inward sore. Living in an assize town was
torture: a commercial one was nearly as
bad.  My father was the son of a dignified
clergyman, well known to his brethren: a
cathedral town was to be avoided, because
there the circumstance of the Dean of
Saint Botolph's son having been transported
was sure to be known. I had to be educated;
therefore we had to live in a town;
for my mother could not bear to part from
me, and I was sent to a day-school.  We
were very poor for our station— no!  we had
no station; we were the wife and child of
a convict,— for my poor mother's early habits,
I should have said.  But when I was about
fourteen my father died in his exile, leaving,
as convicts in those days sometimes did, a
large fortune. It all came to us. My mother
shut herself up, and cried and prayed for a
whole day. Then she called me in, and took
me into her counsel.  We solemnly pledged
ourselves to give the money to some charity, as
soon as I was legally of age. Till then the
interest was laid by, every penny of it: though
sometimes we were in sore distress for money,
my education cost so much. But how could we
tell how the money had been accumulated?"
Here he dropped his voice.  "Soon after I
was one-and-twenty, the papers rang with
admiration of the unknown munificent donor
of certain sums. I loathed their praises. I
shrank from all recollection of my father. I
remembered him dimly, but always as angry
and violent with my mother. My poor, gentle
mother!  Margaret, she loved my father;
and, for her sake I have tried, since her
death, to feel kindly towards his memory.
Soon after my mother's death, I began to
know you, my jewel, my treasure!"

After a while, he began again.  "But O!
Margaret, even now you do not know the
worst. After my mother's death, I found a
bundle of law papers— of newspaper reports
about my father's trial, poor soul. Why
she had kept them, I cannot say. They were
covered over with notes in her handwriting;
and, for that reason, I kept them. It was
so touching to read her record of the
days spent by her in her solitary innocence,
while he was embroiling himself deeper and
deeper in crime. I kept this bundle (as I
thought so safely!)  in a secret drawer of my
bureau; but that wretch Crawford has got
hold of it. I missed the papers that very
morning. The loss of them was infinitely
worse than the loss of the money; and now
Crawford threatens to bring out the one
terrible fact, in open court, if he can; and his
lawyer may do it, I believe. At any rate, to
have it blazoned out to the world,—I who
have spent my life in fearing this hour!  But
most of all for you, Margaret! Still—if only
it could be avoided— who will employ the
son of Brown the noted forger?  I shall
lose all my practice. Men will look askance
at me as I enter their doors. They will drive
me into crime. I sometimes fear that crime
is hereditary! O, Margaret, what am I to
do?"

"What can you do?" she asked.

"I can refuse to prosecute."

"Let Crawford go free, you knowing him
to be guilty?"

"I know him to be guilty."

"Then, simply, you cannot do this thing.
You let loose a criminal upon the public."

"But, if I do not, we shall come to shame
and poverty. It is for you I mind it, not for
myself. I ought never to have married."

"Listen to me. I don't care for poverty;
and, as for shame, I should feel it twenty
times more grievously if you and I had
consented to screen the guilty from any fear or
for any selfish motives of our own. I don't
pretend that I shall not feel it when first the
truth is known. But my shame will turn
into pride as I watch you live it down. You
have been rendered morbid, dear husband,
by having something all your life to conceal.
Let the world know the truth, and say the
worst.  You will go forth, a free, honest,
honourable man, able to do your future work
without fear."

"That scoundrel Crawford has sent for an
answer to his impudent note," said Christie,
putting in her head at the door.

"Stay!  May I write it?"  said Margaret.

She wrote:

Whatever you may do or say, there is but one
course open to us. No threats can deter your master
from doing his duty.
                                           MARGARET BROWN.

"There!" she said, passing it to her husband;
"he will see that I know all, and I
suspect he has reckoned something on your
tenderness for me."

Margaret's note only enraged, it did not
daunt, Crawford. Before a week was out,
every one who cared knew that Doctor
Brown, the rising young physician, was son
of the notorious Brown the forger. All the
consequences took place which he had
anticipated. Crawford had to suffer a severe
sentence; and Doctor Brown and his wife
had to leave the house and to go to a smaller
one; they had to pinch and to screw; aided
in all most zealously by the faithful Christie.
But Doctor Brown was lighter-hearted than
he had ever been before in his conscious life-
time. His foot was now firmly planted on
the ground, and every step he rose was a
sure gain.  People did say that Margaret
had been seen in those worst times on her
hands and knees cleaning her own door-step.
But I don't believe it, for Christie would
never have let her do that.  And, as far as
my own evidence goes, I can only say that the
last time I was in London I saw a door-plate
with Doctor James Brown upon it, on the
door of a handsome house in a handsome
square.  As I looked, I saw a brougham
drive up to the door, and a lady get out,
and go into that house, who was certainly