against the wall I heard the hum of voices.
Faint, confused and indistinct as the sound
was, something—perhaps the associations of
the place—made me feel that I was listening
to my wife and child. I was startled
by the sound of footsteps; and, turning
my eyes in the direction of the entrance
to the passage (it had but one entrance),
I saw approaching, an old man, who had
been in the service of the firm, as house
porter for fifty years. He was called blind
Stephen; for, though not totally blind, his
eyes had a stony, glazed appearance. He
had lived so long in the house that he would
have died if he had been removed; and, in
consideration of his lengthened service, he
was retained, by Mr. Askew's special
commands. This was before I left, and I
presumed from finding him there, that he was
still at his old duty; coming round to see, or
rather feel, that all was secure before retiring
for the night. I shrank against the wall
with the hope of avoiding discovery: not that
I feared the consequences of being recognised
by Stephen—for I had many claims upon his
kindness and sympathy—but that I dreaded,
although I longed to hear what he might
have to tell me.  He came directly towards
me, as if by instinct; for I was perfectly
breathlessly, still; and paused immediately
opposite to where I was partially hidden,
under the shadow of the wall. He seemed
to feel that some one was there, and his
glazed eyes were directed full upon me,
looking now more ghastly than ever, as they
glistened in the light of the moon, which
just then had passed from behind a cloud.
Unable to restrain myself I uttered his
name.

"Good God! Mr. Randall, is it you?"
he exclaimed, with a start, recognising my
voice. "We thought you were drowned!"

"It is, Stephen," I replied, coming forward.
"Tell me, for Mercy's sake, are Esther and
the child well?"

"They are."

"Are they here?"

"In that room, Mr. Randall," pointing to
the one at which I had been listening.

"Thank God!"

"They are much changed, Mr. Randall,
since you——, since you went away," he
continued in a sorrowful tone.

"Do they ever speak of me in your hearing,
Stephen, when you are about the house?"

"Never, now, Mr. Randall."

There was something in the tone of
Stephen's voice that weighed upon my heart.
He always was a kind old fellow, with a
degree of refinement above his class; but now,
his voice was weak, and sad, and tremulous;
more so than what he told me seemed to
demand. I conjured him to tell me all. With
considerable hesitation and emotion, he
complied.

"None of us in the office thought you
guilty of the forgery, sir, not one; and
the principal clerks presented a note of
sympathy and condolence to your good
lady. Mr. Picard became, as he is now,
more harsh and disagreeable then ever; and,
at one time, we thought Mrs. Randall would
leave the place; but Mr. Dobell, we fancy,
persuaded her to stay.  She was always, you
know, sir, of a very serious turn, and she
now went more frequently to chapel than
ever.  She took on a great deal, we fancy, at
first; but she is a lady, sir, of great spirit and
firmness, and she concealed her feelings very
well, and held herself up as proudly as the
best of them.''

''And poor little Margaret, did she miss
me much?''

''Indeed, sir, she did at first.  Poor little
dear, I often heard her crying after you in
the morning; and, for many weeks, not even
the fear of Mr. Picard could keep her from
going down in the daytime to the gateway
and standing there looking up and down the
lane, until she was fetched gently back by
me. God forgive me for the many falsehoods
I told her, sir, about your coming back! But
I could not bear to see her crying about the
great lonely house. And she always asked
afer you in such a loving, innocent, sorrowful
way.''

Poor old Stephen's narrative was here
stopped by tears; as for me, I sobbed like a
child.

"Many of the gentlemen, sir, would gladly
have taken her to their own homes; but
your good lady would not part with her. I
used often to go up to her little room at the
top of the house and play with her as I had
seen you do, sir, in the middle of the day.
She was always very glad to see me; and
sometimes she would take me to the window
when the noonday chimes of our old church
were playing, and, pointing up to the sky
above the tower, would fancy she saw you
there. By degrees her inquiries after you
became less frequent; and when the intelligence
of the wreck of your ship arrived, and
your good lady put her into mourning,
supposing you dead, she had ceased to ask about
you."

"Has she grown much?"

"Very much, sir. She is a dear, sweet,
gentle thing:  we all respect your good
lady, but we love little Margaret; and
although I lost my sight entirely, four
years ago, and am now stone blind, I know
her height to a hair, for there is not a night
that she does not kiss me before she goes to
bed, and I have had to stoop less for the kiss
every week all that time."

"Has young Mr. Picard ever been heard
of?"

"O yes, sir. We believe he was found
murdered in some low house in a remote part
of the town; but Mr. Picard senior hushed
the matter up, so that we never clearly knew
the facts."

"I thought he would never have allowed