lied the other; "bless you! bless you, Henry! if you
did but know the load of remorse that the sight of you has relieved me
from! Thank heaven I was _not_ your murderer!"

"And can you forget the past, Charles?" said Henry. "Do not my ears
deceive me? Do you really forgive me?"

"Freely, fully, from my heart!" was the reply; "the joy of meeting you
again, even thus, repays me for all I have suffered."

"O Charles!" again ejaculated Henry, "you were always generous and
forgiving; but this is more than I expected from you."

I was now going to leave the room; but my patient, noticing my
intention, begged me to remain.

"Stay, doctor, and listen to my confession; concealment is no longer
necessary, for I feel that the hand of death is upon me, and that, in a
few short hours, my career of sin, and shame, and sorrow, will be at an
end."

"My poor fellow," said I, "I have heard the first part of your story
from your brother; you had better defer the remainder till you have
recovered from your present agitation; I will come again to-morrow."

"To-morrow, sir!" said he; "where may I be before to-morrow? Oh, let me
speak now, while time and strength are allowed. It will do me good, sir;
it will relieve my mind, and be a comfort to my troubled spirit."

Feeling that he was right, I seated myself, while he thus commenced his
tale:--

"You remember, Charles, our last sad parting--when we stood"----

"Mention it not, Harry!" groaned his brother--"there is agony in the
recollection. Poor Julia!"

"When I left you, I was maddened with sorrow and remorse; all night long
I wandered about in a state of distraction, and, when morning dawned, I
fell down by the roadside, overcome with fatigue and misery. How long I
lay I know not; when I awoke, the sun was high in the heaven; and,
during one brief moment of forgetfulness, I rejoiced in his brightness.
Alas! it was but for a moment; my guilty love, my treachery, my loss,
all flashed upon my mind at once, and I started to my feet, and hurried
madly onwards, as if I hoped, by the rapidity of my movements, to escape
from my own thoughts. Hunger at last compelled me to enter a small
public-house, where I fell in with a poor sailor, who was on his way to
Liverpool in search of a ship. The sight of this man turned my thoughts
into another channel. 'Double-dyed traitor that I am,' muttered I,
'England is no longer a home for me. She for whose love I broke a
father's heart and betrayed