when it thus wrings out feeling from a man of that mould! But
pardon me, my young friend; let me tarry here for a moment."

"I will enter the house with you," said Walter. And the two men walked
in, and in a few moments they stood within the chamber of death.

The face of the deceased had not yet suffered the last withering change.
Her young countenance was hushed and serene, and but for the fixedness
of the smile, you might have thought the lips moved. So delicate, fair,
and gentle were the features that it was scarcely possible to believe
such a scion could spring from such a stock; and it seemed no longer
wonderful that a thing so young, so innocent, so lovely, and so early
blighted should have touched that reckless and dark nature which
rejected all other invasion of the softer emotions. The curate wiped his
eyes, and kneeling down prayed, if not for the dead (who, as our Church
teaches, are beyond human intercession), perhaps for the father she had
left on earth, more to be pitied of the two! Nor to Walter was the scene
without something more impressive and thrilling than its mere pathos
alone. He, now standing beside the corpse of Houseman's child, was son
to the man of whose murder Houseman had been suspected. The childless
and the fatherless,--might there be no retribution here?

When the curate's prayer was over, and he and Walter escaped from the
incoherent blessings and complaints of the women of the house, they,
with difficulty resisting the impression the scene had left upon their
minds, once more resumed their errand.

"This is no time," said Walter, musingly, "for an examination of
Houseman; yet it must not be forgotten."

The curate did not reply for some moments; and then, as an answer to
the remark, observed that the conversation they anticipated with Aram's
former hostess might throw some light on their researches. They now
proceeded to another part of the town, and arrived at a lonely and
desolate-looking house, which seemed to wear in its very appearance
something strange, sad, and ominous. Some houses have an expression,
as it were, in their outward aspect that sinks unaccountably into the
heart,--a dim, oppressive eloquence which dispirits and affects. You say
some story must be attached to those walls; some legendary interest, of
a darker nature, ought to be associated with the mute stone and mortar;
you feel a mingled awe and curiosity creep over you as you gaze. Such
was the description of