“Know her?” the cripple lad repeated, with a ghastly laugh; “know her? Look at me. Three years ago I was a cripple, as I am now, but I was strong, and well, and active. I could swing by my arms like a monkey. I was a cripple, but I was happy and light-hearted. A girl used to come in to talk to me. She was an angel, as good and as beautiful as one. I worshipped her, I could have kissed the ground she trod on. She was not for me, a poor cripple, I never dreamt it, but I worshipped her as I might have done an angel of light. And she knew it, but never looked down upon me—never jeered at a cripple’s adoration, but was like a sister with me. A scoundrel killed her. You know how. I never blamed her, she was not to blame. I know she was as pure and as sinless as an angel, but she was as trusting, and he deceived her. With her went my life. I did not care to live, I longed to die, all my spirits and my strength went. I only longed for one thing; I longed to know who had done it—I longed to kill him. I once suspected. I had mentioned his name, and she had changed colour and seemed confused, but I believed him so good and so true, that I blamed myself for the doubt, and now I know at last that those doubts were only the truth. Carry, Carry! I have avenged you at last. Grandfather, the man who killed her has killed me. For myself I could still say forgive him; for her sake I say cast him out for ever.” “I do, James,” the old man said, solemnly. “Henceforth he is dead to me. Did I see him dying of want at my feet I would not stretch out a hand to save him.” “Thank you, grandfather,” the cripple said, with his face set in a savage joy, and then it softened again as he murmured to himself, “At last, at last, Carry, I—I, the poor cripple—have avenged you.” Then he said to his grandfather, “Please go upstairs, uncle, and send Alice down to me. She asked me to speak to you. I must tell her. Please ask her to come down to me.” In a minute Alice came down. At the sight of the lad’s face, of almost ghastly pallor, she said,— “Oh, James, I fear you have been exciting yourself too much. And I see he has refused you. How could he?” “No, Alice, he has granted what I asked him. Listen to me, Alice. I have told him a story. I will tell it you. I loved, not as men love, but as one might worship an angel, a girl who came to talk to me and cheer my life. She was all that was good and bright and pure. I need not tell you the rest—I see you can guess it. I have prayed and longed with a despairing longing that I might some day punish this man. I knew not who he was. The impotent rage, the intense longing, this sorrow and pity have for months been killing me. At last I have avenged her. Frank Maynard may die of want before grandfather would stretch out a hand to save him.” A look of deep pain, of horror, and of pity, succeeded each other on Alice Heathcote’s face, until the closing sentence, and then she threw herself on her knees by his side and took his hand.