The arrest and imprisonment of William
Wilson created no little excitement in the
community. The penny papers the next
morning came out with columns headed
by large capitals announcing the event;
and newsboys proclaimed in shrill tones to
every passer-by, that their papers contained
a full account of the arrest and confession
of `Wilson the murderer of Henry
Temple.'

For a day or two this subject was the
oaly one talked upon. Some hoped he
would be hanged, while others believed
hat he would escape conviction. All
seemed to agree in the opinion that Temple
had deserved his fate; for the fact that
he had ruined Wilson's daughter now came
out.

In the meanwhile the unhappy man remained
an inmate of the prison to the custody
of which had voluntarily surrendered
himself. Through the agency of Mr. Gustavus,
excellent council was engaged for
him in the person of a gentleman of the
highest order of talent, and who had more
than once devoted it to the defence of the
innocent and unfortunate. The papers at
length got hold of the true merits of the
case, and publishing the whole story of
Temple's deceptions, enlisted public sympathy
in favor of the prisoner.

In the solitude of his cell he was not
without consolation. Although he condemned
himself for his hasty act and regretted
deeply at having taken the life of a
human being, when the law was open to
avenge and protect, still the innate consciousness
that Temple had mortally
wronged him and brought his death upon
himself by his own crimes, lessened much
the weight of guilt upon his mind. He was
daily visited by the lovely Anny, who
brought him many little comforts, and
books, and sat and read to him, mostly out
of the bible. At home his wife's situation
he knew was made more endurable by the
kindness of Mr. Gustavus, who also daily
visited him and encouraged him with the
hope of acquital, or, if he should be convicted,
of prompt pardon by the Governor.

The enemies of William Wilson were
active in their efforts to bring him to the
gallows. They were the relatives of Temple,
and were actuated by all that better
hostility which so often exhibits itself in
the revenge which is taken up by kindred
for one of their own blood. They had engaged
the most effectual council they could
obtain, and openly expressed their confidence
that Wilson would yet swing for the
crime he had been guilty of.

While so many individuals were interested
in this matter, did it not produce any
effect upon the young girl, Ann Wilson,
who was indirectly the couse of all that
had transpired? Did not the death of her
lover—the wretched flight of her father
pursued by justice—his arrest and imprisonment,
and his approaching trial for
his life, move her?

We will follow her and seek her out and
learn whether these things impressed her.
It was late the morning after her father's
arrest that she came down stairs into a
parlor, gorgeously furnished, but every
thing now strewed around in the utmost
confusion. The curtains were closely
drawn, and shutters closed,

[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]

ten o'clock. A lamp burned dimly upon
the side-board, which was covered with
wine glasses and decanters, some of them
overturned. A table in the midst of the
room was strewn with cards and splashed
with spilled wine. Cards were upon the
carpet also. A chair was upset, and a
broken wine glass near it had been crushed
under the heel and gronnd into the carpet.

The young girl who entered paused as
she advanced a step into this bacchanalian
chaos, and looking around her, curled her
lip with scorn and contempt.

`This is very fine,' said she. `I will
teach George better doings than this. He
invites a set of his friends here who keep
me awake till day-break, and then go off,
leaving uproar behind them. George,' she
said, stepping acrsss the room to a sofa
where tay stretched out in deep sleep a
young man in his vest and shirt-sleeves.
He did not answer, as she stood and bent
her eyes fixedly upon him, as he lay with
his head partly hanging over the side of
the sofa.

She looked very beautiful as she thus
stood bending intently and with an anxious
air over him. She was youthful, scarce
seventeen years having gone over her head—
years of innocence and peace until within
two months past, when the despoiler came
and hurled her with himself into the vortex
of guilt. She was a bolder and handsomer
likeness of her lovely twin-sister,
Anny. She had all Anny's delicacy of features,
but with more fire in the eye—more
decision in the lip. Perhaps the events of
the last few weeks had stamped a new
character there. It is likely it was so.—
Woman, once fallen, falls low! If a stain
come upon the robes of her virgin purity,
she does not hesitate to plunge into the
fountain of guilt and dye them all over.
Her fall is like that of a star, sudden, brilliant,
and darkness all! No sooner had
Ann Wilson, naturally a proud girl, found
herself degraded through the deceit and
wickedness of her lover, than with a recklessness,
all unaccountable, yet common to
her sex in such circumstances, she gave
herselt up without reserve to the current of
her fate. She became, after Temple's
death, the mistress of a gay young gentleman,
and gave herself up to a life of the
wildest, maddest enjoyment. She seemed
suddenly to have been converted into a
Circe. There was no excess of guilty
pleasure that she did not take the lead in.
The horrible death of Temple, instead of
appalling her, only seemed to inspire her
with ferocious joy. Those who knew Anny
Wilson in her maiden modesty would
never have recognised her now.

Proud of his conquest, proud of her wit
and beauty, George — took her with
him to New York and other places. She
was about four weeks pursuing a round of
pleasure of the most exciting kind. She
returned only the afternoon of her father's
arrest. She had not wholly forgotten her
home. She resolved that she would go
and see them that very evening, and give
them money, for she knew that they were
poor. That evening there was a supper at
George Shelton's rooms, and she was detained
by him to preside.

The guests remained late, and departed,
leaving him upon the sofa insensible
through wine; but one of them before quitting
took care secretly to steal his pocket-book.
It was now ten o'clock, and still he
slept. She bent over him with an anxious
earnest air. For a moment she thought he
was dead. She repeated his name nervously
again, when he opened his eyes and
fixed them vacantly upon her.

`Come, George, it is the middle of the
forenoon: I am going out, and you must
get up.'

He rose to his feet, and looking at her
sternly, said:

`You are not going out!'

`I am,' she responded firmly. `Do you
suppose I have forgotten my mother and
my father? I am not quite so lost as that.'

`If you go out of this house you shall
never enter it again!'

`Very well—there are enough that I can
enter,' she answered with a smile that he
did not like.

`I will give you an hour.'

`I shall come back when I choose—I am
not your slave, George Shelton!'

At this moment the lazy servant-girl
brought in the morning paper, which had
been for the last three hours stuck in the
latch of the street door.

`Give it to me,' said Shelton; and taking
it from her he sat down and opened it, at
the same time ordering her to bring him
coffee. `Ha! what is this? Here is news
for you, Anny,' he said abruptly.

`What is it?' she eagerly asked.

`I see that they have nabbed your father.
Look there! He is in jail, and will be tried
for his life!' As he spoke he showed her
the paragraph; which she had no sooner
read than she burst into tears.

`My poor father!'

`I hope they will hang him—he deserves
it for killing such a fine fellow as Temple!'

`If my father's hand had not avenged
me, mine should!' she answered with a
spirit that made him start.

`Your's!'

`Yes, mine! He deserved the death he
got. He was base, craven, and full of guilt.

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

I am only sorry that his death should put
in jeopardy my father's life. Had he fallen
by my hand, willingly would I die, feeling
that I had lived long enough.'

`Why, Ann, you are a perfect little demon—
I am really afraid of you!'

`You have not injured me as Henry
Temple did—I neither fear nor love you.
Him I first loved and then hated. My poor
father! Oh, that I could save him. I will
hasten to him.'

`He would spurn you, you well know.'

`True—you speak too truly, George. He
would refuse to see me—he knows that I
have thrown myself away. But I will see
my mother; she will receive me—she will
forgive me! I have a sister and a brother
too, who still will love me. This news of
my dear father's imprisonment has brought
all back again. Oh, that I were once more
what I have been!'

`Ann, where is my pocket-book?' he
said, missing his money.

`I do not know.'

`It had three hundred dollars in it in
bills. You have taken it: you mean to desert
me, and have stolen it.'

`Had I such an intention I should not
first have waked you,' she answered with
scorn and an expression of contempt on
her fine features. `If you have lost it, it
has been taken by some one of your
cronies.'

`They were gentlemen! It is in your
possession—give it back to me!' he cried in
anger.

`I have not seen it; do not anger me,
George.'

`I will have you arrested! Surrender it
and I will say nothing more.'

`I know nothing about it,' she answered.
`Seek it among your friends.'

As she spoke she turned away from him,
as if to leave the house. With a deep oath
he sprung after her and caught her by the
shoulder; she escaped from him up stairs.
He followed and came up with her in her
chamber, but not before she had caught up
a dirk that lay upon the toilet table. It
was a jewelled toy of his own. She confronted
him with it upraised. He struggled
to get possession of it, and received it to
the hilt in his breast! With a cry of horror
and pain he fell backward, and expired
cursing her as the cause of his death. For
a moment she remained gazing upon the
bleeding corpse of her paramor, and with
a shriek of despair buried the ensanguined
weapon in her own heart, and fell dead
upon his body!

The tragic end of his child was not made
known to Wilson until three days after it
had occurred, and then he read it in the
sad looks of Ann, the lovely lame girl who
so affectionately devoted herself to him.
It required all the encouragement of Mr.
Gustavus, David, and the sight of his destitute
family, to enable him to bear up under
this new trial. At length he became
composed, and seemed to rejoice in her
death, saying,

`It is better that she is gone! She will
have less guilt to answer for at the bar of
heaven! Wife, I care little to live—I shall
be glad if I am condemned to death. When
I am gone, you will find friends. It will
grieve me to part from you, and Ann, and
Charles; but my heart is broken—my spirit
crushed! I can never hold up my head
again. It is better that I should be found
guilty, and be mercifully sent out of a
world where I find only misery. As for
you and my two little lambs, God will temper
to you the winds, and bless you!'

The day of the trial came; but notwithstanding
the talents of his counsel, the efforts
of the benevolent Mr. Gustavus, the
sympathy of the public, he was convicted,
but recommended to the mercy of the
court. The judge gave sentence of death
upon him; but the same night waited on
the governor, and prayed him to exercise
his prerogative and pardon him. Numerous
similar applications were made, but
without success. Several criminals had
been pardoned of late by the executives of
other States, and great complaints were
made by the press about it. The governor
felt that it was necessary to make an example,
and turned a deaf ear to all the appeals
which were daily made to him. His
answer invariably was:

`Men must know that while there are
laws in the land, they must not take vengeance
into their own hands!'

So, in order that men might learn this
wholesome truth—and not for his crime—
William Wilson was hanged. His wife
the same day died of a broken. Ann ha
since become the wife of Mr. Gustavuss
and Charles is a promising civil engineer,
and engaged to be married to the youngest
daughter of David Dalton.