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I need not say that I went at once. As I
approached the old manor house a thousand memories
knocked at the door of my heart. There were
the fields over which I had rambled; there was
the emerald lawn where so often I had wandered
in the long-gone days of earlier years. The great
oak against which I had leaned on that evening to
watch the sun in his setting, and where Annie had
whispered and pointed to my torn elbow, still
raised its head proudly, and embowered the old
gables in the bright-tinted foliage of autumn.

I entered. The old portraits I had loved seemed
to smile; they saluted me sweetly, as in other
hours; the old mansion appeared to welcome me—
I saw no change, but Annie was not singing in the
hall.

All at once I heard a light tinkling footstep;
my heart beat violently, and I felt a blush rise to
my cheeks. Was the queenly woman who came to
meet and greet me, indeed the Annie of old days?
I held the small hand, and looked into the deep eyes
for some moments without uttering a word. She
was taller, more slender, but her carriage possessed
a grace and elegance a thousand times finer than
before. Her eyes were filled with the strangest
sweetness, and swam with tears as she gazed
at me.

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“Papa has been waiting impatiently for you,
Mr. Cleave,” she said, in a low, sad voice; “will
you come up and see him at once? he is very ill.”

And turning away her head, the fair girl burst
into uncontrollable sobs, every one of which went
to my heart. I begged her earnestly not to yield
to her distress, and she soon dried her eyes, and led
the way into the parlor, where I was received by
Mrs. Barrington, still cold and stiff, but much more
subdued and courteous. Annie went to announce
my arrival to har father, and soon I was alone with
the old man.

I was grieved and shocked at his appearance.
He seemed twenty years older. I scarcely recognized
in the pale, thin, invalid, the portly country
gentleman whom I had known.

The motive for his letter was soon explained.
The executorial accounts, whose terrible disarrangement
I had aided, five years before, in remedying,
still hung over the dying man's head, like a nightmare.
He could not die, he said, with the thought
in his mind, that any one might attribute this
disorder to intentional maladministration — “to
fraud, it might be.”

And at the word “fraud,” his wan cheek became
crimson.

“My own affairs, Mr. Cleave,” he continued,

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“are, I find, in a most unhappy condition. I have
been far too negligent; and now, on my death-bed,
for such it will prove, I discover, for the first time,
that I am well-nigh a ruined man!”

He spoke with wild energy as he went on. I, in
vain, attempted to impress upon him, the danger
of exciting himself.

“I must explain everything, and in my own
way,” he said, with burning cheeks, “for I look to
you to extricate me. I have appointed you, Mr.
Cleave, my chief executor; but, above all, I rely
upon you, I adjure you, to protect my good name
in those horrible accounts, which you once helped
to arrange, but which haunt me day and night like
the ghost of a murdered man!”

The insane agitation of the speaker increased, in
spite of all which I could say. It led him to make
me a singular revelation—to speak upon a subject
which I had never even dreamed of. His pride
and caution seemed wholly to have deserted him;
and he continued as follows:

“You are surprised, Sir, that I should thus call
upon you. You are young. But I know very well
what I am doing. Your rank in your profession is
sufficient guaranty that you are competent to
perform the trust—my knowledge of your character
is correct enough to induce me not to hesitate.

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There is another tie between us. Do you suspect
its nature? I loved and would have married your
mother. She was poor—I was equally poor—I
was dazzled by wealth, and was miserably happy
when your mother's pride made her refuse my suit.
I married—I have not been happy. But enough.
I should never have spoken of this—never—but I
am dying! As you are faithful and true, St. George
Cleave, let my good name and Annie's be untarnished!”

There the interview ended. The doctor came in,
and I retired to reflect upon the singular communication
which had been made to me. On the same
evening, I accepted all the trusts confided to me.
In a week the sick gentleman was sleeping with his
fathers. I held his hand when he died.

I shall not describe the grief and suffering of
every one. I shall not trust myself, especially, to
speak of Annie. Her agony was almost destructive
to her health—and every throb which shook
her frame, shook mine as well. The sight of her
face had revived, in an instant, all the love of the
past, if indeed it had ever slept. I loved her now,
passionately, profoundly. As I thought that I might
win her love in return, I thrilled with a vague
delight.

Well, let me not spin out my story. The result

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of my examination of Mr. Barrington's affairs, was
saddening in the extreme. He was quite ruined.
Neglect and extravagant living, with security debts,
had mortgaged his entire property. When it was
settled, and the hall was sold, his widow and
daughter had just enough to live upon comfortably—
scarcely so much. They gladly embraced
my suggestion to remove to a small cottage near
our own, in town, and there they now live—you
may see the low roof through the window.

I am glad to say that my reëxamination of the
executorial accounts, which had so troubled the
poor dying gentleman, proved his fears quite unfounded.
There was mere disorder—no grounds for
“exception.” I told as much to Annie, who alone
knew all; and her smile, inexpressibly sweet and
filled with thanks, was my sole executorial “commission.”