nd told him of
the great secrets he knew, could teach them how to live without being
pinched by want. As this occurred to him, he was the more sorry that he
had not seen him last night; and he was still brooding over this regret,
when his father came, and touched him on the shoulder.

'Ah!' cried Barnaby, starting from his fit of thoughtfulness. 'Is it
only you?'

'Who should it be?'

'I almost thought,' he answered, 'it was the blind man. I must have some
talk with him, father.'

'And so must I, for without seeing him, I don't know where to fly or
what to do, and lingering here, is death. You must go to him again, and
bring him here.'

'Must I!' cried Barnaby, delighted; 'that's brave, father. That's what I
want to do.'

'But you must bring only him, and none other. And though you wait at
his door a whole day and night, still you must wait, and not come back
without him.'

'Don't you fear that,' he cried gaily. 'He shall come, he shall come.'

'Trim off these gewgaws,' said his father, plucking the scraps of ribbon
and the feathers from his hat, 'and over your own dress wear my cloak.
Take heed how you go, and they will be too busy in the streets to notice
you. Of your coming back you need take no account, for he'll manage
that, safely.'

'To be sure!' said Barnaby. 'To be sure he will! A wise man, father, and
one who can teach us to be rich. Oh! I know him, I know him.'

He was speedily dressed, and as well disguised as he could be. With a
lighter heart he then set off upon his second journey, leaving Hugh,
who was still in a drunken stupor, stretched upon the ground within the
shed, and his father walking to and fro before it.

The murderer, full of anxious thoughts, looked after him, and paced up
and down, disquieted by every breath of air that whispered among the
boughs, and by every light shadow thrown by the passing clouds upon the
daisied ground. He was anxious for his safe return, and yet, though his
own life and safety hung upon it, felt a relief while he was gone. In
the intense selfishness which the constant presence before him of his
great crimes, and their consequences here and hereafter, engendered,
every thought of Barnaby, as his son, was swallowed up and lost. Still,
his presence was a torture and reproach; in his wild eyes, there were
terrible images of that guilty night; with his unearthly aspect, and his
half-formed mind, he seemed to the murderer a creature who had sprung
into existe