Her eyes brightened for a moment. "Should you?" she replied, but perhaps-" she paused.

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He would not care to see me. Did

prejudice against me."

you mean that? I know his

That, Mr. Gibson, has been long ago dispelled. It would make him happy to see you once more, before he dies. He has said so often, but he is ashamed and afraid to meet you."

I prevailed upon her to allow me to conduct her home. She made many excuses, and at length, with a faltering voice murmured something about the meanness of the lodging. Drawing her arm between mine, we proceeded on our way in silence, (my heart was too full to speak,) towards a narrow street in Westminster. "We live here," she said, with a deprecating blush, as she knocked at the door of a miserable dwelling. "If you will wait below for a moment, I will prepare my father to receive you."

I was shown into a small room, scantily furnished, on the second floor. When I entered, Bromley came forward to meet me,—but very feebly; and, placing his hand upon my shoulder, he gazed long and earnestly at me, whilst the tears rolled down his face.

"And you have come at last to see me, Mr. Gibson ?" he said tremulously; "I do not deserve this kindness from you. Oh! boy, I have wronged you, but, listen,-that villain!" he looked around, but Mrs. Steiner had left the room. "that villain, Steiner, set us against you both of us; he did he did!"

I placed the old man in his chair, and sat down by his side. He was verging upon second childhood, but I gathered from him enough to know that I had been the instrument of ruin, of misery, of destitution, and of his present helpless and piteous condition. Steiner had long ago abandoned his wife and child, having converted into money everything he could lay his hands upon, and they had neither seen nor heard from him for years.

I could wish to avoid this part of my confession-I can hardly bear to think upon it even now. More awful circumstances do not so disturb me, as the remembrance of that day. I stayed with them for some hours. We talked of by-gone days-my days of happiness, but we spoke of them sadly, mournfully, and with regret. At length I informed them of my unexpected possession of a fortune, and abruptly-for I could do it in no other way, expressed my determination of providing for Bromley and his daughter, and of taking the child, who was now grown a fine boy, under my pro

tection.

I can never recal to memory, without agony, the old man, as he tottered from the room, chuckling as he went, to tell the woman of the house, below, that he was a made man again, and that Gibson had brought him back his property; and I groaned in very anguish when Mrs. Steiner fell at my feet, bathing my hand with her tears, and called upon the child to kneel before me, and bless their benefactor. They could not have devised a more dreadful vengeance upon me.

1, too, when I returned home on that night, went upon my knees, not for forgiveness of my crime, but that He would direct me how to atone for it in this world. And I arose, perhaps, a better, if not a happier man.

Peace is, however, preferable to happiness; if it be not in its best

sense the same thing, and if an exemption from external influences may be called peace, I enjoyed it for six years after my interview with Bromley and his daughter.

What I had promised to do for them was done, and done promptly. I settled an annuity upon them, which was continued to Mrs. Steiner after the death of her father, and I sent the boy to a boardingschool in the vicinity of London, intending to realise for him the prospects which had been designed for me by my early protector, Mr. Ward.

The world finds it very difficult in many cases to draw the line, and in some even to distinguish, between crime and misfortune. I am about to enter upon a circumstance in my life which chiefly partakes of the latter. I cannot bring myself to think otherwise. But it will be necessary to state in a few words how matters stood when this circumstance occurred.

I had been living for the space of six years a secluded and an inoffensive life. I occupied a small detached house at Chelsea, and resided alone; the woman who attended upon me coming every morning, and returning to her own home at night. The boy spent the chief portion of his holidays with me; but at other times, with the exception of an occasional visit to and from Mrs. Steiner, I neither went to see nor received into my house any human being. I had no friends.

My early attachment for the boy had been renewed, and he returned my affection. He was now thirteen years of age; and, at the time of which I am about to speak, at school.

CHAPTER V.

I had been expecting a letter from Mrs. Steiner, which she had promised to send me in the evening. It was a letter for her son, to which I wished to add a few lines. It was growing late; my servant had left me, and I was about to retire to bed, when a knock summoned me to the door. Late as it was I concluded that some perOn opening the door a tall, muscular man, with a fur cap on his head, and enveloped in a rough great coat, stood before me.

son had brought the letter.

"Is Mr. Gibson within ?" he inquired.

"He is my name is Gibson."

"You don't remember me, I perceive," said the man.

"I do not.'

"Ay!" he continued; "times are changed since we last met: with you for the better; for the worse with me. My name is Steiner."

I stept back in astonishment.

"You won't know me now, I suppose?" resumed Steiner, “and I believe you have no reason to care much about me; but I have suffered misfortunes since then."

This was spoken in a tone of humility, which almost affected me. "Nay, Steiner," said I, "I have long ago forgotten and forgiven the past,"

"Have you?" he replied quickly. "Mr. Gibson, you have a good heart, and I always thought so; though I did'nt always act as if I thought But, won't you let me step in? I have a favor to beg of you; and I won't detain you long."

SO.

I led the way into the parlor, and he sat down. As he took 'off his cap, and threw back his great-coat, I at once recognised my old enemy. Time had contributed his usual share to the alteration I detected in him; but sordid wants, and recourse to miserable shifts and expedients, will breed care, even in the most callous bosom; and its effects were observable upon his face. He looked ill, also, and exhausted.

Will you not take some refreshment?" I said: "you appear faint."

"I am so," he replied. "You are very kind. I will take something. I have not touched a morsel to-day.'

I went down stairs, and procured what the pantry contained; which

I laid before him.

"You had better take some wine," I said, placing it upon the table.

I watched him in silence as he despatched his meal, wondering inwardly how he had obtained a clue to my place of abode, and what request he was about to make to me. He thrust the tray from him, and helped himself to a glass of wine, which was presently followed by another.

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"You seem to have a pleasant place here, Gibson," said he. "Well, this is a strange world! Who could have supposed fifteen years ago that you and I would have been situated as we are now;— but you don't drink."

I took a glass of wine. "It has pleased fortune to bestow her fa vors upon me," said I; "but, after all, fortune—'

"Ah! well; I'm glad of it!" he cried, interrupting me,

of it; you deserve it. Here's your health, old boy!"

"I'm glad

I was somewhat startled at this sudden familiarity. I had never admired Steiner in his gayer mood, especially when it had been induced by drink. I knew it of old as the prelude to an ebullition of a totally opposite nature.

Will you let me know how I can be of service to you, Mr. Steiner," I said abruptly; "it is growing late."

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So late? not so very late!" returned Steiner. 'Why, the truth is, I am poor, very poor, and I want money!"

You are in want, you say? Well, I can, perhaps,Perhaps!" said he. Certainly, I should think. Come, more wine: I see you have some on the sideboard."

"Another glass," I answered, producing with reluctance a second bottle, "and we part. Do you mean to say, sir, you are in positive distress?"

"I do," he returned; "I have nothing left in the world,-nothing? Yes, this. Do you remember it?" and he produced from his pocket a dagger, the sheath of which was curiously chased, and which had ornamented Bromley's shop from my earliest remembrance. "I have kept it by me for years," he continued, "in case it might be wanted." He threw it upon the table, and seized the decanter.

I could see in his eye at that moment the man I had lost sight of for years; the man who had threatened me when I last saw him. But I had no wish to quarrel with him.

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'Have you seen Mrs. Steiner since your return to England?" I inquired.

"No. I have not seen Mrs. Steiner since my return to England," said he. "I called at my former lodgings, and they informed me of everything. They told me where I might find you, and I preferred calling upon you first."

"Well, Steiner," said I, rising, "I am sorry to hasten you, but it grows very late."

"Ha! ha!" cried he, not heeding me; "I hear you have done something for the boy, and provided for Louisa. Well, it's generous of you; I will say that. She's altered, eh! not quite so handsome? But you always liked her, you dog! I knew that."

I sat down, in utter and mute surprise at the man's baseness.

"And old Bromley 's gone too," he resumed. "Well, we must all go! The law of nature they call it."

"I must beg you to defer your business till to-morrow morning," said I in disgust. "I will not be kept up any longer!"

"No, no," returned he decisively; "I can't do that. If Bromley could have deferred his death till to-morrow he would have done so, I dare say; but he couldn't. I can't defer my business!" "What do you want?" said I peremptorily. "Money!" answered Steiner.

"Come, Gibson; I know you're a

good-natured fellow. I want a hundred pounds.'

"A hundred pounds!" and I drew back in surprise.

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"No nonsense, my gentleman!" cried Steiner, tapping the table with the hilt of the dagger. You know, and I know that you set fire to that house in Wardour-street. You ruined us. beggary. I must have this money !—I must-must!”

You reduced us to

The old feeling entered into me which I had years ago encouraged, and by whose power I had successfully wrought out my vengeance. "Must ?" said I; "must, Mr. Steiner? that is a word I never obey. ed in my life!"

"Come, Gibson,

"Time you began!" said Steiner with a sneer. you are no match for me; you know it. You tried me once, and you were wanting. You are alone in the house. I have you in my power!"

"What do you mean?" said I, but I was not alarmed. "What do you purpose

?"

"This!" cried he, and he unsheathed the dagger.

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"Your life," said I promptly, "your life, Steiner, will answer it !?"

"What is it to me?" he returned. Will you let me have the

question!

"No!"
"You will not?"

"What is yours to you is the money ?"

"No!" I thundered. "Steiner, I shall sell my life dearly! Never shall a beast like yourself extort money from me by force-by intimidation!"

I said more, but I know not what; and grappled with him. He was a powerful man, but had become enervated by excess. I learnt that afterwards. And the wine he had taken, although it had stimulated his brutal nature, had deprived him of that advan tage which is derived from quickness of eye and directness of aim. I, too, had grown stronger since we were last opposed to each

other.

He had wounded me in the arm before I closed with him, and

wrested the dagger from his hand. The struggle was then short, compressed, and deadly. We fell to the earth together. Steiner's hold upon me seemed to relax,-a faintness overcame me,-the room appeared to go round rapidly,—and I sank into insensibility.

When I recovered my senses, and arose,-which I did with difficulty, I found the candles burnt out, and the daylight streaming through the shutters. Why was I here? What had happened? It was a hideous dream! I made an effort to approach the window, but I stumbled over something on the floor. It was Steiner,-the lifeless body,-the corpse of Steiner! I had killed him! His neckcloth told me that I had strangled him!

THE DYING CHILD.

"SHALL I meet thee again, my child-my child?
Shall I meet thee again, my child,

Roaming along by the hill side free;
Bounding away with boyish glee

In the evening sunbeam mild?

Oh! down by the flood, in the tufted wood,
Shall I meet thee again, my child ?"

"Mother, no; the mountain path

No longer is mine to see;

And the glow of the summer sunbeam hath
No warmth or joy for me!

Oh! never again by cliff or glen

Shall my footstep wander free!"

"And shall I not meet thee again, my child,
Not meet thee again, my child,

Where the holly berries all red and bright,
Down by the copse wood wild?

Where the nested bird in its joy is heard,

Oh! shall I not meet thee, my child?"

And thine eye is glazed while the spring soft
Brightens the path where so oft and oft

Thy cherub lips have smiled;

And already they weep o'er thy dreamless sleep,
My loved and my sainted child!

'But, oh! when the bosoms of all forget,
And the hearth rings again with glee,

Then, then, will mine aching lids be wet,

My gallant child, for thee!

When summer with flowers and fruits shall come,

And all are in mirth and joy;

Oh! then, in the midst of the fair earth's bloom,
I'll kiss thee, my darling boy !"

M. F. D.