"O, I will promise you, dear father," cried Mortimer, before he could finish the dreadful word. "I will destroy the paper, though twenty Flints guarded it. The man who steals a loaf of bread for famishing lips, is not such a criminal in God's sight as he who steals a million times its value by _law_ to feed his avarice. Think no more of it. The angel who records in his book, has written a hundred good deeds over that unfortunate one. The world's frown is not God's frown, and His heart is open when man's is barred with unforgiveness." "Thank you, thank you," said Snarle, brightening up a little. "Your words give me comfort. I have not much more to tell. Flint took me into the firm, but I was the same slave. I worked, and worked, and the reapings were his. You have seen it--you know it. And this was his revenge. His wounded love and pride have wrecked themselves on me. He has never crossed the threshold of our door--never laid his eyes on my wife since the time when we were thoughtless boys together. O, how cruel he has been to me! Evening after evening, in midwinter, he has made me bring the last editions of the _Express_ to his house, and never asked me in!" This was said with such a ludicrous expression, that Mortimer would have laughed if it had been anybody but poor Snarle. Exhausted with talking, the sick man sank into a quiet slumber. Mortimer sat by his bed-side for an hour, watching the change of expressions in the sleeper's face--the shadow of his dreams coming and going! Then his head drooped upon his bosom, and he slept so soundly that he did not know that Daisy came in the room, and stood beside him, looking in his face with her fond, quiet eyes. When he awoke, one long dark shadow from the houses opposite slanted into the apartment. Snarle was looking at him. "I have been asleep," said Snarle, "and have had such pleasant thoughts that it is painful to find myself in this poor little world again. Ah, me, what will wife and Daisy do in it all alone?" "Not alone," said Mortimer. "I will watch over them--love them." Then, after a pause: "Father, I love Daisy--I would make her my wife." "Ah, I wished that; but I did not think it:" and Snarle paused a moment. "Have you told Daisy so?" "Yes--but----" "Well," said Snarle, waiting. "But she does not love me; and that is why I said love would make life bitter." "Perhaps she does." "No." "What did Daisy say?" "She said there were clouds in the morning of her life--(these were her own words)--which had no sunshine in them. Then she called me brother and kissed me, and told me that I must never think of her as my wife. She would be my sister always. And when I speak to her of this, she turns away or hums a pleasant air to mock me." "She is not our child, Mortimer." "What?"