“I should think as you do, Mr. Malcolm. It is a terrible thing to take away the life of a fellow-creature without the least provocation.” “Ah! I knew you would blame me; but he was an enemy after all; I had a right to kill him; I was hired by the government under whom I served to kill him: and who shall condemn me?” “No one more than your own heart.” “It is not the heart, but the brain, that must decide in questions of right and wrong,” said he. “I acted from impulse, and shot the man; had I reasoned upon it for five minutes, that man would be living now. But what's done cannot be undone. Did I ever show you the work I wrote upon South America?” “Are you an author,” said I, incredulously. “To be sure I am. Murray offered me £100 for my manuscript, but I would not take it. Shall I read to you some passages from it?” I am sorry to say that his behaviour in the morning was uppermost in my thoughts, and I had no repugnance in refusing. “No, don't trouble yourself. I have the dinner to cook, and the children to attend to, which will cause a constant interruption; you had better defer it to some other time.” “I shan't ask you to listen to me again,” said he, with a look of offended vanity; but he went to his trunk, and brought out a large MS., written on foolscap, which he commenced reading to himself with an air of great self-importance, glancing from time to time at me, and smiling disdainfully. Oh, how glad I was when the door opened, and the return of Moodie broke up this painful _tête-à-tête_. From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step. The very next day, Mr. Malcolm made his appearance before me wrapped in a great-coat belonging to my husband, which literally came down to his heels. At this strange apparition, I fell a-laughing. “For God's sake, Mrs. Moodie, lend me a pair of inexpressibles. I have met with an accident in crossing the fence, and mine are torn to shreds--gone to the devil entirely.” “Well, don't swear. I'll see what can be done for you.”