connection with your past and present life--much
reparation to make to your fellow-creatures. Yes; I would say, Sir
Thomas Gourlay, the deep tempest of strong passions within you has
shaken your powerful frame until it totters to its fall. I would say,
beware; repent while it is time, and be not unprepared for the last
great event. That event, Sir Thomas, is not far distant, if I read
aright the foreshadowing of death and dissolution that is evident
in your countenance and frame. I speak these words in, I trust, a
charitable and forgiving spirit. May they sink into your heart, and work
it to a sense of Christian feeling and duty!

"This I would say were you mine--this I do say, knowing that you are
not; for my charity goes beyond my church, and embraces my enemy as well
as my friend;" and as he spoke he prepared co go.

"You may go, sir," replied the baronet, with a sneer of contempt, "only
you have mistaken your man. I am no subject for your craft--not to be
deceived by your hypocrisy--and laugh to scorn your ominous but impotent
croaking. Only before you go, remember the conditions I have offered
the scoundrel who robbed me; and if the theological intricacies of your
crooked creed will permit you, try and get him to accept them. It will
be better for him, and better for you too. Do this, and you may cease to
look upon Sir Thomas Gourlay as an enemy."

The priest bowed, and without returning any reply left the apartment and
took his immediate departure.

Sir Thomas, after he had gone, went to the glass and surveyed himself
steadily. The words of the priest were uttered with much solemnity and
earnestness; but withal in such a tone of kind regret and good feeling,
that their import and impressiveness were much heightened by this very
fact.

"There is certainly a change upon me, and not one for the better," he
said to himself; "but at the same time the priest, cunning as he is, has
been taken in by appearances. I am just sufficiently changed in my looks
to justify and give verisimilitude to the game I am playing. When Lucy
hears of my illness, which must be a serious one, nothing on earth will
keep her from me; and if I cannot gain any trace to her residence, a
short paragraph in the papers, intimating and regretting the dangerous
state of my health, will most probably reach her, and have the desired
effect. If she were once back, I know that, under the circumstances
of my illness, and the impression that it has bee