upon a bed in a darkened room, lay the
form of Henry Acton. He had been taken
suddenly ill in the evening, and Frederick
Farley had been sent for by his wife, without
his knowledge. The young doctor arrived.
He found Mr. Acton in great pain
and growing rapidly worse. He was at a
loss to know what ailed him, for Mr. Acton
purposely deceived him, that he might not
suspect the true cause of his sudden illness.

Maria gave her husband her undivided attention,
administering to his wants with the
greatest care. Mr. Acton sometimes raised
his eyes in agony to her face, to see if she
looked tenderly upon him, and seeing her
cold, pale features gliding by, or fixed by his
side, he would clasp his hands and turn upon
his pillow with a groan.

Frederick, Maria and Edith were by his
bedside. Mrs. Acton asked him if he was
willing that other physicians should be sent
for.

`No,' said he, `I have reasons for saying
no. You will understand them soon.'

Shortly after he called his wife to his side.
They were alone.

`Maria,' said he, `I have not an hour to
live. Nay, do not interrupt me, but hear
me out. I have but a few words to say—I
can say but few—and these will be briet.'

`You are discouraged,' said Maria.—
`This pain will last but a little longer, I
trust, and then you will be better.

`No,' said Henry. `Nothing can save
me now. I am going fast. Give me your
hand.'

Maria put her hand in his. He pressed
it convulsively.

`You are the only person I ever really
loved,' he murmured. `My parents—even
my child, who is lost—possessed but little of
my affection. But for you I should have
been the most cold, selfish, miserable wretch
on earth. I have always loved you devotedly,
and to possess your affection and esteem
has always been my chief aim in life. You
can judge, then, of my despair on finding
that you loathed and despised me!'

`Henry—'

`Don't interrupt me. Let me speak while
I may. I confess that I have been guilty of

a dark villainy, and that I have done you
grievous wrong. But consider the cause of
my treachery. What prompted me to deal
with Chivers as I did? It was my love for
you, which was so strong that I would have
made any sacrifice—nay, have committed
almost any crime to win you. It was a selfish
love, but it was a true, compulsive and
eternal love as well!'

Mr. Acton looked up and saw the cold,
pale features of his companion relax and
quiver with emotion, and he felt the hand
he held in his own tremble.

`I do not blame you,' he went on to say,
`for despising my crime and me; but oh!
judge me not too severely. Consider my
motive—'

He murmured something more, but in
such low tones that Maria heard them not.

There was a long pause, when at last Mr.
Acton drew his wife towards him, still holding
her hand in his, and whispered—

`Can you forgive me?'

There was another pause—a long silence
broken only by the stifled sobs of Mrs. Acton,
and Henry's deep drawn sighs!

Sympathy for her husband overcame every
other feeling, and Maria bowed her head
upon his bosom, while the hot tears coursing
down her cheeks fell thick and fast upon his
hand.

`Oh! I forgive you all!' she sobbed.—
But do not die—I shall feel as if I had killed
you!'

Henry smiled faintly.

`It is too late,' he murmured. `Yet I
die with the satisfaction of being assured of
your forgiveness!'

Death entered the house that night before
the hour of one.

When daylight appeared, the form of
Henry Acton lay cold and stiff and senseless
in a dark, still, solemn chamber. His soul
had gone to its eternal resting place, freed
from its natural tenement by its own will
and power.

The sudden death of Mr. Acton created
quite a sensation in the county at that time,
for he was a man of considerable influence,
such as wealth will always command. Inquiries
were made, reports were spread—
grave surmises were whispered—but none
divined the true cause of his decease.

None, except Frederick Farley, Maria
and her sister, who knew but too well that
his death was occasioned by poison!

Mrs. Acton was crushed by sorrow. Notwithstanding
the late events in her husband's
life, there was never a woman that mourned
more seriously for a husband than she.

She was now, as it were, alone in the
world. Her husband and her child had
been snatched from her as if by Fate, and
she had no bosom friend, save her sister
Edith, left.

Mr. Acton left a large property behind
him, which was willed to his wife and child
alone.

Many were the friends that came to visit
Mrs. Acton in her affliction, but all failed to
restore her mind to peace.

It was on the second day after her husband's
funeral that Mrs. Acton received a
stranger, an unexpected visitor.

It was Louis, the valet de chambre of
Gustavus Burnam.

Strange emotions crowded Maria's heart
as she recognized Burnam's confidential
servant. She grasped a letter he handed her
and eagerly tore it open.

It was couched in these terms:

Pardon me for addressing you at this
time, and overlook the impropriety of the
step, in consideration of the motive by which
I am actuated. It is to make known to you
that your son Robert has been found. He
was stolen by Cabel Crowl, or an accomplice
of his; and that villain carried him, the
same night on which he was taken, to the
house of an old woman, living in a miserable
quarter of the town. I kept the villain

in custody from that time until the day on
which you saw him. On the next day evening
he came to me again, and said, that
having gone to the woman with whom he
left your son, he had learned that the child
was lost again. Through the vigilance of
Louis, I discovered that Crowl had carried
off Robert, and learned where he had concealed
him, on the very night the event took
place; and directed Louis to see that the
child was restored to you directly.

`Before he could do so, however, Robert
tired probably of the company of the woman
under whose charge he was, ran away from
her and was lost in the streets of Boston.—
As soon as I learned this, I ordered Louis to
spare no pains or expense in tracing him
out, which he has at last succeeded in doing.

`You may have seen an announcement of
Crowl's death in the papers. If not it will
be news to inform you that he was drowned
the night on which he made known to me
that Robert had been lost from the woman
with whom he left him.

`I leave Boston to-morrow, to spend the
winter in the south. Remember me to your
sister, and to Dr. Farley, to whom I feel under
lasting obligations. Adieu,

Mrs. Acton did not stop to read the whole
of this letter at once, but as soon as she saw
the intelligence that Robert was found, she
started up, calling upon Louis to tell her
what had been done with the child.

Mrs. Barnes had him in the hall, and the
next minute he was clasped to his mother's
breast.

`My dear, dear boy!' she exclaimed, covering
his face with kisses; `I thank God
that you have been restored to me—I thank
God!'

`That ugly woman carried me off!' said
the boy, looking up into his mother's face.
`She took away my clothes too; but a good
man gave me some new ones and sent me
home! He was a good man, wasn't he,
mother?'

`Yes, yes!' answered Maria, hastily.

And now, when Edith came to embrace
the happy boy, Maria caught up the letter
she had dropped, and brushing away the
tears of joy that bedimmed her eyes, read it
through, stopping from time to time to
glance around upon her child, as if to make
sure that it was not all a dream.

Meanwhile Louis stood waiting.

Maria sat down at the table, and with a
trembling hand, penned a brief note of
thanks, which ran thus:

`Would I could express my joy and gratitude
for the restoration of my dear child!
My heart is too full! I can only say that to
the last day of my life you will be remembered
with the warmest sensations of thankfulness,
friendship and respect, by

She folded this note, superscribed it with
the name of Gustavus Burnam, and gave it
to the valet de chambre, saying to him in
French,—

`Dites a Monsieur q'une autre fois j'aurais
mieux exprimé ma reconnaisance. A
present c'est la joie qu'il m'a causee qui me
fait folle!'

Louis bowed and disappeared.

`Voici une reponse,' he said, as, half an
hour after, he gave Maria's letter to his master—`here
is her reply; and she told me to
say to you that another time she could have
expressed her gratitude in better terms than
now, when frantic with the joy she owes entirely
to you.'

Burnam's features betrayed more excitement
than was his wont, as he eagerly tore
open Maria's letter, and cast his eye over the
characters which her own hand had traced
and her own tears had blotted.

In a moment, however, all emotion had

faded from his eye; and with his wonted
coolness he folded the note, and proceeded
to give Lewis further orders concerning
their departure on the morrow for the south
as if nothing had happened.

On the following day Gustavus took leave
of Boston, to the great disappointment of
divers managing mothers, among the upper
classes, who regarded him as a desirable
match for the wealthiest and fairest of maidens,
and who now, seeing that he withstood
all the charms of youth and beauty, whispered
among themselves—

`What a strange, incomprehensible being!'

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
On an Important Subject.

SORROW, anxiety and continued excitement,
proved too much for the delicate
constitution of Mrs. Acton. Shortly after
her husband's death, she was taken suddenly
ill, and her life was at one time despaired
of. Edith was her constant nurse. Frederick
Farley was her medical attendant, and
he did all in his power to conquer the fever
by which she was consumed.

Thus were Frederick and Edith thrown
together. Seeing each other every day, they
had a better opportunity than ever before of
studying each other's minds and dispositions.

Frederick avoided Edith frequently, for
loving her as he did and feeling that his
love was vain, he could not bear her presence.
His appearance towards her was
studied, yet sometimes strange, and incomprehensible
to any save Edith herself. She
felt that he loved her still!

The more she saw of him, the more she
felt herself drawn, towards him by the ties
of sympathy, and the more she wondered
that she could ever have preferred the Rev.
Mr. Everett to him.

She felt that he loved her still. Yet he
was so cold, so distant that he pained her.
Already her heart beat with love for him,
and his very address served to fan the flame.
How much would she then have given had
he never proposed and never been refused,
for she knew he was too proud to sue a second
time, and she could not make known to
him the change in her affections.

Meanwhile, Edith devoted all her cares to
her sister, who was slowly recovering.

Kate still remained with the Actons, having
become so attached to Edith, who had
taught her to love virtue and loathe the
course of life she had before pursued, that
she could not think of returning to the
city, in the midst of her vicious acquaintances.

There was but one of her old associates
she could remember without a shudder, and
that was Light Joe. He had always been
kind to her; his faults were the result of necessity
or habit, rather than of a naturally
vicious nature; he was not brutal like the
most of his class, but generous, and alive
to the best feelings of the human heart. It
was for this Kate loved him, and prayed
Heaven that he might abjure his evil inclinations
to give his good ones growth.

The young burglar had not visited her in
some time, and as she heard nothing from
any of her old friends, she began to fear
they had found the inside of certain thick
and gloomy walls.

It might be, however,—she thought—
through the fear of such an unpleasant
termination to his schemes that Mr. Joseph
Jenks avoided approaching the residence of
the Actons.

One morning, however, while Maria was
still dangerously ill, Joe came boldly around
to the back entrance, and knocked at the
kitchen door.

It happened that Kate came herself to admit
him. She knew not who it was until

the door was opened, and the young man
caught her by the hand.

`Oh, Joseph!' she exclaimed, warmly;
`how glad I am you have come! I have
so wanted to see you! Do come in—there
is nobody here but myself.'

`Glad to see me, eh?' said Joe, kissing
her with a hearty good will. `I was afraid
you had forgotten me.'

`You know that's what I couldn't do,'
replied Kate. `But what is the news, Joseph?'

`The news—ah! yes! I forgot to tell
you—though perhaps you have heard of it
already.'

`Of what?'

`Of Gordon's death.'

`Gordon dead?'

`Yes. He was drowned several nights
ago. A man who saw him fall off the
wharf into the water—it was one Barnum,
or Burnham, or Burnam, or some such
name—he saw him fall into the water, and
called for assistance; but before the poor
devil could be got out, he had drank salt
water enough to finish him. So there 's
an end of him—his accounts are all settled.

Kate was shocked by this intelligence,
for little as she had ever liked Gordon, the
suddenness of his death affected her in no
slight degree.

`I've more news,' said Joe. `Last week
I had the honor of a visit from the Reverend
Mr. Everett—your old friend, Marvin.
He talked of shooting me because somebody
else had exposed his villainy; and of strangling
you, because you told how he had
wronged you; and all such nonsense as that.
I laughed at him and sent him to the devil
as politely as I knew how, reminding him
by the way that he would make nothing by
attempting to injure you.'

`How is Aunt Margaret?' asked Kate.

`As bad as ever. She wants you to come
home immediately.'

`I have no home,' said Kate, sadly.

`Where she lives—'

`I would not return there for all the
world!' I would not, indeed!' she replied,
earnestly.

Joe looked at her inquiringly.

`To be plain,' pursued Kate, `I am happier
here than I have ever been before since
my acquaintance with Marvin began. I'll
die—starve before I will become as bad
again as I have been since you have known
me.'

`You like work, then, better than idleness
and crime,' said Joe, and he added in
a tone of deep earnestness, `I am glad of
it!'

`I love peace,' said Kate, `and a clear
conscience. Oh! how I should like a neat
little house in the country, away from the
confusion, misery and filth we meet with in
the city! How delightful it would be to
get up at sunrise every morning, and go
skipping over the dewy hills in the fresh
and bracing air!'

`I believe it would be pleasant,' added
Joe, `provided we were with those we
loved.'

`To be sure—with those we loved,' repeated
Kate. `But I would n't ask for
many friends. Indeed, I think that with nobody
but you, I could be happy. We could
work, Joe, during the day—and that would
be pleasant, I think, in the country—and in
the evening we could sit down together and
enjoy ourselves a great deal better than we
ever did where there was drinking, fighting
and swearing.'

`I believe you,' said Joe, pressing her
hand and looking very thoughtful.

Then Kate went on to paint the pleasures
of the little home she had imagined, in such
vivid colors, that Joe was completely carried
away, and burned with impatience to leave
the city and fly to the country with the girl
he loved. He was checked by a thought of
the difficulties to be overcome.

`It will be easily done,' said Kate. `We

have already two hundred dollars in the
bank—'

`So we have!' exclaimed Joe; `and I've
got a little besides.'

`It will take but a small sum to carry us
to the West.'

`To the West?'

`To the great prairies of Illinois, or to the
beautiful woodlands of Wisconsin! There,
it is easy to get a living; and a poor man, if
he is only industrious, can soon buy a
farm. Land, you know, is cheap, and you
have a long time allowed you to pay for it
in.'

`Well thought of, Kate, I must confess!'
exclaimed Light Joe, enraptured. `We
will be married to-morrow, if you will just
say so.'

`Don't hurry matters too fast,' interrupted
Kate, smiling. `Only be careful not to
change your mind, and wait patiently until
we can get fairly ready, and then we will
soon lay the foundation of lasting happiness.'

`And I will have a wife, a home, and
children of my own!' exclaimed Joe, pressing
Kate tenderly to his bosom.

It was a dark day, late in the month of
November; not cold, although there was a
fitful, biting wind; but damp, unpleasant
and gloomy. The sky was hung with black
clouds, and the day was farther obscured by
the particles of snow that filled the air and
melted as they fell.

Mrs. Acton, just recovering from her illness,
was sitting by the window of her room,
gazing out upon the dreary scenery presented
to her view, when Frederick Farley called
in to enquire concerning the state of her
health.

`You must not indulge in low spirits,'
said he. `You look altogether too melancholy
to day,' he added, endeavoring to
arouse him—`indeed the dismal image of
the weather is mirrored in your face.'

`I was meditating,' she said, `on the
change which has taken place during the
past few weeks. I cannot but be sad when
I think of it.'

`There have been many changes,' replied
Frederick, anxious to divert her mind from
gloomy meditations, `some of which I cannot
understand.'

`What do you allude to?'

`One thing—I never see Mr. Everett here
of late; and I believe he was once a frequent
visitor of yours.'

`That change I cannot understand myself,'
replied Maria. `Edith knows why he
avoids us, I think, but she has never told
me the cause of her own accord, and I have
never questioned her.'

At that moment Edith entered. She was
pale and appeared worn out by long watching,
but Frederick thought her more beautiful
than ever.

Mrs. Acton mentioned the subject of conversation
to her sister, and asked her if she
had seen Mr. Everett of late, or if he had
called since she was taken ill. Edith answered
in the negative, and added—

`I have reason to think he will never call
on us again.'

This was spoken in a tone of peculiar
meaning which made Frederick start.

Having long regarded Mr. Everett as his
more successful rival, it was with joyful surprise
that he learned his error. As he bent
an earnest look at Edith's sad countenance,
she raised her eyes to his, but dropped
them immediately, fer they were filled with
tears.

She hurried from the room, and entered
the parlor, where she brushed away her
tears, chiding herself for her weakness.—
She sat down by the window, where she remained
for some minutes, gazing with
moist eyes upon the dreary scene without.

Suddenly there was a light step upon the

carpet, and a well known voice, that made
her start, pronounced her name.

Turning, she beheld Frederick Farley
standing by her side. She arose immediately
in some confusion, but the young man
bade her keep her seat, and drew a chair to
her side.

`You will excuse me, I trust,' he said in
tones that quivered with deep feeling, for
approaching a subject which should have
been dropped forever, did I not flatter myself
with the hope that you have changed your
mind.'

He paused, earnestly watching the expression
of her features. She knew what was
coming, and trembled with a sort of nervous
hope and joy which suddenly possessed
her.

`—That you have changed your mind,'
he resumed, `in relation to myself. It may
be vanity in me to think such a thing possible;
and I cannot explain even to myself
why I hope; but something tells me that
should I offer you my hand again—'

He paused once more; her eyes were
downcast, and glistening drops trembled on
her long dark lashes; her features were
alternately pale and glowing red; and as
he drew her hand in his, he felt that it
quivered.

He resumed:

`—That should I offer you my hand again
you would hesitate before you refused.—
Speak frankly—may I hope?'

She did not speak, however; yet she cast
on him a look full of confidence, and love,
and happiness, that sent a thrill of joy to his
heart; and the lovely hand he pressed so ardently
to his lips, she yielded to his possession
without a struggle.

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
Conclusion.

TOWARDS the close of a lovely day in
the month of September, following the
events we have recorded, a single horseman
—to use the expression of a well-known
modern writer—might have been seen riding
slowly along the borders of a pleasant wood
but a few miles from Boston.

Were this history purely fictitious we
should beware of imitating the `cavalier'
style of the author alluded to above; but it
being an indisputable fact that there was a
horseman on the occasion and in the circumstances
mentioned, we record the truth boldly
and without hesitation.

So, there was a horseman; and he was
alone, and his horse paced leisurely the dry,
well-beaten wood; and the traveller cast a
delighted eye about him, like the true admirer
of Nature, who takes pleasure in
`holding communion with her visible forms.'
The September sun was declining in the
cloudless western sky, and the meadows,
woodlands, cottages and sloping hill-sides,
which surrounded the traveller, lay basking
like creatures of life and feeling, in the golden,
mellow sunlight.

And the traveller passed on, until he arrived
in the shadow of a large spreading oak
that stood on the road-side. Here, a little
retired from the highway, stood a beautiful
white cottage, in a romantic situation, half
hidden from the traveller's view by thick
shade trees by which it was surrounded.

The horseman dismounted, and tying his
animal to a staple driven in the oak by the
road, threw open the gate, and took the path
leading to the cottage door.

Having rung the bell, he stood contemplating
the objects presented to his view, as
he waited for the inmates to give him admittance.
The walks, he observed, were
laid out with the greatest neatness and taste

—flower-beds and vines were beneath and
about the windows; and in the panelling of
the door was set a silver plate, on which
was engraved, in fanciful characters, the
name—

`Dr. F. Farley.'

The house-keeper appeared. It was the
old acquaintance of the reader, — Mrs.
Barnes.

`Is Doctor Farley in?' enquired the visitor.

`He will be at home in an hour,' replied
Mrs. Barnes.

`Is his family at home?'

`There are none of them at home; but I
expect them shortly. Will you walk in and
wait?'

The visitor was shown into the sitting
room. Mrs. Barnes was about to retire,
when he checked her by a question.

`Mr. Farley is married, I believe?'

`Oh, yes; the doctor has been married
several months,' replied the housekeeper.

`I used to be acquainted with his wife, I
think. Did he marry a lady named Irving,
a sister of Mrs. Acton?'

`That's the lady; and a better matched
pair you never saw. They love each other
now, I believe, as well as on the day they
were married. He idolizes her, and she
thinks there is nobody like her husband.'

`Was there not a clergyman paying attention
to Miss Irving—or Mrs. Farley—about
three years ago?'

`Yes, sir—the Rev. Mr. Everett. It was
thought she would marry him at one time,
but she finally made choice of the doctor.
It was said there were some suspicions concerning
Mr. Everett's moral character, but
they were hushed up by his friends, because
he was the pastor of a congregation. He
left the place suddenly and rather mysteriously,
and nobody knows what has become
of him. There was a servant girl living
with us about that time, who, I believe
knew something of Mr. Everett that was not
altogether in his favor. She hinted as much
to me one day, and she was as honest a girl
as ever lived.'

`Her name—'

`Her name was Catherine Munson. She
was a dear good creature; she had the best
little heart that ever beat in any girl's bosom.
I was sorry to lose her, but she married
a young man named Jenks, and they
have both gone to the west. I had a letter
from her a few days ago, in which she writes
that she was never so happy in her life as
she is now. It is enough to make one fly to
read her description of her little cottage,
and the grove behind it, and the stream close
by, and the prairie beyond, which she says
blooms with the most beautiful flowers she
ever saw during the greater part of the year.
But I am telling about that which you can
have no interest in.'

`By no means. I love to hear of the
happiness of young people, especially if they
are in the humbler ranks of life. But with
regard to Mrs. Acton—'

`Oh! Mrs. Acton, since Edith's marriage,
has made it her home with Dr. Farley.
She is with us now, together with her
little boy, Robert.'

`Does she enjoy good health?' enquired
the stranger.

`I believe she does; but she looks paler
than she used to, and is more subject to
melancholy. There were some circumstances
connected with her husband's death
which has had a lasting effect upon her
mind.'

At that moment a carriage drove up before
the house, and Mrs. Acton and Robert,
together with Frederick's wife and mother,
descended with the assistance of Dr. Farley.
Mrs. Barnes hastened to meet them, and the
visitor was left alone when Frederick entered.

Ten minutes after, the young doctor
knocked at the door of Mrs. Acton's apartment.
Being admitted he said to her that

he had an old friend in the parlor to whom
he wished to give her an introduction.

She followed him, leaning on his arm.—
The visitor arose as they entered, and Frederick
pronounced his name—

`Mr. Gustavus Burnam!'

There was a wild confusion in Mrs. Acton's
brain at this moment. Her senses
reeled—her heart throbbed with emotions of
surprise and delight mingled with a sort of
indefinable dread; and she scarce knew
what she did.

When she recovered her presence of mind,
she found herself alone with Gustavus.

`This visit is so unexpected,' she murmured,
`that you will excuse me for betraying
such surprise. I am very glad to see
you. I was afraid you would never visit me
again.'

`It was the recollection of the past which
brought me here,' replied Gustavus. `When
we parted, I thought we should never meet
again; for to do so, I thought, would be
productive of unhappiness to us both. You
were married then, and, after what had passed,
I deemed it impossible for us to continue
on terms of simple friendship. If you
had loved me once, you had given your
hand to another since, and I felt that you
would gladly have me avoid you. Since that
time, however, I have never ceased to think
of you, and now, no longer unable to keep
away, I have returned—'

`Mr. Burnam,' interrupted Maria, `you
surprise me—I had thought that my unworthy
treatment of you would alienate you
from me forever!'

`I have returned to you,' pursued Gustavus,
without noticing the interruption, to
see if by doing so, I could not fill a void in
my heart—an aching void which time and
the incidents of life cannot make me forget;
a void which has been there since the
day on which I deemed you lost to me forever.
You are single now; the love you
once professed for me may still warm your
heart; and as for myself, I believe that I
can never be truly happy without you. Excuse
me for coming to the point thus abruptly,
for I am anxious to know your mind and
my destiny at once. I offer you my hand:
will you accept it?'

Maria was agitated and very pale; and
when she spoke there was a tremor in her
voice which betrayed the depths of her emotion.

`I will be candid—it is my duty to be
frank with you,' she said, without raising
her eyes from the carpet. `If you can forget
that I was once betrothed to you, and
suffered myself to believe an infamous lie;
that I deserted you when afflictions came
upon you, and shuddering at your supposed
crime, conscientiously avoided listening to
your explanations, which I thought no offset
against the evidence which was brought forward
to prove your guilt; if you can forget
that, after this, I gave my hand to the man
who did more than any other to work your
ruin; and if you can forgive all this in one
so weak and foolish as myself, and love me
still—I give you my hand, with the heart
which none ever truly possessed but yourself.'

And she extended her hand to Gustavus;
timidly, as if she felt that he must shudder
at the thought of accepting it; but he
pressed it to his lips with passionate eagerness,
thanking her with heartfelt gratitude
for the gift.

`You are too good—too ready to forgive!'
sobbed Maria, in the fullness of her heart.
`But I will endeavor to repay you with all
the strength of woman's love, and all the
fidelity of her devotion. Only, forget the
past!'

`All is forgotten and forgiven,' whispered
Gustavus, as he drew her gently to his
heart, and called his own forever.

That evening there was a happy circle in
Edith's parlor. She and her husband were

there, and Frederick's mother, and Maria,
and Gustavus Burnam, who was as fascinating
and brilliant in conversation as ever.—
And little Robert, too, was there, and he
talked of the time, that appeared to his
young heart so long ago, when he was restored
to his mother by Gustavus, after having
seen some strange adventures among
strange people, and in places equally
strange.

Late in the evening, Gustavus arose to
take his leave, In vain did his friends endeavor
to prevail on him to pass the night
with them; riding horseback was his favorite
exercise, and he loved to travel alone in
the still and solemn night; and besides, he
had business, he said, which required his
presence in Boston. He accordingly took
leave of them, and mounting his horse, spurred
at a rapid pace along the road by which
he came.

Arrived at his hotel, late in the night—or
rather early in the morning—he found the
faithful Louis, who had concluded to devote
his life to his service, in his apartments,
awaiting his return.

`I have news for you,' said he to the valet
de chambre.

`Merci, monsieur.

`I am to de married soon.'

`C'est bien,' replied Louis, without betraying
the least emotion. `But I hope you
will grant me one favor.'

Speak.'

`It is that when you have a wife to love and
cherish, you will not forget Louis, nor turn
him off like a useless animal, because you
have less need of him. I'd rather be the
servant of a man like you, than the possessor
of all your riches.'

`I'll not forget you!' exclaimed Gustavus,
grasping his hand.

How proud Louis felt of that honor!—
his master had deigned to touch his hand.

In the course of three months Mrs. Acton
had made preparations for her approaching
marriage, and at the end of that time there
was a splendid wedding party given in Dr.
Farley's house. Gustavus and Maria were
united, and the wrongs they had both endured
at the hands of others, were in a measure
recompensed by the happiness of their
union.

`Although we have been long separated,'
said Gustavus to his bride on the evening of
their marriage, `it was fated, dear Maria,
that we should be brought together again before
the prime of life was passed; and now,
with the assurance that we were created for
each other, let us be happy in each other's
love, and forgetting the past, make the present
and the future ours!'

`We will—we will!' murmured Maria,
while her eyes filled with tears of love and
happiness. `I am sure of it—for this is
the happiest moment of my life, and something
whispers me that ours is no transient
bliss.