commodity. Our high old families choose
rather to charge guilt, and deny the right to prove innocence.

With the four shillings, Maria, weeping, turns from the door, procures
some bread and coffee, and wends her way to the old prison. But the
chords of her resolution are shaken, the cold repulse has gone like
poison to her heart. The ray of joy that was lighting up her future,
seems passing away; whilst fainter and fainter comes the hope of once
more greeting her lover. She sees vice pampered by the rich, and poor
virtue begging at their doors. She sees a price set upon her own ruin;
she sees men in high places waiting with eager passion the moment when
the thread of her resolution will give out. The cloud of her night does,
indeed, seem darkening again.

But she gains the prison, and falters as she enters the cell where the
old Antiquary, his brow furrowed deep of age, sleeps calmly upon his
cot. Near his hand, which he has raised over his head, lays a letter,
with the envelope broken. Maria's quick eye flashes over the
superscription, and recognizes in it the hand of Tom Swiggs. A transport
of joy fills her bosom with emotions she has no power to constrain. She
trembles from head to foot; fancies mingled with joys and fears crowd
rapidly upon her thoughts. She grasps it with feelings frantic of joy,
and holds it in her shaking hand; the shock has nigh overcome her. The
hope in which she has so long found comfort and strength--that has so
long buoyed her up, and carried her safely through trials, has truly
been her beacon light. "Truly," she says within herself, "the dawn of my
morning is brightening now." She opens the envelope, and finds a letter
enclosed to her. "Oh! yes, yes, yes! it is him--it is from him!" she
stammers, in the exuberance of her wild joy. And now the words, "You
are richer than me," flash through her thoughts with revealed
significance.

Maria grasps the old man's hand. He starts and wakes, as if unconscious
of his situation, then fixes his eyes upon her with a steady, vacant
gaze. Then, with childlike fervor, he presses her hand to his lips, and
kisses it. "It was a pleasant dream--ah! yes, I was dreaming all things
went so well!" Again a change comes over his countenance, and he glances
round the room, with a wild and confused look. "Am I yet in
prison?--well, it was only a dream. If death were like dreaming, I would
crave it to take me to its peace, that my mind might no longer be
harassed w