alone for that. The day is breaking; we must part. We have
both melancholy duties to perform."

"I wish the funeral was over," said Godfrey, "I hate being forced to act
a conspicuous part in so grave a farce."

"Your cousin will help you out. He is the real mourner; you, the actor.
Remember what I hinted to you, and let me know your opinion in a few
days."

"The risk is too great," said Godfrey, shrugging his shoulders. "When I
am reduced to my last shift, it will be time enough to talk of that."

The grey misty dawn was just struggling into day, when Godfrey left the
cottage. Mathews looked after him, as, opening a side gate that led to a
foot-path that intersected the park, he vanished from his sight.

"Well, there goes the greatest scoundrel that ever was unhung," he
muttered to himself. "He has never shed blood, nor done what I have
done, but hang me if I would exchange characters with him, bad as I may
be. He thinks to make a fool of me; but if I do not make him repay a
thousand fold the injuries he has heaped on me and mine, may we swing on
the same gallows."

In no very enviable mood, Godfrey pursued his way though the lonely
park. The birds had not yet sung their matin hymn to awaken the earth.
Deep silence rested upon the august face of nature. Not a breath of air
stirred the branches, heavy with dew-drops. The hour was full of beauty
and mystery. An awe fell insensibly upon the heart, as if it saw the eye
of God visibly watching over the sleeping world. Its holy influence was
felt even by the selfish heartless Godfrey.

The deep silence--the strange stillness--the uncertain light--the scenes
he had lately witnessed--his altered fortunes--his degrading
pursuits--the fallen and depraved state of his mind, crowded into his
thoughts, and filled his bosom with keen remorse and painful regrets.

"Oh, that I could repent!" he cried, stopping, and clasping his hands
together, and fixing his eyes mournfully upon the earth,--"that I could
believe that there was a God--a heaven--a hell! Yet if there be no
hereafter, why this stifling sense of guilt--this ever-haunting
miserable consciousness of unworthiness? Am I worse than other men, or
are all men alike--the circumstances in which they are placed producing
that which we denominate good or evil in their characters? What if I
determine to renounce the evil, and cling to the good; would it yet be
well with me? Would Juliet, like a good angel, consent to be my gui