But with the change in the seat of the disease—which, while it slowly destroyed his lungs, completely relieved his brain—his mental faculties were perfectly restored, with clear recollection of all that had transpired, so that he knew his antecedents and his present surroundings quite as well as our readers do. He knew also that he had no reason to fear prosecution. His only fear—a secret one—was of death, “and after death the judgment.” He had not been prosecuted for any of his felonies, which, indeed, were surrounded by such circumstances as admitted of their being ignored rather than compounded. All the documents by which he had seemed to secure a merely nominal possession of the Haymore estate concerned the name of Randolph Hay, and for all the law or the public knew, or need know, that name had been claimed only by its real owner, the gentleman now in peaceable possession of the Haymore estate, and never by the impostor who had tried to take it. So there was no legal obligation upon any one to bring a criminal prosecution for fraud and forgery upon the dying malefactor. And as to his heavier crimes of bigamy, robbery and attempted murder which had been committed in the United States, there was not the least likelihood that his surrender under the extradition treaty would ever be demanded by that government to answer for them before an American tribunal. All whom he had so deeply injured, or tried to injure, had freely forgiven him—all, that is to say, except Lamia Leegh, who in her bitter humiliation was incapable of forgiving him. The rector had to strive and pray for grace before he could pardon the man who had wronged his daughter. But after this grace was given, James Campbell spent many hours beside the bed of the dying man, reading to him, praying with him, persuading him to repentance, exhorting him to faith. Gentleman Geff was despairing, and at times defiant in his despair. “You needn’t talk to me, Mr. Campbell. I am as the devil made me. As I ‘have sown’ I ‘must reap.’ If there is anything that can give me satisfaction now, it is that, after all, I have no blood on my conscience. Bad as you may think me, I was never cut out for a murderer. No, nor for a drunkard. Circumstances, temptation, opportunity—these make destiny. I took to drink to drown remorse. I was a fool for feeling it. Bah! how can a creature of destiny be responsible for anything he does? Yet I am glad there is no blood on my hands.” Mr. Campbell had spoken to Jennie, asking her if she could not overcome her repugnance so far as to go in and speak to Montgomery, now that he was in his senses. But Jennie shuddered, as she replied: