“Come, now, Jo,” said his friend, taking out his penknife, and sitting down on a stump to whittle. “You are always a railing at the aristocracy, as you call ’em. I never knew a man who talks as you do, who was not an aristocrat at heart, worshiping the very wealth and station he sneered at. Don’t be a fool, John. We are far happier, or might be, with our teams, plenty of jobs, and good health, than these aristocrats, as you call them, who half the time are tossing on their pillows, because this ship hasn’t arrived in port, or that land speculation has burst up, or stocks depreciated, or some such cursed canker at the root of all their gourds. Now there’s poor Jacob Ford; of what use are all his riches, now his daughter’s heart is broke? And Percy Lee, too--will his fine education and book learning get him out of the clutches of the law? Have a little charity, Jo. It hurts a man worse to fall from such a height into a prison, than it would you or me, from a dray-cart. Gad--I pity him; his worst enemy couldn’t pile up the agony any higher.” “Pity him!” said Jo, mockingly--“a swindling rascal like that--to break a pretty girl’s heart!” “Jo,” said his friend, shutting up his penknife, and looking him steadily in the eye, “have you always said no to the tempting devil in _your_ heart? Did you never charge a stranger more than the law allows for a job? Did no poor girl ever curse the hour she saw the light, for your sake?” “Well, Mr. Parson, what if all that were true?” asked Jo, with an abortive attempt at a laugh. “I can’t see what it has to do with what we are talking about; hang it.” “Just this,” answered his friend. “He who is without sin, only, is to cast the first stone.” “O, get out,” said Jo, cracking his whip over his horse’s head, and taking refuge, like many other cornered disputants, in flight. * * * * * And Percy Lee! From the hour in which he passed from the heaven of Mary’s smile, up to the present moment, in which he paced like a caged lion up and down his narrow bounds, what untold agonies were his! Why had he wrecked happiness, love, honor, all in one fatal moment? Why had he prostituted his God-given talents so madly to sin? Let those answer who have in like manner sinned, and who have expiated that sin, by a life-long brand upon the brow and a life-long misery in the heart. “Let him who thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall.” CHAPTER IV. “I can’t remember,” said Mary, two months after Percy’s arrest, “I can’t remember,” raising herself, and laying her emaciated hand upon her brow. “Have I been sick, mamma?” “Yes, Mary,” replied her mother, repressing her tears of joy at the sound of her child’s voice. “Where’s Percy, mamma?” But before Lucy could answer, she again relapsed into stupor. Another hour passed--there was reason in her glance. “Mamma? Percy--take me to him”--said Mary, with a burst of tears, as she strove vainly to rise from her couch.