ny
with a feeling of awe. It was at first whispered about, but it at length
became the general topic of conversation. Alice Goodwin was dying, and
her parents were in a state of distraction. Nobody could tell why, but
it appeared she was at the last gasp, and that there was some mystery in
her malady. Many speculations were broached upon the subject. Woodward
preserved silence for a time, but just as he was about to make some
observations with reference to her illness, a tall, handsome gentleman
entered the room and bowed with much grace to the company.

Father Mulrenin started up, and, shaking hands with him, said,--

"I know now, sir, that you have got my letter."

"I have got it," replied the other, "and I am here accordingly."

As he spoke, his eye glanced around the room, the most distinguished
figure in which, beyond comparison, was that of Woodward, who instantly
recognized him as the gentleman whom he had met on the morning of his
departure from the hospitable roof of Mr. Goodwin, on his return home,
and, we may add, between whom and himself that extraordinary trial of
the power of will, as manifested by the power of the eye, took place so
completely to his own discomfiture. They were both gentlemen, and bowed
to each other very courteously, after which they approached and shook
hands, and whilst the stranger held Woodward's hand in his during their
short but friendly chat, it was observed that Woodward's face got as
pale as death, and he almost immediately tottered towards a seat from
weakness.

"Don't be alarmed," said the stranger; "you now feel that the principle
of good is always able to overcome the principle of evil."

"Who or what are you?" asked Woodward, faintly.

"I am a plain country gentleman, sir; and something more, a man of
wealth and distinction; but who, unlike my friend Cooke here, do not
make myself ridiculous by absurd eccentricities, and the adoption of the
nonsensical doctrines of Pythagoras, so utterly at variance with reason
and Christian truth. You know, my dear Cooke, I could have cured you of
your rheumatism had you possessed common-sense; but who could cure any
man who guards his person against the elements by such a ludicrous and
unsubstantial dress as yours?"

"I am in torture," replied Cooke; "I was tempted to dance with a pretty
woman, and now I am suffering for it."

"As for me," exclaimed Topertoe, "I am a match, and more than a match,
for you in suffering. O, this ac