He had not left a family, or, if he had, Colonel Crop would have been very sorry for them too. The hour of rest was arrived, and more than arrived. But Lord Spoonbill enjoyed not the sweets of repose. His mind was torn by conflicting thoughts, and harassed by bitter reflections and self-reproaches. He thought of the mean transaction of the morning and the solemn scene of the evening. For awhile he had a fancy that the principle of virtue was the ascendant feeling of his soul, and he thought that he would not pursue the scheme which he had commenced. He looked at the letter which he had intercepted, and had some faint notions that he should cause it to reach its destination. At all events, he would not be so mean as to open the letter; that was an offence of which he had never been guilty. He consigned the letter to the flames. He thought of Dr Greendale, and he was all virtue and penitence. He thought of Penelope, and considered that it would be a pity for so amiable, and intelligent, and affectionate a creature to be sacrificed to such a dull, plodding, commercial man as Robert Darnley. At length, wearied by a multitude of thoughts, he fell asleep. But ever and anon his rest was broken by painful and frightful dreams. He was grasping the hand of a lovely and interesting one, and was using the language of passion and persuasion, and he looked up to catch the smile of beauty and the languishing look of love--and there were before him the glassy eye, and the quivering lip, and the ghastly looks of death. He felt upon his head the hand of blessing, and then there rung in his ears the horrid language of execration. He saw the mild and venerable form of the pious friend of his early youth, and he heard from his lips the sentiments of devotion and the promises of hope; and then the face was distorted by pain, and the voice was all the harshness of reproach and the keenness of condemnation. Gradually this agitation of the spirits subsided, and the wearied frame sunk into calmer rest; and when the day-light shone into his apartment, and the morning sun awakened the song of the birds, the darkness and gloom of the night were forgotten, and the mind of the young patrician recovered its wonted insensibility and apathy to all that is good and generous. The emotions of the past night were ridiculed, and thus the character received an additional impetus to that which is bad. CHAPTER VII.