He heard men speak his name in tones of kindness, whose lips on the morrow would deal out curses. He saw others, hat in hand, begging for an audience, who would avoid him with a sneer and a scorning when he passed them in the street. He looked upon his own servants, who could not flatter their master too highly to-day, and would be the first to-morrow to cry him down, and rail against his unpardonable extravagance and recklessness; but he heeded nothing. His mind had suspended its operations, whilst his physical eye stared upon vacancy. It was very strange. He continued in this fashion for a long time, and suddenly sensibility seemed restored to him; for an ashy paleness came over him--his eyelid trembled, and his lips were drawn down convulsively, as if through strong and heavy grief. He rose instantly, rushed to the bell, and rang it violently. Burrage came to answer it. "Monster!" exclaimed his master, gazing at him spitefully, "have you no heart--no feeling left within you? How could you do it?" "Do what, sir?" "Rob that poor old man. Plunder and kill that hoary unoffending creature. Why did you take his miserable earnings? Why did you rob his little ones? Why clutch the bread from his starving grandchildren? He will die of a broken heart, and will plead against me at the judgment-seat. Why was that old man's money taken?" "We must take all, or nothing, sir. You forbade me to speak a syllable." "Speak--speak! Yes, but could you not have given him a look, one merciful look, to save his life, and my soul from everlasting ruin? You might, you could have done it, but you conspire to overthrow me. Go--but mark me--breathe not a word, if you hope to live." The poor clerk held up his hands, shook them piteously, sighed, and went his way again. It was six o'clock in the evening, and every soul connected with the bank, except Michael and Burrage, had left it. They were both in the private room, which the former had not quitted during the day. Michael was writing a letter; the clerk was standing mournfully at his side. When the note was finished, directed, and sealed, Allcraft turned to his old friend and spoke-- "I shall not sleep at home to-night, Burrage. I have business which must be seen to." "Indeed, sir, you had better go home. You are very unwell." "Silence, once more. I tell you, Burrage, it cannot be. This business must not be neglected. I have written to Mrs Allcraft, explaining the reason of my absence. You will yourself deliver the letter to her, with your own hands, Burrage. You hear me?" "Yes, sir," faltered Burrage, wishing himself deaf. "Very well. I have no more to say. Good-by--good-night." "Good-night, sir," said the man, walking slowly off. "Stay, Burrage. You are a true old friend--my oldest. Give me your hand. I have spoken unkindly--very harshly and cruelly to-day. Do not think ill of me. My temper has been soured by the troubles of life. You forgive me for my anger--do you not?"