to be utterly
ruined?"

"Really, sir, you know your own affairs better than I can.--Your
servant, Mr. Clements."

O, hard and wicked heart!--what will not such a miscreant do for money?
Nothing, I am clear, but the cowardly fear of discovery prevents John
Dillaway from becoming a positive parricide by very arsenic or razor, so
as to grasp his cheated father's will and wealth. And this assertion
will appear not in the least uncharitable, when the reader is in this
place reminded that Henry Clements's own little property had never been
Australized at all, but was still safe and snug in the coffers of crafty
John. Jermyn street--or the sharpers congregated there--had drained him
very considerably; all his own ill-got gains had been gradually raked
away by the croupier at the gaming-table; and unsuspecting Henry's
little trust-fund was to be the next bank on which the brother played.

Poor Henry and Maria! What will they do? where will they go? how will
they live? Hard questions all, not to be answered in a hurry. We shall
see. There was one comfort, though, amidst all their misery;--they did
not find the adage a true one, which alludes to poverty coming in at the
door, and love flying out of the window; for they never loved each other
more deeply--more devotedly--than when daily bread was growing a
scarcity, and daily life almost a burden. But we are anticipating.

And how fared the parents all this while? was the erring daughter
entirely forgotten? No, no. Son John, indeed, took good care to hinder
any amicable feelings of relapse to intrude upon his father's
resolution. But the old man was not easy, nevertheless; often thought of
poor Maria; and could not clearly make out who had forged the letter.
Had it not been for that wicked brother John, a meeting--an
explanation--a reconciliation--would undoubtedly have taken place: but
he was shrewd enough to keep them asunder, and did not take much to
heart his father's altered spirits and breaking state of health: his
will and wealth were seemingly all the nearer.

And what of that poor stricken mother? Wasted to a shadow, feverish and
weak, she lay for weeks, counting the dreary hours, till she heard of
dear, though unnatural, Maria. Oh! the heartless caitiff, John! will he
thus watch his mother die by inches, when one true word from his lips
could restore her to tranquillity and health? Yes, he would--he did--the
wretch! She gradually pined--waned--wasted; the candle of