not what to think or do. In accents of the most earnest supplication, I entreated the accountant to pass the night in reviewing his labours, and to afford me, if possible, the means of rescuing my name from the obloquy which, in a few hours, must attach to it. I offered him any sum of money--all that he could ask--for his pains, and he promised to comply with my request. The idea that I had been the victim of a trick, a fraud, never glanced across my mind. No, when my wretchedness permitted me to think at all, I suspected and accused no one but myself. I could imagine and believe that, inadvertently, I had committed some great error when my soul had been darkened by the daily and hourly anxieties which had followed it so long. But how to discover it? How to make my innocence apparent to the world? How to face my uncle? How to brave the taunts of men? How, above all, to meet the huge demands which soon would press and fall upon me? The tortures of hell cannot exceed in acuteness all that I suffered that long and bitter night. The accountant was waiting for me in the parlour when I left my bed. He had spent the night as I had wished him but had not found one error in his calculations. I tore the papers from his hands, and strained my eyes upon the pages to extract the lie which existed there to damn me. It would not go--it could not be removed. I was a doomed, lost man. Whatever might be the consequence, I resolved to see my uncle, and to speak the truth. I relied upon the sympathy which I believed inherent in the nature of man. I relied upon my own integrity, and the serenity which conscious innocence should give. I met my uncle. I shall never forget that interview. He received me in his private house--in his drawing-room. We were alone. He sat at a table: his face was somewhat pale, but he was cool and undisturbed--ah, how much more so than his trembling sacrifice! I placed before him the condemning paper. It was that only that he cared to see. He looked at once to the result, and then, without a word, he turned his withering eye upon me. "'I know it,' I cried out, not permitting him to speak. 'I know what you would say. It is a mystery, and I cannot solve it. There is a fearful error somewhere--but where I know not. I am as innocent--' "'Innocent!' exclaimed my uncle, in a tone of bitterness, 'Well, go on, sir.' "'Yes, innocent,' I repeated. 'Time will prove it, and make the mystery clear. My brain is now confused; but it cannot be that this gigantic error can escape me when I am calm--composed. Grant me but time.' "'I grant nothing,' said my uncle, fiercely. 'Plunderer! I show no mercy. You would have shown me none--you would have left me in the lurch, and laughed at me as you made merry with your stolen wealth. Mark me, sir--restore it--labour till you have made it good, or I crush you--once, and for ever.'