were terminated, and the little procession,
which attended the young Ella Winstanley to
her untimely grave, gradually moved on, and
disappeared at the turning of the street.

The countenance of the lady, as she returned
to the sofa, showed that she had been very
much moved by the sight.

Having been bled, the stranger opened his
eyes; which now, as he lay there, extended
upon the sofa, displayed a gloomy but remarkable
beauty—a beauty, however, arising rather
from their form and colour, than from their
expression, which was more painful than
interesting. Again the lady fixed her eyes
upon his face, and again she shuddered, and
half turned away. Pity, disgust, and regret,
were mingled in her gesture.

The stranger's eyes followed her, with a
dreamy and unsettled look. He seemed to
be as mazed with wonder as she was.

She turned again, as if to satisfy her doubts.
His eyes met hers; and, as they did so,
recollection seemed to be restored.

"Where am I, and what is it?" he
muttered.

"You are where you will be taken good
care of, until you are able to be removed,"
said the lady. "Is there any one you would
wish to have sent for?"

The man did not speak.

"Any one you would wish to be sent for?"
she repeated.

"No," he answered.

"Anything more you would wish to have
done?"

"Nothing."

He lay silent for some time, with his eyes
still fixed upon her.

At last he said, "Tell me where I am?"

"Where you are welcome to be, until you
can gather strength enough to proceed to the
place to which you were going when this
attack seized you. And that was—?"

"Nowhere. But what house is this?"

"A house only destined for the reception
of ladies," she answered.

"Ladies! what ladies?"

"The sick, who have no other home."

"A house of charity, then?"

"Partly."

"And that one—that one—that young
creature, whose funeral—Do you know her?
anything about her—?"

"Yes," answered the lady, with gravity,
approaching to severity, "I do know much
about her."

"Why—why did she come here?"

"Because she was friendless and deserted;
poor, sick, and miserable. She had given up
what little money she had to supply the wants
—perhaps—who knows?—the vices of
another. Happily there were found those who
would befriend her."

"And she accepted the charity; she
received the alms?"

"She had learned to submit herself to the
will of God."

He shut his teeth together, with a something
between bitterness and contempt at these last
words, and turned his head away.

"You are her father?" said the lady.

"I am—"

"Then you are a very wretched man," she
added.

"Yes," he replied, "I am most miserable."

"You are one who have reaped from
seeds, which might have produced a rich
harvest of happiness, nothing but black and
blighted misery."

She spoke with unusual severity, for her
soul recoiled at his aspect: she saw nothing
in it to soften her feelings of indignation.

"I have lived," he answered.

"How?"

"How! as others of my temper have lived.
It is not my fault that I was born with an
invincible passion for enjoyment. I did not make
myself. If pleasure be but the forerunner
of satiety—if life be but a cheat—if delight
be but the precursor of misery—a delusion
of flattering lies,—I did not arrange the
system. Why was virtue made so hard, and
self-indulgence so enticing? I did not
contrive the scheme."

"Such excuses," the lady replied, "the
honest consciousness within us rejects; such
as your own inner conscience at the very
moment you utter them disclaims. She
who is gone—a broken-hearted victim of
another's errors—hoped better things, when
she exhausted almost her last breath in
prayers for you."

"Prayers!" in a tone that spoke volumes.

"Yes, prayers."

"What is become of my other daughter?—
I want to go to her."

"She died, I believe, about twelve months
ago."

"Then I am alone in the world?"

"You have no children, now."

"Are you going to turn me out into the
street?" he suddenly asked, after a short
silence.

"The rules of this house—which is dedicated
to the assistance of sick and helpless women
—will not admit of your remaining."

"I am going. You will hear of me next as
one past recovery; picked up out of some
kennel by the police. You would have done
better not to have restored me. I should
have died quietly."

"But without repentance."

"Repentance!" he said, fiercely. "Repent,
while my whole soul is writhing with agony?
Ella! Ella! if I could only have kept my Ella,
she would have tended me—she would have
soothed me—she would have worked for me."

"Yes," said the lady, "she would have
done this, and much more—but God has
taken her; has rescued her from your heartless
selfishness." To herself she added—for
her heart was glowing with indignation—
"Even in this supreme moment, he thinks of
nothing but of himself."