ent. Mervyn's countenance betrayed nothing but
satisfaction at the interview. The traces of fatigue and anxiety gave
place to tenderness and joy. It readily occurred to me that Mervyn was
the writer of the note which I had lately received. To meet him within
these walls, and at this time, was the most remote and undesirable of
all contingencies. The same hour had thus made me acquainted with the
kindred and unwelcome fate of two beings whom I most loved.

I had scarcely time to return his embrace, when, taking my hand, he led
me to a bed that stood in one corner. There was stretched upon it one
whom a second glance enabled me to call by his name, though I had never
before seen him. The vivid portrait which Mervyn had drawn was
conspicuous in the sunken and haggard visage before me. This face had,
indeed, proportions and lines which could never be forgotten or
mistaken. Welbeck, when once seen or described, was easily distinguished
from the rest of mankind. He had stronger motives than other men for
abstaining from guilt, the difficulty of concealment or disguise being
tenfold greater in him than in others, by reason of the indelible and
eye-attracting marks which nature had set upon him.

He was pallid and emaciated. He did not open his eyes on my entrance. He
seemed to be asleep; but, before I had time to exchange glances with
Mervyn, or to inquire into the nature of the scene, he awoke. On seeing
me he started, and cast a look of upbraiding on my companion. The latter
comprehended his emotion, and endeavoured to appease him.

"This person," said he, "is my friend. He is likewise a physician; and,
perceiving your state to require medical assistance, I ventured to send
for him."

Welbeck replied, in a contemptuous and indignant tone, "Thou mistakest
my condition, boy. My disease lies deeper than his scrutiny will ever
reach. I had hoped thou wert gone. Thy importunities are well meant, but
they aggravate my miseries."

He now rose from the bed, and continued, in a firm and resolute tone,
"You are intruders into this apartment. It is mine, and I desire to be
left alone."

Mervyn returned, at first, no answer to this address. He was immersed in
perplexity. At length, raising his eyes from the floor, he said, "My
intentions are indeed honest, and I am grieved that I want the power of
persuasion. To-morrow, perhaps, I may reason more cogently with your
despair, or your present mood may be changed. To aid my own weakne