Much had this man of wo endured--the feeling against him throughout the part of the country where he now was was vehement. The discovery of poor Alithea's remains--the inquest, and its verdict--the unhappy lady's funeral--had spread far and wide his accusation. It had been found necessary to take him into Carlisle by night; and even then, some few remained in waiting, and roused their fellows, and the hootings of execration were raised against him. "I end as I began," thought Falkner; "amid revilings and injustice--I can surely suffer now that which was so often my lot in the first dawn of boyhood." His examination before the magistrates was a more painful proceeding. There was no glaring injustice, no vindictive hatred here, and yet he was accused of the foulest crime in nature, and saw in many faces the belief that he was a murderer. The murderer of Alithea! He could have laughed in scorn, to think that such an idea had entered a man's mind. She, an angel whom he worshipped--whom to save he would have met ten thousand deaths--how mad a world--how insane a system must it be, where such a thought was not scouted as soon as conceived! Falkner had no vulgar mind. In early youth he experienced those aspirations after excellence which betoken the finely moulded among our fellow-creatures. There was a type of virtue engraved in his heart, after which he desired to model himself. Since the hour when the consequences of his guilt revealed its true form to him, he had striven, like an eagle in an iron-bound cage, to free himself from the trammels of conscience. He felt within how much better he might be than anything he was. But all this was unacknowledged and uncared for in the present scene--it was not the heroism of his soul that was inquired into, but the facts of his whereabouts; not the sacred nature of his worship for Alithea, but whether he had had opportunity to perpetrate crime. When we are conscious of innocence, what so heart-sickening as to combat circumstances that accuse us of guilt which we abhor. His prison-room was a welcome refuge after such an ordeal. His spirit could not be cowed by misfortune, and he felt unnaturally glad to be where he was; he felt glad to be the victim of injustice, the mark of unspeakable adversity; but his body's strength failed to keep pace with the lofty disdain of his soul--and Elizabeth, where was she? He rejoiced that she was absent when torn from his home; he had directed the servants to say nothing to Miss Falkner--he would write; and he had meant to fulfil this promise, but each time he thought to do so he shrunk repugnant. He would not for worlds call her to his side, to share the horrors of his lot; and feeling sure that she would be visited by some member of her father's family, he thought it best to let things take their course--unprotected and alone, she would gladly accept refuge there where it was offered--and the tie snapped between them--happiness and love would alike smile on her.