nowledge and memory of those
with whom he had lived. But, nevertheless, he would bear himself
well to the last. It was true that he had made his own bed, and he
understood the justice which required him to lie upon it.

During all this time Fothergill occupied himself with the papers. He
continued to turn over one sheet after another, as though he were
deeply engaged in money considerations and calculations. But, in
truth, during all that time he did not read a word, There was
nothing there for him to read. The reading and the writing, and the
arithmetic in such matters, are done by underlings--not by such big
men as Mr. Fothergill. His business was to tell Sowerby that he was
to go. All those records there were of very little use. The duke had
the power; Sowerby knew that the duke had the power; and Fothergill's
business was to explain that the duke meant to exercise his power.
He was used to the work, and went on turning over the papers and
pretending to read them, as though his doing so were of the greatest
moment. "I shall see the duke myself," Mr. Sowerby said at last, and
there was something almost dreadful in the sound of his voice.

"You know that the duke won't see you on a matter of this kind. He
never speaks to any one about money; you know that as well as I do."

"By ----, but he shall speak to me. Never speak to any one about
money! Why is he ashamed to speak of it when he loves it so dearly?
He shall see me."

"I have nothing further to say, Sowerby. Of course I shan't ask his
grace to see you; and if you force your way in on him you know what
will happen. It won't be my doing if he is set against you. Nothing
that you say to me in that way,--nothing that anybody ever
says,--goes beyond myself."

"I shall manage the matter through my own lawyer," said Sowerby; and
then he took his hat, and, without uttering another word, left the
room.

We know not what may be the nature of that eternal punishment to
which those will be doomed who shall be judged to have been evil at
the last; but methinks that no more terrible torment can be devised
than the memory of self-imposed ruin. What wretchedness can exceed
that of remembering from day to day that the race has been all run,
and has been altogether lost; that the last chance has gone, and has
gone in vain; that the end has come, and with it disgrace, contempt,
and self-scorn--disgrace that never can be redeemed, contempt that
never can be removed, and self-