of you children for more to eat. So when
he told me to go and buy some wood, some
bread, and some wine with the money I had
got, I didn't like, somehow, to leave him
alone with the stranger; and so made
excuses, saying (which was true) that it was
too late to buy things in the village that
night. But he told me in a rage to go and
do as he bid me, and knock the people up
if the shop was shut. So I went out, being
dreadfully afraid of your father—as indeed
we all were at that time—but I couldn't make
up my mind to go far from the house: I was
afraid of something happening, though I
didn't dare to think what. I don't know how
it was; but I stole back in about ten minutes
on tip-toe, to the cottage; and looked in at
the window; and saw—O! God forgive
him! O, God forgive me!—I saw—I more
to drink, Gabriel! I can't speak again—
more to drink!"

The voices in the next room had ceased;
but in the minute of silence which now ensued,
Gabriel heard his sisters kissing Rose, and
wishing her good night. They were all three
trying to go to sleep again.

"Gabriel, pray yourself, and teach your
children after you to pray, that your
father may find forgiveness where he is now
gone. I saw him, as plainly as I now see you,
kneeling with his knife in one hand over the
sleeping man. He was taking the little book
with the notes in it out of the stranger's
pocket. He got the book into his possession,
and held it quite still in his hand for an
instant, thinking. I believe—oh, no! no!—
I'm sure, he was repenting; I'm sure he was
going to put the book back; but just at that
moment the stranger moved, and raised one
of his arms, as if he was waking up. Then,
the temptation of the devil grew too strong
for your father—I saw him lift the hand with
the knife in it—but saw nothing more. I
couldn't look in at the window—I couldn't
move away—I couldn't cry out; I stood with
my back turned towards the house, shivering
all over, though it was a warm summer-time,
and hearing no cries, no noises at all, from
the room behind me. I was too frightened
to know how long it was before the opening
of the cottage door made me turn round;
but when I did, I saw your father standing
before me in the yellow moonlight, carrying
in his arms the bleeding body of the poor
lad who had shared his food with us, and
slept on our hearth. Hush! hush! Don't
groan and sob in that way! Stifle it with
the bed-clothes. Hush! you'll wake them in
the next room!"

"Gabriel—Gabriel!" exclaimed a voice
from behind the partition. "What has
happened? Gabriel! let me come out and be
with you?"

"No! no! " cried the old man, collecting
the last remains of his strength in the attempt
to speak above the wind, which was just then
howling at the loudest. "Stay where you
are—don't speak—don't come out, I command
you! Gabriel," (his voice dropped to a faint
whisper) "raise me up in bed—you must hear
the whole of it, now—raise me; I'm choking
so that I can hardly speak. Keep close and
listen—I can't say much more. Where was
I?—Ah, your father! He threatened to kill
me if I didn't swear to keep it secret; and in
terror of my life I swore. He made me help
him to carry the body—we took it all across
the heath—oh! horrible, horrible, under the
bright moon—(lift me higher, Gabriel). You
know the great stones yonder, set up by the
heathens; you know the hollow place under
the stones they call ' he Merchant's Table'—
we had plenty of room to lay him in that,
and hide him so; and then we ran back to
the cottage. I never dared go near the place
afterwards; no, nor your father either!
(Higher, Gabriel! I'm choking again). We
burnt the pocket-book and the knapsack—
never knew his name—we kept the money to
spend. (You're not lifting me! you're not
listening close enough!) Your father said
it was a legacy, when you and your mother
asked about the money. (You hurt me,
you shake me to pieces, Gabriel, when you
sob like that). It brought a curse on us, the
money; the curse has drowned your father
and your brother; the curse is killing me;
but I've confessed—tell the priest I confessed
before I died. Stop her; stop Rose! I hear
her getting up. Take his bones away from
The Merchant's Table, and bury them for the
love of God!—and tell the priest—(lift me
higher: lift me till I'm on my knees)—if
your father was alive, he'd murder me—but
tell the priest—because of my guilty soul—
to pray—and remember The Merchant's
Table—to bury, and to pray—to pray always
for——"

As long as Rose heard faintly the whispering
of the old man—though no word that he
said reached her ear—she shrank from
opening the door in the partition. But, when
the whispering sounds—which terrified her
she knew not how or why—first faltered, then
ceased altogether; when she heard the sobs
that followed them; and when her heart told
her who was weeping in the next room—then,
she began to be influenced by a new feeling
which was stronger than the strongest fear,
and she opened the door without hesitating—
almost without trembling.

The coverlid was drawn up over the old
man; Gabriel was kneeling by the bedside,
with his face hidden. When she spoke to
him, he neither answered nor looked at
her. After a while, the sobs that shook him
ceased; but still he never moved—except
once when she touched him, and then he
shuddered—shuddered under her hand! She
called in his little sisters, and they spoke to
him, and still he uttered no word in reply.
They wept. One by one, often and often,
they entreated him with loving words; but
the stupor of grief which held him speechless