, October morning. The air was sharp and bracing,
and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from
the trees. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full
view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and
its villas peeping from out the trees.

Jack's heart was too full to allow him to derive any pleasure from this
scene; so he strolled on without raising his eyes till he arrived at
Kensal Green. Here he obtained some breakfast, and mounting the hill
turned off into the fields on the right. Crossing them, he ascended an
eminence, which, from its singular shape, seems to have been the site of
a Roman encampment, and which commands a magnificent prospect.

Leaning upon a gate he looked down into the valley. It was the very spot
from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue
him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was
alone present to him. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church,
embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery
of autumn. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many
years,--in those fields she had rambled,--at that church she had prayed.
And he had destroyed all this. But for him she might have been alive and
happy. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of
tears.

Aroused by the sound of the church bells, he resolved, at whatever risk,
to attend Divine service. With this view, he descended the hill and
presently found a footpath leading to the church. But he was destined to
have every tide of feeling awakened--every wound opened. The path he had
selected conducted him to his mother's humble dwelling. When she
occupied, it, it was neatness itself; the little porch was overrun with
creepers--the garden trim and exquisitely kept. Now, it was a wilderness
of weeds. The glass in the windows was broken--the roof unthatched--the
walls dilapidated. Jack turned away with an aching heart. It seemed an
emblem of the ruin he had caused.

As he proceeded, other painful reminiscences were aroused. At every step
he seemed to be haunted by the ghost of the past. There was the stile on
which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his
mocking glance--how it had hardened his heart against his mother's
prayer. "O God!" he exclaimed, "I am severely punished."

He had now gained the high road. The villagers were thronging to church.
Bounding