Henry Dunbar

orld quiet in the old-fashioned street, though dashing vehicles dri

the traveller, coming a stranger to the little town, might fancy himself a hundred miles away from boisterous London

hese, a pleasant place enough, there is a row of old-fashioned semi-detached cottages, standing in small gardens, an

spected and admired her, notwithstanding; and the female inhabitants of Godolphin Cottages, who gave her good-day sometimes as she went along the dusty lane with her well-used roll of music in her hand, declared that she was a lady bred and

mother, who had died seventeen years before, leaving an on

neglected this only child. He had neglected her, though with every passing year she grew more and more like her dead mother,

was at home for weeks together, a prey to a fit of melancholy; under the influence of which h

s, sometimes for weeks and months at a time; and during hi

ney; sometimes he lived upo

f her; and she, after the way of womankind, loved him devotedly

no compunction about bargaining and haggling as to a few pitiful shillings with a music mistress who looked so very poor, and seemed so glad to work for their paltry p

arms twined caressingly about his neck. And there were times when the strong man wo

world. Nameless, friendless, characterless, he has to begin life afresh, with every man's hand against him. He is the outcast of society. The faces that once looked kindly on him turn away from him with a frown. The voices that once spoke in his praise are loud in his disfavour. Driven from every place where once he found a welcome, the ruined wretch hides himself among strangers, and tries to sink his hateful identity under a false name. He succeeds, perhaps, for a time, and is trusted, and being honestly disp

murmured. "Remember, father, who it was that

urselves together to hurl you back into the black abyss.' That's what the world says to the sinner, Margaret, my girl. I don't know much of the gospel; I have never read it since I was a boy, and used to read long chapters aloud to my mother, on quiet Sunday evenings; I can see the little old-fashioned parlour now as I speak of that time; I can hear the ticking of the eight-day clock, and I can see my mother's fond eyes looking up at me every now and then. But I don't k

tart for Southampton, James Wentworth spent the morning in his daughter's humble little sitt

his mouth, watching his daughter's fair fa

aspect of simple rustic prettiness, which is almost pleasanter to look at than fine furniture. There were pictures - simple water-colour sketches - and cheap engravings o

erceive as much as that. He might, indeed, have been handsome still, but for the moody d

walk, all belonged to a man in the prime of middle age. He wore a beard and thick moustache of grizzled auburn. His nose was aquiline, his forehead high and square, his chin massive. The form of his head and f

to be diverted from any purpose, however long the time between the form

k, the shadows of black thoughts darkened his

perhaps, because of a soft melancholy that subdued their natural brightness; the smooth brown hair rippling upon the white forehead, which was low and broad, was of a colour which a duchess might have envied, or an empress tried to imitate with subtle dyes compounded by cour

d transitory in its nature, that bore a likeness to her father; but the likeness was

oft and womanly disposition there was much of the father's determin

but a woman whose resentment for a g

sit and watch you sometimes till I begin to wonder at you. You seem contented and most happy,

g her eyes from her work, and looking

his shoulders, an

I had built them up with more patience than perhaps man ever built before. You've been a good girl, Margaret - a noble girl; and you've been true to me alike in joy and sorrow - the joy's been little enough beside the so

t's that

every one of them. You've seen me a clerk in a merchant's office; an actor; an author; a common labourer, working for a daily wage; and you've seen ruin overtake me whi

to the girl's eyes

that you could not answer without pain? I have heard people say cruel things of you; but they have never said them twice in my hearing." Her eyes flashed through a veil of tears as she spoke. "Oh, father - dearest father!" she cried, suddenly throwing aside her work, and dropping on

e spoke, and he grasped it so tightly tha

asked, bending his head to look

ite sure

tear your h

in this

not worthy o

t in strict proportion to the merits of those we love. If it

orth laughe

added, in a more serious tone, "you're a generous-minded, noble-spirited girl, and I believe you do

girl's face. She hung her h

, can't you, Madge? Don't

, father dear," she mu

out,

very long ago, when you were young and reckless, and scarcely knew the nature of your own act; and that now, though you are truly p

myself, and I never hoped to make any. But when detection came, it was upon me that the disgrace and ruin fell; while the man for whom I had done wrong - the man who had made me his tool - turned his

rils quivering and her hands clenched

ed at often enough before to-day. You may as well know the whole truth. I was transported, for life, Madge; and for thirteen years I toiled amongst the wretched, guilty slaves in Norfolk Island - that was the favourite place in those days for such as me - and at the end of that time, my conduct having been approved of by my gaolers, the governor sent for me, gave me a good-service certificate, and I went into a counting-house and served as a clerk. But I got a kind of fever in my blood, and night and day I only thought of one thing, and that was my chance of escape. I did escape - never you

stood before her father now, pale and breathle

er," she whispered; "te

nt to know his

father. Tell it

oot in the veheme

father," she repe

f both father and uncle. The world has smiled upon him. He has never suffered for that one false step in life, which brought such ruin upon me. He will come home from India now, I dare say, and the world w

aret to herself -"Henry Dunbar