Thus ended then our correspondence. Three years afterward I received another letter, in a handwriting somewhat tremulous and broken. It contained simply the words: "I am very ill; if your convenience will permit, may I ask you to come and see me, my young friend? "C. BARRINGTON." I need not say that I went at once. As I approached the old manor house a thousand memories knocked at the door of my heart. There were the fields over which I had rambled; there was the emerald lawn where so often I had wandered in the long-gone days of earlier years. The great oak against which I had leaned on that evening to watch the sun in his setting, and where Annie had whispered and pointed to my torn elbow, still raised its head proudly, and embowered the old gables in the bright-tinted foliage of autumn. I entered. The old portraits I had loved seemed to smile; they saluted me sweetly, as in other hours; the old mansion appeared to welcome me--I saw no change, but Annie was not singing in the hall. All at once I heard a light tinkling footstep; my heart beat violently, and I felt a blush rise to my cheeks. Was the queenly woman who came to meet and greet me, indeed the Annie of old days? I held the small hand, and looked into the deep eyes for some moments without uttering a word. She was taller, more slender, but her carriage possessed a grace and elegance a thousand times finer than before. Her eyes were filled with the strangest sweetness, and swam with tears as she gazed at me. "Papa has been waiting impatiently for you, Mr. Cleave," she said, in a low, sad voice; "will you come up and see him at once? he is very ill." And turning away her head, the fair girl burst into uncontrollable sobs, every one of which went to my heart. I begged her earnestly not to yield to her distress, and she soon dried her eyes, and led the way into the parlor, where I was received by Mrs. Barrington, still cold and stiff, but much more subdued and courteous. Annie went to announce my arrival to her father, and soon I was alone with the old man. I was grieved and shocked at his appearance. He seemed twenty years older. I scarcely recognized in the pale, thin, invalid, the portly country gentleman whom I had known. The motive for his letter was soon explained. The executorial accounts, whose terrible disarrangement I had aided, five years before, in remedying, still hung over the dying man's head, like a nightmare. He could not die, he said, with the thought in his mind, that any one might attribute this disorder to intentional maladministration--"to fraud, it might be." And at the word "fraud," his wan cheek became crimson. "My own affairs, Mr. Cleave," he continued, "are, I find, in a most unhappy condition. I have been far too negligent; and now, on my death-bed, for such it will prove, I discover, for the first time, that I am well-nigh a ruined man!"