o do one thing for me, the last I shall ever
ask. Oh, don't cast me utterly out of your heart when you hear it,
but I must tell it. I have robbed my poor faithful servant, Jacob
Poole, of his nuggets, which he got by his own hard labour. I
secretly took them from him, and spent what they fetched in drink and
gaming. I meant to win and pay him back, but I might have known I
never could. Yes, I robbed the poor young man who nursed me, worked
for me, prayed for me, remonstrated with me, bore with me. I robbed
him when his back was turned. Oh, what a vile wretch the drink has
made me! Can you have any love for me after reading this? Oh, if you
have, I want you or my father to repay Jacob for his nuggets which I
stole. He's as honest as the day. You may trust him to put no more
than a fair value on them. One more request I have to make, darling
mother. Oh,--deal kindly by _her_--I said I would never write her
name again, and I will not. I dare not write to her, it would do no
good. Tell her that I'm lost to her for ever; tell her to forget me.
And do _you_ forget me too, dearest mother. I could be nothing but a
thorn, a shame, a burden in my old home. I will not tell you where I
am, nor where I shall be; it is better not. Forget me if you can, and
think of me as dead. I am so for all better purposes; for everything
good or noble has died out of me. The drink has done it. Your
hopeless son, FRANK OLDFIELD."

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A MISERABLE DEATH.

Three days after Jacob Poole had posted his letter and its enclosure, a
cab drove up to Mrs Jones's door. In it were Sir Thomas and Lady
Oldfield. No one who saw them could doubt of the bitter sorrow that had
stamped its mark upon their noble features.

"Are you Mrs Jones, my poor--poor son's landlady?" asked Lady Oldfield,
when they were seated in the parlour. She could add no more for
weeping.

"Yes, ma'am," was the reply. "I'm sure I'm very sorry, ma'am, very
indeed; for Mr Oldfield was a most kind, free-spoken gentleman; and if
he'd only--only--"

"I understand you," said the poor sorrowing mother.

"And Jacob Poole; what has become of him?" asked Sir Thomas.

"I'm sure, sir, I don't know. All I can tell is, that he's sure not to
be anywhere in Liverpool; for he told me the morning he left me that he
was going to leave the town, and should not come back again."

"I'm grieved to hear it," said the