rs twist with curious skill the flaxen
fibres that wreath thy distaff--no more shall the hum of thy wheel
mingle in chorus with the buzzing of the fly and the chirping of the
cricket. But as thou didst say in thy dying hour, "the great wheel of
eternity keeps rolling on," and thou art borne along with it, no longer
a solitary, weary pilgrim, without an arm to sustain or kindred heart to
cheer, but we humbly trust, one of that innumerable, glorious company,
who, clothed in white robes and bearing branching palms, sing the great
praise-song that never shall end, "Allelulia--the Lord God omnipotent
reigneth."

CHAPTER XIII.

"Come, madness! come unto me senseless death,
I cannot suffer this! here, rocky wall,
Scatter these brains, or dull them."--_Baillie._

"I know not, I ask not,
If guilt's in thy heart--
I but know that I love thee,
Whatever thou art."--_Moore._

In a dark and gloomy apartment, whose grated windows and dreary walls
were hung here and there with blackening cobwebs--and whose darkness and
gloom were made visible by the pale rays of a glimmering lamp, sat the
young, the handsome, the graceful, the fascinating Bryant Clinton. He
sat, or rather partly reclined on the straw pallet, spread in a corner
of the room, propped on one elbow, with his head drooping downward, and
his long hair hanging darkly over his face, as if seeking to veil his
misery and shame.

It was a poor place for such an occupant. He was a young man of leisure
now, and had time to reflect on the past, the present, and the future.

The past!--golden opportunities, lost by neglect, swept away by
temptation, or sold to sin. The present!--detection, humiliation, and
ignominy. The future!--long and dreary imprisonment--companionship with
the vilest of the vile, his home a tomb-like cell in the
penitentiary--his food, bread and water--his bed, a handful of
straw--his dress, the felon's garb of shame--his magnificent hair shorn
close as the slaughtered sheep's--his soft white hands condemned to
perpetual labor!

As this black scroll slowly unrolled before his spirit's eye, this black
scroll, on which the characters and images gleamed forth so red and
fiery, it is no wonder that he writhed and groaned and gnashed his
teeth--it is no wonder that he started up and trod the narrow cell with
the step of a maniac--that he stopped and ground his heel in the
dust--that he rushed to the window and shook th