"I'll have none of your gold, man. I was weak to want it. Give it to the poor. The shining round pieces may fall like sunlight into some wretched home. To me they are like drops of blood!" And he pushed the gold from him, and went to the window. He saw the dim eyes of Heaven looking down through the mist--heard the murmurs of the city dying away, and the calm of night entered his soul. "May you be a better man when we meet again," he said, turning to Flint. "But the letter," cried Flint, fearfully, "you won't----" The sailor's lips curled, and something of his former severity returned. "Take off your sanctimonious cravat," he answered, "wrap charity around you like a robe, that you may be pleasing in God's sight. You sent some gold to convert the Hindoos--the papers said so. Why, man! there is a Heathen Land at your door-step! John Flint, good night!" The merchant stood alone. The night wind swayed the heavy curtains to and fro, and half extinguished the brilliant jets of gas. He threw himself into a chair, and a vision of the Past rose up before him--the terrible Past. The ghosts of dead years haunted his brain, and remorse sat on his heart, boding and mysterious, like the Raven of the sweet poet-- "That unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast, and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore!" That night, as we have said, he dreamt of two blue, innocent eyes, which once looked confidingly in his--of two infant arms which encircled his neck. Those eyes haunted him into the realm of sleep, where myriads of little arms were stretched out to him, and he turned restlessly on his pillow! VIII. _He trudged along, unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought._ DRYDEN. VIII. MR. FLINT IS PERFECTLY ASTONISHED, AND MORTIMER HAS A VISION. _The Light Heart--A Scene--The Sunny Heart--A Dream of Little Bell--A Hint._ Now that Mortimer Walters had destroyed the record of poor Snarle's guilt, he determined to be no longer a subject of Flint's authority. He had watched for months for an opportunity to become possessed of the forged cheque; and it was with a heart as light as a singing bird's that he tripped up the office stairs an hour before his time the next morning. Tim was sweeping out. Sleep had left no cobwebs in his young eyes; but when he saw Mortimer throw open the office door, humming a light-hearted air, he rubbed his eyelids with the sleeve of his dusty coat, as if it were a question in his mind whether or not he was dreaming. "My last day here!" said Mortimer gaily to himself. "Weary, tiresome old books! my soul has grown sick over you for the last time."