I took the way to my office. It was not often that I went thither

before breakfast. But William Edgerton had been in the habit of

doing so. He lived in the neighborhood, and his father had taught

him this habit during the period when he was employed in studying

the profession. It might be that I should find him there on the

present occasion. Such was my notion. What farther thought I had

I know not; but a vague suggestion that, in that quiet hour--there--without

eye to see, or hand to interpose, I might drag from his heart the

fearful secret--I might compel confession, take my vengeance, and

rid myself finally of that cruel agony which was making me its

miserable puppet. Crude, wild notions these, but very natural.

I turned the corner of the street. The window of my office was open.

"He is then there," I muttered to myself; and my teeth clutched each

other closely. I buttoned my coat. My heart was swelling. I looked

around me, and up to the windows. The street was very silent--the

grave not more so. I strode rapidly across, threw open the door

of the office which stood ajar, and beheld, not the person whom I

sought, but his venerable father.

The sight of that white-headed old man filled me with a sense of

shame and degradation. What had he not done for me? How great his

assistance, how kind his regards, how liberal his offices. He had

rescued me from the bondage of poverty. He had put forth the hand

of help, with a manly grasp of succor at the very moment when it was

most needed; had helped to make me what I was; and, for all these,

I had come to put to death his only son. A revulsion of feeling

took place within my bosom. These thoughts were instantaneous--a

sort of lightning-flash from the moral world of thought. I stood

abashed; brought to my senses in an instant, and was scarcely able

to conceal my discomfiture and confusion. I stood before him with

the feeling, and must have worn the look, of a culprit. Fortunately,

he did not perceive my confusion. Poor old man! Cares of his

own--cares of a father, too completely occupied his mind, to suffer

his senses to discharge their duties with freedom.

"I am glad to see you, Clifford, though I did not expect it. Young

men of the present day are not apt to rise so early."

"I must confess, sir, it is not my habit."

"Better if it were. The present generation, it seems to me, may be

considered more fortunate, in some respects, than the past, though

they are scarcely wiser. They seem to me exempt from such necessities

as encountered their fathers. Their tasks are fewer--their labor

is lighter--"




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