To bless thee, who, with aching heart, I’ve watched so many hours, I’d choose that gift should make thee great In true nobility— That greatness of the soul which leaves The heart and conscience free. Gold should not tempt me, gentle babe, It might not bring thee rest; Nor power would I give to thee, ’Tis but an aching breast. But I would ask of Heaven, my babe, A boon of joy to thee, To make thee happy in this life, From sin and sorrow free. Nor gold nor silver should’st thou have, Nor power to command, But thou should’st have a guileless heart, An open, unstained hand. So should thou happy be, my babe, A thing of joy and light; While others struggled for despair, You’d wish but to be right.” The song abruptly ceased, for the loud tones of men reached the ears of the singer, crying,— “Murder!—Hunt him—secure the murderer! This way—this way!” Those sounds roused Gray from his temporary inaction: he started forward as if he had received some sudden and irresistible shock. More from impulse than any direct design or preconcerted plan, Jacob Gray made towards the door of the room in which was the mother and her infant child. At the moment, then, a sudden thought struck his mind that possibly he might convert the affection of the mother for her infant into a means of saving himself: it was a hope, at all events, although a weak and forlorn one. Time, however, was precious, and Jacob Gray, with his pale, ghastly face, torn apparel, bleeding-hands, and general dishevelled look, made his appearance in the room. By the remains of a miserable fire sat a young female scarcely above the age of girlhood, and in a cot at her feet slept a child, the face of which she was regarding with that rapt attention and concentrated love which can only be felt by a mother. So entirely, in fact, were all the faculties of the young mother wound up in the contemplation of her sleeping child, that Gray’s entrance into the room failed to arouse her, and he had time to glance around the room and be sure that he and the mother, with the child, were the only occupants of the place before he spoke. He then drew the pistol he still retained from his breast, and suddenly cried,— “One word, and it shall cost you your life! Be silent and obedient, and you are safe.” A cry escaped the lips of the young female, and she stood panic-stricken by Gray’s strange appearance, as well as his threatening aspect and words. “Listen to me,” he said, in a low, hoarse voice; “you love your child?” “Love my child?” re-echoed the mother, in a tone that sufficiently answered the question of Gray, who added,— “I am a desperate man. I do not wish to do you harm; but, betray me to those who are seeking my life, and your child shall die by my hands.” “No—no—my child—no,” cried the mother, in a voice of alarm.