I have nothing to live for. My life is wrecked, and I
have not a friend in the world. Why should I desire to prolong my life?"

"Carl," said the doctor, "listen. Everything you say springs from
mistaken and blind selfishness. Yours is the spirit of the suicide and
coward; surely, this is unworthy of you. And, besides, what you say is
not true. Your life is not wrecked, only as you determine to wreck it.
You say you have nothing to live for. I know of no young man that has
more to live for. You foolishly and ungratefully say you haven't a friend
in the world. You certainly know the contrary is true. Everyone who knows
you is your friend. Is Bishop Albertson not your friend? Is Tom not your
friend? Is that sweet young girl in the other part of the house, whom you
have caused to give her innocent heart to you, not your friend? By some
mistake you have crippled your life. But the good Lord, who pities his
erring child, will help you to redeem and make it both useful and happy.
Bear with me, Carl, when I say, if you know that there is a way by which
the usefulness and happiness of your life may be restored and redeemed,
and you refuse to adopt it, you will be guilty of self-murder. Forgive me
for these seemingly harsh words. God knows they are true, and my only
plea for thus speaking them to you is my love for you. I cannot refrain."

Carl sat with drooping head and with tears coursing down his pale cheeks.
For a moment or two he sat silently sobbing; his whole frame was shaking,
and looking up with a woebegone countenance, said: "Doctor, let me come
to your room tonight after chapel prayers."

"Very well; I shall be glad to see you," said Doctor Marmion, kindly, and
rising, he went out, leaving Carl alone.

At the close of the evening service the doctor and Carl found themselves
alone in the vestry. The younger man took from the pocket of his top coat
a package, and, handing it to the doctor, said: "I want you to take this
package and open it; it will tell its own tale."

Somewhat surprised, the doctor went to a stand close by and did as he was
requested. The next moment he stood speechless with astonishment, for he
held in his hands money, English bank notes, more than he had ever before
seen. What did it all mean?

"There, Doctor," sobbed Carl, who had approached him, tremblingly, "is
my crime; and growing out of it is my other and greater crime. I have
been and still am a living lie. My father and mother think me dea