"You are right," he rejoined, in a voice of emotion, "I have, indeed,
borne the burden of many griefs; but, alas! I do not mourn them so
much as the errors of a heart but for whose weakness they had never
oppressed me. I know not what it is, young lady, that prompts me to
confide to you my history. But, perchance, it may serve you as a
warning--it may impress more strongly upon your mind that divine law
of forgiveness inculcated by Him who pardons _our_ trespasses, 'as we
forgive those who trespass against us.' There is a passage in the
'Book of Books' that never fails to convey to me a reproof, for I
remembered not the lesson till it was too late to profit by it. 'Then
came one of his disciples unto him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my
brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? Jesus
saith unto him, I say not unto thee until seven times; but until
seventy times seven.'"

Though somewhat surprised at the turn matters were taking, yet, as the
speaker had paused, and was now apparently awaiting some token on my
part of interest in his proposed narration, _I_, of course, entreated
him to proceed. Nor was he long in complying with my desire.

It was truly a touching story, dear Mary. I would, indeed, that I
could "tell the tale as 'twas told to me." And yet I would not, if I
possessed the power, portray the mournful accents of that old man's
voice, and the sorrowing expression of his countenance--for the
picture would make you weep. I may not attempt to recall the sketch in
the language of the aged sailor, for that it would be utterly
impossible to do; but I will strive to repeat it to you after my own
peculiar fashion, and to the best of my ability. Could I boast your
incomparable grace of diction, Mary, I might do full justice to my
subject. But I know that with your accustomed kindness you will
overlook the faults which I humbly trust that time and practice may
enable me to overcome. So, having thus worthily delivered my preface,
let me hasten at once to my task.

Some sixty years since, there dwelt in the city of Boston, a merchant
by the name of Sydney--a man justly beloved and respected for
benevolence of character, integrity of purpose and of principle, and
envied by the worldly for the enormous income which enabled him to
surround his family with every luxury that money could procure. Early
in life he had married a beautiful girl, to whom he was tenderly
devoted. A son, whose name was Arthur