shame and put her hand in his, and with a sweet composure and determination led him hopefully upon his barren way.

"It is early, John," she said.

"Why do you go so early?" "Not many minutes earlier than usual, Harriet. If I have the time to spare, I should like, I think—it's a fancy-to walk once by the house where I took leave of him.”

"I wish I had ever seen or known him, John.”

"It is better as it is, my dear, remembering his fate.”

"But I could not regret it more, though I had known him. Is not your sorrow mine? And if I had, perhaps you would feel that I was a better companion to you in speaking about him, than I may seem now."

My dearest sister! Is there anything within the range of rejoicing or regret, in which I am not sure of your companionship?"

"I hope you think not, John, for surely there is nothing!"

"How could you be better to me, or nearer to me then, than you are in this, or anything?" said her brother. "I feel that you did know him, Harriet, and that you shared my feelings towards him."

She drew the hand which had been resting on his shoulder, round his neck, and answered, with some hesitation :

"No, not quite."

"True, true!" he said; "you think I might have done him no harm if I had allowed myself to know him better?" "Think! I know it."

"Designedly, Heaven knows I would not," he replied, shaking his head mournfully; "but his reputation was too precious to be perilled by such association. Whether you share that knowledge, or do not, my dear—"

"I do not," she said quietly.

"It is still the truth, Harriet, and my mind is lighter when I think of him for that which made it so much heavier then." He checked himself in his tone of melancholy, and smiled upon her as he said "Good b'ye!"

"Good b'ye, dear John! In the evening, at the old time and place, I shall meet you as usual on your way home. Good b'ye!"

The cordial face she lifted up to his to kiss him, was his home, his life, his universe, and yet it was a portion of his punishment and grief; for in the cloud he saw upon it-though serene and calm as any radiant cloud at sunset-and in the constancy and devotion of her life, and in the sacrifice she had made of ease, enjoyment, and hope, he saw the bitter fruits of his old crime, for ever ripe and fresh.

She stood at the door looking after him, with her hands loosely clasped in each other, as he made his way over the frowzy and uneven patch of ground which lay before their house, which had once (and not long ago) been a pleasant meadow, and was now a very waste, with a disorderly crop of beginnings of mean houses, rising out of the rubbish, as if they had been unskilfully sown there. Whenever he looked back-as once or twice he did her cordial face shone like a light upon his heart; but when he plodded on his way, and saw her not, the tears were in her eyes as she stood watching him.

Her pensive form was not long idle at the door. There was daily duty to discharge, and daily work to do-for such commonplace spirits that are not heroic, often work hard with their hands -and Harriet was soon busy with her household tasks. These discharged, and the poor house made quite neat and orderly, she counted her little stock of money with an anxious face, and went out thoughtfully to buy some necessaries for their table, planning and contriving, as she went, how to save. So sordid are the lives of such low natures, who are not only not heroic to their valets and waiting-women, but have neither valets nor waiting-women to be heroic to withal!

While she was absent, and there was no one in the house, there approached it by a different way from that the brother had taken, a gentleman, a very little past his prime of life perhaps, but of a healthy florid hue, an upright presence, and a bright, clear aspect, that was gracious and good-humored. His eyebrows were still black, and so was much of his hair; the sprinkling of grey observable among the latter, graced the former very much, and showed his broad frank brow and honest eyes to great advantage.

After knocking once at the door and obtaining no response, this

gentleman sat down on a bench in the little porch to wait. A certain skilful action of his fingers as he hummed some bars, and beat time on the seat beside him, seemed to denote the musician; and the extraordinary satisfaction he derived from humming something very slow and long, which had no recognisable tune, seemed to denote that he was a scientific one.

The gentleman was still twirling a theme, which seemed to go round and round and round, and in and in and in, and to involve itself like a corkscrew twirled upon a table, without getting any nearer to anything, when Harriet appeared returning. He rose up as she advanced, and stood with his head uncovered. "You are come again, Sir !" she said, faltering. "I take that liberty," he answered. minutes of your leisure ?"

'May I ask for five

After a moment's hesitation, she opened the door and gave him admission to the little parlor. The gentleman sat down there, drew his chair to the table over against her, and said, in a voice that perfectly corresponded to his appearance, and with a simplicity that was very engaging :

"Miss Harriet, you cannot be proud. You signified to me, when I called t' other morning, that you were. Pardon me if I say that I looked into your face while you spoke, and that it contradicted you. I look into it again," he added, laying his hand gently on her arm, for an instant, "and it contradicts you more and more."

She was somewhat confused and agitated, and could make no ready answer.

"It is the mirror of truth," said her visitor, "and gentleness. Excuse my trusting to it, and returning."

His manner of saying these words divested them entirely of the character of compliments. It was so plain, grave, unaffected, and sincere, that she bent her head, as if at once to thank him, and acknowledge his sincerity.

"The disparity between our ages," said the gentleman, “and the plainness of my purpose, empower me, I am glad to think, to speak my mind. That is my mind; and so you see me for the second time."

"There is a kind of pride, Sir," she returned, after a moment's

silence, For what may be supposed to be pride, which is mere duty. I hope I cherish no other."

"For yourself," he said.

"For myself."

"But-pardon me-" suggested the gentleman. "For your brother John ?"

"Proud of his love, I am," said Harriet, looking full upon her visitor, and changing her manner on the instant-not that it was less composed and quiet, but that there was a deep impassioned earnestness in it that made the very tremble in her voice a part of her firmness, "and proud of him. Sir, you who strangely know the story of his life, and repeated it to me when you were here last-"

66

Merely to make my way into your confidence," interposed the gentleman. "For Heaven's sake, don't suppose-"

"I am sure," she said, "you revived it, in my hearing, with a kind and good purpose. I am quite sure of it."

"I thank you," returned her visitor, pressing her hand hastily. "I am much obliged to you. You do me justice, I assure you. You were going to say, that I, who know the story of John Carker's life-"

66

May think it pride in me," she continued, "when I say that I am proud of him. I am. You know the time was when I was not-when I could not be—but that is past. The humility of many years, the uncomplaining expiation, the true repentance, the terrible regret, the pain I know he has even in my affection, which he thinks has cost me dear, though Heaven knows I am happy but for his sorrow!-oh, Sir, after what I have seen, let me conjure you, if you are in any place of power, and are ever wronged, never, for any wrong, inflict a punishment that cannot be recalled; while there is a GOD above us to work changes in the hearts he made."

"Your brother is an altered man," returned the gentleman, compassionately. "I assure you I don't doubt it."

"He was an altered man when he did wrong," said Harriet. 'He is an altered man again, and is his true self now, believe me, Sir."

"But we go on," said her visitor, rubbing his forehead, in an

absent manner, with his hand, and then drumming thoughtfully on the table, "we go on in our clock-work routine, from day to day, and can't make out, or follow, these changes. Theythey're a metaphysical sort of thing. We-we haven't leisure for it. We-we haven't courage. They're not taught at schools or colleges, and we don't know how to set about it. In short, we are so dd business-like," said the gentleman, walking to the window, and back, and sitting down again, in a state of extreme dissatisfaction and vexation.

"I am sure,” said the gentleman, rubbing his forehead again ; and drumming on the table as before, "I have good reason to believe that a jog-trot life, the same from day to day, would reconcile one to anything. One don't see anything, one don't hear anything, one don't know anything; that's the fact. We go on taking everything for granted, and so we go on, until whatever we do, good, bad, or indifferent, we do from habit. Habit is all shall have to report, when I am called upon to plead to my con. science, on my death-bed. Habit,' says I; 'I was deaf, dumb, blind, and paralytic, to a million things, from habit.' ` 'Very business-like indeed, Mr. What's your name,' says Conscience, 'but it won't do here!''

The gentleman got up and walked to the window again, and back seriously uneasy, though giving his uneasiness this peculiar expression.

“Miss Harriet,” he said, resuming his chair, "I wish you would let me serve you. Look at me! I ought to look honest, for I know I am so, at present. Do I?"

66 Yes," she answered with a smile.

"I am

"I believe every word you have said,” he returned. full of self-reproach that I might have known this and seen this, and known you and seen you, any time these dozen years, and that I never have. I hardly know how I ever got here-crea<ure that I am, not only of my own habit, but of other people's! But having done so, let me do something. I ask it in all honor and respect. You inspire me with both, in the highest degree. Let me do something."

"We are contented, Sir."

"No, no, not quite," returned the gentleman. "I think not