It was nearly a year after the death of Margaret, that one day business took Mr. Lelland to one of the slips on the North river. As he passed along, his attention was suddenly drawn to a man who stood leaning against one of the piers. He was very shabbily dressed, and held in his hand a small faded well-worn carpetbag. Giving no heed to the moving crowd around him, buried in thought, he stood with his eyes fixed vacantly on the river. There was something in his features which seemed familiar. Turning, Mr. Lelland again passed him, fixing his eyes intently upon him as he did so, and more and more confirmed that his suspicions were correct, he stepped up to him, and touching him lightly on the shoulder, said, “Excuse me—but is not your name Wingate?” “Suppose it is—what the d——l is yours?” replied the man sullenly, without turning his head. “My name is Lelland, Mr. Wingate—for such you are, or I greatly err.” With an expression of malignant hate, the man suddenly turned, and shook his fist almost in the very teeth of Lelland. “So we have met again, Mr. Richard Lelland, have we! Well, we shall see who will be the better for the meeting, that’s all—d——n you!” “Your words are idle,” replied Lelland, calmly. “Answer me one question—do you know aught of your wife and children!” At the mention of his family, Wingate grew suddenly pale, and seemed much agitated. “And you—what—what do you know of them?” he demanded, but in more subdued tones. “If you will go with me into the hotel yonder, I may perhaps give you some information respecting them,” he replied. Without a word Wingate mechanically followed Lelland, who, ordering a private room, sat down to the melancholy duty before him. “You spoke of my wife and children,” exclaimed Wingate, the moment they entered the room, “if you know any thing of them, for God’s sake tell me, for it is many months since I heard from them.” “Prepare yourself for the most melancholy tidings,” said Lelland, in a sympathizing voice and manner. “You have no longer a wife—it is now ten months since her death.” The wretched man buried his face in his hands. “Dead—dead—dead! and without forgiving me—_dead_!” he exclaimed. “With her latest breath she forgave and blessed you,” said Lelland, taking his hand kindly. “But my children—where are they—are they dead, too!” “Your children are here—here, in the city; you may see them in an hour if you will,” replied Lelland. “_Here!_ here in the city—here, with _you_!” cried Wingate, starting up, every feature distorted by passion; “with _you_, do you say! how came _you_ near _her_ death-bed—ha! _did you dare_—” seizing Lelland by the breast as he spoke. But shaking him off, Lelland placed his hand on his arm, saying, “First listen to me, Mr. Wingate, and you will see how little provocation you have for such anger.”