The scene moved me deeply. It confirmed me in the opinion I had formed, that the stranger was in some extremity Of trouble, and was not yet a villain. So stepped into the bar-room. On seeing me, the landlord threw a quarter on the counter, and said,— "There, take that, then, and be off!" The man took the silver, went out, and sat down on the tavern steps. An hour later, and he came to me, and said,— "I am going to D— now. Won't you go with me? I was going yesterday, but have waited for you." Avoiding a direct reply, I started with him, and when the confines of the settlement were reached, while yet in sight of inhabitants, I turned, saying,— "I must leave you now." "What!" he exclaimed, fiercely; "you going back?" "Certainly. Why should I go all the way to D— afoot? Besides, I fear the fatigue of such a walk would be a poor preparation for preaching next Sabbath." His whole demeanor changed. "Are you a preacher, then?" he ejaculated. "I thought you were a speculator!" and sinking down by the roadside, he looked the picture of wretchedness. "Friend," said I, "you seem to be in trouble; can I help you?" "Trouble!" he replied, bitterly, "it's all trouble." I soon drew from him his story. "I lived," said he, "in Western New York, and only two years ago thought myself perfectly happy. I had married to my mind. My wife loved me enough to connect herself with me against her parents' wishes—I being a mechanic, dependent on my own labor. They never were cordial to me, but kept themselves aloof, as if of another race. But she was always gentle, affectionate, and true. Ah, sir, she was indeed too good for me—too good for earth. "My boyhood and youth had been industriously employed, and I had used such means of mental improvement as were within my reach; but religion had always seemed a thing of gloom suited to the aged, or the last moments of life, but having no special claim on my attention. Never shall I forget the first evening after our marriage. Clara placed the Bible on the table, and said,— "'Will you not read a chapter, dearest, and by prayer, seek God's blessing on our new life?' I know not how to pray, but she did, and kneeling down, with sobs and tears, she besought God, oh, how fervently, to be with us in our journey together, and to enable us to live as he had commanded. She never faltered in her Christian course, never turned back, and was always happy. I looked upon her at times with feelings akin to awe. She influenced me more than any other being did before, and under that influence I was led to make a profession of religion, for I was powerless to resist her gentle persuasions. Still, I do not now think I ought to have taken that step; it was under the compulsion of a human love amounting almost to idolatry. Often I contrasted my hardened worldly nature with hers, and it seemed as if it could not be right that such a being should be united to one so unworthy of her.