in an agitated hand, and blistered all over with tears. He confessed that his life of late had been exceedingly vicious-nay, inexcusably criminal. He expressed the deepest remorse; he was in despair; and yet he denied the crime for which he had been arrested. He related many circumstances of his life in that town. He confessed he had been in the toils of the creatures who swore revenge on that house; he explained why he was out at that evil hour, and why he happened to be found where he was arrested. He was aware that every circumstance appeared to accuse him, and a denial of the act could not save him; yet, for my comfort, and that of our brother and friends, he sent us his denial in the most solemn words he could write. He knew that a case of arson could be easily made out against him, and that the penalty was death.

He anticipated an early trial, and begged to see us before he died, if we would not feel polluted by the presence of one who had been so wicked. He was suffering for want of comfortable clothing, and informed me that instead of the soft bed in which he had buried himself every night at home, he had now-so crowded was the prison-only the cold stone floor with a bundle of straw to sleep on.

He feared that Jesse could not have a heart to see him in that dismal cell with chains on his arms and ankles; but, said he, "Mercy, you have more courage than he, and if a sister can stoop to a brother who has fallen so low, after all your tears and entreaties, O, do come and speak one word to me before I die! Come and tell me,

if you can love me still! Come and bathe my hot forehead, if you can touch me now! Hold my hand in yours once more, and tell me if I may be forgiven! O, if mother were alive, would she not still be kind to her lost Walter? Mercy! she told you to be a mother to us, when you became a woman, and you have been all that you could be to me. Will you not step into her place again and come to my prison, and sit by my side an hour? Come and see me,—may-be I can convince you that I did not set fire to the house, nor intend such a thing. If I can, and you at last forgive what I confess, I can die without a murmur. I had rather die than have you believe I would commit such a crime as arson. There is great excitement here, they tell me. People are enraged against me, and not without reason. Some would be glad to take me out of prison and hang me on a tree.”

XXXVI.

An hour before I received Walter's letter, I had review

ed my griefs and trials. It was a gloomy hour, for it seemed to me, that with all my strength and resignation, with all my faith and hope, I had been more keenly afflicted than any one I knew, and my sufferings had been more than I could bear again. Then my heart wandered away like a fond shepherdess in search of the lost brother, and the letter was thrown into my lap whilst I was unconscious of the presence of the bearer. I knew the superscription. I stripped the sheet half in two to learn the worst. I glanced over it to catch all the dark and terrible words, and-0, may the curtain never be raised from the scene of anguish which ensued! And let me hurry through the scenes that followed, if I can, without recalling many of their heart-rending griefs.

I know not how long the first scene lasted, but I found that I had a Helper, and God was pouring strength into my heart; and I arose and maintained a composure which surprised my friends. The tidings flew around the city, and as many of my friends as could venture to intrude on my sorrow were around me, begging me to trust in God and their true hearts, and prepare for the crisis

which I had so soon to meet. I wanted to fly to my poor brother, but I could not start until another day, and then who would go with me? I had several offers of protection. Selwyn Downs visited me that night, and offered to take me to Dexter. George Milbank volunteered his services as Walter's attorney, and assured me that he would defend him with his best efforts, and see that no more than justice was done.

I now remembered that my dear Hannah Parvin resided at Dexter, and I thought of her father, and resolved to go out of my way to Salem, and ask him to take me to Walter's prison. I had every needed assistance. The factory girls gave me generous aid, while the Wardens, Olneys, and others, followed their example. Money for expenses, clothing for Walter, and means to buy a bed, and every comfort he might need in his prison, were piled before me, and more of it came from my bank deposits than my kind friends were willing I should draw.

The next day I went over to Salem. Friend Buxton had gone into the country with two vicious boys for whom he obtained situations, and he was not expected to return before night. That day seemed a year, and that night an age. But he returned, and said he would go with me; and the day was spent in such tender and encouraging conversation, it passed away at last, and I had a little sleep at night to refresh my strength and prepare for my journey.

I fancied before that I knew the sweet and tender goodness of aunt Lydia, and had taken heavenly blessings from her lips and hands; but this time she excelled her

self. I thought she needed not wings to make her an angel, for she was already an angel of love and comfort on earth. She was thinner and paler than in former years. The long, silky brown hair, which her cap could not hide, had grown quite gray, and her voice was more tremulous. But there was more spiritual ardor kindling her pure cheeks, and tears glistened more frequently in her eyes. She seemed to feel that much conversation would wound my feelings more than it would comfort, and her words were brief and few; but they went right down to the aching place in my heart, and eased it as no other words had done; and in her presence, and in each little act of kindness she did for me, there was a virtue that I received and kept for the trial I had before

me.

"Dear Walter! I hope Hannah has heard of his troubles and visited him," she said, once or twice to herself. "Dear boy! I remember how his mother loved him, and how pitiful he looked when she lay in her cold winding-sheet in Becket Court!—He was a comely boy, and I feared his beauty might cause him to fall. Such a tender, white neck for the gallows!-oh! it cannot be !—my heart is at rest there-the motherless lamb will not be slain !" Then she roused from her abstraction, started about to put up something more for me to carry to Walter, and repeated the assurance that Hannah would befriend us both till the end of our troubles.

Morning arrived, and we set out for Dexter. The day was fair and happy, but it seemed to me as the light that shines on the windows of a prison. My outward