was too powerful within me, and the secret remained untold. I said that a previous illness had rendered me subject to swoons, and the heat of the church had overpowered me. I took my departure, and for several days did not venture abroad. I had, during my residence in the village, performed many small acts of charity, and was looked upon by the inhabitants as a good and beneficent individual. How little should we trust to outward appearances! Now suspicion arose in the minds of the people. My behaviour in church was soon known throughout the village, and small things are great events in limited communities. Men whispered together when I approached, and shrunk within their cottage doors to avoid conversing with me. I felt as though the word "fratricide" were branded on my brow, and slunk along the most unfrequented paths and lanes, as if afraid to encounter the officers of justice. I seldom stirred from my dwelling during the day, but waited until the dusk of evening, before I took my wretched and solitary rambles. But I was seldom alone there was one form which did not often quit my side-there was one shape which was with me, though it was as thin and noiseless as a shadow. Its eyes encountered mine, turn as I would, and I knew that the shape swa my brother's!

F

One evening a carriage drove into the village, and as some trifling accident had rendered the vehicle unsafe, the travellers put up for the night at the only inn of which the place could boast. My servant told me of the circumstance, for it was a somewhat unusual one, as the village lay out of the track of the generality of travellers. It was said that the occupiers of the carriage were a newly-married couple, and the bride was described as exceedingly lovely. I was absorbed with other thoughts, and remained silent; the man, mistaking my silence for attention, gave indulgence to his loquacious propensities, and imagined he was gratifying me. He told me he had assisted to bear the luggage of the travellers into the inn, and one of the portmanteaus was inscribed with the name of "Mr. Stephen Gray." I sprang up with a convulsive shudder. Should he ascertain that I was residing in the village, my character would be at once known, and I must seek another scene in which to drag out the remainder of existence. was not likely he would discover me if I kept within doors during his brief stay, but an irresistible influence came over me, like a spell from which there was no escaping, and I was impelled to lurk about the inn and endeavour to look upon him whom I had once regarded with such fierce and deadly enmity. My old feelings towards him

It

were gone, and remorse and shame for my former conduct had taken their place; yet I felt an uncontrollable desire to look upon him once more, and to gaze upon the being whom he had chosen for a wife. Enveloped in a cloak, and with my hat pulled over my forehead, I sought the neighbourhood of the inn. I lingered about the door in the expectation that I might obtain a passing glimpse of Gray. It was a fine autumnal evening, and it was not unlikely that he might be induced to breathe the delicious atmosphere, and gaze on the beautiful scenery for which the locality was celebrated. The moon was in the heavens, clear, bright, and round, as a shield of shining pearl held in the hand of some glorious angel. The earth looked as though it had been steeped in pale and liquid splendour, and the leaves quivered and danced in the gentle breeze like things instinct with delight. I cast my eyes upwards to the blue and starry arch-all was pure above and around me, and I the one accursed thing that rested like a blight on the fair scene. The agony of remorse, the horror of despair, and a crushing, withering sense of my stained and degraded condition made a hell within me that no after punishment can by possibility exceed. A lady and gentleman, engaged in sweet and murmuring converse, such as falls only from the lips of lovers, now slowly ap

proached me. They were the bride and bridegroom returning from a quiet and blissful walk. One glance at them was sufficient-the wife of Stephen Gray had once been Lilias Young! A shriek of anguish burst from my lips, and I fled past them. Rapid as was the action, I saw they beheld and recognised me.

The fratri

I was seen no more in the village. cide would be proclaimed, and I must seek for obscurity, if not for peace, in other localities. My course was directed to a populous town, where for a short time I took up my residence, but the worm that dies not was gnawing at my heart, and misery was ever with me. Since then I have been a wanderer over many lands-I have mingled with men of every grade-with gilded vice and lowly virtue, and I have undeviatingly found, that whatever may be their station, the good alone are the happiest of mankind. My hair is thin and white, my form is bent, and my steps are slow and feeble, but, like the doomed of old, I feel as though I could not rest or die. My course is onwards, onwards, and my lot on earth, whatever it may be hereafter, is one of agony unspeakable. Once in each year, on the anniversary of my brother's murder, do I visit his grave, and, whilst my remorseful and penitential tears bedew his resting place, with my face bowed to the stone that covers

his mouldering corse, I supplicate God to pardon my foul crime. The only temporary solace which I experience is in the performance of acts of charity, and in ministering to those who suffer. Oh, how vainly do our legislators seek to abolish crime by the death of the malefactor! To live, and not to die, is the only adequate punishment that can be inflicted upon the murderer, and well may the preacher exclaim, that, "disguise it as you will, all sin is misery."