to dissolve that partnership, wind up the
accounts and put up the shutters. But now, if you like, I will value the
effects, and hand the business over to Penfold and Son on easy terms.
Robert Penfold has been accused of forging John Wardlaw's name; to prove
this was a calumny, I put Penfold over my door instead of Wardlaw. The
city of London will understand that, gentlemen, believe me."

"Mr. Wardlaw," said Robert, "you are a just, a noble--" He could say no
more.

"Ah, sir," said Michael, "if the young gentleman had only been like you!"

"Mention his name no more to me. His crime and his punishment have killed
me."

"Oh," said Robert, hastily, "he shall not be punished for your sake."

"Not be punished? It is not in your hands to decide. God has punished
him. He is insane."

"Good Heavens!"

"Quite mad;--quite mad. Gentlemen, I can no longer support this
interview. Send me your solicitor's address; the deeds shall be prepared.
I wish the new firm success. Probity is the road to it. Good-day."

He wound up the affairs, had his name and Arthur's painted out at his own
expense, and directed the painters to paint the Penfolds' in at theirs;
went home to Elmtrees, and died in three days. He died lamented and
honored, and Robert Penfold was much affected. He got it into his head
that he had killed him with Arthur's confession, putting it before him so
suddenly. "I have forgotten who said 'Vengeance is mine,'" said Robert
Penfold.

The merchant priest left the office to be conducted by his father; he
used the credit of the new firm to purchase a living in the Vale of Kent;
and thither he retired, grateful to Providence, but not easy in his
conscience. He now accused himself of having often distrusted God, and
seen his fellow creatures in too dark a light. He turned toward religion
and the care of souls.

Past suffering enlightens a man, and makes him tender; and people soon
began to walk and drive considerable distances to hear the new vicar. He
had a lake with a peninsula, the shape of which he altered, at a great
expense, as soon as he came there. He wrote to Helen every day, and she
to him. Neither could do anything _con amore_ till the post came in.

One afternoon as he was preaching with great unction, he saw a long
puritanical face looking up at him with a droll expression of amazement
and half-irony. The stranger called on him and began at once. "Wal,
parson, you are a buster, you air. You ginn it us hot--