66 66 seen her before she wore chains; seen her when she lived with the old man, her father. Ha! sir, that was a bitter business." Pray, tell me," said the young man. I know not wherefore I should care about it, and yet there is an interest in what you say that-I pray, tell me, sir.' "You see, her father was a worn-out, broken merchant. His wife, as I have heard, went wrong, and from that time his head failed him—he grew wild and reckless-losses came thick as hail upon him, and then Snipeton came to his assistance-yes, assistance is what he called it-and bound him round and round with bills and bonds, and I know not what, and made him all his own. Well, in good time, old Snipeton looked upon the girl-it isn't a new story though a sad and wicked one-and she became the usurer's wife, to save her father from the usurer's fangs. Pity is it that she did so for the old man died only a few weeks after the wedding that made his child-kind, affectionate thing!-a slave for life. 'Twould be a pretty world, sir, would'nt it, but for tricks like these,—and they, somehow, take the bloom off it, don't they? Eh, sir? Good night, sir ;" and then the stranger suddenly clapped spurs to his horse, and galloped onward. Taking a bend of the road, he was in a few minutes out of sight; upon which our solitary traveller, evidently relieved from an irksome companion, turned his steed, and slowly retraced his way. He again relapsed into thought—again suffered his horse to wander at its own will onward. Thus absorbed he had proceeded a short distance when his eye fell upon a miserable man, seated on a mile-stone. He was in rags and almost bare-foot, and there was the sharp spirit of want and hunger in his features, that told a tale of many sufferings. He spoke not-made no gesture of supplication-but looked with idle, glazing eye upon the earth. object of desolation-this poor tatterdemalion wretch-suddenly smote our traveller into consciousness; and with a kind com 66 This passionate voice, he accosted him. 'My poor fellow, you seem in no plight for travel." "Bad enough, sir," said the man, "bad enough; yet hardly as bad as I wish it was. "Indeed! A strange wish! Why, I take it, human strength could scarcely bear a heavier load of wretchedness." "I wish it couldn't bear it," said the man ; "I'm tired of it -heart-tired, and could lay down my life as willingly as a pack. "Where do you come from?" asked the stranger. "Oh, sir! a long way from here-a long way; and why I came I know not: I was a restless fool, and might have died where I was." "And where are your friends ?" questioned the traveller. "God only knows," said the man, with a heavy groan; “I don't." "Poor fellow! but hope for better times," said the traveller; and at the same moment, throwing him a crown-piece, the youth rode briskly on. And thus unknown to one another did St. Giles and St. James again meet. Again was St. Giles an outcast, hiding from the law; for he had escaped from his far-off place of bondage, and yearning for England, for the lovely land in which he had no rightful footstep, in whose abounding wealth he had not the interest of a farthing; he had dared death and peril in many shapes, and hunger and all variety of misery, to stand once more upon his native soil. He knew that, if discovered, the hangman would claim him as lawful prey; he knew that he must hide and slink through life in the mere hope of holding life's poor mockery; and yet, he had slipped his chains, had suffered the misery of a thousand deaths, that he might once again behold an English sky, once again tread English earth! Poor wretch! how soon did hard reality disenchant him! How few the days he had passed in England, yet how many the terrors that had encompassed him! The land that in his dreams of bondage had seemed to him a Paradise; the very men who in his hopeful visions had promised gentleness and protection; all was changed. The earth, lovely and fruitful to happy eyes, to him seemed cursed; and all men, to his thought, looked at him with denouncing looks. With a crushed heart, and in the very recklessness of despair, he would again have welcomed the chains he had broken from. Again, and again too, could he have stretched himself upon the earth as upon a bed, and rendered up his tired and hopeless spirit to his God. And then fierce thoughts of vengeance on the world's injustice would possess him; then he would deem himself as one sent upon the earth, missioned for mischief; a mere wretch of prey, to live by wrong and violence. And thus, with the demon rising in his breast, was he brooding, when St. James accosted him. But when the young man, the child of fortune, soothed the poor outcast with gentle words and timely relief, the sullen, desperate wretch, became on the instant penitent and softened; and his touched heart felt there was goodness still in man, and beauty in the world. The thoughts of life came back to him in healthful strength; for his jaded spirit had drunk at the fountain of hope. In the fervour of his gratitude, he felt not that in a day or two at most, the sun might see the misery of the past hour again upon him. It was enough that he had the means of present comfort; that he could quench the fire of hunger; that he could rest his travel-worn body. With this glad assurance he cast about his thoughts for a place of refuge. He knew not the road; knew not what offered as he advanced; but he remembered that he had passed a house a little more than a mile back, and retracing his steps, he would there seek refuge for the night. Though his heart was lightened, he walked with difficulty, and the evening elosed in rapidly about his path. It was a calm and beautiful night, and the clear moon rose like a spirit in heaven. Suddenly St. Giles was startled by the sound of horses' feet; in an instant the animal, bearing a rider whose outline was but for a moment visible, at its fullest speed passed him; a minute, and the sound of hoofs died in the distance. There was something strange in such haste; something that fell upon St. Giles with a sense of evil done: for a time he paused, asking counsel of himself; and then his sinking vitals, his worn and wearied body, claimed his instant exertion, and again he pressed onward. In half-an-hour he arrived at the wished-for house. Lights shone in the windows; there was dancing, and the voice of village harmony was loud within. Wherefore, then, did St. Giles pause at the very threshold? Wherefore, then, did his knees feel weak, and his very heart sink numbed and dead, as he saw the cheerful light, and heard human voices clamouring their happiness? Wherefore should he not join the merry-makers? Alas! was there not convict written in his haggard cheeks-felon branded on his brow? Would he not, with a howl of triumph, be set upon by his fellowmen, and, like a wild beast escaped from a cage, be carried back to gaol? His brain swam with the thought, and he almost fell to Why, what's the matter, mate?" said a countryman, noting St. Giles's hesitation. Why don't thee step in? There be plenty of room, if thee have the cash, though it be crowded a plenty." the earth. 66 66 "Thank 'ee; I was a going in," said St. Giles; and with sudden resolution he entered the house. Happily for him, he thought, the place was thronged. A village-ball was held up |