ere is the child Abel--he is
found!" and seizing the trembling boy, with evident exultation, led
him to her. The effect of this act of the poor simple-minded man was
electrical. The mother instantly revived, but turned her face from her
husband; and, entwining her son in her arms, pressed him closely to her
side. The clergyman proceeded to interrogate the prisoner, but he
answered nothing, keeping his eyes intently fixed upon his wife and
child. In the mean time, the officers of justice had been prompt in the
execution of their duty; the Smiths were apprehended in the village, and
the greater portion of the property stolen from Sir Thomas Purcel was
found in the hut where Grace had beheld it concealed.

When the preparations were sufficiently forward to conduct the
unfortunate men to prison, Joseph Huntley advanced to his wife. The
scornful as well as undaunted expression of his countenance had changed
to one of painful intensity; he took her hand within his, and pressed it
to his lips, without articulating a single syllable. Slowly she moved
her face, so that their eyes encountered in one long mournful look. Ten
years of continued suffering could not have exacted a heavier tribute
from Grace Huntley's beauty. No language can express the withering
effects of the few hours' agony. Her husband saw it.

"'Twas to save my children!" was the only sentence she uttered, or
rather murmured; and it was the last coherent one she spoke for many
weeks. Her fine reason seemed overwhelmed. It was a sight few could
witness without tears. The old father, tending the couch of his
afflicted daughter, would sit for hours by her bedside, clasping the
child Abel's hand within his, and every now and then shaking his head
when her ravings were loud or violent.

[We add the conclusion.]

It might be some fifteen years after these distressing events had
agitated the little village of Craythorpe, that an elderly woman,
of mild and cheerful aspect, sat calmly reading a large volume she
supported against the railing of a noble vessel, that was steering its
course from the shores of "merrie England" to some land far over the
sea. Two gentlemen, who were lounging on the quarter-deck arm-in-arm,
frequently passed her. The elder one, in a peculiarly kind tone of
voice, said, "You bear the voyage well, dame."--"Thank God! yes,
sir."--"Ah! you will wish yourself back in Old England before you
are landed six weeks."--"I did not wish to leave it, sir;