We must beg the reader to imagine, we cannot paint
the desperation and agony which harrowed the feelings
of Glendenning for the two or three days subsequent
to this interview. A certificate from the surgeon, placing
him on the sick list, at least enabled him to keep his
room, and hide himself from every eye. He did not
go out; he saw no one. He scarcely slept at night.
His appetite, his spirits, his buoyant energy and strength
of mind deserted him. Even Southard absented himself
from some unaccountable cause. His face had
grown pale and haggard. He was like a man haunted
with a horrible spectre.

In the nights he had lain for hours stretched passively
on his back, writhing beneath images of shame, scorn,
and insult, and striving to form plans for his future life,
what he should do, and where he should hide his dishonoured
head. From the society of gentlemen he felt he
was banished forever. Sleep and exhaustion would
sometimes come together after these dark and oppressive
thoughts, but then the voice of Breckenbridge, and
his cold and contemptuous face, would flash upon him
with “You! meet you?”

[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]

The scene with Breckenbridge had made a vivid impression
on his brain. There was something in it marked,
striking, and dramatic. Himself, the lofty, the
proud, the scarcely condescending, haughtily disentangling
himself from an offensive, derogatory, too familiar
intimacy, throned, as it were king-like, on his own
character and the world's opinion, and then, with a
word, a look, hurled headlong down, a fallen angel, with
the object of his fastidious dislike pointing at him with
derision, spurning him with his foot, his derisive laugh,
the laugh of the by-standers, magnified, in his disturbed
imagination, into the hideous leers and yells of the
whole world to pursue him forever and forever.

From these insupportable dreams he would start up,
gasping, shrieking, or striving to shriek, and, abandoning
his bed, would pace the room, or read, or smoke, or
drink till morning broke. He had become fond of
Shakspeare, and he found in him power to divert his
thoughts, but when he laid the volume down, the dark
waters of wretchedness closed over him again.

The third morning, he had started long before daybreak
from his bed, and sat, gloomy and miserable,
smoking a cigar, with a half-emptied bottle of wine on
the table, and a volume of the “Three Spaniards” in
his hand, when a low knock at the door startled him.
He was surprised to find, by the effect it had on him,
how shattered his nerves were.

It was Southard, who gently opened the door.

“What's the matter, my dear fellow?” said Glendenning.

“I heard you up. I know you are distressed, and I
determined to come to you.”

“Sit down.”

“You look ill.”

“Yes, I am. This Nicholson affair is annoying me
terribly. I cannot make up my mind.”

“It is the town talk,” said Southard. “I am not in a
mood to deny it. Your position demands all your presence
of mind. But if you have read the Book of Life
aright, you will seek His approbation, and His alone.”

“I hope I shall,” said Glendenning, “though it is
easier to advise than to act.”

“In advising submission to His will,” said Southard,

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

who, Glendenning now, for the first time, perceived, was
unusually agitated, “I advise only what I am called upon
to set an example in.”

“What do you mean?”

“My little Catharine.”

“What's the matter with her?”

“You know she's been ill several days.”

“I remember I heard something of it; she's not worse,
I hope?”

“She's dead” said Southard.

“Dead!”

“She died last evening at nine.”

“Almighty Heaven!” cried Glendenning.

“She yielded up her little, pure spirit at nine last
night,” repeated Southard.

“My poor friend!”

Southard threw himself into his arms, and wept for a
few moments on his bosom in uncontrolled agony.

“I did not come to thrust my weakness on you, but
to speak to you of yourself. You are more unhappy
than I or her mother. You are debating with yourself
a second meeting with Lieutenant Lennox. If you
were a Christian, you would know how to act. But you
are not. Julia and I both fear your facility of character,
and the influence of the world and of White. You
may fancy her feelings over the yet warm body of her
child. But even now she has requested me to bring
you this volume. It is a Bible, with passages marked
for you. On the table, where lies our little Catharine,
she has written your name in it, and begs you to read
it, and make it the guide of your conduct in this painful
affair. Her religion teaches her not to be selfish,
and even in the midst of her own distress she feels a
sincere anxiety for you.”

“Dear Southard,” said Glendenning, much touched,
“my heart bleeds for you and her. How can I ever be
sufficiently grateful for such true, such noble friendship?”

“By giving your serious attention to the advice of
my poor Julia. Since the last evening you were with
us, notwithstanding the illness of our little one, she has
frequently thought of you, and of the danger you are in
of fancying yourself obliged to rush upon self-murder,

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

or the butchery of a friend, in compliance with the ideas
of a portion of society. Be a man—be more—be a
Christian. Dare to act right. No one doubts your courage
to meet personal danger. Show yourself, also, morally
brave. Break away, at once and forever, from the
damning net they are throwing around you. Do your
duty; leave the rest to Him. He knows—He watches
you. `He who made the eye, doth he not see?' ”

“I wish I had your undoubting faith,” said Glendenning.

“Pray for it, and He will help your evil spirit of unbelief.
Seek here, in this book, light for your guidance.
We have tried it. We have found it sufficient to soothe
us, even in this sad extremity. What calamity can be
more insupportable than the loss of our little Catharine?
You cannot know the happiness she has been to us;
the dreams we have woven of her future character and
mind, and our own delight in beholding her grow up
from a child to woman, in preparing an humble independence
for her, in becoming old and decrepit with her
to aid me, to smooth my white hair, support my tottering
steps, and scatter the path to the grave with the
flowers of filial love. Now all this is over; all this
bright, universal sunshine is quenched. The earth is
dark to me, and life has lost its charm, and yet in this
book I find delight, consolation, hope, resignation—nay,
more, peace and happiness. Take it, my friend; try it—
read it; don't reject it without examination.”

“My dear Southard!” said Glendenning, “you are
unconsciously using the words of a beloved friend. I
really feel to my very heart the strength and disinterestedness
of your friendship.”

“Come down, then, with me, and see my poor wife.
Tell her you will resist all endeavours to make you meet
Lieutenant Lennox; tell her you will seek advice, not of
White, or Colonel Nicholson, or of the world, but here,
in the volume she has given you, and I assure you, in
this way you will greatly alleviate her grief. Come!
she asked me to bring you down.”

Southard led the way, and Glendenning followed him
down stairs into the very room where, a few evenings
before, he had seen the little Catharine in perfect health,
and been struck with her remarkable beauty. The very

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

roses she had been playing with, the broken nine-pins,
the noseless dog, and tin carriage, had been carefully
placed by the fond mother upon a stand. The little
body lay on a table. Mrs. Southard sat by its side, pale
almost as the being she mourned, but perfectly composed.

“See!” said she, with a smile that made Glendenning's
heart ache, “my poor little Kate! God has taken
her. Oh, never more shall I hear that beloved
voice, that light, quick step! never behold the long, golden
hair waving on her forehead as she runs, or see the
light dancing in those deep blue eyes. God has taken
her where she is happy. He will not let her forget
her mother. I shall meet her again, and He will teach
me to be patient.”

“My dearest Mrs. Southard!” said Glendenning.

But at the sound of his voice, both she and her husband
covered their faces, and wept in silence such tears
as only parents weep over the mute, sweet, cold bodies
of their children.

And tears, also, came freely into Glendenning's eyes,
partly for them, partly for himself, partly from the
heavy, crushing sense of the mockery of life, to all but
the high, philosophical, aspiring Christian.

“Now!” said Southard, with a bright smile, “these
are things man was born to meet. Whom he loveth
he chasteneth. Has he not said, suffer little children to
come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven?
Look at her, Glendenning.”

The young man, awe-struck, approached, and gazed
on the angel face and form of his little radiant friend.
The mother stood on one side of him, the father on the
other, and as they gazed they murmured, “Thy will be
done.”

“Amen!” cried Glendenning, so fervently that Southard
felt his friend was again and really touched with a
beam of faith. Kneeling down with his wife, a short
prayer broke from his lips, which the scene made natural,
and his profound grief strangely eloquent. Yet
there was in it less of grief than of hope, joy, and calm,
spiritual triumph, a peace above the world, and the fervour
of a spirit blessed. He bade adieu to the soul of
his infant, which he seemed to see floating up to heaven.
He poured forth his grateful thanks for the

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

resignation and strength which, in this trying moment, had
been vouchsafed, and prayed it might be continued when
mother and father should kiss, for the last time, the cold,
unanswering lips, whose music was stilled, and the icy
forehead, from whose sweet tenement the habitant had
fled. Then, with a sudden allusion to Glendenning, he
prayed that the scene might not be lost upon the young
and wavering heart which was called upon now, also,
to meet its trials. He implored that this wavering soul
might be led to see, might not grope at noonday, but
seek and find strength and light from above, to fling away
the world, to follow the Redeemer, and give up things
temporal for things eternal.

Glendenning, also, knelt for the first time in his life,
and each word of his friend's invocation went through
his heart like a ray of celestial light. He not only knelt;
he prayed, and, strange enchantment! (for thus it seemed
to him), he did feel, as he raised his soul to God, new
light to judge, new courage to act.

“You will no longer waver, dear Captain Glendenning?”
said Mrs. Southard.

“My resolution is taken,” said Glendenning. “Don't
fear for me. I here make a vow to bear any evil rather
than commit the crime they are trying to drive me to.
This pure angel may bear my oath to the throne of Heaven,
and if, from weakness or passion, I yield my sense
of right, may all the curse of vice fall on my head!”

He once more approached to look on the body. It
lay there like a type of heaven. An almost unearthly
beauty rested on the face—a smile, a light, as if it knew
and rejoiced in the holy mission he had confided to it.
The mother clasped her hands silently, and, as Glendenning
withdrew, he heard a sob and a convulsive kiss,
and then all again was still.

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