sophy
so poor, that the daughter's beauty suffers from the commission of a
father's crime?"

"No, no, It is not so. Do not fancy that, for one moment, I can
entertain such unworthy opinions. The thought that crossed me was that I
should have to tell one of such a gentle nature that her father had done
such a deed."

"On that head you can use your own discretion. The deed was done; there
was sufficient light for us to look upon the features of the dying man.
Ghastly and terrific they glared upon us; while the glazed eyes, as they
were upturned to the bright sky, seemed appealing to Heaven for
vengeance against us, for having done the deed.

"Many a day and many an hour since at all times and all seasons, I have
seen those eyes, with the glaze of death upon them, following me, and
gloating over the misery they had the power to make. I think I see them
now."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; look--look--see how they glare upon me--with what a fixed and
frightful stare the bloodshot pupils keep their place--there, there! oh!
save me from such a visitation again. It is too horrible. I dare not--I
cannot endure it; and yet why do you gaze at me with such an aspect,
dread visitant? You know that it was not my hand that did the deed--who
laid you low. You know that not to me are you able to lay the heavy
charge of your death!"

"Varney, you look upon vacancy," said Charles Holland.

"No, no; vacancy it may be to you, but to me 'tis full of horrible
shapes."

"Compose yourself; you have taken me far into your confidence already; I
pray you now to tell me all. I have in my brain no room for horrible
conjectures such as those which might else torment me."

Varney was silent for a few minutes, and then he wiped from his brow the
heavy drops of perspiration that had there gathered, and heaved a deep
sigh.

"Speak to me," added Charles; "nothing will so much relieve you from the
terrors of this remembrance as making a confidence which reflection will
approve of, and which you will know that you have no reason to repent."

"Charles Holland," said Varney, "I have already gone too far to
retract--much too far, I know, and can well understand all the danger of
half confidence. You already know so much, that it is fit you should
know more."

"Go on then, Varney, I will listen to you."

"I know not if, at this juncture, I can command myself to say more. I
feel that what next has to be told will be most horrible for me to
tell--most sad