very_ sorry; 'tis like
an angel--you're noble, Sir, and I such an outcast. I--I wish you'd
strike me, Sir--you're too kind and patient, Sir, and so pure--and how
have I spoken to you? A _trial_, Sir, if you _can_ forgive me--one
trial--my vice--you shall see me changed, a new man. Oh, Sir, let me
swear it. I _am_, Sir--I'm reformed; don't believe me till you see it.
Oh! good Samaritan,--don't forsake me--I'm all one wound.'

Well! they talked some time longer, and parted kindly.

CHAPTER LXVII.

IN WHICH A CERTAIN TROUBLED SPIRIT WALKS.

Mr. Dangerfield was at the club that night, and was rather in spirits
than otherwise, except, indeed, when poor Charles Nutter was talked of.
Then he looked grave, and shrugged, and shook his head, and said--

'A bad business, Sir; and where's his poor wife?'

'Spending the night with us, poor soul,' said Major O'Neill, mildly,
'and hasn't an idaya, poor thing; and indeed, I hope, she mayn't hear
it.'

'Pooh! Sir, she must hear it; but you know she might have heard worse,
Sir, eh?' rejoined Dangerfield.

'True for you, Sir,' said the major, suspending the filling of his pipe
to direct a quiet glance of significance at Dangerfield, and then
closing his eyes with a nod.

And just at this point in came Spaight.

'Well, Spaight!'

'Well, Sir.'

'You saw the body, eh?' and a dozen other interrogatories followed, as,
cold and wet with melting snow, dishevelled, and storm-beaten--for it
was a plaguy rough night--the young fellow, with a general greeting to
the company, made his way to the fire.

''Tis a tremendous night, gentlemen, so by your leave I'll stir the
fire--and, yes, I seen him, poor Nutter--and, paugh, an ugly sight he
is, I can tell you; here Larry, bring me a rummer-glass of punch--his
right ear's gone, and a'most all his right hand--and screeching hot, do
you mind--an', phiew--altogether 'tis sickening--them fishes, you
know--I'm a'most sorry I went in--you remember Dogherty's whiskey shop
in Ringsend--he lies in the back parlour, and wondherful little changed
in appearance.'

And so Mr. Spaight, with a little round table at his elbow, and his
heels over the fender, sipped his steaming punch, and thawed inwardly
and outwardly, as he answered their questions and mixed in their
speculations.

Up at the Mills, which had heard the awful news, first from the Widow
Macan, and afterwards from Pat Moran, the maids sat over their tea in
the kitchen in high ex