In a few seconds he recovered himself. Yet so had he worked up his mind to die; so impossible did it appear that his aim should fail him, that in those few seconds the earth and all belonging to it had passed away--and his first exclamation, as he started up, was, "Where am I?" Something caught his gaze; a little white figure, which lay but a few paces distant, and two eyes that gleamed on him--the horrible thought darted into his head--had another instead of himself been the victim? and he exclaimed in agony, "Gracious God! who are you?--speak! What have I done!" Still more was he horror-struck when he saw that it was a little child who lay before him--he raised her--but her eyes had glared with terror, not death; she did not speak; but she was not wounded, and he endeavoured to comfort and reassure her, till she, a little restored, began to cry bitterly, and he felt, thankfully, that her tears were a pledge that the worst consequences of her fright had passed away. He lifted her from the ground, while she, in the midst of her tears, tried to get him away from the grave he desecrated. The twilight scarcely showed her features; but her surpassing fairness--her lovely countenance and silken hair, so betokened a child of love and care, that he was more the surprised to find her alone, at that hour, in the solitary churchyard. He soothed her gently, and asked, "How came you here? what could you be doing so late so far from home?" "I came to see mamma." "To see mamma! Where? how? Your mother is not here." "Yes she is; mamma is there;" and she pointed with her little finger to the grave. The stranger started up--there was something awful in this childish simplicity and affection: he tried to read the inscription on the stone near--he could just make out the name of Edwin Raby. "That is not your mother's grave," he said. "No; papa is there--mamma is here, next to him." The man, just bent on self-destruction, with a conscience burning him to the heart's core--all concentrated in the omnipotence of his own sensations--shuddered at the tale of dereliction and misery these words conveyed; he looked earnestly on the child, and was fascinated by her angel look; she spoke with a pretty seriousness, shaking her head, her lips trembling--her large eyes shining in brimming tears. "My poor child," he said, "your name is Raby then?" "Mamma used to call me Baby," she replied; "they call me Missy at home--my name is Elizabeth." "Well, dear Elizabeth, let me take you home; you cannot stay all night with mamma." "Oh, no; I was just going home when you frightened me." "You must forget that; I will buy you a doll to make it up again, and all sorts of toys; see, here is a pretty thing for you!" and he took the chain of his watch, and threw it over her head; he wanted so to distract her attention as to make her forget what had passed, and not to tell a shocking story when she got home.