air of a Kalmuck, and his light eyes shone with the
excitement of a high fever. He wore a skull-cap of black silk; a huge
Bible lay open before him on the bed, with a pair of gold spectacles in
the place, and a pile of other books lay on the stand by his side. The
green curtains lent a cadaverous shade to his cheek; and, as he sat
propped on pillows, his great stature was painfully hunched, and his
head protruded till it overhung his knees. I believe if he had not died
otherwise, he must have fallen a victim to consumption in the course of
but a very few weeks.

He held out to me a hand, long, thin, and disagreeably hairy.

"Come in, come in, Mr. Cassilis," said he. "Another
protector--ahem!--another protector. Always welcome as a friend of my
daughter's, Mr. Cassilis. How they have rallied about me, my daughter's
friends! May God in Heaven bless and reward them for it!"

I gave him my hand, of course, because I could not help it; but the
sympathy I had been prepared to feel for Clara's father was immediately
soured by his appearance, and the wheedling, unreal tones in which he
spoke.

"Cassilis is a good man," said Northmour; "worth ten."

"So I hear," cried Mr. Huddlestone eagerly; "so my girl tells me. Ah,
Mr. Cassilis, my sin has found me out, you see! I am very low, very low;
but I hope equally penitent. We must all come to the throne of grace at
last, Mr. Cassilis. For my part, I come late indeed; but with unfeigned
humility, I trust."

"Fiddle-de-dee!" said Northmour roughly.

"No, no, dear Northmour!" cried the banker. "You must not say that; you
must not try to shake me. You forget, my dear, good boy, you forget I
may be called this very night before my Maker."

His excitement was pitiful to behold; and I felt myself grow indignant
with Northmour, whose infidel opinions I well knew, and heartily
derided, as he continued to taunt the poor sinner out of his humour of
repentance.

"Pooh, my dear Huddlestone!" said he. "You do yourself injustice. You
are a man of the world, inside and out, and were up to all kinds of
mischief before I was born. Your conscience is tanned like South
American leather--only you forgot to tan your liver, and that, if you
will believe me, is the seat of the annoyance."

"Rogue, rogue! bad boy!" said Mr. Huddlestone, shaking his finger, "I am
no precisian, if you come to that; I always hated a precisian; but I
never lost hold of something better through it all. I have been a b