We need not describe anew the scene to which poor Trailcudgel introduced him. It is enough to say, that since his last appearance in our pages he had lost two more of his children, one by famine and the other by fever; and that when the stranger entered his hovel--that libel upon a human habitation--that disgrace to landlord inhumanity--he saw stretched out in the stillness of death the emaciated bodies of not less than four human beings--to wit, this wretched man's wife, their daughter, a sweet girl nearly grown,--and two little ones. The husband and father looked at them for a little, and the stranger saw a singular working or change, taking place on his features. At length he clasped his hands, and first smiled--then laughed outright, and exclaimed, “Thank God that they,” pointing to the dead, “are saved from any more of this,”--but the scene--the effort at composure--the sense of his guilt--the condition of the survivors--exhaustion from want of food, all combined, overcame him, and he fell senseless on the floor. The stranger got a porringer of water, bathed his temples, opened his teeth with an old knife, and having poured some of it down his throat, dragged him--and it required all his strength to do so, although a powerful man--over to the cabin-door, in order to get him within the influence of the fresh air. At length he recovered, looked wildly about him, then gazed up in the face of the stranger, and made one or two deep respirations. “I see,” said he, “I remember--set me sittin' upon this little ditch beside the door--but no, no--” he added, starting--“come away--I must get them food--come--quick, quick, and I will tell you as we go along.” He then repeated the history of his ruin by Sir Thomas Gourlay, of the robbery, and of the scene of death and destitution which drove him to it. “And was it from Sir Thomas you got this note?” asked the stranger, whose interest was now deeply excited. “From him I got it, sir; as I tould you,” he replied, “and I was on my way to the priest to give him up the money and the pistols, when the situation of my children, of my family of the livin' and the dead, overcame me, and I was tempted to break in upon one pound of it for their sakes. Sir, my life's in your hands, but there is something in your face that tells my heart that you won't betray me, especially afther what you have seen.” The stranger had been a silent and attentive listener to this narrative, and after he had ceased he spoke not for some time. He then added, emphatically but quickly, and almost abruptly: “Don't fear me, my poor fellow. Your secret is as safe as if you had never disclosed it. Here are other notes for you, and in the meantime place yourself in the hands of your priest, and enable him to restore Sir Thomas Gourlay his money and his pistols, I shall see you and your family again.”